Eggplant Alley (9781593731410)

by Cataneo, D.

  Nicky clutched Roy’s sleeve. He feared he would lose his big brother in the blackness.

  “Take it easy, numbskull,” Roy said. “The lights will come back on in a minute.”

  They waited in the bushes. They waited a minute.

  They waited ten minutes. The lights did not come back on.

  “Oops,” Roy said.

  Nicky and Roy ran home. They barely recognized Eggplant Alley. The buildings appeared dead, like three giant burned-out light-bulbs.

  Nicky clasped Roy’s jacket as they climbed the dark stairway in Building B. On the second floor, Mr. Bartolo stood outside his apartment. He swung a camping lantern. Mr. Bartolo was a former marine, always well prepared for emergencies. A transistor radio was going inside his apartment.

  “Mr. Bartolo, are the lights out all over New York?” Roy said.

  “The radio said the lights are out all up and down the eastern seaboard. From Washington, DC, to Canada.”

  “That’s quite extensive,” Roy said casually.

  “I wanna go home,” Nicky said.

  Mom was waiting for them at the doorway of 5-C. She had jammed a fistful of birthday candles into the supper meat loaf. She held the flickering, glowing slab of meat shoulder-high, like a torch. Mom looked like the Statue of Liberty, if the Statue of Liberty moonlighted as a waitress. For the rest of his life, Nicky could not see meat loaf without remembering this sight.

  The Martinis passed the night of the Great Blackout around the transistor radio. They ate cornflakes and Yum-E-Cakes by candlelight. They played poker. The radio batteries ran down. The last snatches of news they heard reported that the blackout was the largest in history, and the cause was unknown, and the FBI was on the case to investigate reports of sabotage.

  Nicky and Roy lay in bed in the darkest, quietest night in the history of Eggplant Alley.

  Nicky whispered, “Roy, maybe we ought to go on the lam.”

  “Don’t be a numbskull. We don’t know for sure if we did this. Besides, nobody’s got proof.”

  “I think we ought to tell Mom and Dad.”

  Bedsprings cheeped with startling shrillness and suddenly Roy’s face was inches from Nicky’s nose, close enough for Nicky to smell mint toothpaste on his big brother’s breath.

  “Not a word of this, to anyone,” Roy said. “You and me are in this together. This is real trouble.”

  Roy sat on Nicky’s bed. Roy slipped his hands under his pajama collar and lifted his silver chain and St. Christopher medallion over his head. He felt for Nicky’s hand in the dark, and let the chain slither into Nicky’s palm.

  “I haven’t taken this off since I made First Communion,” Roy said.

  “I know.” Nicky said. He could not remember his brother without the silver chain.

  “I’m giving it to you. It’s a symbol of our loyalty, courage, and all that junk. It’s you and me, for good. We’re a team. Like Roosevelt and Churchill, Abbott and Costello. Like Sacco and Vanzetti.”

  Nicky slipped the chain over his head and tucked the medallion inside his pajama top. The metal felt cold against his chest.

  Long after midnight, Nicky was awakened by a bright light shining directly into his eyes.

  FBI agents with flashlights!

  Coming to take him to reform school!

  “It was ROY!” Nicky mumbled, and then he realized the light in his face was the bulb from the dresser lamp. The lamp was switched on when the lights went out. The power was back.

  The kitchen radio was going at breakfast. The latest news report said Governor Rockefeller thought the blackout was “unbelievable,” and that President Johnson thought it was “an outrage with grave implications.” The cause was still under investigation.

  The news announcer added, in a solemn tone that Nicky considered ominous, “Nothing has been ruled out.”

  Nicky pushed away his Cocoa Puffs.

  Late that afternoon, Nicky moped into the kitchen. Mom looked up grimly from the potatoes she was mashing.

  “What’s wrong?” Nicky cried. “Why are you looking at me?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” Mom said. “Why so nervous?”

  “I am not nervous,” Nicky said, nervously.

  Mom shook her head sadly.

  “What is it?” Nicky said, jumping.

  Mom said, “I was just on the phone with Mrs. Moscowitz and she told me some very disturbing news.”

  “She saw us?”

  “She said that when the power went back on, the elevator started up and went down to the lobby. You know, I don’t think I should tell you this. Never mind.”

  “What? What? What?”

  Roy strolled into the kitchen and said, “The doors opened in the lobby and out plopped Mr. Van Der Woort.”

  “So?” Nicky said.

  Roy said, “He was stiff as a board.”

  “Roy!” Mom barked, shaking the wooden spoon, flipping bits of mashed potato onto the floor. “Show some respect.”

  “Colder than a mackerel,” Roy said, leaving the room.

  On Saturday morning, Nicky sat on the rug in front of the television and stared at Bugs Bunny cartoons. Mom stood three feet away, ironing. Dad and Roy were down on Cherry Street, buying lard bread.

  Nicky had the creepy sensation he was being watched. He glanced up. Mom was watching him.

  Mom ironed and stared. Nicky blinked at Mom. He was nervous. He knew the woman had radar.

  Mom said, “It’s written all over your face, you know.” And Nicky cracked, right there on the living room rug, as the television showed Bugs blowing up Daffy Duck.

  Nicky cried. He spilled his guts. He sang like a canary. He told Mom everything.

  In the fiery aftermath, while Dad foamed and Mom lectured, Roy shot a look at Nicky and said, “I am through with you.”

  The next time Nicky walked into Popop’s, Popop called him “the little anarchist” and asked, “Where is your brother the big Bolshevik?”

  Nicky could only shrug.

  Roy was many places, but no longer at Nicky’s side.

  No longer on Nicky’s side.

  No matter what Mom threatened, Roy refused to talk to Nicky. He refused to watch television with Nicky. He refused to pass the peas to Nicky. He refused to buy a Christmas present for Nicky. He refused to apologize when he stepped on and crushed Nicky’s brand-new Gemini space capsule.

  On New Year’s Day, Nicky found Roy at the kitchen table. Roy was drinking hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and reading a comic book.

  Nicky sat at the table with Roy.

  Roy looked up. Nicky smiled.

  Roy grabbed his mug by the handle, closed his comic book, pushed back his chair, and strolled out of the kitchen.

  Nicky placed his face onto the tabletop. He pressed his cheek to the warm circle left by Roy’s mug.

  “Hey.”

  Roy was calling from the doorway. In the seconds it took his big brother to pad across the linoleum, Nicky’s mind eagerly worked. Maybe Roy was going to shake his hand. Let bygones be bygones. Whip up a hot chocolate. Tell a naughty joke he heard in high school. Nicky longed for the day when the big boys finally let him hear the naughty jokes.

  “The medal,” Roy said flatly. “Gimme back my medal.”

  Roy walked out of the room, St. Christopher medal in his fist, and Nicky thought about a day at the beach years earlier. Nicky was about three. He was left on the beach blanket under the charge of Grandma Martini. One of the Scalopini cousins had borrowed his favorite beach pail, his beloved Mr. Peanut beach pail, and left it at the water’s edge. Nicky was too scared of the sand and ocean to retrieve the pail. He sat under the umbrella on the blanket and watched the waves roll in. The waves lifted his pail and carried it toward Europe. Grandma Martini refused to leave Nicky to get it. She waved a hand and said, “Don’t worry, Nicola. One thing leads to another. It come back sooner or later.”

  Nicky remembered the total heartbreak of watching Mr. Peanut’s dimpled face drift away, rec
eding to a colorful speck on the gray waves, leaving him forever. Because he had the same feeling when Roy, his big brother and only friend, grasped the St. Christopher medal and walked away from the table, out of the kitchen.

  Nicky listed this, in the black composition notebook under his mattress, as the second thing that ruined his childhood. In the night, he remembered this and fell asleep reminding himself to not make friends with this goofy Lester Allnuts. Dogs just die, friends just disappear.

  The Ropes 14

  Nicky rapped softly on the door to 2-C. He was passing by the apartment on his way home from school. He figured he might as well stop by and ask Lester about going to the roof. Not that Nicky cared one way or the other. He merely wanted to map out his afternoon. Set the agenda for this bright Monday. If Lester wasn’t going with him to the roof, Nicky planned to brush up on his yo-yo skills.

  Lester opened the door, eyes bugging out happily behind his thick glasses.

  “Roof today?” Nicky said, motioning toward the ceiling with his thumb.

  “Yes, my mama gave me permission. I’m looking forward to it.” Lester stepped back from the doorway. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Nah, thanks.” Nicky hefted his book bag. “I gotta get home. See you up there at four?”

  “Yes. You can teach me the city ropes.”

  Nicky reclined in the sun on the warm roof tar. Lester pushed through the gray door at four o’clock sharp, just as the bells of St. Peter’s clonged over on Ludlow Street.

  “Take a load off,” Nicky said, indicating a place near him on the tar.

  Lester examined the gritty tar and sat.

  “All right,” Nicky said. He took a deep breath. “Here’s what you have to know about Eggplant Alley.”

  “I have a question,” Lester said, raising his hand.

  “Already?”

  “Yes. Why is it called Eggplant Alley?”

  Nicky scratched the side of his face.

  “I dunno,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. Now, do you wanna hear what I have to say or not?”

  “Surely.”

  “Okay,” Nicky said. He took a deep breath. “First thing to know, if a ball goes in the sewer, don’t stick your hand in after it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Because there are alligators living in the sewer system. They’ll chomp off your hand. People bring baby alligators as souvenirs from Florida. The ’gators start growing. People flush them down the toilet. They live off sewage and grow to be like six hundred pounds.”

  “Very interesting,” Lester said.

  Nicky continued, “Okay. Now. Did I tell you about never letting anyone into your apartment? Not even if they have some sob story about needing to use the phone.”

  “Very interesting. Got it.”

  “All right. If you see the Moon Man down on Broadway, do NOT make eye contact. He’s the guy who bangs on a coffee can. If he sees you look at him, he’ll pick up his coffee can and follow you for blocks. Banging and yelling.”

  “Yelling what exactly?”

  “Gibberish.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Somebody keeps going to the bathroom in the elevator. It stinks. So a lot of the time, you gotta take the stairs.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Except sometimes it isn’t safe to take the stairs. If somebody unscrews the lightbulb, the stairwells are dark. You’d never see somebody lurking.”

  “Lurking. Very interesting.”

  “If you come home and find a burglar in your apartment, run out the door.”

  “Run where?”

  “Go bang on somebody’s door and have them call the cops. Not that the cops will come before next Christmas.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Except you can’t go around banging on doors here because you don’t know what kind of people are moving in. You might bang on a door and get a machete stuck in your belly.”

  “I have a question,” Lester said, raising his hand.

  “What?”

  “Is there anything good you can tell me about living around here?”

  Nicky thought for a few seconds. “Nope.”

  Lester grimaced. “Very interesting,” he said. “Very unfortunate.”

  Nicky shrugged. “That’s just the way the ball bounces. Nobody wants to live here anymore. You should have seen this place in the good old days.”

  Lester said, “I was hoping for a better outlook. We were thinking of relocating here permanently. When my daddy returns. He said the city might be a more suitable place for us. He said we might stay here. From what you tell me, I don’t know how that will happen. I don’t think Daddy will like this. Daddy will probably pack us off back to Bradleyville.”

  “When is your dad coming back?”

  “Next April.”

  “April? Wow. April? Where is he again?”

  “Traveling. On business.”

  Nicky whistled. “April.”

  “Yes. Well, maybe the situation around here will improve by then.”

  Nicky said, “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  The sound of a basketball thumping came up from the PS 19 schoolyard. A chain net jangled, boys shouted. Lester stood and walked to the wall and poked his head over the edge.

  “I see basketball is popular around here,” Lester said. A breeze mussed his wiry hair.

  “Among some people.”

  Lester sighed into the wind.

  “I fear a long boring summer is ahead. No wonder people in the city are so grouchy.”

  Nicky stood and joined Lester at the wall.

  “Who’s grouchy?” Nicky said. “We have our fun, you know. What do you folks do for kicks in the country? Chase chickens?”

  “Not usually,” Lester said. “We have all varieties of outdoor activity. We hunt frogs. I had a hammock. There is the tree house. Swimming at Hadley Pond. Fishing for snappies over in Dorn Creek.”

  “Golly gee whiz,” Nicky said with a smirk. “I don’t think my heart could take that much excitement.”

  Lester shrugged. “I guess it’s not that exciting. Mostly, once school is out, we played baseball. That’s the thing to do, where I come from.”

  Nicky didn’t say anything.

  Lester sighed.

  “I guess I have been running off at the mouth.”

  Nicky shrugged.

  Lester said, “Is there any baseball playing around here?”

  “Not really.”

  “Too bad,” Lester said. He sighed again. “Those games in the meadow. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Nicky imagined the baseball games in the country meadow. He often daydreamed of playing real baseball, on emerald grass and red clay. Nicky wondered what life was like for a country kid. Ball games in the shadow of a picturesque barn. Off to the swimming hole for a dip. Onto the porch swing in the night air, soft as a newborn kitten, while Grandma squeezed lemonade and Ma and Sis baked berry pies. Quiet. Peaceful. Heaven on earth.

  But he said to Lester, “Baseball in a meadow? Sheesh. You can have it. Who needs to play ball in a bunch of cow poop? Hick stuff. Now, around here, we had a game. We used to play it from morning till supper, right down there. Stickball. Now, there was a game.”

  “I guess I don’t know it.”

  “I guess you wouldn’t. It’s just like baseball, except with a broomstick for a bat. The ball—a Spaldeen. That’s a pink rubber ball. Ever see one? I guess not. You can get them at the five-and-dime.”

  “Very interesting. Where did you play? Down where?”

  Nicky said, “There. On the schoolyard. You can still see the white lines. See them?” He continued in poetic tones, “Stickball was the best thing about summer around here. End of discussion. It was better than lemon ices from Lombardo’s. Better than falling asleep listening to the electric fans around the courtyard in the summer. Better than Jones Beach and the Good Humor man.”

  “Very interesting.” Lester adjusted his black-rimmed gl
asses on his nose and said, “Sounds like something I’d like to take a crack at.”

  Nicky chuckled. “Sure. Except nobody plays stickball around here anymore.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’d know if you grew up around here.”

  “Very interesting. But I have to tell you, there is no sense to what you say. If stickball was so terrifically great, stickball should be played.”

  Nicky stared down at the PS 19 playground. He was surprised the old painted baselines were still there.

  Lester said, “Come summertime, I’m going to miss those baseball games in the Simmons meadow. It was the first thing I thought of when Mama and Daddy told me we were moving down here.”

  Nicky said quietly, “I never stopped missing those stickball games. It ruined the whole neighborhood when stickball stopped. It was the final nail in the coffin for this neighborhood. The last straw for Eggplant Alley. It’s a very interesting story. Know what’s funny? That day was a long time ago. Four whole years. I can remember everything, how everything looked, what everybody said.”

  Lester said, “Look at all those pigeons on the roof there. I’ve never seen so many pigeons. Are city pigeons dangerous?”

  Nicky said, “You asked why nobody plays stickball around here anymore. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

  “I’m all ears,” Lester said, taking a seat on the roof tar. “It’s good for me to be versed on local lore.”

  The Third Thing That Ruined Nicky’s Childhood 15

  So Nicky told his story.

  Everything good was in place that April morning, four whole years earlier. Birds cheeped crazily in the shadows of PS 19. The sun glinted off the windows of Eggplant Alley. Bases and foul lines were freshly painted onto the asphalt. The strike zone was freshly painted onto the brick wall. Paulie Phillips had supplied the paint, which he found outside an apartment on the fourth floor. The painters inside the apartment were unaware of the donation.

  For Nicky, at age nine years, it was a historic morning. A change was riding on the spring breeze.

  A change for the better.

  This stickball season, for the first time, Roy said Nicky could tag along as batboy. Nicky was welcomed to join the fun on the PS 19 playground. Mom was probably behind this concession, likely forced out of Roy under threat from a wooden mixing spoon. Nicky didn’t know, and he didn’t care, because he felt a lightness in the chest. No question about it. The evil gloom between him and his brother, in place since the Great Blackout, was finally fading. The dark cloud was lifting, lifting.