Skylark and Wallcreeper

by Anne O'Brien Carelli

  Johnny’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Maybe your granny will tell you more after you find Marguerite.” I meet his sober gaze with a shrug.

  Rosie opens the next envelope. “Let’s see what the rest of the letters tell us.” She continues reading through them all, struggling a bit as she tries to decipher Marguerite’s elaborate handwriting. “It looks like it was very hard to get mail delivered after the war. Marguerite keeps begging Collette to write more often.” She hands me each page as she finishes reading it. The paper is thin, and the ink has turned pale blue. “Marguerite got a job as a translator in London.” She looks up and grins. “Listen to this! A little romance!”

  Collette—I’ve met a soldier from the United States. His name is Andrew and he’s stationed in London. We’re planning to marry. Can you imagine? An American!

  I have to interrupt. “My granny married an American, too! I never met him, but she says he was the handsomest man she ever met.”

  Rosie chuckles. “I think Marguerite feels the same way about her Andrew.”

  I think I’ve found the right man. He’s very handsome and kind. God willing, we’ll be able to have a family soon. I picture myself as the mother of a little boy who looks just like my wonderful Andy.

  Rosie continues to translate two more letters. Marguerite talks about how she’s learning to sew because the shops in London are so expensive. She says she works long hours translating French documents for the British. She never mentions the war in her London letters, but she always signs them “Skylark” and repeats that someday she will return to Brume.

  When Rosie has finished, Henry seems to be reading my mind. “I can see by your face that you’re about to travel alone on a train to meet Marguerite—brave as can be. It seems as if you and your granny are an awful lot alike.”

  Chapter 22

  On the Train

  Henry pulls out a laptop from under the counter, but Johnny’s faster on his phone. “If you want to get to Marguerite, you’re going to have to take Metro-North. It goes along the coast. The train leaves from Grand Central Station. What town, Henry?”

  “She gave me an address in Stratford. She said she lives way up on a cliff overlooking the water.” Henry pauses as he studies the schedule. “You’re in luck. They just finished clearing the tracks from the storm and got that line up and running. It looks like the train takes about ninety minutes.”

  I gasp and Johnny looks up from scrolling on his phone. “Johnny—she’s just ninety minutes away. Isn’t that amazing? I wonder if Granny knows she’s so close.”

  Johnny beams and shows me the phone. “Looks like the next Metro-North train leaves from Grand Central Station at 11:34 a.m. You’ll never make that, but there’s another one at 12:04.”

  Rosie had been quietly watching this activity when she asks, “Do you have your school ID? They won’t ask but just in case.”

  I reach into my backpack. “Actually, I have a passport!” They all looked startled, and I don’t blame them. I’m full of surprises and enjoying it. “I haven’t had a chance to use it yet, but my granny insisted that I get one.” I flip through the empty pages and show them the photo of my grinning face.

  “Nice picture,” Johnny laughs.

  A notecard falls out of the passport onto Henry’s counter. The front of the card is covered with tiny sketches of flowers and is torn at the crease from the many times I’ve opened it.

  Johnny picks up the card. “What’s this?”

  “My granny gave that to me when my passport arrived. I like to carry it with me. It makes me feel like I can go just about anywhere.”

  Johnny shows Henry the note inside the card, written in loopy letters in black ink. Henry runs his fingers over the words. “She used a fountain pen—a woman after my own heart.” Rosie peers over his shoulder as he reads the note aloud:

  My lovely Lily has permission to travel anywhere she wants, whenever the spirit moves her, as long as she spreads peace, and stays as kind as she already is.

  My granny had signed the card with our apartment address. The date is the day that we moved her to Rockaway Manor.

  I picture her back at the Armory, bent over on her wobbly cot, with everything she owns in a plastic garbage bag. I want so much to brighten her day. If she can’t travel, I can make the trip for her. “I need to get to Grand Central and get a train ticket.”

  Henry chuckles and one of the strands of greasy hair dislodges and drops down over his face. “Between you and your granny, your mother sure has her hands full! Is she going to be able to make it to the train station in time?”

  I realize that Henry hasn’t figured out that I’m planning on going alone to Stratford. My mom doesn’t like to explore beyond the city—she doesn’t even have a passport. She says there’s plenty to see in New York and she can visit other places in books and movies.

  Rosie catches my eye. She understands the plan.

  Johnny glances at me and raises his eyebrows. “Don’t you think you should call Marguerite and let her know you’re coming?”

  “I’ll do it at the station. I’ll text my mom, too.”

  “So you’re going alone?” Henry picks up the cloth again, and vigorously rubs a pen covered in ink stains. Teeny daisies emerge on a pale pink background.

  I stuff my passport in the outside pocket of my backpack, and fling the pack over my shoulder. Johnny zips up the pocket. “Don’t forget, Lily, your granny wants Marguerite to have that pen. You can’t very well knock on the door and demand it back just because you don’t want your granny to know you lost it.”

  He has a point. I’m so anxious to make Granny happy and show that nothing can stop me, I haven’t really thought it through. In fact, I’ve been running so fast over the last few days that I’ve forgotten how to slow down. Maybe I should just tell Granny that Marguerite now has the pen. My granny doesn’t have to know that I didn’t deliver it to her.

  But I won’t be able to lie to my granny. She’ll want to know all about Marguerite, and I’ll have nothing to tell, except that I lost the special pen. “I’ll figure out what to say to Marguerite, but now I better get moving.”

  Henry hands me a paper with Marguerite’s address and phone number. “I’m not happy about this, but you’re not my kid and I’m getting the impression I can’t stop you anyway. Go straight to Stratford. She calls her home Maison de Falaise, or Cliff House.” He pulls the shop door open and motions for us to be on our way. “At least call the poor woman—you don’t want to upset her by showing up at her doorstep.”

  Rosie joins him, pulling her robe close. She gives a little wave before Henry gently closes the door. I can hear the lock click into place.

  It’s still damp and chilly as Johnny and I stand on the empty street while he unlocks the bikes. I count the cash Nicole gave me for food and add my mother’s contribution. “Did you see on the website how much the ticket is?”

  Johnny watches me shove the money back in the envelope. “Lily, you’ve never even been out of the city!”

  “It’s less than two hours away!”

  “Maybe this Marguerite doesn’t want to see you. I wish I could go with you, but I have to help out at the restaurant.” He tugs on a blue streak in his hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Johnny nervous before. “I’m serious, Lily. Is this a good idea?”

  “What are you worried about?” I hope he doesn’t answer because there’s a lot to worry about. “It’s just a ride on a train.”

  “Maybe your mother can go with you?”

  “Then I’d have to tell her everything, and she’d be furious.”

  Johnny takes his black hat from his backpack and pulls it over his frizzy hair. “Maybe Marguerite will kidnap you and lock you in the basement. At least call her first, check her out.”

  For some reason, this makes me smile. Johnny’s looking out for me by painting a scary picture. I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap out the phone number that Henry had given me. A woman gruffly answers, “Maison de Falai
se. Who’s calling, please?” I explain who I am and that I would like to talk to a woman named Marguerite. “I’m planning on taking the Metro-North to see her today.”

  The woman responds with the same words my mother would’ve said. “Alone? You’re traveling alone on the Metro-North? To see my mother? Is that safe? You sound so young! How old are you?”

  I can hear rustling and what sounds like arguing in French. I put the phone on speaker so Johnny can help me figure out what’s going on.

  “Hello?” a strained woman’s voice comes on the phone.

  We can hear the woman who answered the phone talking urgently in the background. “Mother, don’t let her travel by herself. It’s not safe.”

  The woman on the phone continues. “This is Marguerite. You are Collette’s granddaughter calling?” She has a heavy French accent.

  I explained again that I want to visit but don’t mention the pen.

  There’s silence, then, “But how did you find me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and asks breathlessly, “Is Collette still living?”

  “Alive and kicking,” I say, and then remember that Granny hates it when people say that. “I mean, she’s fine. I just spoke to her.”

  “Ah, my Collette! Can I speak to her?”

  “It’s kind of complicated. She’s not here right now.” I don’t want to alarm her, so I add, “But she’s okay. It’s just not a good time for her to travel.”

  “I have to meet you! Please come! When can you get here?”

  I look at Johnny, who’s leaning in close to the phone, and he nods. “I can be there early this afternoon. Is that okay with you?”

  “Wait at the train station. I’ll send a car for you.”

  “A car?” My mom sometimes orders a car when we’re in a hurry. She says they’re faster than taxis and usually cleaner. There are also fancy black limousines all over the city, whisking rich people around so they won’t have to take the subway.

  “Don’t worry, Simone will be driving. Come quick—but keep an eye out for trouble, ma chérie!”

  As I slide the phone into my pocket, I can feel a rush of excitement. I can see why Granny liked to travel, I think as I picture a sleek limousine gliding up to the Stratford station, a uniformed Simone at the wheel.

  Quickly Johnny and I make arrangements for him to get my bike back to André at the restaurant. “I hope nobody asks me where you’ve gone,” he mutters. “You better text me every chance you get.”

  I scan the block, looking for the nearest subway entrance that’s open. The one on the corner doesn’t have a yellow tape across the steps.

  “Hey, kid.” Henry suddenly steps outside into the crisp air and hands me a black winter coat. “You’ll need this. It’ll be chillier near the ocean.”

  I hate to take his coat, but I’m afraid I might need it. “I’ll bring it back, I promise.”

  “I’m sure you will,” he says as he slips back inside his store and pulls a long shade over the window.

  I head toward the corner, and Johnny shouts one more time, “Text me!”

  As I reach the stairs leading underground, I hear Henry’s voice again. “Wait!” He rushes over, waving Granny’s special notecard. “You left this, you may need it.” He slides it into the coat pocket. “Rosie stamped it to make it look official. I have a lot of fancy-looking stamps.” He grabs my arms and stares into my eyes through his smeared glasses. I pull back a little, startled at his sudden intensity. “Stick with a family, or a woman traveling alone. Put that note in your passport and keep it handy in case anyone asks why you are traveling alone. Better yet, pretend to be asleep.”

  He must have seen he was making me nervous, because he breaks out into a grin that looks forced and strange on his washed-out face. “Don’t worry, you won’t have any trouble,” he says, waving me on. “Bon voyage!”

  He turns and I hear him say to Johnny, “See what I mean? Every pen, young man, has a story!”

  Chapter 23

  Up the Coast

  Grand Central Station to Marguerite’s

  November 2012—Day 8

  It takes a while for a subway to show up, but getting off at Grand Central isn’t so hard. I know how to ride a subway in New York—don’t look at anyone, try to snare a seat near a woman but don’t sit too close, and keep the backpack away from probing fingers.

  I pretend to stare into space on the subway, but I’m really reading the names of the stops embedded in the tile walls. Once we empty out at the Grand Central stop, there are people swarming in all directions. We’re still underground, but where are the Metro-North trains going out of the city?

  I follow a group of kids past a row of turnstiles until we enter a passage wide enough to hold two armories. I have to keep dodging the constant flow of people rushing around me, their conversations mixing with the screech of the subway trains, repeated announcements, and loud boarding calls. Newsstands and gift shops line the hall, mixed with narrow shops that have displays of pizza on rotating stands, stacks of burritos and egg rolls, and tired-looking pastries.

  I press against the dirty wall to keep from being pushed aside. I don’t want to hold up foot traffic while I scan the dozens of signs scattered all over the cavernous space. I might be noticed by the police, who are everywhere. My mom wouldn’t let me out of her sight ever again if she got a call from the New York City police about her twelve-year-old girl, wearing a man’s oversized coat, lost in Grand Central.

  If I ask anyone for directions, would they ask me why I am traveling alone? I finally join a line at Adriano’s pizza stand. “Metro-North?” I say to a girl with a lot of piercings who’s sitting on a battered suitcase, texting. She doesn’t look up but points down the hall. I order a plain slice and hand over four precious dollars, hoping I’ll have enough money left over for the ticket. But I figure it will be some time before I can get food again, and now is not the time to stop and dig out one of Johnny’s gooey doughnuts.

  I roll up the pizza slice, grab napkins, and join the crowd moving quickly in the direction the girl had indicated. More people have luggage and briefcases, so I keep going. The pizza tastes much better than the Armory’s soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but my stomach is so unsettled that I’m sorry I bought it. Maybe the Oreo doughnut from this morning wasn’t such a good idea.

  Some of the police officers have big guard dogs that all seem to stare right at me. I hope the dogs are just interested in the pizza, and not trained to spot girls who look lost. I pretend to be part of a large family that’s pulling rolling suitcases and finally spot a tiny sign that says METRO-NORTH way above me. A list of towns, including STRATFORD, is listed under CONNECTICUT. I’m leaving the state!

  The first time I took the subway alone from school to Rockaway Manor, my mom practiced the route with me over and over. I had to text at the end of the first stop, the second stop, and then when I walked through the front door and signed in. But in the last few days, no matter where I’ve actually been, the texts I’ve sent her have been about everything but me: Granny walked around the gym! McDonald’s delivered! Nicole says hi!

  It’s been hard to think of upbeat text messages to keep my mom happy. Sometimes I delete once or twice before taking a breath and hitting send.

  But I know as soon as I get on that train I’m going to have to text her to make her think I’m having a casual supper at the Armory, surrounded by people who pay attention to me—instead of the hundreds of strangers who walk right by.

  She won’t be able to tell how far away I really am. She’ll find out the truth eventually, especially if I really do make it to Marguerite’s, but once she calms down, I think she’ll understand. If she ever calms down.

  The echo of the crowd fades away as I enter the giant domed center of the station and stand in line to buy my ticket. Sounds seem to be muffled, even though hundreds of people are moving in all directions. The seller behind the window shouts in a small silver microphone, “One ticket?” I grip Nicole’s envelope of mo
ney, staining it with pizza grease and sweat, as the seller’s eyes dart behind me. I freeze until I realize she’s checking the long line, not looking for an adult traveling with me.

  My mind buzzes with questions. Connecticut suddenly seems like a very long way, and for what? I’m actually leaving New York to go to another state, to visit a stranger. I nod and tell her my destination. “Train leaves in ten!” the woman barks. “Next?” She slaps the ticket under the window, and the next customer pushes in front of me. I feel like I am going to throw up. I have my ticket, but I still don’t know where to find the train. I don’t want to be noticed, but at the same time, I hope someone will say, “Would you like some help?”

  Ahead of me are many groups of travelers standing silently, staring at a billboard as big as a movie screen. It has a list of all the trains. I join them, all of us riveted to the board as destinations and gate numbers appear. Travelers dash away the minute the gate number for their train slides into view. There it is, Metro-North to Connecticut, with a list of stops—on time.

  “The 12:04! Hurry!” A woman grabs the hand of a little girl and sets off for the far end of the station. Guessing it’s the same 12:04 I’m taking, I follow them to the gate and copy everything they do. I stick close as they board, and slide into a seat across from them. There are no signs that I’m on the right train, but I don’t dare look lost. The conductor walks up the aisle, cracking jokes and punching tickets. My stomach is still roiling, and I feel flushed as I hold back tears. I pull the coat collar up to hide my face.

  As the train edges away from the city, slowly rolling through dark tunnels, I give in. The double seat is all mine, so I move over to the window and watch through tears as we emerge into overcast daylight. An announcer recites the stops ahead, and I hold my breath until he says, “Stratford,” near the end of the list. Miles of city pass by, and I catch glimpses of endless apartment buildings and giant billboards as we rush away from Manhattan. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I wipe my nose on the sleeve of Henry’s coat and think about how my mom would react if she knew, and how my granny is waiting for me at the Armory.