The Way to Schenectady (5 page)

“Something stinks,” said Grandma.

Marty. I guess if you hadn’t had a bath in a while, and you were wearing clothes you’d slept in for a few nights, you’d start to smell a bit. It wasn’t so bad in the open air behind the gas station, but in the van, with the windows closed, Marty was free to tell his own story.

Bill was sitting in the middle seat beside Bernie. Bernie was walking his stuffed monkey back and forth along the arm of his car seat. Bill turned around and looked at me anxiously. He recognized the smell all right.

I craned my neck so I could see over the back of the seat, but there was no sign of Marty. He was buried beneath our pile of gear.

“I don’t smell anything,” I said. “I do,” said Bernie. “But I don’t know what it is.”

“I … don’t smell anything either,” said Bill. “Mind you, I have a stuffy nose.”

What a coward. I glared at him.

“Let’s open a window,” I said. “That should freshen things up.”

Bill opened his window. I opened mine. Unfortunately, van windows open only about an inch. I guess the designers don’t want kids falling out.

After a minute Grandma said, “It still stinks back there.”

“You’re right. Yuck. It’s almost like something died,” said Dad.

Bill and I looked at each other. “What if there is … a body in the car?” Bill asked. I gasped, but he went on
quickly, “An alien body from the planet Schenectady – I mean, from another planet?”

Dad smiled. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Look!” I pointed to a road sign. “Odessa is coming up.” I reached into my travel case to find my map, and pulled out a square package. Not my Walkman, which I usually keep there, but the bottle of cologne that Bridget had given me for my last birthday. I kept it on my dresser. I couldn’t remember packing it. I must have put it in the case instead of the Walkman.

A lucky mistake. The bottle came with a sprayer. I pointed it at the ceiling of the van, and pressed down. And again.

A minute later Bill turned around with an expression of disgust on his face.

“What?” I whispered. “What?”

“Perfume?” He wrinkled up his nose. “What do you call that stuff?”

“Summer Nights,” I said. Actually, it smells kind of nice.

“Yuck,” he said.

“Better than Eau de Marty,” I whispered.

It took a little while for the perfume smell to spread through the van. We passed Odessa. Bernie fell asleep.

“Smells different in here now,” Dad commented. “Less like a morgue, more like perfume.” He tapped one of the gauges on the dashboard. “Hmm,” he said.

Grandma sniffed critically. “Charnel Number 5,” she muttered.

Dad laughed. Bill and I exchanged a relieved glance. The pavement changed. The wheels had been saying
origami, origami, origami.
Now they started saying
Tweedledee, Tweedledee, Tweedledee.

“Almost time for lunch,” I said.

“Yes, when’s lunch?” Bill asked.

Dad sighed. “Next picnic area we pass, we’ll stop.”

“I can hardly wait,” I said.

The wheels went back to saying
origami, origami, origami.

Bill turned around in his seat belt. “What if Marty gets thirsty? Or has to go to the bathroom?” he whispered.

I shrugged.

“What if he suffocates? Goes into a coma? What if he dies?”

Bill has such a morbid imagination.

“What if no one finds out he’s there,” I whispered, “and, thanks to us, he arrives in Schenectady and gets reunited with his family?”

“Someone will notice,” said Bill, turning away and closing his eyes.

“You know there’s a spider over your head,” I said. Bill didn’t open his eyes, but he was paying attention. I could tell. “It’s on a little thread of spiderweb attached to the seat-belt hook. Now it’s letting itself down on a thread,” I said softly. “Getting closer to your face.”

Bill won’t admit it, but he’s really scared of spiders. Me, I like them – even the big, hairy kind. It helps that
they’re girls. I know we’ve got something in common. My friend Bridget and I formed the Spider Club in school last year. Bridget believes in reincarnation, and she’s convinced that she was a spider in a past life.

“The spider is right over your face now,” I said to Bill. “Can’t you feel the little legs brushing your cheek?” He couldn’t he himself. He squirmed out of the way, shuddering all over. Of course, there was no spider on the ceiling.

“Just kidding,” I said, with a light laugh.

He leaned back and punched me.

“Ouch!” I said.

“Just kidding,” he said, with a nasty chuckle.

The next sign at the side of the highway was a picture of picnic tables.
LAKE VIEW
it said underneath. “Dad, Dad, Dad!” we cried together. Bernie woke up. “Dad!” he said, even before his eyes were open.

“I see it,” Dad said.

“I’m hungry,” I said.

“Me, too,” said Bill and Bernie.

The noise of air rushing past our inch-open windows dropped dramatically. The car was suddenly quiet, poised, expectant. I don’t know about the boys, but I was thinking about hard-boiled eggs.

“Hungry,” said Marty, into the hush of awakened appetite.

Bill almost twisted his neck off, turning around so fast. I stared at him helplessly. The only thing I could think to do was cough.

“Something caught in my throat,” I said. I tried to make my voice sound like Marty’s – high and thin, and a bit raspy. “Sure am hungry,” I said again.

“Me, too,” Bill said. “I’m hungry, too.”

“I’m going to start with a hard-boiled egg,” I said, “and then go on to a cheese sandwich. And an apple. For dessert -”

“I brought the dessert,” Grandma said. “Made it myself this morning.”

“Great!” said Dad heartily, turning onto a gravel road lined with painted wooden fence posts. In a moment I saw the lake, like the sign told me I would.

“Great,” Bill and I echoed, very faintly.

I leaned back casually, and dropped the rest of the package of mints over the back of the seat behind me. They would help Marty stave off hunger until we could figure out a way to feed him.

I must say, reincarnation sounds like a great idea. I wonder if I could come back as an owl because they get to stay up late, and they never have to do any science homework. Maybe Grandma could come back as a cook. No way she’s ever been a cook in any long-ago past life. Make that any of her lives at all, including this one.

Fortunately, I have not had to eat many meals at her apartment. She’s not very – is “hospitable” the word I want? Sounds like it might mean something else, something about being sick, but whatever the word is that means being a good hostess and making sure everyone is having the time of their lives at your place, Grandma isn’t that.

Last time we were there for dinner was ages ago, and dessert was a pale gray confection, like a shovelful of cement poured into a loaf pan and left to harden.
Charlotte russe
she called it, speaking with some kind of accent. Mom and Dad smiled grimly, and Bill and I dug
in because it, well, it smelled like it might be sweet anyway. I don’t know what nationality Charlotte was, but she couldn’t make dessert. The stuff stuck to my fork, then my hands, then my mouth. Days later I was still digging pieces of it out with my toothbrush. Bill started quickly, but even he didn’t finish his plateful. Lucky Bernie, he got to eat vegetables out of a jar.

I had to figure out a way to get food to Marty. We parked in a shady spot. The picnic hamper was under the backseat. While the others were getting out of the car and finding a picnic table with the best view, I slid out the hamper and opened it. I hunted around inside for something to give Marty. The sandwiches were wrapped up together. I found an egg and took it out.

“Psst, Marty,” I whispered. “Do you like eggs?” And, of course, that’s when Dad appeared at the door.

“What are you doing, Jane?” he asked.

“Getting lunch ready,” I said.

“And why are you holding that egg?”

I held it up. “This egg … um … made a noise. Like the chick inside was pecking its way out. I was wondering if it was alive. I was worried about it.”

“Jane, that’s a hard-boiled egg,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” I said.

Dad was staring down at me. I was on my knees on the floor of the van, wrestling with the picnic hamper. “Are you feeling okay?” he said.

“Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”

I pulled the hamper toward me and, at that moment, I heard Marty again.

“Egg,” he said loudly.

“– scuse me,” I said, quick as a flash. An inspiration. “Egg-scuse me, Dad,” I said. Loudly. “I burped.”

“I didn’t hear you,” said Dad.

“It was only a little burp,” I said.

“Let me carry the picnic hamper,” said Dad.

“Egg!” said Marty again.

“– cellent idea,” I said quickly. “An excellent idea, Dad. Here, let me slide it over to you.” I was thinking hard, racking my brain for useful words.

“Are you … well, Jane?” Dad asked. “It’s pretty hot.”

“Egg!”

“– stremely hot,” I finished for Marty. I was ready for that one. “But I think I’m okay. Let’s get out of here, Dad. Before I start -”

“Bacon!” said Marty. Surprisingly.

I wiped my brow. “I mean, before I start baking to death! Whew!” I said.

Dad tucked the picnic hamper under one arm and put the other one around my shoulders. “You sure you’re feeling okay?” he said.

“You bet.”

So we all sat down around the table with the best view, and got out hard-boiled eggs and cheese sandwiches and buns and juice boxes. There wasn’t any
chicken; I looked. Later I asked Dad what had happened to it, and he said he’d tried it and it tasted awful, even with the fire extinguisher foam washed off.

It was a busy meal for me. I had to invent reasons for going back to the van. Sunscreen, lip protector, map – and once, I said, because I wanted to check myself in the mirror. Dad stared and shook his head. I don’t usually forget things. I don’t usually have four eggs and two buns and two cheese sandwiches for lunch either. And three juice boxes.

“Pig,” said Bernie, as I reached into the hamper again.

“Could you put your plate in the garbage bin?” I asked him.

“Bossy pig!”

It was worth it to know that Marty was going to be okay for the next little while. “Thank you, Jane,” he told me when I brought the cheese sandwich. “Food in a hungry belly takes away fear.”

Bill was acting normal – for him, that is. The ground was quicksand, he claimed, and with every step he sank deeper and deeper. He bent over, walked on his knees, crawled.

I finally got him alone. “Crawl up to the van,” I whispered, “and give this bun to Marty.”

He was kneeling in a soft bowl of pine needles, near a rocky promontory. The sun was bright, but it was cool
by the lake. He shook his head. “Negative, sir. I’ll sink over my head by the time I get there. It’s just suicide.” He sounded serious. Did he believe himself? Had he forgotten about Marty? Hard to say with Bill.

Grandma turned away to light a cigarette and lost the last half of her sandwich to an aggressive seagull.

“Ham those birds,” she said, but without any real bad feeling.

“Have another sandwich,” Dad offered.

“There’s no more,” said Bernie. “Jane ate them all.”

“Have some more grape juice.”

“I don’t want any grape juice.”

“Have some cheese,” I said.

“She doesn’t want any ham cheese,” Bill told me, in a gravelly Grandma voice.

We laughed. Dad told us to behave ourselves, but I could see there was a smile behind his stern expression, the way the sun is there behind the clouds even if you can’t see it directly.

“Very funny,” said Grandma. I couldn’t tell if the sun was there or not. Some clouds are darker than others.

“What’s for dessert?” asked Bill.

Grandma smiled grimly and opened her cooler. Took out the single dish. Laid it on the picnic table. And we all stared.

It lay on the middle of the picnic table, wobbling back and forth.

“I made it myself,” she said.

Bill took a step backward and sank to his knees. I didn’t know if he was praying, or if he’d just landed in the quicksand.

Dad said, “Mother-in-law, you shouldn’t have.”

She didn’t answer. She was looking better than she had in the car. More relaxed. The cigarette in her mouth probably helped.

Grandma had a big spoon in her hand. “Who wants the first serving?” she asked.

Silence.

Well, would you speak up if what you’d be getting was the first serving from a Jell-O mold in the shape of a fish? Stop, let me get this right. It was a fish – a wiggling, wobbling sea creature made out of lime-green Jell-O, with a poached egg in the middle where its heart would be.

“It’s alive!” said Bill. “Hey, it really
is
alive.” He prodded it with his finger.

“William!” said Grandma. “Hands off!”

A shiny black jeep pulled in to the picnic area. In it was an elderly couple. By the time the old lady emerged from behind the wheel, the old man had already unloaded deck chairs, checkered tablecloth, and barbecue grill.

Bernie climbed to his feet and pointed. “Flower lady,” he said.

Nobody paid attention. We were mesmerized by the dessert. I could hardly take my eyes off it. Glints of sunlight flashed on the edges of the mold. The fins moved
back and forth, as if the fish were swimming in an unfamiliar element. A dessert to remember for the rest of our lives.

Dad’s smile was wide. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d swear he was actually enjoying the moment. How can grown-ups lie so convincingly? Practice, I guess. “What an astounding creation,” said Dad.

Well, that wasn’t quite a lie.

“It looks ‘ucky,” said Bernie.

That wasn’t a lie either. He put his hands behind his back as if he were afraid the fish would snap at him.

“Mind your manners,” said Dad. “Grandma worked hard to make you this … incredible dessert. You must be polite.”

She swung the serving spoon like an executioner’s ax. All our heads were on the block.

Help,
I thought. I wanted something to happen. I didn’t want to eat the dessert, and I didn’t want to hurt Grandma’s feelings. I didn’t want to lie either. Mostly I didn’t want to eat the dessert.