Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (29 page)

“Cool.”

“Want some Hi-C?”

“Definitely.”

While Lester went to the kitchen, Nicky examined the living room. He wasn't snooping, but if he happened across a clue, he wouldn't have averted his eyes. Nice recliner. Okay television—a little old, with brass-colored rabbit ears. Standard table of framed photographs, just like the one in Nicky's living room. All the photos were black and white. A portrait shot of Lester's mother, at a younger age. A slew of baby pictures.

The boys opened their books on the living room rug and dived into their homework. Inspired by the Hi-C and a pressing need to snoop, Nicky went to the toilet. In the bathroom, Nicky took note of the fluoride toothpaste, a strange comb in the medicine cabinet, and bath towels that might have come from a hotel.

On his way back to the living room, he peeked into the master bedroom (two twin beds, night table in between, pink slippers on the floor). He peered into Lester's bedroom (one twin bed, an old school desk, way tidier than the room Nicky and Roy shared). The whole layout was identical to Nicky's apartment. Kitchen, living room, two bedrooms, a bath. Everything seemed in order. If there were secrets in 2-C, they were well hidden.

When the apartment darkened, Lester switched on a lamp. Nicky announced it was time to get home before his parents returned from their jobs.

“They would never think to look for me here,” Nicky said.

“Your mama is working?”

“For now,” Nicky shrugged.

“Very interesting,” Lester said. “Say. I was wondering.”

“What?” Nicky said, loading his book bag.

“Do you mean what you said about stickball? About not wanting to play?”

Nicky saw pain and fear in Lester's eyes. But he also felt a new power, and he decided to leave the pain and fear right where it was, at least a little longer.

“We'll see,” Nicky said.

Nicky returned to his apartment, which was still empty, now dark. He hurried from room to room and turned on every light, even in the bathroom. Then he parked at the kitchen table and peered down Groton. He looked and waited like he did in the old days.

Cars zipped back and forth along Lockdale. A van slowed, but did not turn. Nicky heard muffled noises and voices from other apartments, which made his apartment seem more quiet, more empty, more lonely. Nicky hummed, just to make sound.

At last Dad's delivery van, orange directional flashing, swung off Lockdale and rattled down Groton. Nicky was relieved. One missing piece was on the premises.

Dad settled into his chair and read the
Daily News
. Nicky resumed his homework on the coffee table. Fifteen minutes before six, Mom came home. Her eyes were puffy. She shivered from the cold walk from the bus stop. Nicky exhaled. Two missing pieces were on the premises.

“What a day,” Mom said. “I'm bushed. When I left, there was
still a line from the men's department all the way to cosmetics. They wanted me to stay. Overtime. Any mail from Roy?”

“Nothing,” Dad said from behind the paper. “I don't want you working late. It ain't safe on the bus late. Look, right here in the paper. Some guy got stabbed on the bus in Newark.”

From the kitchen, Mom called, “Who left the milk out? P-U—it's spoiled.”

The traditional supper-hour racket built in the kitchen. Pots slammed. The refrigerator door thumped angrily and the bottles inside clinked.

“Hey, Mom, what's for supper?” Nicky called. He was glad life was close to normal—Mom and Dad and Nicky in place.

Mom marched into the living room. She plopped a colander filled with brown potatoes into Dad's lap, crushing his newspaper. She presented Dad with the peeler.

“Potatoes,” she said. “They need to be peeled.”

She tossed a paper bag of green beans and a paper towel onto the coffee table. “Green beans. They need to be snapped.” She started for the kitchen. “I'll do the meat loaf.”

Dad numbly peeled potatoes. Nicky numbly snapped beans.

As they peeled and snapped, Dad and Nicky exchanged disbelieving glances. Nicky's bottom lip stuck out. Before that moment, supper was something that appeared on the table, like magic.

“I feel like I'm back in the army,” Dad grumbled.

Nicky sat on the plastic slipcover and snapped beans. It was the sort of work that left time to think. Nicky mulled over the Mystery of 2-C.

“Hey, Dad, what would you think if your best friend never let
you into his apartment. For a long time. Then all of a sudden one day, he lets you into his apartment.”

“And?”

Nicky shrugged. “And it was just a regular apartment. There's nothing strange there.”

“I dunno,” Dad said. “Is this some sort of riddle? If it is, I'm not in the mood.”

“I just wanted your opinion,” Nicky said.

“I guess I don't know,” Dad said. “Maybe the strange thing wasn't there anymore.”

Nicky snapped a bean and said, “I think maybe you're right.”

N
icky walked home from school by way of Broadway. The wide street was a bustling holiday scene. People lugged shopping bags and hurried along the sidewalk. Plastic Christmas trees were fastened to lamp poles. Multicolored Christmas lights blinked in the window of Lucky's Tavern.

At the apartment, all the usual Martini family Christmas things were in place. The battered, beloved cardboard box was out of the back hall closet. Year after year after year, the box yielded the pair of stuffed reindeer—one for Nicky, one for Roy; the plastic manger; the Santa Claus with a cotton ball beard, crafted by Roy in fourth grade; the old Santa Claus snow globe, liquid half evaporated; ancient boxes of tinsel; ornaments; a rat's nest of tree lights.

The tree, undecorated, was already in the stand in the living room. Dad brought home the tree from Butch's Sunoco. It was a family tradition for Dad and Roy and Nicky, all three of them, to take the delivery truck down to Butch's and pick out a tree. They selected a tree together every year. But with Roy absent, Dad chucked tradition. Picking out a Christmas tree was just another chore. He grabbed a tree by himself one day on the way home from work.

Mom was baking sheet after sheet of Christmas cookies in the kitchen. The kitchen was hot and the windows were fogged by the oven. Nicky pestered Mom and she finally broke off from baking to scrounge a small box and wrapping paper from one of the off-limit nooks in her bedroom. Nicky asked Mom not to come into his room for a while. He said he would be wrapping gifts and he did not want Mom to walk in on him and ruin the surprise.

Nicky wrapped Mom's present, a silver crucifix purchased at the St. Peter's school Christmas fair. He wrapped Dad's present, a pen-and-pencil set from Walgreens.

He went to the doorway of his room.

“Hey, Mom. MOM. Remember. Don't come in here, all right?”

Eyes darting to the bedroom doorway, Nicky carefully placed the six scented candles in the box. He thought, “Margalo will love these.” He nestled them, handling them like baby birds, on tissue paper. He admired the arrangement. He dropped his nose to the box, and the mixed smells of cinnamon, boysenberry, orange, lemon, and green apple made him swoon. He wrapped the box, taped a ribbon to it, and slid the present for Margalo deep under his bed. The presents for Mom and Dad went into the closet.

Nicky informed Mom that he had a quick errand to run to Popop's.

“What? It's almost dark. What do you have to go to Popop's for?”

“I can't tell you. It's a Christmas thing.”

“Don't bother,” Mom said. “Whatever it is, we don't need it. Stay here.” She picked up a dust mop. “You can help me clean.”

“I have to go to Popop's.”

“What for?”

“I can't say. It's a surprise.”

Mom sighed. “Well, if you have to go, hurry up. Look at it out there. It's dark. Honestly, I wish you'd just stay here. Go out tomorrow. Don't give me that look. All right, go. Just go. But hurry.”

Nicky rushed to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, flushing the toilet to cover the sound of the brushing. He emerged mintymouthed from the bathroom.

Mom stood before him with the dust mop in one hand and the present for Margalo in the other. Mom was truly amazing.

She said, “What's this?”

“A present.”

“For who?”

Nicky shrugged.

Mom said, “Who's it for?”

“I dunno.”

“What do you mean you don't know? Who's it for?”

“Dad.”

“Oh,” Mom said. She turned the box every which way. “I'll put a tag on it for you. I'll put it out by the tree, with the others. Now get going if you're going to go to Popop's. It's started snowing.”

A steady snow fell from the black sky as Nicky reached the Only House With Trees. He pressed the bell alongside the massive door and watched snow gather in the crevices of the house. He caught snowflakes on his tongue. Cones of snow had formed on the heads of the stone lions. The stone lions looked back with merriment.

Margalo pulled open the heavy door. “Hey-lo,” she said. She studied Nicky's face. She smiled.

“I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it,” she said cheerfully. “Come on in. You look like Oliver Twist out there in the snow.”

Margalo wore a bulky sweater and black slacks. Her chestnut hair, shiny in the hall light, was draped along her shoulders. Nicky took in the sight of Margalo and his stomach rumbled.

“We have to get going if we're going to beat this snow,” Margalo said. The Gildersleeveses were driving to Vermont for the holiday. Suitcases, boxes, boots, and skis were heaped at the foot of the staircase.

Eugene careened down the steps, two stairs at a time, sandals clicking. His ponytail flopped against his back as he came down the stairs. He glanced at Nicky and grunted and moved along heavily.

“I can't stay long, either,” Nicky said. “I have—” He fished the checkbook-sized, gift-wrapped box from his coat.

“Here.”

“What's this? For me?” Margalo said. She shook the box near her ear, jingling her bracelets, and she smiled. “What could it be? Go in the sitting room for a sec. I'll be right there. Go on. Right through there.”

Nicky walked across the thin, elegant rugs. The floorboards under the rugs groaned with dignity as he moved. He entered a warm room decorated with delicate furnishings, the kind of furniture that made Nicky nervous. To him, this kind of furniture seemed brittle, on the verge of snapping. He lowered himself carefully onto a velvet-covered sofa.

“Merry Christmas,” Margalo said, sweeping into the room. She handed Nicky a gift-wrapped box the size of a toaster. She sat next to him on the sofa, close enough for Nicky to smell green apples. She cradled the gift-wrapped box from Nicky in her lap.

“You first,” she said.

Nicky ripped off the paper. It was a baseball mitt. It was the Rawlings B-4000, stunning in its display box, clean and stiff and brand new behind the cellophane. Nicky had asked Mom and Dad for a mitt for Christmas, and like every kid he had admired the B-4000 in the sporting goods department at Gimbels. But he refused to even dream of getting a B-4000. How could he? They sold for a whopping $55. He had asked Mom and Dad for the D-250, and even then felt a twinge of guilt at the $17.95 price tag.

“You can use it in your stickball games in the spring,” Margalo said.

Nicky felt dry in the throat.

“You'll need a mitt in the spring,” Margalo said.

“Yes,” Nicky said.

“You said you wanted to play stickball this spring. You said that the night we went to the Blue Castle.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Now you'll have a brand-new mitt for the occasion.”

Nicky said, “I will.”

“Is it an okay mitt?”

“It's a great mitt.”

“Now, mine,” Margalo said. She flipped the hair off her shoulders and unpeeled the paper. Nicky thought Margalo in this moment looked like a little girl, bouncy and excited over a Christmas
gift. Margalo placed aside the wrapping paper and admired the slender, imitation-leather box. She gently opened the hinged lid. She grinned and nodded in appreciation of the gold pen and pencil. Nicky saw that he had neglected to remove the Walgreens price tag.

“I can't wait to write with these,” Margalo said. “Thank you Nicky.” She leaned toward Nicky, and her movement depressed the couch cushion and tilted Nicky toward her. He felt her sweater against his arm and her breath on his face and then he felt Margalo's lips, sticky with frosty lipstick, touch his cheek, a sweet moist brush on his skin. It happened before Nicky could think.

When Nicky got home, he walked zombie-like past the kitchen. His mind was blown, delightfully. He had removed the glove from its box and ditched the box in a basement trash can. He had the new glove stuffed under his winter coat, near his heart.

“Where have you been?” Mom called. “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Nicky said quietly.

Nicky was examining his cheek in the bedroom mirror when Mom appeared at the doorway.

“What are you doing? What's that on your cheek?”

“Frosting. I had a cupcake at Popop's.”

“Cupcake? You know I made cookies. What's the matter with you?”

O
n Christmas Eve, Mom put a Bing Crosby album on the hi-fi. The old songs were comforting, soothing and sweet, when the needle didn't skip.

Dad strung the lights. Nicky hung the ornaments. Mom took a break from cooking clam sticks and balanced on a chair to attach the star to the top of the tree.

Roy had always been in charge of the finishing touch—hanging the tinsel. The tinsel was right there on the coffee table. Two new boxes of it, on sale from Woolworths. But nobody touched the tinsel. The tree was just going to have to go without tinsel this year.