“Wow-ow!” Dash choked, and when he stopped coughing again, said, “And I only hoped someone had rescued that notebook, and — oh!”
Sum pulled it from inside her shirt and Dash rolled his eyes up in a blissful grin, as if to say definitely rescued, but then doubled over with another wave of coughing. She passed him Jubie’s cough medicine.
“Early!” Sum said, her voice pretend angry. “You held all that in, baby?”
“Yup, and I’m soooo glad to let it out. I was just holding fast. No ‘barren field,’ you know?” She paused. “But I’m ready for zero secrets and no more lies.”
“Yeah, we was shoe-rockin’ spies!” Jubie crowed, and Early gave him a thumbs-up. “Before you told,” he added, his lower lip shelving out.
“But we still are,” Early laughed. “Spies don’t stop spying, even when they aren’t trying.”
“Spies without lies.” Dash nodded.
“And what about me, I’m reeeeal good at zip-the-lip!” Jubie crowed. “Zippity-lippity!”
Dash twinkled. “And you my man, Mr. Jubilation. Where would we all be without that zippy lip?”
Jubie echoed, “Yeah, your man!” and rolled back and forth happily on the floor.
After more cough syrup, Dash went on, his voice still strained, “Feel like I’ve gotta keep telling till it’s all out. We’re Dashsumearlyjubie, and like you said, no more secrets.”
“Go on, baby,” Sum said. “We’ll be quiet.”
Dash took a deep, shuddery breath and continued, “After I’d realized Rhythms was what they wanted, I was terrified for you three. I invented something quickly, trying to lure the kidnappers away from our apartment. I told them a sad thing had happened after I’d kept the book for my family: I’d taken it into work one day, in order to compare it to versions I could look at on the Internet. Then I fell asleep on the train on the way home, jumped up from my seat, and left the book behind.
“The criminals didn’t know whether to believe me. They first tried using you three to scare me into talking, then tried starvation and, well, violent stuff.”
“Pow! Gonna get those guys, pee-ow! Pow-pow!” Jubie muttered, shooting with his blue truck.
“Into jail,” Dash added, “where they belong. I found out that gun games aren’t great, son. Not when they’re real. And not up close.”
“Oh.” Jubie’s truck sank back to the floor.
“But melon and cherry fights in the summer, they’re still good,” Early suggested.
“Spitting seeds and pits, you got it.” Dash grinned, a flash of his old self that faded as he returned to the story.
“When nothing worked, my kidnappers finally got to thinkin’ that they should just clean house, if you get my meaning. After all, I clearly didn’t know much until they’d explained about the ice, which was a very stupid thing for them to do, and I think some of them knew it as soon as it was out. And I’d learned, during all that questioning, that the old books Al and I had been handling were just a clever way to hide a fortune.
“You were so right, Early. The stones had all been stuffed into the spines of the smaller books, a very secure storage spot, because they could then be carried around or even change hands in the most public places. Those old cloth spines can be pretty indestructible, far stronger and more flexible than the modern ones. It was a weird form of laundering, making a dirty past less obvious, like criminals do with stolen money. This crime ring planned to move some famous diamonds safely through the hands of someone working at the Chicago Public Library — your silly Dash! — and from there they could be sold. Things would look good. Businesslike but innocent: a name from the CPL, an official book list. The volumes could then pass easily through security checks of many kinds. This was a much safer and more invisible travel plan than storing and carrying them in small bags or lockboxes.
“From what I overheard, I learned that once these stolen gemstones had been moved, thanks to the book spines, they could be altered in the tiniest way by any jeweler’s diamond-cutting machine and would no longer be identifiable as the same stone. From the way the criminals were acting, I figured the diamonds stored in Langston’s book were a particularly fine set of stones. That is, passing them along was the most dangerous part, and that’s where Al and I came in. But then when I kept the book …
“The men were drinking one night downstairs, and I heard them fighting about who would ‘take care of’ me. I decided I’d rather fall out of a window than be shot by them and never found, so I did something pretty crazy: I stripped down to my underwear and rubbed my shoulders quickly with a cake of soap from the bathroom. Then I slid between the narrow window bars and out onto the roof. I can’t believe I did it, but I think ice, real ice this time, helped. The bars had been wet earlier that day, as snow had melted in the sun. When the temperature dropped again, everything was coated in a clear, slippery film. First, one kind of dangerous ice almost got me killed, then another, just as slippery and treacherous, probably saved my life! Funny that ice can mean such different things, and that help and hurt can sometimes be so close.
“Once out the window, I was shaking so badly, I couldn’t stand. Hearing voices and shouting, I knew I had no time to waste. I began to crawl, slipped on more ice, and rolled right onto a balcony below. When the men peered out of the open window minutes later, I was gone. From where I’d landed, I reached the fire escape, dropped down into an alley, and limped into the back door of a nearby restaurant. I begged them to hide me, which they did, in a kitchen bin with the dirty tablecloths. I’ll tell you, spilled food never smelled so good. Who knows why the owner of that restaurant was so kind to me, a frightening-looking man in his underwear and socks, but if he hadn’t been … well, we wouldn’t be together today. No more Dashsumearlyjubie, that’s for sure.
“The criminals, armed and drunk, combed the neighborhood for days. I was just plain lucky that this kind Lithuanian man, the owner of an old family restaurant, believed my story. He fed me and brought me warm clothes, dark sunglasses, a new sock hat, and a jacket with a huge hood. Next he drove me over to our old apartment, even though we both knew that might be dangerous. I saw what had happened. I might’ve died right there from shock and grief if the old lady down the hall hadn’t heard my voice and opened her door a crack. She told me that you three had gone to a shelter, but she didn’t know which one. I had hope.
“The restaurant owner later handed me train and bus fare cards, plus a list of all the city shelters so I could begin looking for my family. He tucked forty dollars in my pocket without me knowing, gave me his blessing, and told me to get back in touch once I’d found all of you. He was like a father to me, such a good man. I can’t wait for you all to meet him.
“Since then I’ve been sleeping in Union Station at night and making my way from one shelter to another during the day, watching the doors to see if I could spot you three. I was afraid to go to the police, as the folks who’d kidnapped me said I’d be arrested for stealing the diamonds and they’d chase after my family once I was in jail. I didn’t know whether to believe them, but didn’t dare do anything else.
“And then, after I saw the news … well, here I am. And we four gotta head home as soon as we ever, ever can.”
“You bet,” Sum whispered.
“I could sometimes hear you talking to me,” Early said. “In my head. Like there were rhythms in the air. And I might’ve seen you once when we whizzed by on the train, but then I thought I’d just wished you into being there.”
“Yeah, we was saaaaad,” Jubie trumpeted. “Sum got sad and mad when I got bad, but then I was good. And now I’m never lettin’ go!” Jubie finished, hugging his father’s foot, the only safely squeezable part of him, as hard as he could.
“Sad, mad, bad, then glad.” Early grinned at Jubie, who gave her the Darren chin salute.
“Oh, yeah,” Dash said softly. “Never lettin’ go. I thought about you three so much that I believe I was here, in my head and my heart.” He paused and touch
ed Sum’s cheek. “And the rhythms — I think Langston was doing his best to help us. I kept thinking of those lines from the poem ‘Problems’: ‘But what would happen / If the last 4 was late?’ And that kind of pushed me to keep going. Dang, was I ever late!”
“Dang.” Jubie nodded.
“Hey, baby,” Sum said tenderly. “Some good stuff. Major home-hunting work, especially on the part of your Early Pearl here. She came up with quite an idea, a project that is letting kids in shelters share their home dreams with rich and powerful folks who might be able to help.”
“I was reading Langston’s dream poems,” Early said. “Think that’s where it started.”
“And I been workin’ on clues,” Jubie added. “And eatin’ what they got.”
“Wow,” Dash said, his voice stronger. “Lucky thing I disappeared so you kids could get all that good growing done.” And he winked at Sum. “If Early finds us our next home, and she just might, we’ll call it Hold Fast. How’s that? And Jubie, if you keep on with the spy work and veggies, you’ll be big enough to catch bad guys in no time.”
“Bad! Guys!” Jubie shouted happily.
“Oh, please,” Sum said, rolling her eyes at Dash.
They spent the rest of the day soothing and resoothing, sorting rhythms, and filling one another in on every facet of this crazy, ice-laden time. They remembered the many people who had helped them return to four: Mr. Waive, Velma, the wonderful restaurant owner, their old neighbor in Woodlawn, Mrs. B. at the Hughes School, Mrs. Wormser at the library, Mrs. Happadee, and even Al. Last but not least there was Langston himself, whose words had helped them throughout.
They were told a bizarre detail that afternoon: This was actually the eighth anniversary, to the day, of the Antwerp Diamond Center heist. Strange symmetry was at work. A member of the FBI came to the shelter to return the Pearls’ copy of The First Book of Rhythms and tell them that seven more diamonds had been carefully removed from the spine of the book.
“Seven!” Dash and Sum breathed in unison.
“Making nine,” Early murmured. “Fits the rolling pattern.”
“Rol-ling!” Jubie announced, vrooming his truck up and over the agent’s large and shiny shoe.
The man went on to explain that should there be any rewards offered by original owners for the return of diamonds found in this Chicago raid, the Pearls would receive that money. Their family had, after all, helped in many ways with the recovery of a fortune. No guarantees, the agent cautioned, but it sure was a sparkly thought. He paused to admire Jubie’s blue truck on his way out.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Happadee welcomed Dash to Helping Hand. She got him medical care right away; Dash’s cracked ribs, dislocated knee, many torn tendons, and broken collarbone were bandaged. He was sent back to the shelter with vitamins and a supply of special protein bars to help him gain strength.
When the press heard the real story — a tale of dangerously twinkly ice of all kinds, a crash, a chase, and an innocent family that had slipped through the cracks — donations of clothing, toys, and books began pouring into Helping Hand. And, best of all, the Chicago Public Library assured Dash that a full-time job was waiting whenever he felt well enough to return. In the meantime, the Pearls were as cozy as could be in their tiny, dark oyster shell of a room.
The past few weeks had felt like years to this family. Ice seemed to have frozen time, and a beat of threes had hidden four, at least until today. Now, despite home time lost, it seemed likely that Dashsumearlyjubie would have another chance to hold fast.
Who could say what might happen when the world finished catching up with four Pearls, an old book of rhythms, many stolen diamonds, and a load of dreams?
It is difficult to count the homeless.
Some hide, others aren’t sure how to be seen, still others are too young to ask for help. On any given night in the United States, over one and a half million children find themselves without an address or a front door to call their own.
As of October 2011, the city of Chicago reported roughly fifteen thousand abandoned buildings, most the result of foreclosure. They sit silent, haunting the neighborhoods that surround them. With an estimated thirty thousand homeless kids in this city, the questions are obvious.
Luckily, so are the dreams.
Many people and organizations helped me to write this book. I am deeply grateful to the estate of Langston Hughes for allowing me to reprint some of his work. Mr. Hughes, a world-famous poet, novelist, and speaker, was a man who started poor and without much steady support. Like the character Dashel Pearl, he held fast to his dreams.
In 1949, when Mr. Hughes was almost fifty years old, he accepted a job as a Visiting Lecturer on Poetry at the University of Chicago Laboratory Schools, a place known for their “learning by doing” approach. He stayed in Hyde Park, a South Side neighborhood right next to Woodlawn.
While at the Lab Schools, Mr. Hughes worked with kids from kindergarten all the way up to high school, and talked with teachers. Everyone young and old who spent time with him felt as though they’d been handed a gift, a way of experiencing the world that they could tuck in one pocket. Mr. Hughes was kind, liked to laugh, and yet was dead serious about his art. He believed that everyone, people of every sort of background and heritage, should be allowed to become what they wanted to become — with work and determination.
The First Book of Rhythms was published in 1954, and according to jacket notes, the book grew directly from the time he’d spent at Lab “introducing young people to the fascinations of rhythm.”
I am also deeply grateful to my friends and colleagues Bob and Dorothy Strang, who both taught at the Laboratory Schools for many years. I borrowed a powerful line from one of Bob Strang’s poems: “Words are free and plentiful,” and it lives on in this book. Thank you, Bob. And if I hadn’t been taking a walk with Dorothy one day many years ago, and if we hadn’t seen a copy of The First Book of Rhythms in the window of a store … well, many things might not have happened.
The following Chicago organizations have all added tremendously to the making of this book: the Chicago Public Library, the Chicago Public Library Foundation, the Chicago Coalition for the Homeless, the Chicago Alliance to End Homelessness, Catholic Charities, Chicago HOPES, the Chicago Department of Family and Support Services, the Inspiration Cafe, and StreetWise, an impressive weekly publication sold by homeless or poverty-level vendors on the city streets. Thank you to the many individuals who took time to answer my questions and welcome me to several of Chicago’s shelters. And thank you so much to those who shared their stories.
Thanks go to the following individuals for helping in many, many ways: Althea Klein, Barbara Engel, David Williams, Rick Kogan, Skip Hampton, Dick Barry, Kristin Ortman, Eileen Higgins, Becki Martello, Marguerite Brown, Rhona Frazin, Bernadette Nowakowski, Michael Nameche, Kelly Vanderstoep, Adam Conway, and Therese McGee.
The Harold Washington branch of the Chicago Public Library is a beautiful place, and the librarians at every level are helpful and friendly. I have altered a few of the internal physical details, but most of the setting is easily recognizable. The warehouse in Marquette Park is imaginary. Helping Hand Shelter is an invented name, but a real place — a beautifully run refuge for many families.
Last but not least, my family and dear friends, who put up with long periods of time in which I practically disappeared into this book. I can never thank my husband, Bill, and our three kids enough. My old friend Annie helped tremendously at a crossroads moment, offering encouragement of many kinds. Doe Coover, agent and friend, has read, reread, and cheered me on throughout. My editor, David Levithan, deserves heartfelt thanks for holding fast and holding on from the first moment we discussed this book, several years ago. Thanks times a thousand, David. And many thanks to Ellie Berger; Charisse Meloto; my patient production editor and copy editor, Rachael Hicks and Esther Lin; wonderful designer, Elizabeth Parisi; and everyone on the Scholastic team who has worked together to make this book a reality.
Michael McGuire, owner of a Hyde Park institution, Supreme Jewelers, took the time to teach me the ABCs of diamonds. For information on the 2003 Antwerp diamond robbery, I relied on Scott Andrew Selby and Greg Campbell’s excellent 2010 book, Flawless: Inside the Largest Diamond Heist in History.
Brad Jonas, of Powell’s Books, introduced me to some of the intricacies of the bookselling industry, and was generous, as always, in answering my many questions and offering research advice.
Any inaccuracies in portraying an institution or organization are entirely my fault. Facts on the homeless vary, depending on what you read and how statistics are collected and presented. Shelter rules also vary. Not to be questioned, however, are the harsh realities of homelessness. Sadly, they have nothing to do with fiction.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BLUE BALLIETT is the author of several bestselling, acclaimed mystery novels, including Chasing Vermeer (a Book Sense Book of the Year and an Edgar Award winner), The Wright 3, The Calder Game, and The Danger Box. She writes in the laundry room of her home in Chicago, Illinois, and you can find her online at www.blueballiettbooks.com.
Also by Blue Balliett
Chasing Vermeer
The Wright 3
The Calder Game
The Danger Box
Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth Balliett Klein
Cover art © 2013 by Tim O’Brien
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
“Dreams,” “Harlem [2],” “For Russell and Rowena Jelliffe,” “Problems” from The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes by Langston Hughes, edited by Arnold Rampersad with David Roessel, Associate Editor, copyright © 1994 by the Estate of Langston Hughes. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., and Harold Ober Associates.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
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