Island of Spies, page 14
A couple hours later, with Faye’s side of the room clean enough for surgery, I headed down to iron her blouse smooth. “Done,” I shouted, and hit the kitchen, stomach rumbling.
She handed me two plates. “We’ll have leftovers from the icebox. I’ll take a cup of oyster stew, with cabbage and a smidge of fish. Make sure you pick the bones out of my fish. Hurry. You haven’t started my shoes and I need you to search the trash pile for targets. Be careful. I don’t have time for you to get snake-bit.”
By two o’clock, I hated Faye at a cellular level.
* * *
• • •
An hour later, I followed Faye, Neb’s sisters, and two Kinnakeet girls to the edge of Buxton Woods, Faye tripping along in her polished shoes, me dragging a burlap sack of cans. “Set the targets up over there, Stick,” she said, nodding to a log. “And toe a line in the dirt for us. I don’t want to mess up my shoes.”
Faye and Neb’s sisters stepped up to the line with their fathers’ shotguns. I hurried to a safe spot behind them and stuffed my fingers in my ears. Faye’s a crackerjack shot, thanks to Papa. Ruth and Naomi shot wild, then settled in. The girls from Kinnakeet, who shot second, were a hazard.
An hour later, I handed Faye the last shotgun shells in her bag. “These shells cost a fortune. You should take up a collection,” I whispered.
She glanced at the sisters. Right. Neb’s sisters can’t pay.
I gasped. “You’re shooting up your Hollywood money!”
“Mind your own beeswax,” she muttered, passing the shells around. She smiled at the Kinnakeet twins. “You’re shooting low, ladies. Steady your guns against that tree limb.”
I set up the targets and scampered to safety. Blam blam. The targets sat untouched.
“But I aimed dead at it,” Margaret Bond said, going red. She’s giving up, I thought.
“Nice try,” I said. “You’re six inches low every time. Lead sinks as it flies. Gravity—”
“Thanks, Stick,” Faye said, passing out the last two shells. “One more time, girls. Aim high.” Blam! The cans backflipped off the rails. We cheered. “Great job,” Faye said. “Good call, Stick. We’ll meet next week. Stick, don’t forget to pick up the cans.”
That night I settled into bed, exhausted from cooking supper and rolling Faye’s hair. As I poured water into the Stick-O-Matic, Faye lifted her eye mask. “So, what do you think?”
What do I think?
“I think a million things a day,” I said. “What do I think as a reformed eavesdropper or your sister or a scientist or—”
“As a genius,” she said. “What do you think about the security club?”
I took longer than needed to light the candle. Faye never asks my opinion. It felt like stepping into a new world without knowing if I could step back. “You shoot great, and you’re a natural leader. People listen to you. The sisters are fine now but under stress—say if Nazis land . . . Maybe you could do breathing exercises with them, to help them learn to settle in.”
Faye propped up on her elbow. “Really, Stick. They already know how to breathe.”
I went remedial. “It’s called meditation. Volume M. The Kinnakeet girls are willing. I’d say you need a strategy.” Her puzzled silence washed over me. “So, if lots of Germans roar ashore, you’re outnumbered and you need one plan.” She nodded in the Stick-O-Matic’s soft candlelight, setting faint shadows dancing on the wall behind her. “Maybe you hide, shoot, and run. If only a few Nazis come ashore, you want a different plan. It’s always better to have a strategy you don’t need than to need a strategy you don’t have.”
“Right. Thanks,” she said, and yawned. “You still need to do something about that hair.”
Some things are eternal. The spin of the universe, the ocean’s dance, Faye’s obsession with the orange protein sprouting from my scalp. “I’m going to sleep before the light dies,” I said, and closed my eyes, breathing steady to keep the pool of fear trapped beneath my bed.
CHAPTER 14
Guilt Forgets My Name
Mid-March 1942
Fact: By mid-March, war was as everyday as scrambled eggs.
Between March 11 and March 19, the waters near our island became a killing field. The Caribsea, the Ario, the E.M. Clark, the Kassandra Louloudis, and an Australian tanker went down one by one. On March 19, U-boats sent three ships to watery graves: the Liberator, the W.E. Hutton, and the Papoose. We knew the sounds by heart: the boom of the torpedo strike, the blam of the ship’s boiler exploding.
Then came Thursday, March 26—a day of cold revenge, and hot chaos.
“The sisters like Faye’s club,” Neb said as we walked to school that morning. “They got attitude all of a sudden. I’m a little bit scared of them.”
“The fish have attitude too,” Rain said. “The water worlds have split into the worlds of fish and of U-boats.” She wiggled her head, and I knew she was shaking out a drawing.
Neb kicked a stick down the road. “Don’t talk abnormal,” he said as Schooner waddled up and fell in with us. “Think regular. Example: There’s Reed’s boat, out on the sound.”
Reed fishes when the moon and tides agree. He poles into the sound, his boat full of woven nets. Setting them’s easy. Hauling them in full of fish isn’t, but it pays when he trucks his iced catch to the end of the island to sell.
On March 26, gas-powered and man-powered boats crisscrossed the water with Reed’s, like any other spring day. We waved to Eli Phillips, who’d quit school to help his daddy fish. Eli always rang the school bell.
Miss Pope would miss him before the end of the day.
“This morning, I unleash our secret weapon,” Neb said, swinging his dinner pail. His dark eyes danced. “Revenge of the green persimmons. Notto, beware.”
We greeted Miss Pope like angels, and set our dinner pails in the hall. “Has anyone seen my glass paperweight?” she asked. “I’m offering a reward.”
Otto smirked. “A reward? How much?”
“Return it and find out,” she said.
She knows he took it, I thought.
At noon Neb opened his dinner pail, and fake-yelped when he found it empty. Otto and his goons laughed, and carried their pails to the oak. Otto opened his dinner pail. “Ham biscuits!” he crowed. “Just like Neb’s mother makes!” He took a huge bite, chewed twice, and swallowed.
Neb gasped. “I didn’t know he’d actually swallow it.”
Otto clutched at his throat as Rain and me divided our collard-and-cornbread sandwiches into thirds and shared with Neb. A crowd gathered around Otto. Scrape frowned at Neb.
“Scrape knows I did it,” Neb whispered. “Run!”
“He knows nothing,” Rain said. “Look innocent and eat.”
* * *
• • •
Ten minutes later, Otto staggered to Miss Pope’s desk, his eyes watering. He plunked his pail down with most of Neb’s biscuits inside. She looked up from her mullet stew and dabbed her fingertips with a napkin. “Yes?”
“Otto may be dying,” I said, trailing Otto in. As Mama’s daughter, I carry a certain weight in medical matters. “Stick out your tongue, Otto.” Incredibly, he did. “A white, gunky lingua. Sad.”
Otto’s beautiful blue eyes filled with tears. “What’s a lin . . .”
“Lingua. Latin for tongue,” Miss Pope said. “Stop it, Stick.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, checking to see if I felt shame. Nothing. Just as in Dime Novel #79: Guilt Forgets My Name. “It could be worse, I guess. It could be rabies, which is fatal in ninety-nine percent of all cases. Children Otto’s age are at risk.”
The class gasped. “Poor Notto,” Rain said as Otto doubled over, clutching his belly.
Miss Pope plucked a bit of dried persimmon from Otto’s pail. “What’s this?”
“Don’t know,” Otto gasped, rocking back and forth.
“Of course you know. It’s inside your ham biscuit.”
I stepped up. “Mama says half of curing is knowing the illness. If we knew what that was, we might be able to save him.”
“Ask Neb,” Otto moaned. “It’s his biscuit.”
Miss Pope slid her glasses down her nose. “Neb? Why is your biscuit in Otto’s pail?”
“Good question,” Neb said. “My meal has disappeared every day since Thanksgiving. I’m not sure how it ended up in Otto’s dinner pail.”
“I have a theory,” I said, and walked to the door. “The Dimes call first-grader Hudson Aikens,” I boomed—a line from Dime Novel #31: Witness for the Prosecution.
Hudson crept in. “Tell me,” I said, “did anyone ask you to rob Neb’s dinner pail?”
He pointed. “Otto said, put Neb’s food in Otto’s pail at little-kid recess. Forever.”
Of course. Little kids’ recess—before ours, when our classroom door’s always closed. “Otto said he’d keep Jersey from picking on me if I did. I’m sorry, Neb.”
“They won’t bother you again. Run along,” Miss Pope said, and he shot out of the room. “Otto, explain. Your mother sends you to school with a full dinner pail every day.”
“I feed it to Schooner,” Hudson shouted from the hallway. Miss Pope tossed her napkin to her desk and glared at Otto. Finally, I thought, Otto’s going to get what he deserves.
But Fate and a U-boat had other plans.
BOOM!
The schoolhouse lurched and tilted. Desks slid. Little kids howled like wolves. Miss Pope sprang to her feet. “Get in the hall! Crouch against the wall. Cover your heads!”
We flew into the hall. Otto clutched his belly. “I need the outhouse,” he whimpered.
BLAM! Window glass flew through the air like a flock of broken birds.
Miss Pope moaned and pulled a glass dagger from her leg. “Be calm,” she called, her voice thin as reeds. “Wait for my signal.” Silence fell like a dare. Rain clutched her ring. “Father, Father, Father,” she murmured, and whispered a nonsense lullaby. Neb tapped his fingers against the floor. Morse code. SOS, SOS.
“Wait,” Miss Pope said, opening the door. The world held its breath. The birdsong died. The trees looked like they wanted to run.
We waited. My thighs burned. Someone behind me threw up—probably Otto. Blood trickled down Miss Pope’s plump calf, into her fuddy-duddy shoe.
She turned to us, her round face pale. “Now! Run!” We thundered for the door.
Miss Pope flew to the school bell and grabbed the rope. I looked over my shoulder once as I ran. If I live to be a million, I’ll still see Miss Pope, eyes squinched, glasses dangling from one ear. She clung to the rope, riding up to hang an instant, and coming down to bend her knees and ride up again, the brass bell near turning flips.
On the sound, boats had turned for shore. Women snatched their children off the street.
Mama met us near the store, pale and frantic. “Inside! Now!”
“Grand!” I shouted as Schooner skidded through the door behind us.
“Right here, Junebug,” he said, scooping me into a hug. He hasn’t called me Junebug since I was knee-high. “We’re fine,” he said, his voice the twin of Papa’s. “Ship ran too close to shore, I expect, and those buzzards took her anyway. Settle down.”
Mama stood at the window, her arm around Rain’s shoulders as Miss Agnes and Julia ran toward the shore. “Where are they going?” Mama murmured. Where, indeed?
Grand slid open the candy door, and miraculously pulled out three pieces of red taffy.
“I’ve been saving these for a day like today,” he said, and looked at Mama, his blue eyes sharp beneath his white brows. “I’ll walk Neb home a little later and invite Jonah for supper, if that suits you, Ada.”
Mama’s face had gone white as marble. She nodded and rested her forehead on the windowpane. I opened my taffy. Its soft sweetness rushed through me. Chew slow, I thought, savoring the sweet river of red.
This may be the last red taffy in the whole wide world.
* * *
• • •
That afternoon, Faye dumped her books on the kitchen table.
“Thank goodness,” Mama said, hugging her. “The Germans torpedoed a ship too close to shore. We’re fine. Thank heavens you’re home.”
“They blew up the school with us in it,” Rain added.
“I got here soon as I could. I’m setting the dining room table tonight,” Faye said, her hands fluttering through her schoolbook like startled birds. “Like they do it at the White House. We’ll need a salad—a scrap of cabbage will work. Bread. Fish, meat, vegetables. And dessert—last night’s fig cake. Iced tea and water. I said I’d do this and I will. It matters.”
She didn’t say the rest, but we felt it: This may be my last chance.
“Stick, you and Rain help me in the kitchen,” Mama said. “Faye, set a place for Jonah.”
An hour later, Faye stood studying her schoolbook. She’d gone calm as the cabinets she’d emptied.
“What are all these forks and plates for?” I asked.
Grand and Miss Jonah walked in as Faye pointed to the fork at the far left of the plate. “Fish fork, dinner fork, salad fork. Plate and soup bowl. Dinner knife, fish knife, soup spoon. Bread plate. We get a couple of glasses . . .”
I picked up a renegade fork. “And this?”
“Oh fuzz, I don’t know,” Faye muttered. Miss Jonah took the fork, placed it horizontal over the plate, and headed for the kitchen. Faye’s eyes went big. “She’s right, it’s the dessert fork. How would she know that?”
“A First Life skill,” I said. “Something her hands remember.”
* * *
• • •
Grand broke the news the next day: “The community doesn’t have the heart or money to fix that building. School’s out. Miss Pope is packing,” he said. “Ada, nobody would fault you for leaving too.”
For a moment, Mama looked alone, and shorter than I remembered. She squared her shoulders. “We’ll stay. For now.” She went back to her work like nothing had changed.
But something had changed. Over the next days I caught her looking more and more to the horizon. She’s as lonesome for those red sails as I am, I thought. Red sails and open arms.
Papa, please come home.
CHAPTER 15
The Widow Wears White
March 30, 1942
With school out, our spy-catching hit overdrive.
Monday morning, we strolled into the PO. I smiled at Miss Agnes. “Good morning.”
“Nothing from your papa, please go,” she replied.
“Thanks,” I said. “We need a quasi-professional courtesy. Quasi. Latin for almost. You have connections.” I caught a flicker of a smile. She’s proud of her connections, I thought. “We’re trailing the Ringers. Carl Miller checks out. We seek background on Ralph. Last name unknown.”
She looked up, her eyes sharp. “Ralph Perdu. Perdu. French for lost.”
I gasped. Miss Agnes and I share an interest in languages?
I steadied myself. “We request personal background, rap sheet, whatever’s available to a person of your high professional status.”
“We have no status,” Neb said, like she might have overlooked that.
She drummed her fingertips on the countertop. “What’s in it for me?”
“Fish?” Rain offered, and Miss Agnes shook her head.
“Dance lessons?” Neb said. He closed his eyes. “Say no, say no, say no,” he whispered.
“No,” she replied. “I want a week without seeing you in here, unless I send word that a postcard from your papa has arrived. Where is he, anyway?”
“I figure him around Savannah. The war keeps waylaying him.”
She nodded, quick as a hawk. “That’s my offer. I’ll inquire about Ralph Perdu in exchange for one week’s peace. Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll take it,” Rain said, and we closed the door behind us. “I’m going to Julia’s for art. I’m hoping for no distractions,” she said, and flew away like her Mary Janes wore wings.
“Did she call us distracting?” Neb asked, frowning. “Because I’m not seeing it.”
I changed the subject. “How’s Mr. Mac?” I asked. “You all left the civilian defense meeting so fast the other day, I didn’t get a chance to speak to him.”
He blinked away sudden tears. “He’s just watching his time spin away. He doesn’t even try to stay anymore. But come play cards at my house next Saturday. He’ll be glad to see you.”
* * *
• • •
Saturday night, we settled in for cards in Neb’s fussy parlor. Sadly, we were not alone.
“This is a heck of a thing for a Saturday night and a good-time girl like me,” Faye announced, putting a record on the Victrola. “Reduced to practicing dance steps while Reed goes fishing. But cheer up, ladies. Once we learn this step, we’ll try on the wigs I borrowed from the school’s drama closet.”
Neb shuffled his spotter cards. “I hate Nazis,” he said. “Of course, they did blow up the school. I appreciate that. Still.”
Neb’s prickly when out of sorts. I took a stab at comfort. “Your mother would skin us alive if she knew we were playing poker in here,” I whispered, and his scowl softened.
Hypothesis: Deep inside, Neb’s an outlaw waiting to blossom.
Rain studied her cards and laid them face-down. “These are ugly.”
True. My cards showed the black silhouettes of two German airplanes and an Italian one, plus two American airplanes. Not as pretty as diamonds and hearts, but not ugly enough to wreck Rain’s mood. “What’s wrong?”
“Julia’s silver bracelet went missing.” Her eyes filled with tears. “She told me at art. She didn’t say I took it, but she almost did. She said she’d been given certain information.”
