Don't You Know There's a War On? (4 page)

TWENTY MINUTES AFTER
she left, Miss Gossim came
back. Right off, you could see something was wrong. Like maybe Joe Louis had just given her a left hook to the head. Sure, she had this smile on, but it didn't look right. Her eyes were misty too.

Me, I'd have bet the whole Brooklyn Bridge, and the Williamsburg one too, Lomister had just fired her.

Soon as she came in, Linda Franklin stopped reading. We all just sat there, staring at her.

Halfway to her desk Miss Gossim's smile got turned off. It switched on again when she held out her hand toward me, asking for the reader.

“Thank you, Howie,” she said softly. “I'm sure you did a good job.”

I hustled back to my desk, checking her once, twice, over my shoulder. Not looking where I was going, I banged into Natalie Brickle's desk. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

The class laughed.

But when I sat down, Miss Gossim was still standing in front of her desk. The look on her face wasn't what you'd call peachy cream-o. Not that I could tell what she was thinking.

All of us were quiet, watching her close, waiting for her to say something.

She smiled again. Sort of.

“Well, then,” she finally said, “thanks for being such good children. I appreciate that. My meeting with Dr. Lomister was important, but . . .” She stopped. “But . . . now we have to get on with your education.”

She turned to the blackboard and the doings list. “We were going to have music this afternoon. I think we should do it now. I certainly could use some. Please take out your songbooks.”

Everybody knew we weren't getting the straight skinny. Even so, we did what we were told.

She said, “Let's start with . . . page twelve, ‘O Bright and Shiny Day!'” She picked up her pitch pipe from her desk and gave this long, high note.

At first we sang quietly. Pretty soon we were tooting along like a bunch of taxicabs in a Times Square traffic jam.

BY LUNCHTIME
Miss Gossim was acting mostly like her old self again. Full of smiles, you know, pep. Sure, I think
we all knew it was phony, but the class went along. You know, pretend normal. We were good at that.

Anyway, about an hour later we were dismissed for lunch hour, which was, actually, only half an hour. The class marched out in line. They followed our monitor, who that day was Billy Leider—the kid with dirty nails. Since it was still raining, we went down to the basement.

On days it didn't rain, we went out to the yard. But on rainy days some eight hundred kids stuffed themselves in the basement. The place wasn't big either. But us kids—little bitty kindergartners up to lumpy eighth graders—swarmed in, stinking the place up with sweat, wet wool, and sour milk. We'd play games, eat our lunches, or go tearing around the place like the screaming meemies.

With its cement floor and low ceiling, the place became one big, steamy, smelly, sweat hole. You had to shout to make yourself heard. Kids eating lunches everywhere. Food all over the floor. Boys playing kick ball, tag ball, dodgeball, ring-a-lievo, dump the chump, the regular stuff. A few brave girls played with them. The rest of the girls, if they were playing anything, were jumping rope, doing jacks, hopscotch.

Sure, there were a few teachers trying to keep order. But it was like trying to stop a
leaky bucket that had fourteen holes and you had only what? Maybe two fingers.

Okay. Denny and me, we went to our regular eating place. It was up against one of the gray concrete walls, near a storage bin. A good spot 'cause it was hard to play anything there. Quieter too.

“My sandwich got coal dusted,” I told him when we settled in. “You got anything extra?”

He opened his lunch box. He had this apple, and a jelly sandwich that looked like a bad scab, plus a Twinkie and a box of Mason Dots.

“You can go halvsies on my sandwich,” he said. Ripping his scab sandwich in half, he checked sizes and gave me the bigger piece. “You going to tell me what happened now?” he asked.

Mouth full, I said, “Swear not to tell?”

“Sure.”

Now in them days, when you made a swear, you had to do it right. Otherwise, it wasn't no good. So I made my right hand into a fist except for my pinky, which I stuck out.

Denny did the same, hooking his pinky around mine. “First one who snitches drops dead and no fins,” I said, giving the regular warning against busted swears or behind-the-back
crossed fingers—“fins”—which made a swear no good.

“First one who snitches drops dead and no fins,” he repeated. Then he did the formal chop to pull our hands apart.

So I told Denny everything I'd done and heard in the morning.

He listened good, eyes staring at me from behind his specs. A couple of times his bow tie bobbed.

When I was done, he said, “Miss Gossim got . . .
fired
?”

“Swear to God.”

“When's her last day?”

“Next Monday.”

“Winkin' willies.” He fiddled with his suspenders a bit. “But . . . how come?”

I gave him my idea about Lomister being mad at her because she wouldn't marry him.

“Oh, wow, you really think so?” he said.

“Could be.”

“Think Lomister's that mean?”

“Yeah.”

“A thing like that, though, you gotta be sure.”

“Well, then,” I said, wanting to show off, “I'll ask.”

“Ask who?”

“Miss Gossim.”

“No you won't.”

“Yes I will.”

“I dare you. Double dare! Triple dare.”

“What do you bet?”

“My new Captain America comic book.”

“Done.”

“Swear!” Denny held up his fist again, pinky out. We made another vow.

Then he said, “How you going to?”

“I'm blackboard eraser monitor.”

Being eraser monitor meant you stayed after school a bit.

He looked at me. “You really going to?”

I said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

BY THE END
of the day, Miss Gossim was in a pretty good
mood. Ten minutes to three she said it was room-cleaning time.

We packed up, saving the scrap paper for the war effort. Hats, coats, and other stuff was pulled from the wardrobe. Then everybody except me lined up by the door, ready to go.

At the doorway, just before going out, Denny turns back to look at me, pulls his earlobe.

I did the same.

No secrets.

When the final bell rang, the class marched out. The dismissal monitor—Tom Ewing—led the way. I was the only kid left.

While Miss Gossim sat at her desk and went through papers, I got the eraser box from inside the wardrobe, picked up the erasers from the blackboards, and took 'em out to the school yard. The rain had stopped, but it was gray.

A game of baseball was going on with a tape ball and a broomstick. A few girls were doing hopscotch. I joined up with the kids from other classes who were working their classroom erasers.

You cleaned erasers by holding one in each hand. Sticking your arms out as far in front of you as you could,
you closed your eyes, then clapped the erasers together to beat out the chalk dust. Like making clouds.

Not wanting to have Miss Gossim walk out on me, I worked fast. I mean, I might have been scared—and I was—but I had to get some answers.

I went back to the class. In the morning I had come in all black. In the afternoon, all white. When I walked in, she was still at her desk, pencil in hand, papers in front. Only she was staring off somewhere. I wondered where.

I went round and put the clean erasers where they were supposed to go, on the ledges at the bottom of each blackboard. Then I just stood by the door, waiting for her to notice me. Finally, I cracked my knuckles.

She looked up, gave me a quick smile, and said, “Thank you, Howie,” before going back to her work.

Now the thing was, I was supposed to leave. Only, see, I didn't. I kept standing there, halfway between her desk and the door.

Finally, I said, “Miss . . . Gossim . . .”

She glanced around. “Yes, Howie?” she said, surprised, I think, I was still there. “Is something the matter?”

“I . . . I'm . . . I'm sorry about . . .”

“Sorry, Howie? About what?”

“Your being . . . being . . . fired,” I blurted out.

She gasped. “How do you know about that?” she whispered.

Not expecting the question, I just stood there.

She said, “Does the whole class know?”

“Just . . . me,” I said, skipping over the Denny part.

“How did you learn?” she asked.

“Miss Gossim,” I said, “remember how I came late to school this morning?” I wasn't looking at her. Just staring at my shoes like they were a dollar bill I'd found on the curb.

“You were covered with coal soot.”

“Well, see, I was digging my way out of a coal pile.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I don't understand.”

I took a deep breath, looked up, and said, “Miss Gossim, it was like this. . . .” Then I blurted out what happened that morning. The whole thing. How I went into the house. Going up the dumbwaiter. Hearing Lomister. Digging out.

The more I talked, the bigger her blue-gray eyes got. Couple of times I was pretty sure she was going to laugh. Only she didn't. And when I told her all the talk I heard—you know, between Lomister and that woman named Wilma—she got pretty serious.

She said, “That must have been Mrs. Wolch.”

“Who's Mrs. Wolch?”

“She's acting superintendent of schools.”

“What's that?”

“Dr. Lomister's superior. His boss.”

“Oh.”

“And you were
there
?” she said, sort of, I guess, still amazed.

“Sure. One-seventy-two Hicks Street.”

Miss Gossim got thoughtful. Then I saw her write down the address I just said.

“So that's how I know,” I muttered.

“Did you hear Dr. Lomister say
why
I was being fired?” She looked sad.

“No.”

I waited for her to tell me why, but when she didn't I said, “I'm really sorry. Are . . . are you . . . mad at me or anything?”

Miss Gossim looked at me with faraway eyes. “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

Then she took a deep breath and said, “Howie, I really don't understand. Why did you even go into Mrs. Wolch's house?”

“Denny Coleman is always saying Dr. Lomister is a
spy.”

“A
spy
?” she cried.

“Yeah. They're all around, you know.”

“Howie, I don't believe Dr. Lomister is a spy,” she said, adding, “or for that matter anyone in our school.”

“You don't?” I said, disappointed.

“Not at all.”

I waited for her to say something more. When she didn't, I said, “Miss Gossim . . .”

“Yes, Howie?”

“Then how come . . . I mean, how come you're being fired?”

She turned away.

So I said, “Well, I just wish you weren't.”

She came back to me with that sad look on her face. “Thank you, Howie,” she said. “I wish I weren't either.”

“Can I do something about it? Help you or anything?”

“Howie, you're very sweet to offer. I can't imagine how you could. Besides, this is something I need to work out for myself. Except, may I ask you, please, don't tell the class what you know. Can you promise me that?”

“Yes, Miss Gossim,” I said, which wasn't honest, 'cause, see, I told Denny already.

She said, “Thank you. I appreciate it. Now, it's late. You'd better go on home.”

I headed for the door.

“Howie!” she called.

“Yes, Miss Gossim.”

She picked up a paper from her desk. “I'm afraid you failed the math test again.”

“Miss Gossim,” I cried, “if I fail, my mom said she won't let me go to the Saturday movies. It's Chapter Seven,
Junior G-Men of the Air
!”

She broke into a smile. “Oh, dear. That
is
serious. Then let's see. Can you promise me you'll study real hard tonight? If you do, I'll give you another test tomorrow. I think everyone deserves a second chance. Don't you?”

“Yes, Miss Gossim.”

“Good-night, Howie.”

“Good-night, Miss Gossim.”

DENNY WAS WAITING
for me on the front school steps. “You talk to her?” he said soon as he saw me.

“Yeah. You owe me a comic book.”

We started walking up Hicks Street slowly. After a while, he said, “Hey, what about our no-secrets pact?”

“I know. Just thinking.”

“Less thinking, Jackson. More talking. What'd you say to her?”

“Said I knew she'd been fired.”

“What'd she say?”

“Wanted to know if everybody knew. Said I didn't think so. I didn't say I told you.”

“How come?”

“Just didn't.”

“You say anything else?”

“I said, you know, ‘How come?'”

“How come what?”

“How come she got fired.”

“What she say?”

“She didn't.”

“You say anything else?”

“Said I'd like to help her.”

“What she say then?”

“Said I shouldn't.”

“Are you gonna?”

“Maybe.”

“How?”

“Don't know.”

“You say that to her?”

“No.”

“What about spies? You say anything about them?”

“Yeah.”

“What she say?”

“Said she didn't think there were any.”

“Oh.”

“But you know what?”

“What?”

“I really like her.”

“So do I.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

We walked on without more talking, stopping only to stare at the afternoon headlines at old Mr. Teophilo's. But I wasn't thinking about the war. I was looking at Denny sort of sideways. Thing is, and I admit it, I was jealous. See, I'm
thinking, how come my best friend has to like Miss Gossim too? He could have picked someone else. And then, all of a sudden, I started worrying. What if she liked him better?

But right about then Denny said, “You went into that house thinking about spies, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You still think it has anything to do with that?”

“No.”

“How come?”

“The lady Lomister was talking to was the acting superintendent of schools, that's all. Her name is Mrs. Wolch.”

“How do you know who it was?”

“Miss Gossim told me.”

“Why Lomister go to her?”

“Mrs. Wolch is his boss.”

“I didn't know he got a boss.”

“Everybody got a boss.”

“God don't.”

“God ain't everybody.”

“Pretty much.”

“Come on, Denny, that's nothing to do with what we're talking about.”

Denny got quiet. Then he said, “We going to do some
collecting?”

Denny and me—like tons of kids—went around the neighborhood getting newspaper, scrap metal, and old clothes—stuff, see, for the war effort. He had an old wagon—a red Radio Flyer—which was great for hauling. We'd store whatever we got over at his place. Every couple of weeks we'd bring it to the collection center at Brooklyn Borough Hall.

“Thing is,” he said, “we could go to that house you were at too. Maybe learn more about what's going on.”

“That Mrs. Wolch's?”

“Yeah.”

“Spy on it?”

“Sure. Where's it at?” he asked.

“One-seventy-two Hicks.” I looked at him. “Why do you think she got fired?”

“Hey, Jackson,” he said, “don't you know there's a war on?”