Gingersnap (5 page)

“Use the stove? Suppose you burn yourself? Suppose you spill …”

“I told you,” the voice whispered. “We have to get out of here. We have to go to Brooklyn.”

I walked into the kitchen and opened Celine’s icebox. It was packed with food, jams and jellies, carrots, and a wedge of cheese. I moved things around, pulling things out.

Behind me Celine pattered around, sighing almost as the ghost had sighed, wondering, I guess, what she was ever going to do with me in her life.

I wanted to say,
I’m leaving. I’m going to Brooklyn. I’m going to find a bakery
. Of course, I didn’t say that, but I felt a small thread of … almost happiness.

“Yes,” I heard the ghost say. Was she humming that French nursery rhyme “Frère Jacques”?

I
left Celine’s house as soon as it was light, tiptoeing down the stairs, past the empty table where the almost-genuine Ming vase had stood. A small shard lay on the wooden floor.

For the first time, I felt sorry for Celine, and sorry about the vase.

I stopped at our house, then went out the door with my suitcase in one hand and Theresa in her case in the other. All of it was heavier than I’d realized. At the last minute I’d packed my reader,
Children of the World
, and my geography book, which had a picture of New York State with its major products on the front cover.

I patted my pocket; a box of dried food for Theresa
was there, and deep inside was the funny little stone girl Rob had found for me. It made him seem closer, and maybe it would bring me luck.

Remember that day at the pond
, I told myself.
Don’t think about enemy planes. Don’t think about orange flames and explosions
.

Celine slept late every morning. I had scribbled a note to her about visiting relatives. Would she believe it? At the bottom of the page, I’d written,
Someday I’ll buy you another almost-genuine Ming vase. Please have your life back
.

I turned left toward town, already worn out. I’d been awake in the middle of the night, tears on my cheeks, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes were swollen, and it was hard to think. I kept looking over my shoulder, but there was no one on the street, not a teacher, not Breslin the cop, not my friend Diane, who bicycled to school every morning.

The walk to Rosemont for the bus was far, but it was safe. No one would see that I wasn’t on my way to school.

I turned right and walked along Front Street to the end of town. I’d have to cross the highway. I stood there, looking down at the embankment.

How steep it was!

I left Theresa in her case on top, and I began to slide with my suitcase.

Gravel scraped my wrists, tore the edge of my purse,
and dented the suitcase. I tumbled to a stop at the bottom, full of dust, and glanced back up. My heels had made indentations all the way down, like a small pair of twisted roads.

I left everything behind a large rock and went back for Theresa. I looked at her in the cat case, but as always, she was calm, blinking her heavy lids, staring at me. “We’re all right,” I whispered.

Was it really true?

A trailer truck hurtled by with its horn blaring as I zigzagged to the other side of the highway. For a moment, I sat at the edge. Both my elbows were skinned, and there was a cut on my ankle.

A school bus passed, and a boy I’d never seen before looked out the window at me, surprised.

He wouldn’t know Celine. She’d never find out he’d seen me sitting at the edge of the road.

I slung my purse over my shoulder, picked up the cases, and followed the river south. The sound of bubbling water cascading over the rocks was cooling, but the walk was endless; my feet burned.

I remembered reading about a woman who walked forty-three miles every day. I hoped her shoes were better than mine; it wasn’t long before blisters rose on the backs of my heels. Still, there was no help for it. I couldn’t get the bus in town. People knew I was supposed to be in Mrs. Murtha’s room.

I sank down at the edge of the river and bent over to
scoop up water. Not to drink. Rob had taught me better than that. I splashed it on my face and neck and ran my wet hands over my head, patting down my hair, which never wanted to stay straight.

I wanted to take off my shoes and socks. How cool that water would feel on my feet. I’d never get the shoes on again, though.

Don’t cry
, I told myself.

I stood up and kept going. The sun was over the trees now. I limped, my socks sticking to my raw heels, but the bus stop was right there, two blocks into Rosemont.

The ticket seller punched out a ticket to New York City, yawning, hardly looking at me.

I waited for the bus, slurping down an orange soda and then a second one. I didn’t see anyone I knew, only a few soldiers talking and a woman on a bench knitting khaki socks. No one paid attention to a girl climbing onto the bus with scraped hands, a suitcase, and a turtle.

I sat as far back as I could and leaned against the window, watching Rosemont disappear as we pulled onto the highway.

Even though the road was uneven and my head kept bumping against the glass, I slept, dreaming of endless green water with dark shapes underneath.

I missed the rest stop in Montrose and barely woke when the bus driver announced a second stop.

It must have been an hour later when I opened my
eyes. I was just about awake now, dying for something to drink, something to eat, a sandwich, a bag of chips.

All this was like a strange dream: the bus, the woman who sat across from me turning the heel of the sock, the world outside.

And I was taking this long trip to find a bakery with my name.

When I awoke again, I saw a bridge up ahead, a beautiful span with blue-gold water underneath and a tugboat pushing a barge with a white wake of water behind it. The skyline of Manhattan rose in front of me.

But it wasn’t Manhattan I was there to see. It was Brooklyn. I’d loved the sound of it,
Brook-lyn
, listening to Rob as we played our game. “Someday we’ll go there, you and I. We’ll have a restaurant. No one cooks soup like you do.”

I was almost there, but I was alone.

T
he bus pulled into a gloomy station in Manhattan. I climbed off, blinking in the darkness, to ask my way to the subway. I was amazed at myself. I sounded as if I traveled around every day.

“Where are you going, girlie?” a policeman asked.

“Carey Street,” I said. “Brooklyn.”

He pointed, and I made my way to an entrance on the corner. Below me, a train whooshed in, loud and grinding. Wind and dust rose up the steps, and people rushed around me, almost throwing themselves down the stairs so they wouldn’t miss it.

I didn’t know whether to rush, too, but who knew
if it was the right train? I asked the station master and did exactly as he told me. I waited for the next one to come in.

At least, I thought that was what he’d said, but it was all wrong. I got off at a stop marked Coney Island.

“We’ll see the ocean,” the voice behind me said. Her finger was raised, pointing.

I nodded and crossed the street, my arms aching from carrying Theresa and the suitcase. I climbed up on the boardwalk with sand stinging my eyes and heard music from a merry-go-round: “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

Can you imagine?
I told Rob in my head.
I’m here in Brooklyn
.

But where was Rob, and was he as hungry as I was now?

Feeling guilty that I could eat, I bought a hot dog, then brought Theresa out of the case for a little exercise. I tossed small chunks of meat into the air, and she stretched her neck to snap at them.

I kept my eye on her as I chewed on the roll. In front of me, waves crashed against the blowing sand. I put Theresa back in her case, talking to her softly. She stared up at me. I was all she had. Not a very satisfying family for a turtle.

Once, I’d tried to figure out how many people loved me. Rob, of course. My mother and father, when they were alive. My teacher Mrs. Murtha had told me that I
was a delight. She’d put her hand on the mess of curls on my head. “You’re as organized as your hair,” she’d said, laughing.

I remembered two goldfish Rob had bought me when we first came to the house. They were buried out near the pond with two little tan stones on top.

“Don’t be sad, Jayna,” Rob had said as we dug them in. “Goldfish live only a short time, and you gave them a happy life.”

I wiped the hot mustard off the edge of my lip and, almost in a daze from the fiery sun, went down the boardwalk steps.

The sand spilled into my shoes, weighing me down. I pulled them off and took a few steps. It was a surprise. The sand was so hot I could hardly bear it against my feet. I ran toward the water, the strap of my purse rubbing against my shoulder, and circled a pair of striped beach umbrellas.

At last, I stood at the water’s edge, feeling its icy coldness. The sand underneath my toes was silky, sliding away from my feet; salty waves swirled against my bare legs.

Mrs. Murtha had said once that if all the mountains flattened out, the oceans would cover the land a mile high. I pictured that, the highs covering the lows, until all of it was even, water from the Atlantic meeting the great waves of the Pacific. I saw myself flying over that water, reaching out, searching.…

My throat burned. I dipped my fingers into the surf almost as if I could touch him:
Stay alive, Rob, wherever you are
.

I reached into my pocket. My fingers grasped the stone girl. I felt its smoothness. What had Rob said that day?
It’s been around forever, rolling down from some mountain, or coming up from under the sea
.

Then I remembered Theresa. I glanced over my shoulder to be sure she was all right in her case. Yes, she was there, but …

I shaded my eyes with my hand.

Something was wrong.

Where was my suitcase?

“I knew it,” the voice said. “You’ve lost it. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Someone took it. Someone must have …”

“It makes no difference. Gone is gone.”

In a panic, I ran through the sand, scooping up my shoes, and went up the stairs to look under the bench. I ran up and down on the boardwalk, hardly paying attention to the splinters stabbing into my bare feet. A few people walked along, and two children emptied sand out of their shoes.

No one paid attention to a girl zigzagging along, rushing backward, bending over to look under benches.

It was gone. I went back to Theresa, who slept peacefully in the shade of her case.

I took a couple of breaths and squeezed the water
out of the bottom of my skirt. All I had was what I was wearing.

My hand went to my chest. The money was there under my blouse. But I was a mess. Mustard stains, mud, a spot of orange soda.

What would I do for clothes?

“Don’t worry,” the voice said.

I couldn’t pay attention to her. How could I go to the bakery looking like this? Mrs. Alman, the foster woman, was always talking about street urchins.

That was what I looked like, a street urchin.

“You have money. We’ll buy something. A bead necklace for me,” the voice said. “I favor pink. I might even be that movie actress, Carole Lombard.”

“Killed in a plane crash.”

“No good,” she said.

It was impossible, all of it. Pink necklaces, no clothes.
Children of the World
was gone, and I’d seen the last of my New York State geography book.