Skylark and Wallcreeper

by Anne O'Brien Carelli

  “Yes, my package. Thank you for delivering it! Now you better get home. Curfew, you know.” The old man nods at the officer and points at Collette. “He has delivered a present for my lovely wife, but he needs to get home right away.” The officer steps forward and puts out his hand, but stumbles. He adjusts his large beret so that it dangles well below his ear. Collette wants to yank the hat off and toss it into the dark.

  She still holds the package high. Hélène has told her that the resisters who answer the door don’t really want the package from Collette’s pocket. But it’s the reason for carrying the notebook, and Collette should always have it with her. She has never looked in the package because Hélène said she shouldn’t know what’s in it. “You are just the delivery boy. If a soldier opens it, you need to be surprised.”

  Her feet start to sweat, when just a few minutes before she couldn’t feel her toes from the cold. Her clothes feel heavy and hot. What if the package holds something that will connect them to the other Resistance fighters? Hélène always has a plan, she thinks, as she holds her shaking arm in the air.

  “Go home, my sweet boy,” the woman says. She’s forcing a smile. Her eyes are frozen to Collette’s and she’s shivering.

  The policeman lunges for the package, rips it open, and unrolls a thin, finely woven white scarf. It looks like snow falling from his hand. He beams, growls something in drunken French, winds the scarf around his neck, and tucks the ends into his long coat. Hélène has woven a thin red line along one side of the scarf. It looks like blood dripping from his neck.

  He reaches over and slams a big hand on Collette’s shoulder. “Va!” he shouts, and swats the side of her head. Get going! The couple firmly shuts the door as Collette runs across the yard, leaving the officer and the white scarf behind.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” she keeps saying to herself as she weaves through alleyways. She pauses for a moment in a dark doorway to catch her breath in the frosty air and slide the pen back into the hem of her coat. She stuffs the notebook back into her deep coat pocket. She has five more deliveries to make, and no package. Tonight she cannot get caught again.

  Chapter 6

  Shelter

  From Queens to Brooklyn

  October 2012—Day 1

  “Everyone keeps taking our food.” Nicole pulls her hair back and wraps a rubber band around it. She keeps doing that. “You’re going to have to go get us some. The petty cash is around here somewhere.”

  I can hardly hear her. The constant rumble in the Armory is like the ocean when the hurricane started. Swarms of people who have evacuated their homes are grabbing any space they can find on the huge gym floor as people yell directions, children wail, dogs bark, and frantic relatives shout out names. How did all these people get from Queens to Brooklyn?

  “You’ve commandeered the basketball court.” A man with a Red Cross vest waves his walkie-talkie radio over the rows of blue cots lined up tightly across one end of the gym and smiles at Nicole. “Nice work. Anything I can do to help?” He drops a clean blanket on Granny’s cot.

  “We need to organize everyone by floor. Now. Before they go to sleep.” She puts her arm around two residents who have been standing immobilized in the chaos, and steers them toward a nurse. “Let’s find you good neighbors,” she says.

  “How is anyone going to sleep in this noise?” I sit carefully next to Granny on her skinny cot in the corner. I don’t want to tip it over. We’d managed to grab cots far away from the hordes of people, but it isn’t much quieter. “You should lie down, Granny.” She seems smaller since we left the nursing home. Her beret has sagged across her forehead, and she doesn’t bother to adjust it. “This is home for a while.”

  The residents are scattered among the cots, some of them still clutching their belongings. Veronica calls over the nurses and rattles off instructions, and they quickly shuffle everyone around until each resident has a cot. I watch as Maria manages to move the wanderers to the cots against the wall so that it’s harder for them to escape. A few of them have been transferred to another nursing home that will keep them for a while, but most of the serious wanderers are still in the Armory. Maria’s going to have her hands full.

  I decide I better call my mom and let her know we’ve arrived safely. There’s not much juice left in my phone, but if I don’t call her before the phone goes completely dead, she’ll probably figure out a way to swim over to Brooklyn.

  I can only have a cell phone as long as I follow two rules: If my mom texts, I have to text her right back. She means right back, not ten minutes later.

  And if I don’t call or text to let her know where I am, then she’ll take the phone away.

  I try to explain to my mom that the second rule isn’t all that logical. She wants me to tell her where I am, but how can I do that if she takes away the phone?

  I reach her before the first ring even finishes. She asks a million questions, and I make the bus trip sound like an adventure and the Armory like a big hotel. “We have our own beds in a quiet corner and a Red Cross man is getting us blankets and pillows.” I say this while watching a family unroll sleeping bags on their cots.

  She wants to talk to Granny, even though we both know Granny doesn’t do very well with the phone. I put it on speaker so Granny can hear better, but she insists on holding it to her ear. She smiles at me when she realizes it’s my mom, and she does a lot of nodding. I’m not sure if she can understand what my mom is saying, but she seems content to hear her voice. “Lilybelle is such a good girl,” she says quietly into the phone.

  I lean closer and hear my mom say, “I’ll get there as soon as I can, Mother.” My granny nods and hands the phone back to me.

  “Mom, it’s me again. Granny’s fine.”

  “Stay close to her and keep an eye on her, okay?” She speaks rapidly and ends the question with a loud sigh. I turn away so that Granny can’t listen, but she’s already headed back to her cot. I wouldn’t want her to know we’re talking about her.

  “The nurses are all here, and Granny knows what’s going on. She’s doing really well.” I sit down at a table loaded with red-and-white first-aid kits. Some of them are stacked on a tray with packages of cookies.

  I lay the phone down, put it on speaker, and tear open a package of Oreos. I peel off the top of a cookie and lick the frosting. It’s the best cookie I’ve ever eaten, but then, I’m so hungry the packaging might taste good.

  “Are you getting anything to eat, Lily?”

  I almost choke on the cookie. How did she know? “As a matter of fact, I’m eating a sandwich right now.”

  “What kind of sandwich? Has it been sitting out? Don’t eat anything with mayonnaise.”

  I press the cookie back together and bite it in half. “I confess. I’m eating Oreos.”

  “Oreos are not a meal!” She pauses. My mom loves Oreos, especially the flavored ones. “What kind? Mint?”

  “Just plain old everyday Oreos. But don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll be feeding us something healthy soon.” I grab another package of Oreos and stuff it into the pouch of my hoodie. If she ever makes it to the Armory, I’ll surprise her with it.

  “I just can’t get there, Lily. I’m so sorry. I’ve tried everything, but it’s impossible. The subways aren’t running, the wind is crazy, there are no cabs, and it’s still pouring like mad outside. I can’t even get to my job. No one’s allowed on the streets.”

  “I’ll take good care of Granny, I promise.”

  “That’s the only reason I’m not in a complete panic, honey. I know you will.” She sighs again.

  I look around and am glad that she can’t see what’s really going on. I hope she doesn’t ask me to send her pictures or a video. There are people everywhere. They’re emptying out duffel bags, shoving cots around, and shouting at each other across the room. A line to the restrooms weaves around the sides of the gym, and a man dressed as a clown is trying to entertain crying children by making balloon animals. The nurses neve
r stop moving as they climb over piles of plastic bags filled with supplies and try to keep the residents together. I’m beginning to wonder if I really can take care of Granny here.

  My mom is unusually quiet, but it doesn’t last. “I know I’ve told you this before, Lily, but I wanted to name you Elizabeth.”

  I’m not sure why my mom is bringing this up now, but I go with it. Sometimes she drifts when she’s talking, sort of like Granny. I hope my phone doesn’t die or she’ll think I hung up on her.

  “I know, Mom. You were going to call me Lizzie.”

  “It seemed cute at the time.”

  “I’m glad you changed your mind. What’s the point of having a name if you’re called something else instead?”

  I keep nibbling on the cookies. I wish she was sitting next to me. I’d share them with her, even though I’m starving. Granny and I had tried to eat the freeze-dried turkey that I took from Rockaway Manor, but we agreed that it tasted like sawdust.

  My mom is still rambling on about my name. “Your granny suggested I name you Lily. It’s her favorite flower.”

  “She tells me that all the time. My favorite lily is the Stargazer.”

  “Your granny managed to include lilies in almost every garden that she planted around the world.” Her voice softens. “And daisies, if she could get them to grow. She has such a fondness for daisies.”

  My mom sounds like she’s less anxious now, and I realize that the knot I had in my stomach isn’t so tight anymore. I didn’t realize how nervous I was, but maybe I was just hungry.

  “I’ll find out how I can get Granny’s garden photos from her room. I bet she’d like to have those back.”

  “You know you’re her favorite flower, Lily,” my mom continues, “and right now she needs you by her side. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  I see Nicole rushing over to me. “I have to go, Mom. Nicole needs me. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “I’ll try. I love you, sweetie.”

  I hang up, and immediately a HUG HUG HUG text appears. I’m supposed to text back, so I send her a giant thumbs-up emoji just as Nicole hands me an envelope.

  “I need you to go and get whatever food you can find,” she says. “I’ve stashed what wasn’t taken, but the Red Cross took some of our freeze-dried stuff, and the juice we had is going to little kids.” She points to boxes, stacks of bottled water, and medicine carts set up as a wall around the wanderers. “We can’t let anyone steal our stuff.”

  She leans over and pulls Granny’s hat back. “How you doing, Miss Collette? Like your new home?” She gently helps Granny lie down and drapes the Red Cross blanket over her. “Close out all the noise. You’re good at that.”

  I stand next to Nicole and we take a look around the massive gym that has been turned into a shelter. We step aside as a boy on a bicycle rides by. He’s balancing a stack of beach towels on the handlebars and is tossing one on every cot. “I can’t believe they’ve fit an entire nursing home in here and still have room for all these people. Where’d they come from?”

  Two girls walk up and down the aisles pulling a wagon filled with bottled water. A man with a clipboard works his way to each cot and right behind him is a pretty woman in a pink dress and matching high heels, passing out teddy bears.

  Families settle in, claiming space, shoving cots close together, spreading blankets on the floor. Fathers hold screaming babies while the mothers empty suitcases and garbage bags of belongings onto the cots, talking to new neighbors. A television hanging on the wall shows constant videos of the roaring hurricane, flooded streets and homes, and overrun shelters. They’re calling it Superstorm Sandy. I’m having a hard time understanding that they’re showing us.

  Nicole has been on her feet since we first got notice that we had to evacuate—shouting directions and herding her residents on and off buses and into our precious section of the Armory. She’s given me a dozen assignments, and I haven’t been able to finish any of them.

  I pull out the other package of Oreos and hand it to her. She gasps and holds the package close to her chest. “Where did you get these?” I’m sure my mom would understand why I didn’t save them for her.

  “There’s a tray of cookies with the first-aid kits over on that table.”

  She rips open the package and pauses. “My house is gone,” she says softly.

  “Really? Gone?” I glance up at the television. There had been so many videos of houses under water, some even floating away in pieces. In the warm and stuffy Armory, I feel a chill. “How do you know?”

  “My husband called. He’s got the kids. They’re all okay. House? Gone.”

  “You mean gone gone? Like washed away?”

  “Sounds like it. He wants to go and check, but no one is allowed back into our neighborhood. We couldn’t talk because he’s taking care of the kids. He saved the family photos. He was really proud of himself. He knows that’s all I care about.” She reaches over and pulls me close. “He saved the pictures.”

  I’m used to being hugged all the time by my mom. This feels good, to be hugged in person.

  Nicole points at the envelope in my hand. “Try the neighborhood stores for food. Don’t worry about healthy stuff. We can’t wait any longer for food to be delivered. Get a lot of food and try to talk them into giving it to you for free.” She grabs a large duffel bag from under a cot. “I’m taking this, Mr. Feinstein! You’ll get it back.” She dumps it out on the end of the cot and Mr. Feinstein, always in a state of bewilderment, sorts through the odd collection of socks and hats that he had packed.

  “You okay here, Granny?” She looks asleep, but I know that trick.

  She reaches out and pats my leg. “Get me a Hershey bar.”

  I pull out the red box. “You can hang on to this now. I’ve got to walk around a lot, and it keeps popping out of my pocket. Put it under your pillow.”

  She lifts her head. “Open it.”

  I sit on the floor, eye level with Granny’s worn out face. “What’s in it?”

  The box is long and thin and doesn’t weigh much. I lift the top, not sure what to expect. Maybe a watch? A bracelet?

  “It’s a very special pen.” Granny’s eyes are brighter now. “A Montblanc fountain pen. Solid-gold tip—see?”

  I try to hide my disappointment by scooping the pen out of the indentation in the red velvet lining, and examining it. I had thought it would be something fancier—maybe a valuable necklace made of shimmering jewels, or an expensive, shiny gold watch.

  But a pen? All this time I’ve had a pen stuck in my pocket?

  Granny holds the box while I pull off the long top of the pen. It does seem to have a gold tip. It feels heavy in my hand. A closer look shows that it appears as if it’s made out of blue marble. The side is engraved with a gold F. A teeny 4810 is etched on the gold point.

  Granny strokes the side of the pen, carefully puts it back in the box, and then places it in my hands. “Put it away.”

  I guess she’s worried that someone will steal her precious pen, so I quickly pack it away and stuff the box under her pillow. It may be pretty, but it’s just a pen.

  “You have to take care,” she says, and I realize that there are tears in her eyes.

  “Granny? What’s wrong? Don’t worry, it’s only Brooklyn. I’ll be back with the Hershey bar and some food really fast, I promise.”

  “Lilybelle, I’m not that hungry. Keep the pen with you. Someone could take it when I’m sleeping. That happens in shelters. Trust me, I know this.” She quickly wipes her eyes. “You need to take care of it, ma chérie.”

  I’m not used to Granny’s tears. And now she’s back to French again.

  I reach under her pillow and show her I have the red box. “When I get back, I want to catch you sleeping.” As I lean in so she can kiss me on the cheek, I realize that I’ve just said what my mom says to me every night. Even though I’m twelve, my mom still checks on me, and I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending I’m asleep.

 
; I turn and shove the box into the pouch of my hoodie. I grab the duffel bag, and as I leave the Armory, I pass a phone-charging station set up by some volunteer high school boys. I send Johnny a quick text. At Brooklyn Armory. Where R U? I get an instant response. Restaurant. No power. Big mess. Armory??!!?? My phone beeps a low-battery warning. Yeah, more later! I text, and hand over the phone. The boys give me a receipt. I’ll text my mom after I bring back food.

  I’m in unfamiliar territory, even though Brooklyn is only a few miles away from Queens. It’s evening, but the streets are busy. The flooding never reached this far, and the rain seems to have let up. It looks like everyone in Brooklyn just kept right on moving. Do they know that there was a hurricane and the Armory is filled with homeless people? I look in the windows of packed coffee shops, but the food is mostly huge chunks of coffee cake lined up on the counters. They’ll never part with those; they look expensive. Isn’t there a bodega or a corner grocery store?

  I plunk down on a black metal chair outside a restaurant. It seems too chilly for anyone to eat outside, but some people are still sitting at the tables with piles of food in front of them. I’ll never convince anyone to hand over free food.

  I wish I had a warm coat. I’d even wear a hat.

  “Can I help you?” A woman with a black down vest approaches my table. Her name tag has Tanya scrolled in gold letters on it. She has a notepad, and I realize that she thinks I’m there to order something. I start to get up, but she puts her hand on my shoulder. “How about some soup?”

  “Soup?” It sounds wonderful, but I can’t use the petty cash to buy myself something to eat.

  Tanya gives me a kind smile. “On the house, honey.”

  I don’t know what that means. “That’s okay,” I say. “But do you have something else?”

  She looks startled. “Ha! Looking a gift horse in the mouth, are you? Soup is what I can offer, and even then I’m not supposed to.”

  “It’s not for me.” I decide it’s worth a shot. “My granny and the others are in the Armory over there.” I point down the street to the giant stone building that takes up an entire block. “We had to evacuate because of the flood. And I’m supposed to find food.”