Johnny exclaims at every one. He pulls off the caps, waves them in the air, and pretends to write.
“We can engrave them with anything you like.” I perk up when I hear this. If we can locate a blue marble pen like Granny’s, maybe he can add the letter F on the side.
“This one here costs over ten thousand dollars,” Henry says, putting his palm out and displaying a thin silver-and-blue pen dotted with tiny pearls. “Owned by a movie star. Someone you’d know, but I’m not talking. Had to buy it back. She’s going broke. Want to buy it?”
Johnny reaches for a dark red pen with the number 5 etched in gold on the side.
“Maroon 5.” Henry snickers. “Get it?”
I realize this can go on all day. “I’m interested in a very particular pen.”
Henry looks up as if he, too, realizes that he could go on forever about his pens. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
I don’t bother to mention that he’d been talking nonstop, so I couldn’t really tell him why I was there. Besides, it’s interesting to hear about the role the pens had played in so many people’s lives. Apparently even Oscar winners looked forward to getting a fountain pen in their gift bags.
But I’m in a hurry. I describe my granny’s pen to him. I wish I’d taken a picture of it so I could show Henry, but I never thought that I would lose it. I didn’t even think it was important enough to photograph.
“That’s strange.” He steps back behind the counter. “Blue marble, gold tip with 4810, engraved with an F?” He carefully gathers up loose pens scattered on the counter and places them on a tray lined with red velvet.
Johnny stops scribbling with a guitar-shaped pen and looks up.
“That’s right.” I watch Henry’s pale face closely. He looks perplexed. Maybe he has a pen just like it but doesn’t know where to look for it? Just because he knows a lot about his pens doesn’t mean he knows where they are in his jam-packed store.
“That pen was here in the store two days ago.” He shuffles through a pile of papers in a shoebox on the counter. “We were only open for a couple of hours, but I remember it. Beautiful Montblanc pen, obviously a special order, probably made in Germany in the thirties.”
I’m not sure if I’m hearing him right. “Two days ago?”
Johnny puts his hand on Henry’s arm to get him to stop rustling papers. “Well, where is it now?”
“Oh, I sold it.” He pulls his arm away and looks up in surprise.
“Wait,” I say, leaning over the counter, trying to get Henry to focus. “You sold it already?”
Henry jerks back as he realizes that we are both within a few inches of his face. “One of my dealers came in with it.”
“Dealers?” I’m confused and immediately think he’s talking about drugs. I back away. Johnny reaches for his backpack that he had dropped on a low shelf. What are we getting ourselves into?
“Antique dealer. In Brooklyn,” Henry continues. “Antique dealers know that if they get an interesting fountain pen, they get it to me right away. Dealers send me pens from all over the world. Some of these pens are worth a lot of money. Like these.” He holds up one that is fat and gold, and another that is plain white but child-sized. “I don’t take most of them, but the good ones I can always sell. It’s actually a pretty brisk business, believe it or not. I don’t need much room, live upstairs . . .”
I can see that he’s going to go off topic again, so I interrupt him. “Wait—an antique dealer brought you a pen from Brooklyn that sounds like my pen?” I turn to Johnny. “But I just lost it a few days ago!”
“Somebody must’ve found it on the street and brought it to an antique store.” Johnny points to the ten-thousand-dollar pen. “It probably looked valuable.”
Suddenly Henry seems to lose his willingness to talk. He starts packing up the pens into the plastic boxes and shoves them back on the shelves. “The dealer couldn’t bring it here until two days ago. I don’t know how he got it, and I don’t want to know.” He covers the shoebox and slides it under the counter. “I’m closing now. Nobody’s around—no need to stay open. You kids have to move on.”
My shoulders sag and all of a sudden I feel worn out. Potato sticks, pudding, and Johnny’s doughnut are sloshing around in my stomach, and the early bike ride didn’t help. I’ve lied to my mom and walked a bicycle around piles of trash from the hurricane—for what? It’s all getting to be too much. “I’m not even sure what I’m doing here,” I say with a sigh. This is all happening too fast, and it’s just about a silly pen. But I can’t seem to let it go.
Johnny pulls me next to him. It’s what he does now and then, always at the right time, but not usually in front of anyone else. “Henry,” he says. “Please tell Lily what happened to her pen.”
Henry stops moving around and sits back down on the stool. “I’ve had a standing order for that pen for many, many years.” He rests his hands on the table. “Every year she calls to see if anyone has found that pen. And then, in the middle of the flood, it appears. Like magic. From Brooklyn, of all places. So I didn’t waste a moment. I contacted her and shipped it to her right away.”
“Shipped it?” Johnny asks. “In the storm?”
“Sure. The first thing they did was clear the roads to be able to bring in supplies like generators. I shipped the pen on a delivery truck, overnight express.”
I try to make sense of his words, but I’m having trouble following him. “She? Who is she?”
Johnny jumps in. “Shipped it? Where?”
“To a woman named Marguerite. She’s French, but now she lives up the coast a couple of hours from here. She’s probably writing with it right now.”
Chapter 18
Fearless
“Marguerite?” Johnny and I both blast Henry so that he draws back, startled.
“Granny’s Marguerite!” I lean closer to Henry, and he holds up his hand.
“That’s all I know. What’s so important about this Marguerite?”
I try to gather my thoughts to explain to the owner of a pen store why the name of a French woman is so exciting, but my brain is racing. Johnny makes an attempt. “Lily and her grandmother are living at the Brooklyn Armory.”
Henry takes off his dirty glasses and rubs his eyes. It looks like he’s about to ask a question, when my cell buzzes. I pull the phone out of my pocket and signal Henry to wait.
“It’s Nicole,” I say to Johnny, pointing at the number. “Hope Granny’s okay.” I put the phone on speaker. Nicole speaks fast, whispering, “Lily? Where are you? Your mom’s here at the Armory, and she’s making a scene. She wants to know where you are. Didn’t you say you were going for a walk with your friend Johnny? You better get over here.” I start to tell her that I’m in Manhattan, but she keeps talking. I can barely hear her with the noise of the Armory in the background. “And Miss Collette? I’m getting worried about her. She keeps talking to me in French. She’s really getting agitated.”
My hand tightens around the phone. “I don’t want to talk to my mom. She’ll just make me come home.”
“She’s worried sick, but I keep telling her that you’re a godsend and you’re taking care of your granny. But, Lily, I can’t keep covering for you. Your mother’s a basket case.”
“But I texted her and told her Johnny was with me and she seemed cool with that.” I don’t mention that I hadn’t told my mom how far I was going—across the bridge to Manhattan on a bicycle.
“She keeps saying that you are very independent, but when I said you are very brave, that seemed to send her over the edge.”
“Oh, don’t tell her that I’m brave! She doesn’t want me in a situation where I have to be brave!”
“Wait—your mom just went into the restroom. Here, talk to your granny. See if you can calm her down. Miss Collette, Lily’s on the phone. I’ll hold it—talk right into it. That’s right, she’s on speaker.”
I don’t want the entire Armory to hear me, but Granny’s hearing isn’t the best on the
phone, so I speak loudly into my phone. “Granny? How’re you doing? Guess what! I found Marguerite.”
“Who is this?”
“Granny, it’s me. Lily. You can relax now. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to the Armory.”
“Who is this?” I get that familiar feeling of frustration mixed with sadness. Granny is in one of her memory loss phases, and the phone is making things more confusing for her.
Then she rallies. “Do you have my pen?” She’s getting louder and I can hear Nicole trying to quiet her, but Granny persists. “Lily? Is that you?”
I thought I was used to her sudden changes in focus, but I feel so helpless. Henry comes around the counter and leans in to listen. “Yes, Granny,” I try to speak soothingly, “everything’s going to be fine.”
“Did you find Marguerite? Did you see her? Tell me about her!” I look at Johnny for help—what can I tell my granny?
Nicole interrupts Granny’s pleas. “Uh-oh. Your mother’s coming over.”
“Lily! Where are you?” My mom’s voice comes on the phone, and she sounds more than just worried. I know she loves me, but it seems as if recently the only conversations we have are about my location, my plans, and dangers lurking everywhere.
“I’m doing errands with Johnny, Mom. Chill!”
“Don’t tell me to chill! Your granny is as tough as nails, and she’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. Taking off like that was not part of the agreement.”
“Mom, you seriously do not need to worry about me,” I say firmly. “I just went out for a walk with Johnny. As soon as they move Granny back to Rockaway Manor, I’ll come home.”
It’s too quiet on the other end of the phone. I look helplessly at Johnny, and he takes the phone from me. “Hey—this is Johnny. Lily’s annoying, but she really is okay.”
I’m not sure that’s going to help, and snatch the phone back. “Mom, I’ve told you, I have a bed and food at the Armory, and I’m surrounded by nurses.”
Johnny pats my shoulder and smiles. “Nurses—nice touch.”
“Who’s Marguerite?” my mom asks. “Your granny keeps talking about somebody named Marguerite, and she gets pretty agitated. Nicole says it’s not anyone from the nursing home.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Years ago, I’m pretty sure she mentioned an old friend named Marguerite—someone in France. But she didn’t want to talk about her. Do you know if that’s who she’s talking about now?”
“I don’t know. Granny doesn’t always make sense.” I hate saying that about my granny, but my head is spinning from talking to so many people at once. “You can go home, Mom. I’m fine!”
“I do feel better that you’re with Johnny, but you need to get back here. Are you close?” She sounds a little calmer. Luckily, she doesn’t give me time to answer. “Text me. A lot.”
Nicole comes back on the phone, her voice hushed. “Your mom’s putting on her coat, so you’ve satisfied her for now. But stop putting me in this position! Your granny’s resting. Call me later, okay?” The phone goes dead.
Henry returns to his stool behind the counter. “Wow, you ought to work in an emergency room doing triage. What’s the deal with your mom? Are you a runaway or something?”
I explain about the evacuation. He seems impressed that I’m still living in the Armory with my granny. “I can see why your mom worries,” he says. “But you seem like a kid who can handle herself.”
“She says I’ve been independent since the day I was born. I guess I’m just like my granny.”
“Your granny must be pretty interesting.”
“Granny was always traveling, going to dangerous places. My mom spent her entire childhood waiting at home, wondering if her mother would come back hurt, or worse. . . .” I stop and think for a minute. “I guess that’s why my mom understands me but still freaks out.”
Henry pulls out a soft cloth and lines up the pens on the velvet-covered tray. I want to go back to talking about Marguerite, but he asks, “Was your grandmother in the military? A spy or something?”
Johnny and I laugh. “Nope . . . she was a gardener!” I tell Henry how my granny believed that peace could be accomplished by people working together to create a park or a community garden. “She’s been everywhere—Lebanon, Palestine, Colombia—sometimes for weeks at a time.”
“Ah.” Henry shines each pen and straightens them so they are lined up neatly. “Maybe you’re also like your father? Is he the adventurous type?”
Johnny glances at me, and I turn away. “Her father’s never been in the picture,” Johnny explains. “He was in the army and was killed before Lily was born.”
“Really? Killed in action?”
Johnny knows that I don’t like talking about my father, mainly because I don’t have much to say. My mom says he was strong. She felt safe when he was around. But she won’t say much more than that.
My granny says he was fearless.
There are a few pictures of him, but I can’t really tell if I look like him. He seems very serious in his army picture, but my mom insists there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“He re-upped before he knew about Lily.” Johnny seems hesitant to continue.
“Re-upped?” Henry looks confused.
This I know about. I’m used to reciting the answer whenever anyone asked about my father. “He was in Iraq, and he volunteered to go back.” I face Henry. “He promised my mom he wouldn’t do that because she was so worried about him, but he did it anyway. She was waiting to tell him that she was pregnant with me, but he died before he ever found out.” I slide out of my backpack and plop it on the counter. I don’t like where this conversation is going. I have enough things to think about.
“Wow, that’s tough for both of you.” Henry keeps polishing the pens.
Johnny jumps in. “Lily’s cool about it.” He knows what happens when I ask questions about my dad and don’t get any answers. My mom always says she made a mistake and fell for a man who wanted to see the world, and then she changes the subject.
I believe if my dad had known about me back then, we’d know each other now. He would have come home.
Henry nods again. “Lots of bravery in the genes,” he says as he carefully places the tray on a shelf.
I like Henry’s conclusion. I am brave, and I want to prove it even more. “How do I get to Marguerite’s?”
Chapter 19
Bonjour! Bonjour!
“Lily, what are you talking about?” Johnny’s voice is sharper than usual.
Henry grabs a stack of pens from a jar and tosses them on his counter. They roll in different directions, and Johnny snatches one before it falls on the floor.
“To get to Marguerite’s, you’ll have to take a train,” Henry says quietly. He sorts the pens in a neat row.
I rummage around in my backpack, looking for the envelope of money that Nicole had given me. She didn’t know the restaurant food was free, and I forgot to return the money to her. Should I use it and pay her back later? I have a little bit in a savings account.
“How much do you think the train will cost?” I empty the backpack onto the counter—the bag of doughnuts, a sweatshirt, a half-empty bottle of water, and the stack of old letters that Granny had given me.
Johnny touches my arm. “Lily, you’ll have to leave the city.”
I feel the envelope of cash, deep in the bottom of the pack.
Henry picks up the letters and gently removes the rubber band. “Do you mind?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and carefully examines each envelope, sometimes holding them up to the light. “These look like they were written with a Parker 51. Why do you have these?”
I explain how I’d found them in my granny’s belongings when we evacuated. “I’d never seen them before, but she wanted me to save them.” Henry leafs through the letters. The top envelope is yellowed and worn, torn open at the top, and the ink is faded. In place of a stamp someone had written Free in the corner.
The envelope is addressed t
o my granny in Brume, France, but it’s her maiden name before she married my grandpa. The edges are marked in red, white, and blue dashes, and 1944 is stamped in a circle over the address.
The return address shows it’s from Marguerite, in Spain. I pause for a moment. Why was this mysterious Marguerite, who now lives a couple of hours away, writing my granny from Spain in 1944?
“Too bad these are written in French.” Johnny presses open one of the letters. “Lily, these might be clues about your granny and Marguerite.”
I stuff the envelope of cash into the pocket of my sweatshirt and shove everything but the letters back into the pack. I have to keep busy to hide the flush of tears that seem to suddenly want to appear. I have no idea what I’m doing. One minute I’m out to find Marguerite; the next I want to forget this entire mission. My voice catches as I mumble, “I’m not a detective, Johnny. I just want to see my granny smile when she sees her pen.”
As I start to pull up my hoodie, Henry reaches under the counter and pulls out a wrench. Johnny and I jump back as Henry bangs the wrench loudly on a radiator in the corner: CLANG CLANG CLANG! He shouts into a vent in the wall, “Rosie, wake up!” CLANG CLANG!
We freeze as he holds the wrench in the air, ready to bang it again. “Rosie!”
“Whaaaaat?” comes a voice from above us. “I’m sleeping!”
“Get down here!”
“Why? Leave me alone.”
Henry bangs again as Rosie, her voice high-pitched, yells, “All right already! I’m coming!”
Henry calmly replaces the wrench and climbs back on his stool. “My daughter can help you. She lived in Paris for a couple of years. She wanted to be a famous artist.”
Johnny perks up. “Is she famous?”
Henry rolls his bloodshot eyes. “Can’t draw a straight line. But she speaks pretty good French.”
“Excellent!” Johnny grins at me, but I’m not so sure. This quest to help Granny is turning into a crazy reality show with a new character called Rosie.
“Now my daughter wants to be a Broadway star,” Henry continues. “I’ve called her Rosie since she was a kid, but she insists on being called Rose.” He laughs so that spit flies out and lands on the counter. “It would help her new career if she could sing or dance.” He chuckles again and winks at me. Johnny laughs with him as Henry adds, “She’s sleeping on my couch until her apartment’s declared safe. Her building got hit pretty bad by the hurricane.”
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