Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  I head for the door. “I need to help Grams, then get home.”

  “And home is …?”

  “None of your business,” I snap.

  Now, for me this is like setting loose a tidal wave of pent-up anger, but to her it’s just a little ripple. “Come back, sugar. No need to get defensive. Can’t you see we’re a lot alike, you and I?”

  I just stare at her with my jaw dangling.

  “Sugar, it’s obvious neither of us should be living here. I do what I have to to stay, and so do you. And believe it or not, I admire you and I have my concerns about your situation.”

  Now, I know she’s a sweet-talking blackmailer. I know I should deny everything and storm out, but she actually seems sincere, so I just keep standing there, staring.

  “How does your mother expect you to continue the way you have been?” she asks. “What are her plans for you? It seems she only has plans for herself. And what are your grandmother’s plans for you?” She scoffs again. “Besides telling you to quit growing up so fast.”

  “Grams is a rock,” I tell her.

  “Oh, no doubt. But rocks stay put. They don’t move forward. Or soar. You need to soar, Samantha. You’re smart and resourceful and you need to do something with your life.”

  Now, I complain about my mother all the time, but the Whale doing it and jabbing at Grams makes me want to harpoon her!

  Besides, who is she to give me advice about doing something with my life?

  About soaring?

  But before I can figure out what to say, she sighs and adds, “I know you’re not listening. I know you think I’m wicked. And you may not believe this, but I have not enjoyed my role in your life. But what else can I do? I do not want to wind up in a care home! I can’t afford a good one, and even the good ones are just places to go to die!”

  I give her a hard look. “I get that, but you don’t have to do it the way you do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t ask for help, you demand!”

  She laughs. “Like you would do all the things I need your help with if I just asked?”

  “Look, Grams could have called Mr. Garnucci anytime and told him that you fall off the toilet and can’t get up.”

  She gives me a hard look. “And I could have called any day to say you were living here!”

  “You’ve made that threat every day since you moved in. The point is, we’ve never threatened you. You would have been out of here within a week if Grams had called Mr. Garnucci instead of helping you. And if you tried to get back at us, it would be easy for me to not visit for a week or two while he got you moved into an old-folks’ home. Even if you sprang it on us, Mr. Garnucci knows I come to help Grams a lot, so he wouldn’t be surprised to find me visiting. And since I have a massive wardrobe of two pairs of jeans and three shirts and absolutely no stuff, he sure wouldn’t find anything.” I shake my head. “Grams has never even hinted at turning you in, and the sad thing is, I would have been happy to help you. Nobody wants to live in a nursing home—I get that. The Senior Highrise is bad enough.”

  She just sits there like a wiggy walrus. So after a minute of her staring at me, I take a deep breath and tell her, “Look, you say you’re concerned about my situation and I don’t expect you to make it better, but could you please stop making it worse?”

  She nods her head just a little, then whispers, “I’m sorry,” and puts her arms out.

  At first I don’t understand the arms.

  And then I do.

  I try not to show how grossed out I am just thinking about it, but, really, there’s no avoiding it. So I hold my breath and let her hug me, and when I resurface from the Stink Swamp, I smile the best I can, then escape.

  And I’m planning to dive straight for the shower, ’cause, believe me, after you’ve been swallowed up by the Stink Swamp, there is nothing else on your mind.

  Trouble is, Grams has the news on.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The minute I walk through the door, Grams goes, “Shh!” like she’s forgotten all about the payouts and the emergency trip to track down Tums. “The mayor’s on!”

  “Oh, good grief,” I grumble as I head for the shower. I mean, come on. Who cares?

  “Samantha!” She waves me over. “It’s about the statue.”

  I stop short. “Did Justice Jack find it?”

  “No! It’s still missing.”

  I probably would have just gone and taken a shower, but right then the mayor says, “No, this is a personal reward. It is in no way connected to taxpayer dollars.” His voice is very smooth. Polished. And in the back of my mind it sets off a little puff. Like a smoke signal. But before it can form into anything real, the words he’s said register and snuff it out.

  “He’s offering a reward?”

  “Five thousand dollars!”

  I move in closer. “Wow.”

  All of a sudden Grams turns to face me. “Good heavens! What is that horrendous smell?” Her little rabbit nose wiggles in my direction. “Is that you?”

  “Mrs. Wedgewood hugged me.”

  Her eyes nearly bug through her glasses. “She hugged you?” She leans away from me. “And you survived?”

  “Grams!”

  “Well, honestly! What is she doing hugging you?”

  I grin. “You mean after putting the squeeze on us so long?”

  “Yes!”

  “Look, I have lots to tell you, but I have got to take a shower first.”

  She waves me off. “Yes! Do! Go!”

  So while I shower and change into clean clothes, Grams heats up some leftover chicken and makes us soup and toast to go with it.

  “Oh, thank you!” I tell her as I sit down at the kitchen table. “I’m starving, and this smells great!”

  “Certainly better than you did,” she says with an evil-granny grin.

  “Hey! Who’s always telling me to be nice?”

  She lifts her nose a little, ignoring me, then dips her spoon into her soup like she’s dining with royalty. “So tell me everything.”

  I’ve just taken a big bite of chicken, and while I’m chewing to clear my mouth, my mind flashes through my day—from the news about Lars and Sasha running off, to Billy showing up at Buckley’s as the Deuce, to the Man in Black who turned out to be a Hollywood agent, to snooping at Pair-a-Dice, to Heather and her mother showing up, to shortcutting around the junkyard, to Justice Jack bringing in Mrs. Wedgewood, to the big Geriatric Goons payout, to the Elvis impersonator, to the Hug.

  Finally I choke out, “Everything?”

  She sips a little soup off her spoon. “Let’s start with anything that has anything to do with Rose.”

  Well, that took us clear through dinner. And she was so riled up about the money she didn’t make and my “dangerous conversation with that duplicitous ogress” that there was no sense in telling her about anything else. Compared to losing out on a big payday and my having shown Mrs. Wedgewood “all our cards,” what did she care about Sasha and Lars? Or the craziness Billy had gotten himself wrapped up in?

  “Look, Grams,” I finally tell her, “things are better than they were, not worse.”

  But all she can focus on is one thing: “Did you ever come out and say you lived here?”

  “No! But she knows I do! She’s known all along! And by the time we were done talking, she seemed really sorry. So this is a good thing. Stop worrying.”

  She shakes her head. “I trust that woman as far as I can throw her.”

  We’re both quiet a minute, then I wag my spoon at her. “Speaking of trust … what happened to our deal?”

  “Our deal?”

  “That we’d be honest with each other?”

  “How have I not been honest?”

  I just stare at her, and sure enough, she starts to squirm. Finally she tries, “What, exactly, are you getting at?”

  “The Lords of Willow Heights? That it’s been canceled?”

  Her face collapses a little, but she
also seems relieved. “Oh, that.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Nothing,” she says, a little too quickly. “Nothing at all.”

  I really want to push her on whatever it is she’s hiding from me, but I decide to concentrate on one cover-up at a time. “So, what’s Mom going to do now that Lords is canceled? What’s Casey’s dad going to do? He just moved there to be on that show!”

  Grams tisks. “Canceled. After thirty years. Who would have thought?”

  “I can’t believe it stayed on the air two years, but that’s not the point!”

  She stands up. “I know, I know.”

  “So?”

  “So your mother’s auditioning for other parts.”

  “On what?”

  She gives a little shrug. “She’s vague about it.”

  “What a shock,” I say with a snort.

  And then Grams does what she always does when she wants to avoid discussing something—she makes up some excuse to go hole up in her room so she won’t have to deal with me or my annoying questions.

  Whatever.

  It’s not like I didn’t have a ton of homework.

  It’s not like I wanted to talk about my mother.

  So I cleared the table and powered through a language worksheet and then did the assigned reading and questions for science. And after taking a break to wash the dishes and clean the counters, I raided Grams’ stash of shortbread cookies, poured myself a big glass of milk, and got going on my math. By the time I’d finally finished my homework, it was ten o’clock and I was completely wiped out.

  I headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed, and while I was in there, I could hear the Wedge thumping around next door. Please, I say in my head. Please don’t fall off the toilet tonight, because I’m so tired that even the thought of having to hoist her up is about killing me. The whole time I’m in there brushing my teeth and washing my face and taking care of business, I’m sort of holding my breath waiting for the earth to quake, or for her fist to pound on the wall for help.

  But when I’m done, what I hear instead is a little tap-tap … tap on the Wedgie Woman’s wall.

  Now, you have to understand, the Wedge tapping is like an elephant mewing—it’s not something you ever in a million years expect.

  So, yeah, I was caught off guard.

  I mean, what did she want?

  What did tapping mean?

  Then there it is again, tap-tap … tap, and this time there’s also her voice coming through the wall. “Good night!”

  Good night?

  I just stand there for a minute, blinking at the wall.

  Her voice sounded nice, too.

  Almost playful.

  Like we were friends whispering at camp.

  So finally I reached out and went tap-tap … tap back.

  I didn’t say anything.

  I just tapped.

  Then I went to bed feeling safer than I had since the day I’d moved in.

  I don’t think Dorito slept on my head, because I had no dreams about suffocating. Actually, I had no dreams at all. I was conked out, dead-to-the-world asleep.

  Grams, on the other hand, looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole.

  Or tossed down the trash chute.

  Or left to tumble in a clothes dryer.

  “Are you okay?” I asked when she staggered out of the bathroom the next morning.

  “I had the worst night,” she groaned, and instead of coming into the kitchen to make breakfast like she usually does, she slouched into a chair at the kitchen table. “All I could think about was Rose. She’s got a vindictive streak, Samantha. And if she turns me in, what will we do?” She held her head between her hands. “Your mother’s back to scrabbling for work, and she confessed last week that she hasn’t saved a thing! Can you imagine? It’s all gone to living the Hollywood lifestyle.”

  I was in the middle of putting together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, and I stopped smearing jam. “Is that what she said?”

  “Oh, she didn’t call it the Hollywood lifestyle—she claimed it was an investment in her career. But it’s just keeping up with the divas! She needs her beauty treatments and her name-brand clothes, and she insists she has to be seen dining at the right places to ‘build an aura of success.’ ”

  I shake my head. “Meanwhile, I live illegally with you in a government building and pack peanut butter sandwiches for lunch.”

  “Exactly! And what happens if Rose decides to become spiteful?”

  I get back to making my lunch. “She won’t, Grams. Everything’s okay.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “She tapped good-night through the wall last night.”

  Her eyes practically bug through her glasses. “She tapped good-night?”

  “Uh-huh. It was … nice.”

  “And that’s your guarantee?”

  “There are no guarantees, Grams, but I have a good feeling about it.”

  “About Rose,” she says, like I’m the most naive person on the planet.

  “Yes. And—”

  Just then the phone rings. It’s so early that it has to be Holly or Casey or Marissa, but since the Senior Highrise is actually a multistory dinosaur cave and has no caller ID, just to be safe, I use a warbly old-lady voice when I snatch up the phone. “Hello, dearie?”

  But it’s not Holly or Casey or Marissa.

  It’s heavy breathing.

  Heavy, gurgly breathing.

  “Hello?” I say again, only this time I forget to use the old-lady voice.

  “Sah—” the voice gasps. “Sah—”

  And then there’s an enormous crashing thump.

  One we can feel ripple through the floor.

  “Oh no,” Grams moans. “She’s down again.”

  I hang up quick. “Where’s the key?”

  She pulls it out of her pocket. “Here, but why are you so—”

  I grab her by the hand and pull her along, dreading what we’ll find next door.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I’d like to be able to say that I have no experience with dead bodies, but unfortunately that’s not the case.

  I’ve seen six whole ones and a partial, and they weren’t all in coffins, believe me.

  Oh.

  And then there were the skulls.

  And the giant refrigerator full of body bags.

  But never mind about all that. The point is, I would have been happy to go my whole life without seeing another corpse or body bag or skull, but the minute we found Mrs. Wedgewood on the kitchen floor, I knew she was dead.

  I also knew she had not gotten around to taking a shower.

  “Oh my,” Grams says, keeping her distance. “Is she … gone?”

  I get down on my knees and shake her. “Mrs. Wedgewood!”

  Nothing.

  I turn to Grams. “You call 9-1-1. I’ll check for a pulse.”

  So while Grams gets on the phone and reports what’s happened, I put two fingers against Mrs. Wedgewood’s throat. And while I’m holding my breath, waiting for any sign of a beating heart, I can’t help but look at her face. And it jolts me to realize that with the way she’s lying and her peaceful expression, she looks like an angel.

  Not one of those beautiful ladies with wings.

  One of those fat little baby angels.

  You know—a cherub?

  Okay, so she’s an ultra-mega-mondo-supersized version of that, but still.

  “Anything?” Grams whispers over the phone.

  I shake my head and switch to Mrs. Wedgewood’s wrist. But the truth is, I can’t be sure if I’m not finding a pulse because of everything it has to beat through to make it to the surface, or if there just isn’t one.

  Finally I put my ear up to her chest, and when I don’t hear anything, I turn to Grams and shake my head again.

  “There doesn’t appear to be a pulse,” Grams says into the phone, “but she’s a very large woman, so we can’t be
sure.”

  I wave at her frantically and mouth, “No we.”

  “What?” she says, covering the mouthpiece.

  “No we,” I whisper. “They record everything!”

  Her eyes get all buggy as she tunes back into what the dispatcher is saying. And after a minute she says, “Shouldn’t I try to give her CPR before they get here? … No, I’m not, but maybe you can instruct me over the phone? … Really? Already?” She starts waving frantically at me and mouths, “They’re HERE.”

  So I get up and head for the front door, but when I peek out, there’s Bun-Top stalking up the hallway.

  I close the door quick. “I’m stuck!” I whisper to Grams, and like a trained rat, I dart for the bedroom closet.

  Now, Grams’ closet is stuffed with clothes, and the floor is covered with shoes and random junk. It’s where I first unearthed the Awesome Dome of Dryness, and it’s also where I unearthed the only connection I have to my dad—his catcher’s mitt.

  I used to carry the mitt around with me everywhere—usually crammed in my backpack—but since I’m not playing softball this year, I wound up putting it back where I found it. Maybe if I ever meet him, I’ll dig it out so we can toss the ball around some.

  Then again, maybe he’s dead.

  And who knows when I’ll find out? According to my jobless, penniless, spa-pampered mother, I’m not mature enough to know who he is or where he is or even what he is.

  Also according to my jobless, penniless, spa-pampered mother, it’s just fine to dump me at Grams’ and run off with my boyfriend’s father.

  But anyway, compared to Grams’ closet, Mrs. Wedgewood’s is practically empty. There are muumuus hanging from the bar, but there’s actually space between them, and instead of stuff galore on the floor, there are only two pairs of shoes and one medium-sized cardboard box. It does smell a little, but other than that it’s still a whole lot more comfortable than being crammed into Grams’ closet.

  I’d left Mrs. Wedgewood’s bedroom door open, and I’ve got the closet door cracked so I’ll be able to hear what’s going on when the paramedics arrive, but then someone—probably Grams—closes the bedroom door.

  Maybe because Bun-Top’s barged into the apartment?