All the Way Home (8 page)

She wanted that ball, she could see it in her mind, raising her hands almost in slow motion as she felt her legs go out from under her, and it was coming closer, an arc straight down the first-base line, veering toward her, high but dropping, dropping as she tried to stay on her feet for one more second.

She caught a glimpse of Brick’s arms, too, up, ready to make the catch, but saw them in a blur, knew he wasn’t going to be fast enough because it was her ball.

She braced herself against the iron bar, both hands up, and the ball dropped, almost as if Pete Reiser had dropped it there on purpose, and it was hers, a hard stinging ball, her ball, in her hands, and she held on, feeling the pain of it in her wrists and in her arms.

Her ball.

And Loretta next to her screaming, and screaming, and Brick, too, both of them grabbing her shoulders, holding her up, and smiling, laughing, the three of them, the people around them clapping, somewhere up in back, Hilda the fan clanging her cowbell, and Pete Reiser, looking up at her, raising his hand in a little salute.

12

L
oretta never stopped talking on the way home. “It was the best day I’ve had in years,” she said, “to see Brick at his first game! To see Mariel catch that ball.” She shook her head. “And the Dodgers beat the Giants.”

Mariel handed the ball to Brick to look at, and he could see the difference it had made. She was talking now, almost as much as Loretta, watching as he turned her ball in his hand.

“Know why they call them the Dodgers?” she asked as they stepped off the curb crossing Bedford.

“Dodging balls?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s because of all the trolleys in Brooklyn. Everyone has to dodge them. So …”

He nodded, still looking at the ball, the smoothness of
the leather, the red stitching. Usually he hated to write letters, but he couldn’t wait to write and tell Mom and Pop about the game and the trolley story. He felt that sharp pain under his ribs, missing them, wishing they had been there to see the game. And then a second pain: Claude. How could he have forgotten Claude this afternoon? How could he have forgotten about going home?

Supper was late because Loretta had burned the hamburgers to little black pieces of coal, and at the last minute had made tomato and lettuce sandwiches. “Can’t mess those up,” she said.

“Good score today, four to one,” Mariel said. “And how about that fight between Dixie—”

“And the umpire,” Brick said. “What was his name?”

“Magurk,” Mariel said, licking the mayonnaise off her fingers.

And then Loretta blasted water and soap into the sink until the bubbles frothed over the edge. “Go out in the back, both of you. Take a plate of chocolate chip cookies. They’re wonderful, if I do say so, not one bit burned, a miracle.” She winked at them. “Leave me to the dishes, the radio, and my feet on a pillow.”

Brick took the last bite of his sandwich, reached for a couple of cookies, still warm from the oven, and pushed back his chair, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

He went outside and stopped. In front of him was an apple tree with a tiny white fence around it. It was smaller than the apple trees at home, and not an apple in
sight. What would Pop say about an apple tree in Brooklyn? What would Claude say?

Mariel followed him outside. He had been so glad for her all afternoon, the look of surprise when she had caught that ball, the look of wonder. Somehow it had made them friends.

They sank down on the weedy grass, leaning back against the apple tree’s little fence.

“Billy Nightingale?” She picked up a thready bit of bark from the apple tree and began to shred it in her hands. Her head was down again, the crooked part in her hair showing.

“That was from a sign on the laundry and a pet shop.…”

She looked up, grinning. “Billy’s. Yes.”

Then he heard the sound of sleigh bells outside the fence. It made him think of winter in Windy Hill, of the apple trees with snow covering their branches like blankets.

“It’s the ragman on his way home. He’s late tonight,” Mariel said. “He lives in Manhattan somewhere.” She put the bits of bark in a little pile. “Almost on his way home. He has to stop at Jordan’s candy store. Daisy takes him there every night for water and a candy bar.”

And then they were talking, both of them in a rush, about the game and Breezy Point on Thursday, and even Ambrose, who had come yesterday to see how he was doing. As she reached for one of his cookies, he thought about how easy it was to talk to her, the easiest thing he
had ever done. At school in Windy Hill he had fooled around with the other boys, played ball with them, talked about the Dodgers, but not the girls. They were always playing jump rope near the fence, or talking in tight little knots, and he never knew what to say to them.

He began slowly. “There was a fire. It hadn’t rained for weeks. Everything was dry, bone dry, and just waiting for that summer lightning to hit.” He took a breath. It was so good to talk about it, so good to tell someone.

She looked up at him.

“Almost everyone moved away from Windy Hill.” He shrugged. “The Depression is still bad, and there are no loans from the bank to pay for equipment or fertilizer. Most of the people just packed up and left their farms.” He frowned.

She sat there unmoving, the cookie crumbling in her hand.

“The fire took our trees and our corn.” He spread his hands. “Only Claude is left now, and he won’t be able to hold out for the winter.”

He sighed, thinking of Pop’s hand on his shoulder, telling him he was proud that he had saved the orchard. Saved it for just a few weeks. Poor Claude.

How could he tell Mariel what Claude was like? Claude wearing the old blue sweater Julia had knitted for him, the straw hat covering his gray hair, the way he knew the trees, touching them as if they were his family? How could he tell her how loud Claude was, and
how soft and gentle Julia was and how she tried to keep Claude calm?

He told about himself instead. “I’m not good in school.” He shrugged. “Terrible at reading, can’t sit still for it. Okay in arithmetic and science, though. Claude said I had to be, needed that for the trees.”

“Claude,” she said.

“I have Claude’s book,” he said. “Everything about apple trees is in that book. Everything in the world. It’s in French, though.”

“Do you know French?”

“Of course not.” They were grinning at each other now, leaning forward. Then he shook his head. “Claude’s hands were burned in the fire.” Brick didn’t even want to think about how his hands had looked afterward. “He’ll never be able to harvest. There’s only Joseph to help now. It won’t be enough.”

Mariel looked up at the apple tree, then she leaned forward. “Couldn’t you go back? Couldn’t you harvest for him?”

13

“I
’ll help you,” she said, even though she couldn’t believe she was saying it. She could see how it would be, how he’d get himself back to the orchard, back to Claude, and harvest the apples.

She looked down at the new blue overalls hiding her legs. Now that she thought about it, Brick hadn’t paid any attention to her legs all week. Not like Geraldine and Frankie and the kids in school who pretended not to look but couldn’t help themselves.

A quick picture in her mind.
Geraldine Ginty standing in front of her outside the house when she had come to Brooklyn years ago. “Want to see the apple tree?” Mariel had asked
.

Mrs. Ginty from her window: “Get over here, Geraldine
,
right now.” And then in a loud whisper as Geraldine backed away from her, “Want to catch polio?”

Geraldine had run across the street, darting out of the path of the milk wagon, turning back at the curb to stare at her
.

Loretta had stormed outside then to the middle of the street, her face red. “She’s not contagious, Mrs. Ginty, not for a long time.”

Mrs. Ginty’s face was flushed, her hand to her mouth
.

“Any kid can get polio, anyone in the whole world, and the contagion is in the beginning, not later, not now. Mariel’s fine now. She’s terrific.”

“Sorry,” Mrs. Ginty had said. “I’m really—”

“I hope so,” Loretta said, “because this child of mine has been through so much.”

“I’m really …,” Mrs. Ginty had begun again, and had crossed the street to Loretta and spoken in a low voice. “I am sorry. It’s just that I’m always afraid. If only we knew where it came from. Someone said it’s from the water, so we don’t go to the beach. Someone said flies bring it on fruit, so we don’t …”

Loretta put out her hand. “It’s all right. Just—” She had broken off. And Mariel, looking at Geraldine still across the street, had stuck out her tongue. Just for a second
.

She wondered now if Geraldine remembered that.

Loretta had taken her hand then and inside had showed her how to knit. “We’ll make gorgeous mittens, sky blue and pink. Don’t worry about the Gintys. Knit one, purl one …”

“I had polio,” Mariel told Brick at last.

He was nodding. He knew.

“I can’t remember before that, only being sick in Windy Hill, in an iron lung because I couldn’t breathe, then coming to Brooklyn with Loretta.” She swallowed. “No one could find my mother.”

He didn’t answer, but she could see his head go back just the slightest bit. And then she had another thought. Suppose he hadn’t noticed her legs? Suppose he was so worried about Claude that he hadn’t even thought about her or what she looked like?

But if he was really going to be her friend …

She had to take a chance. “There’s a stone carving of a king …,” she began slowly, picking her words. “It was back in ancient times, and his leg was thin and curved. Loretta showed it to me. He was walking with a stick.”

She could see his eyes, never looking down at her legs, looking at her face.

“So they know that polio has been around for thousands of years. And my legs are like that, too.” She stopped, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe, while she waited for him to say something.