The Way to Schenectady (9 page)

“Better get in,” I said to Marty.

He finished off the Danish and wiped his hands on his pants. “Why?” he said.

“So you can go to Schenectady.” Now that I’d found him I wanted to get moving. The memorial service started at two o’clock. Should be plenty of time, but you never know. And the sooner we dropped off Marty, the sooner we would get to Auntie Vera’s. “Schenectady. Where your brother is. Remember?”

He swayed a bit. He must have been so tired. “Poor Tobias,” he said. “My poor brother.” He started to cry.

“There, there,” I said. “But, really, Marty, you have to hurry.”

“I can’t go back. They don’t want me.”

“They do so,” I said.

“Tobias and I had a big fight years ago. I left home and never came back. Tobias made millions selling real estate. I had trouble finding work as a musician so I started to drink too much. I drove cabs, and worked in garages. I drifted around. Since last year I’ve been living on the street. I thought about calling my brother, about going home, but somehow I never found the way to Schenectady.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I’m scared, Jane. They’re rich and important and I’m just a freak. An old broken-down singer, who can’t hold a job.”

“I didn’t know you were a singer,” I said.

He sniffed back his tears. “Bars, nightclubs. Nowhere special.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” a voice rang out.

I turned. An old lady, with a cigarette in one hand and a suitcase in the other, was hurrying toward us. I closed my eyes, hoping I was seeing things, but when I opened them again she was still there. “Hi, Grandma,” I said.

She ignored me. “What are you doing to my grand-daughter?” she said to Marty, who quivered and bent beneath her rage like a willow in a hailstorm. A weeping willow.

“Grandma,” I said.

“Get away with you!” she said, making shooing gestures, with both hands. “Go on, ham it! She has nothing for you!”

Marty sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He turned and would have slunk off if I hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Come back, Marty,” I said.

“Go on,” said Grandma.

“Back,” I said. Marty, the human pinball. I stepped between him and Grandma.

“Let me explain,” I said. “Quickly, before Dad gets here. Marty isn’t doing anything to me. I’m doing something for him. He wants to get to Schenectady,” I said.

“No, I don’t dare. They don’t want to see me …”

I kept my eyes on Grandma. “There is a memorial service for his brother there this afternoon. Marty hasn’t seen his family in a long time. And I, um, promised him that we’d give him a lift.”

“He doesn’t want to come, Jane. Why not leave him here, where you found him?”

“I found him yesterday.”

She stopped in the middle of a puff on her cigarette while she worked out the implications of what I’d told her, and then choked on the mouthful of smoke she probably didn’t know she had.

“Do you mean,” she gasped, “that this … Marty, has been in the van since yesterday?”

“Yesterday morning. I smuggled him aboard. Only now he’s afraid to go on. Poor man.”

“I’m no good,” he muttered.

“So I don’t know what to do,” I said.

Very deliberately, Grandma dropped the cigarette and stepped on the burning butt. “You’d better tell me everything,” she said grimly.

I took a deep breath, and the whole story came out in a rush. I was worried about telling it, but I felt relieved, too.

Marty didn’t move, except to sway back and forth very slowly. His eyes closed. Grandma’s expression as she listened was hard to read. Was she … could she be … sympathetic? Did she think I was doing a good thing? Was she going to be … on my side?

“Please help us, Grandma,” I said.

“Stowaway!” she muttered. “Stowaway, indeed. Jane Peeler, if you were my daughter, I’d give you something to stow away and remember for a few days. Every time you sat down, you’d remember.”

Oh, no.
This didn’t sound like sympathy.

“What will your father say? He’ll have a fit!” she went on.

“But he doesn’t know.”

“No. No, he doesn’t.” Her mouth curved in a momentary smile. Then she went back to being upset with me. “What an incredibly rash and thoughtless thing to do!” she said. “You put yourself, and everyone else in the van, in danger.”

“From Marty?” I mean,
really.
He weighed less than I did. “He wanted my help,” I said. “And I could help him.”

“You deluded girl! He’s a wreck!” She shook her head. “You remind me so much of your mother. She was always one for bringing home stray animals.”

Like a shaft of sunlight on a cloudy day, like the first sip of hot cocoa after a freezing skating party, like fire from heaven, a feeling of warmth went through me when I heard these words. Just like Mom. “Thank you, Grandma,” I said.

“Eh? For what?”

“For giving me … courage. Now I know I am doing the right thing. It’s what Mom would have done.”

“But,” she pointed at him, “he’s a disgrace, a vagrant, a street person, a … Marty!”

I thought hard. I wanted to put this the right way. “Think of all the Martys without homes to go to,” I said. “We can’t help them, but we can help this one Marty. Look, Grandma. You’re the one who talks about how lonely you are, how you don’t matter to anyone. How no one cares what you think. Well, here’s an opportunity for you. We need you. Marty needs you. Come on, Grandma. Help us get Marty home.”

She didn’t speak for a while. I wasn’t looking at her, so I don’t know if she was frowning or blushing or gnashing her teeth or what. “Is the family expecting you at the service?” she asked Marty.

I was encouraged. She was speaking directly to him.

“No,” he said. “They don’t care about me. Why should they?”

“Yes, they do,” I said. “They wrote about you in the paper.” I reached into yesterday’s pocket for the tattered clipping. “So, Grandma, are you going to help us?”

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

Marty spoke to her for the first time. “Forget it, Grandma,” he said. “Forget about Marty Oberdorf. Help that is not freely given is a chain upon the heart. I would not forge such a chain.” He swayed, and almost fell. He looked about as dangerous as a piece of chewed string. “I’ll be on my way. Thanks, Jane.”

I didn’t say anything. He staggered off.

“Wait.” A cross-grained person, my grandmother.

Now that he wanted to leave, she told him to stay. He turned. “You called me Grandma. I’m not old enough to be your grandma,” she said. He kept going.

“My name is Helen,” she said.

Now he turned, with the smile I remembered from yesterday. The good smile. Grandma didn’t swoon or anything, but she softened, the way ice cream will soften in sunshine.

“Jane, let me read that newspaper piece.”

In giving the clipping to Grandma, I somehow felt as if the great burden of responsibility for Marty was being spread between us. We were together in this now. Me and Grandma, who’d have thought it? And I was happy to have her.

“Awooo! Awooo! Jane, Jane! Where are you?” Bill’s voice.

Grandma moved calmly, pushing Marty into the van, putting her suitcase on top of him. “Sh,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. We closed the rear door together.

“Grandma’s coming!” cried Bill, “And she’s.…”

He saw us, and stopped.

“She’s already here,” said Grandma. “The van’s all packed. Where’s your father?”

“Upstairs, with Bernie.”

“Good. Run up and tell him everything’s ready to go. Jane and I will be along in a moment to take a last look around the room.”

He opened his mouth to say, “Yes, boss lady,” thought better of it, turned and ran off.

“Thanks, Grandma,” I whispered.

“Uh huh.”

“You know, I don’t like lying to Dad,” I said.

She smiled so widely, I saw silver at the back of her mouth. I didn’t know it was there.

“Are you going to tell Dad?” I asked.

“Shell, no,” she said.

I nodded. It was a complicated path I’d chosen, but at least I wasn’t alone on it anymore. “And do you think we can get to Schenectady in time for the service?”

“You’re the one with the map, missy. You tell me.”

Bill had a Danish in his mouth when we got back upstairs. There was one more left on the plate. “Would you like it?” I asked Grandma.

“Why, thank you, Jane. I believe I would.” She took the last one.
Shoot.
I’d been hoping to eat it myself.

“I think I’ll sit in the backseat today,” said Grandma, climbing into the van.

“Are you sure, Mother-in-law? You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

Bill stared at her and then at me. “But …” he said.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “She knows. She’s on our side.”

He frowned. “Grandma? Grandma on our side?”

I nodded. “She’s okay. I think.”

Grandma was already sitting down, with her seat belt on, looking composed.

“Are you kids getting in or not?” said Dad. He was buckling Bernie’s seat belt.

“I get the front seat,” I said quickly.

“Do not,” said Bill.

“Do so.”

You know how that argument ends. Dad told us both to be quiet, and we flipped a coin to see who would sit
in the front seat, and I won. Bill stuck out his tongue at me, and I carefully did not stick mine out at him. I just smiled.

“Dad, Jane is teasing me,” said Bill.

I buckled my seat belt and smiled at Dad. “Let’s go,” I said.

“Would you like some bun?” Bernie asked Bill.

“Where did you get it?” asked Bill.

“From my hand,” said Bernie.

“No,” said Bill.

From Watertown we drove east, toward the sun. Dad put down the sun-shade on his side of the car. My sunshade was already down, so I could use the mirror on the back. When the road turned, Dad put up his sun-shade. I checked my hair again. Did the color really suit me?

“It’s still there,” said Dad.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“That smell. I thought it was just my shirt. Don’t any of you smell it?”

“I don’t smell anything,” said Grandma.

I turned around and caught her eye. She winked. She really did.

Bill saw her. “I don’t smell anything either,” he said.

“I don’t smell anything from up here in the
front seat,”
I said.

“Hey!” said Bill. He kicked the back of my seat.

“Maybe it’s a farm you smell, Alexander,” said Grandma to Dad. We were driving through countryside,
but the farms were far away from the road, and all you could see was waving grass.

“I’m hungry,” said Bill.

“Have a bun,” said Bernie.

“Not for a bun,” said Bill.

In the middle of a long, quiet stretch of road, with the windows open because of the smell, someone behind me sneezed. Not Bernie or Bill. Didn’t sound like Grandma either.

“Gesundheit,” said Bernie. He just learned the word a while ago. He smiled proudly. I whipped my head around. Marty sneezed again.

“Gesundheit,” said Bernie.

Dad peered into the rearview mirror. “What’s going on back there?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” said Grandma, sticking out her chin.

“Nothing,” said Bill.

“I don’t know,” said Bernie.

“It’s about two and … a half hours to Schenectady,” I said.

“To where?”

“Schenectady,” I said. “Schenectady.”

“Gesundheit,” said Bernie. He thought I was sneezing.

“You mean Syracuse,” said Dad. The signs at the side of the road said
SYRACUSE.

“Do I?”

We caught up to a slow-moving pickup truck. We hung behind it while a couple of cars zipped past in the other direction. Then Dad pulled out to pass the truck. A noisy and dilapidated vehicle, it belched deep blue smoke out of its exhaust pipe. The tailgate banged up and down. Green paint flaked off the sides. The driver’s door was held shut with string. An old truck driven by an old man with a hat on. I waved and smiled at him as we passed. He didn’t wave back. Big thick glasses on his face and, underneath them, a frown full of yellow teeth. The hands gripping the wheel were enormous.

He sped up, keeping pace with us. Dad sped up some more, and so did the old man with the thick glasses. The truck made loud complaining noises, but kept even with us. We were in the oncoming lane. Fortunately, no cars were oncoming.

Dad honked the horn and pointed. The old man shook his head. He didn’t want us to pass. A mean old man. “What the …” Dad began.

In the distance I could see a car coming toward us. Dad sighed and slowed down, to get in behind the truck
again – and then the mean old man slowed down. We were stuck beside his dirty old truck, with a car coming right at us. The old man glared. Did he want us to get hurt? Dad put his driving foot to the floor. The truck started to speed up, too, then backfired noisily and slowed enough for us to get in front of it. Seconds later the oncoming car passed us. Dad kept his foot to the floor. The truck disappeared behind us.

“I think I need a new diaper,” said Bernie.

“Me, too,” said Dad.

“I’m sorry,” said Bernie. “I forgot to tell you.”

“Next time,” said Dad. “Tell us next time.”