Island of Spies, page 3
She sprang into action, as usual. There’s not an ounce of sit-down in her. I followed her into the kitchen. “I’ll bring the bathtub in off the back porch,” she said, her eyes bright. “What shall we have for a welcome home supper?”
My chief rooster, Galileo, crowed in the backyard.
Bad timing.
I glanced out the window as my hens sprinted toward Galileo, eager for the bug feast he’d announced beneath our fig tree. “Not chicken,” I said, very quick. “Chicken would ruin my genetics experiments, and the hawks are bad enough already.” A hawk will wipe out a flock of chickens, if you let it. “See, I’m crossing my Rhode Island Reds and white leghorns to—”
She held up her hand. “Jonah brought us a mess of flounder this morning. We’ll fry them up and make some slaw.”
“And butterbeans,” I said, checking the shelves over our windows. The stout jars of last summer’s canned vegetables stood warm and inviting.
“And cornbread,” she added. “Your papa can smell it cooking while he bathes. Pump some water please, ma’am, and put it on the stove for his bath. And bring some clothes down for him. Then set the dining room table.” She smiled, her eyes dancing. “When Faye comes in, ask her to help you. Papa can help me in the kitchen.”
Papa’s home.
I don’t know what love smells like, but I’d bet on fried fish, cornbread, and butterbeans.
* * *
• • •
An hour later, Papa’s foot hit the back porch floor exactly the way it does—ba-BAM—same way every time, a way that means he’s home and all’s right with the world.
I strolled into our dining room carrying a small jar of inky water, and three tiny flowers. “What the heck is that?” Faye demanded, placing a fork by a plate. “A bouquet from the dead?”
“They’re crocuses,” I said, setting my makeshift vase on the table.
“They look like death in a jelly jar.”
“I put black ink in the water to highlight their capillaries. They’re my latest science project. Papa will want to see it.”
Fact: I’m the only kid on the island who does freelance science projects.
“You are too strange,” she muttered, and then went misty. “One day, I’ll set the table like they do at the White House so we’ll know which fork to use when the president invites us, once I’m a movie star and you’re a famous scientist. If girls can be famous scientists.”
“Madame Curie,” I replied.
She raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?” The things Faye doesn’t know could fill an encyclopedia.
At the table that night, we went full-blown ritual. Grand said grace. Mama passed the fish. Faye and me gave our school reports. A’s and B’s for Faye, who’s miraculously above average. “All A’s for me except a D in spelling,” I said.
Papa raised his eyebrows. “D?”
“Spelling wastes brain space,” I explained. “We do own a dictionary.”
Fact: Mama buys books at shipwreck auctions. We own two walls full of shipwrecked books, and add our own books as we create them. Only the library at the Pea Island Coast Guard Station rivals ours.
So far I’ve penned one book on the medicinal plants I collect for Mama. Rain’s seminal work, Portraits of Island Cats, Volume 1, sits next to mine. Neb avoids books, except the 1915 Boy Scout Handbook he checked out last year. The Universe Encyclopedias—complete except for Volume K—loom large in my own life. Encyclopedias hold every scrap of knowledge known to man and womankind.
“Work on that D, Stick,” Papa said, loading his plate. “I’d love to see you claw your way up to average if you can,” he added, giving me a wicked grin. “How was Christmas?”
“Fine,” Mama said. Christmas means eating nice foods, going to church, and visiting family and friends—not like the hubbub Christmas on the mainland. (See Dime Novel #75: Santa’s Gang of Little Thieves.) “You next,” Mama said. “What’s the news out in the world?”
His smile died. “Nothing fit for the dinner table, I guess. What’s the story on those poor petunias?” he asked, glancing at my centerpiece.
“They’re crocuses,” I said. “There has to be news. Mama doesn’t like me to listen to the radio news without her there to explain, but I’m hearing rumors of U-boats and war.”
He peppered his butterbeans. He peppered them again. He’s stalling, I thought.
“James?” Mama said, worry washing her smile away.
He sighed. “From Boston to home—we saw men enlisting by the truckload, military bases going up. The government’s rationing goods, so people can only buy a little at a time.”
“What?” Faye yelped. “Since when can the government tell us what to buy?”
“Since we’re at war,” he said. “They’re already rationing cars and sugar. They’ll retool the car factories to make military vehicles. Maybe even airplanes. The military will need more sugar. And they use sugarcane to make explosives,” he said, and Mama’s fork clattered to her plate. “I’m betting they’ll ration other things too. Candy. Nylons, shoes, rubber. Gasoline. Oh, I brought you a newspaper, Titus, for the store.”
Grand posts important stories on the store’s wall, for the village to read.
“Thanks. And I was wrong about the gas,” Grand said. “Agnes already bought ten gallons for her old Buick. Don’t ask me why. She never drives it. Three apples too.”
The skin across my shoulders tingled. Miss Agnes bought gasoline? On an island with next to no roads? “How did she know gas would be rationed?”
Grand frowned. “Didn’t say she did know. Don’t start, Stick. There’s nothing suspicious about Agnes. You just don’t like her.”
“Nothing suspicious? She showed up out of the blue, she has no known people—”
He put his fork down. “You’re afraid she’ll steal me. So what if she does? You can borrow me back. You could at least try to be friendly.”
“The trick to business is knowing what people need before they know it themselves,” Papa interrupted, looking at Mama. “Prices will skyrocket, Ada. For everything. That’s why I have to leave in the morning.”
“Tomorrow morning?” she said. Even the crocuses looked stunned.
“You can’t!” I said, my voice going too high. “We need you on a consultation basis. Tommy’s a one-man crime ring, you haven’t seen Rain’s new art, and Otto’s stealing Neb’s dinner and trying to shake us down!”
Faye elbowed in. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” she said. “I’ll speak to Tommy about his repulsive little brother. Tommy’s shooting pool with Reed Sunday night. I’ll snag him then.” When Faye’s nice to me, she generally has an ulterior motive. Wait for it, I thought. “I’ll probably have to stay out later than usual to see it through. Say, eleven?”
Mama was so rattled, she nodded.
The war isn’t even here, and already it’s got its hands all over my life. Papa’s never looked so worried or left so soon. Mama’s never looked so pale. I pictured Dime Novel #132: Eye of the Storm, and tried to find a still place in my whirlwind feelings. Reed’s shooting pool, I thought, breathing deep. Reed spins steady as the earth beneath my feet.
Mama cleared her throat. “No,” she said.
The word hung on the air like smoke.
Papa blinked like a confused owl. “No? No what?”
“There’s more to life than business, James,” she said. “There’s me. And Faye, and Stick, and Titus. You may not leave after one meal at my table, not after you’ve been gone so long. Especially not with a war coming.”
Papa captains his ship and Mama captains our home, but I’d never heard them cross at a command level. The table went so quiet, I could hear my heartbeat. Papa took a deep breath and looked at Grand. “As I was saying, Titus, I plan to be here a few more days. I’ll set sail first thing . . . Sunday morning?” he said, crooking an eyebrow at Mama. Papa is the only captain on the island who sails on Sundays.
“Agreed,” she said, relaxing.
My world went a little less catawampus. “Excellent,” I said. “Faye, what time?”
“You’re babbling again,” she replied.
“Reed and Tommy Wilkins. What time do they shoot pool Sunday night?”
She sighed. “Eight o’clock, if Grand doesn’t mind.”
“Done,” he muttered. “Just act like you have good sense.”
Fact: It’s illegal to open a store on Sunday, but shooting pool isn’t the same as open.
Sunday’s the perfect time to stake out Tommy Wilkins, a cold-blooded chameleon of a teenager. Put him in a church, he’s the color of the choir. Put him by a pool table, he goes an ugly shade of slick. Let him walk by an unlocked warehouse, he’s the color of stolen.
“Thanks for stepping up, Faye,” Papa said. “Stick, remember: No citizen’s arrest until we talk. And your gift’s on the back porch.” He grinned at Faye. “Yours too.”
Gifts. Incredibly, Faye didn’t bite.
“Papa,” she said, “are the Germans coming to our island?” Papa’s eyes lost their light, and fear spidered through me like lightning across the sky.
Is Otto right? Are U-boats coming? Are they here?
“Your mother and I have made our plans. You don’t need to worry. If we need to, we’ll move inland to Cousin Leah’s place, in Tarboro.”
“Tarboro? We can’t go inland. We’re not woodsers,” I said. “You can’t even smell the sea there! What about Rain and Neb? And Miss Jonah? And what about my chickens? I can’t leave them to the hawks and raccoons!”
“If we go, we’ll invite Rain’s family. And Neb,” Mama said, very firm. She looked at Papa. “But I won’t go unless we have to, James. People depend on me. Two of my ladies have babies coming, and Mac’s sicker than he lets on.”
Fact: Mama’s a healer by nature and by trade. People come looking for her when someone’s being born or dying, and everything in between.
“Agreed,” Papa said, and squeezed my hand. “Nothing changes an economy faster than war, Genius. This may be my last safe chance to sail. Just one more trip, and I’ll be home so long, you’ll get sick of me. Faye, if you’d pass the cornbread?”
Just like that? The war’s here, Papa’s going—and pass the cornbread?
Normal settles my fear the way baking soda neutralizes acid. I said the first normal thing I could think of: “Faye likes us to call her Hollywood these days.”
“Hollywood,” Papa said, trying it on. He winked at Mama. “I like it.”
Faye swerved to his flattery like a shark to chum. “I’m trying to get a stage name going,” she said. “Kids my age picked it up like crazy. The old and the dimwitted are a challenge.”
“They always are,” Papa said, giving Grand a fake-sad look. “It’s pitiful, really.”
Papa’s the funniest man I know. “Mental sharpness declines with age,” I added, shaking my head. I love double-teasing with Papa.
“Refocus,” Faye said. “We’re talking about me.” She dimpled up and tilted her head thirty degrees to the right, like a Hollywood starlet. She practices in the mirror. She does a nice Katharine Hepburn too—hands on hips, I-dare-you-to stare. “I’m auditioning for the school play,” she added, and Papa’s smile made the room happy clear to the curtains.
I butted in before Faye could go into her audition piece. If I hear the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet one more time, I may heave. “Papa, all day, I’ve felt somebody watching from the sea. And I’ve seen glints on the water. Otto says U-boats sit out there. But—”
“Don’t let that pompous little wart get to you,” Grand warned.
“Yes, sir.” Grand’s a shrewd judge of character, if you don’t count being head-over-heels for Miss Agnes.
“Wartime jitters, I expect, Genius,” Papa said. “Settle down.”
“I am settled. Observation is the first step in scientific investigation. As a scientist, I know what I saw.”
“Stick, we’re fine,” he said, his voice going harsh. The table fell silent. I felt like a bird with nowhere to land. Papa’s never harsh, unless you count my one science project gone bad, when I accidentally glued Faye’s hair to her mattress.
“I’m sorry, Stick,” Papa said. “I guess I’m the one with jitters. I’ll ask around, see if anyone else saw something unusual.”
“A war,” Faye murmured. “I guess we’ll . . .” Her voice faded away.
“We’ll do what we always do, only better,” Grand said.
Grand has been in a war. They called it The War to End All Wars—apparently a premature conclusion—but a plan from him definitely beats a guess from Faye. Even so, questions raced around inside me like squirrels in a barrel.
Will the Germans come? Will they knock on our door? Sit at this table?
Someone rapped at the back door.
I jumped, hanging my heart on the ceiling. “Nazis,” I gasped. “They’re here.”
CHAPTER 3
A Screaming Turn
Another rap. “Hello to the house, anybody home?”
“That’s Reed!” Faye said.
I thundered to the back door, burning off my fear. Hypothesis: As a species, we’re wired to run when scared. (See T. rex, Universe Encyclopedia, Volume T.)
“Hey, shortcake. How’s life?” Reed asked, the back door open behind him. Only bad news and strangers use the front door.
“Papa’s leaving Sunday and a war’s coming,” I said, trying to look professional. “We Dime Novel Kids will stake out Tommy Wilkins when you two shoot pool on Sunday. And you’re in time for fig cake.” He swept his cap off and smoothed his hair, which is black as raven wings. “New baseball cap?” I asked, my nerves settling.
“Your Papa brought a few over for the team.”
Faye says Reed has General Good Looks. Blue eyes, quick smile, and a barely crooked nose from a fight he almost won. He stands five-eleven—tall for the island. He’s strong from pulling nets. Tonight he smelled like cedar—which meant he was building a new boat.
“You started building my skiff yet?” I teased. “The SS Science.”
He grinned, flashing dimples deep enough to back a Ford into. “I’ll build you a sister-in-law boat if Faye marries me, Stick, but don’t hold your breath. I suspect Hollywood Faye Lawson has bigger fish to fry.” He turned to the white-and-black wrinkle-faced dog on the stoop. “At ease, Schooner.”
Schooner heaved a sigh and sat, one back leg curled beneath his stocky body, one stuck out. Reed named him Schooner for the graceful two-masted boats that work our waters. Sadly, even walking down a dock makes Schooner seasick. He’s a landlubber from his blunt nose to his black-tipped tail. Schooner grinned at me. He has enough jowls for three dogs.
“Mama,” I called, “can Schooner come in? He looks like Sir Winston Churchill, a man I know you admire.” Mama’s silent No sang out loud and clear.
“Sorry, Schooner. I’ll bring you some cornbread,” I promised, and hesitated. “Reed, is Schooner gaining weight? He looks a little . . . uncorseted in the midsection.”
“Yeah, reckon I need to tell the schoolkids not to feed him.”
I’ve never seen kids feeding him, I thought as I led Reed to our table.
“Evening,” he said, beaming around the room. “How’s everybody?”
If Faye had bigger fish to fry, she didn’t show it. “Better, now that you’re here,” she said, giving him the thirty-degree tilt.
Papa’s liked Reed for Faye since way before Reed quit-u-ated high school. Quit-u-ating is as good as graduating on the island, where a high school diploma’s mostly good for folding and slipping under the short leg of a rocky table. He sat down easy as coming home.
“How’s the baseball team looking?” Papa asked. Reed pitches for Buxton.
“I’d say good, but the Oden twins in Kinnakeet enlisted and the team’s brought in a couple of Ringers to replace them. Won’t know our chances until I see them play.”
“Ringers?” Papa said, frowning. “Bought talent? That’s low.”
“I saw them this afternoon,” I said, passing the cake around. “On our beach.” I tested the waters: “Possible spies.”
Reed snorted. “Sorry, Sherlock. They’re American head to toe. One from Richmond, one from Louisiana. They mostly stay at their aunt’s cottage, way up the beach. Nobody’s paying them. They just like to play.” He leaned toward Papa. “Captain Lawson, what’s the war news?”
The war news.
The words spun through my belly like a tornado of glass. I grabbed my cake and a piece of cornbread and ran for Schooner and my gift, on the back porch.
* * *
• • •
The next morning I met Rain by our gate. “Tell Miss Pope I’m taking a few days off from school,” I said, and she nodded, her eyes shining. She likes Papa near as much as I do.
I spent a sweet day with Papa. He toured headquarters, and helped me set up my freelance science project, Stick’s Shockingly Modern Pickled Eggs, at the store. On his second day, filled with showers, he listened to Faye’s audition piece for the school play, and kept his arm close around Mama.
“Time moves slow when it rains,” I said at supper that night.
“You’re bananas,” Faye replied. “Time’s time and humidity frizzes my hair. Yours too, you’re just too hopeless to notice. Mama, can’t you do something about her?”
Papa smiled. “Stick’s fine. Leave her alone.”
Life felt so regular, I almost forgot about the war.
The next day, as I left HQ, life took a swerve that would alter two human lives, three if you count Schooner. As in Dime Novel #85: A Screaming Turn, change strolled by dressed in ordinary clothes: tan work pants and a borrowed suit jacket stretched a little too tight across the shoulders. “Hey Reed!” I shouted, pounding down the path. “Wait up!”
