London Calling (13 page)

Margaret actually cackled. “Well, no woman scorned has ever taken sweeter revenge.”

“What will this do to Lowery’s reputation?”

“It will destroy it.”

“Really? I don’t understand. What did he do that was so bad?”

“According to those papers, he carried a highly detailed plan from the German attaché, Von Dirksen, to President Roosevelt. The plan outlined how the United States could, essentially, stab Britain in the back and make a deal with Hitler. Fortunately, FDR rejected it.”

“So Lowery was a traitor?”

Margaret thought about that. When she finally answered, she was more subdued. “No. I wouldn’t say that. He was an isolationist. He wanted to keep the United States out of the war. A lot of people did.”

“The isolationists were antiwar?”

“They were.”

“Was that a bad thing?”

“I guess it depends on your point of view. From our point of view, we can say that it was absolutely essential to stop Hitler. But people back then still thought they could make a deal with him.”

“So? That’s all that Lowery was doing. Trying to make a deal. Why will that be so damaging?”

“Because he lied about it! He lied about it back when it happened, and he continued to lie about it for the rest of his life. He claimed that he was always solidly behind the brave Londoners and that he suffered through the Blitz with them when the truth was, he got out of there as soon as he could and he tried to sell them out to Hitler.”

Margaret’s hands flew off the wheel again. “Martin, what on earth did you say to that woman?”

“I appealed to her spiritual side.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Nana and I have a spiritual side, you know.”

“I know.” Margaret sounded a little envious.

“Oh yes, and I told her the truth.”

“That’s always good.”

“She said she wants the papers back.”

“Sure. They’re her property. It may be a while, though. My God! Mr. Wissler is going to die when he sees those papers.”

“How are you going to give them to him?”

“I’m going to let you do it. You can tell him . . . the truth.” She stole a worried glance at me. “Don’t be offended by this, but I don’t think you should bring up the time-travel stuff again. Okay?”

I wasn’t offended, but I told her, “I’m going to tell him the truth.”

Thirty minutes later, we used Margaret’s ID to enter the offices of the Millennium Encyclopedia. While she waited by the front, I walked back to a large office, where I could see Mr. Wissler working at a desk. I rapped lightly on the door. He looked up and smiled.

“Hello, Martin. What can I do for you?”

I held out the red hatbox. “Here. I got this from . . . the relative of an eyewitness to history. The eyewitness’s name was Daisy Traynor. Reading it is a kind of time travel.”

He was definitely intrigued. “Time travel? To when?”

“To our favorite time.” I held the box out.

He took it in his two hands. “It certainly smells nice.”

“Yes. I’ll leave you with it now. I think you’ll know what to do with it.”

I backed out as he continued to stare at the hatbox. He was so fascinated that he didn’t even say goodbye.

Mom, Margaret, and I had a pleasant dinner back at home. Then we went to the Acme to pick up snacks for some New Year’s Eve TV-watching. I also spotted an item that I had to buy—a tube of Brylcreem in the “original scent,” the kind popular with the RAF pilots and the little boys who idolized them.

We ate our snacks, watched the revelers in Times Square, and wished each other a happy New Year at twelve o’clock. Then, sometime after one, I noticed that I had received an e-mail from over three thousand miles away. It said:

NEW YEAR’S DAY

New Year’s Day is also a holy day of obligation in the Catholic Church, commemorating the circumcision of the infant Jesus. All Souls Chapel was having a special holy day mass prior to the dedication of the Heroes’ Walk, but I asked Mom to take us to Resurrection in Princeton instead. She readily agreed, adding, “At Resurrection, we won’t have to listen to that Lowery boy snoring.”

I spent my time at mass thinking about Hank Lowery anyway. It had been nearly seven months since he had slapped me in the face. Today was the day he was going to pay for that.

I did not realize it at the time, but Mom and Margaret each had a personal agenda for the day, too. After mass, we drove east through the gray snow of the farmland along East Windsor Road. As we drew closer to All Souls Preparatory, we each grew more somber, and focused, and determined.

When Mom pulled in to the All Souls campus, I noticed a long flatbed truck parked just outside the gate. It was a familiar sight to me, but I was surprised to see it today. It had
MANETTI CONSTRUCTION
written on the cab door. Atop the open bed sat a small bulldozer, a yellow John Deere 350C.

A crowd was gathered at the entranceway to the Lowery Library. I saw a row of bleachers, twenty feet across and five rows high, facing a podium. A new marble statue stood next to the podium. It depicted General Henry M. “Hollerin’ Hank” Lowery standing with his right arm raised, pointing his men forward into battle. His mouth was open, presumably in mid-holler. The statues of FDR and JFK were set in a small arc beside him. Embedded in gold in the gray slate of the entranceway were the words the heroes’ walk.

We parked down by the Student Center and walked back. I spotted Hank Lowery right away, but he didn’t see me. He was standing with Ben Livingstone and Ben’s father, the Lowery family’s attorney. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead, following Mom and Margaret into the Administration Building. A small group was inside, including Father Thomas and Father Leonard.

Father Leonard approached us and said, “Congratulations, Martin, on those fine research papers. I haven’t read papers that good since Margaret was my student.”

I said, “Thank you.”

Margaret smiled cryptically.

Father Thomas came over as soon as he saw Mom. “Thank goodness you’re here, Mary. I’ve been priest, principal, and master of ceremonies, all mixed together.”

Mom didn’t reply. She opened the top desk drawer, removed some items, and put them in her purse.

Father Thomas looked at Margaret and me. “Good to see you again, Margaret. I know Mr. Livingstone wants to talk to you again about your work at the encyclopedia.”

Margaret’s smile receded. “I’ll bet he does.”

“And you, too, Martin. How have you been?”

“Very well, Father. Never better.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Father Leonard has been very impressed by your reports. I have read some of them, too. Excellent.”

Father Leonard added, “Superior research skills, Martin.”

“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed doing the reports. In fact, I’m working on another one now.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“It’s called ‘Their Finest Hour.’ It’s about survivors of the London Blitz.”

Father Leonard looked intrigued. But before he could ask me about it, Hank Lowery’s mother tapped him on the shoulder. He turned away, and he never did turn back.

Father Thomas answered for him. “That is interesting. I’ll look forward to reading it.”

I shook my head. “You won’t be reading it.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because I won’t be turning it in.” Father Thomas was clearly confused. I added, “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me. And for . . . someone else.”

He shook his head and muttered, “I’m afraid I don’t follow you. Perhaps we could talk about it later.”

“There is no later. I won’t be coming back here.”

Father Thomas looked to Mom for support, but he heard instead “Actually, Father, I won’t be coming back, either.”

His eyes widened. After a stunned pause, he finally managed to say, “I’m sorry to hear that, too, Mary. Very sorry. When will you be leaving us?”

“Right now. Effective immediately.”

Father Thomas’s eyes shot to the pile of papers on his desk. “Immediately?” His voice sharpened. “But two weeks’ notice is customary. In writing.”

“Sometimes it is. But as I recall, Martin gave you a statement in writing and you didn’t think it was worth reading. Or even opening.”

“Mary, I explained that—”

“Yes, you explained to me that a verbal statement alone was enough. So this is yours.” She hesitated, then added, “Now you can hire another servant to work for minimum wage.”

Father Thomas protested, “That’s not fair. You received a wage plus benefits. And tuition at All Souls.”

Mom agreed. “Yes, that’s right. That was the deal. Now we no longer need the deal. So goodbye.”

Before Father Thomas could manage further reply, his brother called out, “It’s time to go, everybody!”

Father Leonard took Father Thomas by the arm and guided him to the head of a loose line composed of well-dressed men and women. I recognized some of them from masses at the Chapel—the extended Lowery family. The men had all inherited the large head and broad shoulders. A couple of the women had, too.

Father Thomas led the group past the large painting of Washington crossing the Delaware and into the bright winter light. Mom, Margaret, and I followed at a distance. We heard a smattering of applause to our right as the other invited guests caught sight of the Lowerys. The family members took seats in the first row of the bleachers. Mom and Margaret climbed up to the top row on the left side. But I found my own spot, on the right edge, two rows behind Hank Lowery IV.

Father Thomas began by formally greeting the members of the Lowery family, naming them one by one. He even named their family lawyer and some other important alumni. Then, backed by the life-size statue of the General on its three-foot-high pedestal, he launched into a speech: “The statue that we dedicate today is symbolic—symbolic of history, of heroism, and of honor. We all know the story depicted by this statue. Colonel Henry M. Lowery—while commanding troops in France in World War I; while under withering fire from German machine-gun positions; while losing over half the men in his company—still managed to destroy those positions and win the day, earning himself a field promotion to General. In the process, he also earned the applause of a grateful nation. He continued to serve his country and his community throughout his life. And even in death, he has given most generously to his school, All Souls Preparatory, in the form of this magnificent library.”

I watched two rows ahead of me as Hank Lowery IV turned to his mother and announced, “I gotta take a whiz.”

She hissed, “Can’t this wait?”

“No. I gotta go bad.”

The woman moved enough to let him slip by. As he hopped off the bleachers, I knew my own moment had come. I jumped down after him. I stayed ten yards behind until he reached the Administration Building; then I moved quickly to catch the door before it closed.

Lowery turned, startled to see me. But his look of apprehension quickly turned into a familiar snarl. “You, Conway? What do you want?”

I closed the door and walked toward him, like James Harker toward that warden sixty years earlier and three thousand miles away. As I walked, I made a speech of my own. I said, “This is for all the boys Hollerin’ Hank led to their deaths so that he could become a big general, and be in all the newspapers, and endorse hearing aids, and build that library.” Then I added, “And this is for me, too.”

I pulled my fist back and threw one quick punch at Hank Lowery’s nose. The punch wasn’t that hard, but it struck him dead center, and it caught him completely by surprise. His big head snapped back. Then his whole body followed it, backpedaling wildly down the hallway. I went after him, ready to punch him again if necessary, but it wasn’t.

Lowery’s left leg hit one of the plastic chairs, throwing him off balance. He waved his arms, fell down, and immediately started grabbing at his ankle like he was in excruciating pain. I didn’t believe he was in pain—either from the punch or the fall—but he screamed bloody murder.

I hesitated, not knowing what to do next. I waited until Lowery finally quieted down. He pointed at me and sputtered, “You’re gonna pay for this, Conway. Big-time.”

“Get up, then. Make me pay for it now. Just you and me.”

“I can’t get up.”

“Yes, you can, you coward.”

He snarled, “We’ll see how brave you are when school starts.”

“I’m not coming back to this school. I’m brave right now. Get up.” I stepped forward again, causing Lowery to scurry farther back across the floor. “This is it, Lowery. You and me alone. What are you going to do?”

“You’ll find out!”

“I already know what you’re going to do. Nothing. You’re going to do nothing because you
are
nothing. A big nothing when you’re by yourself.” Lowery was now crouching against the chairs directly below Rembrandt’s
Abraham and Isaac,
and I suddenly knew what to do next. I grabbed the thick wooden frame of the painting, pulled it off its hooks, and held it over Lowery’s oversized head.

He yelled, “Are you crazy? That’s vandalism! That’s a Rembrandt!”

“No, it isn’t. It’s a cheap imitation. This school doesn’t own a Rembrandt.”

I let the painting crash of its own weight, right on top of him. The canvas stretched in the middle and then ripped away from the frame. Lowery’s head poked through from below. He pretended to fall unconscious to the floor, but I knew he was faking.

I stood over him for several seconds, panting triumphantly, until I became aware of someone standing behind me. I spun around and found myself face to face with Manetti. He looked from me to Lowery and back again. Then he smiled.

I stammered, “What . . . what are you doing here?”

Manetti grinned nonchalantly. “Checking you out. Nice work.” He made a dismissive move with his hand in Lowery’s direction. “Forget that punk. Right?”

“Right.”

“So? How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.”

“Good. That’s good. And how’s my man Pinak?”

I stole a quick look at Lowery. He still hadn’t moved. “He’s okay, too. You know—Pinak is Pinak.”

“Yeah. I know. I miss busting his balls.”

“Yeah. You should let us IM you again. I miss your messages.”

“Really? What about Pinak?”

“He misses them, too.”

Manetti shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I will.”

I thought about the day he got expelled. I told him sincerely, “I’m really sorry about what happened to you here.”

Manetti actually smiled. “Hey. This place sucks. I’m glad I’m out. It’s my dad that’s pissed.”

“Really? Still?”

“Yeah. More than ever. He’s not so good at letting things go.”

“Are you at Garden State Middle?”

“Yeah.”

“How is it?”

“The chicks are hot, man. Makes this place look like the dog pound.”

“I’ll see you there soon. Maybe we can hang out.”

“Yeah? Cool. We can go to the mall.”

“Sure. Why not?”

We finally heard Lowery move. Manetti yelled at him, “If you come out of there, Lowery, I’ll kick your ass next. I’m just waiting for my turn.” He winked at me. “And don’t let me see you at the mall, either.”

Suddenly I was startled by the sound of a diesel engine throttling to life. I tried to imagine what it could be. I looked at Manetti. He wasn’t startled at all. I asked him, “Wait a minute, Manetti. What are you and your father doing here?”

He looked toward the outside door. “I’m not sure. But I think something’s going to happen. In fact, I’d bet on it.”

He led the way to the door and threw it open. The Manetti Construction truck was now inside the gate. Mr. Manetti was sitting in the cab of the small bulldozer, raising up the iron-toothed bucket on the front and then dropping it down again.

I shouted over the engine noise, “What’s going on?”

“Like I said,” Manetti answered simply, “my dad’s pissed.”

Mr. Manetti threw the bulldozer into gear and throttled it slowly down the back ramp of the flatbed truck. Then he drove it straight across the road to the slate entranceway of the Heroes’ Walk. The group of Lowery family and friends watched, befuddled, as the John Deere 350C rolled like a small yellow tank past the statues of FDR and JFK and bore down quickly on the statue of General Lowery. The dozer must have been traveling at twenty miles per hour when it hit, creating a jagged crack between the pedestal and General Lowery’s feet and spewing chunks of Carrara marble all over the slate. Members of the Lowery group screamed and scattered.

Mr. Manetti threw the bulldozer into reverse, lurched back, and accelerated forward again. This time he raised the bucket in front and struck the statue full in the chest. General Lowery’s pointing arm broke off. Then his great marble head tottered slightly forward, then slightly back, and thudded onto the gray slate, further panicking the group of family and friends. Mr. Manetti pulled back, lowered the bucket, pulled forward again, and scooped up the marble head. Then, with an enormous diesel roar, he lurched off toward the river.

Cal Livingstone broke from the group and ran after him. He managed to catch the slow-moving vehicle after twenty yards. He tried to grab the back of the cab and leap on, but he lost his grip and fell to the asphalt roadway, tearing the pants of his blue suit and skinning his right knee.

Mr. Manetti didn’t stop the bulldozer until he reached the back wall of the school. There he raised up the bucket to its full height, extended it over the iron railing, and dumped the marble head into the icy Millstone River.

I looked left, toward Manetti, and then right, toward the Heroes’ Walk. Every mouth on the campus was hanging open. Father Thomas stood rigidly among the guests, clearly in shock. When he finally snapped out of it, he started shouting to the family members: “This cannot be! We will make repairs immediately! Nothing will prevent this historic dedication to this great American!”

Cal Livingstone’s wife and son ran to him, but he angrily pushed them away. He limped back to the first row of the bleachers, his bloody knee showing through his suit, and screamed at Father Thomas, “What are you waiting for? Call the police! Arrest that maniac!”