Walls within Walls

by Maureen Sherry

  A few hours later, Anne was back in bed; Eloise had come to relieve her. They all sat in Bruce Smithfork’s office passing around a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels and looking at internet photos of old New York City trolleys and elevated trains. Outside, the snow had finally stopped falling, but the sky was still gray and ominous.

  “Did you take the el a lot?” Brid asked Eloise, referring to the defunct elevated train lines.

  “You know, children, I remember being on a trolley with my father, but it didn’t look like this. I’m even starting to wonder if I have the right city in mind. When I think of a trolley, I think of San Francisco, not New York. And Guastavino never worked on any trolley system, right, CJ?”

  “That’s right. This clue may be harder than it looks,” said CJ, as they pored over the enormous list of Guastavino buildings on the floor.

  “Wait,” Eloise said. “We used to take a trolley car to Queens. We usually would drive our motorcar around town, but my father would sometimes take the trolley to get to his food plant in Queens, and I would often go with him. I remember the feeling of being high up, looking over Manhattan and Queens. Oh dear, where were we?”

  CJ was typing furiously, searching for clues on the internet about a trolley to Queens. “Listen to this!” he shouted. “In 1909 the Queensboro Bridge opened and transformed Queens. It once had been a rural area, and because transportation to Manhattan was difficult, Queens was mostly farmland until then.”

  “I’ve been on that bridge,” said Eloise, “but there are no trolleys in this town anymore.”

  CJ continued. “Originally the bridge had two trolley lines to go back and forth from Manhattan to Queens, with stops in Roosevelt Island and Long Island City. Trolley service ended in 1955.”

  Brid was already looking at the map. “Where is the Queensboro Bridge?”

  “Down at Fifty-ninth Street,” Eloise replied. “We—”

  CJ kept reading out loud. “And on the Manhattan side was a marketplace under the bridge, lined with Guastavino tile.”

  “Got it,” Brid said, pointing to a trolley on the map. “Symbol number six is officially the trolley car on the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Can we go visit?” she asked Eloise.

  Eloise looked out the window at the mounds of snow. “Of course, dears. We’ll be just fine on that bus!”

  CHAPTER 37

  The Smithfork children and Eloise were in a café, sipping hot cocoa with big plops of whipped cream. Above them soared an expansive ceiling, a Guastavino ceiling, that looked golden in the late afternoon sunlight that poured in through the enormous glass windows. Minutes before, they had found the exact trolley spot—with the tracks still in place—on the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. They could have walked across the bridge if it hadn’t been for Carron’s stroller. Eloise thought it was too far for both her and the toddler while snow was on the ground. When they spotted the Guastavino tiling under the bridge, they followed it until it led them to the side of a giant grocery store. They agreed that the trolley symbol located at Fifty-ninth Street on the map corresponded to clue number six, and they all felt smug with satisfaction and sugar.

  Sitting back on their chairs, the young detectives spread the next poem and the map before them. It was time to solve the final, seventh clue. Jumpy with anticipation, Brid focused on the poem. “So what exactly does this mean?” she asked as she read the poem aloud.

  “Ota Benga, by anonymous

  “In this land of foremost progress—

  In this Wisdom’s ripest age—

  We have placed him, in high honor,

  In a monkey’s cage!”

  They couldn’t agree about what that poem meant. Eloise kept thinking it sounded familiar.

  “The big question,” Eloise said, “is who was placed in a monkey’s cage?”

  “And the other question is, where do we find a monkey’s cage?” Brid added.

  “Duh,” said Patrick, “the zoo.”

  “Yes, except there are two zoos: one in the Bronx and one in Central Park,” Brid replied.

  “But the map behind the wall is of Manhattan, not the Bronx,” CJ said.

  “I remember this!” Eloise said suddenly as she wiped whipped cream off Carron’s mouth. “This is the poem of outrage, the poem about Ota Benga.”

  “Otta whatta?” said Patrick, who was trying to eat the frosting off a cupcake with a knife and fork. Eloise had introduced the kids to a whole new way of eating, one involving lots of sugar. As long as they used proper etiquette, it didn’t seem to matter to her what they were eating.

  “Ota Benga. He died before I was born, but my father was greatly moved by his terrible treatment and often told me his story.”

  “What story?” Pat asked.

  “Ota was a Pygmy, from a tribe of very short people who lived in the Congo, in Africa, where there was terrible violence and a lot of tribal warfare.”

  “Sort of like now?” asked CJ.

  “Yes, but this story is most upsetting. I may not be getting my facts straight, but it went something like this: there was a man who was hired to go and buy Pygmies in the Congo, to bring them to some fair in the United States.”

  “You can’t buy people!” Brid said indignantly.

  “One would think,” Eloise said. “Anyway, this man returned with a Pygmy he claimed to have rescued from slavery. His name was Ota Benga, and he was in his twenties and very short. He had filed his teeth into very sharp points, so he looked fierce. People came from all over to see him. But when the fair was over, nobody felt responsible for taking Mr. Benga back to his homeland. Some people at the American Museum of Natural History offered to let him live there. They even made some sort of molding, or cast, from his likeness. They have it displayed still.”

  “Ota Benga lived in the museum?” Pat asked.

  “Not just any museum—some of the structures there were done by Guastavino, remember?” Brid said.

  “Tell us more about Ota Benga,” CJ said.

  “He lived there for a while, but then he threw something at a rich lady, a donor to the museum, Mrs. Guggenheim, and she almost got konked on the head.” Eloise laughed.

  “You mean like the Guggenheim Museum near our apartment?”

  “Exactly. Museums don’t like it when their donors are treated badly,” Eloise said.

  “Did he hit her with a dinosaur bone?” Pat asked hopefully as his siblings laughed.

  “After that, they needed another place for this young man to live, and in 1906, they moved him to the Bronx Zoo,” Eloise finished. “Might I add that Guastavino built the domed ceilings of both the Museum of Natural History and a part of the Bronx Zoo—the elephant hall, I believe.”

  “You can’t live at the zoo,” Brid said.

  “Worse than that, Ota Benga slept in a hammock in the monkey cage and was on display for the whole world to see. My father couldn’t bear to see animals in cages, never mind a person.”

  “Did they ever release him?” Brid asked sadly.

  “They did after some people protested. The poem got printed in The New York Times, which angered even more people about Ota’s situation. After all that bad publicity, they released him, and he eventually found work in a factory down south.”

  “That’s a pretty horrible story,” said CJ, looking outside, where the snow was falling once again. “I’m surprised your dad would want to end this whole treasure hunt with such a sad poem.”

  “Well, it is sad, but think of the variety of these poems my father has chosen as poems with lessons. There are poems of enjoyment, poems about music and happiness, poems about how to navigate life, poems of bravery and commerce and making decisions at a crossroads.”

  “Eloise, it’s almost like your dad was telling you how to live your life through some of his favorite poems,” Brid said dreamily.

  “Yes, it’s a bit like that,” said Eloise. “Except it took me so long to get the message, there isn’t much of my life left to be lived. I should have met you children decades
ago.” Nobody bothered to say the obvious thing, that the Smithforks weren’t alive decades ago.

  Brid spoke first. “If we find this treasure, you can change how you live your life. You’ll certainly have more money to do things with.”

  “Children!” Eloise stood up. “Have you looked outside?”

  The children looked out the window, but all they could see was white.

  The waitress walked over to them. “Sorry to interrupt, folks, but the storm’s getting worse, and we’re closing early. We’re all worried about being able to get home.”

  “Oh my goodness, you’re right!” Eloise said. “We need to be going, too. Look at this weather!”

  There was a rustling of jackets being put on and a chorus of zippers being pulled up.

  Brid looked down at Eloise’s feet. She was wearing rubber booties. “Eloise, don’t you own any snow boots?”

  “And when exactly do you think I would be out in the snow? No, I don’t own any snow boots,” Eloise said, a hint of worry in her voice. “I guess we should just ride north on the bus, up to the nineties, and then walk across to Fifth Avenue.”

  Several minutes later, as they stood at the First Avenue bus stop, they realized that there was almost no traffic, and no sign of a bus. The few cars they saw were moving slowly, sliding on the snowy avenue.

  CJ surveyed the deserted streets and wished he had remembered his gloves. “We should probably head to the subway,” he said. The three long blocks to the subway seemed endless. Stepping carefully down the gray, slushy steps at Lexington and Fifty-ninth Street, nobody spoke at all. The steam from the subway pushed warmer air into their faces, and they were relieved to hear the sound of a rumbling train.

  As quickly as they could, they made their way onto a train just as the doors closed. For a moment they felt giddy with relief, until Brid said, “This is the downtown side. We need to go uptown.” She glanced over at Eloise, who looked as if another round of going up and down subway stairs might be too much for her.

  “Oh, dear children, how foolish of me to not be more careful. I’m a terrible babysitter.”

  “Eloise, you’re my favorite babysitter,” Patrick said as he leaned into her side.

  “Let’s get off at the next stop and switch trains,” said CJ. “It’s not a big deal.”

  The train was eerily silent, moving with the speed of a turtle. Carron had fallen asleep in her stroller. The conductor made an announcement, but nobody could understand what he was saying, because the radio was filled with static. When they finally pulled into the Fifty-first Street station, Patrick ran ahead onto the train platform while Brid stood blocking the door, waiting for Eloise and CJ to come with the stroller.

  Bing bong, came the warning that the train was about to move again.

  “Hurry up!” said Brid.

  But the brakes of the stroller were locked. Brid instinctively released the doors so she could help, and they suddenly slammed shut.

  As the train started to move, Brid realized they were the only people still in their car. “Don’t worry,” she said to Eloise. “We’ll get off at the next stop.”

  “Where’s Patrick?” Eloise exclaimed.

  CJ ran to the window to look back at the platform, just as the door between cars opened and Pat made his way back to the group.

  “Why are you guys always trying to lose me?” he asked, smiling. “I had to jump back into the next car right before the train pulled out.”

  Eloise clasped her hands in relief. “I’m getting too old for all this excitement.”

  This time the train moved much faster, whipping along past Grand Central, then past stops farther south. They passed by Twenty-third Street and Union Square without even slowing. “Are we headed to Brooklyn?” Brid asked CJ.

  But then the train slowed, its brakes screeching and squealing until it simply stopped. The doors opened, but they were clearly between stations. As they sat there, looking puzzled, the lights went out, and they were thrown into a world that was almost completely black. The silence was so surprising and eerie that Pat thought it was actually hurting his ears to not hear any noise. “Umm, shouldn’t we tell someone?” he asked in a soft voice.

  “Tell who?” CJ snapped back.

  “I don’t think the train people know we are on here. Do you think they do?” Pat asked timidly.

  “I think we should all just wait,” Eloise said evenly. “We are safe and dry in here, and maybe we should act like Carron and doze a bit.” In the shadowy light, CJ could see Eloise adjust her scarf a bit tighter around her face.

  Brid was scared, but she said nothing. They sat for an extremely long time, the only sound from Patrick, who was zipping and unzipping his jacket.

  After an hour had passed, CJ’s heart was really thumping. Eloise had fallen asleep. There had to be a conductor, right? Using his softest voice so as not to wake Eloise and Carron, CJ said he was going to take a look around. He decided to take Patrick with him, afraid of what excitement his brother might drum up in his absence.

  “We’ll be back shortly,” he told Brid, taking Patrick by the hand. “Just do not leave this train car.” He flipped open his cell phone. It emitted the tiniest light.

  “Okay,” Brid said in a meek voice, feeling very alone with the sleeping bodies of Eloise and Carron. After her brothers left, she sat and thought about her lists of clues. They had everything they needed; now she could identify all the symbols Patrick would need to push on the map behind the wall, once they were safely home again.

  Home. She was surprised to hear her own thoughts call Manhattan home. Yes, she didn’t have any real friends yet, and the schoolwork was hard, but she was beginning to like living around so much history. She was even having some ideas about how to fix up her new bedroom, or about using the silver room as a clubhouse. And despite the coming punishment, she was happy her dad was coming home. As she comforted herself with these thoughts, she released herself into sleep, a sleep that would last for many hours.

  CHAPTER 38

  Brid woke to find a flashlight pointing directly in her eyes. The holder of the flashlight was an older man with heavy, tired eyes, and he was inches from her face. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but she wasn’t. Joe Torrio was right in front of her—staring at her with a quizzical look on his face.

  Brid shot up in her seat, ready to fight him if he moved closer. In the blackness of the subway car, he looked horrible, the wrinkles on his face deep and menacing.

  “Don’t take another step, Mr. Torrio,” Brid said, in a voice as tough as leather.

  His face softened, and he smiled. “I thought I’d never find you children.” He sounded relieved, and to Brid’s surprise, almost friendly. Torrio shone the light on Eloise and placed one of his hands on the side of her neck, taking her pulse. “Is she okay?” he asked Brid.

  “Of course she’s okay, and so is the baby,” said Brid, confused by his concern. “If you don’t mind, can you just let them sleep?”

  “Phew. Let me sit down for a moment.” The man sighed heavily as he plopped down across from Brid. He untied his boots, removed his socks, and began wringing water out of them.

  “The train tracks,” he said, “they’re flooded everywhere. Almost the entire subway system is closed. I can’t believe they didn’t make you get off the train.”

  “Oh,” Brid said. “I think they might have told people to get off; we just couldn’t understand the garbled announcement.”

  Brid was considering how Torrio could possibly have found them underground. Suddenly she had a terrible thought, what if he had done something with—

  “Your brothers!” Torrio said suddenly. “Where are they?”

  “Um.” Now was the moment she had to decide. Should she trust this man? “Um, they just, they’ll be back in a minute,” she lied, wishing that were true.

  “We really need to get you kids out of here. There’s some dangerous flooding up ahead.”

  “Who do you mean, ‘we’?” Brid asked
, suddenly very worried for Pat and CJ. She hoped they had followed the tracks to a station, gone aboveground, and were getting help.

  “New York’s Finest,” he said. “The police, the fire department, and your mother—who is so worried about you, I expect she’ll have the mayor down here in a few minutes.”

  “My mother knows we’re missing?”

  “Honey,” he said, “you’ve been gone all night. It’s almost dawn. Your mother asked Ray if he had seen you, and Ray asked me.”

  “How could you possibly know where we were?”

  “Because I followed you. Not the whole way, but just to the subway station on the downtown side. That’s when I left you. I walked home, and I assumed you’d gotten home, too. It wasn’t until your mother asked Ray if he’d seen you, and Ray told me you were missing, that I realized you’d never come home. It was the fire department that was able to figure out where you might be, given how flooded things are from the melted snow and the fact the downtown six train was stuck here.”

  “How dare you follow us! That is so creepy!” Brid said indignantly.

  “It is sort of creepy,” Torrio admitted. “I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way. I just wanted to talk to all of you. We have so much in common. We need to talk and to share information, and you never give me a chance.”

  “Why would we want to talk to you? You’re mean, and you hurt CJ’s head.”

  “Now, that was an accident,” Torrio said. “He slipped on the stairs when the lights went out and bumped his head. When I heard you all coming, I knew he was in good hands. I left because I didn’t want you to blame me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left.” Torrio sighed.

  “If you want to talk to us, why don’t you just talk?” Brid asked defiantly.

  “Listen, child, it’s a complicated story,” Mr. Torrio began. “Did you junior detectives and Eloise Post ever stop to think you’ve gotten this whole thing backward?”