The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place

  The girls looked at each other and then sat back without saying a word, ready to listen to Jake’s next tale. After all, this was all about them.

  Again he addressed Berkeley. “Was that Pap Harris’s Water-Skiing Camp you attended the year before last?” Berkeley nodded. “Did you forget to tell B-Cup over here,” he said, looking straight at Kaitlin, “that she should never stuff into the drain the T-shirts of the girl you want to accuse? It’s a dead giveaway that she did not do it. There’s a better trick to stopping up shower drains, but I don’t want to take the time now to educate you.” He smiled. Then, looking at Stacey, he said, “And, Dolly, you really should not attempt to do dirty tricks until you know left from right. It might prove to be a problem a few years from now, when you learn to drive.”

  Then Kaitlin looked at Stacey. “We had all agreed it would be the shower on the left. Remember?”

  Stacey was furious. “It depends on where you are. If you’re inside the shower, it was the one on the right.”

  Kaitlin ranted, “Everyone else—everyone but you—understood that it was to be the shower on the left when you face them. Not when you’re in them.”

  “Well now, enough of that,” Jake said. “Do you want me to guess in whose cubby I will find the screwdriver that was used to loosen the drain plate?” He looked from one face to another until he saw Ashley smile. “Could it be Tattoo?” Ashley lifted her chin defiantly. “I know, I know, Ms. Ashley Schwartz, the screwdriver doesn’t really belong to you. You lifted it. I know where it came from, and I know where it is stashed. Once you got rid of Margaret Rose, you weren’t so worried about being caught with it. But I would like to get it back. As soon as we return from our mission will be fine.”

  He said nothing more for a while, allowing their uneasiness to grow. Jake waited until the pink of Ashley’s blush deepened from petal to shocking. “Now,” he said, “shall we talk about sun protection? Even though Berkeley tried hard to convince me that Margaret Rose had made the mess at the foot of her bed, I know she could not have. She was in the infirmary when Heather threw up. Besides, Heather—or should I call you Fringie?—from past experience, I know that at least one girl always comes back from tubing sick. So I hope your back is healed and that you have learned your lesson, for sunblock will be a very important part of your supplies.”

  He looked at each one of them. “Now, listen up. You’ll need to use sunblock, so bring lots of it. And be sure to wear long sleeves. You are to be prepared for exposure to the elements. Remember, good shoes, long pants, sleeves, hats, and sunblock. I’ll take care of the water supply.”

  Ashley popped up and said, “I still say that you can’t do this. It’s not an authorized activity.”

  “I’m going to see to that right now,” Jake said.

  Ashley said, “And I’m going to see Mrs. Kaplan and tell her that you are kidnapping us.” She looked over at Berkeley and said, “You’d better come with me.”

  Berkeley said, “Skip it, Ashley. You heard him. We’re going where he’s taking us. Sit down.”

  Ashley tried one more time. “I’m going. Even if I have to go alone.”

  Jake said, “You are not going anywhere, Tattoo.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “No, you aren’t. Because I am. I’m going to see Tillie myself in a minute. Don’t worry. She’s going to authorize this activity. But first I’ll tell you what you’ll be doing and why you’re going to be very grateful to me that I am giving you this opportunity to do it.”

  Kaitlin asked, “What reason could we possibly have to want to do anything you tell us to?” She folded her arms across her B-cups.

  “Because you—all of you Meadowlarks—need to do something for Margaret Rose Kane instead of doing something to her. And you’re going to thank me for giving you a chance to feel good about yourselves. I think Berkeley thanks me already.”

  The flush of embarrassment that had been fading from Berkeley’s face started to deepen again, this time with the pink of pleasure.

  Ashley sat down. Kaitlin calmed down. And they all listened attentively as Jake showed them pictures of the towers and told them his plan. “Get yourselves ready,” he said, starting out the door. No one moved. He turned and saw the girls welded to their bunks. “Get dressed!” he commanded. “I’ll be back with Tillie in half an hour. Remember, plenty of sunblock. But don’t put it on yet. We have a long drive. I don’t want any sunstroke or throwing up—before, after, or during.”

  As he closed the cabin door, he heard one of the girls say, “Tillie? He called Mrs. Kaplan ‘Tillie.’ Twice. Who do you think he is?”

  Berkeley said, “Her lover. All camp directors have one.”

  Mrs. Kaplan would not be persuaded until Jake told her that if she sanctioned his plan, made it official, she was far less likely to be sued by irate parents than if she did not. She could go along or she could resist, but either way, he was determined to follow through.

  Mrs. Kaplan stared into the middle distance and pursed her lips. She played a game of Truth or Consequences with herself. If she agreed to make the trip “official,” she would be given the chance to oversee the preparations and ensure the safety of the girls, as well as her good reputation. “For the sake of the girls, and as a community service, I’ll do it.”

  “And with all due respect, Mother, in some small way this will compensate Margaret Rose for her having had such a miserable experience at Camp Talequa.”

  “Why did you choose that word—miserable?”

  Jake shrugged. “Seemed accurate.”

  It was on the bus ride between Talequa and Epiphany that Berkeley Sims left her seat, walked to the front of the bus, picked up the microphone that was used for announcements, and began to sing.

  “God save our gracious Queen,

  Long live our noble Queen,

  God save the Queen!”

  She had not reached the end of the first verse before everyone—everyone except Tillie Kaplan, but including Jake, who was driving—joined in. By the time they arrived at 19 Schuyler Place, everyone—everyone except Tillie Kaplan—was in high spirits.

  Phase One, Part B, and Phases Two and Three

  twenty-six

  Even though I was back in my own genuine French provincial-style bed, I was once again convinced that I had not slept a wink until the sound of voices coming from outside awakened me. Before getting out of bed to investigate the voices, which in my half-awakened state I believed to be the men coming back, I studied the unfinished rose on the ceiling of my room. I wondered if Jake would finish it—or even try to—if the towers were no longer here to interest him.

  I glanced at the clock. It was only six thirty. I guessed that the workmen wanted to get an early start since they had been unable to get any real work done the day before. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and twisted my head from side to side to loosen the crick in my neck. The voices were quiet now, and I wondered whether or not I had really heard them, so I went to the window to look out.

  And I saw the most remarkable sight.

  Alicia Silver, Blair Patayani, Ashley Schwartz, Kaitlin Lorenzo, Stacey Mouganis, and Heather Featherstone filed out of the yellow camp bus and stopped by the back gate. Each of them spoke briefly to Jake and then followed his pointing hand to a place on one of the towers. Berkeley Sims was the last through the gate; she headed toward Tower Two, and only seconds later I saw her head and shoulders appear at my window. She saw me, too. She smiled and waved just before her head and shoulders disappeared from the window, and in quick succession her waist, stomach, legs, and feet appeared and just as quickly disappeared. She passed my platform and continued to climb, and finally she sat down on the narrowest rung, just below the clock faces and well above the roof of the house. I had to open the window, lean out, and twist my head to see her.

  I turned away from the window to call my uncles but quickly turned back when I heard the squeal of the bus door. I could hardly believe my eyes. Climbing down the steps of
the bus was no less a person than Herself, Mrs. Tillie Kaplan, owner and director of Camp Talequa.

  She reached back into the bus and removed two six-packs of bottled water. Even from the distance of my bedroom window, I recognized the Evian label. Designer water! From Mrs. Kaplan.

  Mrs. Kaplan said something to Jake that I could not hear. I saw Jake nod, listen, nod again, and then he pointed at me and waved. I jumped back and to the side, out of his line of sight, and called to my uncles. They were at my side in a heartbeat, took one quick look, and started down the steps with Tartufo hard on their heels.

  The three of us made it to the edge of the service porch when we heard Jake roar, “STOP, DON’T TAKE ANOTHER STEP!”

  We stopped on command.

  Jake shouted, “Don’t come here. The court has issued an injunction. You are not allowed in here. Don’t risk it. If you try to stop the demolition now, you will be held in contempt of court. Don’t tempt them into arresting you.” He stopped, smiled directly at me, and added, “Again.”

  Mrs. Kaplan stepped forward. “We have a plan,” she said.

  Uncle Alex asked, “We?”

  Mrs. Kaplan nodded, then swept her hand in the direction of the girls sitting in the towers. Three of them waved and greeted me with “Hi, Margaret.”

  Uncle Morris asked Mrs. Kaplan, “And who, may I ask, are you?”

  “I am the director,” she replied.

  “Director? Of what?”

  Any one of us could have answered that question, but not one of us got a chance to, for we heard the back gate swing open as Tony came into the Tower Garden, and Tartufo, paying no attention to court orders, lunged at Tony, and Tony yelled at me, “Leash that animal.”

  I replied, “I’m not allowed to set foot in the yard. It’s the law.”

  Jake said, “That’s probably the piece of paper you have in your hand.”

  Tartufo came to Jake’s side, stopped briefly, then, with his eyes and ears forward and his tail skyward, he took a stately walk toward the rear gate, where he lifted his leg and peed.

  From their positions in Towers One, Two, and Three, the Meadowlarks laughed. Tony looked from tower to tower, shielding his eyes with his hand until he spotted Berkeley Sims perched high on Tower Two.

  She waved.

  He spun around and shook a fist at her. “You come down here this minute,” he yelled.

  Berkeley said, “I prefer not to.”

  Tony spun around again and waved his fist in all directions and hollered, “All of you. You cocky little she-brats. All of you, come down here this minute.”

  And in a chorus that was music to my ears, they said, “We prefer not to.” And then they said it again. “We prefer not to.” They said it again. And again.

  And I understood that we. And I loved it.

  The Meadowlarks perched in the towers caused hours of delay, and those cocky little she-brats stopped the demolition.

  twenty-seven

  Late on the previous afternoon, two local television stations and the Epiphany Times had gotten heads-up calls that there might be an interruption to the demolition of the towers at 19 Schuyler Place in Old Town. The newspaper assigned a reporter and a photographer to cover the story the next morning. The Channel 3’s Eyewitness News team sent Holly Blackwell, their newest on-the-scene reporter who sensed a career opportunity.

  On Friday as soon as a television van appeared in front of 19 Schuyler Place, so did a crowd. No one knew where the people came from, for ever since the Greater Comprehensive Redevelopment Plan had designated Schuyler Place as part of Old Town, the streets had been as quiet and dignified as the royal court of England. But television cameras find people or people find them. Either way, the street was jammed with young and old who wanted to wave at the camera. Others worked their way to the front of the line so that Holly could hold the microphone under their chins as they expressed their newly formed but deeply felt opinions of the towers and their fate.

  When monitors at the Channel 5 studio showed that Channel 3’s van was creating as well as capturing the breaking story, the program director of FirstNews sent a mobile unit and two reporters to the scene.

  Jake made a hurried call to Peter Vanderwaal and suggested that he call Loretta Bevilaqua to find out if with her New York connections, she could parlay in-depth coverage from two local stations into coverage on at least one national all-news station. Peter called, and after twice reminding him that she, Loretta Bevilaqua, did not micromanage, she promised to see what she could do.

  All day Friday, into the night, until the sun came up on Saturday, there were never fewer than six Meadowlarks up in the towers and never fewer than two cameras on them.

  Mrs. Kaplan desperately wanted it over with. She wanted her campers back in camp. She needed them there. Sunday was parent-visiting day, and she was terrified that the Meadowlark parents would show up and their daughters would not. And neither would she.

  Saturday, being a slow news day, the story of the sitin at the towers got hot and hotter. The fact that not much was happening elsewhere plus the novelty of the situation in Epiphany—human interest, organized protest, local empowerment, outsider art—gave the national media enough to feed on. They came.

  Peter Vanderwaal presented himself as an authority—which he certainly was—on outsider art, and he was interviewed by one of the national weekend anchors. He sat at the Uncles’ old kitchen table and held up a sheaf of papers that he said were letters of support from art authorities, near and far. Never mind that, at that moment, all the letters had been written but only half of them had actually been signed. He waved the papers, flashed his smile and his diamond earring, and declared, “From Clarion State University right here in Epiphany, New York, to the Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens in California, these towers are being called everything from a national treasure to a historical landmark. To call them masterpieces of outsider art would be an understatement.”

  Holly Blackwell wanted “in-depth coverage,” as she called it, so she interviewed Mrs. Kaplan at length. She asked her what she regarded as her responsibilities toward the girls’ safety versus her commitment to the towers. Mrs. Kaplan answered, “The safety of our Camp Talequa girls is always foremost in our minds. We consider this activity an urban Outward Bound-type learning experience. By halting the destruction of one of our nation’s artistic treasures, this excursion is an experience in social responsibility as well. We teach both art and social responsibility at Camp Talequa. With the limited means we have at our disposal, we have dedicated ourselves to safeguarding these towers.”

  It was sweeps week for the towers.

  By the end of Saturday suburban people who had never seen the towers, never even known of their existence, had an opinion about them.

  DEFY AND OCCUPY was the next day’s headline in the Epiphany Times. And because it was a slow news day, the paper published the entire text of Uncle Alex’s appeal to the city council.

  People magazine sent a photographer, who took pictures of the girls in the towers and told Mrs. Kaplan that the magazine would run the story the following week under the heading, OUTWARD AND UPWARD BOUND FOR ART. Mrs. Kaplan posed at the base of Tower Three, with two of the girls (Heather and Berkeley) visible. She smiled at the camera and for the cameraman. Jake’s picture was not there at all. Neither was mine or the Uncles’.

  CNBS, the national all-news cable channel, put Peter’s interview on what they called a “loop,” so that at least once every two hours, he got prime-time coverage. Of course, he was convincing. And adorable. In the week that followed, he got three marriage proposals and inquiries about job possibilities from fourteen recent art history graduates. He loved all the fame and fortune except for the marriage proposals. They depressed him.

  Ever on the lookout for a way to outbroadcast the national broadcasters and to keep the story going, Holly Blackwell pursued City Hall for background on the story. Her many attempts to reach the mayor were unsuccessful. He
was in South Carolina attending the National Mayoral Conference at the Hilton Head Golf and Country Club and was unavailable. His spokesperson said that the mayor would not have a statement until Monday, and, of course, there would be no demolition until he returned and had an opportunity to review both sides of the issue.

  And that was time enough to stall.

  And time enough for the Meadowlarks to get back to Talequa for visiting day.

  And that was Phase Two.

  twenty-eight

  With Phases One and Two—STOP and STALL—completed, Loretta Bevilaqua saved the towers, just as she had promised she would.

  Infinitel bought them.

  —Whenever them big shots at Infinitel hear Bevilaqua, they know it means something

  Loretta Bevilaqua knew that the next big thing in the telephone communications business would be wireless—cellular—telephones. Cell phones are little radios that need towers to hold antennas to repeat signals from cell to cell, across a town or a state or from sea to shining sea.

  Loretta Bevilaqua knew that giving the towers a useful purpose would not make them any more welcome in Old Town than they had been when they were useless. She also knew that for her purposes, the towers would function better if they were positioned at an elevation higher than downtown.

  On Loretta Bevilaqua’s recommendation, Infinitel moved the towers to property that the company owned high on a hill above the university campus.

  And them big shots knew that money could not buy the excellent free publicity Infinitel got from CNBS and People magazine.

  twenty-nine

  Uncle Morris drove me to the airport to meet my parents upon their return from Peru.

  I had not seen them for a month, and I was excited. I had a lot to tell them.

  That evening when I went downstairs to join them in the family room before dinner, I hoped to have them all to myself. But sitting on the sofa beside my father was a young woman who had been a graduate student of my mother’s. I looked from my dad to that woman to my mother, and I knew that we would never again be the family we once had been.