Up From Jericho Tel

by E. L. Konigsburg

  “You don’t make much perfectly clear, Tallulah.”

  “Au contraire, mon cheri, I think I do.”

  “We better go now,” I said.

  “Do you remember what the pretty word is that will bring you back to Rahab Station?” We nodded. “Papillon! it is, my dears. Ta-taaaah!” she called. “Remember upstage left and through the Orgone.”

  THE TABLES were covered with soft apricot-colored cloths, and in the center of each table was a vase of fresh flowers: iris, pink carnations and a single yellow rose. Along the side wall and the back there were booths that faced into the room, not deep ones that cut across the room like the ones at a McDonald’s. Some could seat only two, and none could seat more than six. I found myself studying the room, taking my time, not feeling at all rushed about finding out what we were supposed to do, not even feeling worried about knowing which two of the fifty or sixty people in the restaurant were Horace Livermore and Isobel Wooton. I felt again that sensation of freedom, that sensation that I was watching this person, Jeanmarie Troxell, who was simply wonderful and would do everything right.

  At a stand in the front of the restaurant stood a man in a tuxedo. A customer approached and said, “Good evening, Dvorak.” Dvorak said, “Good evening, Mr. Williams.” He looked briefly in the large appointment book that was open on top of the stand and said, “A party of four this evening?” The man nodded. Dvorak called another man over and said, “Mr. Williams to table seven, please.” Three other people who had been taking off their coats and giving them to the woman in the coatroom joined Mr. Williams, and away they went following the second man.

  Next to the open book stood a large clear glass bowl filled with matches that said The Left Bank in gold print on navy blue. Malcolm reached in and took out a handful, and Dvorak, who was making notes in his appointment book, looked up and saw the matches leaving the bowl, looked down and then quickly up again. (Tallulah would tell us later that what Dvorak did was called “a double take.”) Malcolm put the matches into his pocket, but to all the world, and most especially to Dvorak, they looked as if they were floating three feet above the ground. I realized that Dvorak was seeing the part of Malcolm that had not been exposed to the Orgone. We could not accomplish our mission if he didn’t get rid of those matches; they were like his waving a flag wherever he went. So I took the matches out of his pocket and put them back in the bowl. Dvorak stared, shook his head, stared some more, put his pen down and went to the bar.

  As soon as Dvorak left his station, I took his place. I studied the Reservations Book and saw Williams - 4 and beside that the number 7 was circled. From what I had heard, I understood what it meant: Mr. Williams had reserved a table for four and had been assigned to table seven. Looking further up on the page, I spotted, Livermore - 2 with the number 12 circled. Livermore, party of two, table twelve. I felt very pleased with myself until I turned to find table twelve and realized that the table numbers were known to the waiters and the captain, but they weren’t written anywhere for me to see. But I didn’t despair. If Mr. Williams had been seated at table seven, table twelve would be only five away from that. I didn’t know in which direction, but the old confidence that I had felt from the minute I had become invisible was with me again, and I beckoned to Malcolm to follow me.

  We walked over to table seven, and I looked around. Five tables away in one direction was a party of six. It was easy to eliminate them. In all other directions the tables were occupied by parties of two, and at one of those there was a gray-haired gendeman who wore a scarf instead of a necktie, with a companion, a slightly overweight woman who was studying him adoringly. She wore a killer diamond on the plump third finger of her left hand and a pale green dress with a pattern of yellow rings in the fabric—the color and pattern of a luna moth.

  Malcolm and I exchanged a look and a nod, letting each other know that we had located Horace Livermore and his fiancée, Isobel Wooton. We arrived at their table in time to hear the man say, “Are you sure you can’t come to California? The time away will do you good, my dear.”

  “I can’t, Horace. If I leave Jason at all, Victor will haul me into court and try to get custody.”

  “But surely, darling, a short vacation does not constitute child neglect.”

  “You know that the judge will not look kindly on my keeping company with another man.”

  The waiter cleared their plates and asked if they would like coffee. Both said yes, and Isobel said that she was going to powder her nose before the coffee came. She picked up her pocketbook and, with her free hand, reached across the table and squeezed Horace’s hand before heading in the direction of the ladies’ room. I followed.

  Malcolm followed the waiter, hoping to get the scraps from their plates for Spot.

  I wondered if in my invisible state I could walk through closed doors. I didn’t want to injure myself finding out, so I followed Isobel very closely and managed to slip through the door just behind her. The ladies’ room consisted of two parts. A front room that had a sofa and a wall mirror and a row of seats in front of a vanity table—there was free Kleenex everywhere—and a separate room that had toilet booths; there were only two. The room with the toilets also had two beautiful sinks of a kind of marble that looked like coffee ripple ice cream. There was a glass shelf and a mirror above each of the sinks. Sitting on a stool in a corner between the two rooms was a woman wearing a plain black dress with white collar and cuffs and a small white apron. On the counter near the doorway was a dish that had two one dollar bills in it. I had never been to a restaurant where they had a babysitter in the bathroom.

  Isobel was the only person using the facilities. She nodded to the baby-sitter as she went into one of the booths, but she didn’t stay long or even flush before she came out and started washing her hands at one of the marble sinks. The woman handed her a cloth towel, and Isobel took it, thanked her and then reached into her pocketbook and took out a dollar and laid it on the dish. I heard the sound of metal hitting china and thought that Isobel must have given her some change as well. The woman said thank you and nodded.

  I looked at the bill and saw that it was not one dollar but ten. The woman quickly put the bill and the coin in her apron pocket, and I decided that I better stay and see what the ladies’ room attendant was going to do, so I sat down on the sofa in the first of the two rooms where I could watch everyone who came in as well as the baby-sitter herself.

  Two customers came in shortly after Isobel finished. They left fifty cents apiece. The woman removed those coins from the plate and walked out, heading toward the kitchen. I followed. She took a cup of coffee and found a place in the far corner of the kitchen where she sat down and drank her coffee out of the way of the pandemonium. The whole procedure puzzled me.

  I found Malcolm near the grill, trying to stab a steak. I pulled him away and walked with him to the busiest, meanest part of the kitchen, to where the waiters brought in and picked up their orders. In addition to the arguments between the waiters and the cooks, there was an enormous fan blowing, so if I kept my voice low, no one would notice that there were voices in the room that didn’t belong to anybody. Any body.

  I told Malcolm what I had seen. We thought it best to return to the restaurant because we both knew that the curtain was about to go up on the next act there.

  As we passed the corridor that led to the ladies’ room, we saw Isobel rushing out, back toward the restaurant. She reached the table and began to cry. Horace patted her hand, and said, “Now, now, my dear, I’m certain that we’ll find it.” He motioned for the waiter to come over.

  “My fiancée used the washroom just now, and as is her habit, she took off her diamond ring before washing her hands. She put it down on the ledge over the sink, and I’m afraid she didn’t remember to put it back on. She has just returned to the ladies’ room only to find that both the ring and the attendant are gone. Surely, sir ...”

  The waiter brought the captain, the captain brought Dvorak, and each time Hora
ce told the story, Isobel cried harder and harder.

  I knew that I could solve the problem. The clunk that I had thought was a quarter had been Isobel’s ring. I decided to do nothing. I wanted to see how this would finish up. Our assignment had been Horace Livermore, the playwright who had not had a hit in years and years, and his fiancée, Isobel. Our assignment had been the two of them, and I knew that it had something to do with the interaction between them.

  Dvorak marched back to the ladies’ room and knocked on the door. He had not gotten his fist back up to knock a second time when the door opened and the attendant came out, wide-eyed, holding up Isobel’s ring. “Mr. Dvorak,” she said, “Mr. Dvorak, sir, I just came back from having a cup of coffee, and I was wiping around them lavatories over there, and lookit at what I found there. I don’t know which of them ladies could of dropped it. Do you suppose ...”

  Dvorak grabbed it from her hand, and walking as fast as he could without calling it running, he returned triumphant to the main room. “It was an unfortunate chain of circumstances,” he explained. “The ring must have fallen between the lavatories, and the attendant chose that moment to take a coffee break.”

  Isobel was falling all over herself with crying and putting the ring back on and hugging Horace and Dvorak. Dvorak got her coat from the checkroom, and they left. “Can we call you a cab?” he asked.

  “Thank you,” Horace said, “but I think a little walk in the night air might do us some good.”

  Malcolm and I were standing back by the reservations stand. Malcolm grabbed a bunch of matches from the glass jar and put them in his pocket, and just as Dvorak was calling his last “Goodnight,” I said, “Papillon!” and we were whooshed away into the Orgone.

  MALCOLM stepped into Rahab Station first. He walked straight over to Tallulah and emptied his pocket into her lap. Tallulah thanked him. Turning to the dog, he said, “Sorry, Spot, but I couldn’t get any leftovers for you.”

  I was excited by what we had seen Topside. “When do you think they will realize that Horace and Isobel left without paying?” I asked.

  “Just about now, darling,” Tallulah said, pleased.

  “Why didn’t anyone ask why Isobel didn’t find the ring when she returned to the ladies’ room just before she broke down in tears.”

  Tallulah shrugged. “Isobel is a wonderful actress, and Horace always did write the best dialogue around.”

  Malcolm asked, “Will they mail him the bill once they realize that no one paid?”

  “I doubt it, darling. They would have to mention why it was overlooked, and mentioning it would be embarrassing.”

  “How about that? The Left Bank food at McDonald’s prices.”

  I said, “Once I saw what was going on, there was no way in the world I would have told on them. I just knew that even though they were wrong, it would have been more wrong to tell on them. Someday, when I’m Topside and visible, I would like to meet Horace and Isobel and her son Jason.”

  “Isobel Wooton has no son named Jason. I told you Horace Livermore writes the most convincing dialogue in the world. Now, Malcolm, be a gentleman and pick up those matches and light up one of Tallulah’s bootleggings for her.”

  Malcolm muttered something about cigarettes being coffin nails, and Tallulah said, “They don’t nail coffins these days, darling. I think they sealed mine with silly putty.”

  AS WE walked back toward home, I started to worry. When I was invisible, I saw everything so clearly, yet I had believed that Isobel had a son named Jason. How stupid of me not to have known.

  I did not have a chance to worry out loud, for at that moment Malcolm realized that he did not have his right hand.

  “The matches!” he said. “I put the matches in my pocket and kept my hand in my pocket when we went through the Orgone. And now my hand is gone.”

  “Pat my head, Malcolm,” I commanded.

  Malcolm did.

  “Shake my hand, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm did.

  “The hand’s there. I can feel it. It just remained invisible.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Come back to my house. My mother is not home. We’ll think of something.”

  Tallulah says, “The difference between going to school and getting an education is the difference between picking an apple and eating it.”

  five

  ONCE HE WAS certain that his hand was available even though it was invisible, Malcolm began to enjoy the possibilities. “I can pick my nose in class.”

  “You still have to get rid of the boogers.”

  “I can shoot Mrs. Hollings a bird, and she won’t even know.”

  “Then what’s the point of shooting her one?”

  “I can rob a bank and not leave fingerprints.”

  “You’re not old enough to drive. They’ll catch you leaving the scene of the crime on foot.”

  “What would you do if you had one invisible hand?”

  “Try to think of some way to keep everyone from finding out about it. We can’t let anyone else find out about Jericho Tel. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

  Malcolm held up his arm. “I don’t know what to do, Jeanmarie. If I skip school, my father will find out. If I go to school, everyone else will.”

  It came to me in a flash. “Wear a glove. Wear a glove. That’s it, Malcolm. You know your hand is there. You shook hands with me.” I ran back to my room and came out with a mitten and told him to put it on.

  When he did, the mitten did not look empty. It moved when he did. “I can’t write with a mitten,” he said.

  “You could with a glove. Don’t you have a glove?”

  “Of course I have a glove. But what will I tell my father?” Malcolm thought a minute. “I can go straight to bed when I go home, and I can probably keep him from seeing my hand in the morning because he goes to work before I go to school. If we get a call from Jericho Tel tomorrow, I can keep my father from finding out, but what will I do about school?”

  “Skip it,” I said.

  “I can’t do that,” Malcolm said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m an immigrant.”

  “So what?”

  “Immigrants are always overachievers.”

  I said, “I’ll think of something. I’ll call you. Just remember, when I call, pick up the receiver with your left hand.”

  After Malcolm waved goodbye with his handless right arm, I took Dr. Maceo E. Patterson’s Home Encyclopedia of Medicine down from the shelf and did some serious research. I had never before spoken to Malcolm on the phone. I looked his number up in the phone book; there was only one Soo in the entire directory. Tyrone Soo. That must be his father, I thought, although I had expected his father to have an untranslated immigrant name like Sung or Choong. I dialed the number and hoped that Malcolm would answer. I preferred not having to explain to Mr. Tyrone Soo who I was and who I wanted to speak to and why.

  The phone rang only once, and Malcolm answered. I regarded that as a good sign. “Listen,” I said, holding the phone right up against my mouth and speaking very softly into it, “You can have impetigo, eczema or poison ivy. Impetigo is contagious—highly contagious—and has pustules that burst and form a yellow crust. Eczema is not contagious and has redness, itching and breaks in the skin that seep and form a crust. I don’t know if that crust is yellow. Poison ivy is a rash that forms red streaks of pimples that itch. It is not contagious.”

  “I think I’ll take impetigo.”

  “That was going to be my recommendation. I think that a contagious disease is the best kind. Then, if Mrs. Hollings threatens to take your glove, you can tell her that she’s endangering the health of innocent children.”

  “Would you spell it for me?”

  I did, checking the picture of it in Dr. Maceo E. Patterson’s encyclopedia. “It’s gross, Malcolm. Really gross.”

  THE FOLLOWING morning I waited just inside my door until I saw Malcolm on his way to the bus stop. He waved to me with his right
hand; he was wearing one white cotton gardener’s glove.

  “What happened to your hand, Malcolm?” I asked.

  “Impetigo. A grossly contagious disease.”

  “Do you have any idea how long it lasts?”

  “It could last as long as a week, or it could by some miracle be cured in a day.”

  ALTHOUGH Malcolm and I were in the same grade, we were not in the same homeroom. Ever since the day of the blue jay, I had gotten into the habit of looking for him every time we changed classes. I expected to find him leaving the library as I was entering and entering the cafetorium as I was leaving. Even though we never spoke, I looked forward to seeing him even for just a glance during the course of the day. When he did not show up at library or lunch, I got worried.

  There was no one in his homeroom that I would ask.

  All the sixth grades shared the same gym period, and when Malcolm did not show up for that either, I asked to be excused to go to the girls’ room and went instead to the office.

  I asked the school secretary if she could please tell me what had happened to Malcolm Soo. The secretary asked me the nature of my interest. I told her that I had found his house key and wanted to return it to him.

  “You ought not to touch that key,” the secretary said.

  I took my own key from around my neck and dangled it in front of the woman. She leaned away from it. “You better be careful. Malcolm Soo has a dread disease, and it is my duty to advise you to sterilize anything that has so much as touched that boy’s body.”

  I asked where he was, and the secretary told me that he was in the infirmary and had been all day. “He would have been sent home if there had been someone at home to receive him. I can tell you that he will not be allowed back in this building without a signed certificate from a doctor. I can’t imagine a father letting a child come to school with something as dreadful as impelliago disease.”