Charlie Tanner Could Walk on Air

By Robert S. Telford

Charlie dreamed he could soar high in the air, rest on tree branches, and sit on top of chimneys. Better yet, he could kick his way up into the sky and look far down onto little people with horses and wagons, street cars and shops. He could flutter-kick out of the way of bullies who called him "Shrimp" and chased him through the streets of Brooklyn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Dec 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781426943249

Robert S. Telford

Robert Telford attended Kent State University, served in World War II, and earned his bachelor of theatre arts degree from the Pasadena School of Theatre. He has acted in and directed off-Broadway plays and worked for the American Negro Theatre with such luminaries as Frank Silvera, Maxwell Glanville, and Sidney Poitier. Robert currently lives in New York City.

Book preview

Chapter One

The Surprise

Charlie dreamed he could soar high in the air, rest on tree branches, and sit on top of chimneys. Better yet, he could kick his way up into the sky and look far down onto little people with horses and wagons, street cars and shops. He could flutter-kick out of the way of bullies who called him Shrimp and chased him through the streets of Brooklyn.

Whack!

Mrs. Musgrave’s ruler smacked against her desk with a smack that made everyone in the class jump. And especially Charlie Tanner.

Charlie Tanner! If you’re going to sit back there, staring out the window and wool-gathering, I’m going to bring you down here where you’ll sit in the front of the class!

Charlie gulped, seeing everyone turned around in their seats, staring at him. Grinning. Smirking. Giggling. The advantages of alphabetical seating were quickly eroding

But then the bell rang. Louder than Mrs. Musgrave’s ruler smacking against the desk, the bell hailed the end of class, the end of the day, the end of the school year, for it was now summer, the summer of 1902 when Charlie Tanner was free, free to run through the streets of Brooklyn, swim along side the East River docks, play under the massive new Brooklyn Bridge — and dream that he could soar high in the air without fear of Mrs. Musgrave’s ruler whacking against the desk to stop his wool-gathering.

Charlie Tanner dashed out of the back door of P.S. 32, the smell of chalk and sneakers in his nose and the chant of School’s Out ringing in his ears:

"No more pencils, no more books!

No more teachers’ dirty looks!"

The book-belt strap was snug over his shoulder, and his arithmetic, english and spelling books bounced against the middle of his back as he tore around the corner.

Hey, Shrimp! someone yelled. He could tell it was Swede Olson. If he could cut around the side of the school and then head down Stuyvesant Street, he’d get away. He might even miss Johnny DeFazio and his gang. He wished he could zoom up into the air just like he did in his dreams.

When he rounded the corner, the afternoon sun silhouetted the three DeWaters boys at the end of the block. They were even worse than DeFazio, far worse than Swede. The DeWaters kids used the littlest one of the three to pick a fight and then the older two would clean up on you if you fought back.

Charlie skidded to a halt. He knew he couldn’t outrun them. He shifted the strap off his shoulder and held his books in front as if to ward off the attack. What he wanted to do was go straight up!

The littlest of the DeWaters boys came slowly toward him, just about up to Charlie’s chin. There were blotches on his face, and he smelled. He got right under Charlie’s nose.

Hey, Shrimp, the kid smirked. Charlie eyed the older two watching from the end of the block, waiting to pounce on him if he tried to defend himself. One was tall and skinny, kind of gawky looking; the other was just a little shorter than Charlie, but he weighed more and was tough and knew it.

Whack! The little DeWaters boy slapped Charlie across the side of his face. Charlie could feel the inside of his mouth cut against his teeth. Whack! The left hand came up and smacked against the other side of Charlie’s mouth. Panic! It’s not me. I’m not here!

Kick yer feet, a voice with a thick burr sounded just behind Charlie’s ear. He couldn’t turn around, afraid to take his eyes off the DeWaters kid.

Kick yer feet, lad, the rasping voice repeated.

Charlie forced himself to look back over his shoulder. At his elbow was a tall, black-haired, hawk-faced man with a terrifying glare directed over Charlie’s head, straight at the little DeWaters kid.

Kick him?, Charlie thought. You mean kick him in the shins? That isn’t the way you fight. You’re supposed to keep hitting people on the shoulder. Not even in the face. Not in Brooklyn. And you’d never, ever kick anyone. Only cowards fight like that.

Charlie turned back, but the DeWaters kid was also staring at the hawk-faced man. Then, just as quick, the DeWaters kid turned away.

Charlie felt a tingly feeling in his right leg, and for some reason, no matter how wrong it might be, Charlie lashed out with his foot to give the DeWaters kid a kick in the butt as he ran. Maybe that was what the hawk-faced man had meant, anyway.

But it was just like kicking at a football when someone yanks it away. Charlie missed him completely. Instead of planting one on the kid’s seat, Charlie flipped up into the air and landed on the sidewalk, flat on his back.

The littlest DeWaters raced toward his big brothers, a loud, gurgling sound coming from his open mouth. Then all three disappeared around the corner.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, back to where his benefactor had been, but the hawk-faced man with the black hair was gone. Slowly, Charlie got to his feet and looked up the street. No one. He went back to the corner of the school building and looked. Still no one.

Had it been just in his imagination? No! The DeWaters kid had seen him, too. There had been that look on the kid’s face, mouth open, eyes bugged out. And he remembered what the man had looked like when he first turned around. He was tall, with a lock of dark hair falling over one eye. His nose was very thin and long, kind of bent at the top, almost like a pirate’s. And he had a plaid shirt, very thin but with bright colors. Not something you’d see in Brooklyn in the summer. He had dark pants, and they stuck up over his belt an inch or so. Not the way people’s pants were anywhere in New York.

And the way he talked! Kick yer feet! What did that mean? He must have meant kick him in the shins or at least in the seat of his pants. He couldn’t have meant kick like Charlie did in his dreams, because no one but Charlie knew about those dreams.

He was scary. But, heck, he was even more scary to the DeWaters kids, so that made it all right. It made it like maybe the hawk-faced man was on his side. Wouldn’t that be great!

But Charlie wasn’t one to test his luck. He raced home, his book belt over his shoulder and his shoe leather beating a tattoo on the Brooklyn pavement.

The next day Charlie headed down Stuyvesant toward Proxmire’s stables. His mother called out, You let Mr. Proxmire handle that horse.

Gosh, he was eleven years old. He’d handled horses before. He was even hoping that, after they picked up his Aunt Sarah and Uncle Emory at Grand Central Station, Mr. Proxmire would let him show off a bit and handle the reins coming back over the Bridge.

He laughed about that as he swung around the corner and stepped into the stables. Mr. Proxmire was finishing up the harnessing. He had a buckboard with a plank up front to sit three if they squeezed up.

Where’s your mamma? Mr. Proxmire asked.

She’s got behind and wants us to pick her up at the house.

Can’t go, Mr. Proxmire growled. Gotta fix some fool’s harness that he snapped. Has to be ready by noon. You’ll have to take her.

Drive a rig across the Brooklyn Bridge right into Manhattan? That was something Charlie’d never dreamed of doing.

You know how to get to Grand Central Station? Mr. Proxmire didn’t even wait for an answer. There’s a map in the office. Don’t worry about the mare. She’s been over the bridge before.

Wow!

It didn’t take much to guide the mare around the right corners. Charlie clucked and flapped the reins over her rump, really full of himself.

Over on the corner, looking straight at Charlie, was the tall, dark-haired man with the hawk face. Charlie let out a little Hey!, his head turning as the wagon turned. Gradually, the hawk-faced man disappeared.

Where had he come from? And why was he watching him?

Chapter Two

Aunt Sarah and Uncle Emory

Fussing with her gloves and fixing her hat, Charlie’s mother moved down to the curb as he guided the mare over. Just as expected, she shrieked when she saw Charlie all alone.

What are you doing? Where is Mr. Proxmire?

He can’t come. Has a harness to fix. Gave me a map to get to the train station.

There was no way out of it, so off they went.

You hold that mare in tight! Don’t want to let her rare up with those horseless carriages! She fussed a lot when she got nervous. I swan, I’d just as soon go back to the Eighteen Hundreds.

Two years before, the 20th Century had begun. From the way people talked, you’d expect everyone to have gas buggies and telephones in no time. Even flying machines would be buzzing all over the place.

That’s the thing Charlie thought most about — flying. Especially now, he’d begun dreaming about soaring up into the air. Not in a flying machine, but all by himself! And yet, not much had changed during 1901. A few more telephones were down at corner stores. There were a few more electric and gas buggies, but mostly there were the same wagons and the same horses and the same mess. Things changed very slowly.

Charlie and his mother headed on over toward the East River.

If it weren’t for the way I’m dressed, I’d take those reins, myself. You be careful.

Gosh, Ma, Pa let me drive a rig when I was only six years old.

He let you sit on his lap and take the reins, his mother snapped.

Charlie felt he never really knew his dad. There wasn’t much of a picture he could hold onto over the last four years except the time they’d walked clear to the East River to look at the new bridge stretching from Brooklyn all the way to Manhattan. His dad helped him stand on top of one of the pilings and cautioned him when Charlie wanted his dad to let go his hand.

Be careful in all things, son, his dad had said, for your life will depend upon it.

The last time Charlie ever saw his father was just before he went down to Cuba aboard the Battleship Maine in January of 1898. Charlie’s mother got a telegram saying he had been killed when the ship blew up in Havana Harbor.

Charlie headed the wagon for the bridge. He caught his mother looking over at him sideways every once in a while.

Slow her down, Charlie. I’m having trouble following this map. We’re going too fast! How do you know how this mare will react to the Bridge?

She handles like a kitten, answered Charlie.

The Brooklyn Bridge was just eight years older than Charlie, one of the wonders of the world. It was awfully high over the East River, and the mare shied a bit once they got out onto it, but Charlie felt he did pretty well. They made it without spooking either his mother or the horse.

Finding the way up from Canal Street to the center of Manhattan wasn’t easy. In the lower East Side, the streets were narrow and filled with carts. Charlie kept a sharp eye so as not to catch a wheel on another wagon or run over somebody’s foot.

At 42nd Street and Grand Central Station Emory and Sarah Lyons waited with their suitcases and one big trunk. Charlie’s mother spotted them first and called, Sarah, here we are! Charlie guided the mare over to where they stood.

Howdy, young fellah. Uncle Emory seemed a friendly sort, taller than his father had been. He gave Charlie a handshake, and Aunt Sarah folded him in a big hug, almost knocking off the hat she wore. She was younger than Charlie’s mother, her sister, and she was really rather pretty. But she did gush a bit.

Oh, Edna, I’m so glad you could meet us, and right on time. We only just got up from the track.

Charlie and his uncle Emory helped the porters heave their luggage up onto the wagon. Emory tipped the men, and the four of them climbed aboard. Charlie made a feeble attempt to take the reins again, but his mother said, Nothing doing!

That’s all right, young fellah, his uncle said. You just give me instructions, he added with a sly grin. Charlie could accept that because now he was able to sit back and breathe easy. You did quite a chore, Emory commented over his shoulder.

Most of the trip back to Brooklyn was spent hearing about their plans, none of which had made any sense in Aunt Sarah’s letters.

Emory went up to Canada to do some horse-trading, Sarah explained, riding a gelding we owned. He kept swapping one horse for another, and — you know how he is — he came back in a new rig pulled by a mare in foal, a colt tied onto the back and a bag full of money tucked away in the seat box underneath him. I couldn’t help thinking of all those people he’d … bamboozled! She’d paused a bit before that last word came out. As she said it, she flicked her hand as though she were spanking a baby. She looked kind of silly.

Uncle Emory’s jaw muscle popped out a bit, and Aunt Sarah’s eye flicked back and forth from his face to the mare’s rump. Then, the corners of Emory’s mouth pulled into a sort of half grin — he never got mad a bit — and he just picked up on Aunt Sarah’s story.

You know how she’s always fussing at me about her family — yours and hers, he said to Charlie’s mother. Always wanted to know where your family comes from, he said, laughing.

Sarah cut in. I just had Pa’s word that the Gregors came from England. I just know it’s a famous name.

Emory laughed quietly.

They were headed up to the crest of the Brooklyn Bridge, right over the center of the river. Charlie stood up and craned his neck to see over the side, something he’d been too nervous to do when he held the reins. They were really high up. Dreams of flying flashed into his mind. They were just like this. Everything below was small, boats like toys.

There was a strange tingle in Charlie’s ankles, and he gave a little kick with his right leg. His shoe banged against the side of the buckboard.

Emory spoke up. Say, this thing’s really pretty high, isn’t it! Be careful, Charlie. You wouldn’t want to fall off from up here.

Charlie’s right foot jerked out and bumped the side of the buckboard again. He heard Kick yer feet in his mind, and the face of the dark-haired, hawk-faced man hovered over the water. His lips were moving: Kick yer feet. Kick yer feet!

You wouldn’t get much purchase starting from way up here, Emory went on.

Charlie turned to look at his uncle. What’s ‘purchase’? he asked.

Emory’s face changed quickly. Oh, that’s nothing, he answered. Charlie could see his mother turn and noted that Aunt Sarah looked sharply at Emory. Everybody clammed up.

Anyway, Emory went on, when I got back to the house, I told Sarah to pack her duds, ‘cause we were going to England and find out about her family. And that’s when she wrote you.

What’s purchase? Charlie repeated.

The wagon bounced down onto the Brooklyn side of the bridge in silence. No one answered.

Chapter Three

The Library

While Aunt Sarah gossiped with his mother, Charlie spent the afternoon showing his uncle around the neighborhood. He half way hoped they’d