One day left for the Rosenbergs. I picture them in their individual cells poring over their lists of things they wanted to get done before their lives went dark forever: Climb Mount Everest, eat kangaroo steak in Tasmania, learn to play pinochle, take in a World Series game, see your sons old enough to shave.
The radio’s reporting last night’s ball scores, interrupted by news.
“. . . a late-breaking bulletin in the Rosenberg case: Chief Justice Vinson has ordered the Supreme Court justices to return to Washington for an unprecedented special session to review Justice Douglas’s stay of execution, issued earlier today. Justice Black, scheduled for surgery this week, has delayed his operation and will meet with his brethren on the Court.”
Good news!
“. . . expected that the Court will vacate Justice Douglas’s stay, and that the execution will be carried out on Friday, June 19, at 11:00 p.m. Stay tuned for further developments.”
Bad news.
Yesterday it was two days to go. Now, a day later, it’s still two days to go. Weird math. It would confuse even Dr. Sonfelter. Does it count as good news if you got yourself ready to die on a certain day, then it got bumped back?
Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table with her head propped up in her hands. “Don’t say anything, Marty. I need to figure out how I feel.” She passes me the Sentinel. There it is on the front page:
ROBBY AND MICHAEL VISIT PARENTS FOR LAST TIME
They’ll never see their mom and dad again, so I’m trying to figure out what they’ll talk about in the reception room at Sing Sing.
SON 1: So long. It’s been a nice few years, except for the last two while you’ve been in jail and we’ve been farmed out to anybody who’d take us.
PARENT 1: Have a good life.
PARENT 2: Sorry we’ll miss the next seventy years of it.
SON 2: Hope it doesn’t hurt too much when they pull the switch. Hey, he kicked me!
SON 1: Did not!
SON 2: Did too!
PARENT 1: Boys, boys, no fighting.
PARENT 2: Always remember, sons, we love you.
SON 1: Yeah? Funny way of showing it.
Maybe it won’t be like that at all. Maybe they’ll be slobbering and hugging and promising things that can’t ever happen. I’ll always be with you. Or maybe they’ll just find ways to hang out in different corners of the boxing ring.
The whole Rosenberg thing is making me sick, which means hungry. I slap two pieces of bread and a chunk of Velveeta into a pan. So, while I’m waiting for it to get gooey, there’s a shadowy shape outside the kitchen door—someone’s head, but I can’t tell whose because of the checkered curtains on the window. An envelope slides under the door, and the shadow disappears.
Another threatening note? I thought we were past that. I pick up the yellow envelope with my heart pounding.
Inside is the Phil Rizzuto card; no note. Why is Luke returning it to me?
I stand there for a long time, trying to puzzle it out, until smoke and the nasty smell of burning cheese shakes me into action. Turn off the stove and fly out the kitchen door, still clutching the yellow envelope. I sprint across the street without looking for traffic. The FBI guys will honk if a car comes barreling down Oxbow. They wouldn’t want me splattered on their windshield.
A gust of wind has blown Luke’s chair across his lawn because he isn’t there to anchor it. I ring the bell, knock, look in all the windows, the backyard. The garage door won’t go up, and all the doors are locked, no lights on anywhere. Where’d he go? And why did he return the card that he’d called so very fine?
At the FBI car: “You know the guy who’s always sitting right there outside his garage except when he rolled down the driveway? Did you see him leave?”
“We didn’t see a thing,” Kluski replies. Some spies they are.
But Milgrim, who still has a human bone left in his body, says, “Correction: he walked north, up toward the campus.”
I run to the College, with my two keys flopping on a chain against my T-shirt. It’s a big campus with lots of buildings and trees and cars. How can I zero in on him? As soon as I clear one place, he can move into it after me. I mean, like he’s experienced in combat, boondoggling the enemy.
If I were running away, where would I go? Up to Whittier Tower, where I’m emperor of the world, because I’m the only one besides Connor’s father who has a key.
Unless Luke made himself a copy that day he made my house key! Yeah, the tower key was on the same string. He even commented on it.
I swear, it takes me less than a minute to sprint to Whittier. The door’s so tall that I have to stand on my toes to reach the lock with the key around my neck.
It’s already unlocked.
The stubborn door creaks open onto darkness, and I start climbing up the winding stairs, quiet as an alley cat. They say that when you’re in a scary situation adrenaline pumps through you. That’s how an ordinary kid can lift the front end of a car, or run the mile in four. Me, I never dreamed I’d have the energy to climb these stairs so fast, no gasping.
All the way up the corkscrew stairs I’m thinking about what to say. Nothing seems right. Should I pull a Mom and ask him a zillion questions? No, no questions. Should I lie? I just happened to be on my way up here; thought I’d keep you company. Talk about dumb. Guilt, will that work? Some Bubbie Sylvia psychology? I’m really disappointed in you, Luke. If you fall, you’ll smash the pretty flowers down there. Now, that’s not a nice thing to do, is it, sweetheart?
Should I beg him to come down with me? Should I grab him and wrestle him to the floor? Sure, like he isn’t three times bigger and stronger than I am. But there are those war wounds; maybe I can take him.
Nothing feels right. I’m a kid. I’m not trained to do stuff like this. But maybe he just wants company while he enjoys the breeze on a hot, humid day. Yeah, that’s it.
I’m panting my way up the last ten steps when I remember him saying, It’s not your fault . . . You did your best, kid. Sure sounds like goodbye.