Willow Run (8 page)

I stood there breathing in that dusty air; then I reached out with my fingers to touch the feathery top of a yellow plant. The sound of insects buzzing was everywhere, a sleepy sound like the one I always heard when I went around the back of Grandpa's house into his garden.

One day Eddie hammered thin stakes into the ground and twirled the tiny bean vines around them. “What would I do without you, Edvard?” Grandpa said.

Above, the sun was a glowing ball lighting a path through the field so the green stalks in the center were blurred. It was almost as if I could walk across the top of them and keep on walking straight up into the sky. And at the far end of the field was a small house, unpainted, with a tiny porch in front, and a stone chimney that leaned a little. It looked as if it had been there forever.

“Willow Run. It was all like this before the war,” Dad said. “A small town named for a stream that ran through here long ago… trees, everything green and lovely.”

He waved his hand in front of him. “Maybe it will be like that again afterwards.” He shook his head. “Europe in ruins. Monte Cassino, that beautiful cathedral, hundreds of years old, gone. You know, Meggie, it's all because people
haven't learned to get along with each other. Jews gone because they were Jews. Old people because they were old.”

I felt my breath catch. Grandpa was old. “Grandpa would love this,” I said.

“I thought that, too, the other day, when I saw it for the first time.” Dad tilted his head. “I don't know why, but I keep thinking about that summer we went to the Catskill Mountains. August. The days were warm, but we could feel the beginning of fall in the air.”

I squeezed my eyes shut.
Grandpa snoring in the room next to us, and Eddie and I laughing. Mom shushing us, one finger to her lips, and then bursting out in a laugh so loud that Grandpa woke with a snort.

“Eddie and I slept on cots,” I began, but Dad was talking about something else now.

“If only my eyes were better. If only I could have gone.”

I moved closer to him, so glad he was there with me and not somewhere in Europe with Eddie.

“We have to keep thinking of places like this,” he said. “Things growing, reaching for the sky, instead of being torn down.”

It made me think of Grandpa bending over, turning the soil over or patting the plants.

Grandpa.

“What about Grandpa?” I said. “How will he find out about Eddie?”

“Mom asked me to call him long-distance from the post office. I did that, an hour ago.”

“What did he say?”

Dad held up his hand. I could see his mouth trembling.

Then he shook his head. “If only he were here with us. Mom would have …” He stopped.

If only.

Sometimes, coming home from fishing, late for dinner, Grandpa and I would cross the boulevard, dodging a car or two. I'd hold the tackle box over my arm, the handles making red marks in my skin. Grandpa would slap one hand on top of his head to hold on his cap, and grab my free hand with the other, and we'd run. Mom, seeing us come down the gravel path, would begin to laugh.

Dad was right. He would cheer Mom up in two seconds. He'd tell us how good Eddie was at finding places, tell us about that time when Eddie and I took the wrong path in the Catskills, and Eddie yodeled so someone would find us. Grandpa always laughed about that, too.

Back at the corner I nearly fell over Harlan, who was lying in the street, face to the sun, eyes closed.

What was the matter with him, anyway?

And then I saw Kennis shooting a gun, those two pieces of wood stuck together with a rubber band.

Playing soldiers.

What good was that?

Harlan opened one eye. Orange ice ringed his mouth as if a volcano had just erupted. “I'm a Nazi,” he said.

I stepped over him and kept going.

“What about Virginia Tooey?” I asked Dad.

Dad shook his head.

Virginia didn't know, then. She must be in her house, writing letters and knitting khaki socks for Eddie.

As we went up the path I could see Mom, still in her robe, standing by the kitchen window, looking out at us.

She raised one hand, and as we went in the door, she was saying, “This is war. Look at this bare earth in front of us, nothing growing.” She held her arms out to Dad. “My child missing.”

I stood there for a moment, wishing I were somewhere else. I picked up Judy and buried my face in her warm fur.

Letter for Lily.

Please go in my living room and get Eddie's picture. Send it right away, even if you have to ask your grandmother for the money. Tell her I'll pay her back when the war is over. I can't remember what Eddie looks like and now he's missing in action, isn't it strange, on a beach. It was on D-day. The telegram didn't come until this morning. He never even got any of the candy.

Margaret

Dear Virginia,

I wanted to tell you that Eddie got lost in France. I know you'd want to know. Eddie thought you were very pretty. He told me that. The prettiest girl he ever saw. He said I might look like you someday.

I hope so.

Listen, I'll let you know when he's found as soon as I can and then you can start writing to him again.

Yours truly,

Meggie Dillon

Dear Grandpa,

Remember the time we were lost in the Catskills and Eddie found the way home?

What do you think, Grandpa? Won't he find his way again?

Love,

Meggie

To the Hot-O Soup Company:

The first thing I'm going to do when the war is over is hope that there won't be another one. And if my brother comes home, I won't need to hope for anything else.

“Meggie?” Patches said through the wall.

I leaned closer to the wall. “I'm here,” I said into the dark.

“Are you okay?”

I wasn't. Everything was wrong. Eddie. Mom and Dad crying. Grandpa alone at home. Owing Arnold the Spy all that money. “If only I hadn't taken the ice cream,” I said, then blurted out, “I hate it here.”

Patches took a breath. “It's wonderful here,” she said slowly. “You can switch the lights on and off, and there's a bathroom inside, and enough money for school shoes.”

No electricity, no bathroom. Who ever heard of that? “Where did you come from?”

She didn't answer for a moment. “The mountains,” she said.

“When the war is over,” I said, “we'll all go home. There'll be parties.…”

“That's true,” she said. “My three brothers and their wives will come over again on Sundays. My sister, Lou, always brings raisin pies, and Mom will roast a possum.”

I covered my mouth. A possum. It sounded worse than Spam.

We were both quiet. I kept thinking about the shoes on Patches’ table. And then I fell asleep, to wake up while it was still half dark. I had dreamed of Grandpa and Eddie in the garden, dreamed that I had been left out, watching the two of them talking and laughing. I sat up, tears on my face.

At home in Rockaway I loved to wake up early while everyone else was still asleep. I'd patter around in the kitchen to peer out at the waves, silvery as they folded over on themselves, and listen to the
swish-swish
sounds they made on summer mornings. But this wasn't Rockaway; there was no Atlantic Ocean. Dad was at the factory on the graveyard shift. Only Mom slept; I could hear her mumble as she turned over in her bed.

I went into the rabbit-hutch kitchen. The floor was wet, the linoleum squishing between my toes. Ronnelle must have been doing the wash earlier. Sometimes, if I listened against the wall, I could hear her humming as she put the
clothes through the wringer. It was always that pilot song: “Coming In on a Wing and a Prayer.” She was thinking about her husband Michael.

I looked out the window. The sky was still dark but the moon was almost full, throwing shadows across the street and onto the kitchen floor. One of Grandpa's sayings was about the moon, but I couldn't remember what it was, only that it had something to do with when to plant, or not to plant.

I swallowed. I went back to my bedroom, standing still on one foot as I heard Mom turn over.

I wondered what Dad was doing at work, what part of a plane he was working on. He said that the motors were made by Rolls-Royce, whoever they were, and that they were the best motors in the world. I wished he were home in the back bedroom, giving me that safe feeling.

Ronnelle was at the factory now, too. Yesterday she had come across the lawn, running, the strings of her Hooverette apron flying, and Lulu toddling along with her. She called as she opened our door, “Mail for me. Michael has only two missions left. Then he's coming—” She broke off, looking at Mom's face. “I'm sorry.”

Mom had put her arms around her. “Do you think I'm not happy for you? Oh, Ronnelle.”

“But still…,” Ronnelle had said. “Two more. I'm so tired of being afraid for him.” She leaned her head back to
look into Mom's eyes. “If we get through this, I'm going to be the best person.”

Mom smiled. “You are that now.”

I thought about being the best person, too, and wondered if Eddie felt the same way. I had to smile thinking that sometimes Eddie had gotten himself in trouble. Once on a sunny spring day he had played hooky from school and spent the whole day playing catch with his best friend on 102nd Street. And in fifth grade he had gotten a terrible report card. I still remembered the Cs marching in a row and how angry Mom and Dad had been.

If only I could remember what he looked like. When I concentrated I could picture his eyes and his nose, always a little red from allergies. I knew the feel of his hair, and his hands on mine when he taught me to bat. I just couldn't put it all together into Eddie.

I tiptoed into my bedroom, leaving the door open to the moonlight in the kitchen, and inched out the treasure box. I lifted everything out, my hands gentle on the smashed shells, the postcard collection, easing them onto the floor next to me. And then I ran my hand over the gritty bottom of the box, feeling the seeds still there.

My handkerchief was on the table next to the bed. I dug out the seeds with my fingernails one by one and dropped them into the hanky.

On the way outside, I took a tablespoon from the
kitchen drawer, feeling the dampness on my feet, and then I was in front of the house, the streets empty for once, the
SUNDAE, MONDAY, AND ALWAYS
truck chained to a tree on the corner.

I knelt down next to the steps, one hand on the stone still warm from yesterday's sun, and began to turn over the earth with the spoon.

It wasn't easy; the soil was packed down, and knobby roots crisscrossed the earth just under the surface. The sound of my breath was in my ears as I crouched there, but as I worked I felt each spoonful of soil turn soft, and as I went deeper, there was moisture that turned and turned with the spoon and I dug my fingers into it the way Grandpa would have, and I couldn't stop seeing his face.
“I haf a garden to grow.”

Suppose I had thrown my arms around him and said
Come with us to Michigan
?

Would he have come?

But what about the rest of it:
“If this were anywhere else but Rockaway they'd probably put him in jail,”
the boys had said.

Could that be true?

At last I had a patch of earth that could be planted.

I took each seed out of the handkerchief and put it on the earth.
“Things growing,”
Dad had said,
“reaching for the sky.”

I sprinkled a little of the soil over the top and stood up, almost dizzy from bending over so long.

The stars were fading now; it was almost daytime. Before I could climb the steps and go into the kitchen, I heard the gritty sound of footsteps in the street: someone coming home from work.

It was Arnold the Spy, and he was walking slowly, coming toward me.

For a moment I wasn't sure if he had seen me. I took a step back, covering the soft earth with one bare heel, my hand to my mouth, hoping that I was wrong, that he'd pass by, going on his way down the street, and never even notice I was there.

I was reminded of a raccoon I had seen once in Grandpa's garden, late, after a party. Everyone was in the kitchen cleaning up, everyone but me.

The raccoon had stopped when he saw me, one delicate paw up in the air, almost frozen against one of Grandpa's plants. I had held on to the porch railing, holding my breath. Then we both had run, the raccoon to go under the fence and me into the house.

Now I clenched my hands together over my mouth and I looked up and saw Arnold's face, and even in the dim early morning light, I knew he had seen me. I knew he was watching me.

He came up the front path toward me. I stood still the
way the raccoon had that night in Rockaway, unable to move. “Why aren't you asleep?” he asked.

I took a step backward. “I was planting seeds.”

“By the full moon,” he said. “That's a good way to plant.”

He sat down on the step, and I sat, too, but on the very edge in case I wanted to run. I wanted to tell him about the key, but I was so afraid, it was hard to open my mouth. After a while I took a breath. “If someone has an accent, would they arrest him here?”

“Of course not. Lots of people have accents,” he said. “There are people here from all over.”

“Are you sure?”

“This is America, after all,” he said.

Then, before I could stop myself, I asked, “How can people really tell if someone's a spy?”

He ran his hand over his hair and sighed. “You can't. But the thing is …” He hesitated. “I guess you've got to be careful not to jump to conclusions about people.”

I didn't think that was much of an answer, but I didn't know how else to ask. We didn't talk for a while, and I began to think it must be terrible to be a spy… without friends, wandering around all night by yourself.

And something else. It was really sad if you had nothing else to do but spy on an eleven-year-old girl who was planting seeds.

I didn't remember what he had said about not jumping to conclusions about people until I was in bed. I fell asleep
thinking of those two boys who had painted the swastika on Grandpa's window.