Dave at Night (19 page)

Chapter 38

T
HE LOBBY WAS
empty. “Where do we go, boychik?” I pointed to Mr. Doom's office. The door was shut as usual. We walked toward it. Mrs. Packer's heels clacked on the tiles and echoed off the walls.

Solly knocked, and Mr. Doom rumbled that we should come in. I got ready to run. Solly put his arm around my shoulder.

There he was—Mr. Doom—huge as ever, mean as ever. He looked up and saw me. His left hand went up to hold his glasses in place. He smiled a fake smile. “Dave! We've been so worried.” He stood. “Thank you for bringing Dave home,” he told Solly. “Excuse me for a moment.” He went to the phone on the wall and told the operator to call the police station.

He was going to have me arrested! I tried to get away, but Solly held me tight.

Mr. Doom said into the telephone, “Please tell Officer Kelly that our boy came home. He's with me right now, safe and sound.” He hung up and came around the desk to shake Solly's hand.

“Mazel. Mazel tov,” the parrot squawked.

Mr. Doom backed up a step. “Beautiful bird. I love birds. You are Dave's . . . ?” He paused, waiting for Solly to answer.

“His grandpa.”

“And these . . .”—he nodded at Mrs. Packer and Irma Lee—“. . . are your maids?”

How could Mrs. Packer scare him if he thought she was a maid?

Irma Lee started giggling. Mrs. Packer looked like she was trying not to laugh. I didn't see what was so funny.

Mr. Doom continued. “I'm surprised you left Dave with us if—”

“I'm not a rich man,” Solly said.

Mr. Doom frowned, trying to figure it out. Then he gave up the riddle. “Dave, why did you run away?”

I didn't answer.

“Take off your coat, son.” He reached for Papa's carving. “I'll hold this.”

I hugged the carving tight against my chest. He wasn't getting it.

“Gozlin! Holdupnik!” Bandit squawked.

Mr. Doom shrugged. “I just don't want you to get overheated. Mr. Caros—”

“Gruber. Solomon Gruber. And my boss here is Mrs. Odelia Packer.”

“Odelia Packer!
The
Odelia Pa—” Mr. Doom rushed at her. “Madam, I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize you.” He straightened his suit jacket. “I'm honored to have you as a guest. Wait till I tell Mrs. Bloom! She reads to me about your salons. Did Baron Rothschild . . .” He held out his hand, which Mrs. Packer didn't take.

“Mr. Gruber has told me shocking things about the institution you run here,” Mrs. Packer said.

“Mada—”

“If something happened to me, and my baby—my daughter had to live in a place—”

“God forbid something should—”

“I would be spinning in my grave. Spinning! Inedible food! The poor boys are freezing to death. And their precious . . .”—she reached for Papa's carving; I let her have it—“. . . keepsakes are taken from them.”

“Mada—”

“Mr. Gruber would care for his grandson himself, but his health is too uncertain . . .”

Was this part true? I thought of how out of breath he got from climbing stairs, and how slowly he always walked. I looked at him, but I couldn't tell. He was too busy being a gonif, nodding seriously at everything Mrs. Packer said.

“Madam, I deeply re—”

“Mr. Gruber handles my charitable work.” She turned to Solly. “I believe a board of directors oversees . . .”

Solly said, “I saw Norman Rosen yesterday, just a few hours before Daveleh came, dripping—”

“Sir! I never intended . . . If I had only known . . .” Beads of sweat were gathering on Mr. Doom's forehead.

“Mr. Gruber can speak to Mr. Rosen tomorrow and tell him what happened—”

“No, madam! He can't—I mean, he mustn't. The boy will be treated . . . Dave . . .” He smiled at me. He was begging. “I meant no harm. I thought—”

“You stole my papa's carving and called him a bum.” It felt grand to tell him off. “You're the bum, you're the thief, you're the paskud—”

“Enough, boychik. Mr. Bloom gets the idea.”

Mr. Doom crouched in front of me. “Dave, will you accept my sincere, my sincerest apologies?”

“Oy vay,” the parrot squawked. “Gevalt!”

There was nothing sincere about him. “Just stay away from my things, and leave us elevens alone.”

Mrs. Packer waved her hand. “Mr. Gruber and I know how difficult it is to run a large institution. Never enough money, never enough help . . .”

Mr. Doom nodded as she spoke. “Never enough money,” he echoed. He stood up. “Madam, if you would interest yourself in our mission, to bring up these chil—”

“Mr. Gruber?”

“Since Dave was here, I didn't feel right about suggesting a donation, but I think they could use a new furnace.”

For a second Mrs. Packer looked blank. Then she chuckled. “A new furnace.”

Solly was gonifing her too, to get us a furnace!

She was trying not to laugh. “We'll look into it. Perhaps we can discuss it further when we come back to visit.”

“Delighted, madam. Delighted. Any time.”

“When are visiting days, Dave?”

I told her, and she promised to come.

We left Mr. Doom's office then, and they all—including Mr. Doom—walked with me to Mr. Cluck's classroom. I didn't like walking anywhere near him. I had told him off, and it felt good, but I wished Solly and Mrs. Packer could stay a little longer, like a few years longer. I wished Mr. Doom had signed an oath swearing he wouldn't touch me again.

When we reached the classroom, we stood outside and shook hands with Mr. Doom. I expected him to squeeze my hand extra hard to show me what to expect later, but he didn't. It was like shaking hands with a dead fish.

When I shook Mrs. Packer's hand, she said, “When we come next Sunday, Dave, I'll expect a full report. If anything is wrong, your grandfather and I want to hear about it.”

“Nothing will be wrong, madam. I guarantee it.”

I promised to tell her and thanked her for bringing me back. Then I turned to Solly. “Is your health really poor, Grandpa?”

“I'm not getting any younger, boychik,” he said, “but I'm sound as a bell. Don't I look like a bell?”

I grinned and shook my head.

“Don't worry. I'll live to dance at your first art show. And you can show me your drawings on Visiting Day.”

I shook Irma Lee's hand too. “Good-bye. See you.” I couldn't think of anything else, even though I hadn't said nearly enough.

She whispered in my ear, “We're having another party in two weeks. You'll come if you're my friend, Dave Caros.”

I grinned. Then they left, and I went inside to join my buddies.

 

After they'd gone, I was jumpy all day. I knew Mr. Doom would want to beat me more than ever. He'd be sure to hate me for scaring him with Solly and Mrs. Packer.

But he didn't touch me. Not that day or the next, or the one after that. On Sunday, Visiting Day, Solly and Irma Lee and her mama came. Mr. Doom pounced on Mrs. Packer in the lobby, and she had to listen to him for almost a half hour. But then we went upstairs so Irma Lee could meet the elevens. At first everybody was shy, including me. But then I thought of going out in the courtyard for a game of tag. Irma Lee was in heaven, and she was as fast as the best of us. And I was proud to show her off to my buddies.

Mrs. Packer didn't buy us a new furnace, but at the beginning of January she sent the HHB forty quilts exclusively for the elevens.

After a while, when I was convinced that Mr. Doom wouldn't touch me, I began to practice my gonifing on him. I'd go right up to him and say, “Mrs. Packer asked me to tell you hello.” And then, if I was with another eleven, I'd introduce him. I'd say, “This is Mike,” or “This is Eli,” and I'd add, “He's my special buddy, so I hope you'll take good care of him, Mr. Bloom, sir.”

And Mr. Doom would shake my buddy's hand and my hand and tell me to send his regards to Mrs. Packer.

So we were safe, all of us elevens. Nobody else was, though, until the nice nurse got fed up and went to the HHB board of directors about a month after I ran away. They investigated and fired Mr. Doom. We got a new superintendent, Mr. Dresher. The food wasn't any tastier, and we were still cold, but at least he didn't beat anybody.

About three months after Mr. Doom left, Eli got a letter from Alfie. He had learned how to milk a cow. “The first time I tried it,” he wrote, “the cow stepped on my toe, and I saw stars. But now I'm good at it. They make me drink so much milk here I can't look a glass of milk in the eye anymore.” He said he had gained five pounds, and the doctor said he was holding his own, even though he was still coughing.

We didn't know what to think about that. Some of us thought it sounded bad. Some thought it sounded good. Harvey said it was Alfie's death sentence for sure. But anyway, Eli wrote back to him. We all added a few lines, and I put in a drawing of Mr. Cluck to make him laugh.

I took the special art lessons from Mr. Hillinger, and I liked them very much. Very very much. I did more gesture drawings and used watercolors and oil paints and even tried sculpture. About six months after the first special lesson, I did a drawing of Irma Lee that I wasn't too ashamed of. Mrs. Packer called it “Baby Girl's Portrait,” and she put it in a golden frame and hung it in their dining room.

Mrs. Packer and Irma Lee didn't come every Sunday, but Solly never missed a Visiting Day. Plus I met him often in the middle of the night at the Tree of Hope. He said I was the best groaner in Harlem.

Tell for you your fortune?

Afterword

My father grew up in the Hebrew Orphan Asylum, which was known as the HOA to the kids who lived there. It was a real orphanage located in the same place as the HHB, which I invented.

My father's name when he was born was David Carasso, although he changed Carasso to Carson when he was old enough, so he would be a “real American.” His mother died from childbirth complications when he was a few months old. His father, Abraham Carasso, died of gangrene after a cut he'd gotten in his carpentry work became infected. Abraham truly did build a cabinet with secret compartments for the sultan of Turkey, and he truly did receive a medal, or so family lore has it. After Abraham died, my father, his older brother, Sam, and his younger half-brother, Leo, were placed in the HOA. My father's sisters and his older brother, Sidney, went to live with relatives.

My father was much younger than eleven when he arrived at the HOA, although I don't know exactly how young he was. Some children liked the HOA, but my father hated it. Many years later, he would tell my sister and me almost nothing about it, even though we were dying to know about the exciting childhood of our safe, respectable daddy. One of the few tales he did tell was of sneaking out of the orphanage to buy candy. He had a thriving candy business in the HOA, till he got caught and had to declare bankruptcy!

After he left the Home, my father had nothing more to do with the place, until he and my mother retired. One day, a man recognized him on the street and turned out to be one of his HOA pals. After that, my father joined the HOA alumni association and was a member until he died in 1986.

There are many differences between the fictional HHB and the real HOA. An important one is that the HOA took in both boys and girls. Another big difference is that relatives couldn't bring children directly to the HOA; the children had to be placed there through a legal process. As far as I know, the superintendents at the HOA were not monsters like Mr. Doom, but discipline was strict, and punishments were severe. There is a wonderful book about the HOA called
The Luckiest Orphans
by Hyman Bogen, published by the University of Illinois Press. The HOA closed its doors in 1941. Its most famous alumnus is the newspaper columnist Art Buchwald.

Although all the characters in
Dave at Night
are completely fictional, parties or salons were held during the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s and '30s that were attended by leading figures in the arts, both black and white. A'lelia Walker, who inherited the hair-straightening-products fortune of her mother, Madame C. J. Walker, was a prominent hostess of the day. The crown prince of Sweden did try to attend one of her parties and was unable to get in.
Noah's Ark
, the painting by Aaron Douglas that Dave admires during Irma Lee's party, was actually painted in 1927.

Two excellent books about Harlem are
When Harlem Was in Vogue
by David Levering Lewis, published by Knopf, and
This Was Harlem
by Jervis Anderson, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux.
You Must Remember This
by Jeff Kisseloff, published by Schocken Books, is a delightful history of Manhattan from the 1890s to World War II.

Like Dave, I know only a few Yiddish words and phrases, so Solly's Yiddish came from
The Joys of Yiddish
by Leo Rosten, which is published by Pocket Books, and which has many jokes along with the definitions.

Behind the Book with Gail Carson Levine

My favorite character in
Dave at Night
is Solomon Gruber, Solly, because he sees straight through to what's important: an unprotected, grieving boy—Dave. Occasionally, Solly mentions his son, the “alrightnik,” disapprovingly. When I was unsure about the book's ending, I wrote a scene with the son, which I wound up cutting. Here's a description of him that didn't make it into the book:

 

He had the same bags under his eyes as Solly, even though he was much younger. His nose was long and thin like the nose on the woman in the photograph on Solly's piano. He had pale brown eyes and a narrow chin. The bags under his eyes were the only things that bagged or sagged about him. He wore a black wool coat with a velvet collar. The coat looked like someone had ironed it five minutes ago. Peeking out from under the velvet collar were a gray scarf, the top of an extra-white shirt, and a blue-and-black striped tie. His shiny black shoes looked like they had floated an inch above the melting snow—there wasn't a bit of slush on them.

 

Dave at Night
is historical fiction, my only novel without a shred of fantasy. It's the first novel I ever wrote, the one I learned to write novels on, but it didn't start out as a novel at all. It began as an eight-page fantasy picture book about a boy who's an orphan who has magical dreams at night about a childless couple who have magical dreams about him. They meet in real life and love each other. The couple adopts Dave and everyone lives happily ever after.

No one would publish it. At that time, none of my manuscripts had been published. But an editor liked the story and asked me to expand it into a chapter book. I did and discovered I'm a novelist. After many revisions and a new editor, the book finally got published, without the magic dreams and without the childless couple. Dave is on his own!

After I finished writing, I attended a few meetings of the alumni association of the Hebrew Orphan Asylum, the real orphanage where my father spent his childhood. At one meeting I met the last superintendent, who was in his nineties and was revered by all the former orphans who'd come. I'd been right about the superintendents. Most were very harsh, but not the last, who told me that he considered his life's achievement to have been shutting the orphanage down, which happened in 1941.

The facts in the book about New York City in 1926 are all true. I did extensive research and tried to get everything right. I read several books about the period as well as poetry and a novel written at the time. I spent days going through the photo collection at the main branch of the New York Public Library, looked at street plans of the time, visited the Tenement Museum and spoke to the curator, visited the New York Transit Museum and talked to an expert on mass transit during the era. And much more. Best of all, I had two friends with excellent memories who were alive in 1926.

My research was guided by the questions that came up as I wrote. I began the book in a neighborhood called the Lower East Side, so I researched that area. Then, when Dave's father dies, I needed to know what route the hearse would take to the cemetery—more research. Later on, Dave spends a night at a rent party, an egalitarian affair, meaning that poor folk and rich alike attended. I wondered what kind of cars might have been parked at the curb outside. This led me to reading about classic cars and interviewing a classic car expert. I learned that the dashboards of fancy cars sported altimeters. Airplanes were a recent invention that everybody was excited about, and drivers wanted to know how high in the air they were when their cars reached the top of a hill. I also discovered that some rich people hired small chauffeurs because they wanted to look big in comparison, and the chauffeurs' seats were lower than the passenger seats for the same reason. Can you imagine?