Walls within Walls

by Maureen Sherry

  “He did,” said CJ, “but there’s no obvious symbol for that one.” He checked his notes. “It’s on Forty-second Street, but there’s nothing on our map that looks related.”

  Eloise looked over his shoulder. “I’d be surprised if that wasn’t notated on this map. We’re missing something here, and my guess is it has to do with trains and bravery. I think we need to pay Grand Central Station a visit. We don’t want to push the wrong symbol.”

  “Right now?” Pat asked.

  “This minute,” Eloise said. “We’ll leave a note for your mother.”

  What followed was a flurry of jackets and shoes. A bag of snacks was packed, and Carron was lifted into her stroller without her even waking up.

  Ray looked at them inquisitively as he swung back the elevator door. “Saturday outing? Sorry I can’t drive ya today. Other guy didn’t show up, so I’m back on duty.”

  And he winked.

  CHAPTER 33

  When everyone was settled on the Fifth Avenue bus heading down to Grand Central Station, CJ began to read some history of the massive train station. He had printed it off the internet and was spewing out facts he felt he needed to share with everyone. Only Eloise seemed genuinely interested.

  “Do you know that about six hundred fifty thousand people pass through Grand Central Station each weekday? And the ceiling has the constellations painted on it?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Franklin Delano Roosevelt used a secret passageway built below Grand Central so he could get out of his private railcar and up to his rooms at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel without ever having to come up to street level.”

  “Why didn’t he want to come up to the street?” asked Pat.

  “Well, he was the president, and I guess all the people annoyed him,” CJ answered.

  “No, he was in a wheelchair, so it was hard for him to move around,” Eloise said.

  “His railcar is still down there, except that it’s entombed forever,” said CJ.

  “Seems like a waste of a perfectly good railcar,” Brid said.

  “Oh, and the lost-and-found office at Grand Central retrieves nineteen thousand items a year. Guess what item gets lost the most?”

  “Umbrellas!” said Eloise.

  “Nope, coats. Two thousand of them were turned in last year.”

  “What about Guastavino? Does it say anything about him?” Brid asked.

  “Nothing. It says the building was built in the beaux arts–style by a company called Warren and Wetmore.”

  “A what style?”

  “Beaux arts. It just means an elaborate mix of architecture with sculpture, influenced by the Greeks and Romans. It was all the rage until 1930 or so,” said Eloise.

  “When that other type kicked it out?”

  “Art deco? Oh, um, well, they overlapped for a bit, I guess.” Eloise smiled at Brid.

  “Are we sure that Guastavino built this place?” Pat chimed in.

  “Typical, that man gets no credit for all his work,” Eloise said. “I’m sure we can find someone there who knows.”

  “Here it is.” CJ read, “‘Rafael Guastavino graced the broad lower levels of the terminal with his famous vaults. The finest examples can be found in the Oyster Bar and Restaurant on the lower level.’”

  “I’m hungry,” Pat said, “hungry for some oysters.”

  “That can be arranged,” said Eloise.

  About thirty minutes later, they sat at a table in a glowing cave, full of lights that framed the arches of the vaulted ceilings. The space was enormous and filled with people sitting at tables, eating mounds of food piled on plain white plates that sat on red-checked tablecloths. All around them were tiles, beautiful soaring tiles, tessellated patterns all of the same size, laid in intricate ways.

  “How exactly was Guastavino able to make this massive arched ceiling?” Brid asked. “There’s no obvious frame holding it up.”

  “It’s stronger than if there were beams surrounding it,” said CJ. “He used lightweight, fireproof tiles and a lot of mortar as the glue, layering it on, shaping the tiles in exact patterns. By the day after the tiles were laid, they were so structurally sound that Guastavino could walk out on a half-finished arch hanging in midair.”

  “Whoa,” finished Pat, who was slurping a soda while chewing on crackers. He wasn’t sure he wanted to eat those slimy oysters after all.

  CJ had opted for a cheeseburger. “Finish up; there is something I want to look at.”

  When they finished, Eloise paid their bill, essentially wiping out her babysitting proceeds. “You’re the only babysitter who loses money by working,” Brid noted.

  “Don’t worry,” Eloise said. “You are paying me back in so many ways.” Together they rolled Carron’s stroller up a dramatic ramp.

  The main floor of the station gleamed with light. The soft roar of footsteps and voices made Brid think, oddly, of beach sounds and waves.

  CJ looked at his notes. “Stay here,” he said. They stood in a corner, watching swarms of people walking to and from the train tracks.

  “Weren’t these rails built by one of those families that were friends with your dad?” Brid asked.

  “Hmm, yes, the Vanderbilts,” Eloise said. “I wouldn’t call them friends, but definitely acquaintances.”

  Suddenly they were interrupted. “I am the ghost of Rafael Guastavino,” came an eerie voice from the wall.

  “Ahh!” Eloise yelled, while Carron, finally awake, began to giggle.

  “I may be gone, but don’t ever, ever forget about me and my vaults, my vaults that hide your treasure.”

  “Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” said Brid. “That’s CJ’s voice, but how is he doing that?”

  A few minutes later, CJ came bounding back from across the crowded room.

  “Pretty cool, right? The acoustics of those vaulted, rounded ceilings allow you to talk into this corner and hear it perfectly across the crowded, noisy room. It’s called the Whispering Gallery. I just read about it.”

  “CJ, can we stick to the program here?” said Brid. “We’re looking for some symbol, something that will tell us this is the right place.”

  “I know, I know. Here is the part of the map we need to look at,” he said, unfolding several computer printouts. “I enlarged the area around Grand Central Station because there are a lot of symbols on the map here. A flower, a teacup, a train, and some sort of stick with a snake around it.”

  “Oh!” Brid said, “a caduceus. The staff with two snakes around it, like you see in a doctor’s office. The Roman messenger god, Mercury, carried one, too. We learned about that in school.”

  “I saw that when we were walking in,” Pat said. “Come outside, and I’ll show you.”

  They filed outside again and crossed the street to see what Patrick was talking about. “There it is,” Pat shouted, pointing upward at a sculpture above the huge entrance.

  CJ nodded thoughtfully. “In the center…that would be Mercury, the god of commerce and trade and…crossroads.”

  The children could see a worker cleaning the massive statues; he was attached to the Mercury figure by his work belt.

  “Crossroads, as in a place where many paths cross?” asked Brid.

  “Crossroads, as in a time to make a decision?” Eloise asked.

  “Crossroads are a place where one shouldn’t be faint-hearted,” CJ said. “Ladies and gentleman, I give you the symbol for Mercury.” And he pointed on the map to their exact location at Forty-second and Park Avenue.

  “So the symbol is that cad-thing?” Pat asked.

  Eloise was hugging Carron. “It has to be. It’s the caduceus telling me to take a chance.”

  “Great,” said Patrick. “Next?”

  CHAPTER 34

  On Sunday, Eloise came upstairs without Anne requesting her, bearing a gurgling pot of chicken soup. Anne could still hardly get out of bed, except to go to the bathroom, get more water, and repetitively thank everyone for understanding her s
tate.

  CJ knew it was terrible to think this, but he felt fortunate his mother’s illness was so well timed. The treasure hunters had never operated so freely and fast. For lunch, Eloise gave them baked potatoes slathered in butter. Brid knew their mother would have preferred yogurt and sprouts, but with one bite she thought she could get used to this diet.

  When they were all seated, Eloise began. “The fourth poem is by Edna St. Vincent Millay.” She got a fluttery voice when she spoke about the poets, which made Brid feel uncomfortable. She thought the poem sounded simple, like something Patrick would write. Why did it deserve to be famous?

  “It’s called ‘Recuerdo,’” Eloise said, “which means ‘Memory’ in Spanish.” Dreamily, she began to recite:

  “We were very tired, we were very merry—

  We had gone back and forth all night upon the ferry.

  It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—

  But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

  We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;

  And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

  “We were very tired, we were very merry—

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

  And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

  From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

  And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

  And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

  “We were very tired, we were very merry,

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

  We hailed, ‘Good morrow, mother!’ to a shawl-covered head,

  And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;

  And she wept, ‘God bless you!’ for the apples and pears,

  And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.”

  “Children, do you know how someone who lives in the moment, someone who seems to have no cares or just takes big risks, doesn’t worry about being poor?”

  “I guess,” CJ said. “I mean, that used to be our dad.”

  “Well, that was what Millay was like. She went and lived with no money and no job, just so she could write her poems from her heart. She was a real bohemian.”

  “A what?” asked Brid.

  “Someone who lives an unconventional life,” said CJ. “Either that or someone who comes from Bohemia, in the Czech Republic.”

  Eloise continued, “She was so popular when I was young—she was what you called an ‘it’ girl.”

  “A what?” asked Brid, turning to CJ.

  “A cool person, a celebrity type,” he said.

  “The poem is about the ferry, so I think we owe her a visit to the ferry building,” said Eloise.

  “You mean the ferry that gets you to Staten Island?” Brid asked.

  “Yes, that’s what she’s talking about. There are a number of symbols right in that area of the map. Maybe one of them is related to this poem.”

  “And Guastavino has four creations right around it,” said CJ, looking over Brid’s meticulous lists. “The U.S. Custom House, the Federal Reserve Bank, the New York Stock Exchange, and the Great Hall on Ellis Island.”

  “But before we go down there, are we all in agreement that this Millay poem is about the ferry?” Eloise asked.

  “I guess,” CJ said, while looking at the ferryboat symbol. “It just seems too easy.”

  “Not that easy—according to Mr. Post’s map, there are three symbols in the spot where the ferry runs. There is a little ferryboat, there is a life preserver, and there is what appears to be a girl jumping. See how she looks like a cheerleader or something? So what’s the meaning of this poem, and which symbol do you think is correct?” Brid asked.

  “I think that it’s about being joyful, right?” CJ said.

  “Yes, CJ, joyful,” said Eloise. “No doubt in my mind, that is the right choice.”

  “Eloise, can you read it again to us?” Brid asked. “Slower this time.”

  As Eloise began to read, the treasure hunters ate their potatoes, and felt just a little more joyful themselves.

  CHAPTER 35

  Before Eloise left that evening, the Smithforks had made a grave and important decision. Time was running out for them. They were certain that when their father returned from China, the missing DigiSpy pod would no longer be a funny matter, if it ever was. Bruce Smithfork didn’t have much of a temper, but things like faking his identity to get the spy pod, and then losing it in the wall—along with lying to their mom about what they were doing—that was the sort of stuff that would make him angry. But they were so far into this mess that CJ couldn’t think of how to ask for help from his parents, at least not until they were closer to solving everything. They needed answers, and to get them, they needed time off from school. As they shared a bag of microwave popcorn, it was Patrick who said, “I think what we need this week is another Saturday.”

  CJ laughed. “Except we don’t have one. Dad is coming home Friday night.” Without thinking, he blurted out, “Brid, we need to tell just one teeny, tiny white lie.”

  “And what would that lie be?” Brid asked, tossing popcorn kernels into the air and trying to catch them in her mouth.

  “We need to pretend to go to school and, um, not.”

  Brid’s mouth was full of popcorn, giving Pat a chance to speak. “It wouldn’t be a terrible lie, and we can explain, right? I mean, after we find everything?”

  CJ plowed ahead. “All we have to do is break into Dad’s email account, which isn’t hard, since he doesn’t protect his password at home. Then we just email our teachers and the school nurse in the morning, telling them we’re sick. Since we go to different schools, they’ll never connect the dots. When they send back a confirmation email saying, ‘hope he feels better’ or something, we just delete that before Dad gets home. He’ll never know.”

  “Right,” said Brid uncertainly.

  “What is our other option?” CJ asked. “And Eloise, we need you to come, too. We can’t figure out the clue without your help.”

  Eloise had her head down as she attempted to wriggle Carron into her pajamas. “Agreed, children, but I do feel a bit sneaky about you skipping school.”

  “But it’s only for one day,” CJ pleaded.

  Eloise was silent for a moment. “I suppose missing one day of school wouldn’t be terrible. And Patrick?”

  “It’s too risky,” CJ said, with regret in his voice. “I don’t think you can come, Pat. If we are both sick from the same school at the same time, the nurse is going to catch on.”

  Pat hung his head. “You make me do all the hard stuff, and then you leave me out of the fun. Thanks a lot.” He ran out of the room, slamming his heavy mahogany bedroom door so that nobody could see his tears.

  “He’ll get over it,” CJ said. He sighed, then continued, “So, Brid, when Maricel drops you at school, wait in the lobby without shaking the headmistress’s hand. Make sure she doesn’t see you. I’ll meet you and Eloise at the Eighty-sixth Street subway station at 8:07 AM. Got it?”

  Both Eloise and Brid nodded.

  “So, until tomorrow?” Eloise said.

  “Tomorrow,” they replied.

  The next morning at 8:07 AM, CJ, Brid, and Eloise boarded the number four train, heading south toward the Bowling Green station. There had been only one snafu. As CJ ran to the subway station, looking up worriedly at the gray sky, a big black car with tinted windows pulled over. One of the back windows lowered, and Brent’s head popped out.

  “Hey! You’re going the wrong way. Want a ride to school?” CJ saw that the manny was driving. He gave CJ a peace sign.

  “Um, no, I forgot something and I have to go home to get it,” CJ lied.

  Brent’s face fell, and he said, “Dude, you are so going the wrong way either for your house or for school. It’s okay to skip school, but don’t lie to me, okay?”

  CJ felt badly. “Yeah, man, sorry. I just have something I need to do toda
y.”

  “Understood. Have fun,” Brent said, and something in his tone made CJ feel like he really did understand.

  “Yeah, sorry about lying. I just can’t get caught, you know?”

  “Not a problem, but you don’t lie to your friends, okay?” Brent smiled.

  “Got it,” CJ said, feeling weirdly happy that Brent had called him a friend. He was certain his secret was safe with Brent.

  The last station before Bowling Green was Wall Street. The train practically emptied, with people rushing off as soon as the brakes stopped squealing and the doors opened. It was like watching horses getting let out of a race gate.

  “Those are all the people who buy and sell Dad’s stock on the stock exchange,” CJ said to Brid.

  “Yeah, well, good thing they don’t know we lost his DigiSpy pod, or his stock would go down today,” she joked, but neither of them laughed. Meanwhile, Brid summoned the courage to ask Eloise something that had been bothering her.

  “Eloise, what do you do during the day while we’re in school?” Brid asked. As soon as she asked the question, she felt badly.

  “You see, most of my childhood friends are no longer alive, or have moved away,” said Eloise. “I haven’t felt like part of the living world these last years. I go out and walk around, but it’s hard when you feel the best times of your life have happened already.”

  Brid stood back, unable to think of a reply.

  “But do you want to know something else?” Eloise said. “Lately, I don’t feel that way,” and she squeezed Brid’s hand very firmly.

  The train’s brakes screeched loudly, and Brid was glad not to have to speak. A conductor’s voice came over the intercom. “Last stop in Manhattan. Get off de train if you don wan Brookleeen.”

  “Guess this is our stop,” said CJ, who wanted no part of the heavy conversation that Brid and Eloise had begun. They were all standing when the doors slammed back, and the warmer air of the platform hit their faces.

  Eloise snapped into work mode. “Okay, I have realized we can solve two poems today. The Millay poem is about the ferry, and then we need to tackle the immigration poem, which means Ellis Island, but there are several map symbols on Ellis Island. We’re lucky they’re both in the same area.”