Lily's Crossing

  Albert was in front of her now, almost babbling as he pointed down into the clear green water. She took a step toward the edge, looking down too. She saw threads of sea grass floating under the surface, and then the bulging bag, almost out of sight, as it sank to the bottom.

  “It is a cot,” Albert said. “A cot.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too small for a . . .” She drew in her breath. A cat. He meant a cat. She was in the water in an instant, rolling over the side instead of diving, not sure of the depth. It was over her head, much deeper than she would have guessed, maybe seven or eight feet. The water bubbled above her, sunlit at first, and then darker. She turned, and kicked with her feet, her arms out, reaching, reaching . . .

  And felt the edge of it, the paper bag shredding away in her fingers. Then, a miracle, the kitten was in her hands.

  She kicked up with it, and broke the surface. It was still, unmoving, a sodden reddish mass, as Albert, hanging half off the pier, took it from her.

  She swam around to the steps the fisherman used to clean their catch, and pulled herself up.

  Albert was standing in the middle of the dock now, wrapping the kitten in the edge of his shirt. She moved toward him, her clothes heavy and dripping, her sneakers filled with so much water it was hard to move. “Don’t let her lie still,” she said. “Keep her moving.”

  When she reached him, she grabbed his wrist, shaking his hands, and the cat with them. “More,” she told him. She dug the cat out of the end of his shirt and kneaded the fur, holding her head down, until at last she coughed and sneezed.

  “She is alive,” Albert said. They looked at each other, smiling. How blue his eyes are, she thought, and when he smiled she really liked his face. He looked like another person, almost like a friend.

  But he smiled for only a moment. He took the cat from her, rubbing her fur with his shirt, drying it, and looking around. “That boy,” he said. “I saw him put the cat in the bag—” He broke off. “I have to make her warm,” he said. “I have to dry her.”

  She nodded. Gram would probably never let her keep a cat, and Mrs. Orban had never had a pet that she knew about. If only Mrs. Dillon were still there.

  Margaret’s house, she thought. “I know,” she told Albert. “I’ll show you.”

  It took ten minutes to get back to Margaret’s house. They walked slowly, stopping every few minutes to make sure the cat was breathing. She was curled into a ball, still damp, under Albert’s shirt.

  Lily led the way around the back. “I know it looks as if no one lives here,” she said, “but I have the key, and it really isn’t trespassing.”

  “Trespassing?” He said it after her as if the word had a million s’s. “Funny word.”

  “It means—” she began, and broke off. How could she explain? Besides, they had to be quiet. She held one finger up to her mouth and reached for the key around her neck. She pulled him inside and shut the door quickly behind them.

  “Why?” he asked, whispering.

  She raised her shoulders, thinking about how to tell him. “It’s the war,” she began. “The people are gone now.”

  She saw his eyes, blue in the dim light, sad maybe, or frightened. “Like Budapest,” he said.

  Lily shook her head a little. “Margaret . . . that’s the girl, said I could. Gave me the key. I’m being careful.”

  She looked at the winter shutters tight over the windows, and breathed in, trying not to cry over the cat, or her father, or Margaret’s being gone.

  “Hot,” Albert said.

  Lily shook her head, and then she realized how wet she was, the ends of her hair still dripping.

  Albert was frowning. “She is too little for food,” he said slowly. “She needs milk,” and, even more slowly, “She needs her mother.”

  Lily nodded, a quick flash in her mind of the stars on her ceiling and her own mother. Then she sat back on her heels. Albert was right. The kitten needed milk. She thought about going for it. She’d have to walk all the way to the bay side and sneak past Gram to take a bottle out of the refrigerator.

  No. The tan purse. She could run down to Milton at the grocery store. She slapped her pocket. The purse was gone. Of course, it was in the water. All the money she had saved for all the cookies this summer, and the movies, and it was gone. All those months of saving. But Margaret’s letter was still in her pocket. She could feel it, almost as wet as the cat. How could she ever read it? She took it out slowly, carefully, and spread it on the counter to dry.

  “I will get milk.” Albert reached for the back door. “Do not worry,” he said, but it sounded like werry.

  He was as careful as she would have been, opening the door less than an inch, peering out, then pushing it all the way. A moment later, the door closed gently, and he was gone.

  Where was he going? To Mrs. Orban’s? To Milton’s? He had certainly learned to find his way around quickly.

  The cat mewed. On the kitchen floor she was a shadow, so puny she could be only a few weeks old. Poor little thing. Lily could have cried looking at her. She scooped her up, her face a striped pansy, her ears tiny tags of orange. “Coming,” Lily said, “milk is coming. Don’t werry.”

  She wandered down the hall with the cat in her arms, running her hand over her back, feeling the knobs of her bony spine. The first door was to Eddie’s bedroom. She pushed it open with one finger. It was a little lighter in there, the shutters not as tight against the windows.

  She remembered when they were about seven, she and Margaret had sneaked in to steal enough money for a sticky bun each at Mrs. Sherman’s. Eddie had caught them, and Margaret, fresh as paint Gram would say, told him what they were doing. He had dug into his pocket for a dime and tossed it toward Lily in a silvery arc.

  She had reached out, and somehow it had landed in her outstretched hands. She remembered Eddie smiling, his teeth over his bottom lip, his eyes crinkling. “Nice catch.”

  It was hot in the bedroom, stifling. She had to get out of there. She went back into the kitchen, feeling the flutter of the kitten’s heartbeat.

  Margaret’s letter. She went over to the counter and angled it so a shaft of light ran across the envelope from end to end. She ran her finger lightly over the mess of Margaret’s handwriting, the return address, DETROIT, MICHIGAN. And even though it had been in the water, Lily could still see a smear of chocolate on the flap. One more candy bar that would never get to Eddie in Europe.

  She sank down on the floor with the letter, the kitten in her lap. The envelope opened easily and the letter came out, damp but still readable.

  Dear Lily,

  There is no ocean here at Willow Run, no paint on the houses. They go together in a row and you can hear people talking and fighting and even going to the bathroom. The houses were just slapped up because thousands of people have come here to make the bombers. My father took me in to see. The factory is a mile long. Everyone just makes one little piece that they fit together until the B-24 is finished. My father says they build a bomber every 103 minutes. I hate the whole thing. How is the attic? Did you find the red candy?

  Margaret

  Lily shifted on the floor, peeling her sweaty legs off the linoleum, thinking about Margaret so far away. Margaret without an ocean, without Rockaway. She wondered what Margaret would think about Albert.

  Lily leaned over the kitten. “Albert likes cats,” she said. “That’s something.”

  Then he was back, a milk bottle in his hands, enough milk for ten cats the size of this one.

  “Now.” Lily put the cat back on the counter and took the bottle from Albert. She ran her finger under the paper top, popping it up. She tried not to look at the yellow cream just underneath. She’d gag if she saw it. She had to dig it out, though. It might be too thick for the kitten to swallow.

  She opened a kitchen drawer, found a spoon, and skimmed off the cream, swallowing hard. She dropped it, spoon and all, into the sink.

  “What are you doing?” He took the spoon
and sucked the cream that was left.

  She began to gag.

  “What is the matter?” He turned the spoon over and ran his tongue over the back.

  “Nothing.” She handed him the bottle and let him take the last of the cream. A little stayed on his lower lip, a small yellow fish.

  She was going to vomit right now. “Wipe your mouth,” she told him. She breathed in as he ran the back of his arm over his face, trying to think about chocolate, red LifeSavers, and cookies with jelly in the middle.

  “My sister, Ruth, loves cream,” he said.

  Lily looked up, but the cat was standing on the countertop, one paw out, ready to sail into the air.

  “Watch out,” she said, and he dived for the kitten and caught her. Then Lily rummaged around for a small round bowl and poured in some of the milk.

  For a moment the kitten didn’t seem to notice the bowl in front of her. Then at last she turned her head and began to lap at it with her rough little tongue. They watched her until she sat back and her blue-green eyes began to close, and they could hear her begin to purr.

  “What are we going to do with her?” Lily asked. “I don’t think Gram . . .”

  Albert was nodding, looking down at the cat. “Could we keep her here?”

  Lily had thought of that too. Mrs. Dillon loved cats. She’d hate it that someone had tried to drown a kitten.

  “I have the key,” she said, almost to herself.

  “If you will lend it to me,” he said, “I will feed the cat myself. You don’t have to bother. I will be very careful.”

  “There’s a place in the back,” she said, “under the edge of the steps. The Dillons left their key there sometimes. I guess . . .” She felt so disappointed, she could hardly finish. He didn’t want to be friends. He could have said We can feed her together, or even We can take turns.

  Albert patted the cat’s head gently, then took a towel that was still looped over a hook. He made it into a little bed in the corner. There were newspapers there too, and tore them into strips for the cat’s litter, as Lily itched.

  She wanted to say, “It’s my cat too.” She wanted to say, “I was the one who saved her.” She didn’t, though.

  When Albert was finished, she opened the door and, knowing he was watching, went to the back to wedge the key behind the rock.

  She started for home without saying goodbye. It was lunchtime anyway. Never mind that Albert didn’t want to be friends. After lunch she’d take her library book, The Three Musketeers, out in the boat with a pillow . . . the musketeers, who were in France like Albert’s sister. Yes, that’s what she’d do. Too bad about being friends. She’d read for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter 11

  The church bells were ringing. Six o’clock on a Wednesday night, the end of July. Everyone was gathering up pails and wet towels, and pulling umbrellas across the beach. She couldn’t wait until the last family dragged itself off the boardwalk toward the Cross Bay buses. She couldn’t wait until the beach belonged to her.

  Gram had packed her a supper, Spam on a roll with a tomato from Mrs. Colgan’s Victory garden, three or four celery sticks, and a bottle of orange juice.

  Lily sat as close to the water as she could get without getting soaked. The tide was high. The waves washed in, then sucked everything back out, shells, and sand, and bits of seaweed. She thought about listening to Portia Faces Life with Gram this afternoon. Walter was in a rowboat now, waiting to find an American ship to pick him up. Lily looked out at the water, thinking about Poppy. He’d be on a ship one of these days, maybe even today, crossing the Atlantic, passing Rockaway. She shaded her eyes, watching a lone swimmer in the surf.

  She sat up straight. Who was that?

  Albert.

  He wasn’t out far. He was swimming along in a line next to the beach.

  He wasn’t swimming, though. He pulled himself to his feet, then threw himself down to take a couple of strokes before disappearing under the water. A moment later he is up, sputtering, to start the whole thing over. If a lifeguard had been on the beach, he’d have been out after Albert in two seconds.

  Lily stood up. Albert was trying to teach himself how to swim.

  He wasn’t paying one bit of attention to the water. He wasn’t trying to be part of it, to float along with it. He was fighting it, arms slapping, head sticking up like a tennis ball.

  She wouldn’t be able to eat her Spam in peace; she’d have to watch him every minute.

  Albert was going to kill himself.

  Yes, there it was, a giant of a wave. She could see it swelling, way out but moving toward him, picking up speed.

  She looked toward Albert. Under. Tennis ball head shooting up. An arm out over his head, fingers wide apart.

  She stood up, trying to see how much time he had. She cupped her hands over her mouth, shouting. He couldn’t hear her, probably couldn’t see her.

  She took a step toward him. Then she was running, throwing herself into the icy coldness, slicing into the water, swimming diagonally.

  Of course she was too late. The wave curled up high, and she was in the wrong position, just where it arched. It smashed into her, dragging her down, scraping her along the sand. She couldn’t get her breath. The water was in her mouth, her throat, her nose.

  And then she was out of it, coughing up water, arms and legs scratched, lying on foamy sand.

  The last time she had done that she was six years old. Poppy had caught her up in his arms and carried her back to the blanket. He had fed her tiny squares of egg salad crunchy with celery.

  She looked up to see feet. Skinny Albert feet. Bony Albert legs with black-and-blue marks and grains of sand.

  She had forgotten all about him.

  She leaned on her hands to push herself up, then scrambled to her feet.

  Albert reached out. “I thought you were such a good swimmer,” he said.

  As soon as she stopped coughing she was going to drown him herself. She was going to take him by his skinny neck and throw him right back.

  She went back to the blanket and sat on the edge, wiping her face with her hands. Her nose and throat burned. She remembered the bottle of orange juice and ached for it. She knew he had followed her to the blanket, but she didn’t look up.

  She wanted to say she could swim better than anyone she knew. Hadn’t she saved the cat? But she wanted to say more, that the ocean belonged to her, that all winter at home in St. Albans she thought about it moving and rolling and waiting for her to come back.

  “How is the cat?” she said, knowing very well how the cat was. She had spied on Albert going in and out of the use for the last few days. She had let herself in when he was gone. The cat had fluffed up, a soft orange and white. He kept her bed and litter box clean, and the kitchen too.

  “The cat is good,” he said. He was sitting on the other end of the blanket now, dripping. She didn’t know how he had gotten there. He pointed. “Do you see?”

  The end of the jetty, a gray triangular rock. She nodded. “Yes.”

  “If you drew a line straight out, all the way . . .”

  “Europe,” she said.

  He nodded. “Europe.”

  “Want some juice?” she asked, not looking at him.

  He shook his head.

  She took a deep swallow of the juice, feeling it soothe her throat, watching a curl of smoke out on the horizon.

  “A ship,” Albert said, “going to Europe.”

  “No.” She shaded her eyes. “It’s a cutter. Coast Guard, patrolling.” It felt good to let him know she knew something, knew more than he did.

  She took another sip from the bottle.

  “My aunt said you can see the ships from here.”

  “They form a convoy way out,” she said, and pointed. “But some of them come from Brooklyn. The destroyers, the carriers, sometimes the tankers. You can see them at night if you watch long enough.”

  “Going to Europe,” Albert said.

  She nodded.
“Going to win the war for us, going to blast the Nazis right out of the water.”

  “And your father is going . . .”

  Later, when she thought about it, she couldn’t imagine saying what she had, it was just that she had been thinking of Portia Faces Life, and Poppy crossing out there almost in front of her, and Albert saying, “I thought you were such a good swimmer.”

  “I’m going too,” was what she said. “At night. I’m going to row right out, and swim the last bit. I’ll have a rubber bag with dry clothes.” It sounded wonderful, and she could see he was listening. He wasn’t thinking of her as a silly kid, wearing Gertz lipstick, spying around. “I’m going to take a ship to my father, no one will stop to take me back to Brooklyn, there’s a war on, you know . . .” Talking and talking, making up lies as she went along, and Albert, leaning forward . . .

  “You could do that?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She stared at the cutter angling its way west toward Brooklyn until all she could see was a curl of smoke on the horizon. And then, just for a moment, it almost seemed possible. She could see herself reaching the troop ship, climbing aboard, and sailing to Europe to find Poppy.

  “And you can see those ships at night?” He took a breath. “Would you take me out to see them? Would you take me out tonight?”

  She put the empty bottle back in her bag and started to roll up her towel. “All right,” she said, not quite looking him.

  He stood up. “I am going to the house. I will feed my cat. You will come to my porch at eleven?”

  He started across the sand, not waiting for an answer.

  She sat there a minute longer, her heart pounding, thinking that this was truly the worst lie she had ever told.

  Chapter 12

  They couldn’t watch for ships that night after all. Mr. Colgan had borrowed Gram’s rowboat for night crabbing, and Mr. Orban was caulking the bottom of his.

  “Want to go to the movie instead?” Lily asked Albert when she caught up with him on the Orbans’ porch.