R My Name Is Rachel, Page 3

  Across the way a train pulls out of the station, puffing steam. We watch three men dart across the street and run along next to the train. Two of them hop on, but when the third one misses, he throws himself on the ground, pounding his fists.

  “Hobos moving from one place to another, looking for work,” Pop says as he gets out of the truck. He goes into the real estate office and talks to a man, who gives him a key; the man waves his arms around, probably giving him directions to the farm.

  We drive along roads, going right and left and right, zigzagging along, passing barns and houses that are falling apart. And then, somehow, we’re back in town. Lost.

  We start again. Joey and I look at each other. We’re sick of this trip, tired of being poked by the rocking chair, which shifts when we go uphill. Joey opens the picnic basket and we dive in, eating egg salad sandwiches washed down with watery lemonade.

  It’s much colder now; trees stand out black against the sky, although a fine mist of snow is beginning to fall. I’m shivering and my teeth begin to chatter. Joey knocks on the cab window. “Give Rachel a turn in there. She’s freezing.”

  Pop pulls over to the side.

  “What about you?” I ask Joey.

  “I’m fine,” he says. But he isn’t fine. He’s as cold as I am. Still, I change places with Cassie, taking a sandwich for Pop.

  Along the road we pass a house with a sign in front: DR. NICOLS AT YOUR SERVICE. Farther down is a farm with a white fence that needs painting. There’s a sign, too: GET YOUR GOAT. TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. Someone has drawn a small cup and saucer on the bottom of the fence.

  “Odd,” I say.

  “A hobo drew that,” Pop says. “He wanted to say that the owners will give anyone who needs it a cup of coffee.”

  Next there’s the quickest flash of a school. I swivel around to get a look, but then it’s gone.

  A wind has come up; it pushes against the truck, the sound of it lonely, as if we’re lost in the snow and ice of the Arctic.

  At last we turn in and bump down a rutted road just big enough for the truck. At the end is a farm. The barn isn’t red; it’s gray with missing boards; slices of a white field show through on the sides. There certainly won’t be a cow in there all by herself.

  The house is worse. Paint peels off in great strips, and the shutters, which must have been blue once, are faded and hang at crazy angles.

  Pop brakes a foot away from the porch. Some porch! The railing is falling off. Stacks of wood are thrown every which way.

  I look back at the path Pop’s created in the snow. “It was too cold to walk through that old cornfield,” he says. He rests his head on the wheel as I hold out the sandwich. He shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”

  But Clarence is willing to forget how angry he is for a bite. He moves out from under the seat, peering up at me with his good eye.

  I tear off a piece, and as he eats, I touch his rough head, then run my hand down his knobby back. He’s thin and dirty and his fur is matted. But I’ve learned something about him. He’s willing to tolerate me if I feed him.

  Tolerate. Miss Mitzi would love that word.

  Pop squints at the house. “The agent said there’s plenty of wood for the fireplace.” He grins at me. “Never mind. Next week when I’m working, we’ll be able to get the electricity up and running.”

  “We could still go back home,” I say. I’d go straight to Madden’s Blooms. Miss Mitzi and I would lock arms and dance around her icebox the way we did when President Roosevelt was elected. We sang “Happy Days Are Here Again” at the tops of our voices.

  But I remind myself that Clarence’s only hope is a barn with a bed of hay, and a stream with tiny silver fish for dinner. And Pop shakes his head. “People are moving into our apartment today.” He reaches out to snare the last bit of sandwich. “Sorry, cat,” he says absently.

  Cassie and Joey climb over the back of the truck. They stand next to Pop’s open window, hunched against the wind. “This is it?” Cassie says; her eyes fill.

  I feel sorry for her; I feel sorry for all of us. And I’ve had to go to the bathroom for hours. “Bathroom.”

  “Outhouse,” Pop says.

  I shove the truck door open; I have to push hard against the wind. There are pins and needles in both my feet, so I slide out and land in a heap in the snow. Behind me, Clarence dives out. He streaks around the side of the house into the woods and he’s gone.

  Gone.

  “Come back!” I call. “Come back, cat!”

  “What have you done?” Cassie is almost screaming as she runs toward the woods.

  We watch her. I know it’s no use. Clarence is much too fast. Suppose he never comes back. I picture him lost in this lonely place. I keep calling, my voice sounding high and thin against the wind.

  Pop points us to the outhouse: a shed with a half-moon cutout over the door. Imagine going to the bathroom outdoors.

  Cassie comes back, her face swollen. Then we stand in line as if we’re in school, heads tucked into our coats. When it’s my turn, I go inside and shut the door. Lacy cobwebs soften the corners, but the spiders that crocheted them are gone; the winter must have been too cold for them.

  As I open the door to leave, what’s left of the light comes in against the wall. Someone’s drawn something there with crayons. It’s a cat, not unlike Clarence with his rough fur and threadlike whiskers. Once a family lived here, and maybe a girl like me had drawn it.

  But it’s too cold to stand there staring at the drawing; besides, Joey is waiting. I go up the steps of the house with Pop and Cassie, looking over my shoulder, calling, “Cat, here, cat!”

  “A lot of good that will do,” Cassie says.

  Joey comes after us. Our feet are loud against the porch floor; our voices echo as we open the unlocked door.

  On one side of the hall is a living room; on the other side are stairs, which climb to the second floor, and a kitchen larger than any I ever saw at home. There’s furniture here and there: a couch and an armchair like Pop’s old one in the living room, a long table and painted chairs in the kitchen.

  It’s too dark to go upstairs, too scary. Pop goes out on the porch and brings in an armful of wood, which he stacks in the living room fireplace and lights with matches he’s found on the mantel. “The wood is damp,” he says. “It will take time to catch.”

  We watch until at last a thin curl of smoke wends its way upward. Then Pop and Joey go out to the truck and come back with all our things: the rocking chair, boxes, blankets, and pillows, and the bags of food Cassie packed. We spread out on the living room floor in a row, munching on crackers and cheese.

  We’re all so tired that it doesn’t make any difference that it’s only six-thirty or seven o’clock. Somewhere a shutter bangs against the house, but we’re close enough to reach out to each other. We’ve never had a fireplace before; I watch the flames and feel their warmth as I slide down into the blankets. If only Clarence were here.

  Pop says, “Don’t worry. I’m going to work. We’ll be able to buy things when I get paid. You’ll see. In the end, we’ll love this place.”

  “Really,” Cassie says as if she doesn’t believe it.

  I don’t believe it either, and I wonder if Pop does.

  But that’s my last thought until a thin light spreads itself across the bare floor.

  It’s morning.

  Dear Miss Mitzi,

  Clarence is gone. I feel as if my heart is broken.

  I remember you told me you had a cat once named Lazy who was lost. He came home, didn’t he?

  I know you said you’d like to live on a farm. You’d plant a peach tree and grow roses on a white trellis.

  I told Pop. He said he could picture you doing that, but he couldn’t imagine asking you to live in a house in this condition.

  Some condition. There are holes in the roof.

  Love from your friend forever,

  Rachel

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At the kitche
n table, I tuck my letter to Miss Mitzi into my pocket. Then I tiptoe down the hall. Everyone is still asleep under coats and blankets. Cassie’s curls cover her face, Joey’s mouth is open and his arms are spread wide, and Pop snores gently on the end. I’m still wearing yesterday’s dress, two sweaters, socks that have holes in both toes, and a jacket. My wool hat is pulled down over my forehead.

  The light is strange this morning; something covers the windows. And then I realize it’s snow. The last time it snowed at home, there was only enough on the ground to make footprints along the avenue before it melted. I wonder if there will be more than that here.

  I tiptoe into the hall and look up. At the top of the stairs is a round stained-glass window. Even though snow lies over it like a blanket, I still see the pink and purple and orange. Miss Mitzi colors.

  Running my hands along the walls, I go up the stairs, steps creaking. At the end of the hall is another window. I go toward it, hoping to spot Clarence somewhere out back. The window is encrusted in snow; I blow on it and make a small clear circle. What I see is shocking.

  Outside, the world is gray; wind blows the falling snow sideways. It must have been snowing all night. I have a quick panicky feeling. How will we ever get out of here?

  And what about going to the new school? I dreamed about the glimpse I had of it on the way here. It was a happy dream.

  How could Clarence ever survive this? If he had so far, he must be terrified that he’s suddenly in a strange place, away from his tree and the butcher shop around the corner. It’s hard to catch my breath, but I remember something Miss Mitzi said once: You can think of only one thing at a time. Choose wisely.

  I hold my locket between my fingers as I walk along the hall, counting: four bedrooms, three with bare mattresses dotted with mouse dirt. Horrible. The last one is empty, no furniture at all. I step inside. The walls are covered with drawings of cats and kittens and a duck that waddles up toward the ceiling. Once this room must have been perfect, and so was the girl who drew the animals. I wish I’d known her. I twirl around looking at the pictures. I might even love sleeping in this room with those kittens and ducks smiling down at me.

  Out in the hall again, I push open another door. It’s a staircase with drawings on the wall all the way down: a stream with rocks like turtle backs, and willow trees dipping their branches in for a drink.

  At the bottom there’s a box of chalk with some of the colors missing. The girl must have forgotten them when she left. I push open the door and I’m in the kitchen.

  Cassie stands there, frowning. “Why are you lurking around in the closet?”

  Lurking!

  I try to remember that she saved Clarence yesterday. Only yesterday? “It’s a secret staircase,” I tell her, even though I should keep it to myself. Why should I share it with such a miserable girl?

  Pop comes to the doorway, combing his hair with his fingers, and hugs us. “Snow,” he says, not really paying attention to it. I know he’s worried about us and how cold we must be, standing there in that icy kitchen in coats and hats, with scarves slung around our necks.

  But on one wall there’s a fireplace, big enough to stand in; the wood inside is barely singed. Pop crouches on the floor and gets a fire going. In no time, the flames roar out at us, making me almost breathless with their warmth. If only I could find Clarence. He’d love sleeping by the fire, his tail wrapped around him.

  Cassie pushes curtains back from the ice-covered window. “The snow is really piling up out there.”

  Cassie loves snow. When it storms at home, she opens the window and scoops up a handful, working it into a ball. She’s the first one out the door to catch snowflakes in her mismatched mittens.

  Joey comes out of the living room, stretching, laughing. He goes straight to the window and rubs it with his sleeve. “Look at that snow. I think we’re going to be lucky here.”

  Pop smiles at him. “Joey, you keep us all going.”

  “Listen, Pop,” he says. “Did you see the weather vane up on the roof? It’s a rooster. Funny-looking thing with his head back as if he’s crowing.” He chews on his lip. “All I’d have to do is shinny up there and polish it up. It’ll look like a million dollars.”

  “You’d be like Shipwreck Kelly sitting on a flagpole,” Cassie says.

  I feel my heart turn over. I can almost see him climbing up on the roof, then sliding down, leaving a clear path in the snow behind him.

  We all stand at the window then, listening to the glass rattling in the wind; icy air blows in around the edges.

  “I can’t believe it,” Pop says. “How deep must that be?” He runs his hand along the sill. “Maybe we can put some newspaper here if we find any. One thing about snow—it will cover some of the chinks in the walls.”

  He glances up at the kitchen ceiling, a frown line appearing between his eyebrows. “It won’t help the holes in the roof,” he says. And even now I see a dusting of snow on the floor.

  What a strange world it is outside. Along the edge of the field, tree branches are heavy with inches of snow. White flakes swirl in the gray sky, and wind pushes them into huge drifts.

  “Poor cat,” Cassie says. “Poor, poor cat.” She glares at me.

  Pop goes to the bags on the counter and starts to line up things for breakfast. We sit hunched at the long table someone left, shedding our coats and then our sweaters while Pop cuts the bacon. He lights a match, and the stove top lets off an orange-blue flame. The bacon curls and fries as he drops eggs into a spider pan we brought with us.

  “Eggs, bacon, toasted bread …” He hesitates. “And sweet hot tea.”

  I look at him quickly. I’m sure he’s thinking about Miss Mitzi. He turns away, though, before I can see his face.

  My mouth waters as the bacon twists in the pan and the eggs turn brown around the edges. I’ve never smelled anything so good. Maybe steam from the bacon will waft through the holes in the roof. Cats are supposed to have a terrific sense of smell, and that might bring Clarence out of hiding.

  “When my father was a boy,” Pop says, “there was a terrible snowstorm along the East Coast, the blizzard of 1888. That was in March, too. His grandmother brought the chickens into the kitchen from the barn. They didn’t get out of the house for days—” He breaks off. “I have to go to town tomorrow,” he says at last. “No matter what. I have to get that job at the bank.”

  We’re all silent, staring out the window. The truck must be covered with snow, of course.

  How will Pop ever get out of here?

  And what will happen if he can’t?

  How did we get so far away from home?

  One thought at a time. Choose wisely.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In the late afternoon, the light is dim; it will be dark soon. Still it doesn’t stop snowing. Pop has been carrying wood inside for hours and cleaning the fireplace in the living room. He’s curled up on an old sofa now, wrapped in his coat, sound asleep. Cassie and Joey are upstairs; I hear them talking back and forth.

  I have to get outside and search for Clarence. Who knows what I did with my galoshes? I yank on Joey’s and stuff them with old newspaper. Already his feet are bigger than mine.

  I can’t get out the back door. Snow has sealed it shut. In the front hall, I can barely hold on to the door as it opens into the wind. It swings back, but surprisingly, there’s almost no snow on the porch. The wind has whooshed it away. I tell myself I’m a pioneer, like Laura in Little House in the Big Woods.

  I start down the steps and sink past my knees into an icy-cold drift. I try to take another step, and realize I’ve lost one of Joey’s galoshes. I can’t go forward; I can’t even get back on the porch. I call out, but no one answers.

  I begin to cry, the tears warm on my cheeks. I yell then—it’s an angry screech—and at last Pop swings open the door.

  “My dear Rachel.” He lifts me out of the snow and helps me into the house, holding me. We rock back and forth in the hall, his heavy shirt warm aga
inst my cheek. He whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “How will I ever get to school?” I say through my tears.

  For a moment, he’s completely silent. “I’ve been meaning to tell you …”

  I lean back so I can see his face. He looks sadder than I’ve ever seen him before.

  “The real estate man told me the school is closed.” Pop shakes his head. “He says they’ll get it going again soon. They have no money to pay the teachers now.”

  Joey stands at the end of the hall. No school is good news for him. Cassie is right behind him, picking at her fingernail. Who knows what she’s thinking?

  I picture a sponge that’s dry; it shrivels up into almost nothing. I’m that sponge. “What about the library?”

  Pop doesn’t answer.

  That means the library is closed. How can that be? I can’t even cry. No library: the idea is too big for tears.

  “This depression can’t last forever,” Pop says. “And when it’s over, things will go back to normal. School will open; so will the library. You’ll see, Rachel. You have to believe that.”

  I shrug out of my coat and unwind my scarf. “One of your galoshes is out there, under the snow,” I tell Joey, my voice not steady. “I’ll get it back for you as soon as the snow begins to melt.”

  Will it ever melt?

  Joey waves his hand in the air. “Don’t worry. There are boots piled up in a pantry closet.”

  Only one thing at a time.

  “Do you mind if I take the bedroom with the cat pictures?” I aim the question at Cassie. No one else will care. My voice sounds strange, almost as if it doesn’t make any difference what she says.

  She squints at me. “Which room is that?”

  “The smallest. In back.”

  She tilts her head. “Go ahead,” she says at last.

  I start up the stairs.

  “Rachel,” Pop and Joey say almost at the same time.

  “I’m all right,” I say.

  I go into the bedroom and sit against the wall.

  Oh, Clarence.

  I put my things around me, rattling my bottle of sand and shells from Coney Island; I sniff the empty bottle of Shalimar perfume, read Charlie the Butcher’s greasy card, then pull out my Rebecca book.