by Judy Blume
He ignored her sarcasm, not a good sign. “But why to see me?”
“Because their friend who is our doctor told them to.”
“Yes, but why would he make such a suggestion?”
“Because you’re famous.”
“Ah, famous.”
“And because they don’t have any idea what’s going on.”
“And you won’t tell them.”
“That’s right. And I won’t tell you, either.”
“Of course. Why would you tell me?”
“Because you really want to know, don’t you?”
“Yes. I’d like to help you get well.”
“I’d like to get well so I can dance again. That’s what I do, you know. I dance.”
“I hear you’re a very good dancer.”
“You heard that from my parents?”
“Is it not true?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
“So.” A statement, not a question.
“Sew buttons.”
“What is sew buttons?”
“Nothing…just an expression.”
“To dance you have to be strong,” he said.
“I was strong until I got sick. Now I just need some medicine to make me better.”
Silence.
She yawned. She was just so tired.
When he called in her parents, when they were seated side by side on the sofa, the famous doctor suggested a rest home in the country for Natalie. He knew of one, just the right place for her, in Westchester County. But her father said it would be better if she could be closer to her family. He’d made some inquiries and suggested the Watchung Hills Children’s Home, in New Jersey.
They were sending her away? She couldn’t believe her father would send her away. But she didn’t have the energy to argue. She’d argue tomorrow or the next day. She was sure she could persuade them to wait. Especially her father.
In the car, on the way home from the famous doctor’s office, Natalie nodded off in the backseat, but she could still hear her parents talking softly about the children’s home in Watchung. And then, something about how, at the end of the school year, they would relocate as a family. Her father had been asked to open an office in Nevada in a place called Las Vegas—a place with clean air, wide-open spaces, where the girls could ride horses. “Hell,” her father said, “they can have their own horses.”
Horses…Natalie thought. What did she care about horses? Fern was the one so obsessed with horses she wished she could be a horse.
“What about me?” Corinne asked. “I don’t want to ride horses. I don’t want to leave my home, my friends, a life I’ve worked so hard to create. I gave up everything to marry you, Arthur—my family, my roots, because I loved you the minute I met you—like a flash of lightning…”
The old flash-of-lightning story, Natalie thought.
“And now you’re asking me to start all over in some strange place, surrounded by your gangster friends?” Corinne sniffled.
“It’s an opportunity, Corinne.”
“It’s not one I choose to take.”
“Suppose I say I want to do this?”
“There are many things in life we’d like to do, Arthur, but we don’t because we consider the needs of those we love above everything else.”
“We don’t have to sell the house right away,” her father said. “We can give it two years.”
“What about your practice here—who’s going to wait two years for their next appointment?”
“I’ve been thinking about bringing in a partner, or selling the practice. I’ve got a good offer from Myron Ludell.”
“No,” Corinne said. “It’s a commitment I’m not prepared to make.”
“And what if I say I’m going anyway?” Her father’s voice turned angry.
“Is that what you’re saying? Because if it is, you’re going alone. I’m not going to let you take the children.”
Natalie let herself doze. Dozing wasn’t exactly sleeping. Dozing meant she could come awake whenever she wanted. Dozing meant she couldn’t die.
Sometime later, after they’d come through the Lincoln Tunnel, her mother raised her voice, waking her. “It’s all your fault,” she cried, and for a minute Natalie thought Corinne was blaming her. “You and your crazy ideas. Las Vegas—some hick town in the desert. How many Jews are there in Las Vegas?”
“There will be more and more Jews,” her father told her mother.
“Gangster Jews.”
“Doctors, lawyers, accountants, businessmen. They’re already constructing a medical arts center. It will be finished by the end of the school year. I’ll have a beautiful office with the latest equipment, and plenty of patients to pay the bills. Daisy is willing to come.”
“Daisy!” her mother said. “You’ve already talked to Daisy? Daisy before me? Well, that proves it. I’ve always suspected but until now I wasn’t sure. You and Daisy—”
“That’s ridiculous and you know it,” her father said, his voice rising.
“Is it?”
The car swerved.
“Arthur!” Corinne shouted.
Had they forgotten Natalie was in the backseat?
Her father pulled off the road onto the shoulder, got out and slammed the door. He paced up and down, lighting a cigarette.
Her mother cried softly, then blew her nose. Natalie thought it best to keep quiet.
When her father returned to the car, he said, “I know this is the right thing to do for Natalie. Get her mind off…get her out in the fresh air.”
“And what about her dancing?”
“There will be classes there.”
“How do you know?”
“Entertainers have classes. And since when do we want to encourage her to pursue this cockamamie idea she has of becoming the next Ruby Keeler?”
Natalie held her breath when he said “Ruby”—how did he know? How could he possibly know?—but when he said “Keeler,” Natalie understood he had no idea about her Ruby.
“We have to save her, Corinne.”
“If we can’t save her here, how can we save her there?”
“We have to try. I’m begging you to reconsider.”
“And I’m begging you to forget this crazy idea. Who’s behind it—Longy? And when it fails—and you come home begging for forgiveness—and there’s nothing left of your practice or our marriage, then what? How will we live? How will we pay for treatment for Natalie, send Steve to college and Fern to Vail-Deane? You expect my family to support us? You’ve always resented my family money but now, all of a sudden, it smells clean to you? You’re a fool, Arthur. I never thought I’d say that but it’s the truth.”
“I don’t think you understand, Corinne. Natalie is very sick. If we don’t do something we could lose her.”
Corinne breathed in, teared up, waved a hand at her husband. “Don’t ever say that again! There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s just sensitive. It’s all been too hard on her. That’s why she stopped eating.”
“And I’m saying get her out of here so she doesn’t have to worry about planes crashing into houses, into schools, so she doesn’t have to think about death and dying.”
Natalie slumped to the floor of the car, her hands over her ears.
Elizabeth Daily Post
FATHER OF ELIZABETH CRASH VICTIM SUES FOR $250,000
FEB. 18—Thomas Granik of Sunnyside, L.I., filed suit today in Federal Court against Miami Airlines, Inc., for the death of his daughter, Ruby. She was a passenger in the airplane that crashed on Dec. 16 in Elizabeth. Mr. Granik said that the 22-year-old woman, a nightclub dancer, was the sole support of his family.
25
Miri
At school the following Monday, as Eleanor and Miri walked to English class together, Eleanor asked, “Are you still best friends with Natalie?”
Miri hesitated. “Yes,” she said, but the truth was, she wasn’t sure.
“Why was she absent all last week and again today?”
“I don’t know. When I saw her last Sunday she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“No.”
“Her parents?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve called a bunch of times but there’s never any answer.” She didn’t say she’d talked to Steve or that she hadn’t believed a word of what he’d said.
“I don’t like the way this sounds,” Eleanor said. “Why don’t we just go over, ring the bell and ask what’s going on?”
“I don’t think that’s the best idea. I think if they wanted us to know, they’d tell us.”
She could see Eleanor digesting that. “Maybe you’re right. Anyway, we’ve got a paper to put to bed.”
Miri said, “I meant to tell you, I wrote a feature story.” She hadn’t planned to say anything about the story she’d started on the night of the meeting at City Hall.
“What’s it about?”
“The situation.”
“You mean the situation?”
“Yes, that. Not about Natalie.”
“When can I see it?”
“I’ll clean it up tonight and bring it in tomorrow.”
“Good. We could use an interesting story about the situation.”
—
THAT NIGHT Miri took the story she’d written from her desk drawer. Her own indignation spilled out as she quickly made changes, adding the latest crash to the story. She copied it over in ink. Then she took a bath, using Rusty’s citrus bath salts. She slept well for the first time in a long time.
The next morning she handed the story to Eleanor. When they met in the cafeteria at lunchtime Eleanor said, “I like it. It makes you think. We can get it into the spring issue if we hurry. I’ll run it by Tiny this afternoon.”
Later, Tiny took Miri aside in homeroom. “Good story, Miri,” she said. “Provocative.”
“Thank you,” Miri said. She wasn’t sure provocative was a compliment but good story was.
“I’ll have to show it to Mr. Royer.”
“Mr. Royer…why?”
“As principal he has a veto over controversial stories.”
“You think my story is controversial?”
Tiny smiled. “Don’t you?” She didn’t wait for Miri to answer. “But I’m on your side, so stop worrying.”
Until then she hadn’t been worrying.
—
ON WEDNESDAY, Tiny reported to Miri that after reading her story Mr. Royer said they couldn’t run it in Hamilton Headlines.
Miri was speechless.
“He doesn’t think it’s appropriate. It could be seen as inflammatory.”
When Miri still didn’t respond, Tiny said, “I’m so sorry, Miri. I tried to explain but he was adamant. No stories about the crashes.”
“That’s crazy!” Miri said, finding her voice. “All the kids are talking about it. He can’t pretend those airplanes didn’t crash.”
“I think he’s concerned about how the parents might react.”
“The parents? They don’t read our paper.”
“All it takes is one parent to start an uproar.”
“Does that mean we’re not supposed to have opinions?”
“I understand what you’re saying and I agree with you. But I can’t risk my job.”
“Your job?”
“Yes. That’s how it works. I’m a teacher. Mr. Royer is my boss.”
“Then who stands up for us, the students?”
Tiny shook her head. “Welcome to the real world.”
—
“I WROTE a story about the crashes for the school paper,” Miri told Henry at dinner. It was one of the rare nights Henry was home in time to eat with them. “Mrs. Wallace, the adviser to the paper, called it ‘provocative.’ ”
“Provocative!” Ben Sapphire said. “We need more provocative thinkers. Don’t you agree, Henry?”
Henry glanced at Ben but didn’t respond.
“She showed it to the principal,” Miri continued. “He vetoed it, said it was inflammatory.”
“Inflammatory!” Ben Sapphire said. “This is sounding better and better.” Irene put her hand over Ben’s, letting him know he should keep quiet. Miri didn’t miss the gesture.
“I’d like to read it,” Henry told her.
“Make that two of us,” Rusty said.
After dinner Miri gave Henry her story. Tiny had returned it to her in case she wanted to revise it. “Maybe write about how the community is helping those in need,” Tiny had suggested. “Something uplifting. Mr. Royer likes uplifting stories.”
“I’m not writing for Mr. Royer,” Miri had said. “I’m writing for the student newspaper.”
Tiny gave her a sad look. “I know that, Miri. And I’m sorry.”
“You already said that!” Miri felt bad lashing out at Tiny. She knew Tiny was on her side, but she wanted more. She wanted Tiny to remind him this is America. We have free speech. We have freedom of the press.
Henry went to his room to read the story. When he came out ten minutes later, he said, “If I were in charge I’d publish it.”
“Really?” Miri asked. “You’re not just saying that?”
“You know I’d never do that.”
Miri nodded. She knew.
“That’s not to say I agree with everything in your story.”
Rusty grabbed the story from Henry and went upstairs to read it on her own.
While she was gone Miri saw clearly what she had to do. “Can I use your typewriter?” she asked Henry.
“Sure.”
She’d had a full semester of typing. She could type thirty-five words a minute. At Battin next year, she’d take Typing for College, something they all laughed about. “Sounds like Typing for Chimpanzees,” Robo had said. Miri wondered if they had Typing for Chimpanzees at Millburn High School.
“This is good,” Rusty said, coming back downstairs, waving Miri’s story. “I’m so proud of you, honey. You know how to speak your mind. But is this what you really believe?”
“I’m still not sure…” Miri began.
Ben Sapphire interrupted. “When do I get to read it?”
“When it’s published,” Miri told him.
Henry, seeing where this was going, said, “I don’t have a stencil at the house but we do at the office. You want to take a ride with me?”
She got her coat.
“I type eighty words a minute,” Rusty called. “You want me to come?”
“Thanks, Mom, but I can do this myself.” She grabbed the story from Rusty.
Rusty looked disappointed, but Miri didn’t care. It was her story.
The Daily Post office was busy but probably not as busy as it would have been during the day. Henry set her up at a typewriter, removed the ribbon and rolled in the stencil. She’d never cut a stencil for a mimeograph.
“You have to press down hard on each key,” Henry told her. “It’s different from regular typing.”
Maybe she should have let Rusty help. It took a long time for her to cut the stencil. Henry didn’t seem to mind. He was at work on another story at his desk. She went through a lot of correction fluid changing her typing mistakes. Finally, when she was as satisfied as she was going to be, Henry helped her run off a hundred copies on the mimeograph.
On Thursday morning she showed Eleanor her story. “I’m going to distribute it on my own.”
Eleanor took a copy from the stack Miri was holding. She read the headline out loud. “ ‘Zombies, Martians, Commies or Sabotage?’ ” Then she smiled, showing her braces, which she almost never did. “I like this. It’s so cheeky.”
Cheeky wasn’t what Miri had in mind. Eleanor used expressions the rest of them had heard only in movies.
—
ZOMBIES, MARTIANS, COMMIES OR SABOTAGE?
By Miri Ammerman
The first one fell a block from Hamilton, and 4 blocks from the Elks Club, where 100 children were enjoying a hol
iday party.
They said it could never happen again.
But it did, skimming the roof of Battin High School, 45 minutes after 1,000 girls were dismissed for the day, and just missing St. Mary’s.
They said it was a coincidence but it could never happen again.
This time it just missed the Janet Memorial Home and at the end of that block, Vail-Deane School for girls and Pingry School for boys.
Coincidence?
Some people think so, especially the adults in our lives. But not everyone.
The students at Hamilton talk about it before school begins, gathering in small groups outside their homerooms. Everyone has a theory. Some believe it is creatures from outer space, Martians in flying saucers intercepting and causing planes to crash. Others say it’s zombies. Still others, sabotage.
Could it be caused by Communists? Some say so. But how could Communists cause three planes to crash in a row?
Why is this happening?
Evidence points to a plot against the children of Elizabeth, whether they attend public, private or Catholic school—whether they live in an orphanage, or in the best section of town. Children are the one thing these crashes have in common. Hit where there are children and teenagers. Hit where it will hurt the most.
The adults don’t believe it. They say close Newark Airport and that will be the end of it. Change the flight paths that bring planes in and out over our city on their way to and from Newark Airport and everything will be fine.
They want to protect us from the truth. They can’t admit this might be a force they don’t understand. Admitting that would be like admitting they don’t know the answers to our questions, and how many adults in our lives would ever do that?
Finally, the airport has closed. Will this be the end of it? We can’t say yet, can we?
We listen, but we must draw our own conclusions. Prove to us that we’re wrong. We’re waiting.
—
ELEANOR SAID, “Give me a pile of stories. I’ll help hand them out. I’ll bet the other staff members of the paper will help, too.”
Everyone was in, including Suzanne and two boys who covered school sports. Until then, Miri had never given them a second thought. Now she was grateful.
By lunch, the hundred copies were gone. Instead of throwing the story in the trash, their classmates were sharing it with friends. A group of eighth graders stopped her in the hall. “You’re the one who wrote that story, right?” When she nodded, acknowledging she was the one, a boy circled his thumb and index finger and winked. “About time,” he said.