War and Millie McGonigle Page 6

  “Knock-knock jokes? How lame.”

  “Better than just sitting here being scared.”

  I sighed and asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Canoe.”

  “Canoe who?”

  “Canoe get us out of here?”

  “Very funny,” I said, and the wind rose.

  “Do you think we’ll freeze or starve to death first? And will they have to pry your dead hand off the piling with a crowbar?”

  “Cut it out, Rosie. I heard once about a shark jumping right into a boat. What if a shark—”

  “I don’t care as long as it’s not a seagull.”

  “Well, then, what if gulls find us and—”

  “Knock, knock,” said Rosie again.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Lettuce.”

  “Lettuce who?”

  “Lettuce not talk about scary things anymore.”

  I groaned, but actually Rosie was funny and smart and friendly. If we lived through this, we could probably be friends even though she was a Fribble.

  There was silence but for the water lapping at the boat and the boat beating against the bridge. My arm grew tired from holding on. “Do you think we could switch places without tipping us over so you can take a turn?”

  Rosie was scuttling over to my side when we heard the sound of a small outboard motor. “Millie, someone’s coming! We’re saved!” Rosie jumped up and waved. “Here! Over here!”

  The boat putt-putted nearer.

  “How absotively mortifying to have to be rescued,” I said. “Yikes! It’s Rocky!” I threw myself into the bottom of the boat, and Rosie had to scramble to grab the piling. “Does he have his pants on yet?” I mumbled.

  “Yes, and even a shirt. You should be talking to him. You know him.”

  “I can’t. No matter what, I can’t. I’d rather drown.”

  Rocky’s boat pulled closer. “Have a problem?”

  “The oar thing broke,” said Rosie, “and we’re drifting out to sea.”

  Rocky threw her a rope. “Tie this to the hook in the bow and I’ll tow you back in.”

  Rosie did. “We were getting awful cold and tired of holding on to this bridge. You’re a lifesaver, Rocky.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “Everyone on Mission Beach knows you, Rocky,” Rosie said with a grin.

  I pinched her leg. “Stop flirting with him.”

  “Why? Do you want to flirt with him? I can move so you—”

  “Flirt? Are you kidding? I’m positively expiring from embarrassment here!” While Rocky slowly towed us, I huddled in the bottom of the boat, popping my head out once in a while to see if we were back yet. Finally Rocky pulled close to the bay-side beach and swung the rowboat right onto the mudflats. Rosie called out, “Bye, Rocky, and thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome, you and your little friend there in the bottom of the boat.”

  Rosie snorted, and I grunted, “Little???” but I stayed hidden until the putt-putt of the motor faded away.

  “He’s cute. You like him?” Rosie asked.

  My cheeks grew hot. “He’s old, and I mostly hate boys anyway.”

  “Wait until you’re fourteen like me. I find there’s a lot to be said for boys who aren’t Leo or Dicky or Dwayne. You’ll see.”

  “I’ll wait,” I said.

  Rosie helped me pull the boat onto the sand, high enough so the incoming tide would not take it. And she went home to the Fribbles, dragging her feet all the way. Who could blame her?

  After dinner Lily and Pete planned their costumes for Halloween on Friday. Pete, of course, would be the Lone Ranger. “I’m the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains,” he shouted. Bang! Bang! Bang! “The Lone Ranger rides again!”

  “I want to be whatever you are, Millie,” said Lily.

  I pulled a sheet over my head.

  “You’re going to be a ghost?” Lily asked.

  “No, I’m dressing like this whenever I go out for the rest of my life.”

  I was huddled in the bottom of the boat with but one oarlock for a quiet moment with The Secret Garden. Grumpy, gloomy Mary Lennox reminded me of me, and Colin was a drip like Lily until he got healthy and nice.

  Far too soon, Pete found me. Leaning over, he said, “There you are. We want to march on Mission Boulevard but Mama won’t say yes unless you come with us and we pull a wagon for when Lily gets tired.” Mission Boulevard ran right down the middle of the spit called Mission Beach, ocean on one side, bay on the other. What stores and bars and eating places Mission Beach had were there. Pete and a pack of kids had been marching up and down in front of our house, shouting against Hitler while watching for German ships through their toilet-paper-tube binoculars, but it seemed they wanted to expand their area of operations.

  “Go peddle your papers elsewhere, Jackson,” I said. “I’m busy.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means beat it, get lost, scram.”

  “Mama said.”

  Leaping from the boat, I headed for the house, calling, “Moth-errrr!”

  Mama waved me off. “Your father is working and I have to go downtown. Mission Boulevard won’t be safe for the little ones alone with so many strangers about. You are in charge of the group.” She dropped a quarter and a dime into my hand. “Here, buy burgers for the three of you. No keeping the change this time, and don’t let the kids get into any trouble.”

  So I had to accompany the motley troops up Bayside Walk and over to Mission Boulevard. Gram would have approved of them marching against Nazis and war, but there were unfortunately way too many opportunities for people to see me and laugh.

  “Why are you wearing Pop’s fishing hat pulled down like that?” Lily asked me as we gathered.

  “Never mind.” I tilted my head up and peered from under the brim. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Artie and Archie, nine-year-old twins from up the beach, led the parade, waving homemade Down with Hitler signs. In purple crayon. The twins were exactly alike—blond hair, pug noses, missing front teeth—except that Archie’s gut troubled him and he burped and hiccuped frequently and loudly, kind of like Cousin Edna but without the Jungle Gardenia. Behind were Lily, who shouldered a broom like a rifle, and Pete, with his cap pistols bouncing against his thighs. Then came MeToo, waggling his loose front tooth with his fingers as he walked, and Ralphie, pulling his Radio Flyer wagon, without Pepperoni, who was ailing. I hung back far enough so no one would see me with them.

  As we marched up Bayside Walk, Artie began to chant: “Hitler, Hitler, I bet your brain couldn’t be little-er.” Pretty clever. I’ll bet Artie could earn more soup and soap flakes writing advertising jingles than Mama. She ought to sign him up.

  “Stay at home, you nasty fellow, or I’ll punch you ’til you bellow,” sang Artie.

  “Me too!” shouted MeToo.

  Burp went Archie.

  They all clapped and cheered. It’s funny how little kids could sing songs and laugh about Hitler and it didn’t scare them one bit. Even the sound of his name got me worrying. I shook my head. There were obviously some advantages to being five.

  The parade turned on Dover to Mission Boulevard, passed the roller coaster at the amusement center, and marched on. The mild Sunday afternoon had drawn lots of people: families with kids and ice cream cones, gaggles of teen girls in swimsuits, and mobs of uniformed sailors with caps tilted just so over their foreheads, looking like the Sailor Jack figure on Cracker Jack boxes. Would I be adding some of their names to my book? I shook my head and plodded on with the little marchers.

  One of the sailors called out, “Good for you, kiddies. Give them Jerries something to worry about!” and his companions cheered. Pete, Artie, and Ralphie saluted and chanted louder. MeToo waggled his tooth and Archie hiccuped. My cheeks grew hot, and I pulled my hat down lowe
r. Can you die of embarrassment? I wondered as I stumbled into a lamppost.

  Spider Grossman was leaning against the front of his tattoo parlor at the corner of Mission and Ventura. “What’re ya squirts doin’?” he called. I peeked from beneath my hat. Spider was dressed, as usual, in an aloha shirt, swim trunks, and sandals. It was almost a uniform. If it ever snowed in San Diego, Spider would still be in an aloha shirt, swim trunks, and sandals.

  “We’re marching against Hitler,” Artie shouted, and the others cheered. “He can’t come here and push us around. I’d pound him.”

  “Me too,” said MeToo.

  “Wanna march with us?” Pete asked.

  “Naw. You don’t get me joinin’ nuthin’.” Spider went back into his shop to ink an anchor on another sailor’s arm.

  Icky Fribble’s brother, Dwayne, and his gang of hoodlums tumbled out of the Beach Club Bar. Stumbling and shouting, they laughed and hooted. “What’s this, the Rose Parade?” one asked. Dwayne called, “Watch out, Hitler. The McGargles are after you!” And they lurched after us, laughing and jeering.

  I could happily have added Dwayne to my Book of Dead Things, but there he was, swaggering and alive and loathsome as ever. “Plans have changed,” I told my crew. “We’re going home. Now.” I hustled them back to the bay side and turned south, but Dwayne and his pals still followed.

  Dwayne came right up behind me, belching beer breath. “Dicky tells me you have a German spy in your house. A black-haired spy who talks Kraut. People around here wouldn’t like that if they knew.”

  “Spy? Baloney!” I said. “Icky is a blockhead. And so are you.” I may be afraid of war, death, and being poor, but I was not afraid of a weaselly bully like Dwayne Fribble.

  “And that crazy granny of yours with her pickets and petitions. She was downright un-American.”

  “Don’t call my gram crazy,” said Lily, and she smacked Dwayne in the knee with the handle of her broom.

  I snatched Lily before Dwayne could and dropped her into the wagon. Grabbing Pete’s hand, I shouted, “This way, marchers,” and tore back down Bayside Walk toward home.

  “We haven’t finished marching,” Pete said, panting beside me.

  “We are most definitely finished. We’re going home and staying there.”

  “Me too!” shouted MeToo.

  “Is Cousin Edna really a spy?” Pete asked.

  “Nah, that’s a bunch of hooey.”

  Fourteen feet slapped against the path, and wagon wheels squealed. “Down with Hitler!” shouted Artie and Pete. “Form a posse and nab a Nazi!”

  “Hic,” said Archie.

  “I’m getting carsick,” said Lily in the wagon.

  No one was home but for Cousin Edna in the kitchen frying Spam for a sandwich. I sent the others away and put a tired Lily and Pete down for naps in the big bed, promising them hamburgers when they woke.

  “Tell us a story,” said Lily.

  “Please,” added Pete.

  “Okay, a quick one. Once there was an awful Nazi villain named Hitler, and when he heard that Lily and Pete McGonigle were marching against him, he got so scared that he jumped in the river and drowned.”

  “With his boots on?” asked Pete.

  “Did all the Nazis follow him?” Lily wanted to know.

  “That’s all I got, kids. Make up the rest yourselves.” I returned to the kitchen.

  “Wie geht’s? What’s up?” asked Edna, swaying to Glenn Miller playing “Elmer’s Tune” from the radio.

  “Edna, stop! You have to quit spouting German like that. It isn’t safe. People are talking about you, calling you a spy.”

  “Poppycock!” said Edna. “I’m no spy, but I do like German fellows. So good-looking with their mustaches! Even Hitler.” She spread mustard on bread and added the Spam. She took a bite and grease dribbled down her chin.

  “Hitler? He’s a monster, a wolf, eating up one country after another.”

  “I can’t believe he’s doing what they say he is doing. Such a nett Gesicht, a nice face. Maybe it’s all a mistake.”

  “For crying out loud, you talk crazy like that and you’ll get us all in trouble.” My heart pounded.

  Glenn Miller was finished and it was time for the news: “We have more about the sinking of the American destroyer USS Reuben James by a German submarine. One hundred fifteen crew members are lost and presumed dead.”

  “Such a nice face, huh, Edna?” I shouted, my belly cramped and my voice louder than I intended. “See what your handsome Hitler has done now.”

  Edna shook her head. “Nein, nein,” she said. It may have been German, but I knew what she was saying. “It’s a mistake, I’m sure. Wait and see.”

  It was seventy-five degrees and sunny, and the tide was out. I pulled on my bathing suit and slogged through the mudflats to the water. Bay water was warmer than seawater but still so cold I had to inch my way in. Finally I ducked under, shivered, and swam out.

  There were no other swimmers in the bay. Well, no other human swimmers. I saw a seal, head up and staring at me, his whiskers twitching. When I swam a bit, so did he. When I stopped, so did he. When I ducked into the water, he ducked.

  I was swimming with a seal! That was the magic of the bay. Some people prefer the Plunge at the amusement center. It’s Mission Beach’s claim to fame: the largest indoor heated pool in Southern California. But you can’t see seals or hear gulls or watch sand dollars sway at the Plunge.

  Gram once heard that brown and black people weren’t welcome to swim there, and she blew her top. She said, “Your grandpa Harry and I had a hard time finding jobs and houses because we were Irish. People shoved and spit at us, and landlords and shopkeepers posted signs saying No Dogs or Irish.” Ever after, she wouldn’t stand for people treating anyone the way she’d been treated. Gram marched and picketed and signed petitions. And just in case the rumors were true, she boycotted the Plunge. And I boycotted the Plunge because Gram did.

  I floated gently, thinking of Gram. Why did she die when I needed her? How could she just leave me? If she were here today, we’d be eating red licorice and listening to Frank Sinatra and making pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. Macushla, she’d call me, and she’d brush my hair a hundred strokes with her silver hairbrush. “Harry,” she told me, “gave me this brush on our wedding day. And when I go to join him, it will be yours.”

  I fancied that brush, but when Gram died and the brush came to me, there was no joy in it. It sits unused in my underwear drawer. I’d a million times rather have Gram than a thousand thousand thousand silver brushes. I dived down in the water so you couldn’t tell my tears from bay water.

  The seal swam off, so I did, too. I’d left a shovel and a pail of water on the shore. I was going to dig for clams. That was another magical thing about the bay. You didn’t have to go to the butcher or the market for everything. Things to eat were all around, in the water, the mud, the sand, even if most of them were perch.

  Once Pop and I used to dig for clams together. We had so much fun. No fun today, but at least I could imagine Mama’s surprise when I show up with clams for dinner without being told.

  Clamming was hard work, but unlike abalone fishing, there was no risk of my being swept out to sea. I stuck the shovel into the mud over and over until I hit what felt like a rock. Then I dug furiously around it until I could grab the clam and drop it into the bucket. Phew. One. It was a good size, so only ten or so more and we’d have enough for clam fritters, if we have eggs. Or to mix with spaghetti, parsley, lemon, and a little butter, if we have butter. Yum. The very thought of settling for fried perch kept me digging until my arms ached and the scratchy, prickly feeling of the salt drying on my skin sent me home for lunch. I put the clams in a bucket with fresh water so they’d spit out any sand and we could eat them without grinding our teeth down.

  “I have a bucket of clams outside, Mama,” I said, washing th
e sand off my hands. “We could have them for dinner.”

  Handing me a sandwich, Mama said, “Fine, but your pop went fishing with Otto Lempke this morning and brought home a beautiful flounder. We’ll eat it while it’s fresh and have your clams tomorrow.”

  Christopher Columbus! Here I do something special to please Mama and that’s all she says. Fine. Where’s a hug and a Thank you, Millie. And flounder? Flat, flaky white fish. Just a big perch.

  “I want you to spend some time with Lily,” Mama said.

  I nearly choked on my sandwich. “Why?”

  “Because she’s your sister.”

  “Isn’t that punishment enough for me? Do I have to hang around with her, too? Rosie and I were going to look for—”

  “Mildred McGonigle, shame on you. Lily loves you and looks up to you. Be nice to her. Take her for a walk. Build a sand castle. Play in the water. Be a big sister.”

  I opened my mouth to argue but Mama said, “Do it! Be sure to watch over her and come right home if she gets cold or tired. And don’t let her get sunburned. You know how pale and delicate she is.”

  I grabbed a towel and a book. Lily was waiting outside, in her bright green playsuit and sun hat, her yellow hair tied in two bunches over her ears. She was all smiley and eager and I might have thought she was cute if she were someone else’s sister.

  “Come on, you pill. If I have to do this, let’s do it.”

  Lily picked up her little pail and shovel. She scurried to keep up with me. “Why don’t you like me?”

  “Because you’re a pill.”

  “Pete’s a pill sometimes and you like him.”

  “Pete’s a lovable pill who doesn’t whine and snivel.”

  Lily snuffled. “Am I not lovable?”

  “C’mon, Lily. Mama loves you. She loves you best.” I picked up a stone and skipped it into the water with all my might. “Isn’t that enough?”

  More snuffles from Lily. “No. I want you to like me, Millie.”

  I sighed. Holy cow. I guessed it wasn’t her fault she was Mama’s favorite. I took her hand. “I like you okay, Lily, most of the time. You’re my little sister.”