The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill (16 page)

“Are you sure?” Hazel asked. “Sometimes the family is the last to know. Those Red spies dupe their parents and their kids right along with everyone else. I'm sure it's a hard thing to hear, but maybe just think about it for a minute.”

Samuel shook his head. “It's not that. It's something that no one will say, but everyone is talking about.”

Hazel sat on her hands to let Samuel tell her what he needed to say.

“I don't even know where she is right now.”

Hazel wanted to ask how that was possible, but she bit down on her tongue because she knew it would come out all wrong.

Samuel filled the quiet place. “She was …” He paused. “Empty.”

“Like crazy?” she asked, and then slapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself from making it worse.

“Just empty. She tried to fill herself up.” He picked up a comic and began flipping through it with his thumb. The pages made a soft fluttering sound. “Do your parents drink at all? Alcohol, I mean?”

“Not really,” she said. “Becky Cornflower's dad had a bar cart and when he came home every night he'd pour himself
a glass of whiskey. And I know that Connie Short's mom likes to drink brandy Alexanders.”

“My mom likes to drink a lot. Whatever she gets her hands on. She drinks until she sleeps for days. That's why I can't live with her anymore. She was drinking and she went out to get more and drove herself into a snowbank. She didn't even notice. She was sleeping.”

Hazel didn't know what to say. Once on a trip to Boston she'd seen a man slumped over on the sidewalk with red eyes and a nose like a city map. He'd asked in a slurred voice for some change. Her mother had pulled her close and they'd sidestepped him. When Hazel asked what was wrong, her father had told her that the man was a drunk. Her mother said it was a disease and those who suffered from it needed help, just like someone with polio or tuberculosis. In her mind that's how she'd always pictured drunks: men with sad eyes, thinning hair, and sagging bellies, not someone's mom.

“My grandmother won't talk about it. She says I'm safe now.” He put down the comic book and looked out the window toward the school. “I'm not sure what safe is.”

As he spoke, she'd been moving closer and closer to him. Sometimes she and Becky used to sit right next to each other, their legs crisscrossed over each other's. They'd be reading or talking or whatever. She didn't know if you could sit with a boy like that, if it made a difference. So, to compromise, she slid right next to him on the bed, and took his hand in hers.

Whatever Samuel had wanted to show her, he didn't get a
chance to because his grandmother came into the room, saw them sitting on the bed together, and misinterpreted the situation. She flew across the room, grabbed them each by the hand, and dragged them down the stairs. She was awfully strong for an old lady.

They sat at the kitchen table looking at the lace tablecloth while Mrs. Switzer called Hazel's parents. Hazel wanted to take the wooden doll out of her pocket and slide it over the table to Samuel, but she was too scared of Mrs. Switzer.

Both of her parents came to get her this time. They talked to Mrs. Switzer in the parlor, and there was no laughter to make Hazel believe that she might be getting off with a light sentence. They spoke in hushed tones and only stray words filtered into the kitchen:
given the past … never been like this before … the times we live in … monitor the situation … keep them apart
.

Hazel and Samuel exchanged a glance, but it only lasted a second, and Hazel wasn't quite sure what she saw in his eyes. Sadness, maybe, or regret, and something that looked a lot like resignation.

Hazel sat in the backseat of the car and didn't even try to plead her case. She went inside, put on her work clothes, and went back outside to do more weeding. She set to work in the high-rent district, picking out the tiny weeds that popped up between the graves—clover, mostly, but also a few white-and-purple forget-me-nots.

Even without being able to see Samuel, Hazel had plenty to do with the investigation. It was like she had all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle except for one right in the middle: the one that would make the whole picture clear. She needed undeniable proof. Her best bet, she figured, would be to watch Mr. Jones and Alice's grave as much as possible in the hopes of catching a drop-off.

When she came home from school, she hurried inside and changed into her play clothes. Before she could make it back outside, her mother stopped her. “Hazel, I need you to run to the market for me.”

“The market? Now?”

“If you want to have dinner tonight, yes.”

“Can I get TV dinners?”

Her mother hesitated, and Hazel thought she might relent.
“No,” she said. “We're having tuna noodle casserole and we're out of tuna. I thought for sure we had some, but there's none in the pantry.”

“Really? That's strange,” Hazel said, though of course she knew that there was one can in her mausoleum fallout shelter, and two more in her closet.

“I just need you to run to the A&P and pick up two cans.”

There was no getting out of this. “Okay,” she said.

“And bread. A loaf of bread.” Her mother dug through her purse and pulled out her wallet. She removed one dollar and handed it to Hazel. “Be quick. I want to get dinner started.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Hazel said.

Her mother rolled her eyes.

Hazel rode as fast as she could to the store. The shift changed at the factory at four o'clock, and if she hurried, she could get back in time to catch someone coming off the day shift to do a drop.

Leaving her bike outside she rushed into the store, which was lit up as brightly as fireworks, nearly smacking right into Mrs. Wood and Mrs. Logan, who were standing in front of the door chitchatting. “Sorry, Mrs. Wood. Sorry, Mrs. Logan,” Hazel said, even though they were the ones blocking the way. All she needed was word getting back to her mother that she'd been rude at the A&P.

She sidestepped around them, and didn't mean to eavesdrop, but they were right there. “The investigators have a whole list. They're just figuring out the best way to release the names,” Mrs. Logan said, her lips twisted into a slim smile.

“I've heard that when they release the list, this whole town will be topsy-turvy,” Mrs. Wood said, her eyes evaluating the other women in the store. The waist of her dress was so tight, Hazel wondered how she could even breathe, let alone gossip.

“Me, too,” Mrs. Logan agreed. She patted her hair. She had short tight curls and shorter bangs, just like Mrs. Eisenhower. It made her face look round and shiny as a bowling ball. “I heard it goes right up to the top.”

“I heard everyone will be shocked!” Mrs. Wood laughed and it sounded just like Maryann's wicked cackle.

They were talking about the list of suspected spies! Oh, how she wanted to tell them she had it all figured out, how the biggest problem wasn't in the factory, it was outside it.

“Of course, Pastor Logan has nothing to do with it. At least
I
can feel safe in that. So many other women in this town must be right on the edge of their seats.”

Hazel pretended to be intensely interested in a display of pickled onions. The jars were stacked up like a pyramid and she wondered if it worked the way it did in the cartoons. If she picked out a jar from the bottom corner, would they all come tumbling down?

“Not me,” Mrs. Wood said. “I'm sure that Mr. Wood is innocent. Not a drop of Red in his body.”

“Oh, of course, I didn't mean to
imply
anything,” Mrs. Logan said, her voice like syrup. “I meant some
other
women in town.”

Anthony's mother pushed her cart over and reached out for a jar of onions. “I couldn't help but overhear. Such a
tragedy!” she exclaimed, but her eyes were bright. “Why, just last night I was saying to my Sal that if Will Short is on that list, anyone could be. I don't know why he's not talking. He must have something to hide, that's what I told my Sal.”

“I think they ought to make them all take a loyalty pledge,” Mrs. Wood declared. “Then we'll see where we stand.”

“Clean house!” Mrs. Logan agreed. “Just like Eisenhower's doing with the administration.”

Anthony's mother put the jar back on the display, and twisted it so the label was facing just the right way. “Your Maryann is friends with that Short girl, isn't she?”

Mrs. Wood smoothed her dress. “They have been friendly, yes.”

Hazel had to bite her lip to keep from guffawing at that. Friendly as fleas, those two were.

“I don't know that I would let my Otis go around with a girl like that,” Mrs. Logan said. “Anthony isn't friendly with her, is he?”

“Oh my, no!” Anthony's mother said.

Mrs. Wood picked up one of the jars of pickled onions and made a big show of reading the label.

“I'm sure Connie is lovely,” Mrs. Logan went on. “But the influence, you see. I just don't think it would be safe for a young girl to be in that household.”

Hazel leaned in so close she brushed against the display.

“Hazel Kaplansky, do you need some help?” Mrs. Logan asked.

Hazel jumped. “Excuse me, ma'am?”

“Do you need some help?” She said each word slowly as if Hazel were hard of hearing,

“I was just contemplating these pickled onions. Have you had them? Are they tasty?”

“Did your mother send you to fetch something, Hazel?” Mrs. Logan asked.

“You know, actually she did. Tuna. Do you know what aisle that's in?”

“Aisle three,” Mrs. Wood said with a sigh.

The three women looked at her with something like pity and something like scorn in their eyes. Hazel wanted to tell them not to bother because she was never going to grow up and be stuck gossiping next to a stack of pickled onions. She was the one who should pity them.

“Thank you,” Hazel said.

She hurried on her way, but not before she heard Mrs. Wood say, “No wonder that girl's so odd, with a mother like Lydia.”

“Hardly keeps an eye on her, letting her run wild around the cemetery all day. What kind of a mother does that?”

“Did you hear what she did to my sweet Maryann?”

Hazel wanted to turn back and knock the whole display of pickled onions right down on top of them. They'd be covered in a gooey pickly mess and it would serve them right. But she wasn't going to give them any more reason to gossip about her or her mother.

On the way to the tuna she passed the bakery and grabbed a loaf of bread. It was nineteen cents, which left her enough money for three cans of tuna, so she'd be able to add one more to her stash. She brought the bread and tuna to the counter, paid the cashier, and was on her way, still with plenty of time to witness any suspicious behavior.

While she waited for dinner to be ready, Hazel set herself up in the crook of her favorite maple tree. She watched, and watched, and watched. Nothing. The only creature who paid any mind to Alice's grave at all was a gray squirrel. What a bust.

Hazel's parents and Samuel's grandmother may have decided that they should spend a little time apart, but they couldn't keep Hazel and Samuel from talking at school. At recess, they sat on the wall near the building—the one typically reserved for delinquents—and Hazel told Samuel about the fruitless stakeout. Then he told her that something about the gravestone was nagging at him.

He pulled out a magnifying glass and peered closely at his rubbing.

“Where'd you get that?” she demanded, not even trying to keep the jealousy out of her voice.

“My grandmother gave it to me.”

A group of boys ran by tossing a baseball back and forth.

“Did you hear about Mr. Short?” Hazel asked.

“Connie's dad?” he asked, turning his book to look at the rubbing from a different direction.

“Right. He's one of the spies at the factory.”

“One of the alleged spies.”

“Here's the thing: He comes by the cemetery sometimes and drops things off for The Comrade. Then The Comrade goes and locks them in the garden shed.”

Samuel stopped and looked up at her. “Well, I suppose that is suspicious.”

“Oh!” she cried out, digging in the pocket of her dress. She wouldn't let her mother buy her any dresses without pockets. “I almost forgot. I found this the other day.” She held out the small wooden doll she'd found on the grave.

He took the doll from her. “A
matryoshka
. Nice.”

“I found it in with the chrysanthemums. What do you think it means?”

Samuel rolled it around in his fingers, then handed it back to her. “It could have sentimental value. Or it could mean nothing at all.”

“It's a clue. It's
Russian
.”

“You are gathering an ample amount of evidence that
could
be used to support your claim. Still nothing definite.”

“Exactly, and so I figure we need to get into that—”

“It's been cleaned!” he exclaimed. “Someone's taking good care of it.”

“We knew that already. It's Mr. Jones.” Their peers raced around the playground, up and down the slides, jumping over tires, flying from swings.

“Yes, but why?” Samuel asked.

“So the other spies know where to leave the secrets.”

Samuel rubbed his fingers roughly against the cement of the wall. “I still want to know who she is.”

“Ding! Ding!”

Hazel looked up and there were Maryann and Connie. They were holding imaginary triangles and saying, “Ding! Ding! Triangle people go Ding! Ding!” Then Maryann said, “Ding dong is more like it.”

Hazel made her most menacing face. “I'll have you know that I've taken out restraining orders on both of you. You can't come within twenty feet of me. Or Samuel.”