own.”
“Harlan!” I heard Mrs. Tucker say.
“You could come to Detroit,” he yelled, his voice almost lost beneath the sound of the motor as Mr. Tucker pulled away. “We could be partners.”
“He's coming back,” I yelled, my voice loud in my ears. “Don't you worry about that.”
The apartment door opened on the other side of me. “Good luck,” Ronnelle called, and Lulu waved both hands.
And Patches came running. “Good luck, Harlan.”
And there was Mom out on the step, ready for work, going across the lawn to say goodbye.
The Tuckers drove down the street then, the motor not catching right somehow, the muffler banging as they turned the corner.
I went back inside and sat on the foldout couch in the living room, tightening my fist around Harlan's dollar bill.
Chapter Eighteen
It was almost time for Mom to go to work. She rushed around hanging socks and underwear on a line across the kitchen. “Oh, Meggie,” she said. “Last year this time we were in Rockaway sweeping the sand off the front steps.” Her mouth quivered. “I'd be putting on a second cup of coffee for Grandpa. How I miss him.”
She arched her back. “Can you imagine, I spend my days helping to put huge bombers together…almost like sewing up a skirt on the machine at home.”
I thought of Terry, Harlan's friend, the man who was shorter than I was, working inside the wings.
After Mom left I could see a puddle of soapy water in front of the washing machine, and drips across the floor fromthe laundry. The wringer was hardly working, but Dad had said it was just for the duration anyway.
The duration again.
I found the mop and swished it back and forth, making shiny arcs across the red linoleum. The sun slanted through the window onto the floor, drying it quickly; the clock tick-clicked up over the stove, and it almost seemed that the faucet dripped out Arnold's name.
I went into my room and sat on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking. I must have awakened Dad in the other bedroom. “Are you all right in there, Meggie?” he called, his voice thick with sleep.
“Sure,” I managed to get out. I ran my fingers over the bedspread. Judy or Jiggs had chewed on the little balls of chenille and I could see the sheet underneath. Harlan's dollar was there, under the pillow.
I had to give it to Arnold, give him my allowance, and tell him…
Tell a spy.
I slid out the dollar and patted my pocket to be sure I had Grandpa's medal in there for courage; then I tiptoed out so I wouldn't wake Dad. It was time to find the SUNDAE, MONDAY, AND ALWAYS truck.
The truck wasn't on our block or the next. I was about to give up when I saw it ahead of me, slowly turning the corner.
By the time I reached the end of the street, Arnold the Spy was chaining the truck to a tree halfway down the block.
I could have called out; I could have run after him. I didn't, though. I stood there thinking about the scratches on the running board and what he was going to say.
He put the key underneath the back fender. For a spy he certainly wasn't very smart. I followed him as he walked away, wondering where he was going.
He crossed the street, and halfway down I crossed after him. He went a long way and I kept myself almost a whole block in back of him. And then the streets came to an end, and there was the field Dad had shown me, and I could see Arnold was going to that house across the field, and if I didn't call him it would be too late. He'd be inside with the door closed and I'd never have the courage to knock.
“Arnold,” I called, my voice with that rusty sound again. He stopped ahead of me and turned.
I walked toward him slowly, taking baby steps, until I couldn't make myself go any closer. “Do you know Harlan Tucker?” I couldn't look at his face; I stared down at the Queen Anne's lace and buttercups in the field in front of me.
He raised one shoulder. “Dirty-looking kid? The one who wears the World's Fair pickle?”
“That's what I
“Harlan!” I heard Mrs. Tucker say.
“You could come to Detroit,” he yelled, his voice almost lost beneath the sound of the motor as Mr. Tucker pulled away. “We could be partners.”
“He's coming back,” I yelled, my voice loud in my ears. “Don't you worry about that.”
The apartment door opened on the other side of me. “Good luck,” Ronnelle called, and Lulu waved both hands.
And Patches came running. “Good luck, Harlan.”
And there was Mom out on the step, ready for work, going across the lawn to say goodbye.
The Tuckers drove down the street then, the motor not catching right somehow, the muffler banging as they turned the corner.
I went back inside and sat on the foldout couch in the living room, tightening my fist around Harlan's dollar bill.
Chapter Eighteen
It was almost time for Mom to go to work. She rushed around hanging socks and underwear on a line across the kitchen. “Oh, Meggie,” she said. “Last year this time we were in Rockaway sweeping the sand off the front steps.” Her mouth quivered. “I'd be putting on a second cup of coffee for Grandpa. How I miss him.”
She arched her back. “Can you imagine, I spend my days helping to put huge bombers together…almost like sewing up a skirt on the machine at home.”
I thought of Terry, Harlan's friend, the man who was shorter than I was, working inside the wings.
After Mom left I could see a puddle of soapy water in front of the washing machine, and drips across the floor fromthe laundry. The wringer was hardly working, but Dad had said it was just for the duration anyway.
The duration again.
I found the mop and swished it back and forth, making shiny arcs across the red linoleum. The sun slanted through the window onto the floor, drying it quickly; the clock tick-clicked up over the stove, and it almost seemed that the faucet dripped out Arnold's name.
I went into my room and sat on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking. I must have awakened Dad in the other bedroom. “Are you all right in there, Meggie?” he called, his voice thick with sleep.
“Sure,” I managed to get out. I ran my fingers over the bedspread. Judy or Jiggs had chewed on the little balls of chenille and I could see the sheet underneath. Harlan's dollar was there, under the pillow.
I had to give it to Arnold, give him my allowance, and tell him…
Tell a spy.
I slid out the dollar and patted my pocket to be sure I had Grandpa's medal in there for courage; then I tiptoed out so I wouldn't wake Dad. It was time to find the SUNDAE, MONDAY, AND ALWAYS truck.
The truck wasn't on our block or the next. I was about to give up when I saw it ahead of me, slowly turning the corner.
By the time I reached the end of the street, Arnold the Spy was chaining the truck to a tree halfway down the block.
I could have called out; I could have run after him. I didn't, though. I stood there thinking about the scratches on the running board and what he was going to say.
He put the key underneath the back fender. For a spy he certainly wasn't very smart. I followed him as he walked away, wondering where he was going.
He crossed the street, and halfway down I crossed after him. He went a long way and I kept myself almost a whole block in back of him. And then the streets came to an end, and there was the field Dad had shown me, and I could see Arnold was going to that house across the field, and if I didn't call him it would be too late. He'd be inside with the door closed and I'd never have the courage to knock.
“Arnold,” I called, my voice with that rusty sound again. He stopped ahead of me and turned.
I walked toward him slowly, taking baby steps, until I couldn't make myself go any closer. “Do you know Harlan Tucker?” I couldn't look at his face; I stared down at the Queen Anne's lace and buttercups in the field in front of me.
He raised one shoulder. “Dirty-looking kid? The one who wears the World's Fair pickle?”
“That's what I
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