Skylark and Wallcreeper Read online

  “Cupboard’s pretty bare,” he says as he reaches behind the tubs and grabs two small flat-bottomed bowls and shoves the door closed with his foot. “You wiped us out. But deliveries are coming later. We’ll be ready for the breakfast crowd. It’s all good.” He pulls out two spoons from a small crock on the counter filled with silverware and hands one to me. “Go for it.”

  We sit on high stools at the kitchen counter and share the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It looks like vanilla pudding with cinnamon on top, but tastes a lot better than those plastic cups of pudding my mom stacks on the kitchen counter. She tries to buy super-healthy stuff, but there’s always a stash of junk food, like Oreos, chips, and Jell-O cups. I’m all for that, although I’m suspicious of food that’s supposed to be cold but can survive outside the refrigerator.

  I tell him about my friend Johnny and how he works in a restaurant, inventing new recipes. “What is this again?” I’m so glad to be eating something, especially something this delicious, that for a moment I forget about my mission.

  “Crème brûlée. It’s French. Come back another time and we’ll have chocolate mousse, or an éclair. I’m a pastry chef, but right now I’m slinging hash.” He plucks a giant spatula from a container on the counter and starts to play it like a guitar. “Life is good in the neighborhood . . . !” he sings. He has big white teeth and seems to like to smile. “So why are you here?”

  “I had a box in my pocket, and when I went out looking for food, I lost it. I thought I might have dropped it here.”

  The man puts the spatula back in the container and jumps off the stool. “Let’s hunt—what’s it look like?” I describe the box, and we scour the restaurant, even the big plastic garbage can.

  I lean my forehead on the front window and look out at the street, wishing that the box would magically appear in the gutter or on a potted plant next to the front door. I don’t even realize that I must have sighed, because the man stands next to me and says quietly, “Pretty important box? Was it the one thing you were able to save?”

  I realize he must think that I rescued the box when I escaped the flood, so I tell him the whole story. “It’s just a pen, but for some reason it’s important to my granny. I’ve got to find it or she’ll be sad. And she’s never sad.”

  “Can’t you just get her another one?” I describe the pen—the blue marble, the engraved F, how heavy it is.

  “Sounds expensive,” he says, then looks at the expression on my face and backtracks. “But probably not. Let’s see if we can find a replacement. You might have to say good-bye to that particular pen, but this is New York City, and André”—he points at himself—“will find you another one just like it.”

  He reaches into a khaki messenger bag and pulls out his laptop. Within seconds he’s located a couple of places in the city that specialize in pens.

  He points to a website that has pictures of hundreds of fancy pens. “Fountain Pen Emporium! The biggest collection of fountain pens in the world!” He scrolls down the site. “It looks like it’s right across the river from Brooklyn, in Manhattan. Who knew?” He writes down the address. “New York City really does have everything.”

  I still have the cash that Nicole gave me. Maybe I can use that to buy another pen, and talk to Nicole about paying her back. “I should call, but my phone is charging back at the Armory.” I’m getting nervous about leaving Granny alone for so long, but I have to come back with that pen. “What subway would I take to get there?”

  “Normally you’d take the 2, 4, or 5 train to Wall Street—or you could take the F train. You’d be there in a flash. But nothing’s running because of the hurricane.”

  “Nothing’s running? No subways?”

  “All flooded. Lower Manhattan still has tons of water and no power. Haven’t you watched the news?”

  I slump down in a chair. “I am the news.”

  “Can’t you wait a few days? They’re pumping out the tunnels and subways. They’ll be up and running soon.”

  For the first time since the waters started to rise, my chest tightens and my chin begins to wobble. I hardly ever cry, but this is too much. I couldn’t stand it if I disappointed my granny. “I can’t tell Granny I lost that stupid pen. I just can’t.” I drop my head to hide the tears.

  “Whoa, kid, don’t cry.” He closes his laptop. “Look, there are some junk stores a few blocks from here, and a few antique stores. Maybe you should start there. Find a replacement.”

  “But she’ll know if it’s not exactly the same. It seems like it’s a pretty special pen.”

  “Well, you can always walk across the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan. Lots of people are planning on doing that tomorrow, to get into the city.”

  I pull nervously on the strings of my hoodie. “I’ve walked it before, with my class. It’s high over the river, but it’s not too far to walk. Is everything in Manhattan all shut down?”

  “Just for a few blocks. It’s crazy town. The bottom part of Manhattan island is pitch-black. The rest of it . . . business as usual.”

  “Do you think the Pen Emporium will be open?”

  “It’s in the section of town that might have electricity. You could be their first customer tomorrow if you walk over the bridge and it’s open.”

  “I could do that. Do you think I could do that?”

  André is nodding so hard his dreads are bouncing around. “You can call, but it might be much better if you go there and tell them your story. Can you shed a tear or two? That might help. They’ll replace that pen, I guarantee it. Probably engrave it, too.” He grins at me again. He makes me feel like I can definitely do this. Granny will never need to know.

  It’s already getting dark outside, even though the huge clock over the bar says it’s not even 6:00. I snap the buttons on my jean jacket and turn to head out the kitchen door. “I’ve got to get back. I’ll keep Granny busy so she doesn’t ask me about the box.”

  “Wait!” André disappears into the restaurant and comes back carrying a small glass bowl. He pulls my pocket open and fills it with peanuts and mints. “From the bar.” He pats the pocket. He unwraps his red-and-black knit scarf and winds it slowly around my neck. “Go forth into the big city, my little refugee, and bring back that pen!”

  Then he opens the freezer, plucks a few chocolate cups from the muffin pan, stacks them up, and hands them to me. “For your granny,” he says as I gently slide them into my other pocket.

  As he locks up the back door of the restaurant, I walk around a dumpster to get back to the alley. Behind two beat-up garbage cans I spot a bicycle. It has rusty white fenders, thick tires, and a big, wide front basket that’s decorated with colorful plastic flowers. I stop and point as André comes up behind me. “Is that yours?” I grab the handlebars, straighten the bike, and check out the tires. It looks old, but solid.

  “That’s used for our neighborhood deliveries. We’ve got a few regulars.”

  I roll the bike forward and look up at him, hoping I don’t have to beg.

  He nods.

  Pushing the bike quickly through the alley, I hop on when I reach the street and aim for the Armory. No school tomorrow. I have a bridge to cross.

  Chapter 9

  Worst Dressed

  Brooklyn Armory

  November 2012—Day 5

  I’ve been stuck helping out in the Armory and haven’t been able to sneak out and get to the Brooklyn Bridge. I spend a lot of time rounding up the wanderers and sometimes take groups of residents for walks around the blocks of Brooklyn. If you could call it walks.

  Venturing outside consists of herding small groups up the block and back again, very slowly. Some of the residents take off, and we have to send a nurse’s assistant after them. But mostly the residents gaze at every store window and make loud comments about the displays, or stop in the middle of the sidewalk and greet the people rushing by.

  I miss being able to talk to Johnny all the time, but he’s busy helping his family. I laugh a lot, which is
quite surprising since there’s not much about our situation that’s funny. Granny complains about how her back hurts from sleeping on the cot, and she’s tired of the constant noise. We sit on her cot and watch people like they’re in an armory reality show.

  Some of the family drama is quite entertaining, and Granny seems to follow the story lines. She’s especially interested in what’s going to happen to the young couple across from us who are always arguing. She pokes me late at night when I’m trying to sleep. “They’re fighting again,” she giggles.

  My mom texts constantly and calls in the evening. She spends the first few minutes telling me what’s going on with the city cleanup and how impossible it is to get anywhere. I tell her funny stories about the Armory to calm her down, and keep reminding her that someone has to look out for Granny until the move back to Rockaway Manor. I make it sound like we’re staying at a comfy resort because my mom is convinced the Armory’s like the Superdome after Hurricane Katrina.

  She says school’s still canceled because of Sandy, but she misses me and worries about me and Granny.

  “Mom, Granny’s enjoying herself for the first time since we moved her to the nursing home. She has a lot of new friends, and the food is great.” I look at Granny inspecting those weird bright orange crackers with peanut butter in the middle. She tentatively takes a tiny bite and offers one to WM, who seems to have adopted Granny. They speak French together when Granny can focus. Mrs. Sidobeth joins in and pretends to understand what they’re talking about.

  “I’m not happy with this,” my mom says. “I love you, sweetheart. But you need to be in your own bed. As soon as they clear out the subways and get them running again, I’m coming to see for myself.”

  I repeat, “I’m fine, really I am.”

  She finally says good-bye, then texts me her three hugs: HUG HUG HUG. I text back a smiley face and scan the world of chaos that has become my new home.

  My cot is pretty comfortable, now that I’ve spread towels and blankets on it. I did the same thing for Granny, to form a sort of mattress. Granny complains about her cot, but she seems to be sleeping better than ever. I think the activity during the day wears her out.

  The noise doesn’t die down much at night. It’s just a different kind of noise. Babies cry a lot, and it seems like every adult snores. There are dads sitting in corners in little groups, and moms on cots with sniffling children.

  Every couple of hours during the day there’s an uproar somewhere in the Armory. People get on each other’s nerves, or sometimes a family will start to cry and shout if they get news, good or bad. Some of the parents have organized a play area for their kids, and volunteers come in and try to teach some school.

  Granny’s not interested in exploring the gym, and she doesn’t wander much. She’s fascinated as she sits in an aluminum beach chair and watches all the action. I bet she misses her comfy chair from her room at Rockaway Manor.

  It’s strange to step outside and see that people on the street have no idea what’s going on with all the displaced people in the Armory. I want to invite them in to see our world, but at the same time I don’t want them to look at us like animals in a zoo.

  When I take residents outside in the crisp October air, they’re glad to get some sunshine after being in the smelly, crowded Armory. It’s chilly and we have to bundle them up, but it’s a lot better than tossing beach balls on the first floor of the nursing home for exercise.

  Everyone in Brooklyn seems to think that the residents are cute, and some even stop to chat. They talk to the residents as if they’re children. Maybe they haven’t seen hordes of old people on the street before. I guess once you’re ancient in Brooklyn, you move out.

  Nicole and I corral some of the walkers and steer them back inside after a slow shuffle down the street and back. “And to think it was my dream to have a house near the ocean,” Nicole says wearily.

  “You still haven’t gone home to look?” I slap the handicap button that’s on the wall so the door will swing open for the wheelchairs to go through.

  “Can’t do it. My husband sent pictures. It’s nothing but a pile of rubble. I keep thinking that he’s playing a joke on me.”

  “Did he find anything you can keep?” I spot two men from our group stuck in the revolving door, and go over to free them. I realize they’ve been doing it on purpose and are having fun trapping each other. Nicole and I exchange a look and burst out laughing as we move everyone back into the Armory. It’s good to see that she can laugh.

  “He found our big plastic toy box. It ended up on the top of a pile of debris in our street, and everything was still in it. My husband said that when he brought it back to my kids they completely changed. No more crying. They just wanted their toys.”

  “Don’t you have to get home?” We stand and take in the picture in front of us. All the cots are still full. People are lined up at tables of volunteers who pass out supplies and help people fill out piles of forms. A group of boys have made a ball out of old shirts tied together and are tossing it around, annoying women who are trying to set up a reading corner.

  The nurses in our part of the Armory look tired and bedraggled, but we can hear them cheerfully talking to the residents as they pass out today’s lunch. Most of the nurses have been here since we evacuated. Some can’t go home because there’s no place to go.

  Nicole sighs. “This is home for now. My family’s staying with my in-laws, and, frankly, I’ve got the better deal!” She puts her arm around my shoulders. “And what about you?”

  “My mom wants me to come home, but she’s also worried about Granny. She’s always texting to check on both of us.” I hold up my phone and point to the stream of texts that go back and forth between my mom and me.

  “She’s just being a mom, honey. And Miss Collette is very lucky. Some of these residents don’t have anyone. You tell your mom that.” She grabs the arm of a man walking by with a box full of subs from a nearby deli. “Who are those for?”

  He smiles and hands her two sandwiches. “For you, sweetie.”

  “I’ll be your sweetie if you pass those out to the nurses over there.” She points at her crew distributing plastic cups of applesauce. “I’d kill for a hot meal right about now.”

  We don’t have a food shortage anymore. I have no excuse to duck out to look for the next meal, so I can’t hunt for the pen. Granny’s been so busy chatting with her new neighbors and napping that she seems to have forgotten about it. But she does keep asking for something different to sleep in besides the same old nightie and her winter coat.

  There’s a huge mound of used clothing forming in the corner of the gym. Everyone in Brooklyn seems to be using the hurricane as an excuse to clean out their closets. There are things in that pile that no one would wear even under the worst of circumstances. I spend time with some of the younger kids, sorting through the clothing and tossing out the gross stained pants, extra-wide shirts, even underwear. The kids like to climb to the top of the pile and slide down, unearthing prom dresses, hundreds of worn T-shirts, and stretched-out pajama bottoms.

  Nicole makes me wear latex gloves when I dig for clothing. “Nasty,” was the only thing she said when she looked at the pile. But she was pleased when I dug out some football jerseys donated by a high school in Connecticut. The men in the nursing home are all wearing green-and-yellow jerseys with big numbers and somebody else’s name on the back. They’re very proud of their new team, and even Mr. Tennenbaum wears one over his plaid robe, which he has yet to take off. It makes it easier to keep track of them as they explore the gym.

  I take a picture of them and send it to Johnny. Team Armory. He sends back a picture of his father and brother, both wearing dirty aprons and hair nets, washing dishes in their restaurant kitchen. Team Dirty Dishes! I wish we could talk more, but he’s helping his family. I have so much to tell him. Maybe soon he can bring us some takeout from the restaurant.

  The food is generally okay here. Deliveries come by the truckload
. There’s a lot of PB&Js and ham sandwiches on gooey white bread, pull-top cans of fruit cup, and these strange crispy potato sticks. There’s a lot of pudding, which makes me wish for more of that crème brûlée, and crates of bottled juice drinks that taste like gritty water. We try shaking them to see if that helps stir them up, but the sandy-looking stuff just settles on the bottom.

  I stick to bottled water. There’s a plastic mountain of it in the hallway. I was making regular water deliveries around the floor with my bicycle, but Nicole asked me to stop giving the residents so much water. She’s running low on adult diapers and bed pads, and taking the residents to the bathrooms is a nightmare. They seem to like the adventure, but she just wants to load the residents on the bus and take them back home.

  It seems as if we’ve been here for a lot more than a few days. Nicole thinks it could be at least another week before the residents get moved out. “The first floor of Rockaway Manor is a wreck, but the building stayed solid,” she reports. “They’re doing a closer inspection now that the water’s cleared out.” She keeps checking her phone. “Last message said the residents could be sent to different nursing homes around the city. We just don’t know yet.” I’ve never seen Nicole cry about her own house, but when she talks about the possibility of breaking up her residents, her eyes well up.

  Where will my granny go? I wonder. I can’t look at Nicole when she starts talking about splitting everyone up, or I’ll cry, too. Poor Granny’s always getting moved around.

  Maria comes up behind me and puts her arms around my waist. “When are you ever going to go back to school? We all love you here, but you’re going to get suspended!”

  “School’s still closed. Johnny says they had some damage from the storm and won’t reopen for a while.” I walk away from my granny so she can’t hear us. “I got everything covered.”