Walls within Walls

by Maureen Sherry

  Brid, Patrick, and CJ raced along the sidewalk, faster and faster. A few people glared at them, but the thrill of what they were about to see made them oblivious to anything else.

  The farther east they went, the higher the street numbers climbed—and then, the numbers stopped. The children saw an enormous, low-slung school: PS 83, the Luis Muñoz Rivera School. The cornerstone for the school, prominently displayed, read 1964.

  The Guastavino building had been demolished.

  CHAPTER 26

  The children sat dejectedly on a bench across the street from the school, a long, modern building with security bars in the windows and colorful murals painted on the side. When they saw a sleek sedan pull up and Eloise slowly get out of the car’s backseat, they knew there was no way to soften the news for her.

  “Children, we will never solve this mystery at this pace!” Eloise called out. “I have summoned some help. My driver is here to get us quickly from Guastavino structure to Guastavino structure!”

  Brid looked at CJ. “Did you notice that this building is gone, Eloise?” she said. “It’s a school now.”

  “Yes, yes, I see that,” Eloise said, looking unperturbed. “As I was saying, for the rest of the day, we are going to visit the Harlem Guastavino properties, whether they are demolished or standing. Having a car and driver to get us around will speed things up immeasurably.”

  CJ was confused. “Eloise, aren’t you upset?”

  “Children, I feel certain that we will see some sort of pattern. We haven’t even cracked the ice here. This is one of many properties, and I’m sure it was unimportant to my father. I have a feeling the buildings he chose for this puzzle meant something to him and to us, and this structure wasn’t one of them!”

  Eloise seemed positively giddy.

  “I can’t believe you aren’t upset,” said Brid.

  “Upset? I haven’t felt this alive in years. I haven’t had anyone to talk to about this in a very long and lonely time. I thought I would never find my father’s messages, that I would go to my grave without ever finding the things he left to me. I’m not sad, I’m energized!”

  CJ spoke hesitantly. “I don’t understand why you’ve suddenly gotten so happy.”

  Eloise replied, “As I was coming up here, I realized that Mr. Lyon Post, brilliant man that he was, would have been aware of the perils of progress. He knew that buildings and neighborhoods he adored would be transformed. No, there was never any treasure in this particular building, because my father would have thought that far too risky. I truly believe the treasure is out there somewhere, but there were never any clues in this building because it meant nothing to us and isn’t related to any of the seven poems.”

  “Eloise, what are we supposed to tell your driver?” CJ asked. “Won’t he wonder why we want to visit all these different places?”

  “That’s easy!” Eloise replied. “We tell him you are doing homework for a project on architecture. I’m your babysitter, and we are dragging Brid and Patrick along because that’s what happens to younger siblings, right?”

  They all laughed.

  “Also, I trust my driver very much. I’ve known him since he was sixteen, and I know he can keep a secret. No, my driver is happy to drive us around for the rest of the afternoon if that suits your schedule.”

  “Suits our schedule?” asked CJ.

  “Aren’t you our babysitter?” said Brid.

  “Oh, yes, I keep forgetting.”

  “Where should we go first?”

  “Why are you people wasting time?” Pat asked impatiently. “The ‘Weary Blues’ poem is telling us to go to Lenox Avenue in Harlem. What’s the big deal? Let’s just go there!” Pat insisted.

  “Yes, the first poem is about the blues, and how cool things were up there,” said Brid.

  “So first we’ll visit Lenox Avenue and the Guastavino buildings around it,” Eloise said as they headed back to the car.

  “Until we see a pattern,” said Brid.

  “Until then,” said Eloise.

  The darkened windows rolled down a bit as they approached the car. The driver got out with his back to the children. He had a little cap on his head. He reached to open the car door to let the children climb in, and then turned to face them. The children realized that he was none other than Ray, the elevator man.

  “Aryuzlost?” came Ray’s uniword as he smiled broadly at them.

  CJ noticed Ray really only spoke like that when he was nervous or excited. The more they got to know him, the less he did it. “No, we aren’t lost. I’m doing an architecture project at school, and Eloise is babysitting today.”

  “It’s a history class,” corrected Brid.

  “Yes, Ray,” said Eloise. “I didn’t bring my roller skates to keep up with these children, so we need a knight in shining horsepower.”

  Ray seemed happy to see them. He swiftly popped the trunk and loaded up the scooters and skateboard.

  “Ray!” said Patrick. “Who’s driving the elevator?”

  “Hey, it’s my day off,” Ray said, laughing. “This is how I relax.” The children all smiled at him as they piled into the backseat.

  “I didn’t know you worked on weekends,” said Brid, keeping the conversation away from what they were doing.

  “This is my weekend job: I drive Eloise around a bit, and it gets me off my feet.”

  “So you work every day?” asked Brid.

  “Ifahmlucky,” came his reply.

  Eloise interrupted. “Ray, CJ needs to take a look at a building on Lenox Avenue. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes, ma’am, very close to here,” he said. He slowly accelerated into traffic as Eloise turned from the front seat and gave the children the slightest wink.

  CHAPTER 27

  Ray drove slowly, surrounded by people and activity. The area was bustling with life, the sidewalks clogged with people selling food, books, and jewelry. As Ray headed north up Lenox Avenue, he spouted out information as if he were their tour guide. “That’s the 135th Street Branch of the New York Public Library. And around the corner at the Schomburg Center you can see the work of Aaron Douglas, the father of African American art. And there was this terrific poet—Countee Cullen; some of his poetry is on the walls. You kids should check it out someday.”

  “Nice place,” Patrick said happily. He wished the car would move faster.

  Ray asked, “Know why they called this area Sugar Hill?”

  “Why?” asked CJ.

  “Because during the Harlem Renaissance, in the 1920s, this area was full of people with ambition, people who were striving, people looking to live the sweet life.”

  “Sweet like sugar?” asked Brid as she jotted this information into her pink notebook.

  “Exactly,” said Ray, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Here is number 409 Edgecombe.” He turned toward Eloise, and Brid saw him give her a little wink. “A famous place.”

  “Whoa,” said Brid, “now that’s a fancy building.” Compared to the low-slung buildings around it, number 409 looked regal and enormous. “Did Guastavino build that?” she asked CJ.

  He shook his head no. “This is where all that blues music was coming from, this building and the one up the street—that’s where all the action was. That poet Countee Cullen and that painter Aaron Douglas lived here. Also Thurgood Marshall, who became the first African American justice of the Supreme Court. This was some building.”

  The kids stared at the majestic three-part building, unsure what they were supposed to be looking for. “Where is that other apartment building you were telling us about, up the street?” CJ asked. It wasn’t a Guastavino building, but he was still curious.

  “Yeah, let me show you that one.” Ray eased down the street and brought the car to a stop in front of number 555.

  “Now Lena Horne, the actress, lived here. So did Joe Louis, the boxer; Paul Robeson, a famous singer and actor; Duke Ellington; and Count Basie! Imagine walking around inside tha
t place. Probably had to be able to paint and sing just to be the doorman.”

  Eloise laughed loudly; she seemed to adore Ray and his waterfall of information.

  Brid wondered why Eloise was being so patient with Ray. This building was interesting, but since Guastavino had not built it, it couldn’t hold a clue. “But Ray,” she said as she looked at her notes, “let’s go down to 522 Lenox. CJ needs to get his homework done, and that building may be important.”

  “This is really interesting,” CJ said, thinking of Langston Hughes and his “Weary Blues.” “You see, Ray, we’re studying a builder, Rafael Guastavino. He and his son built a few places around here. Can we swing down Lenox to 139th and then to Grant’s Tomb? Those were both places he built. Do you think we could drive over there?”

  “Okay, okay, one place at a time.” Ray sighed. “But you have to admit this was some neighborhood in Langston Hughes’s time.”

  “It was in Post’s time, too,” Eloise said wistfully. “And yes, we admit it.”

  On West 139th Street, it only took a moment to see that the building listed in Brid’s notebook, number 522 Lenox, was gone. A modern brick building stood in its place. CJ placed his head in his hands, wondering how they would ever find the symbol for the Hughes poem, while Brid tried to keep things upbeat.

  “So, Ray,” said Brid, “let’s try Grant’s Tomb. It should be directly toward the Hudson River, at 122nd Street and Riverside Drive.”

  “Why, thank you, miss,” said Ray. “You kids are really different than I was as a boy. I don’t remember too many class projects I got this excited about.”

  CJ gave Brid a look that told her to calm down. They trusted Ray, but they didn’t want the news of their detective work spread all over the building, especially not to Mr. Torrio.

  Brid kept her eyes wide open. She felt certain she would recognize any sort of symbol if she saw it. “I’m sure the Ulysses poem refers to Grant’s Tomb, because how many guys named Ulysses were there?” she said to CJ. “I just know we will see something that will make sense to us.”

  Ray had crossed Broadway and was nearly to Riverside Drive, when Eloise suddenly exclaimed, “Stop the car! There’s something I have to show you.” They could see the magnificent dome of Grant’s Tomb just across the street.

  “Do we have to get sidetracked again?” Brid moaned.

  “I cannot believe this is still here! I had forgotten about it entirely,” said Eloise. “Oh, yes, we have to get sidetracked.”

  “What is still here?” Pat asked.

  “It’s the Amiable Child.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Amiable—it means someone who is agreeable and good natured,” CJ said.

  “So it’s a kid who wants to please someone?” Patrick groaned. This did not sound like his type of kid at all.

  They stopped on the far side of Riverside Drive at a small, gated garden. Eloise got out of the car, and the children followed, while Ray stayed inside. Directly in front of them stood an urn-shaped cement object behind iron bars. The kids suddenly realized it was a grave site.

  “Are you kidding me—there’s someone buried here?” Brid asked.

  “Read the inscription,” Eloise said. “Out loud, if you please.”

  Dutifully, CJ read, “Erected to the Memory of an Amiable Child, St. Claire Pollock, Died 15 July 1797 in the Fifth Year of His Age.”

  “This is a grave for a kid?” Brid asked.

  “You see, children, this land was farm country back then,” Eloise said. “This little boy fell to his death from those high rocks. When his family sold their farm, they asked that his grave never be touched. And so it wasn’t. Can you imagine such a valuable piece of land not being developed? Even if a rule makes no financial sense, sometimes people will comply out of respect.”

  “Kind of like not touching our walls?”

  “Exactly. My father liked to come sit up here,” she said, motioning to the bench that looked out over the sparkling water of the Hudson River. “This was certainly a spot that meant something to my family.”

  All of this sad talk was making CJ want to move on. “You know, there isn’t a poem that refers to this place. We have to keep thinking of the poems and the places they remind you of. If certain poems remind you of places in New York that meant something to your dad, and if Guastavino built them, those are the places your dad is directing us to with his book of poems.”

  Eloise put her hand on CJ’s arm. “You’re right!” she said brightly. “I never thought to look outside our apartment building, but now this makes so much sense to me. Maybe my father wanted to lead me back to the places we went together when Julian and I were very young,” said Eloise, “when our family was still together.” The children followed her eyes across to Grant’s Tomb. “Shall we make our way over there?” she asked.

  “Finally,” said Brid, and together they walked slowly to the impressive structure, looming large and round above the magnificent Hudson River.

  “Who was this guy,” Patrick asked, “to get such a big gravestone?”

  “The eighteenth president of the United States,” said Brid.

  “And the leading Union general of the Civil War,” added CJ.

  “And an ardent supporter of civil rights for African Americans,” said Eloise. “My father loved to come over here—and to think I haven’t visited since my childhood.”

  Soaring, sloped roofs surrounded the entire mausoleum. The children stood back and took it all in.

  Then Patrick piped up, “What sort of star is it called when it’s shaped like that?” He pointed to a star mounted over the the center of the entrance.

  “Duh, it’s called a star,” Brid said.

  “Well, actually, it’s a general’s star. Grant had several of them,” said Eloise.

  “So that’s the clue,” Pat said matter-of-factly.

  “It’s very difficult to say, Pat; there could be any number of symbols here,” Brid said.

  “Yeah, but these other symbols aren’t behind the wall,” said Pat.

  “What?” Brid almost dropped her notebook. “Where behind the wall?”

  “The part I can see some of, but can’t get to,” said Pat.

  “When did you see that?”

  “I saw it when I went up in the dumbwaiter, but it’s in a tight spot, between the Williamsons’ apartment and that bad guy.”

  “You mean Torrio?”

  “I guess.”

  “How did you see it?”

  “I could only see some of it. It’s a really big wooden thing; it looks like it has puzzle pieces, like a giant jigsaw, and I remember the star.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Because I had all those letters on my arm, the letters from the other eye, and I thought that was the clue.”

  “Well, it was, but you have to tell us everything!” said CJ. “Did it look like you could push the puzzle pieces?”

  “Patrick, describe it!” Brid interrupted. “Tell us exactly what it looks like.”

  “Well, it’s brown and made out of wood, and the wood has lines in it.”

  “What do you mean, lines?”

  “Like a drawing or an outline.”

  “Huh? I don’t get it,” CJ said.

  “Pat, why don’t you draw it?” said Brid.

  “Nope. Can’t draw. It’s like a Christmas stocking lying on its side, after you take out the presents.”

  “So it’s the shape of an empty stocking?”

  “Yeah, but on its side.”

  “Now, Patrick, dear,” said Eloise, “I really know those walls. And I know we used to have a carved wooden mural, but I am not sure I’ve ever seen anything like that.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t fit in there, because it’s on the inside of the wall. That’s why you didn’t see it. You have to look at it sideways to see it in there, and the only way you can do that is to be inside the dumbwaiter. Guess that dumbwaiter’s not so dumb!”

  Everyone was staring
at Pat, and it was only then that CJ realized Ray had joined them and was listening to the whole conversation.

  “Whoa, guess we aren’t talking about a homework assignment anymore?” Ray looked a little sad, as if he had been left out or used.

  “No, Ray, I’m afraid we’ve kept you in the dark,” Eloise said.

  “I’m guessing we’re back to treasure hunting, Eloise?”

  “Forgive me, Ray.”

  She turned to the children. “Ray and I have had so many false leads in the past that he made me promise just to let it go.”

  “What are the chances that it’s at 2 East 92nd Street? Almost none, if you ask me,” Ray said.

  “But Ray, with all respect, this time we aren’t asking you. I know you are going to laugh at me, but these kids are really on to something.”

  Brid turned to CJ. “Servant…dumbwaiter…

  Gustavino! Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “You mean, maybe the symbols we need to push aren’t actually on the structures? Like, maybe there is a symbol for each structure behind the wall, and that’s what we push?” CJ replied.

  Eloise smiled. “Maybe I need to go see that carved wooden installation before we go see any more Guastavino buildings.”

  “Exactly,” said CJ.

  “But how do we get inside the wall?” asked Brid.

  “Now, children,” interrupted Eloise, “I will not permit you to climb behind the wall. It’s too risky. I simply won’t permit it.”

  “I’ve got it!” shouted Brid. Dramatically, she flipped back many pages in her notebook. “This plan is flawless,” she said. “We will get behind that wall.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Normal life kept interfering with their detective work. On Monday morning, their dad left for his business trip to China. Their mom was busy trying to find a preschool for Carron and seemed preoccupied at breakfast.

  That day after school, CJ had his first friend over from Saint James’s. His name was Brent, and he was CJ’s science lab partner. For a kid from a fancy family, he didn’t act or look fancy. He had thick blond hair that shrouded his blue eyes. His shirt was mostly untucked, and his tie was pulled askew.