Keeping Score (2 page)

The thread almost always led Maggie to the fire-house, her second home. When she and Joey-Mick were younger, they would stop by often to visit Dad. He would give them little jobs to do. And with all the guys there, it was like having a bunch of favorite uncles to joke around with anytime you wanted. They had spoiled her with piggyback rides and Hershey bars, and George always gave her a bite of his sandwich, so that over the years, Maggie had developed a ferocious love for horseradish.

He would hold out the sandwich; she would lean over and bite into it. Sometimes it was messy, like the time her bite dislodged a whole slice of tomato and it sort of dangled from her mouth until she managed to wolf it down. Once she even pulled out all the ham, leaving behind two empty pieces of bread. George had pretended to be mad at her; she was only six then, and
for a few moments she had been scared that he really
was
mad—until he laughed.

But best of all were the Dodgers' games. Listening to them and talking to the guys about baseball, it never mattered one bit that she was a girl who didn't play ball herself.

A few days after the game against the Pirates, Maggie headed for the firehouse again. As she drew near, she cocked her head a little. She could hear the radio as usual, but Red Barber's voice was being drowned out by the sound of boos and jeering. What was going on? Had Philadelphia scored? That couldn't be—it was Brooklyn's turn to bat....

Terry and Vince and George were up out of their chairs, booing and hissing and jostling a fourth man, someone she didn't know.

"New guy?" Maggie murmured to Charky, who had loped out to meet her.

"Hey, Maggie-o!" George called out. "You're just in time. You're not gonna believe this—" He pointed in a big exaggerated motion at the new guy.

Maggie saw that the new guy was built like her dad. Maybe not big all over the way her dad was, but tall and not skinny—lots of muscles. A flattop haircut. Dressed like the rest of them, in blue. Younger than George, nice brown eyes.

Then Maggie saw what George was
really
pointing at: the radio at the new guy's feet. Not the firehouse's usual radio, which sat where it always did, at one side of the bay doors, but a smaller, newer one.

"What's he need another—" Maggie started to ask, but the two radios themselves answered her. Red Barber's voice was all mixed up with someone else's—a different voice, coming from the second radio.

Maggie stared at the radio for a moment, just to be sure. Then she looked at George because she couldn't quite bring herself to look at the new guy.

"That's right, Mags. A
Giants
fan!" George jeered.

"All right, all right," New Guy said. "I'll turn it down, see?" He turned a black knob on his radio. The words of Russ Hodges, the radio voice of the New York Giants, faded away, and Maggie could hear Red again, declaring Don Newcombe out on a slow roller to first.

Then the new guy lay down right there on the pavement, on his back with his head next to his radio. He put his hands behind his head and grinned up at George. "I can hear just fine, but it won't mess up
your
game, see?"

George slapped one hand against the other in disgust. "That's not the point, Junior. There's never been a Giants fan in this house—this here is a
Bums
house."

"George..." Maggie hesitated, not wanting to contradict him. "My dad—"

"Yeah, yeah, your dad's a Yankee fan. But at least they're not in the National League," George said. "And besides, he's not at this house no more, so—"

He stopped and glanced at Maggie quickly, and she knew he was thinking about Dad's accident, maybe wondering if the reminder would bother her. She bobbed her head at him; it was okay because Dad was okay.

New Guy raised himself up on one elbow and looked at Maggie. "You Joe's kid?" he asked. "Teeny Joe?"

Maggie nodded, wondering. Dad's name was Joe Fortini. There were a lot of Joes around, so ages ago he'd gotten the nickname "Teeny Joe," which was funny because he was a big guy with a big voice and a big mustache and nothing about him was teeny. Only his good friends called him Teeny Joe.

The new guy sat up and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you, miss."

Maggie shook his hand. "Who are you?" Probably sounded rude, but curiosity won out over manners. "And how come you know my dad?"

"Got me the job, didn't he," he said. "Name's Jim Maine."

So that was it. Dad interviewed guys who wanted to be firemen. He talked about his work a lot; he was proud of picking out the ones who would stick, who would make it through the training and then do good on the job, and he called them his boys.

"Hello, Mr. Maine," she said politely.

Jim grinned up at her. "Jim'll do," he said. "And if you're Maggie-o, then it's true about your name."

Maggie blushed. Dad must have told him. It was odd to think that they had talked about her.

Her father had grown up in the Bronx, just a few blocks away from Yankee Stadium, a Yanks fan from the guts out. When Maggie's brother was born, he was named Joseph Michael—Joseph for his dad, sure, but also for Joe DiMaggio.

Maggie had heard Dad tell the story a hundred times. "And when a girl come along two years later, I knew just what I was gonna call her," he would say whenever the subject came up. "Maggie-o! Don't matter that they're not exactly the same. DiMaggio ... Maggie-o, get it?"

But Maggie's mother had refused to let him put "Maggie-o" on the birth certificate. It read "Margaret Olivia." Maggie's great-grandmother in Ireland had been a Margaret, and Olivia de Havilland was Mom's favorite actress;
Gone with the Wind
had come out two years before Maggie was born, with Miss de Havilland playing that nice girl Melanie, and "if Scarlett had been more like Melanie, there wouldn't have been nearly the trouble, so you're Margaret Olivia after your great-grandmother and Olivia de Havilland, never mind what your father says" was how Mom always finished the story.

Now Jim put his hands back behind his head and chuckled. "Good ol' Teeny Joe," he said. "Your old man's really something, y'know? Even if you don't like the Yankees, you gotta give him credit. Naming
both
your kids after your favorite player—that's class."

Maggie tilted her head and half shrugged, half smiled. She was pretty sure she liked this new guy.

"So how's come you're not a Yankee fan like your dad?" Jim asked.

Maggie frowned. The idea that she could be a fan of any team other than the Dodgers! But it wasn't a dumb question. The Yankees' and Giants' fans in her neighborhood were, as Mom might say, as rare as
peaches in winter, but they were usually whole families following the same team.

"Dunno," she said. "Guess it's 'cause I was born here. I mean, I knew my dad was a Yankee fan, but me and my brother, we always listened to the Dodgers' games."

"Yeah, and you know what else?" George growled. "Teeny Joe
never
listened to the Yanks here. Nosirree, he knew we were a Dodger house and we—we respected him for respectin' that. Not like
some."

And George ran his hand over his head and turned away. Jim and Maggie grinned at each other behind his back.

"Gotta go," Maggie said.

"Be seeing you," Jim said.

And she heard the last out of the game while she was in Mr. Aldo's shop getting a box of sugar for Mom. 2–0, a close one, but the Dodgers won, and Maggie skipped home.

The phone rang early the next morning. It was Treecie.

Maggie and Treecie were best-friends-for-life, sworn way back in second grade. Not a blood vow—they had both been too scared to prick their fingers with a pin—but a spit vow, which everyone knew was almost as good.

Treecie's whole name was Mary Theresa Brady. Her mother was Mary, too, so Mary Theresa was called Theresa, which had gotten shortened to Treecie. She was shorter than Maggie, but they both had brown hair and blue eyes and freckles. Treecie had more freckles than Maggie—they had once tried and failed to count them, but you could tell just by looking. Maggie got tan in the summer, like her dad. Treecie freckled.

Their birthdays were exactly one month apart—November 19 for Treecie, December 19 for Maggie. They had already chosen their confirmation names: Treecie was going to be Mary Theresa Margaret Brady, and Maggie would be Margaret Olivia Theresa Fortini. Even though they wouldn't be confirmed until they were thirteen, it was nice to have it planned out.

Treecie wanted to be a photographer. Last year, when they turned nine, Treecie had gotten her first camera, a used Brownie. Ever since then, Maggie had spent a lot of time posing for Treecie. Inside, outside, portraits, action shots, candids.... Film and developing were expensive, so Treecie didn't actually
take
very many photos, but she had Maggie pose all the same. "It's good practice," Treecie would insist as she peered through the viewfinder. "I have to develop my eye."

Treecie was calling to say that she wanted to take photos of Maggie "with nature stuff." In Brooklyn that meant the park, and half an hour later, Maggie stepped out onto her front stoop just as Treecie came into sight from around the corner.

"We should have brought Charky," Maggie said as they passed between the concrete pillars that marked the park's entrance. "He loves the park."

The entrance they used was diagonally across the street from Maggie's house. The girls were allowed to go to the park on their own so long as they stayed within calling distance of the pillars.

"Not this time," Treecie said firmly. "I got stuff I wanna do; he'd just get in the way." She looked around. "There," she said, "that little tree."

Maggie walked over to the tree and turned to face Treecie.

"No, not like that. I want you to stand farther back and put your head in between the branches. So there's leaves all around you."

Maggie ducked under the lowest branch to get behind it, but straightened up too quickly.

"Ouch!" she said, rubbing her head. "Never mind, I'm okay." She parted the leafy twigs, trying to find a place to pose comfortably. "Yeesh, scratchy."

Leaves were tickling the back of her neck—at least she hoped they were leaves. What if they were bugs? She brushed at her neck with her hand just in case.

At last she turned her face toward Treecie. "Hey!" she said.

Treecie was standing a few yards away. She had made a square using her thumbs and forefingers; with one eye closed and her hands in front of her face, she peered at Maggie through the square.

"You don't have your camera with you?" Maggie said. "First you wanna take pictures of me without any film, and now without a
camera
even?"

"It's called 'framing the shot,'" Treecie said. "I'm learning how to frame a shot. I don't need the camera for that."

"
I
do!" Maggie protested. "I mean,
I
don't need a camera, but I need
you
to have one! I look like an idiot standing here and—and posing—and no camera...."

Treecie lowered her hands from her face. "You're a photographer's model," she said earnestly. "It doesn't matter what
you
look like—it's
the shot
that matters."

"So you're saying that I
do
look like an idiot?"

Treecie put her hands on her hips. "No, I did not
say that. Did you hear me say that? Did you hear me say, 'Maggie Fortini, you look like an idiot'?"

Maggie laughed; she couldn't help it. Treecie looked relieved that Maggie wasn't mad anymore. "I won't make you stay there for long, promise," Treecie said. She put the "square" up to her face again, and with a sigh, Maggie went back to posing.

The results: Zero photos, but one bruise on her head, one scratch under her chin, and one mosquito bite.

Not that she was counting.

Treecie was lucky, Maggie thought, to be so sure about what she wanted to be when she grew up. Maggie didn't know yet, and she worried about it. She tried on different ideas. Working in a shop, maybe. "Because you get to meet people, and I could listen to the games while I'm working," Maggie explained.

"But you'd never get to see anything new," Treecie objected. "Just the same stuff every day. That would get boring."

Another time Maggie had proposed becoming a nurse. Treecie's mom was a nurse, and so was Maggie's aunt Maria in Canada. Treecie had replied, "No. Not a nurse. A doctor. Wait, I know—a surgeon. And I'll take pictures of your operations."

"Maybe," Maggie said. It sounded kind of gruesome, but Treecie's ideas were always interesting, that was for sure.

Both of Treecie's parents worked, which meant that every year when school ended, she and her two
younger sisters went to Long Island for the summer, to stay on the farm owned by their uncle. Maggie had spent a wonderful week there two years ago, the only time she had ever been away from home on her own.

A few days after the photo session in the park, Treecie left for Long Island. Maggie was used to it now, the summers without Treecie, but being used to it didn't mean she
liked
it. She always missed Treecie terribly, especially during the first couple of weeks. Sometimes Maggie played with other kids on the block: hopscotch, jumping rope, the playgrounds in Prospect Park during the day, and after supper a regular game of kick the can. But when Treecie was away, Maggie's best friends were the radio and the guys at the firehouse.

And Charky. Of course.

It was so hot that a ragged band of sweat was already darkening Joey-Mick's cap as he left the house for baseball practice. Every inch of Maggie's clothes seemed stuck to her. The Dodgers had a day off, and the July afternoon would feel even longer and hotter without a game to listen to. Maggie knew that the players needed their rest, but she was counting the hours until the game started tomorrow.

Joey-Mick was in his first season in a real league. Not stickball on the street but games on the diamonds in Prospect Park—a regular schedule, a manager, an umpire. Just like in the major leagues.

Uniforms, too. When Joey-Mick first put his on, Maggie thought it looked like pajamas, all baggy in the
shirt and floppy in the legs. But then she saw the rest of the team at their first game, and Joey-Mick's uniform fit better than almost anyone else's. He was one of the tallest boys on the team.