Eggplant Alley (9781593731410)

by Cataneo, D.

  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 lik
e 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.

  Autumn 26

  On 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.

  “By the time we are reading this in class, Roy will be home,” Nicky thought.

  Nicky sought out the single paragraph that recounted Kennedy’s death. He felt odd, reading in a history book about events he clearly remembered.

  “No mention of Dad’s involvement in the shooting,” Nicky thought. He shook his head, embarrassed by the memory. “How could I have been so stupid?” He smiled at his private joke, and at how foolish he was when he was a kid.

  “I’ll never be that stupid again,” Nicky noted.

  Nicky flipped back to the section on World War II. He loved reading about World War II. That war was over. We won. The troops were home, showered with gratitude, love, confetti, drinks on the house, and rousing documentaries such as Victory at Sea.

  “Mr. Martini, what are you doing there?” It was Mr. Sullivan, another new teacher, addressing him from the front of the class.

  “Nothing.”

  “You mean, ‘Nothing, SIR.’ You must be doing something.”

  “I was reading. Sir.”

  “Did I instruct the class to read?”

  “No.”

  “You mean, ‘No, sir.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes? I instructed the class to read?”

  “No. I mean, no sir.”

  “Then do not read. Understood?”

  The class tittered, and the fun was out of Nicky’s game of flipping ahead and dreaming of spring.

  When he got home from this first day of school, Nicky found Mom at the kitchen table, peeling apples. Four pie plates layered with floury crust were lined up on the countertop. Water bubbled furiously in a large pot. A pile of eggplants, stacked like cord-wood, awaited peeling. A lineup of tomato cans, super-jumbosized, awaited opening.

  “What’s wrong?” Nicky said. “Why are you cooking like that?”

  “Like what?” Mom said. “Nothing’s wrong. Don’t be such a worrywart.”

  She dropped a peeled apple into the bowl and selected another apple.

  “There’s a letter from your brother over there if you want to see it.”

  “What’s wrong with Roy?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” Mom said. “Calm yourself.” She let a ribbon of apple peel fall onto the nest of apple peels on the table. “Roy is fine. But your father is going to be beside himself when he reads it. Sometimes I don’t know about Roy. What’s the matter with that kid?”

  Nicky dropped his book bag and plucked Roy’s letter from the counter. The letter was written in tiny lettering on the front and back of a flimsy slice of tissue paper.

  Dear Gang,

  I guess I don’t know how to say this so I just will. Last night I saw combat action. I am all right but it was quite a scare.

  I guess I will start at the beginning. I was getting sick and tired of working day and night as an office clerk while others are out there in the bush risking their butts. I felt like a goof off.

  One of the fellows in maintenance even volunteered to go out into the bush but his commo said no way. At least he pulls guard duty every two weeks and that is a bit more dangerous because you are out on the perimeter, on guard and so on. I don’t even do that because my commo says our office is so fouled up it will take a year to get it back in order and so he made a deal and he doesn’t let any of us do guard work because he needs us in the office 14 hours a day. I asked him once twice and three times to please let me do guard duty and he said no and then the fourth time he finally said, “Okay, Martini, if you are so anxious to get your buttocks blown up go ahead but just for one night.”

  They drove us out to our bunkers in the afternoon. The bunkers are sandbagged with little slits
to look out of. There’s also a cot. Boy did it stink. There are three men to a bunker and two are awake while one sleeps. It was a quiet night while I was on watch except for a few flares and the helicopters going by and our artillery going off every hour or so. I was asleep at 2:30 AM when there was a big WHOOSH and a loud explosion that shook the bunker. I fell out of the cot. That was my only wound, a scraped knee. (Do not worry, Mom, I washed it and put a band-aid on it. Ha ha.) The VC were firing 140MM rockets at us and at the base camp. They fired 14 rockets and we sat in the bunker sweating it out and I prayed a lot. Nobody knew if the bunker would take a direct hit and survive and to tell you the truth none of us wanted to find out. It was over in a few minutes but I was shaking the rest of the night.

  Now here is the awful strange thing about war. Only one rocket landed in camp but it landed between my barracks hut and the bunker we use for shelter and it caught one of the guys from my barracks and killed him. He was Joey Carlisto, a nice kid from St. Louis. Remember I told you we were playing stickball here? Joey was our second baseman. I often walked with him from the mess hall. I might have been with him that night running for the shelter. He liked the Cardinals. We are all pretty sad and it was real creepy to look at his stuff and his bunk until an officer came and packed up all his things to ship home.

  Do not worry, Mom, because you have as much chance to get hit by a rocket here as getting hit by lightning. Joey Carlisto was just unlucky. That’s the way we look at it. Also, there will be no more guard duty for me. My commo said it will take two years to clear up the backed-up paperwork in the office and I am his best typist. So I will type away the rest of my tour, and now at least I know I have done my part even if it was just one night.

  Love to all. Be home in 27 weeks.

  —Roy

  PS—How is Checkers?

  Nicky placed the paper to his face, hoping for a whiff of Roy’s aftershave.

  “Don’t rub that on your face. Who knows where it’s been,” Mom said. She waved the apple peeler. “So what do you think of that letter? What’s with that kid? Your father specifically told him not to volunteer for dangerous duty. You knew that, right? Remember that letter you mailed for me? That was in the letter.”