Cobwebs

  KAREN ROMANO YOUNG

  IN GRANNY’S MEMORY

  “Anything new?” Mama Rachel and Granny Tina had been asking Nancy too often lately (for the last three years or so). Rachel said she had begun to become what she was at around thirteen. Ned began a little later, as boys do. Nancy was older than both.

  “Same old beautiful me,” she told them, though it made a sharp hurt inside her to say it.

  Her mother and grandmother turned away to hide their faces. It was Grandpa Joke who stroked the hair back from her forehead and said, “That’s fine.” But lately she thought he was the one who looked most worried of them all. There was no special spiderness coming from anywhere inside her, no matter how hard Nancy listened for it, watched for it, waited for it. It seemed that so far Rachel and Ned’s genes had canceled each other out in Nancy.

  There was an old woman tossed up in a basket

  Seventeen times as high as the moon.

  Where she was going, I couldn’t quite ask it

  But in her hand she carried a broom.

  “Old woman, old woman, old woman,” quoth I.

  “Where are you going to, up so high?”

  “To sweep the cobwebs from the sky.”

  “May I go with you?”

  “Aye, by and by.”

  -Mother Goose

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. The Thread

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  2. The Knot

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  3. The Web

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  Also by Karen Romano Young

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1. The Thread

  O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell,

  and count myself a king of infinite space,

  were it not that I have bad dreams.

  —William Shakespeare, Hamlet

  1

  The first time Nancy saw Dion he was balancing on the rail of the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. Manhattan shimmered across the river. Annette was telling Nancy again how much she wanted a boyfriend, and Nancy was pretending to listen.

  Nancy saw him first. He looked like he wanted to scale the skyscrapers. But the rail was only as wide as—

  “Hello, excuse me, just what do you think you’re doing?” yelled Annette.

  Nancy grabbed her arm to make her stop. She thought Annette would startle the boy with her great big mouth, make him fall.

  “I’m standing on the rail,” he answered. He wore a flopping, flapping coat of no particular color and had sticking-out ears attached to a bald head. Circles under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept. He stood steadily on the rail, the cars whizzing by below on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. They didn’t even honk. New Yorkers. They’d seen it all.

  “Are you deaf?” screamed Annette. “Get down off there!” Annette’s hands reached as if she were going to catch him or push him.

  He didn’t waver. “Are you blind?” he asked. “Can’t you see I don’t need your opinion?”

  “I can see that you need your head examined!”

  “Annette, you’ll distract him,” Nancy said quietly. Years of watching her dad, Ned, do this stuff (though not over an expressway—“You never should endanger others with your dangerous activities,” Ned would say) made her still and calm on the outside. But she couldn’t help thinking how scary things would look from up there. She walked smoothly closer and rested her hand on the boy’s foot. His shoes were black boots of a softer leather than her shiny hard Doc Martens.

  He looked down. “I won’t fall,” he said. He focused on Nancy’s thin brown face, wild dark hair, solemn green eyes, and he didn’t move his foot away. He might have kicked at Annette if she’d come near him. She was so freaked out, she freaked him out.

  “Why don’t you get down?” Nancy asked, wondering more than questioning.

  His eyes were blue, with the whites so white they looked blue, too. Or maybe it was the sky, all blue with clouds, that made them look so blue. He said, “What do you care?” to Nancy, not Annette.

  Annette snapped, “You could kill someone else with your stupid behavior.”

  He said, “They’d never even know what hit them.”

  “Retard!” she said furiously.

  “Reject!” he spat back.

  Fair’s fair, Nancy thought. Both seemed right and wrong, being stupid and insulting each other that way. She had never felt torn between Annette and anyone else before.

  Annette made a snarling exasperated sound. The boy made claw-fingers at her, like a cat would. Nancy hooked her arm through Annette’s and dragged her away. “Forget him!” she said, knowing that she herself could not.

  “What’s your name?” the boy called behind them.

  “Don’t tell him!” said Annette.

  Nancy looked back. The boy was still watching her. She would never forget his face as it softened, as he smiled and jumped down onto the Promenade. Don’t follow us, Nancy said in her head. They kept walking away, Annette hugging Nancy’s arm. “Did you see how he looked when he flapped his arms?” Annette asked.

  “So?” Don’t do it again, Nancy said to the boy in her head.

  I never fall, she imagined he said back. Or maybe she could tell that he never fell.

  Annette said, “His sleeves were like wings. Like he thought he could fly.”

  “What wings? Just too-big clothes.”

  “You know how people see things, hallucinating. Like those people who say they’ve seen that Angel of Brooklyn they’ve got in the paper.”

  “There’s no such thing,” Nancy told Annette.

  “It’s in the paper,” Annette said, wishing it to be true.

  “You ought to be in the paper. GIRL BELIEVES ANYTHING.”

  The real headlines were almost as silly: MUGGER GETS NAILED was a story about a mugger hit on the head with a falling box of nails. SCUMBAG OUT TO LUNCH told how a woman breaking a window to rob an apartment had been beaned by a lunchbox lobbed from the roof. The reporters hardly seemed to notice that potentially violent crimes had been averted. They were more excited by the violence that had done the averting. They were even more excited by the idea that someone on the roofs was acting like some sort of guardian angel for the unholy citizens of Brooklyn.

  “You believe it, too, Nancy,” Annette protested.

  The trouble was, Annette was right. Nancy had seen a picture on the library wall that some little kid had drawn, a drawing of an actual angel stopping a bad guy on the Brooklyn Bridge. No doubt, if the believes-anything reporters from the papers saw the drawing, they’d want to interview the dreamy kid. Ridiculous.

  There was a reporter in Nancy and Dion’s story, too, a hard-nosed, deep-digging one, not a dizzy dreamer like the ones who wrote about the Angel.

  It wasn’t until the spring Nancy met Dion that the reporte
r began to zero in on the truth. It was Dion and Nancy who would lead him to the Angel of Brooklyn, if they didn’t watch out, if they weren’t careful. But only Nancy was a careful person.

  2

  Annette recited one of her corny poems:

  “I need love

  Like a hand needs a glove

  Like push needs shove

  Like below needs above.”

  “Woe is me,” said Nancy.

  “I want a boyfriend,” cried Annette from the balcony of her apartment, where she and Nancy sat. Annette didn’t like being home without her mother; Nancy would stay until Mrs. Li came whistling up Pierrepont Street from the subway.

  “Oh, woe,” said Nancy again. “Shut up, Annette.”

  Annette used to be a Tolkien freak who wrote Nancy notes in Elvish and wore glitter on her ears where the teachers couldn’t see (it was against dress code), who collaged her notebooks with one word cut out from a hundred different magazine ads (the word was word), who wore plastic hobbit feet for Halloween. “A short, squat, Korean hobbit girl lived in a hobbit house under a hill. One room was all she needed,” Annette said. “And a weeny refrigerator with room enough for pie.”

  Annette was still all those things, Nancy knew. But they weren’t what Annette talked about anymore; she tuned them out and toned them down and pretended she didn’t care (or maybe she didn’t).

  There were several different boyfriend candidates, all nicknamed little names that had to do with what they liked or did, such as Joe Vespa, the guy with the motor scooter, or Vinnie Video, the one with the Game Boy surgically attached to his hand.

  It was as if, instead of picking a real person, Annette was choosing someone out of a catalog. Nancy herself, conscious that not just anyone off the street would fit into her peculiar family, had yet to notice anyone who interested her in any way, before the Promenade boy. She was a one-person person, and so far Annette had felt like plenty for her. But Nancy was not enough for Annette anymore. Annette wanted a boyfriend so she wouldn’t be alone. Since she didn’t know her father, and therefore didn’t understand how marriage worked, she wanted to know all about Nancy’s parents.

  This created a problem. Nancy could talk about the theory of marriage, getting along and helping each other and not criticizing and all that, but in practice she wasn’t sure her parents’ marriage worked on any level but one. It was easy to see why Ned’s moving out this spring—and every spring in memory—could be interpreted as a bad sign.

  “Is he going to move back again in the fall?” Annette asked.

  Nancy shrugged. She never knew. He always had before. “It’s different this year,” she said. This year Ned had moved out in March, before the clocks changed forward. “He said he needed to get up on the roofs,” Nancy explained.

  “It’s been such an uncold winter,” Annette said. “I guess that helps.”

  Nancy wondered. “He’s happy, though,” she told Annette. “You should see how happy he is. He doesn’t need Mama in the spring.”

  “You know what you need?” said Annette. “Your own place.”

  “I need ice cream,” said Nancy, fed up with choosing between two places, two people, and dragged Annette to the Kustard King truck playing its silly music on the corner.

  Ned tangoed Nancy across his roof, his new roof, which gave out over Brooklyn and clear across to Manhattan. He had put the new roof there himself, to stop the rain leaking into the apartments below, just last week and the week before. He’d found out the little house on the roof was available, which meant nobody else wanted it. Instead of just renting or subletting, he’d bought the place. Nancy didn’t like the permanence of the arrangement.

  “Look at it, Nancy,” he said. “House!” He threw one hand toward the little poky rooftop penthouse, its dirty glass panes that let in only faint checkers of light. “And garden!” He threw his other hand toward the broken, crumbling cement border of a hard, cracked rectangle of dirt. Then he leaped onto the wall at the edge of the roof on his skinny legs in the black jeans, and threw both arms wide to New York City and the sky. “I’m in love!”

  “Dad, don’t!”

  He jumped down, bouncing a little in his springy way. “Sweetheart,” he said. “Little egg. It’s going to be beautiful.” He stroked his strong fingers over the zillion black ringlets that floated around Nancy’s head—the way his would if he didn’t wind it up in dreadlocks. He walked her toward the odd little penthouse, to the open door. The house was one big metal frame, white bricks from the floor to hip level, then glass to the ceiling. “We’ll scrub every window,” he said, making it sound like that would be good entertainment.

  When Nancy squinted at him, rainbows appeared around his head. She made herself lighten up and tease him. “We?” she said.

  Her dad grinned in relief.

  “There’s plenty of sun up here,” Nancy said.

  “Yes! A garden!” He whirled from the edge of the roof to the house. “We can fix it all,” he said. “We’ll need some furniture, but it’s springtime, roof time. There’ll be work from now to November. I’ll make you a loft bed, Nance.” His voice changed, rose. He wanted her there. “Or a hammock. What about a hammock? You can swing in the summer breezes and never even know you’re not in Jamaica.”

  A hammock? So temporary. “I love it at Mama’s,” Nancy said, sticking up for her mama, Rachel, for Rachel and her basement apartment, with its three sets of stairs, one leading down from the street, one from Granny’s apartment upstairs, and one from the courtyard with the greenhouse studio. Rachel had a cozy trundle that pulled out from under her bed for Nancy. Of course, a trundle bed was temporary, too, a just-in-case-Nancy’s-here bed.

  Nancy’s parents loved each other but lived apart. She was strung between them like clothes on a pulley clothesline, going back and forth. Only Mama’s end of the clothesline never moved, and Dad’s always did. That had always seemed like a bad thing until now, when Dad’s end seemed like it might be settling down, too.

  “Nance,” Ned said. She kept her eyes down. He’s not coming back this time, she thought. He’s moving to this rooftop, which he’s in love with. He said so himself. He lifted her chin and saw the tears. “Nancy Greene-Kara,” he said. “You are a Greene and a Kara. This is your home, not just mine.”

  “This rotten roof?” she said. “This dusty, cobwebby old wreck full of—”

  “Our rotten roof,” Ned said. He grabbed her hands and danced her across the roof again, kicking out his feet in the pointy cowboy boots he wore when he wasn’t roofing. Water tanks, chimneys, and TV antennas spun around them. Nancy couldn’t help laughing along, and stomped her feet.

  When they stopped, puffing, Ned raised one finger and said, “The first thing we have to do is learn how to get down.”

  She should have known. To most people that would mean the stairs or the elevator. But her father was very big on emergency procedures, precautions, just-in-cases. He led her to the edge of the roof. She took one look. “Oh, Dad, no.”

  “Oh yes, little egg. You’re more than a ground dweller.”

  “Listen, you old Arach-Ned,” she said. “You can’t turn me into a drop-and-dragger just because you make me dwell on the roof.”

  “It’s in your genes, Nancy.”

  She held up her palms so close to his face that he lost focus. “It’s not in my hands!”

  He pulled his head back to see her clearly. “Better late than never,” he said. He turned her toward the edge of the roof. “Go on, Nance.”

  3

  It wasn’t enough to stand atop the wall. Next Nancy had to cross her ankles and turn around on her toes, turn her back to the air and climb down backward over the precipice. She turned, and froze.

  Ned’s father’s father had built the Empire State Building, riveting steel bolts to steel beams high in the atmosphere. His father’s father strung the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge, straddling the brown brick tower, with nothing but the East River to catch him. And Ned’s daughter?
A little bug afraid of heights.

  Ned laid his large hands on top of Nancy’s. They were always slightly sticky, and now he turned her hands over and rubbed his palms against them, to give her traction.

  She tried to stand firm the way the boy on the rail had, though her hair threatened to act like a sail and pull her off the wall, though her stomach quavered and quaked.

  “Don’t look down,” said Ned. But he looked down casually, as if he were reading a subway map, so Nancy did, too. Her instinct kicked in, the bad instinct that said, Go no farther. Hold on tight. Don’t step out. Do it and you’ll be nothing but a squashed blob on the sidewalk. “Let go, Nancy,” he said.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It’s safest this way,” he said. “If your body’s going to learn to take care of you, you have to put it in these situations. Now go.”

  Nancy wondered how strongly the fire escape was struck on the brown wall of the house. She felt her way down the ladder to the first landing, the one that stretched above the windows of the apartment under Dad’s new penthouse.

  “What are you afraid might happen?” asked Ned.

  “I’m afraid of splattering!”

  He nodded. “I thought you were small but wiry.”

  Nancy grinned. It was what she always said. But now: “If only I had spinnerets…”

  Spinnerets made lines like bungee cords. They saved you from falling. But Nancy didn’t have them. Yet. Would she ever? She had grown lately, it was true. Her hair was longer and her legs were longer and Granny said her face was bony now, not soft. Her chest wasn’t bony anymore. Still, there were no spinnerets inside her, no silk.

  “What you folks doing out there on that fire escape?” a white-faced blond woman scolded from the nearest window.

  Ned leaned out from the roof to see. He would have tipped his hat if he were wearing one. “We’re your new neighbors on the fifth floor,” he said.