Ivan said, “I think we need to take duct tape so we can cover the hole after we catch him, because we don’t want the pregnant one to get out and hurt somebody.”
“She’s going to die anyway,” said Max. “The paper said they die after they have their babies.”
“Yeah, but what if she gets out and has the babies and they all attack people at the museum?” Ivan reasoned.
“He’s right,” I said. “It might bite some little kids. That’s called ‘collatrial damage,’ and that would be bad.”
“I’ll go get some duct tape.” I knew exactly where it would be, from Brickie’s threat to tape my mouth on Bachelor Night.
Estelle was in our kitchen, finishing up dinner, which smelled delicious. “Hey, Little Mr. John,” she said. Estelle seemed to like cooking more than cleaning. Dimma was always happy to send her home with half of whatever she cooked for us. “What you up to?” she said pleasantly.
“Hi, Estelle.” I got the duct tape from the pantry drawer. “We’re fixing something.” I quickly added, “But we didn’t break anything, don’t worry. What are you making? It sure smells good.”
“Jus’ some pot roast, rolls, and things. Your granddaddy loves my pot roast.”
“I love it, too!” I said overenthusiastically. “We’re spending the night at Max’s house, but I’ll eat dinner here so I can have some.”
“That so?” Estelle said, rolling out some waxed paper to cover the yeast rolls rising on the counter. “Well, y’all have a good time.” She added nonchalantly, “And don’t be creepin’ ’round places y’all don’t belong.”
This worried me, and I hurried out of the kitchen. But realizing Estelle had done us a huge favor by not telling Dimma about the other night’s escapade, if she knew, I stuck my head around the corner and said sweetly, “I hope you’re coming to our Fiesta.”
She stopped what she was doing and turned to me, smiling. “Why, thank you, John. I ’preciate the invitation, but I need my day o’ rest. It’s a holiday, so I’m gone spend it with my own family.”
I knew she had a husband, William, who sometimes picked her up, and some older children, but I couldn’t have said how many children, or their names. This epiphany made me ashamed—why did I know so little about this woman who knew my family so intimately and did so much for us?
Estelle saw my embarrassment and said kindly, “I do plan on makin’ deviled eggs and cucumber sandwiches for your comp’ny to enjoy.”
“Oh, good! Thank you!” We smiled at each other, and I ran back to the boys with the silver tape.
Eleven o’clock was again the appointed hour.
By ten o’clock, all was quiet in Max’s house. We three boys were suited up in Max’s bedroom, nervously looking at comic books and listening to WDON on Max’s transistor. “The Battle of New Orleans” came on, which was pretty much the Shreve boys’ anthem. Ivan said, “I hate that song.” He hated it because Beau and D.L. loved to sing it, but also because the part about grabbing the alligator to use as a cannon—We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind / And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind—was so cruel. There wasn’t much talk, except that Max said, “If we go to reform school, I hope I can have my transistor.”
At eleven—zero hour—I looked out the bathroom window and saw Beatriz waiting below with her bike. One by one, we climbed down the maple. Beatriz whispered, “We should go single file, and stay on the sidewalks as much as we can. It’s darker, and we’ll be hidden better than in the street. I’ll go first.” She had her braids tucked inside her ski cap and looked like a pretty boy.
Max whispered back nastily, “You should go last, Little Brown Dove.”
Beatrix stuck out her tongue at him, saying, “You don’t know the way.”
“Well, then, I’ll go second because I’m oldest, and I have the book bag.”
“You’re only two weeks older than I am, Max,” Beatriz said. I offered to go last, thinking last in line might be first to escape if something went wrong. Beatriz whispered a rapid prayer, “OmiJesuperdoa-nososnossospercadoenossalvedofogodoinferno,” kissed the tiny gold saint medal that hung around her neck, and crossed herself.
“Pfft! As if he’s going to help you when you’re breaking the Eighth Commandment,” Max said.
Ivan said, “I don’t think God really cares about kids anyway.” I was more worried about Brickie than hell, if we got caught. We’d never done anything remotely as foolhardy.
Max produced the hunk of charcoal and we passed it around, helping one another rub it on our faces and Beatriz’s skinny knees.
We started off hesitantly at first, taking our school route down Raymond, then turning left onto Connecticut and speeding up. We passed the Chevy Chase Club on the right, and then Lenox Street and Kirke Street, the fancier neighborhood, where Slutcheon and Gellert lived. We passed Blessed Sacrament at Chevy Chase Circle, where the splash of the fountain played forcefully; the splash of it was loud and clear in the almost-empty night. I remembered the time some hoods put detergent in the water and foam covered everything. The Avalon Theatre still had lights on, doing away with the shadows, but the people in the handful of cars that passed seemed not to notice us. Racing along, we passed large, older houses alternating with newer apartment buildings—Sulgrave Manor, a very modern building, then Clarence House, where Dr. Spire had his Chamber of Shots, then Connecticut Hot Shoppes. Then the Yenching Palace, with its cool diamond windows, where a waiter cleaning up waved at us, and the Uptown Theater, where I’d seen The Monolith Monsters with my dad.
Everybody’s legs were churning hard, and we flew along, our pedaling synchronized and our bodies hunched over our handlebars. The night air was cool and invigorating; I wasn’t even sweating. I’d still been a little sore from my drowning, but I felt invincible now. We whizzed past groups of row houses, the old Kennedy-Warren apartments, and then we passed the zoo and the Shoreham Hotel, high on the hill, the grounds brightly lit. Beatriz stuck her arm out, signaling left, and we moved to the other side of the street. Coming to the Taft Bridge, its fancy streetlights illuminated it like daytime. Too many cars were coming across. Beatriz signaled for us to stop. We pulled into the dark weeds and shrubs just before the bridge.
Beatriz said, “Let’s rest a second.”
“I knew she’d slow us down,” Max said, although he was breathing as hard as the rest of us.
Beatriz snapped back, “The bridge is too bright! We need to wait till these cars are gone.” Waiting, trying to catch our breath, we admired the eagles on the tops of the streetlights, and the giant lions guarding the bridge. I thought I could see the minaret of the mosque on Massachusetts Avenue in the distance, its crescent a little moon in the sky.
With a lull in the traffic, we shoved off again, going through Kalorama, with its swankier houses and apartments, and then passing S Street, where Holton-Arms was, and then the Golden Parrot, where Liz and I’d had dinner with my father and I’d acted like a brat because they didn’t serve hamburgers, and R Street, where Daddy used to live.