Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (33 page)

“I want you to come here tomorrow. At six sharp. There's something I have been thinking of doing with you. You may be a little young. But something tells me that you're not. I think you can handle this.”

Nicky's throat felt tight. He said, “I think what how is …”

Margalo reached her fingertips to Nicky's mouth. He felt her trimmed nails brush his lips.

“You'll see,” she said. “Can you drop by at six o'clock?”

Nicky walked home, up Mayflower onto Summit and into
Eggplant Alley, and he felt as if he were walking in a dream. His thoughts were hopelessly tangled, like last year's string of Christmas lights There was no way to sort them out. Nicky patted his back pocket. He had forgotten all about the Valentine card for Margalo. Nicky thought, “Tomorrow's another day. I'll give it to her tomorrow.”

A
ll day at school, Nicky had a goofy look on his face, like a boy who sat in mashed potatoes. If a teacher, any teacher, had shot him a question in any class, only one answer would have popped from Nicky's mouth: “Six o'clock sharp.” On this day, that was the lone fact that mattered. Nicky didn't care about yesterday or today or tomorrow. He only cared about tonight at six. Six o'clock sharp.

When he got home, Nicky dashed straight to the bedroom and fished out his turtleneck. The blue one from Christmas. That was the only piece of clothing he was sure of. He had thought all day about his wardrobe for the evening. All he came up with was the turtleneck. How could he know what to wear? He didn't know where he was going or why. He only knew he was on his way.

A knock at the door made Nicky blurt, “Dammit!” His first swear ever uttered out of reflex instead of calculation. The way grown-ups swear. One thing was leading to another.

Nicky squinted through the peephole. He saw the distorted image of Lester's nerd glasses. He had forgotten all about the invitation to Lester.

Nicky opened the door and said, “Hey-lo.” He examined Lester's face.

“You look glum,” Nicky said. They walked aimlessly into the living room. “I guess you haven't heard from your father.”

“Not a word,” Lester said. “I have to admit I am worried. I wasn't truly worried until you told me you heard from your brother. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Lester said. “Every time I hear the elevator stop on our floor, I hold my breath. I expect an officer and a chaplain to be knocking on our door.”

“Is that how they do it?”'

“That's how they do it,” Lester said. His eyes were moist and red behind his thick glasses. Nicky was at a loss. He didn't know what to do or what to say. Six o'clock sharp crowded all other thoughts from his cranium.

“You know what I'd like to do?” Lester said, suddenly perking up. He chattered now with enthusiasm, “I'd like to make a DEROS calendar. For your brother. Know what that is? Date Estimated Return from Overseas. I want to make a calendar with all the days between now and March twenty-first. That's what you said, right? March twenty-first. Then every morning, first thing in the morning, you can cross off a day until your brother comes home.”

Nicky thought the idea sounded like a project for a kindergartner. He was about to say so when Lester said quietly, “That's what I plan to do the minute I find out about my daddy's DEROS.”

Nicky rummaged through his closet and pulled out the Crayolas,
colored markers, school-grade mucilage, and construction paper. In no time, the boys were cutting and drawing and collaging on the coffee table. Nicky had to admit, it was pleasing to make this calendar. The project would have been more pleasing with a wide-open afternoon and a free evening ahead of him. But he had something big and historic to do—and he could only guess what—at six o'clock sharp. The looming appointment with destiny made it difficult to handle safety scissors.

Still, Nicky happily colored and marked and drew, and he loved the sound of scissors slashing through construction paper. It was a sound of innocence, sweetness, and happiness. The sound of childhood. Nicky wondered when was the last time he cut up construction paper, and the thought never occurred to him that this might be the last time.

The living room smelled sharply of magic marker. Lester hummed as he worked a purple marker around the border of a sheet of paper labeled
MARCH
. The marker squeaked shrilly then stopped squeaking. Lester shook the purple marker like a thermometer.

“This is out of ink,” he said.

“Use another color,” Nicky said, wondering what time it was.

“That will look silly,” Lester said. “I have a purple marker downstairs. I'll get it. I shall return.”

As soon as the apartment door slammed, Nicky was on his feet, rushing to the kitchen clock. It was ten minutes past four.

Nicky scurried to the bedroom. While working on the calendar, he had formulated his ensemble: blue turtleneck, flared
denim jeans, his super-wide leather belt with the big shiny buckle. He was undecided about socks and footwear.

“Maybe a pair of Roy's black dress socks,” Nicky thought. “As long as I remember to put them back before he gets home.”

There was a knock at the door. Nicky said, “Dammit.” His second swear ever uttered out of reflex instead of calculation. Lester had made record time traveling round trip to the second floor. Nicky reached for the doorknob, but before he opened up, he felt his sinuses swoon. He thought he smelled Roy's aftershave. He sniffed. No doubt about it. From the other side of the door—it was Old Spice.

It was Roy's aftershave. It was a miracle.

Nicky slapped his face against the peephole, and unbelievably, amazingly, wonderfully, the viewfinder was filled with the olive-green uniform issued by the United States Army.

Nicky's heart thumped happily and he yanked open the door and looking down at him was a tall stranger wearing an officer's cap and alongside him was a priest.

Nicky gasped and said, “Are you here for Lester Allnuts? Oh, no. Is it his father? He'll be right back.”

The man in the army uniform said with a gentle, syrupy southern accent, “Son, we're looking for a Mr. or Mrs. Salvatore Martini. Are either of them at home?”

Nicky led the two men into the living room. He felt as if he were floating.

“What happened? What is it? What happened? I'm his brother.
Tell me what happened.” Nicky's voice was pitched high, like the yelp of a person falling.

The army officer and the priest stood near the couch. The officer held his cap in his hand. He said, “Son, how old are you?”

“I'm thirteen. Why would you want to know that? Too young to be drafted yet, if that's it. Tell me what happened.”

“Son, I'm sorry, but per regulations we cannot release information to minor relatives.”

The officer looked at the priest. The officer looked back at Nicky. Nicky noticed this man had baggy, sad eyes, like the eyes of a basset hound.

“What time do you expect your parents to come home, son?”

“My mother is home at around five thirty.”

“Is there any way to contact either your mother or father right now?”

“No,” Nicky said. He assumed Mom was already on her way to the bus. Dad was driving somewhere in the Bronx.

The officer pulled back his cuff and looked at his watch. He made a face.

Nicky whimpered, “Please, mister. This is torture.”

The officer looked at the priest then back at Nicky. The officer licked his lips and said, “I can tell you this. It's not the worst news, son. That's all I can tell you. And I'm out on a limb by telling you that much.”

Nicky relaxed. He took that to mean Roy was not dead. That was something.

“May we sit?” the officer said.

“Yeah. Yes,” Nicky said. The officer removed his overcoat. He
and the priest sat on the couch. The plastic slipcover groaned as they settled in.

Nicky sat in Dad's chair across from them. His stomach made a gurgling, moaning sound. They all just sat there. Nicky examined the officer's uniform. He looked at the colorful ribbons, the shiny buttons, the silver pins, the gold symbols. At the place for medals, there were no medals. Nicky looked at the black enamel name tag. It read:
O'TOOLE
. Whenever he saw or heard that name for the rest of his life, Nicky would think of this moment in the living room.

“You said five thirty, is that right, son?” the officer said.

Nicky nodded. His mind was working. He sorted through the horrible possibilities. Roy was wounded. Burns, bullets, bombs, land mines, punji sticks, bayonets, rockets. Maybe just slightly. Maybe very badly. Nicky wondered which parts of his brother might be torn, shredded, or missing altogether. Arms, fingers, nose, ears, jaw, belly, legs, feet, eyes. He went through the whole inventory.

“Will he be able to play stickball?” Nicky said.

“Pardon?”

“No matter,” Nicky mumbled. “Nobody plays stickball around here anymore.”

Nicky wondered which part of his brother was missing, and whatever happened to Lester.

Of all nights, on this night, Mom and Dad ran late. Nicky, O'Toole, the priest—none of them said another word for another hour and twenty minutes.

The army officer named O'Toole and the priest jumped to their feet when they heard keys in the door at six o'clock on the nose. The door opened and Mom sang out, “Nicky! Sorry I'm late. The bus …” Mom, clomping in her winter boots, entered the living room. Mom looked at the two men, and the two men looked back at her. She flinched, as if someone had smacked her on the back, between the shoulder blades.

Mom said vacantly, “Can I help you?”

O'Toole introduced himself and the priest. He removed a piece of paper and an eyeglass case from his overcoat. Mom lowered herself onto the couch. O'Toole put on half-glasses, coughed softly, and read aloud:

“Mr. and Mrs. Salvatore Martini. The secretary of the army has asked me to express his deep regret that your son Private Roy S. Martini has been missing in Vietnam since February thirteenth, nineteen seventy-one.” Mom farted loudly into the plastic slipcover as O'Toole continued, “He was a passenger aboard a military aircraft. The plane did not return at its scheduled time of four fifteen
PM
on February thirteenth. Search efforts have been delayed because of bad weather. A representative of the commanding general of US Third Army will contact you personally to offer assistance. Signed, Floyd Devins, major general, United States Army, the adjutant general.”

O'Toole took off his glasses. He handed the paper to Mom. She looked at the paper as if it were something vulgar.

“What was he doing in an airplane?” Mom mumbled.

“I'm sorry, ma'am. That's all the information we have. As soon as additional information is available, you will be contacted.”

“Would you like me to stay?” the priest said. It was the first time Nicky heard him speak.

“No,” Mom mumbled. “No. Thank you. If I were you, both of you, I could not wait to get out of here.”

Dad returned home five minutes after O'Toole and the priest left. He whistled as he came through the door and approached the living room, then stopped whistling. Mom was on the couch, still wearing her heavy coat and boots. A puddle had formed on the rug around the boots. She opened her mouth, but said nothing. She handed up the slip of paper to Dad. He read it and as he read, the
Daily News
slipped from under his arm and splayed on the living room rug.

Dad sat next to Mom on the couch. It was a long time before he said anything. When he spoke at last, he said, in a small whisper, “What was he doing in an airplane? I told him … I told him …”

Nicky walked down Summit Avenue, crossed the street, and started down Mayflower in the dark. He had left Mom and Dad on the sofa. He wondered if Mom and Dad would ever be able to lift themselves off that couch. Nicky told his parents he needed to get out of the apartment, which was true. He told them he was going to visit Lester, which was not true.

Nicky pressed the tiny doorbell next to the big door of the Only House With Trees. He looked at the stone lions and the stone lions looked back with sad eyes. The door was pulled open and Margalo sang out cheerfully, “Hey-lo! You're late, you're late, for a very important date. If we hurry to the bus we can …”

She studied Nicky's face. She threw her hands over her eyes.

“No,” Margalo said. “No.” She uncovered her eyes and stepped backward, away from Nicky. She bent over at the waist, as if gripped by a terrible agony in the gut. “No. Go away. Don't say a word. I am begging you. Please, please, please. No.”

Nicky said, “It's …”

“NO!” Margalo cried. The sound came from somewhere near her heart. She crept backward, putting distance between herself and Nicky, as if he were something dangerous.