The two brothers glared at each other, jaws clenched, nostrils flaring.
Ace lifted his bowl and smacked his lips. “Could I please have some more soup?”
CHAPTER
11
I SCRAPED MY CHAIR BACKWARD. “Thanks for supper, Ma. We’re going over to Ace’s to do homework.”
Ace’s mouth dropped open. “But I wanted—”
Uncle Spiro stood too. “I’m late for school.” He pecked Ma on the cheek, grabbed the car keys from their hook, and banged out the back door.
Ma threw up her hands. “Why he always forgets his jacket? Nicky, be a good boy and wear your jacket, neh? You’ll catch a cold!”
“I’m only going next door, Ma.” I escaped to the front hall. As I was putting on my ball cap, Ace busted out from the kitchen, waving his napkin.
“What’s the matter with you?” he said. “I wasn’t finished!”
“You can have more soup later. Are you coming?” I pushed out the front door and onto the porch.
Ace followed me out. “Where?” Then he gasped. “You don’t really wanna do homework, do you?”
“Did you hear them? Nicky’s just a kid Nicky doesn’t know what he wants. Like I wasn’t even there!”
“My folks are the same way,” said Ace. “When you want ’em to pay attention, they ignore you. But when you don’t want them to—like when you accidentally bust a water balloon on your sister’s head, for example—they won’t leave you alone. I’m telling ya: you can’t win.”
“Why do I always have to do what my pop wants me to do, anyway?”
Ace leaned against the porch railing. “ ’Cause you’re a kid?”
He was right. I hate that.
I paced across the front porch. In the distance, a lion roared. “He makes me work in the shop every Saturday. He makes me go to Greek school every Tuesday. He talks about being American, but he wants me to be exactly like him. All I want is one lousy Saturday off to do that Mudpuppy contest. Is that so much to ask?”
No, it wasn’t.
“That’s it,” I said. “One way or another, I’m gonna be in that contest.” I clattered down the steps and out to the sidewalk.
Ace whooped and hurried after me. “Now you’re talking! Where are we going?”
“I dunno. Let’s walk. I think better when I walk.”
Out of habit, we headed toward the zoo. The sun was going down, and I kind of wished I’d brought my jacket. By the time we got to Frederick Street, my arms were covered with goose bumps.
“So,” said Ace finally. “Any ideas for getting the day off?”
“Nope,” I admitted.
“Try one more time to ask your Pop,” he said. “You never know.”
“You saw what it’s like,” I told him. “He doesn’t even listen to me.”
Then something caught Ace’s eye. “Hey,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “Isn’t that your uncle?”
I turned to see a 1936 Nash cruise slowly past. It stopped at the corner of Forty-Third Street, and then turned right.
“Yep, that’s Uncle Spiro,” I said, checking the license plate. “He’s going to night school.”
“Isn’t it that way? Toward downtown?” Ace pointed east along Frederick Street.
“Yeah . . .”
“Then why is he going that way?” Ace swept his arm around and pointed south.
I didn’t have an answer. We dashed to the corner and watched the Nash as it drifted down Forty-Third Street toward the viaduct, until its taillights blurred in the twilight and blended with the other traffic on the bridge.
“What’s that all about?” said Ace, finally. “Do ya think it has something to do with him getting home late, and sleeping till three in the afternoon?”
I shrugged. “He’s probably just going to a filling station or something.”
“There aren’t any filling stations that way,” said Ace. “It’s all factories and stuff, and then the highway.”
We stared after the car until a bus slid past, blocking our view down the street.
“So where do ya suppose he’s going?” said Ace. Then he grinned and nudged me. “Maybe he’s going to meet some girl.”
I sighed and started for home. Above our heads, the streetlights switched on, one by one. “Just ’cause he’s not going straight to school doesn’t mean he’s not going to school. Maybe he’s picking up a friend from the south side of town.”
“A girlfriend.” Ace snorted at his own joke.
“You’re nuts,” I told him. “My pop is already sore at Spiro for going to school. How sore do you think he’d be if Spiro wasn’t going to school after all? And lying about it too?”
“Maybe that’s why he’s lying about it.” Sometimes, Ace is too smart for his own good.
But it made me wonder. If Uncle Spiro had wanted to keep a secret from Pop, who could blame him? Then again, Spiro didn’t need to keep any secrets from Pop. The nightly arguments were proof enough that he wasn’t afraid to stand up to anybody.
We walked toward home in the dark. Frederick Street was clogged with traffic, but on the other side, beyond the glow of the headlights and the streetlights and the stoplights, the zoo was sleeping, dark and quiet. You’d never know it was there at all . . . unless, of course, you did know. It was as if the zoo held secrets of its own.
“So,” said Ace, nudging me. “Are ya gonna tell your pop?”
“Nah.” I didn’t know what was going on with Uncle Spiro. But I knew one thing for sure. If Uncle Spiro had a secret, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell it.
CHAPTER
12
MY MIND WAS MADE UP: I was going to enter that contest. But first, I needed Pop to sign the entry form.
When I walked in the front door, I could hear him in the kitchen, reading the paper.
We get both the morning and the evening newspapers at our house. That’s two editions of the paper every day (except on Sundays), and Pop reads every word of every page. He takes the Sentinel with him in the morning and reads it on the streetcar or at the shop. Then, at night when Ma is cleaning up the supper dishes, he reads the Journal. He starts on the front page and doesn’t stop until he squeezes out every bit of the three cents he paid for that paper. I mean, he reads everything: every ad, every comic (including the mushy ones, like Mary Worth), every high school sports score—the whole nine yards. Even the obituaries. I’m telling ya, a person can’t die in this town without Pop trying to figure out their entire life from one short paragraph. Look this man, Athena, he will be buried in the Wanderer’s Rest. Same place as your mother! I wonder, is this the man who lived upstairs from her in 1932? The name, it looks familiar.
Because here’s another thing: Pop reads most of the paper out loud. Partly so Ma can get the news too, since (as I’ve mentioned) she’s not too good at reading English. And partly so Pop can ask me to translate a tricky word here or there, or to explain the slang. The Sports page is the worst. I mean, he knows that stealing a base won’t land a guy in jail. But when it comes to other stuff, it’s a headache waiting to happen. Nicky, why this player on the Mudpuppies is hitting a can of corn to the outfield? They don’t have enough baseballs? Stuff like that. And when you think about it, it is confusing. No wonder he gets his expressions mixed up sometimes. I just wish he wouldn’t do it in public.
So anyway, I went back into the house and hung around, waiting for my chance to grab the Sports page. Ma and Pop were still in the kitchen, and from the sound of Pop’s voice, I guessed that he hadn’t gotten that far yet. The Sports section is the last section of the paper. Right now he was reading the advice column in the Green Sheet, which meant Sports was next.
“Listen to this, Athena,” I could hear him saying. “ ‘Dear Mrs. Gibbs: I have a nosy neighbor. She is always peeking into my windows at night while she is out walking her dog. What should I do? Signed, Fed Up.’ ”
I could hear Ma tsking, and the clink of dishes as she put them away in the cupboard. “Oh, those
nosy neighbors, they are a problem. What does Mrs. Gibbs have to say?”
“Let’s see . . .” The newspaper rattled, and I imagined Pop turning it to get more light. “Mrs. Gibbs, she says, ‘Dear Fed: Close your drapes at night.’ ”
That did it. They both started laughing.
“Oh, Mrs. Gibbs. She always knows what to say.”
The newspaper rattled again. Maybe Pop was finally turning to the Sports page.
“How about that?” I heard Pop saying. “Mister Joe Daggett is in the newspaper!”
Bingo.
I walked into the kitchen, all casual. “Hey, Pop, how’s it goin’?”
“Nicky?” said Ma. “I thought you went to Azy’s house to do the homework.”
“Look, Nicky,” said Pop. “Mister Daggett is in the paper. Athena, this is the man who came into the shop last Saturday. He’s itching to shake things up for the Mudpuppies. See?” He tapped on the headline, one word at a time. “ ‘Shake. Things. Up.’ ”
Ma smiled and nodded, and turned back to the sink. “That’s nice.”
“Mister Daggett is a very nice man,” agreed Pop. He turned the page and launched into reading out the scores of a high school track meet. Apparently Washington High was the team to beat this season.
I picked up a dish towel and started in on the soup pot Ma had just finished scrubbing, trying to act like I wasn’t hanging around. For my efforts, I got one cheek pinched and the other one kissed. “Gee whiz, Ma” was all I said, wiping my cheek with the towel.
After half of forever, Pop finally turned to the back page of the Sports section. “Look here, Nicky. A contest for boys, aged ten to fourteen. That Mister Daggett, he’s a smart man. So many big ideas!”
I tossed the dish towel onto the drain board and hopped over next to Pop. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Sure, sure,” said Pop, handing me the Sports section.
There it was: The contest entry form, all blank and perfect and waiting to be filled out.
“So, Pop,” I said as casual as I could, “I was thinking of maybe entering this contest.” It was worth another try.
“Good idea,” said Pop, folding the rest of the paper and laying it on the kitchen table. “I know you can win. You are a very smart boy.”
I gave him a hopeful smile. “Thanks, Pop. Say, uh, you need a parent’s signature, though.” I showed him the form.
“Good for Mister Daggett,” said Pop. “He respects the parents.” He pulled his fountain pen out of his shirt pocket and uncapped it.
I held my breath.
The pen hovered over the blank form. “What is this?” said Pop. He adjusted his glasses and peered closer. “The contest is on a Saturday?”
“Oh, really?” I squeaked. “Well, uh, maybe just this one time—”
“Nicky. You know that Saturdays are working days. I need you in the shop.” He capped his pen and held out the newspaper, unsigned. “There will be other contests, neh?”
I opened my mouth, but closed it again. Nothing I could say right now would make any difference.
So I just took back the newspaper.
“Okay, goin’ back to Ace’s,” I finally said. “Homework.”
Before he could say anything, I escaped out the back door.
CHAPTER
13
THERE WE SAT, cross-legged on the floor of Ace’s bedroom, staring at my blank entry form.
“He said no?”
“I told you he’d say no!” But hollering didn’t make me feel any better. And being right didn’t make me feel any better either.
Ace still couldn’t believe it. “But we gave Joe Daggett the idea!”
I shook my head. “All we told him was that it’d be swell to wear a Pups uniform. That’s not the same as having a whole contest.”
“Okay, so it was Joe Daggett’s idea. But your pop likes Joe Daggett. He’s like this with Joe Daggett.” Ace held up two crossed fingers.
“Joe Daggett asked my pop to shine his shoes, not to be his best friend.” I sighed. “Now what am I gonna do?”
“Like I said before,” said Ace. “Tell your folks there’s a field trip that Saturday.”
“Like I said before, that’s a dumb idea. They’d never buy that in a million years.”
Ace opened his mouth to say something else, but then he frowned and cocked his head. “Hear that?”
I held still for a few seconds, listening. And then I heard it too. A clink at the bedroom window.
Then another one, a little louder. CLINK.
We went over and rolled up the window shade. Down on the sidewalk, someone was winding up to toss another pebble.
“It’s Pete,” grumbled Ace. “And Chuck and Charlie, and the whole sorry bunch of ’em.” He slid the window up and leaned out. “What do you knuckleheads want?”
Pete sneered up at us. The rest of the fellas hovered around him like flies on a pile of rhino dung. “I shoulda figured you’d be there, Spirakis. You’re just the two losers I wanna see.” Pete reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “My entry form is all filled out,” he called, waving it in the air. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t even bother. Or I’ll crush you both like the slimy little snails you are, and I don’t mean on the ball field either.”
The other fellas snorted and nodded. They’re not bad eggs, on their own. But for some reason, whenever Pete’s around, they all turn into drooling idiots. Like now.
“Is that what you came here for?” hollered Ace. “Well, you’re wasting your time. ’Cause not only are we gonna enter, but we’re gonna whip your knuckleheaded noggin all the way to Lake Michigan!”
I couldn’t top that, so I didn’t say anything.
Pete kept going. “Spirakis, what makes you think you’d catch a single fly ball in that contest? Even without Tank breathing down your neck, you’re the saddest excuse for an outfielder I ever saw. Heck, even Ace here would do better’n you. But then of course, Ace would stink it up at the plate. The only reason he ever gets on base is because his strike zone is so small.”
The drooling idiots snorted and snickered again.
Now I was mad. Mostly because Pete was saying stuff like that in front of everyone.
But also because a lot of what he said was true.
“You gotta lot of nerve comin’ around here making threats, Pete!” I hollered. And then, almost before I realized what my own mouth was doing, I hollered something else at him, but this time I hollered it in Greek.
Pete stopped in midbrag. It was hard to tell for sure, because the streetlamps weren’t very bright, but I could’ve sworn his face went pale.
And then he said something back to me, in Greek. It was just one word, but trust me when I say I can’t write it down, in any language.
Everyone else stood there, staring. First at me, and then at Pete, and then at me again. But I wasn’t going to explain what I’d said, and I dang well knew Pete wouldn’t either.
“Come on, fellas,” he muttered, glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. “We got better things to do.” And they all slunk off into the night like the weasels they were.
Ace was staring at me too. Finally he said, “Well? What did you tell him?”
I slid the window closed. “Nothin’. I called him a name.”
And before Ace could ask me any more questions, I changed the subject. “That knucklehead probably forged his ma’s signature.”
Ace cocked an eyebrow at me. “Ya think so?”
I shrugged. “It’s just that one time he told me that’s what he does.”
Ace stared at me, and I could practically see the gears turning inside his thick noggin. “You don’t suppose . . .”
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m not stooping to Pete’s level.”
He didn’t say anything. For someone with a motormouth, he could be even more annoying when he was quiet.
“What good would a fake signature do, anyway?” I said. “It won’t
spring me from work next Saturday.”
Ace bit off a hangnail and spat it out. “Why can’t your uncle work for you one day? He can’t claim to go to school on Saturdays, can he?”
I shook my head. “He won’t set foot in that shop. I think if he ever does, he’ll know he’s doomed.”
Ace inspected his fingernails. “In that case, I got two words for you: Field. Trip.”
“I told you already, they’d never buy it.” Then it hit me. “Joe Daggett!”
“What about him?”
“Remember what he said that day we met him? He said his door is always open.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So what if, tomorrow after school, we go down to the Ol’ Orchard to visit Joe Daggett? I can remind him how I work in my pop’s shop on Saturdays, and maybe he’ll let me try out on Friday after school, or Saturday after we close up shop. And then Pop will sign the permission slip too.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Ace. “But what makes you think Joe Daggett would bend the rules just for you?”
“Don’t you remember?” I held up two crossed fingers. “Me and Joe Daggett, we’re like this.”
CHAPTER
14
THE NEXT DAY AFTER SCHOOL, me and Ace took the same route as we had the day before, avoiding the zoo and the ball field. We had more important things to do today than play Scramble.
“Where are we going?” said Ace when I kept going past the streetcar stop. “I thought you wanted to go to the Orchard to see Joe Daggett.”
“The streetcar will take too long,” I said. “Follow me.”
A few minutes later we banged through my front door.
“It’s me, Ma!” I yelled toward the kitchen. I took the stairs two at a time, with Ace following.
At the top of the stairs, the bathroom door was shut. On the other side, someone was whistling “In the Mood.”
I knocked. “Uncle Spiro?”
The whistling stopped. The door opened a few inches, and Spiro poked his head out through a cloud of steam. “Hiya, squirts,” he said, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. “What’s all the hubbub?”
The Rhino in Right Field Page 4