Blackwell's Island

All sorts of weird things hung on the walls. Stethoscopes, long-nosed scissors, bandages, ear trumpets, belts with long electrical cords hanging from them, a big advertisement for Humphrey's Witch Hazel Oil. Along the shelves were apothecary jars in a rainbow of colors, and large and small scales. "What is this place?" I asked. "I am a surgical supplier," the man said. He stood at the back of the shop at a small oil-burning stove. A large pot sat on the boiler, and he used a ladle to spoon the stew into bowls. "Doctors buy medicine and tools from me. My name's Mr. O'Brien. Sit and eat, before it gets cold." "Really, you don't have to do this," I said, still feeling a little uncomfortable. "It's no problem. Your sister is a sweet girl. We met by the statue." "Hey! I'm not sweet!" Anna said sharply. I looked at the stew suspiciously. It didn't smell poisoned or anything. I stuck my spoon into the bowl and slurped up a bite of warm meat and carrots. Delicious. "So your sister tells me your mother is missing," O'Brien said as he put a lid on the pot. "Yeah," I said. "But it's no big deal or anything." Best to act like this didn't bother me. I didn't want him to turn us in. I tried to slurp the stew slowly, as if I wasn't starving. Anna piped up. "It is too a big deal. Our mother was the most beautiful and popular lady on the Lower East Side. She used to play music and bake pirozhki for all the neighbors. Right, Alex?" I was too busy eating to respond. The beef stew was scrumptious; it melted in my mouth. As I ate I looked around the store. In one of the corners I noticed a white marble head, sitting alone on a pedestal. It looked like the head had writing on it. Weird. "She brought us over here from Russia herself after our father died," Anna continued. "She got a good job and everything. But a few weeks ago she didn't come home. And now we're alone." "That's a shame," Mr. O'Brien said, sinking into a ratty chair in the corner. "I think she's run off to become a Czarina, actually," Anna said. "She's gone back to Russia to marry Czar Nicholas and live in the Grand Kremlin palace. Isn't that right, Alex?" I shrugged. "You shouldn't make up crazy stories like that," I said. "Why? It's true! She's going to come back for us on an ocean liner!" Mr. O'Brien chuckled. He stood up creakily, pressing his hands against his knees. "Why don't you sit here for a while, little Anna, and eat your stew? I have something that your brother might be able to help me out with at the front of the store." "Hey! I'm not little!" Anna yelled. I followed Mr. O'Brien to the front of his store, passing microscopes and bedpans and water bottles made out of steel and jars of elixirs. We stopped right in front of the marble head. There were lots of marks on the skull. It kind of looked like a map, with neatly drawn squares dividing the head into sections. Inside each square were words like "Destructiveness," "Secretiveness," and "Hope." Mr. O'Brien reached into his pocket and put on a pair of spectacles. One of the lenses was cracked. "Now tell me, Alex," he said in a low voice. "Do you have somewhere to live?" "We live on the third floor of a tenement over on Delancey," I explained. "The landlord hasn't figured out yet that our mother's missing. Every time he comes around for the rent I tell him that she's at work and will pay it soon. I don't know how much longer I can do that, though." "I see," the old man said. "What is that?" I asked, pointing at the spooky head. Its marble eyes stared at us. "It's called aSerena Graff is the author of 'Blackwell's Island', published 2005 under ISBN 9780385746700 and ISBN 0385746709.