The Trap Page 8

  After dinner, we went to the living room and Mrs. Brody showed us some of her antiques. She removed two pieces of silver jewelry from a display case—a necklace and a bracelet. “Family heirlooms,” she said, handing one to Helen and the other to Nicki. “The necklace belonged to my great-grandmother. The bracelet was her sister’s.”

  “What country did you say you were you from?” I asked.

  “Poland,” said Mrs. Brody. “My family lived there for generations. Not now, of course.”

  “Everyone left, during the war?” I asked.

  “Not left, Henry,” she said. “They were murdered.” She paused. “I returned once, years after the war, to see the graveyard where my parents and grandparents were buried. It is all weeds now. There are no Jews left to care for their own dead.” Then she said, “These are reasons people must travel. And not as your father did, Henry—not to make war. But to learn. To welcome the alien into your heart.”

  WE DECIDED TO SLEEP in the living room, on the couches. Mrs. Brody told us where she kept the extra blankets—upstairs in the closet at the end of the hall—and Nicki and I went to get them.

  It was kind of dark up there, without many windows, but we stopped to look at a few of the old photos hung along the way, mostly of Mrs. and Mr. Brody.

  It’s so funny to have a crush on someone. I was thrilled to be alone with Nicki. My heart was beating a million times a second . . . and yet it was awful too. I worried that everything I did or said would be wrong. My mind veered. I tried to think of good jokes, or intelligent observations, but it all got gummed up, and suddenly I found myself saying something that was neither funny nor smart. I said, “Nicki, my parents have grounded us from seeing you and Alan.”

  Nicki turned toward me. “What, Henry? But . . . why?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “They really let us have it after the fight with Carl. They kind of went crazy.” I paused. “I think maybe your dad got a job my dad was applying for.”

  “He just started this week,” she replied, “with Bell Telephone.”

  “My dad wanted it,” I said. “And he said he had more experience than your dad. He said . . . something about civil rights, and immigrants.”

  Nicki nodded, her eyes growing intense. “He thinks my dad got the job because he’s Chinese,” she said. “Is that right?”

  “Gosh, I feel terrible,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before . . .”

  “It isn’t your fault, Henry,” she said. “I’m sorry your dad hasn’t found work. I hope he does. But he’s wrong about my dad. Nobody ever gave him anything he didn’t deserve.” Nicki paused, and I could tell she was going to continue, so I waited. “All the names around here,” she said. “Andersson. Johansson. Nilsson. My dad joked that we should change our name to Chensson, so maybe we’d fit in better.”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. Chensson would be a very odd name. It was obviously a joke, but Nicki wasn’t laughing.

  “You know how my family got to Iowa, Henry?” she asked.

  “You mean, from China?” I said.

  “It was the railroad. My great-grandfather worked on the Transcontinental Railroad. And in Iowa he got attacked by an Irish railroad gang. They mobbed him and some other Chinese workers, saying that Chinese people were stealing Irish jobs. They almost killed him, and he ended up in the hospital in Cedar Rapids. He was stranded here.”

  I’d never heard this before. I didn’t know if Helen even knew this story.

  “Apparently Chinese people steal jobs from white people all the time,” Nicki said bitterly. “Maybe it’s our strongest racial trait. So it makes sense that my dad stole your dad’s new job.” She paused, breathing kind of hard. “Henry, did you know I applied to the Advanced Humanities program at school this year?”

  “Helen told me you got in,” I said.

  “I did,” said Nicki. “But some parents complained. Some parents, I don’t know who, said I cheated. And the school made me retake the exam.” She clenched her hands into fists. “They accused me . . . of stealing someone’s place.”

  “Gosh, Nicki,” I said. “I’m so sorry . . . I never thought . . .”

  “Why should you?” she snapped. Then she sighed. “I’m sorry, Henry. It just tires me out.”

  We reached the cabinet at the end of the hall, where Mrs. Brody had said the blankets would be. I opened it. “Nicki,” I said, “I . . . I really like you. I mean, if there’s anything . . . if you ever need anyone to talk to . . .”

  “I like you too, Henry,” said Nicki as I reached in and removed an armful of blankets. I turned to hand them to her.

  And I found, to my surprise, that she was staring right at me. Inches from me. I froze, and my whole body filled with a weird electricity that was half terror and half astonishment. I knew if the moment lasted longer, I’d do something. I wasn’t sure what. She was so beautiful . . .

  Awkwardly, I shoved the blankets into her arms and turned away to get more, exclaiming, “These are really good blankets,” which is the stupidest thing anyone has ever said.

  I grabbed another armful and we headed back down the hall. My knees were shaking. I cursed myself for being such a coward. I should have asked her. I should have said, Will You Go To the Fall Formal With Me? Probably twenty guys were calling her house right now.

  Back in the living room, the four of us made up four couches with the blankets. We took turns brushing our teeth in the downstairs bath and changing into pajamas, and soon we were sitting on our makeshift beds. Mrs. Brody stood at the foot of the stairs, preparing to head up to her room. “When I awake in my subtle form tonight,” she said, “I’ll come out and meet all of you.” She smiled.

  “You’ll be wearing whatever you wear to bed,” said Helen.

  “Good to know,” said Mrs. Brody. She ascended the stairs slowly with the help of her cane, like a mountain climber, and then the four of us were alone in the huge living room.

  “Helen,” said Nicki, “Henry told me about what happened. With you being grounded.”

  “Grounded?” said Alan.

  We explained to him too, and we all agreed that my parents were crazy. We’d just keep looking for ways to disobey without them finding out. Then Alan turned off the large lamp in the corner of the living room and Helen turned off the small one on the coffee table. The room went dark except for the pale light of the moon shining through the windows.

  I pulled my blanket up to my ears. On the couch next to me, Nicki snuggled under her own blanket. We all propped our arms up. We began to count.

  I HEARD ELVIS. His voice was high and fragile, and I thought he was singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” But then the voice went higher, and lasted longer, and stretched out, and became strange.

  I opened my eyes.

  Above me, the starry sky.

  I sat up. All around in the darkness were dim gravestones, set in rows like hospital beds. The shadows of the trees cast by the moon lay over everything. The sound I’d thought was Elvis continued—two branches creaking together, far back in the forest.

  I was in Longbelly Cemetery.

  Terrified, I lurched to my feet and tried to run, but something was holding on to my ankle. I fell hard and scrambled on all fours like a trapped raccoon, swatting, twisting.

  I looked back at my leg and saw the mouth of a huge animal, exposed white teeth sinking into my calf over my jeans. But it wasn’t an animal—it was teeth only, attached to a length of chain set in a hook in the ground. It was a trap, similar to a bear trap, but bright white instead of black iron, like compacted snow.

  I think if I could have left my leg behind at that moment, I would have. My guts churning, I grabbed the chain with both hands and rattled it against the loop in the ground. I dimly registered that this was the first time I’d successfully held something with my subtle hands, but I was too panicked to appreciate it. The only thought in my head was escape. I swear, I’d never been so scared.

  My subtle eyes could s
ee well in the darkness. About twenty feet off was Mr. Brody’s grave with its new stone, covered in flowers. Then I saw something else, which made me forget all of that. I saw fire—a bright flickering, and rainbow snowflakes emerging from the head of a man who sat about fifteen feet away. He was leaning against a nearby gravestone, his hands on his bent knees, kind of slouching as if he’d been there for a while. He was looking right at me.

  With great effort, I calmed my racing heart. I could barely breathe, but I spoke. “Who are you?” I said, my voice loud in the darkness. “What do you want?”

  I awakened.

  I was under my blanket, back at Mrs. Brody’s. The lights were turned on, and at the top of the stairs stood Mrs. Brody, wearing a flannel nightgown. “I saw him!” she called down to us, excitedly. “I saw him true!”

  “Who?” said Alan, sitting up.

  “My husband,” said Mrs. Brody. “It was Joseph.”

  “Here, in the house?” said Helen.

  “No, outside. Through the window I saw him. In the woods. He was wearing the suit we buried him in. He had his violin case.”

  “What was he doing?” said Helen.

  “Walking,” she said, “toward the gulch.”

  “Henry, where were you?” said Helen. “You never appeared.”

  Shakily, I told my story. Mrs. Brody joined us as I described what had happened. “I think I’m still out there,” I said. “I’m out there, and I’m trapped.”

  OF COURSE, SCHOOL WASN’T canceled just because my subtle body was stuck in a graveyard bear trap. My friends and I still had to get up as usual. Mrs. Brody made us oatmeal with maple syrup. Before we left, she asked if I’d like to borrow one of the travel books she wrote with her husband. I picked International Understanding Travel Guides—China, remembering that was the country Nicki said she’d like to visit.

  Then we rode through the cool morning air toward school, the road steaming as the early sun struck it. Now that it was daytime the dark graveyard seemed distant, and I hoped that what happened had been some kind of fluke—that I wouldn’t find myself there again tonight.

  “Henry,” said Nicki, pedaling alongside me. “Do you think you’re still out there, chained up? Can you tell?”

  “We’ve got to rescue you, Henry,” said Alan.

  “Tonight,” said Helen. “We’ll pry that trap off and clobber that guy!”

  Suddenly I put on the brakes. I rolled to a stop, and everyone else stopped too. “No,” I said, firmly. “We need to think this through. You guys could get caught just like me. If I’m still out there tonight, I’m going to try to talk to him, whoever he is.” This idea scared me, but it seemed right. Also, I wanted to be brave and sensible in front of Nicki. I glanced at her, but I couldn’t tell if she was impressed. She just looked worried.

  After a little more insisting on my part, my friends agreed to wait a night before rescuing me. “I just don’t like it, Henry,” said Helen. “You always want to think about stuff. What’s to think about? You’re in trouble!” But she could see that I had a good point. Truthfully, it was kind of funny to me, Helen having to wait. Waiting to rescue me, and waiting for Alan to ask her to the dance . . . she looked like she was about to pop.

  We reached homeroom and all sat together as the bell rang and Mr. McTavish entered. Watching him come through the door, with his giant shoulders, was kind of like watching someone maneuver a sofa, I thought . . . and then my heart clenched in my chest.

  I stood up.

  I rushed past the tables, through the door, and out into the hall.

  “Henry!” Helen shouted, following instantly, clueing in to my panic with a twinsy quickness. “What’s wrong?”

  My feet had developed a mind of their own. I zoomed outside and toward the bike racks, where Helen caught me by the arm and dragged me to a stop.

  “It’s McTavish,” I said, breathing hard. “It’s him. He’s the one in the graveyard with me.”

  Needless to say, I waited out the remainder of homeroom there at the bike racks with my sister.

  MOM AND DAD WERE HOME when we got back from school—the car was out front. Helen and I parked our bikes and went into the kitchen. Mom was there, at the table, in her work dress. Dad too, wearing his gray jumpsuit. The car keys were in his hand, so I knew they were about to go. I could tell with a glance that they were both in a bad mood.

  Mom stood immediately and said, “We’re just leaving, you two. You’ll have to cook again tonight.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ll make corn chowder.”

  Dad took a deep breath and let it out as he got up, something he only did when he was trying to calm himself. I glanced at Helen to see if she was picking up on this. For once, she didn’t do anything to make it worse.

  “How did things go with Mrs. Brody last night?” Mom asked.

  “I think she’s okay,” I said. “We helped out in the kitchen.” I turned to my sister. “Let’s get started on dinner, Helen.”

  “We’ll see you both tomorrow,” said Mom. She and Dad exited, and the screen door slapped shut behind them.

  When they were safely gone, I said, “That was close.”

  “What was he so mad about?” said Helen.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I went to the refrigerator and got out a plastic bag full of corn ears, then took the soup pot from the lowest drawer and sat at the table. “Grab a couple knives, will you?” I said. “I want to get this on the stove before The Dead of Night starts.”

  “That’s not till later,” said Helen.

  “There’s an afternoon rerun,” I said. “You know I always watch it.”

  “Henry, I’ve been thinking,” said Helen. She took two knives from the block and handed me one as she sat. I started stripping cobs and throwing kernels into the soup pot as she continued. “Why did Mr. McTavish trap you out there, in the graveyard? It has to have something to do with Carl, right?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s so strange—McTavish always seemed like a pretty good guy. Alan said he’s been trying to get his dad to start pitching again.”

  “It just doesn’t add up,” said Helen. “Carl didn’t mention McTavish when you saw him—you know, that first night you used the book?”

  “No,” I said. “Nothing with Carl connects to McTavish. Carl’s connected to the Brodys, spying on them, because Abe Møller told him to—”

  “But why is Møller here, in Farro? Why was he using Carl to spy on the Brodys? They weren’t doing anything.”

  “But they did do something,” I said. “I mean, kind of. Mr. Brody died.”

  “Hmm,” said Helen. “That’s interesting. Maybe that’s what Møller wanted to know—that Mr. Brody was dead. And now you’re trapped out in the graveyard where Brody’s buried. Didn’t you say you could see the grave from where you are?”

  “Yeah, I’m maybe twenty feet from it. The trap was set right there.”

  “Weird we didn’t see it when we went out with Mrs. Brody.”

  “I think it only exists in the subtle world,” I said. “We would have seen it for sure. It’s bright white. It covers my whole shoe. It’s like . . . a subtle trap.”

  Helen stopped working when I said that, and gave me a quizzical glance. “Did you wear shoes to bed?” she asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “Yeah, that’s weird. Shouldn’t I be wearing my pajamas? But I’m not—I’m wearing the clothes I had on earlier.”

  “Henry,” said Helen, “I think you walked into that trap while we were out there, visiting the grave!”

  “Gosh, you’re right! It snared me, and I . . . just walked away from myself.”

  “We’ve got to save you, Henry,” she said. “We’ve got to go out there.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Now that I know it’s McTavish, I want to try to talk to him.”

  Helen was not enthusiastic about this idea. “Yeah, just ask him, ‘What is your nefarious plan, sir?’ I’m sure he’ll explain.”

  “Wh
ere did you learn the word nefarious?” I said.

  “You aren’t the only one who knows words, Henry. Now listen, here’s what we should do—we should spy on him. Like, sneak into his house.” Helen’s eyes lit up in a way I did not like as she said this.

  “No way,” I said. “Let’s finish these and watch TV.”

  We stripped the last few ears of corn and I combined the rest of the ingredients to make the soup. Then I put it on the range to heat up and we headed into the living room.

  We stepped through the doorway, and stopped.

  Right there, where our TV should have been, there was nothing. The carpet was pressed down into a neat, empty rectangle.

  The pieces fell into place. All of the belt-tightening, the shift cuts, the rail strike . . .

  “He pawned it,” I said, a little awestruck.

  Helen waved her hand in the space, feeling the air there. Then we both sat on the couch.

  “Now I understand why he was so angry he didn’t get that job,” I said.

  Our eyes fell on the coffee table, where Dad had left the evening paper. The headline said, “Nationwide Rail Strike Set for Midnight.” Next to that was another headline: “D.C. Prepares for Violence.” It was an article about the big civil rights march that was going to happen tomorrow.

  The two of us sat silently. We were both confused. Strikes, marches . . . it was all too big. I couldn’t get my mind around it.

  “I know where he lives,” said Helen, abruptly.

  “Who?” I said.

  “Mr. McTavish. He’s up the street from the Dunns. One of those new houses on Anderssen Street.”