As Ever, Gordy

  As Ever, Gordy

  Mary Downing Hahn

  * * *

  MARY DOWNING HAHN is the author of many popular books for young readers, including two previous books about Gordy: Stepping on the Cracks, recipient of the 1992 Scott O'Dell Award for Historical Fiction, and Following My Own Footsteps. Other recent Avon books include The Gentleman Outlaw and me—Eli and Look for Me by Moonlight. She has won more than thirty state awards for her work, most recently nine awards for Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story. Ms. Hahn lives in Columbia, Maryland.

  * * *

  AN AVON CAMELOT BOOK

  * * *

  AVON BOOKS. INC.

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New Yak, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1998 by Mary Downing Hahn

  Reprinted by special arrangement with Clarion Books,

  an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Co.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 7-18913

  ISBN: 0-380-73206-8

  www.avonbooks.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof

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  information address Clarion Books, an imprint of Honghton Mifflin Company, 215

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  First Avon Camelot Printing: March 2000

  CAMELOT TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT OFF AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES. MARCA REGISTRADA,

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  OPM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that

  this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed"

  to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received

  any payment for this "stripped book."

  * * *

  For all the College Park kids,

  especially Ann, Connie, and Jack

  1

  JUST ABOUT THE TIME I THOUGHT MY LIFE WAS GOING pretty well, something happened that changed everything. I should have seen it coming, sensed it in the air the way you smell smoke before you see fire, but I had no inkling. None at all.

  As a matter of fact, when the news came, I was in English class, staring out the window as if I had forever to sit there studying clouds. Mr. Isaacson stood at the blackboard, showing us how to diagram sentences. Like most grammar lessons, it bored me to death, but not my friend William. He wrote down everything Mr. Isaacson said. That's how William was—too smart for his own good. Later I'd copy his notes, but I had better things to think about now—the way Nancy Jean Allen's hair curled on the back of her neck, the Friday basketball game, the war movie I hoped to see at the Palace on Saturday, maybe with Nancy Jean.

  Just as Mr. Isaacson fit a participle into the diagram, someone knocked on the door. Like everybody else, I stopped what I was doing and watched Mr. Isaacson go into a huddle with the school secretary. Suddenly they both stared right at me. A couple of kids noticed. William turned around in his seat, a worried look on his face, but Billy Brown grinned and ran a finger across his throat. The whole class, including me, thought I was in trouble. But for the life of me, I couldn't think of a single bad thing I'd done recently.

  "Gordy," Mr. Isaacson said, "you'd better get your books and go to the office with Miss Spurles."

  It wasn't what he said that scared me but the way he said it. His voice was soft and low, not a speck of anger in it, and his face was sorrowful. The whole class watched me stand up. Nobody was grinning now. Like me, they knew this was serious business.

  I walked down the hall beside Miss Spurles, wanting to ask her what was wrong but too scared to open my mouth. Suppose June had been hit by a car on her way to school? Suppose my big brother Donny had wrecked that old jalopy he was so proud of? Worst of all, suppose my father was waiting in the principal's office, come all the way from California to tell me Mama was sick and needed me?

  At the door to Mr. Nelson's office. Miss Spurles paused and laid her hand on my shoulder. "I'm afraid it's bad news, Gordy," she said in a low voice. "And I want you to know I'm real sorry about it."

  I nodded and swallowed hard. Mr. Nelson was standing behind his desk, looking at me with sad eyes like everyone else. Slowly I walked a little closer and stopped in front of him, dreading to hear what he had to say. At least the old man wasn't anywhere in sight.

  Mr. Nelson cleared his throat, like he'd lost his voice and was trying to find it. "Gordy," he said, "I got a call from your neighbor a few minutes ago." He paused to clear his throat again. "Mrs. Sullivan told me your grandmother was taken to the hospital this morning. A heart attack, she said."

  For all the sense I could make of what Mr. Nelson was saying, he might as well have been speaking German or Italian. Strange as it sounds, I'd never once thought the bad news had anything to do with Grandma.

  "There must be some mistake," I said, swallowing the cold lump in my throat. "Grandma was fine when I left for school, she couldn't have had a heart attack, she's as strong as horse, she, she—why, she—"

  My voice ran on and on all by itself. I swear my brain had shut down like I'd thrown a switch or blown a fuse.

  When I finally stopped babbling, Mr. Nelson said, "Your brother Donny is on his way to get you. He should be here any minute now." He cleared his throat again. "I'm truly sorry, Gordy. Mrs. Aitcheson was a fine woman. We taught together for many years before she retired. I admired her more than I can say."

  Though it worried me, I didn't dare ask Mr. Nelson why he'd said Grandma was a fine woman. I'd convinced myself Grandma was in the hospital but not too bad off. Soon she'd be home. In the meantime, I'd look after June and keep the house tidy. Maybe I'd buy Grandma some flowers or candy. Chocolates were her biggest weakness—once she started eating them, she just couldn't stop. I figured I had enough allowance left to get her a big fancy box of her favorites.

  I was thinking about the chocolates when Donny showed up. Slinging one arm around my shoulders, he gave me a fast hug, something he never did, and hustled me out of school.

  "Hurry up," he said. "I told Mrs. Sullivan I'd bring you to her house. June's already there."

  I slid into the front seat beside my brother, smelling the familiar smells of old leather and cigarette smoke. "When are we going to the hospital to see Grandma?"

  Donny stopped fooling with the ignition and stared at me. "Didn't they tell you?"

  The cold lump I'd choked down in Nelson's office came back, filling my throat like an ice cube I'd swallowed without meaning to. "Grandma had a heart attack, she's in the hospital, but she'll be home soon," I said, stringing the words together as fast as I could. "I hope she doesn't feel too bad to eat chocolate. Maybe we could stop on the way to the hospital and pick up some at the drugstore. She likes those big fancy boxes, the ones with lots of different kinds. Her favorites have nuts in the middle, she always eats those first, then she—"

  "Gordy, for God's sake!" Donny yelled. "Shut up and listen to me. Grandma's dead. She died on the way to the hospital!"

  The words I was about to say froze on my tongue, and I sat there, too stunned to breathe. Donny might as well have hit me over the head with a two-by-four. Grandma couldn't be dead. It wasn't possible. I'd have known she was gone, I'd have felt her passing. Donny was mistaken. He had to be—or else he was lying.

  I turned to him. "It's not true, Donny, it's not true!" My voice began as a whisper but ended as a shout. "You're a liar!"

  Hurling myself at him, I started hitting him, punching him as hard as I could, cussing up a blue streak. I was so mad I wanted to kill him.

  Donny shoved me against the car door and held me there. "Quit it, Gordy
," he said. "Hitting me isn't going to change anything."

  The look on my brother's face took the fight right out of me. I stopped struggling and slumped against the door. "Maybe it's a mistake, maybe they mixed her up with someone else," I whispered. "I saw this movie once—"

  Donny pulled me close and hugged me, squashing my nose against his old army jacket. "There's no mistake, Gordy. Mrs. Sullivan called me at work and told me. I checked with the hospital just to make sure."

  As much as I wanted to keep on arguing, I knew Donny was telling me the truth. The worst possible thing had happened, and I'd been too dumb to see it coming. Hadn't prepared for it either. Living with Grandma had spoiled me. I'd forgotten to watch for the bad stuff that waited around every corner.

  For the first time in my whole life, I broke down and cried—me, Gordy Smith, bawling like a baby. Nothing my father ever did to me had made me feel this bad. Black eyes, cuts, bruises—sooner or later they stopped hurting, but not this. The one person I trusted, the one person I counted on, was gone, and she'd left a hole in my heart big enough to drive a truck through.

  Donny muttered a few words meant to make me feel better and then went back to cranking the engine. I hadn't seen him look so glum since he'd come home from the war.

  By the time the old Ford started, I'd almost stopped crying, but my voice still didn't sound right. "Where are we going?" I asked.

  "To Mrs. Sullivan's house. She wants you and June to stay with her and William till everything's settled."

  "Why can't you look after us?" I stared at Donny, mad all over again. Surprised, too. "We don't need Mrs. Sullivan. We're a family, you and June and me. We—"

  "No dice, Gordy." Donny cut me off. "Dave and I are leaving for Tulsa soon. You know that, we've talked about it before."

  "But everything's different now." I tried to keep my voice steady. If Donny got the idea I was a snotty-nosed bawl baby, he wouldn't want anything to do with me. "You can't just go off and leave us. It's not right."

  Donny busied himself lighting a cigarette. "What's wrong with staying with Mrs. Sullivan? She's a nice lady."

  "Nice?" I snorted. "She hates me, and you know it."

  Donny gave me a look that meant cut the bull, but it was true. When I'd first come to live with Grandma, Mrs. Sullivan thought I was the worst kid she'd ever met—rude and ugly and dumb, cussing and fighting, acting mean. Back then, William was still crippled from polio, and she'd done her best to keep him away from me. Now that he was walking, she'd let up a little, but she was far from crazy about me.

  "You'll only be there for a week or so," Donny went on. "And then, after that..."His voiced trailed off as if he had no idea what to say next.

  "After that what?" I prompted him. "Where do June and I go?"

  Donny turned the comer and slowed to a stop in front of William's house. "Don't worry. Something will turn up."

  That was easy for Donny to say. He was old enough to take care of himself. But I was only thirteen. And June had just turned nine. We could end up in an orphanage—or someplace even worse.

  "What if it's the old man who turns up? What if he wants to haul June and me off to California?" I grabbed Donny's sleeve to keep him from getting out of the car. "Tell me you won't let him. Promise you'll take us to Tulsa if he comes for us."

  Donny pulled his arm away, but he didn't open the door. "Fat chance of him showing up. We don't even know where the SOB is."

  I closed my eyes and tried to convince myself Donny was right. We hadn't heard diddlysquat from our parents for over a year. Not a letter, not a phone call, not even a postcard. The day they left for California, they wrote June and me out of their lives.

  Nobody missed the old man, but June still fretted about Mama. Even cried for her late at night when she thought nobody heard. I told my sister to forget her. Don't think about her, I said. Don't talk about her.

  But no matter how hard I tried to follow my own advice, Mama's sad face had a way of turning up in my dreams. So did the old man's ugly mug. He came to me in nightmares, the kind that keep you awake for hours, sweating and scared, heart pounding, telling yourself he's not really downstairs getting drunk on cheap whiskey.

  Donny poked me hard in the ribs. "Are you listening? I'm telling you something important, Gordy."

  I scowled at my brother, but he was right to be sore. While he'd been jawing away, I'd been too busy thinking my own thoughts to listen.

  Donny took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Like I just said, call Stu. Tell him what's happened. He'll do right by you and June."

  "That's the worst idea I ever heard. Stu's already got Barbara and her kid to worry about. What makes you think he'd want June and me?"

  "Because Stu's Stu," Donny said. "Responsible. All heart. The perfect family man."

  He grinned, happy he'd solved the problem. Let Stu deal with June and me. He, Donny, was off the hook, free to hit the road for Tulsa.

  I felt like punching him again. But what was the use? He wasn't about to change his plans. Not for June and me, not for anybody.

  "You like Stu," Donny went on. "And that wife of his is one good-looking dame. At least she was the last time I saw her."

  "Stu's okay. So's Barbara," I mumbled. "It's College Hill I hate. When we left, I swore I'd never go back—not unless I got rich and famous."

  Donny laughed. "I hate to tell you, kid, but you're a long way from either."

  "So are you."

  "Just wait till I strike oil in Oklahoma, Gordo. I'll be rolling in dough."

  "I'm not holding my breath."

  Donny didn't say anything. Maybe he hadn't heard me. He was already halfway up the Sullivans' sidewalk.

  I followed him, keeping my head down. Next door was Grandma's empty house, but I didn't look at it. It hurt too much to think about her not being there, not ever being there. No more cookies after school, no more long talks at the dinner table, no more singing while we washed the dishes. All gone. Just like that.

  I wanted to ask Donny if life got better when you grew up, but I was afraid to hear the answer.

  2

  MRS. SULLIVAN CAME TO THE DOOR, ONE FINGER PRESSED to her mouth to shush us. "June's asleep on the couch" she whispered. "After I brought her home from school, the poor child wore herself out crying."

  Donny looked as relieved as I felt. Much as we loved June, neither one of us wanted the job of comforting her. Once she started crying, nothing could stop her ... except sleep.

  "I'm so sorry about your grandmother" Mrs. Sullivan went on in a low voice. "I can't tell you how much I'll miss her. Florence was a wonderful neighbor, always good to William and me."

  She paused to blow her nose and then invited Donny to stay awhile. "I've got a pot of coffee on the stove."

  Donny edged toward the door. "Thanks," he said, "but I have some business to attend to, Mrs. Sullivan. I'll take a rain check, okay?"

  I stood at the hall window and watched Donny drive away. I guessed he didn't want to be around when June woke up. Or maybe he just wasn't comfortable in Mrs. Sullivan's house. I felt a little uneasy there myself. I worried about breaking one of her little china figurines or tracking mud on the carpet or letting slip a cuss word by accident. She was awful particular about things.

  When my brother was out of sight, Mrs. Sullivan took me to the kitchen and fixed us each a bowl of thick, gloppy cream of mushroom soup. While we ate, she asked me for Mama's phone number. She wanted to tell her the sad news so she could come home for the funeral.

  Instead of answering, I poked my soup with my spoon and watched it shudder in the bowl like it was alive—an old gray slimy thing you might find in the corner of a dark, damp basement. I hated to tell Mrs. Sullivan I had no idea where Mama was, let alone what her phone number might be.

  Mrs. Sullivan reached across the table and touched my hand. "I have to call your mother, Gordy," she said as if I hadn't heard her ask the first time.

  I kept my eyes on that soup like I thought it might crawl out
of the bowl and smother me. "Mama's in California," I said, "but I don't know exactly where. Bakersfield, maybe. My father had a job there, but he—well, he could be working someplace else by now."

  It made no sense to tell Mrs. Sullivan how many jobs the old man could have gone through in a couple of years if he'd started drinking again.

  "I see." From the sound of her voice, I knew Mrs. Sullivan didn't see. Couldn't see. What sort of boy didn't know where his own mother was? Or, worse yet, what sort of mother didn't give a hoot where her son was?

  "My brother Stu lives in Maryland," I told her. "Maybe we should call him."

  Mrs. Sullivan wrote down Stu's number. "Do you want to call him yourself, Gordy?"

  I started poking at the soup again. "Would you mind telling him about Grandma? And then letting me talk to him?"

  She patted my hand again and left the kitchen. A few seconds later I heard her dialing the phone. To keep from hearing what she said to Stu, I carried the dirty dishes to the sink, scraped my soup into the garbage can, and started running the water.

  By the time Mrs. Sullivan came to tell me Stu wanted to talk to me, I'd washed the lunch dishes—which both pleased and surprised her. I doubt she'd counted on me to help with chores, but Grandma had taught me a thing or two. No reason a boy couldn't take his turn washing dishes, she'd said; my hands worked just the same as June's.

  When I picked up the phone, Stu began by saying how sorry he was, but he soon got to the point. "Barbara and I want you and June to live with us," he said. "We haven't got much room, but we'll be glad to have you."

  I held the phone a little tighter and took a deep breath. While I'd been washing the dishes, I'd come up with a great idea. "What if you all moved down here instead?" I asked. "Grandma's house is real big, and just wait till you see the backyard—there's a vegetable garden and a swing set and plenty of room for Brent to play. Barbara'd love it, and so would you. Why, it's practically a mansion, Stu, even nicer than Barbara's parents' house. It's—"