The Green Glass Sea (22 page)

Dewey laughed, an explosive little laugh that came out part snort, part Bronx cheer. “Yeah, right, ” she said. She looked around. “Nope, I think I'm done for today. It's
hot
. ” She bent down, scooped up the little pile of black knobs, and put them inside the drawer. She patted her pockets. “I'd say let's go get Cokes, but I didn't bring any money. ”

Suze reached into her own pocket and held up a nickel. “This is enough for a pack of Kool-Aid. We can make it when we get back. ”

“Not the lemon-lime. ” Dewey made a face.

“No. Ick. ” Suze pulled the collar of her shirt over her face and wiped some of the sweat off, tasting gritty salt and hot cotton, then picked up the handle of the wagon.

They walked back along the road in a satisfied silence punctuated by the slightly arrhythmic sound of the wagon's mismatched wheels and the staccato clatter of the knobs in the wooden drawer.

Suze felt good. She'd found treasure, and she'd been to a brand-new part of the Hill. New to her, anyway. An adventure. She began to whistle, sort of in time with their steps, “The Colonel Bogey March. ” As she launched into it a second time, she was astonished to hear Dewey begin to sing the words the boys sang on the playground—if no teacher was within earshot:

Suze joined in on the second line and they sang it together, then both burst out laughing. Suze reached down and slung her free arm around Dewey's shoulder, then they sang it a third time, at the top of their lungs, like pirates returning home with a trunk full of particularly glorious booty.

As they rounded a corner, Suze took a deep breath and started another chorus. “
Hitler
has only got—”

She stopped singing and stood stock-still. Joyce and Barbara, in full Girl Scout regalia, stood on the porch of the post office.

“Well, my stars and garters, ” said Joyce, in a fakey grown-up voice. “What
do
we have here?” She stepped off onto the hard-packed dirt and smiled a little half smile that made Suze nervous.

“Look, Barb, ” said Joyce. “It's the Sad Sack Club. Screwy Dewey, founder and president. Or have
you
taken over now?” she said, looking at Suze.

Suze didn't answer, but she felt her cheeks going red, and felt Dewey stiffen under her arm. Neither of them moved.

“Why, they've been rag-picking. It must be the initiation into the club, ” Joyce said. She took another step toward them, and her gold trefoil Girl Scout pin winked in the bright sun.

“Mind your own beeswax, ” Suze said. She gripped the wagon handle tighter, and felt Dewey start to move out from under her arm. Suze almost let her go. Because maybe there was still time to—and then she stopped. To what? To pretend that she hadn't been to the dump with Dewey? But she had, and it had been fun. Suze looked down at the drawer in the wagon. Just a minute ago, she'd been excited to get back home, to start fitting the pieces of her collage into it. That had been a good feeling, and she wanted it back. Wanted it more fiercely than she'd known, wanted it a lot more than she cared if Joyce liked her or not. She took a deep breath and squeezed Dewey's shoulder, just once, and Dewey stood still.

“We should get going, ” Barbara said, to Joyce's back. “The other girls are coming at five, and we still have to make the tea. ”

“Oh, we've got time. Don't you want to see what the trash of the day is?” Joyce took a quick step over to the wagon and reached down toward the pile of knobs. “Knobs, ” she said. “Now
there's
something every girl needs. ”

“Leave 'em alone, ” said Suze. She dropped the wagon handle.

Joyce ignored her. “And a drawer. I guess they don't have real furniture over in
Morganville
. ” She looked at Dewey.

“That's mine, ” Suze said through her teeth. “Leave it alone. ”

“Oh, it's a
special
drawer, ” Joyce said in a talking-to-babies voice, and reached for it.

Without thinking, Suze let go of Dewey, took a step forward, grabbed Joyce by the knot of her big yellow Girl Scout neckerchief, and pushed her away. Hard.

Joyce stumbled back. Her feet hit the edge of a puddle, and she went sprawling into the mud, landing with a great
splosh
and sat there, stunned. Nobody moved.

After a few seconds Barbara walked over and offered her a hand. Joyce stood up, glaring at Suze. The back of her green Girl Scout dress was soaked with mud, and her beret had fallen off when she landed. It lay in the puddle, sodden as a wet toad.

“Now you've done it, Truck, ” Joyce said in a tight, angry voice. “
I'm
telling my mother. I bet she'll make you pay for a whole new uniform. ”

Suze stared at her. “What did you call me?”

“Truck, ” Barbara said. She stood next to Joyce. “That's what everyone calls you. ”

“Big fat pushy steamroller truck, ” Joyce said, enunciating each word.

Suze stood by the wagon, her arms hanging at her sides.
Truck?
She felt her eyes sting, and wiped her face brusquely with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath. “Sticks and sto—”

Then Dewey stepped forward and spit, right onto Joyce's brown oxfords.

“You're all
wet
, ” she said, and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Barbara's father's gonna put you scrags in the brig. Just wait, ” Joyce said in a low voice.

“Color me so yellow, ” Dewey replied. She turned to Suze. “Kool-Aid?” she asked, and without a glance back, began to walk toward the PX.

Suze nodded, but said nothing. She picked up the handle of the wagon and followed Dewey, looking over her shoulder every few seconds, just in case. But the other girls didn't move.

They were almost to the PX before either of them spoke.

“You knew?” Suze asked. “Truck?”

“Yeah. I'd heard. ” Dewey shrugged. “But not as much as I'd heard ‘Screwy Dewey. ' I've been wanting to spit for a long time. ”

“Yeah. ”

“But now we're fubar, aren't we?”

“Completely fubar, ” Suze agreed. “Barbara's dad's brass. ” She thought for a minute. “I don't think there's really a brig, though. At least not for civilians. ”

“Probably not. But I bet your mom will think of something.”

Suze groaned. “Yeah, that's the truth. You still want Kool-Aid?”

Dewey shook her head. “I'm thirsty, but we oughta get back and clean up before the Tech whistle blows. ”

Suze looked down at her dirty knees. “It couldn't hurt. ”

They pulled the wagon under the stairs of the apartment building. Dewey shoved most of the knobs into her pockets, and Suze cradled the drawer in her arms.

“For once I'm glad there aren't any phones, ” Suze said. “We're probably safe until after dinner. If Mom even comes home. ” But just the same, they tiptoed up the stairs and let themselves into the kitchen without banging the screen door.

Suze put the drawer down on the tabletop. She turned toward the living room doorway and then stopped, her mouth open in shock.

Her mother was already home, sitting on the living room couch. She looked like she'd been crying. And that wasn't all. Oppie was sitting next to her, looking skinny and tired. Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, the head of the whole Hill, his expression official and serious.

It wasn't possible. Joyce
couldn't
have told already.

“We're
really
fubar, ” she whispered to Dewey. “Look. ”

Dewey dropped her knobs into the drawer and came up behind Suze. “Oh jeez, ” she said, shaking her head. “This isn't good. ”

Suze looked at the back door. Maybe they could— then she sighed. “We might as well get it over with. ” She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked into the living room, Dewey right behind her.

Her mother looked up at the sound of her footsteps, bit her lip, then looked at Dewey.

“Girls, sit down, ” Mrs. Gordon said, and her voice quavered. Suze had never heard her sound like that before. They sat, one on each chair, and Suze braced herself for the biggest lecture of her whole life. Then Oppie spoke.

“I'm sorry, ” he said quietly. He held up a piece of flimsy yellow paper, a telegram. “There's been an accident.”

SUZE STARED AT
her mother, her stomach full of sharp ice. In her mind, she could see fire, explosions somewhere in a desert, her life blowing apart. “Something's happened to Daddy?” she asked. Her hands gripped the sides of her chair so hard that she could feel a blister of varnish crackle under her fingernail.

Her mother looked startled, for a moment. She started to smile and shake her head, another moment, and then the smile disappeared and there was only the head-shake. “No, sweetie, ” she said in a soft voice. “Daddy's fine. ” She turned to Oppie, who nodded.

“I saw him late last night. He's tired, we're all tired. But, no—” He stopped and looked down at the telegram in his hand. “No, ” he said. “Phil's fine. ”

“But?” Suze said, and as she said it, her mother got off the couch and walked toward her chair. Suze leaned forward, lifting her arms fractionally for the anticipated hug, but her mother only touched her cheek with the back of a hand, and went over to the chair where Dewey sat with her hands clenched in her lap.

“Dewey, ” Mrs. Gordon said, smoothing a hand across Dewey's dark curls. “Honey—” And then her voice broke.

Suze felt a wave of relief wash over her, as if a huge weight had been lifted off her chest.

Dewey bit her lip, so hard it was white all the way around. She looked over at Oppie and said, “Papa. ”

Oppie nodded.

“Bad?”

Suze heard her mother give a little cry, a squeak from somewhere in her throat.

“He was hit by a car, ” Oppie said. “Crossing the street in front of the Capitol. Soldiers, just back from France. Drunk and celebrating. ” He looked down at his hands. “An accident, ” he muttered. “A stupid goddamn accident. ”

“He's—?”

“Yes. ” Oppie shook his head slowly, sadly. “I'm sorry. He—the police say he was killed instantly, that he never knew what hit him. ”

Suze began to cry without a sound, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her mother was crying too, shaking, touching Dewey's hair with one hand, the other resting on Dewey's shoulder.

Dewey didn't move. She stared at a place next to the front door and seemed to get smaller, as if she were sinking, shrinking into the chair.

“I'll have to leave now, won't I?” Dewey said. Her voice was flat. Not angry or sad, or even cold. Just flat. “I guess I should go pack. ”

“Oh, no. No!” Mrs. Gordon looked over at Oppie, who seemed startled by what Dewey had said. “Robert, she won't—?”

He sighed. “I really hadn't thought, ” he said. He looked at Dewey. “Is there someone we should call?”

Dewey barely moved, but shook her head a minuscule no.

“Grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Anyone?”

Another tiny shake. No.

Oppie blew out a stream of air. “Well, nothing needs to be done tonight. ” He tried to smile, but he just looked weary. “Don't worry, ” he said. “Don't worry. We'll work it out. ” He looked at his watch. “But I've got the general waiting. ” He stood up and picked his porkpie hat up off the end table. “Walk me out, Terry?”

“Sure, let's grab a smoke. ” Mrs. Gordon stroked Dewey's hair once more, then got her Chesterfields from the coffee table, and the two adults went out the front door, leaving it open a few inches. Suze could hear the murmur of talking, too low for individual words. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I'm really sorry, ” she said to Dewey. She wanted to say something else, something more, but what was there to say?

Dewey nodded. “Thanks, ” she whispered. She didn't look at Suze. She didn't look at anything. She just sat there for a minute, two. Then, as if she'd just decided something, put both hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself up.

“I'm going for a walk, ” she said in that soft, flat voice.

“Okay. ” Suze thought about asking if she wanted company, but was pretty sure she knew the answer, and didn't. She looked at the clock on the mantel.

As if reading Suze's mind, Dewey said, “I don't think I'll be hungry. ”

“Yeah. Okay. ”

Dewey walked slowly, almost formally into the kitchen. Suze heard the screen door open, and then a faint padding as Dewey went down the outside stairs.

Suze sat in the living room, staring at the pattern of the rug she'd never really noticed before, listening to the murmur of the grown-ups' voices. She heard a pause, the click of a Zippo, and then the murmuring continued. Eventually, she got up and went into the kitchen, for no other reason than that she didn't want to sit in that chair anymore.

She was surprised by the small wooden drawer that lay on the oilcloth of the kitchen table. She had forgotten it, as if it had been a hundred years since she put it there. It had only been twenty minutes. Suze remembered being excited about it, but now it didn't seem important.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice. Her throat was sore from being thirsty. And from crying. The juice stung a little going down, but the cold and sweet felt good. She closed her eyes and held the cool glass against her face, hot from the sun, flushed from tears.