Charlotte ran her hand along the cold handle of the baby buggy. Her right thumb caught on a rough spot where rust had eaten away at the metal. She shoved the buggy toward Robbie. “I don’t know. Add it to the stack.”
The idea of Mrs. Dubner being somebody’s mother felt strange. For all of Charlotte’s life, the woman had been the neighborhood’s odd person. She wasn’t actually loony, but close to it, with her ancient, baggy clothes and her untidy wisps of hair. Charlotte had never imagined her having children. Had Mrs. Dubner just picked up the old buggy on the street and brought it home?
Charlotte didn’t have time to think about it. Betsy arrived with her cousin and three of his friends. The older boys kept up a loud parade from the cellar to their wagons and wheelbarrow waiting on the sidewalk. Funny, Charlotte thought. Old Mrs. Dubner was doing her part to win the war without planning it.
“Wow! Look, Charlie. Bones!” Robbie bent over a rusty washtub.
A shiver ran up Charlotte’s spine. “Don’t be ridiculous. April Fools’ is over.”
“I’m not fooling,” he said. “Come see.”
Charlotte stooped and peered into the washtub. Betsy stood behind her. “He’s right, Charlotte, those do look like bones. Tiny ones.”
“Bet it’s from a cat,” Robbie said. “She has so many she wouldn’t miss one.”
“More like a kitten, from the size of the skull,” Charlotte said, pointing. A sour taste rose to her mouth. Sometimes when you looked for one thing, you found something else. Something you’d never want to find.
“I’ll fill up the washtub with junk and take it outside,” Robbie offered.
Charlotte suspected he’d save the kitten bones first and sneak them into his room. Fine. She’d stay away from his room.
“Okay,” she said. “After that, how about we quit for the day?”
When Ma came home she didn’t even look like herself; her cheeks were smudged and she wore dirty overalls and a cap. First thing, she filled the tub for a long soak. Then she lay on the sofa and called out instructions for warming up the supper she’d made the day before.
That evening, Charlotte felt like she’d been drafted to fight on the home front. The kitchen became her battlefield, the old creaky stove, her enemy. She did her best with the cooking, but as the week wore on, she scorched potatoes and left hamburgers raw in the middle.
The newspapers had warned that rationing would begin any day, so people rushed to the stores to stock up on supplies before rationing started. That week, Charlotte stood in line twice for sugar and could only buy five pounds.
Still, whenever she had a few spare minutes, she rushed next door to work on Mrs. Dubner’s cellar. By Friday, Charlotte was nearly as tired as Ma.
Her tiredness slipped away when Mrs. Alexander made an announcement late on Friday afternoon. “Congratulations, boys and girls. In just one week, this class has filled a room in the school cellar with metal. On Monday afternoon, a truck will come. All of you sixth graders are invited to stay after school to load the truck. Then we’ll follow it down the hill to the scrap yard next to the Edgar Thomson. If you wish, you may stay and watch as magnets sort out iron and steel for the mill furnaces.”
The kids cheered. “Hurray!” “Swell!” “The scrap drive was a great idea, Charlotte.” Her face broke into a smile so wide it hurt. Yes, she really was helping with the war. They all were. Victory!
Charlotte grinned all the way home.
Robbie stood waiting at the back door. “What’s wrong with your face? You break it?”
“I’m feeling good, buster. There’s a big truck coming Monday to take our scrap down to the mill, and we get to go along. Besides, Ma has a weekend coming and Pa’s due home early for once.” Charlotte reached into the mailbox and pulled out a letter—a flimsy envelope with a special postmark.
“Look! From Jim!”
“Open it, open it right away,” Robbie begged.
She fingered the envelope, tempted. Then she shook her head. “No. Ma and Pa need to be here. It’s addressed to them.”
“Come on, Charlie.” He reached for the letter. “We’ll glue it back. They’ll never know.”
“No. This paper is awful thin. It could tear. Hands off, buster.”
She carried the letter inside and propped it up on the kitchen table, where Ma would see it first thing. Instead of a nice note like she’d left on Monday, this morning Ma had simply made a list—schoolwork, dust, sweep, mop kitchen and bathroom.
Robbie eyed Ma’s note and tried to duck down the hall.
Charlotte grabbed the back of his shirt. “We’ve got work to do,” she told him. “I’m not doing it all.”
“But it’s the weekend.”
She pointed to the letter on the kitchen table. “You think Jim gets weekends off? Sorry, Captain, can’t swab the decks. It’s the weekend.”
Robbie frowned and slumped. “No. But …”
Charlotte grinned at him. “Come on, sailor. Time to make this place shipshape.”
Between them, they pulled the house into order before Ma came home. She arrived dirty again, and she looked tired, with gray patches under her eyes, but when she saw Jim’s letter a smile lit up her face. She scrubbed her hands fast, then peeled the letter open carefully. As Ma began to read, Charlotte noticed holes where the Navy censors had cut out words.
Dear Folks,
Hope this finds you all well. We sure are busy. Keeping a ship infighting trim is a lot more work than on Pa’s tug. And the water—I can’t say where I’m serving, but the water stretches for miles on all sides. The sky goes on forever.
When we first came aboard, a few fellas turned green and hung over the rails for a while, but those high-water days on the Mon tamed my stomach so I didn’t embarrass myself My legs handle the ship’s roll just fine.
My shipmates are swell. We’ve had our moments, but we’re mostly okay. A lot of the guys on my watch are jokers, so there’s always somebody to cheer a fella up if he’s feeling blue or missing his girl. We got one real young kid who lied about his age to join up, so we’re watching over him pretty close. Funny, we come from all over, and we haven’t known each other long, but somehow we’re more than just pals. Almost like brothers, I guess.
Sea rations are nothing to brag about, but every so often we get a load of, a pleasant change. Sure do miss Ma’s cooking though.
Buster, keep your nose clean. Practice your salutes and follow orders. If you ever join the Navy you’ll find out just how many orders a fella can get in one day.
Lottie, hope you’re helping Ma and Pa like you promised. Don’t grow up too fast while I’m gone. Wait till I get home to invite fellas over, so I can inspect all your admirers and toss out the stinkers.
Ma, Pa, keep the home fires burning. I can’t tell you how often I close my eyes and see all of you sitting around the kitchen table. That’s what we’re fighting for—home, peace, freedom.
Love to all, your son and brother,
Seaman First Class,
James Henry Campbell, USN
“Thank God.” Ma wiped her eyes.
“Darn confetti letter,” Robbie said. “How come they cut out holes this time?”
“He couldn’t tell us what kind of ship he’s on,” Charlotte said. “You know that.”
“Sure, but they cut out words when he was talking about food. How come that’s a big secret?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said. “Ma?”
Ma looked over the letter again. She blotted her eyes. “I’m not sure. If I had to guess, I’d say whenever they come near land, they bring on fresh provisions. If it’s pineapples, he’s in the Pacific. Salmon or herring would mean the North Sea; oranges and lemons, the United States shipping lanes near Florida. So it’s classified information.”
“I hate those secrets,” Robbie grumbled.
“I know,” Ma said. “But it’s for safety And we all want him safe.” She turned to Charlotte. “House looks nice, honey. I’ll go run my bath an
d soak off some of this soot. Then when your Pa gets home, we’ll walk uptown and get ourselves some supper. You’ve cooked plenty this week.”
“Burned plenty, too,” Robbie said after Ma left. “I think Jim’s in the Pacific. It’s where I’d want to be. Those tropical islands.”
Charlotte bit her lip. “I don’t like to think of him so far away. The Atlantic’s a lot closer.”
“And a lot colder,” Robbie argued. “I vote for the Pacific.”
“We don’t get to vote.” Charlotte shook her head. She wasn’t about to remind Robbie of all the terrible battles fought on those Pacific islands. But she knew them by heart—Manila, Corregidor, Bataan. The names rumbled through her mind like heavy slag trucks.
They stayed with her, through supper and hot fudge sundaes and beyond, into the night. And in spite of Charlotte’s good-luck touch on Jim’s blue star, the dream came again. Like before, Jim stood near the ship’s rail. Then in an instant he was washed overboard. This time waves grabbed Charlotte too, forcing her to follow Jim.
She thrashed against the icy sea, kicking and pushing, but the swells knocked against her again and again, dragging her under. She struggled to breathe, but instead of air, she drew in water that stung her choking lungs. She coughed and tried to breathe but she was too heavy. She couldn’t rise high enough, couldn’t get out from under the swells rising up and up on all sides. And then she awoke and could breathe again, but her chest ached, and in her mouth the oily taste of river water lingered.
Odd—river water, not salt. She sat up, startled, and pounded on her chest to clear it. Nothing came out except a raspy cough. She touched her hair, but it was dry. Still, the burning in her lungs felt so real, and the peculiar taste of river water so sour in her mouth.
She sat still in the darkness, trying to calm herself. What was going on? Had the dream of Jim somehow gotten mixed up in her mind with her own accident on the river? Why wouldn’t that old memory go away? Sometimes she forgot about it for long stretches of time, but sometimes, like tonight, when the memory of river water tasted strong in her mouth again, it felt like it had all just happened yesterday.
CHAPTER 4
PERSONS UNKNOWN
Charlotte crammed a week’s worth of chores into the weekend. She helped Ma with cleaning and laundry and finished most of her schoolwork.
Still, she and Robbie and Betsy managed to collect another load of scrap to haul to school on Monday. The truck was coming, after all, and Charlotte was determined to send it to the mill full of metal.
On Monday morning, Charlotte and Betsy took turns shoving Pa’s wheelbarrow filled with metal uphill toward school. Robbie hurried along behind, pulling a heavy load of bent pots and pans in his wagon. Along the sidewalks, other kids carried, dragged, and hauled junk they’d found. Boy, would they fill up that truck.
“Wait till the kids see this. I bet we got the most metal of anybody,” Betsy said. “This wheelbarrow’s so heavy, my arms are about to fall off.”
“Thanks to Mrs. Dubner,” Charlotte said. “If her house hadn’t been so full …”
“Well, it’s empty now,” Betsy said. “It almost looks nice.”
“And don’t forget the tulips she gave us,” Charlotte said. “Until we cleaned up her yard, those tulips were buried.” She shoved the wheelbarrow along the sidewalk and steered it toward the school.
By the time they reached the cellar door, the last bell was ringing and kids were hurrying inside. Was everybody late today? The cellar door was shut, and kids had left baskets and piles of scrap all around instead of hauling it inside. And where was Mr. Willis? She tried the door, but the knob didn’t turn. Maybe he was late. Of course, if he hadn’t opened the cellar, the kids couldn’t put their scrap inside.
“Let’s just leave our stuff out here with the rest,” Charlotte said. “Maybe we can put it away at recess.”
Betsy tugged on her arm. “Come on, wasn’t that the last bell? Mrs. Alexander gets mad if we’re late.”
“Right, Bets. See you after school, Robbie.”
When Charlotte and Betsy got to the classroom, Mrs. Alexander looked mad, all right. She stood stiffly beside her desk, frowning. Instead of the usual bustle, kids spoke in whispers. This couldn’t be my fault, could it? Charlotte wondered. The whole class wouldn’t be acting strange just because Betsy and I were late. What was going on?
“Do you think it’s bad war news?” she asked Betsy. “I didn’t hear anything on the radio.”
“I haven’t heard anything either.” Betsy shrugged and looked puzzled.
An uneasy feeling stirred in Charlotte’s stomach. If it was more serious than lateness, and it wasn’t the war, what was it?
Mrs. Alexander looked around the room, and it felt like she was peering right into Charlotte’s mind. Did the teacher know she hadn’t finished her arithmetic and was planning to work on it during reading? “Boys and girls, be seated please. I have some very unpleasant news to report.”
Kids slid into their seats without noise. It sounded like Mrs. Alexander’s news was worse than unfinished fractions.
“Sometime between Friday afternoon and this morning,” Mrs. Alexander said, “a person or persons unknown entered the school cellar.”
No, Charlotte thought. Please no.
“He, she, or they removed all the metal that this class has collected. From what we can gather, it might be worth a pretty penny if someone tried to sell it,” Mrs. Alexander went on. “The principal informed the mill, and today’s delivery has been canceled.”
“Wow!” “That stinks!” “Doggone!” “No fair!” Voices bubbled up around her, but Charlotte couldn’t say a word. Who could have done such a thing?
She looked around. She liked most everybody in her class. Oh sure, Sophie Jaworski could be a pill, but she wouldn’t have done this. She’d have gotten too dirty.
Charlotte had watched what Sophie brought in for the drive. One or two tin cans each day, scrubbed as clean as Ma’s dishes. And everybody else had worked hard. The Cussick twins had brought in nearly as much scrap as she and Betsy had. Some boys who lived near Braddock Avenue had even collected from the stores. It couldn’t be somebody in the class.
Then her eyes fixed on Paul Rossi. His dark hair was overgrown as usual, and he brushed it back from his eyes in a way that looked sneaky to Charlotte. That boy was always getting in trouble. Look at those stories he brought in from the newspapers. He loved crimes and criminals. And stealing was a crime.
“Class, class, please. Settle down.” Mrs. Alexander blinked the lights and the room grew quiet. “I’m glad to see that you’re all as distressed as I am. This is a deplorable incident, and we will discover the culprit. In the meantime, we need to make a decision—shall we discontinue our scrap drive until the thief is found, or shall we redouble our efforts and make sure to improve our security?”
“Keep going, keep going.” The class burst into noise again.
Mrs. Alexander raised her hands. “We’ll take a vote. All in favor of continuing to collect metal, please raise your hands.”
Every hand shot in the air. Charlotte had never been prouder of her friends.
At recess, even though it was a sunny day and made for games, most kids stood around in clumps. Charlotte and Betsy stood close to the low red-brick wall that enclosed the school yard, whispering. “I feel so bad,” Betsy said. “We’ll never find as much junk as we did at Mrs. Dubner’s.”
Before Charlotte could answer, a commotion across the school yard caught her attention. She folded her arms across her chest and frowned. “Look at him, look at that Paul Rossi.”
He stood on the seesaw, right in the middle, with his arms flung out. He shifted from side to side, banging the wooden ends down.
“Showing off as usual,” Betsy said. “Don’t bother with him.”
“But don’t you see, Bets? Everybody else is talking about the theft. Paul’s acting like nothing happened. That’s suspicious.”
“No, that’s P
aul. He’s a goofball. Hey, Charlotte, do you have to fix dinner for your ma today, or can we start cleaning out my attic for scrap?” Betsy pointed across the yard to the cellar door. “I’d like to refill that room with metal as quick as we can.”
“Sure, we can work this afternoon. Ma already fixed a casserole. But Bets, I don’t just want to collect more metal. I want to find the scrap we already collected and get it back.”
“You think we could find it?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so mad! I hate what’s happened. Stealing’s bad enough. But stealing from the war is like treason.” Her fingers curled into a fist and she smacked it against the rough red bricks. “I’d like to find the person who did this. I’d show him.”
Charlotte glared at Paul Rossi, who now hung from the monkey bars. She hadn’t noticed before, but he had a bruise on one cheek. From sneaking around in the dark? “There’s got to be a way …”
“Away to what? Charlotte, what are you up to?”
“I’m going to figure out how to catch our thief, that’s what. We’ll bait a trap, then we’ll stand guard and catch him red-handed.”
“You’re nuts, Charlotte Campbell. You’ve been reading too many of your ma’s mysteries.”
But by the time school let out, Charlotte had a plan. She and Betsy talked about it all the way home, figuring out the details.
As they were saying good-bye, Robbie caught up with them. “I know how we can catch the thief!” he said.
Betsy and Charlotte laughed and rolled their eyes at each other. Betsy headed home.
“Stop making faces, Charlie. I do know how to catch him. I have a plan. And it’s perfect.”
“Let me unlock the door first, buster.”
“But, Charlie, it’s a great idea. It’s sure to work.” Inside, he raced for the bathroom, but he was bouncing with excitement when he got back. “You know down at the mill, how they have those giant magnets?”
“So?” Charlotte set her books on the kitchen table.
“Okay. We need to get one of those magnets. And we’ll carry it around and when we feel a tug, we’ve found the thief’s hideout.”
Voices at Whisper Bend Page 3