by Avi
I liked her all ways.
She was taller than me by a head, with brown hair cut pageboy style with bangs. Her eyes were brown, she had a pug nose, and she wore cheaters (rimless glasses) too big for her round face. She looked like a skinny owl that hadn’t grown into her eyes.
While most girls in our class wore white cotton shirts and skirts, Kat wore flannel plaid shirts and jeans, the shirts never tucked in, the jeans always baggy. Her Wingfoot sneakers were forever smudged. The way she dressed left her parents frosted. I thought she looked cool.
Soon as she reached me, she started gabbing about the Roy Rogers TV episode she’d seen the night before. Providing every detail, she never stopped. It was as if she didn’t want me to talk.
Only when she took a breath could I slip in my first detective question. “Hey,” I said, “the other day, when I left school to go to the dentist, what did Donavan say about my parents?”
Not only did Kat not answer, she walked faster.
“Hey! What did he say?” I pressed.
She shoved her glasses up and took a few seconds to say, “Not much.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
Her face flashed something I’d never seen from her before: fright. Before I could take it in, she turned away and said, “I forget.”
I wanted to say, “How could you forget?” but didn’t. I told myself to stay cool, detective style. I got the message. Something was wrong. So I backed off. I’d try for more information later. In the meantime, I told her something I knew she’d like. “Sent in for my Code Maker.”
That got a smile. “I’ve got half a box of Shredded Wheat to go,” she said, only to turn on the no-talk switch again.
After a moment, I said, “Baseball season starts Tuesday.”
“We’ll beat the Giants easy this year,” she said.
“Won’t even take it easy,” I agreed, and we talked Dodgers the rest of the way.
If you lived in Brooklyn—and most everybody I knew did—your blood was Brooklyn Dodger blue. Didn’t matter what else was going on, even if there had been a hurricane or a blizzard, you talked Dodgers, you thought Dodgers, you breathed Dodgers, and you hated the New York Giants.
Life was that simple.
We got to school just as the eight thirty bell rang. In class, with Donavan up front doing his military salute and our hands on hearts, we pledged allegiance to the flag, squeezing the whole thing into one long word.
Then Donavan said, “Any announcements?”
Chuck Guterson raised his hand.
“Yes, Chuck?”
“Mr. Donavan, sir, baseball begins next week.”
Donavan said, “It sure does. Who’s going to win the pennant this year?”
The whole class, including me, yelled, “Dodgers!”
“Who’s going to lose?”
“Giants!” we roared, and banged our desktops.
For once, Donavan laughed. “Well, keep your fingers crossed. And remember, Dodger rally on Monday. Wear something blue.”
I couldn’t wait, though I needed to figure out what I’d wear.
“Also,” said Donavan, “the other day I forgot to say I was disappointed that only half of your parents came to Parents’ Night.”
Typical Donavan. One second, he had the class dancing with Dodger talk. Next second, he turned everything frigid with his Parents’ Night thing.
Still, my dad had gone, so I felt okay.
Donavan remained before his desk, as if making a decision. Then he said, “When we did the Pledge of Allegiance this morning I was reminded that I needed to say something important.” He looked right at me. “I spoke about it Wednesday but Pete wasn’t here. Please pay close attention.”
I sat up straight, eyes locked front.
“Starting today we’re going to be studying our 1846 war with Mexico. As we all know, the United States is at war in Korea. This time we are fighting Communism, the Reds being our greatest enemy. We also know—or should know—Reds have infiltrated our government, even our schools.”
Donavan looked right at me. “Pete, can you tell the class what Communism is?”
Taken by surprise and pointing to myself to be sure, I said, “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Why was he asking me? I had no idea how to answer. To make things worse, the whole class was looking at me with Orphan Annie eyes.
“Come on, Pete,” Donavan pushed. “Tell us what you know about Communism.”
“I . . . I think . . . it’s the . . . the kind of government the Soviet Union has. Which is against us, I guess.”
“You guess,” said Donavan, his sarcasm dripping like ice cream in August.
He picked up the big blue dictionary sitting on his desk. “Come on up here, Pete.”
I found my feet and went up front.
Donavan handed me the book. “Please open at the marker.”
I opened the book where a red ribbon was sticking out and looked to Donavan for directions.
“I’ve marked a word and definition. Please read.”
There was a black line next to the word Communism.
I hesitated.
“Read it,” he insisted.
Because of all the big words, and being uncomfortable, nervous even, I read clumsily. “ ‘Communism. A system of social organization in which all economic and social activity is controlled by a totalitarian state denominated by a single political party.’ ”
I looked at Donavan.
“What do you make of that?” he asked.
“I . . . don’t know . . .”
“You don’t know?”
“I mean . . . I don’t know what total—totalitarian means.”
“Then look it up.”
Fumbling, I found the word and glanced at Donavan again.
“Read it,” he said.
I sucked up spit to wet my mouth, and read: “ ‘Totalitarian. A centralized government that does not tolerate parties of differing opinions and that exercises dictatorial control over many aspects of life.’ ”
“Now what do you think?”
“It’s . . . not good.”
“Not good,” echoed Donavan, saying “good” so it sounded bad. There were some giggles from my classmates. Hoping for a friendly look, I peeled a peek at Kat, but she was staring down at her desk.
“Fortunately,” Donavan went on, “there are people in government, the Congress, the FBI—I have FBI friends—who are ferreting out red traitors, people who pretend to like America but secretly oppose it. All of us, even kids like you, need to do your patriotic duty to make sure reds, Commie symps, fellow travelers, and pinkos, un-Americans, don’t infiltrate our lives. None of us should have anything to do with reds.”
Donavan had shot speeches like that before. This time he was aiming it right at me. I felt like enemy number one without knowing my crime.
Most of the kids sat stony silent, and Big Toby and Sibley were glaring at me. Kat was still staring at her desk.
Donavan went on, “So when we study history, especially American history, we need to be alert to Commie lies.” He gave me a furious look, and then turned to the class. “Let’s have no mollycoddling of reds in this classroom. Do we all understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” the class chorused.
Donavan came back to me: “Red traitors should be put in jail or kicked out of the country. Love it or leave it. I hope you all believe that.”
Red traitors? How come he was marking me when he said that?
“Take your seat, Pete.”
Twenty pairs of eyes followed me back to my desk. If Donavan had put a dunce cap on me, I couldn’t have felt more humiliated.
I sat down and glanced at Kat. She was squashed down so low it was as if she was being swallowed by her desk.
“Okay,” said Donavan, “history.”
Glad to be no longer the center of attention, I pulled out my history book.
Donavan started talking about the Mexican war. “Who was the American president
during this war?”
Now, my father didn’t just teach college students American history; he loved teaching us at home, too. If there was one subject I knew, it was that. So I raised my hand to tell him the answer to his question was President Polk. In fact, I waved my hand as if I was drowning. Though no one else lifted a hand, Donavan didn’t call on me.
As class continued, he threw out more questions, like who was the big U.S. general during the war. I knew that one, too: Zachary Taylor. In fact, I knew the answers to all his questions. Donavan never called on me.
Finally, the bell rang. “Recess,” Donavan announced.
I sat there trying to figure out why Donavan was treating me the way he did. I tried to think what Sam Spade would have done. The best I could come up with was, ask Donavan.
I wasn’t sure what would happen. Just knew I had to.
4
As usual, the punchball guys and Kat hauled on jackets and sweaters and began picking teams as they headed out. I hung back and went to Donavan’s desk, where he was going through his lesson book.
“Yes, Pete?” he said without looking up or stopping his work.
“Mr. Donavan, sir, can I ask a question?”
“It’s still a free country.”
“Sir, I knew the answers to those history questions you were asking. But you never called on me. Not even when I was the only one with my hand up. I mean . . . how come?”
Donavan gave me a look with a face that suggested I’d insulted his mother.
“Pete,” he said, “I hope you heard me when I spoke at the beginning of history class.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you heard me say I wasn’t going to mollycoddle any reds or pinkos in my class.”
“Yes, sir. Only . . . what’s that have to do with me? I’m not a pinko or a red.”
“A pinko is a Commie sympathizer. Though you pretend otherwise, I think you know all about Commies, Pete.”
“I do?”
His face turned uglier. “Pete, I don’t intend to allow any Red propaganda in my class. Propaganda which I doubt you even understand.”
“Sir,” I said, “are you saying I’m . . . a Commie?”
“Your father sure talked like one at the parents’ meeting. And what parents do, their kids are. I hope I’ve made myself clear. Go take your recess, Collison.” He dove back into his work.
I stood there, feeling like a skunk who had wandered into a perfume shop. Then, as I walked down to the schoolyard, I tried to untangle Donavan’s words. Dad? A Communist? What was he talking about?
By the time I got outside, the guys and Kat were already playing punchball. Seeing six on the field, seven at bat, I started for the outfield.
“Time out!” shouted Sibley. “Hey, Collison. Hold it.”
I stopped. “What?”
“Commies can’t play.”
“Huh?”
“You heard what Donavan said. We just had a meeting and made a rule: No Commies can play.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not a Commie.”
“Donavan said so,” called Parker.
“Yeah,” shouted Big Toby. “And we’re having nothing to do with traitors.”
“Right,” added Corelli. “No reds infiltrating us.”
Kat was playing first base. I threw a look at her. She didn’t throw it back. The others were glaring at me as if I was a mound of hot horse manure.
I tried to think of a smart comeback. I couldn’t.
“So beat it, Collison,” called Sibley, and blew one of his large gum bubbles. The schoolyard was 4 a.m. quiet, until Sibley’s bubble burst with a bang!
I turned to Kat one last time. I don’t know what she was looking at. It wasn’t me.
Ever been in a bathtub after the hot water has drained out? Suddenly you’re freezing, and naked. That’s the way I felt for the rest of the day. But did I understand what was happening? No.
When three o’clock came, I waited for Kat outside the classroom. She shot by me so fast I had to run after her.
“Hey, Kat! Wait up. Where you going?”
Without stopping, she called over her shoulder, “Have to meet my parents. We’re going upstate to visit my aunt.”
“The whole weekend?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Right away?”
She rushed on.
“Kat!” I bellowed. “What’s going on?”
She stopped. “I can’t be late,” she called, and fled.
I was still standing there when two guys from my class, David Johnson and Joel Toliver, slammed me with their shoulders as they passed.
“Commie,” muttered David.
Shaken by more than the shoulder shoves, I left school by the back door, probably the first time I ever did that.
I walked home feeling as mixed up as a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle dumped on a table. I didn’t even know what the picture was supposed to be. I wasn’t stupid. I knew some stuff about Communism. Those days, grown-ups talked about it a lot. The Soviet Union was our enemy. So was red China. We were fighting a war in Korea against reds—China and North Korea. At the dinner table over the last few weeks, I heard my folks talking about how U.S. Communists had to register with our government. How the Rosenbergs, a husband and wife, had been sentenced to death for being Soviet spies. How some writer told something called the Un-American Activities Committee that a whole lot of Hollywood directors and writers were Communists.
I heard my parents talk about those things, but for me it was like alphabet soup. I knew the letters but I swallowed them whole, without making words or sentences with them.
So, other than knowing that Communism was bad, that it was the opposite of America, I didn’t really know much else. Now Donavan said I was a Commie because my dad was one. For starters, I knew that was dead wrong. Dad was always talking up America to us, how great and important it was. Absolutely, he wasn’t a Red. And anyway, if he was a Red, did that make me one?
I was so lost in my thoughts, it took me a while to notice a man walking half a block behind me. I didn’t pay much attention at first. It was only when I checked a third and fourth time and the guy was still there that I began to be bothered.
I did some detective tricks to see if he was really following me: I slowed down, and he slowed down. I went fast. He went fast. He must have wanted me to know I was being shadowed, because he was so obvious about it. What was going on?
Wanting to act natural, I bought Ma’s afternoon paper and then headed into our building, checking that man one last time. He looked regular, not too young, not too old, wearing a dark overcoat and a fedora. Mr. Ordinary.
As soon as I got into our apartment, the phone rang. I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer.
It kept ringing.
Half curious, half nervous, I went to the kitchen and picked up. “Hello?”
“This Pete?” It sounded like the man from the day before.
I said, “Who’s this?”
“Are you going to work with us, Pete?”
“What are you talking about?”
He hung up.
I bolted into my parents’ bedroom, cracked the Venetian blinds, and peeked down to the street. On the corner was a red telephone booth. Stepping out was the same guy who had been following me. Who was he? How was I supposed to work with him? On what? Why did he hang up if he wanted something from me?
I went to my room and dropped onto the bed, wishing Kat was around. As I sat there, it popped into my head that maybe she was around, that she didn’t want to speak to me, that her saying she was going away was a way to avoid me, the way she did at school.
I called her. When no one answered, I felt better. But it’s bad news when the only good news is that nothing worse happens.
I sat at the kitchen table struggling to figure things out. As I sat there, I noticed the headlines in the paper I bought for Ma.
SUBVERSIVE ACTIVITIES CONTROL BOARD TO HOLD HEARINGS
Representative Kierman announ
ced that his Congressional subcommittee will soon be holding hearings in New York City respecting the counterattack by the Communist conspiracy in the United States against the government’s programs to expose Communist operations.
I read the article a few times but didn’t see anything connected to my parents—or me. Then I thought about the definitions Donavan made me read in class. I didn’t see any connections to my father there either. As for “dictatorial control,” the only one who tried that was my older brother.
I recalled what Donavan said: Commies were people who pretend to like America, but secretly oppose it.
All of a sudden, I asked myself a whole new question . . . What if my parents were Commies—secret Commies?
5
I spent the afternoon thinking like a detective, wanting to figure out how to solve all these mysteries.
That’s why, when Ma stuck her head in my room around four thirty and said, “Hi, honey. Have a good day?” I just said, “Okay,” and considered her in mystery style:
Mrs. Collison was a short, plump lady who often said she weighed too much. Pete had a rule: Never argue with a lady about her weight. With dark hair framing a round, dimpled face, a face usually full of smiles, she didn’t seem like Commie material, no more than a house cat might be a lion in disguise.
I was pleased with my description—and had ruled out Ma being a Commie—until I remembered a picture I saw of that Rosenberg woman—the convicted Commie spy. She was short and dumpy, but they said they were going to put her in the electric chair.
Then Pete reminded himself: dames are full of surprises.
Ma smiled. “Are you looking forward to the weekend?”
“Sure.”
“What are you and Kat planning?”
“She and her parents went somewhere for the weekend.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
I shrugged.
“Dinner in thirty minutes.”
I picked up Black Mask and read “Five O’Clock Menace” until my brother Bobby showed up. I looked at him, too, detective style:
If there was one member of the Collison family who was traitor material, it would have been Bobby, Pete’s older brother. With his lean, tense face, Bobby worked hard not to smile. An ace in school, he’d convinced his friends he was a genius. The problem was, he believed it, too. Bobby also liked to seem mysterious, but Pete knew that, deep inside, Bobby was a bore.