Before going to sleep she wrote in her notebook:
THAT WAS ALL VERY NICE BUT IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH MY NOTEBOOK. ONLY OLE GOLLY UNDERSTANDS ABOUT MY NOTEBOOK. I WILL ALWAYS HAVE A NOTEBOOK. I THINK I WILL WRITE DOWN EVERYTHING, EVERY SINGLE SOLITARY THING THAT HAPPENS TO ME.
She went peacefully to sleep. The next morning the first thing she did when she woke up was to reach for her notebook and scribble furiously:
WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING I WISH I WERE DEAD.
Having disposed of that, she got up, put on the same clothes she had had on the day before. Before she went downstairs she began to think about the fact that her room was in the attic. She wrote:
THEY PUT ME UP HERE IN THIS ROOM BECAUSE THEY THINK I’M A WITCH.
Even as she did it she knew perfectly well that her parents thought nothing of the kind. She slammed her notebook and ran down the three flights of stairs as though she had been shot out of a cannon. She hurtled into the kitchen, collided with the cook, and knocked a glass of water from her hand.
“Look what you’ve done, you maniac. What are you doing running like that? If you were my child, I’d slap you right across the face. In fact, you just watch it, I might anyway,” the cook spluttered in exasperation.
But Harriet was up the stairs again, out of reach. She had only descended to wrest a piece of toast from the cook instead of having to wait in the dining room. She stomped to her place and sat down with a thump. Her mother looked her over.
“Harriet, you haven’t washed, and furthermore it seems to me those clothes look awfully familiar. Go up and change.” Her mother said all this cheerfully.
Harriet was off and running again. Clackety clack, her feet went on the parquet floor, then thrump, thrump, thrump up the carpeted stairs. She ran all the way into her little bathroom. She had a fleeting sensation of being tired as she stood over the basin washing her hands.
The sun was pouring through the tiny window which overlooked the park and the river. Harriet stared, lost in a sudden dream. She turned the soap over and over in her hands and felt the warm water on her fingers as she watched a tugboat, yellow with a red stack, bob neatly up the river, the frothy V behind it curling into emptiness.
A bell tinkled somewhere downstairs, and her mother called up the steps, “Harriet, you’ll be late for school.” Harriet suddenly woke up and saw that the soap had become a big mush in her hand. She washed it all off then flew down the steps, drying her hands briskly on her dress as she went.
Her father was at the table behind a newspaper. Her mother was behind another newspaper.
The cook waddled in, muttering, “Scared the life out of me this morning. She’ll kill us all someday.” No one paid any attention to her. She gave Harriet a very nasty eye as she served her bacon, eggs, toast, and milk.
Harriet gobbled up everything very fast, slid off the chair, and was out into the hall without either her father or her mother lowering a newspaper. She grabbed up her books and her notebook. As she was flying through the door she heard the rustle of a newspaper and her mother’s voice. “Harriet? Did you go to the bathroom?” All that came back to her mother was a long, distant “Noooooooo,” like the howl of a tiny wind, as Harriet flew through the front door and down the front steps.
Once out of the house she slowed to a dawdle and began looking around her. Why do I run so? she thought. I have only two and a half blocks to walk. She was always early. She crossed East End at the corner of Eighty-sixth and walked through the park, climbing the small hill up through the early morning onto the esplanade, and finally sat, plunk on a bench right by the river’s edge. The sunlight coming off the river made her squint her eyes. She opened her notebook and wrote:
SOMETIMES THAT HOUSE GETS ME. I MUST MAKE A LIST OF WAYS TO MAKE MYSELF BETTER.
NUMBER (1) STOP RUNNING INTO THE COOK.
NUMBER (2) PUT DOWN EVERY SINGLE THING IN THIS NOTEBOOK.
NUMBER (3) NEVER, NEVER, NEVER LET ANYONE SEE IT.
NUMBER (4) FIND OUT HOW I CAN REALLY GET MYSELF UP EARLIER IN THE MORNING SO I CAN GET MORE SPYING DONE IN THIS TIME BEFORE SCHOOL. I AM SO DUMB AND THERE IS SO MUCH TO FIND OUT THAT I HAD BETTER BEGIN USING ALL MY FREE TIME SPYING.
Just at that moment Harriet felt someone give her a hard little clip on the shoulder. She looked up quickly and there was Rachel Hennessey. She stood there squinting at Harriet through her glasses. Harriet squinted back at her.
“Writing again in that notebook, eh?” Rachel shot this out of her mouth like a gangster. She stood squarely on her two feet, squinting.
“So what?” Harriet’s voice shook. Then she got control of herself. “So what if I am? Whadaya wanta make of it?”
Rachel turned mysterious. “You’ll see. You’ll see what you get, Miss Harriet the Spy.” She pivoted slowly on one foot all the way around, then stood squarely again, squinting. A prism of light caught her glasses, so Harriet couldn’t see her eyes.
Harriet felt it necessary to become menacing. She slid slowly off the bench and in two steps was almost nose to nose with Rachel. “Listen here, Rachel Hennessey, just what do you mean by that?”
Rachel began to get nervous. Harriet pressed her advantage. “You know, Rachel, that you’re KNOWN for never meaning anything you say. You know that, don’t you?”
Rachel looked completely taken aback. She stood her ground, but she remained silent. Only her eyes, which watered suddenly, let Harriet know that she was afraid.
“All of you—all of you better stop acting this way to me or… or… you’re going to GET it!” Harriet realized, too late, that she was getting carried away because her arms were flailing around.
Something stirred deep in Rachel. Perhaps this last remark had made her see that Harriet, for all her yelling, was frightened. At any rate, suddenly she laughed in a rather spooky way, and as she did she backed away. She continued to laugh and to back, and only when it was obvious that she was poised for instant flight did she say, “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re wrong there. We have a plan. It’s YOU who’s going to get it. We have a PLAN… a PLAN.…” and it echoed behind her as she ran, her heels flying up and almost touching the sash of her plaid dress, she ran so hard.
Harriet stood there looking into the silence. She picked up her notebook. She put it down again and looked out over the water. The sun had dimmed. It might rain. She picked up the notebook again.
A PLAN. THIS IS SERIOUS. THEY MEAN BUSINESS. IT MEANS THEY HAVE BEEN TALKING AMONG THEMSELVES. ARE THEY GOING TO KILL ME? IS THIS MY LAST VIEW OF CARL SCHURZ PARK? WILL THERE BE NOTHING LEFT HERE TOMORROW ON THIS BENCH? WILL ANYONE REMEMBER HARRIET M. WELSCH?
She rose stiffly and walked slowly to school. Everything looked very green and holy in that sad light before a rain. Even the Good Humor man on the corner, the one with the ridiculous nose, looked sad and moody. He took out a large blue handkerchief and blew his nose. It was somehow so touching that Harriet had to look away.
The door to the school was alive with clamoring children. She wished that she could wait until everyone was in, then walk sedately, alone, down the corridors as though to her own execution. But if she did, she would be late. She ran toward the school.
CHAPTER
Eleven
That afternoon the rain beat like a spring rain against the windows of the math class as Harriet wrote:
THERE IS SOMETHING GOING ON. SPORT HAS A TOOL KIT HE HAS BEEN CARRYING AROUND ALL DAY CARRIE ANDREWS’ POCKET IN HER SWEATER IS FILLED WITH NAILS. EITHER THEY ARE GOING TO BUILD SOMETHING OR THEY ARE GOING TO CATCH ME AND DRIVE NAILS THROUGH MY HEAD.
She looked around at everyone, then went on:
EVERYBODY WHISPERS TOGETHER ALL THE TIME AND NOBODY HAS SAID A WORD TO ME. AT LUNCH I HAD TO EAT MY TOMATO SANDWICH ALL ALONE BECAUSE EVERY TIME I SAT DOWN NEXT TO THEM EVERYBODY GOT UP AND MOVED. I GOT TIRED OF MOVING SO I JUST SAT AND ATE IT ANYWAY.
She looked around again.
THERE IS SOMETHING THE MATTER WITH THESE PEOPLE. RACHEL HENNESSEY STARES AT ME
ALL THE TIME WITH A TERRIBLE LOOK ON HER FACE. WHEN I WAS IN THE BATHROOM THEY DIDN’T KNOW I WAS IN THERE AND I HEARD CARRIE TELL RACHEL THAT SHE COULDN’T BE AT RACHEL’S HOUSE DIRECTLY AFTER SCHOOL AS THEY HAD PLANNED BECAUSE SHE HAD TO GO HOME AND GET THE FLAGPOLE FIRST. NOW WHAT COULD THEY WANT A FLAGPOLE FOR? THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE A FLAG. ARE THEY PLANNING TO PUT MY HEAD ON IT AFTERWARDS? I SAW THAT IN A BOOK ONCE. I BETTER GO OVER THERE AFTER SCHOOL AND SPY ON THEM. I KNOW A WAY TO GET THERE BY THE BACK FENCE. SOMETHING IS UP ALL RIGHT.
Math class droned on and Harriet used the time for thinking. Finally the bell rang and school was over. Everyone rushed to the door. Harriet followed behind, feeling slightly ridiculous. When they were outside everyone started off toward Rachel’s house except Carrie, who went to her house. It was embarrassing. Harriet hid in the doorway until they were out of sight. As she stood there the rain stopped and the sun came out. She knew she should go there immediately, but it was time for her cake and milk. She stood for a minute, torn, but habit won.
She turned toward her house and ran as fast as she could. She could get it all over with fast and then sneak back there. The trees flew by as she ran, then the front door, then the steps down to the kitchen, and bang, she ran into the cook.
“This is too much. I’m going to quit if you do that one more time. Why can’t you look where you’re going? Do we have to put up traffic signals at the door? You’re worse than those news trucks on the street.…” And so forth and so on, splutter, splutter, as she put the cake and milk on the table. Harriet took out her notebook and wrote:
THIS COOK CERTAINLY MAKES A LOT OF NOISE. MAYBE WE COULD GET A QUIETER COOK. I CAN’T EVEN HEAR MYSELF THINK. I HAVE TO PLAN BUT I CAN’T PLAN UNTIL I KNOW THEIR PLAN. I BETTER GET GOING.
She slammed the book shut. The cook jumped.
“Why in the name of everything can’t you do anything without all that noise? It’s a simple enough thing to close a book. It doesn’t have to sound like an atomic bomb.…” And so forth and so on. Her voice followed Harriet all the way up to her room where she went to put on her spy clothes.
First she went to the bathroom because she hadn’t in the morning, and when she was sitting there she wrote in her notebook:
I LOVE MYSELF.
Then she got up and put on her spy clothes. When she was all set she ran down the steps and out the front door, banging it after her.
Rachel Hennessey lived on Eighty-fifth Street in a ground-floor apartment in an old building. She and her mother lived there alone because her father had gone off somewhere. There was a big garden in back and Harriet knew just how to get there by way of the other gardens alongside.
On the corner of York and Eighty-fifth there was a deserted old building about to be torn down, and between this rotten old building and a new building there was a little alley full of cats. Several old ladies fed these cats, so there was a lot of tuna fish sitting around in front of some makeshift houses they had also made, which looked like beach cabanas for cats.
Harriet looked around and, seeing no one, climbed over the iron railing in front of this alley. A cat with one eye stared at her. She landed with a thump and the cat with one eye hissed, backing away.
She ran to the back of the alley, her tools jangling. She climbed the fence and from there could see the whole stretch of the block of gardens. Rachel’s was the fourth one over. Hoping that no one in the buildings would see her, or if they did they would keep their mouths shut, she began to climb fences and run through gardens until she came to the fence right next to Rachel’s garden. Through a crack she could see and hear almost everything. She heard their voices, excited and screeching at each other, and saw a big piece of lumber rise up.
“Listen, Pinky, you’re just stupid. This piece should go here, not over there.” This was clearly Carrie Andrews talking.
Then Harriet saw the flagpole. It was a rather short flagpole, but it was a real one. At the top of it, fluttering against the blue sky, was a pair of purple socks.
Harriet stared at the socks. A dim feeling began to penetrate her. She didn’t know what the feeling was until her heart began to beat fast, then she knew it was fear. Those socks made her afraid. If she could see what they were doing, maybe she wouldn’t be afraid anymore.
“YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” Carrie Andrews to Pinky Whitehead.
“How can I build anything without a level?” Sport said to everyone in general.
Then Harriet found a hole and looked through. They were building a house! Incredible. But there they were. Everyone was rushing around with tools and wood and there was the semblance of a house emerging right in front of her. It leaned, of course. In fact the two back walls were the corner of the fence and it appeared to be pulling the fence down; but, never mind, it was a house.
Sport was in charge. He was telling everyone what to do in a very irritated way. Carrie Andrews seemed to be the second in command. Except for about three pieces of new wood, the rest was old rotten wood from a chest they had broken up. The three new pieces didn’t seem to bear any relation to each other. There were a couple of chairs being chopped up by Pinky right at that moment. Harriet scrunched closer to the fence to see better.
It was a funny scene. Carrie Andrews stood over Sport, yelling at the top of her lungs even though her mouth was right next to his ear. Sport was hammering a floor together. Laura Peters, Marion Hawthorne, and Rachel Hennessey were running around like fools. They had no idea how to do anything. Rachel tried to hammer and smashed her finger. After a while they got bored with trying and got into a conversation near Harriet’s post. Janie joined them after an upright fell on her head.
“She’s going to die when she finds out.”
“Serves her right, mean thing.”
“Boy, will she be jealous.”
“She has delusions of grandeur anyway,” said Janie, rubbing her head.
Harriet was puzzled. Who? Who were they talking about? She looked over and saw Beth Ellen in a corner by herself. What was she doing? She appeared to be drawing something on an old piece of wood. That was the one thing Beth Ellen could do, draw. But then Harriet looked more closely and saw that she wasn’t exactly drawing, she was making letters on a sign in a very painstaking way.
Just at that moment the back door opened and Mrs. Hennessey called out, “Okay, kids, the cake is ready. Come and get it.”
Homemade cake. Of course. That’s why they had chosen Rachel’s garden. Not everyone had a garden, but Janie did, and Beth Ellen did. Beth Ellen probably wouldn’t even give you an olive to eat over there. Once Harriet had spent the afternoon there and just to pass the time had looked in the refrigerator. There hadn’t been anything but a jar of mayonnaise, a jar of artichoke hearts in olive oil, and some skimmed milk. Beth Ellen had agreed with her that it wasn’t enough and had added that she felt hungry all the time because her nurse was on a diet and her grandmother was always out to dinner.
There was a mad scramble on the other side of the fence as they all ran to the back door and piled inside. Harriet felt lonely and rather hungry. She stood a minute thinking, then she went back through the gardens the way she had come. In the alley she noticed that there were seven cats sitting looking at her. One of them had no eyes at all. They all looked sick.
She climbed the iron railing and was back on the street. She sat on the nearest stoop and wrote down everything she had seen. When she finished she sat thinking for a minute. Then she opened her notebook and tore out a blank page from the back. She wanted to disguise her writing so she printed with her left hand:
Dear Mrs. Hennessey,
All those kids hate Rachel. They just want your cake. Furthermore they will clutter up the backyard and also they constitute a nuisance.
A Friend
Harriet looked quickly around. No one had seen her. She tucked her notebook away and walked hurriedly to Rachel’s front door. Her heart beat fast as she walked up the steps and dropped a note in Mrs. Hennessey’s mailbox. She thought she would burst she ra
n so fast down the steps and all the way to East End. She had never done anything like that before. Would she be arrested? Sometimes on television people took notes to the police, but usually they had been thrown through a window with a rock. Maybe if you put it in the mailbox that didn’t happen.
The next morning Harriet hurried to school. The night before it had occurred to her that maybe they just hadn’t gotten around to asking her over that day. Maybe it had just been an oversight. It was a slim chance, but she preferred it to a nastier thought that had begun to creep around the edges of her mind.
When she went into her homeroom, she smiled at Laura Peters, who looked right back at her as though she weren’t there. It made her feel creepy. Especially from Laura Peters, who smiled at everybody; who, in fact, smiled too much. Harriet sat down and wrote in her notebook in very small letters:
WHATEVER HAPPENS DON’T LET ME CRY
Just then Janie threw a spitball that hit her right in the face. Janie Gibbs? Janie had never thrown a spitball in her life. Janie Gibbs was above spitballs. And at me? she thought. At me? She remembered a poem she had read once, and she wrote it in her notebook.
IF YOU CAN KEEP YOUR HEAD WHEN ALL ABOUT YOU ARE LOSING THEIRS AND BLAMING IT ON YOU
To write it down made her feel better. Miss Elson came in and they all stood up and said good morning. That made her feel better too. The world went on the same after all. The same things happened every morning. So what if they didn’t like her? She would go on the same. She was Harriet M. Welsch, and she would continue to be Harriet M. Welsch, and that was the thing to remember. She chose a clean sheet of paper and wrote Harriet M. Welsch at the top. It looked reassuringly important.
Harriet the Spy Page 13