“What time is it?”
“This is your grandson, Solly?” asked Martin, the trumpeter.
“What time is it? I have to know.”
“What time? What time?” the parrot squawked.
“He’s late for a date,” one of the musicians said. The others laughed.
Shut up, everybody. Just tell me the time.
Solly pulled out his watch. “Five-fifteen.”
When did everybody wake up? When did Mr. Doom get there?
“I have to go. ’Bye.” The musicians thought this was hilarious, and they started laughing again. Then I remembered that I couldn’t leave without my grandfather. “Let’s go, Grandpa. Hurry.”
Solly put the cards in his pocket. “Another time, gentlemen. I’ll make you fortune-tellers, and you can make a musician out of me, I should be so lucky.”
I tugged Solly through the apartment.
“I’m coming, boychik, I’m coming.”
Hardly anyone was still here. A man was stretched out across four chairs, sleeping. Two men were moving furniture from the hall back into the apartment.
When we got downstairs, I said, “’Bye. I have to go.” If only I could fly—to the HHB and then in a window.
“Not so fast. What kind of grandpa am I if I don’t deliver you to your HHB safe and sound?”
“I’ll be safe,” I said. I couldn’t stand here talking.
“Then maybe I need protection. Which way do we go?”
I pointed at the park. “On the other side of that.”
“Oy! I’ll trip on a root, it’ll be the end of me. Suppose we go around.”
It would take too long. “I’ll be okay. ’Bye.” I took a few steps, then turned. “Thanks.” If I got back into the asylum alive, then it would have been a wonderful night. I started off, and turned back again. I wanted to fix the lie I’d told. “Solly . . . Mr. Gruber—”
“Solly is good. Call me Solly.”
I nodded. “Uh, Solly . . . My real name is Dave Caros, not Rubino. ’Bye.” I turned and ran.
“Daveleh, about Irma Lee’s party—”
I stopped. How could I have forgotten?
“Should I come to your HHB, or what?”
“No—I mean, I can meet you somewhere.”
Solly said we should meet on this corner at eleven.
“All right.” I started to run.
“Wait, boychik.”
At this rate I was never going to get back.
“Here.” Solly pulled a dollar out of his pocket. “Put it with the other one so it shouldn’t be lonely.”
I stood still, amazed. I stared at Solly. He looked like he needed the money more than I did. I swallowed hard. “Thanks!”
And then I really ran. I tripped over a branch and kept running. I made as much noise as a stampeding elephant. I sprang over the low wall and left the park. I bounded across Saint Nicholas Terrace and raced toward the HHB.
All the lights were still off, and the street was quiet. My knees felt weak from relief.
The branch of the tree I’d climbed before arched high above my head. I tried to climb the fence, but I couldn’t get a grip on the iron posts.
The trolley rumbled by half a block away on Broadway. People who worked at the HHB might be getting off. They could arrive any second.
A light winked on in the basement of the asylum.
I was going to get caught.
I backed across the street and into an alley, crashing into an empty ash can. The sound thundered in the silent street. I held my breath. No more lights came on in the HHB.
What about the can? I could stand on it and get a boost up the fence. As quietly as possible, I carried it across the street to the fence and climbed up on it. It started to buckle, then held my weight. But the crossbar was still too high to reach. I lugged the can back to the alley and stood there, thinking.
It was hopeless. I wasn’t going to get in till they opened the front gate. I’d go in side by side with Mr. Doom. He’d do to me what he’d done to Leon. Or worse.
A horse and cart clattered down the street and stopped at the side entrance. I hid behind the ash can. It was the milk delivery for the orphanage.
The milkman climbed down from his perch behind the horses. He went to the back of the cart and lifted out two small wagons. Then he moved to the other side of the cart where I couldn’t see him.
A man, wearing pajamas like mine, came out of the side door of the asylum. He was the man I’d seen in the basement, the janitor. As he came down the path, I heard him humming. The last time he’d been singing.
He stopped humming and said, “I swear you come earlier every day, Pat.” I heard the lock turn and the gate swing open. He disappeared behind the cart where the milkman was.
“Hello, Ed. It’s high time you were up and looking after the little brats.”
“I’m the janitor. I don’t look after anybody.”
Could I sneak by them?
If I couldn’t see them because the cart was in the way, they couldn’t see me. It was my only chance. I darted across the street and crouched on my side of the cart. The horse shuffled a step and shook its head. This was it. The horse had given me away.
No, it was ordinary horse behavior. The milkman didn’t come around to investigate.
“Did your cousin get a radio?”
“He did.” The milkman laughed. “At least a hundred people packed into his room to hear the thing wheeze and crackle . . . Careful, there . . . That’s it, then.”
The milkman was going to drive away, leaving me staring at Ed!
“Let’s go.”
I watched their feet from under the cart. They wheeled the milk down the path to the asylum, leaving the gate open behind them. They disappeared into the basement entrance. I ran through the gate and started for the front door. Then I stopped. The milkman could come out any second and see me. I rushed back to hide in the bushes that lined the fence. At least I was inside.
I waited. A light came on in a window on the fourth floor. Any second they’d ring a wake-up bell.
Finally the milkman came out. A minute later he was clopping down the street and I was dashing toward the front door.
I prayed for it to still be open. I pounded up the steps. My hand stopped an inch from the doorknob. Mr. Doom could be in there, waiting.
I turned the doorknob. The door was open. Mazel tov, like the parrot said. Congratulations. I inched the door open. The lobby was dark. I stepped inside.
Somebody grabbed my arm and slammed the door.
“Gotcha!”
Chapter 14
“STINKING KID—COULD have gotten me fired. If I hadn’t seen you through the window . . .” It was Mr. Meltzer. He pulled me to the stairs, squeezing my arm so tight my fingers tingled. At least it wasn’t Mr. Doom. Mike said Mr. Meltzer didn’t hit.
“Bloom will kill you,” he growled. “Serves you right. I’d like to kill you myself.”
He was taking me to Mr. Doom! “I didn’t do anything. I just took a walk.” My heart banged around crazily.
He pulled me up the stairs and half-dragged me to the elevens’ room. So he wasn’t taking me to Mr. Doom after all. Thank you, Mr. Meltzer. Outside the door he stopped. “What’s this?” He tugged on Solly’s tie.
I’d forgotten all about it. “It’s my grandfather’s.”
Mr. Meltzer untied it and stuffed it into his pocket. He opened the door to the room, which was dim in the almost-dawn. Everybody was still asleep. One of Mike’s legs stuck out past the edge of the bed. It shook.
The bell clanged. They all sat up and started to make their beds. Nobody rolled over to get another minute of sleep. They were too well behaved. Or too scared.
“Get moving, all of you. Hurry up,” Mr. Meltzer yelled. “Make your beds and line up for showers.” He turned to me. “I’ll take you to Mr. Bloom after breakfast.”
He was taking me! My heart started banging again.
Everybody heard. Kids moved out o
f my way as I walked to my bed. I felt how comfortably my legs moved, how my arms swung at my side. After Mr. Doom was through with me, would someone have to carry me?
I followed everybody to the showers. Kids ahead of me stumbled because they were staring at me instead of looking where they were going.
“Stop looking at me!” I was going to be fine. What I’d done wasn’t so bad. I had come back, hadn’t I?
“What did you do?” Mike bounced up and down next to me.
“I snuck out.”
“It’s been nice knowing you.”
Mr. Meltzer stood over me during breakfast. That meant Moe couldn’t eat my food, even though he was next to me as usual. But it was a waste, because I wasn’t hungry.
The bell rang. Breakfast was over.
Mr. Meltzer put his hand on my shoulder. “You stay.”
“Here, kid,” Moe said. “My lucky penny. It’ll protect you.”
I took it. It couldn’t hurt.
“But don’t spend it,” he added. “I want it back.”
“Dave,” Mike said. “You need your strength.” He handed me something and slapped my arm. “Good luck.”
He’d given me half a roll. I ate it while everybody filed out of the basement. I could tell Mr. Doom I’d gone home last night because my brother was sick. Or I’d pretend I was a sleepwalker, and as soon as I realized I was outside the Home, I hurried back—because I knew it was against the rules, and I hated kids who broke rules. If he didn’t believe me, I’d get away from him. He was big. He’d be slow. I’d outrun him.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Meltzer said.
I didn’t move.
He yanked me up by my jacket. “Come on.” He pulled me toward the stairs.
I made myself as heavy as I could. On the stairs, I latched on to the banister, even though I knew it was cowardly.
Mr. Meltzer pried my hand loose. “Don’t make me carry you.”
I didn’t want him to carry me in to Mr. Doom. I stopped fighting him.
He knocked on the door of Mr. Doom’s office. Then he held me by the elbow, and we stepped inside.
“The new boy, Dave Caros. I caught him trying to run away.”
That was a lie! He caught me coming back.
“Sit down, son,” Mr. Doom rumbled.
I sat. Mr. Meltzer left and closed the door behind him.
“I wasn’t running away. I was just—”
Mr. Doom’s face reddened. “Did I ask you a question?”
“No, but . . .”
He reached for his yardstick.
“Sir. No, sir.”
His voice went back to a rumble. “I think we should have a chat. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir. I agree, sir.”
He leaned back in his seat. “Mrs. Bloom and I love the finer things in life, the theater, concerts.” He rumbled a chuckle. “Mrs. Bloom’s little hobby is following the doings of high society.”
What was he talking about? But keep yapping, and stay away from that yardstick.
“So one might wonder at my choice of vocation. I admit it’s a sacrifice, but someone has to do the dirty work. Someone has to take in children like you.” He straightened his spectacles. “Otherwise, you’d have nowhere to go. However, it’s like putting a rattlesnake to your bosom.”
Bosom! I didn’t even want to laugh.
“Snakes bite, and chances are you’ll be bitten. What else can you expect from paupers and orphans?” He shook his huge head sadly. “But in a civilized society . . .”
This was like a Mr. Cluck lecture about how hard we were to teach. I settled back in the leather chair. I was still scared, but I could see I wasn’t in danger this second.
He droned on about how much he’d improved the HHB. I looked around the office again. We should have electric fires in our rooms. I looked at the knickknack case.
“You’re a typical orphan. I see . . .”
My eyes snapped to Mr. Doom and then back to the knickknacks. Papa’s carving was there! On the second shelf, next to a china donkey.
“Your father was an indigent, a bum. Your stepmother—”
“At least my papa wasn’t a thief,” I blurted out.
Mr. Doom’s face got so red it glowed. He reached for the yardstick. His spectacles slipped sideways. He looked crazy. I should have run. But instead, I went for the carving.
I didn’t reach it. The flat side of the yardstick smashed into my shoulder and threw me against his desk.
“Thief!” he yelled. “You call me . . .”
He hit me again. The edge of the stick tore across my neck and the end cut into my cheek and ear. Drops of blood fell onto the carpet.
I think I screamed. I ran to put the desk between us. He came after me.
“Your papa!” he hollered. “You compare . . .” The yardstick caught me in the chest. I staggered back. My head hit the corner of the desk.
For a second everything went black. When I opened my eyes, he was standing over me with the yardstick raised over his head. And I realized—he didn’t care what he did to me.
Chapter 15
I SCRAMBLED AWAY. The blow got me on my calf. Mr. Doom raised the yardstick. I twisted. The stick broke on the desk. He threw his half aside—clenched his fist—came after me.
“I’ll show you . . .”
One punch—I’d be dead. He wouldn’t care. He was blocking the door. I couldn’t get out.
“Help!” I screamed. “Papa!”
No help—no Papa. He swung. I ducked. His fist grazed my forehead. My ears rang.
Soon he’d catch me. Nobody would save me.
He swung. I ducked. Missed. Reached for me with his other hand. Missed. I had to get away. Couldn’t. Maybe . . .
Climbed onto his desk. Might get around him.
He bellowed. “Filthy feet . . .” Lunged at me.
Nowhere to go. Back, I’d fall. Stumbled forward.
He lurched—clutched at me—pulled me in. He had me!
Face—inches away—red—mouth open—sweaty skin—crooked glasses.
Grabbed them! Grabbed his specs—held them tight.
“What—where—” One arm let me go. Roar. “My spec—” Roar. “Give me—” Other arm had me.
I squirmed—yanked—twisted—got free! Got free!
“Where—” Roar. “You’d better—” Roar.
Crossed the desktop. Jumped off. Papa’s carving—knickknack cabinet—rushed at it.
“Come—” Roar. “Wait till—” Swung his arms—trying to find me.
Cabinet locked! I pulled at it. Things rattled. Locked.
Feeling his way around the desk—opening a drawer. Extra glasses!
Run! Go! I dropped his spectacles and ran.
Mr. Meltzer—outside the door. “Come on.” He took my arm. I pulled away—shut the office door. He took my arm again.
Inside—did he find his glasses? Was he coming?
Mr. Meltzer led me to a staircase. I kept looking back. Was he coming?
On the stairs I made it up three steps and then stopped. I couldn’t go any farther. Mr. Meltzer waited. I should keep going. The stairwell door could open, and Mr. Doom could be there.
“I didn’t . . .” Mr. Meltzer’s voice was softer than usual, less bark in it. He was frowning. He always frowned. He coughed. “You shouldn’t have run away.” Same old voice.
I didn’t run away. I came back, didn’t I?
But I would escape. I’d sworn it. I would escape.
My knee trembled even though he hadn’t hit me there. I couldn’t make it stop.
“Ready?”
I looked up at the next landing. I took a step, then another, then another. We went to the infirmary. When she saw me, the nurse said, “Bloom?”
Mr. Meltzer said, “He tried to run away.”
“Smart kid.”
Mr. Meltzer didn’t answer. He left, and the nurse said Mr. Doom wouldn’t come after me there.
“If I didn’t need this job,” she said, da
bbing at my cheek with a soapy washcloth, “I’d . . .”
She didn’t finish the sentence. The soap stung. But the ice she put on my forehead felt good. When she cleaned off the cut on my leg, she said she had to call a doctor.
While she gave the doctor’s telephone number to the operator, I started to cry. Not because of Mr. Doom. Because the nurse was so nice. Pretty stupid to cry because somebody was nice.
The cut on my neck wasn’t so bad, and the nurse was able to bandage it up herself. My ear and cheek didn’t even need bandages. The bump on my forehead throbbed, but it wasn’t bleeding, so it only got ice. When the doctor came, he sewed up the cut on my leg—four stitches. He asked where the other boy was, the one I’d fought. The nurse said she didn’t know. For a second, I thought about telling him who beat me up. But if I did, and Mr. Doom found out, he’d finish killing me. The doctor said it was terrible how the older boys picked on the younger ones.
After the doctor left, the nurse made me stay in the infirmary. That was good—I was safe there. Sometimes I dozed, sometimes I watched her. Sometimes I touched my forehead or one of the bandages, and she’d tell me to leave them alone. But mostly I kept my eyes closed and went over the fight—especially the moment when I knew Mr. Doom didn’t care what he did to me. I went over and over the moments before he hit me, when I knew he would. Flinching, trying to get away, not knowing how bad it would be.
Nobody had rescued me. I’d rescued myself. I remembered taking his glasses—the sweat on his forehead, the glossy, slick feel of his nose. I thought of what Gideon had said when he left for Chicago, that I’d be all right. And I was. If Gideon had been in that office instead of me, he’d be dead.
But Gideon wouldn’t have been there. He wouldn’t have had the guts to sneak out of the asylum in the first place. He would have let Mr. Doom get away with stealing Papa’s carving.
Don’t think about Gideon or Papa. Think about how to rescue yourself. How to rescue the carving and then yourself.
Mr. Doom kept his office locked when he wasn’t there. Plus the cabinet was locked. Breaking the glass in the cabinet door wouldn’t do any good. The panes were too small, separated by wooden latticing that the carving wouldn’t fit through. I needed the key.
If I had dynamite, I’d sneak downstairs late at night and light it. The door to his office would blow in, and I’d step inside. I’d open the top drawer of his desk. The key to the cabinet would be there. I’d snatch the carving just as a gang of prefects thundered downstairs. I’d race outside and run to the oak tree and climb over. Then I’d run and never look back.