The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill

by Megan Frazer Blakemore

  There were general rumblings around the room. “He talks like a grown-up,” she heard Anthony say to Timmy in a low voice.

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Thank you.” She wrote “Democracy” on the board.

  “At the same time,” he went on, “the civilization was grounded in war and had some of the most ruthless soldiers of the time. Most notably, the Spartans.”

  “Soldiers?” Timmy asked. “Like the army and the navy?”

  “Well, it was the Romans who had the first standing army,” Samuel said. “But the Spartans were highly trained and organized. Boys left the home early and trained all their lives to be soldiers.”

  “I wish we could do that!” Anthony exclaimed. “I’d go right now and get trained and then the Commies wouldn’t know what hit them.”

  “Me, too!” came a chorus of boys.

  “Gentlemen,” Mrs. Sinclair said, and waved her hands downward like she was calming a pack of wild dogs.

  “The way the Spartans fought actually might appeal to the Russians,” Samuel said. “They did it in a group called a phalanx. All together as one.”

  The boys grumbled at this. Hazel shifted in her seat. She could feel Maryann and Connie staring at her. It was one thing to be an outcast, and quite another to be an outcast with something special about you. Hazel was an outcast, but at least she wasn’t like Ellen Abbott, who sat in the back row and never spoke. The only thing Hazel knew about Ellen was that she liked horse books. Hazel hated horse books.

  Hazel was smart. The smartest. This fact was acknowledged by the whole fifth grade. Now here was some new boy trying to challenge her place at the top. She shot her hand into the air, and before Mrs. Sinclair could call on her—or not—she began speaking. “They are also well known for their mythology. It was a complicated system, and the gods and goddesses weren’t well behaved. They were always getting jealous of one another and interfering with the humans. My favorite goddess is Athena. She sprang fully grown from Zeus’s head.”

  Connie and Maryann made retching noises behind her.

  “Yes, that’s right, too,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “Anyone else?”

  “Also,” Hazel added, unwilling to be outdone, “it wasn’t just about politics. Their art was spectacular, especially the painting and sculpture, and it’s still around today and is valuable and I once went to Boston and saw all these sculptures made out of white marble. They were beautiful, and people still learn from them today.”

  “True, Hazel. Let’s see what anyone else knows.”

  No one moved. Then Samuel raised his hand. “In the time of the ancient Greeks, those sculptures were actually painted. To our eyes today, they would seem gaudy, but that’s how they liked them.”

  Hazel looked down at her hands on her desk. They were shaking. This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. She heard a titter, and then she raised her eyes. Maryann, in a singsongy voice, whispered, “Samuel’s smarter than Hazel. Samuel’s smarter than Hazel.” And she knew then that it wasn’t a dream. Not at all. This was all too real.

  Impossible, Hazel thought, shaking her head. There was no way that any other fifth grader—or sixth grader for that matter—could be smarter than her. Maybe Samuel was just super super interested in ancient Greece. Like Ellen with her horse books, or Anthony with different kinds of cars.

  Her stomach dropped as Samuel raised his hand again.

  5

  Free Air

  As she rode her bike to the library after school, Hazel listed all the ways that she was probably smarter than Samuel. True, he had shined in math and science and even knew the name of the painting that the art teacher held up, some strange portrait where the parts of the face were all misshapen and put together wrong, which turned out to be by a man named Pablo Picasso. Hazel had been thinking, I could do that, but then Maryann said, “It doesn’t even look like a face. It looks like something a baby painted.” So she’d clamped her mouth shut. Out at recess he pulled a big book with a brown leather cover from a bag that could only be called a satchel and sat on the wall and read. Even Hazel didn’t read at recess. She walked the perimeter of the playground and occasionally went on the swings.

  Back to her list. She felt certain she knew more about plants. She knew a lot about bees and how they pollinated different fruits in a special order, and about famous swimmers, and the names of small parts of the body like the philtrum or the uvula.

  Her bike started to wobble a little, and she noticed her front tire was low on air. Wall’s Garage was just up the way, so she pedaled a little farther. There was an air pump with a sign that said in big letters: FREE AIR. That always made Hazel smile: as if people would try to charge for air.

  Her bike tire had what her dad called a slow leak, and he’d promised to fix it, but he hadn’t yet. So she kept filling it up. Nancy Drew knew how to change her own car tires, and Hazel expected she would learn herself when she had a car. But even Nancy preferred assistance sometimes, so Hazel didn’t mind going to the garage for help.

  Mr. Wall was pumping gas for Mrs. Logan, who wrote the gardening column in the Maple Hill Banner and who was married to the pastor at the Protestant church in town. They had four noisy boys who were wrestling in the backseat of the car. Otis was in Hazel’s class at school even though he was a year older than her, because he’d gotten polio two summers before and missed a lot of school and now walked with a limp. Hazel had thought that having a life-threatening illness would make you thoughtful and strong, but that didn’t happen to Otis. When he saw her, he stuck out his tongue, and soon all four boys had their faces pressed against the glass in grotesque contortions. Mrs. Logan acted like she didn’t even notice, chatting merrily away at Mr. Wall, who didn’t get a chance to say a word. She spoke at such a rapid clip, all he could do was nod his head. People said with four boys and blabby Pastor Logan at home, well, Mrs. Logan had no choice but to get all her words out when she was out and about.

  Hazel couldn’t hear much above the whirring gasoline pump, but she thought she heard Mrs. Logan saying something about Communists “right here in Maple Hill!” But that couldn’t be possible, because her wide, toothy smile never left her lips.

  As she drove away, Mr. Wall took his hat off, scratched his head, then tugged his hat back on. Seeing Hazel, he gave a hearty wave.

  “Hello, Mr. Wall,” she called.

  “Hello there, Hazel,” he said. “What’s the facts today?”

  He always asked her that, like she was a walking encyclopedia. At least someone recognized her genius. She hoped that Samuel Butler would never have any reason to go to Wall’s Garage. “Well, today I learned about this painter who made millions of dollars by painting faces with the eyes on the chin and the nose off to the side and everything stretched out and squished like a fun house mirror. Isn’t that bizarre?” she asked.

  “It sure isn’t sane,” he replied. Mr. Wall wore coveralls with his name sewn onto a patch over his heart. There was no Mrs. Wall, so Hazel wondered if he’d done it himself, or if he’d been able to order them with the name tag. She thought that coveralls would be a useful garment to have. She could play all day in the graveyard and then pull off the coveralls and be perfectly clean underneath. All she would have to do was wash the dirt from under her fingernails.

  Mr. Wall’s fingernails were black underneath, and all around the cuticles, too. She imagined his hands smelled like his garage did. Maybe his whole house smelled that way. Hazel liked the mix of gasoline, tar, rubber, and tobacco. It smelled like a job well done.

  “What was Mrs. Logan saying about Communists?” she asked.

  “Oh, you know Mrs. Logan,” Mr. Wall said as he took off his hat and rubbed his head. “Half is gossip and the other half is nonsense. You shouldn’t worry much about what she says.”

  “If you say so.” Hazel kneeled down next to a spot on the pavement slick with oil. She thought the way it shimmered purple and green was one of the most beautiful things in the world. People like Connie
and Maryann would only see it as dirty, but that’s because they weren’t creative and individual thinkers like Hazel was. While she unscrewed the cap on her tire, Mr. Wall uncoiled the air hose and passed it to her. “Mr. Wall, you seem like an unusually perceptive adult.”

  “Why, thank you, Hazel.” He winked at her. Hazel thought his eyes looked just like pennies that were starting to oxidize (something else she probably knew more about than Samuel Butler did). She’d even found a penny once that was a perfect mix of green and copper, so she’d given it to him and he’d kept it right on top of his cash register. He said he would only spend it in case of emergency.

  “You’re welcome. That’s why I like talking with you. You don’t just see me as a kid. You see me as a person.”

  “I suppose kids are people, aren’t they?”

  “Exactly,” Hazel agreed. Not so many adults thought so. Like Mr. Jones in the cemetery. She once came upon him working on some sort of little device. He had a soldering iron going and a wire pinched between his teeth and sticking out one side like a fuse on a stick of dynamite. She’d asked him what it was and he’d hissed, “Radio transmitter.” She’d crouched down to watch what he was doing. She’d never seen anyone using a soldering iron, and she leaned in close even though the smell of burning lead made her nose twitch. But instead of keeping on with his business, he’d stopped and stared at her, then pointed the hot tip of the soldering iron right in front of her nose. He’d stayed just like that until she’d said, “Okey-dokey, I suppose I’ll be moving along, Mr. Jones.” That night her father had told her to give Mr. Jones his space because some adults just didn’t feel comfortable around kids, especially not curious little girls, only he had used the word “pestering,” which Hazel hadn’t thought was very kind.

  Mr. Wall, though, was different. The sun was bright in the blue sky, and she had to squint up at him and he looked almost like an angel. “And in your line of work, you must meet all different kinds of people.”

  “That’s true.” Once again, Mr. Wall took his hat off and scratched his head, and then placed the ball cap back on his head just so. Mr. Wall was a particular person, which Hazel thought was probably what made him a good mechanic, but she also wondered if all that scratching was what gave him the shiny bald spot on the top of his head.

  “When you meet so many people, it means you must be a good judge of character. So, I would like to ask you a question that requires your heightened skills of perception and character judgment.”

  “Okay, Hazel.”

  “What are the first three words that come to mind when you think of me? Don’t think, just answer.”

  “Oh, um, well—”

  Hazel held up her hand to shield her eyes. “Don’t think, Mr. Wall. I’m looking for the impression that comes from the very core of your being.”

  “The very core. Well, let’s see. Obviously you’re a well-spoken young lady.” He leaned over and checked the pressure in her tire.

  Hazel nodded eagerly. “You might even say that I speak like an adult, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “What else?”

  “Not at all shy.”

  “What’s the point of being shy? That’s what comes to mind first?”

  “Yes, the first two.”

  “And the third?”

  “Well, um, I would say that you are very, ah—”

  “Yes?” Hazel prompted.

  “Bright. You’re a bright girl.”

  Hazel sighed in relief. “And maybe, if you were going to rank them, my intelligence, that would actually be the first thing on the list?”

  “Sure, I suppose it could be.”

  “It could be or it is?”

  “Inquisitive,” Mr. Wall said. “Relentless.”

  “Relentless,” Hazel repeated.

  “It means you’ll never give up.”

  “Oh, I know. And that’s definitely true.” She had never actually thought of using this word for herself, but it fit. She liked the way the word sounded. Relentless. It made her sound like a warrior.

  “Where’s all this coming from?” Mr. Wall asked.

  “I just think it’s good for people to know how they’re perceived in the community. For example, you are perceived as honest and reliable. Isn’t that nice for you to know? Incidentally, there’s a new boy at school and he’s also bright,” Hazel said, using Mr. Wall’s word.

  “Someone else’s being smart doesn’t make you any less so,” Mr. Wall said.

  Hazel thought about that as she squeezed her thumb against the tire to make sure it was full enough. “But what if, and I’m not saying this is the case, but what if he actually is smarter?” She unhooked the hose from her tire.

  Mr. Wall extended a hand and helped her to her feet. “There’s always somebody smarter, Hazel. Somebody smarter or faster or more talented. Somewhere there’s a better mechanic than me. But I’m still a good mechanic.”

  “Of course you are,” she said.

  “And of course you’re still smart.”

  Hazel used her toes to lift her kickstand. A car pulled up to the gas pumps, over the hose that made the little ding noise. Hazel thought one of those would be a useful thing to have. Actually, she thought it might be nice in general to own a gas station, to see the people come and go. Although by the time she was a grown-up, maybe they would have hovercrafts. People would float right in, and she would lift her hat in greeting, just like Mr. Wall did. While she fueled their hovercrafts with hydrogen, they would talk about the events of the day and everyone would tell her their problems because she was so good at solving them.

  She kicked her leg back over her bike and started riding away. As she passed Mr. Wall, he looked over his shoulder at her and said, “Don’t go down that road, Hazel, comparing yourself to others. You’ll only end up driving yourself crazy.”

  It was good advice, Hazel had to admit. The only problem was, whenever someone told her not to go down a road, she couldn’t help but sprint ahead.

  6

  Red Scare

  The library was an old stone building just up the street from Mr. Wall’s garage, right in the center of town. This geography made sense to Hazel: the library, seat of knowledge, at the center, while the cemetery was on the outskirts. The building had big windows with leaded panes, and a wide set of steps that led up to a heavy wooden door. Hazel wrapped her hands around the metal door handle and pulled. She liked that the door swelled when it was humid, which made it a little hard to open, like you had to work for the bounty that was inside.

  It should come as no surprise that Hazel loved the library. She loved everything about it, even the smell, like paper and paste, and sometimes, when old Richard Begos was there, a little bit like pipe smoke. This gave it a dignified air, she thought, though Miss Angus, the upstairs librarian, complained about it. Hazel and Miss Angus didn’t see eye to eye on many things.

  On the way in, she stopped and looked at the newspapers. Even though Mr. Wall told her not to worry about what Mrs. Logan said, the idea of Communists in Maple Hill was still niggling her. She scanned the headlines. A story about Earl Warren, the new chief justice of the Supreme Court. Something about President Eisenhower and farmers. Still more about the Yankees winning the World Series. Boring, boring, boring.

  There it was.

  Her heart just about stopped when she saw the headline on the front page of the Burlington Free Press.

  MCCARTHY SEARCHES FOR REDS AT MAPLE HILL FACTORY

  She snatched up the paper and tucked it under her arm, then cut across the reference area, feeling Miss Angus’s eyes upon her. Miss Angus was the only aspect of the library that Hazel did not love. She was taller than any other woman Hazel knew, with bright blond hair and bright white skin. Hazel couldn’t help but imagine that she looked a lot like the bodies buried in the cemetery. She had no-nonsense glasses and no-nonsense shoes. Hazel always hurried by her as fast as she could, eyes down, but this time Miss Angus stopped her. “Hazel Kaplansky,” she his
sed. “Was it you who rearranged the Chronicles of Narnia?”

  Hazel shifted the newspaper so that Miss Angus would not see it. Series books were a long-running feud between herself and Miss Angus. Hazel felt sure they should be arranged on the shelf in the order they were to be read. How else would you know what was next? Miss Angus claimed that they needed to be shelved by title, in accordance with proper cataloging and shelving rules. And while it was true that Miss Angus had her master’s degree and was the expert, Hazel knew that in this case Miss Angus was just plain wrong.

  “Did you know that there are seven books in that series? And that C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien were friends? They met at a faculty meeting at Oxford.”

  “I was not aware of that, Hazel, and while it is an interesting bit of trivia, it is not pertinent to our conversation.” Miss Angus stamped the back of a book and put it on a shelf. “I believe I have made myself perfectly clear on the issue of shelving series fiction.”

  Hazel slumped against the reference desk. “But, Miss Angus, how will people know what order to read them in? Especially with a series like the Chronicles of Narnia. Most people think The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe is first, but it’s not; The Magician’s Nephew is. So by putting them in the proper order, we’ve kept readers from making a horrible, terrible mistake.”

  Miss Angus looked down her long nose, and Hazel stood up straight. When she gave Hazel that look, Hazel felt like Miss Angus was growing even taller, like one of the plants in the cemetery. Hazel wanted to stand strong, to be relentless, but under that gaze she felt herself shrink. Miss Angus snapped a book shut. “If you wish to lodge a complaint, take it up with the Library of Congress.”

  “I just may do that, Miss Angus. Thank you for the advice.” Hazel backed away and ran down the pocked marble stairs before Miss Angus could say anything else.

  The downstairs of the library was a different world. It was the domain of Miss Lerner, a kind woman with warm eyes and red hair who always had a bowl of fruit on her desk and a stash of candy beneath it. She wore pretty dresses with tight waists and full skirts, and her hair was always just perfect. Hazel thought she was all kinds of glamorous, and though she herself abhorred wearing skirts and dresses, she thought that if she looked like Miss Lerner, it might not be so bad.