The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (8 page)

“Maaaa,” entreats B.J., so she tears him off another piece. He eats it and smacks his lips loud and rolls his eyes all goofy, and she laughs so hard she practically falls over the chair. I smile, chewing on my own dough.

When the treats are hot and fresh out of the oven, my mother asks me to take a couple up to Benja, who's writing a letter to her assigned soldier. I knock. I know my sister's in there but she doesn't answer. “Benja?” I crack it open.

She's crying. I remember seeing her cry when she was little and I littler, but how many years has that been? She sits at her desk looking down at some letters, several internationally postmarked envelopes, and a bunch of stationery sheets balled up. “Shut the door, shut the door!” I quickly obey.

“I write, ‘You stay well and you bomb those Jerries.' He writes,” she snatches up a letter, “‘The Jerries are a little far from here. I'm in the Philippines. And I'm in the infantry. It's a little hard to drop bombs from the ground.' I write, ‘Oh yeah! I knew you were in the Pacific, sorry! Well, you get those Japs.' He writes, ‘Well if you've read a newspaper anytime lately, you might have noticed the Japs are pretty much getting us,' what am I sposed to say? Whatever it is, it's wrong! So I write, ‘Well okay you hurry home then.' And today I get, ‘The fastest way be step on a mine, home no legs in a wheelchair, or hit by a grenade, home in a very small box' I
hate
him! Every other girl got a soldier so grateful for a pen pal, and I get—” She wipes her face. “Tomorrow I'm askin Mrs. Nedermeier for a new one.” She balls up the letter she was writing, then picks up another blank airmail sheet and goes to her drawer, taking out a dime. “You write it.”

I stare blank at her.

“Tell him goodbye from me. I don't think it's right to just stop—” She catches her breath. “Tell him goodbye.”

“You could—”

“
No
! I don't care if it's two damn words, I can't bear writin him no more. I don't care your handwritin's different from mine, you write it and I'll sign it. And I'm not signin it ‘Benja,' I'm signin it ‘Benja K. Evans.' And not ‘Kaye' my name, ‘K' my initial. Formal. Take it back to your room. Ten cents for your trouble.”

In the name of officialdom, I print.

April 21, 1942

Dear Private Adly,

I am saddened to realize that my letters, which were intended as a comfort to you, have instead become a source of irritation. I apologize if I have in any way offended you. It is probably best if our correspondence ends with this letter. I wish you all safety and Godspeed.

I open my bank. With the quarter I got for my fourteenth birthday precisely one week ago, and now the dime: $1.02.

The next day after school, I roll it gingerly along the table, the rubber tires smooth. Thank God the Sopwith was already in Gephart's before the rubber rations!

“Where'dju get the money for that aeroplane?” she wants to know, worry on her face. What, she think I stole it? I ever stole before? No!

“I dunno. Some chores I did around school. Cleaning desks.” She looks at me suspicious, walks away. B.J. coming in wanting to touch it, I hand-tell him, Wash your hands! Then he comes back, picking it up, Gently! Gently!

The day after's Saturday, and I'm all ready to show my flyer to Henry Lee. But my mother, “Get him outa here! He's all in my hair.” Laundry day and B.J.'s driving her nuts, following her around. Also I detect a hint of blackmail: she won't check in with the principal about my alleged lucrative desk-cleaning position if I take B.J. and give her a rest to do her chores.

Roger's mom, usually all busy, is staring right at us when we come in the kitchen, like she sensed something new.

“This your brother?” I nod. “He got a name?”

“B.J.” I spell out “Sally” for him.

“Whatchu doin?”

“Spelled your name.”

“That a fact?” The first time I've ever seen her smile. She pulls down the cookie jar. “Show me.”

I speak as I spell it: M – R – S – L – A – W – R – E – N – C – E.

She continues smiling, then says, “That ain't what you spelled before,” and turns back to wiping off the stove.

I'm thinking Henry Lee'll be weird about having B.J. there, and I'm pretty much looking forward to it.

“Hi,” I say coming down the stairs. Henry Lee, having heard the second set of footsteps, looks up, frowns. “This is B.J.” To B.J. I sign: Henry Lee.

Henry Lee studies him several moments before speaking. “You like the trains?” He pushes the button to set it running. B.J.'s surprised face is all glee. Henry Lee goes on a long lecture, the fascinating world of his diesel caravan, despite knowing damn well my brother doesn't understand a word. Maybe Henry Lee likes that: no interruptions.

“This garage door slides up for the fire engine to come barrelin out. Here's the coal car. Look like real coal, right? Don't touch. This safety stick really goes down when the train approaches the street crossin,
don't touch!
”

I sit staring at them, brand-new Sopwith Camel model in my hand which Henry Lee doesn't even seem to take notice of. Finally he sits back and lets B.J. observe in peace, my brother's face all wonder. “I never met a dummy before.”

“Don't call him that.”

“Lemme see it.” I'm so relieved Henry Lee has finally shown interest, I hand my flyer over instantly, completely forgetting I'd meant to hold back a bit. How long had I been coming here before he let me work his train? He inspects the Camel from different angles. I figure as we play I could ease into asking him could I put one of his little people in the pilot's seat, he's got so many little people, and maybe he'd let me keep the guy under the promise I bring the model over often for him to play with, but I barely have time to flash these thoughts through my mind before he hands back my aeroplane, seeming already bored with it.

“I wasn't being mean. Before ‘dummy' got to be an insult, it just meant somebody who couldn't talk.”

“I think I know that.”

“So.”

“So he can talk.”

“Can he?” Henry Lee looks at B.J. with new interest, and I know I just slipped up. The train goes into the tunnel and comes out the other side, and B.J. laughs out loud. Apparently it's his favorite part.

“I mean, it sounds a little funny. He can't hear, so he doesn't know what the words are supposed to sound like, and he doesn't know what
he
sounds like, so—”

“Make him say somethin.”

My stomach tight. “What?”

Henry Lee has not taken his eyes off my brother. He walks to him, leans into his face, and with great exaggeration enunciates “train.” B.J. glances at him, but cannot transfer his attention from the moving passenger and freight cars, so Henry Lee turns it off. B.J. opens his mouth to protest, and I fear a tantrum might be coming, but Henry Lee points to the locomotive again and says, “
Train
.” B.J. stares at him. Henry Lee picks up his Packard. “
Auto
.” He points to himself. “
Henry
.”

B.J. looks at Henry Lee, a little smile turning the corners of my brother's mouth. Suddenly Henry Lee claps his hands violently in B.J.'s face. “SPEAK!”

B.J. and I are both startled. Then I hand-tell him: Say my name.

He looks at me, then at Henry Lee. B.J. is no longer smiling.

“SPEAK!”
Henry Lee's eyes wild.

“Ran ul.”

Henry Lee looks at him, confused.

“That was ‘Randall.'”

“Randall?”

“I
told
you it wasn't gonna sound exactly—”

“No no. Say it again.” B.J. is confused. Henry Lee purses his lips, acting as if it is a struggle for him to say it: “Ran ul.”

My eyes flash at Henry Lee.

“Ran ul,” he says again, in B.J.'s face.

“Stop that.”

“Ran ul,” says B.J.
My breathing.

“Ran ul,” says Henry Lee.

“Henry Lee.”

“Ran ul,” says B.J.

“Ran ul,” says Henry Lee.

“Ran ul,” says B.J.

“Ran ul!” Henry Lee is bigger, he jumps excitedly.

“Ran ul!” B.J. imitates Henry Lee's actions.

“Ran ul! Ran ul! Ran ul!” they chant together. They are communicating. Here he's making fun of B.J., but B.J. seems to be enjoying himself. They
both
seem to be enjoying themselves, sharing something. I'd like to kill Henry Lee.

In the midst of the chant, Henry Lee falls out laughing. B.J. also laughs. His laugh is not a hearing laugh. It's too abrupt and too harsh and too loud.

Henry Lee suddenly sits up, his smile now a smirk. “It's all a terrible tragedy,” he says, and spends the next several minutes setting up the doomed teenage lovers in their car. When he turns on the train, B.J. is enchanted again. But as the reality of the approaching catastrophe dawns on him, he is increasingly horrified. At the last possible moment, he puts his hands on the track, stalling the train.

“What are you
do
ing!” Henry Lee slaps B.J.'s hands away. The train makes a few abnormal sounds, then chugs on. Now the engine is so close, there's only one way to save the lives of the promiscuous dolls: B.J. shoves the engine from the side, the whole train crashing off the track and onto the floor, four feet below. Henry Lee screams.

“WHAT DID YOU
DO
?”

Henry Lee puts the train back on the track, the switch flipped on. The engine hovers in place and does not move. Henry Lee goes on a tirade, screaming and waving his arms. The situation with the train is certainly dire, but even tantrum-prone B.J. is stunned by Henry Lee's hysterics, as am I. Finally Roger's mother opens the door above us. “What's goin on down there?”

“That
dummy
ruined my train!” He swerves around to face me. “Don't you bring him here no more! Don't you
never
bring him here no more!”

“Oh.” I hear Roger's mother shut the door to go back to work, as if her question was just idle curiosity.

“SALLY!”

A few moments later the door opens. “Yes.”

“THEY RUINED MY TRAIN!”

“Hm. Well I guess your mama an daddy'll have to get it fixed.”

“THERE'S NO FIXIN IT! THERE'S NO FIXIN IT!” He is stomping up the steps, then turns back to scream at me. “YOU'RE PAYIN FOR IT!”

As soon as Henry Lee is gone, B.J. turns to the train control box but I quickly jump up to put my hand on his hand, signing, Henry Lee says no. B.J. signs, I want train. I sign, No, Henry Lee says no. B.J. signs, Henry Lee pansy. I giggle. I'm sure he has little idea of what the word means, apparently part of the new vocabulary Deb Ellen imparted to him at the park. Still, I'm pondering Henry Lee's threat. Where could I get the money to pay for his train? I gaze at my Sopwith miserably.

Roger comes down the steps with two oatmeal cookies. “My mama said to give these to yaw.” His eyes fall on my plane. “Lemme see it.”

I hand it to him. He smiles a bit as he delicately touches it, bestowing to me the gratification I didn't get from Henry Lee. He gives it back. “My mother said I should introduce myself to your brother.”

I sign to B.J.

“What's that?”

“The sign language. I said, This is Roger. This is my brother B.J.” Roger nods to B.J. B.J. smiles at Roger. I get my cards.

“Twenty-one?”

“Okay.”

I indicate for B.J. to join us. The three of us sit on the floor as I shuffle.

“You can't take history today. I have a test Wednesday.”

“Takin nothin.” Roger checks out his hand.

“What?”

“Found this boy. Ninth grader at the white high school, loan me his books for free.”

I stare at him. “Why would he loan you for free?”

“I don't know. We're friends. Hit me.”

“
I'm
your friend!” It just popped out. Roger stares. I swallow. I suddenly feel like a heel, selling knowledge and here a better person just offered it, no strings. “You can borrow my books for free if you want.”

He shrugs. “I'm already doin it with this boy now. Plus he likes to study all summer. I like to study all summer. Hit me.” B.J. suddenly guffaws.

“Guess he got a good hand.”

“He just does that sometimes.” B.J. looks at me. His smile is sweet. He signs: Sally Roger nigers. Deb Ellen definitely increased his lexicon. She never could spell.

“What's that?” Roger asks. “Hit me.”

“He says he likes you and your mom,” which is true.

The next day I don't go to Henry Lee's after Sunday school, and in the afternoon he and his mother come a-knocking. Just the mystery of her, being around so rare, made her scary. What the train needs is an eighty-five-cent part, which I'm sure Henry Lee's folks can easily afford but it's the principle. My mother is confused and worried, my father glowering at them, and to a lesser degree at me. B.J. nearby, fascinated by it all. My voice trembles, and I tell the truth. When Mrs. Taylor finds out about Henry Lee's “accidents” with all his new cars she bought, also risking the train, she tries to contain her fury, apologizing for having bothered us and making it clear both that she will take care of any repairs herself and that Henry Lee will be dealt with properly when she gets him home. He shoots me deadly glares on his way out. My father asks why I spend time with that “pansy” anyway, the second time in two days I'd heard the term with respect to my playmate, then he goes upstairs without waiting for an answer. I wonder if this is the end for Henry Lee and me. Hardly an ideal friendship, but it was the one and only I had.

That night I realize now that B.J. can read, I better stop just leaving anything open for him to see. I'm flipping through his sign language book and on the inside back cover, a blank page, I see what he'd written in brown crayon. My “dummy” brother is a damn sure rapid learner, having translated my cursive, even as he and I'd only been working in print.