Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (22 page)

Nicky turned his head to his right and stared at Paulie the Mick. Nicky stared until his eyeballs ached and then he saw Roy, from the old days, cap perfectly cocked, tall and graceful in center field. Roy walked and scratched and spit masterfully, exactly like the big leaguers on television. Roy pounded his fist into his glove and crouched, ready to sprint after a fly ball, the way he did all those days while Nicky watched from the fifth-floor kitchen window.

Thwock.

Lester had connected, proving that even a blind rat finds steak now and then. The ball skipped into right field. It bounded straight toward Nicky like a sprinting alley cat. The ball seemed to pick up speed along the concrete. Nicky put his glove down.

The ball scooted between his ankles.

Nicky looked into his empty glove and between his legs. He got a glimpse of the ball as it rolled all the way to the fence.

Two runners scored.

Lester, smiling big, was perched at second.

“Butterfingers!”

“You play like you're in another world,” said Paulie the Mick.

A sandpapery voice shrilled out from Eggplant Alley, “Boy, oh, boy, criminy. That one stinks. Send him packing.” Nicky's eyes swept Building B, mortified to be heckled. On the second floor, framed in the open window like a portrait, was Mrs. Furbish's ancient face. She scowled down on him in disgust.

“I am being razzed by a hundred-year-old woman,” Nicky thought.

Skippy stepped to bat.

“Not to me, not to me,” Nicky pleaded.

Skippy grounded out to Mumbles.

Inning over.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Nicky thought as he ran off the field as fast as he could—fleeing. He felt as if the school bell had rung before the teacher could call on him again.

Icky's team trotted onto the field. Lester ran awkwardly to right. “Let's see how HE does out there,” Nicky thought bitterly.

“Listen up. We're down, three–zip,” Mumbles said. “Let's do some cutting and slashing, boys. Some cutting and slashing.”

Mumbles stepped to bat. Icky had his drop pitch working, just like in the good old days, and Mumbles struck out.

Paulie the Mick could hit the drop pitch, just like in the good old days. He singled.

Freddie, as patient as he was in the good old days, walked.

Little Sam whacked a lucky ground ball up the middle for a hit. He always was lucky.

Skipper walked.

Icky pounded his mitt and swore.

Cuddles stepped to bat. The bases were loaded. Nicky was glad no one could read his mind, because he was heartily rooting for Cuddles, his own teammate, to make an out. Nicky prayed to come to bat with the bases loaded, with a golden chance to be the big hero. He didn't want Cuddles to take his chance away.

Cuddles walloped the first pitch. It was a beautiful fly ball, a parabola out of the algebra textbook, to deep right, toward Lester.

Poor Lester turned one way, then another.

He stumbled.

He tripped.

He ran, glove extended limply, toward the chain-link fence. Lester moved like a boy who never saw a fly ball before in his life.

Lester's hat flew off.

He careened into the fence. The chain-link jangled.

And the ball plopped into Lester's glove, as if supernatural powers had ruled that this particular fly ball on this particular day was simply going to be caught.

“What a catch!” Icky hollered.

Lester's team cheered and screamed. There was a clacking sound from Eggplant Alley—Mrs. Furbish slapping her cane on the windowsill.

Nicky thought, “This stinks.”

“Okay, okay. That's only two out,” Mumbles said roughly. “Who's up? Who's up?”

Nicky raised his hand.

“Oh,” Mumbles sighed.

The life went out of Mumbles's voice.

“Well, go get 'em, Martini. I guess.”

Nicky picked up the dropped bat and stepped to the plate. And this was one of the reasons Nicky loved baseball, in all its forms. The game offered redemption. Nicky had made two boneheaded errors minutes before. But right before him, on a serving platter, was a chance to wash away the shame, clean the slate, make penance. In any other sport, the two stupid plays would have cooked him for good. In football and basketball or hockey, his teammates would never let him near the ball or puck again. He would have been banished, written off, forgotten. But this was stickball. And Nicky stepped up to bat with the bases loaded and two outs. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to be a hero, no matter how much his teammates wished someone else, anybody else, was hitting.

“This is my rendezvous with destiny,” Nicky thought, tightening his jaw while his stomach fluttered crazily. Nicky heard his heart thump loudly. And for an instant he thought everyone else heard it, too, because Mumbles said, “Hey, what is that?”

Mumbles shielded his eyes to see deep right field. The other players looked toward right field, too. What they saw was Lester, by the gate, staring up at a big, muscular black man. The man was trim-waisted and broad-shouldered. The man had his arms folded and he looked down with amusement at Lester. The man's thick biceps pushed against the sleeves of his orange sport shirt. He wore wraparound shades. At the curb, another black man leaned against a red convertible. He had his arms folded and chomped on a toothpick. These were clearly two tough guys.

“They have Lester surrounded,” Nicky thought.

The big black man reached out a big paw. He wiggled his fingers, as if to say, “Gimme the ball.” Lester handed the ball over. The big man rolled it around, chuckled. He showed the ball to his friend with the toothpick.

“They're toying with him,” Mumbles said.

The stickball players in the field edged away from Lester and the two big black men. The players took baby steps and put some distance between themselves and the disaster brewing in right field. They moved away, the way you would move away from an automobile engulfed in flames. Move, before the gas tank blows.

Lester threw glances toward his retreating teammates as he jabbered to the big black man. Lester's eyes were bugged out behind his glasses. Lester looked like a boy who needed rescue.

Nicky thought, “He's scared out of his skull.”

But none of the players moved. Those two black man looming over little Lester were grown-ups, bad dudes, big and strong and mean. None of the Eggplant Alley boys wanted to mess with them.

Lester was on his own.

“Hey FELLAS …,” Lester sang out.

Lester's eyes bulged. His face shone with sweat. He pointed to the big man and gestured to the players. His hands flew in wild directions. His lips trembled. He squeaked out a silly giggle.

Lester was unraveling.

Icky snatched the bat from Nicky's hands. Icky's face was a maraschino cherry shade of red.

“Where did those guys come from?” Icky growled. He shouted an angry plea across the schoolyard, “JERKS! BUTTHEADS!
JUST LEAVE US ALONE!” His words echoed on the walls of PS 19 to Eggplant Alley and back again.

The big black man swiveled his head toward Icky. The man scowled. The players near Icky jumped at the sight of the scowling face, focusing on them. The man jerked a thumb toward Icky. The boys edged away from Icky.

Lester's mouth was going fast. His head bobbed as he jibbered.

“Hey! Fellas! Hey fellas!” Lester said.

Lester rocked on his feet, stepping away, stepping closer, blabbering and turning in an excited little dance. Lester didn't know if he was coming or going. He looked like a puppy, waiting for the big black man to throw the ball for him.

Nicky thought, “He's gonna make a break for it.”

Lester's voice pitched high, into desperate octaves. “Hey fellas. FELL-ahhhhss! This is … he wants … he wants …”

Icky cleared his throat deeply, spit on the pavement savagely, swore bitterly. He slammed the stickball bat onto the pavement. The bat snapped in two.

Paulie barked, “Why did you do that for?”

Mumbles whined, “That was our only bat.”

“So sue me,” Icky said. He kicked the bat pieces and they spun along the asphalt. “So what? Game's over. Ruined again by you-know-what. Come on. We better get out of here.”

“What about Lester?” Nicky said.

“That's your problem,” Icky said. “He was mighty keen about playing with the coloreds. Let him play with that guy.”

Icky and the gang shuffled away from the concrete diamond.

“BUTTHEADS!” Icky shouted, out of a need to make loud noise.

They moved like scraps of paper in the wind, drifting toward the steps to Summit Avenue. They looked over their shoulders as they walked, watching Lester, watching the black men, reluctant to go, but more reluctant to stay around.

Nicky watched his friend. The men were leading Lester away, out of the PS 19 playground, out on the sidewalk, farther from the stickball players and safety, into no-man's-land. Nicky imagined his friend was about to be slaughtered or, if he was lucky, only kidnapped. The two black men loomed over him and escorted him to the car. The man with the wraparound shades plucked the glove from Lester's hand, as if to say, “I'll be taking that now, sonny.”

Nicky heard himself whimper. He was overwhelmed with a desire to help Lester. His heart pounded deeply and his head pulsed with heroic urges, whipped up in him by years of war movies and cop shows and comic books and adventure stories. He knew what he must do.

And he could not do it. Nicky could not make his feet move toward Lester and the two hulking black men on Groton Avenue. He wanted to go there, but he could not. His feet were like battleship anchors. It was like trying to run in a dream. He couldn't move. It was like trying to convince himself to walk off a cliff. His feet would not respond to the order. He was simply too scared.

Then the black men strolled away from Lester. Lester was left all alone on the sidewalk.

Two car doors slammed. The sporty red convertible backed up, engine screaming, all the way down Groton.

Lester waved as the car zoomed away. The car's thick tires squealed out into traffic on Lockdale Avenue.

“He waved to them?” Nicky said.

Icky and the gang stopped in their tracks. “Whaddya know, he's still alive,” Mumbles said.

Lester scooted through the gate and ran, sneakers flapping, across the playground. Nicky noticed Lester still held his glove and the ball. It was a miracle.

Nicky said, “Are you hurt?”

Lester gasped for air and said, “Of course … I'm not hurt. Jeepers creepers … you fellas … Why didn't you come out there?”

Icky snapped, “Do we look like cops?”

Lester exhaled deeply. “Do you know who that was?”

“Your father?” Icky said.

“No. It was Willie Mays. Himself. Willie Mays. The great Willie Mays. The greatest center fielder in baseball history. And he wanted to play stickball with us. He wanted to play with us, fellas.”

“You lie.”

“I do not.”

“Do too.”

“You're full of baloney.”

“Look,” Lester said. He held open his glove. It was autographed in blue ballpoint ink: “To Lester, Nice catch! Best wishes, Willie Mays.”

“He said they were making a commercial for coffee or something down on that big street. Broadway. He said he always likes to play stickball in the neighborhoods. When he comes back to New York. With the Giants.”

Mumbles said, “Willie Mays. Holy smokes. Willie Mays wanted to play stickball with us. Icky chased him away.”

“I didn't chase nobody away.”

“The chance of a lifetime,” Fishbone said.

“Come on. It's not like it was Mickey Mantle or something. Now, Mickey Mantle, he was something,” Icky said lamely.

“Mickey Mantle don't even play anymore,” Skipper said.

Icky and the gang shuffled their sneakers and shook their heads. Lester gazed, eyes moist, at the autographed treasure. His face was glowing.

Icky said, “Big deal. Just some writing on a glove. Ruined your glove, too.” He started toward the steps to Summit Avenue. “I'm going to get some smokes.”

“Wait up,” said Fishbone.

Icky and the gang wandered away, toward the steps to Summit Avenue.

“You know, fellows,” Lester piped up. “You know, there is a valuable lesson here for all of us.”

Icky said, “Dink. I got your lesson right here …”

“No, the kid's right,” Fishbone said. “The lesson is, forget about playing stickball around here.”

Nicky watched as Icky and the gang walked away, taking summer with them. Their heads bobbed as they descended the stairs. Their baseball caps dipped behind the wall, sinking from view like setting moons and shooting stars.

O
n the first day of eighth grade, Nicky sat in the fourth row, close to the window. He could feel the warm afternoon air, which reminded him of summer. He wore new dress shoes, new gray slacks, a white shirt fresh from the cellophane package, and last year's green clip-on tie. The tight collar, the stiff shoes, the scratchy pants reminded him that summer was gone, done, over.

Nicky consoled himself with this fact: “In the third semester of this very school year, Roy will be home.” He opened his new notebook and flipped about three-quarters through, drew an X in ink on a page, and thought, “I will be taking notes on this page when Roy comes home. Or at least doodling on this page when Roy comes home.”

After lunch, Mr. Sullivan passed out American history textbooks. They were brand new, hot from the presses, shiny, sleek smelling, crackly in the binding when opened. Nicky turned directly to the back pages to see how up-to-date this edition was. His previous American history text did not include the outcome of the Korean War. This edition went clear through to Kennedy. There was a portrait of the president and a news photo of Kennedy
and Mrs. Kennedy bathed in bright sunlight, riding in the blue Lincoln Continental in which he was assassinated.