Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (11 page)

“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 glasses 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.”

S
o 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.

Nicky walked in the sun and was totally thrilled to be out of the kitchen window and onto the schoolyard. Now he would be one of the gang. It was a miracle. Roy promised Nicky could serve as batboy for the entire summer. Nicky was moving up in the world, stepping out with the big boys. He wondered if some little kid was watching wide-eyed from a kitchen window in Eggplant Alley. He hoped so.

A full roster of Roy's friends was on the concrete diamond. The boys wore T-shirts and dungarees with rolled cuffs. They all had crew cuts. (Within a year, only the geekiest of geeks would be caught dead with a crew cut.) They pushed and shoved and teased. They were full of excitement, too. Who wouldn't be?

Nicky sniffed the air, which smelled clean, like freshly washed bedsheets. Nicky watched Roy mix with his pals. Roy said, “Numbskull here will be our bat boy. My mother is making me. Don't worry, he'll stay outta the way.”

Life was changing for the better, with one thing leading to another. Nicky looked forward to stickball with Roy, which would lead to Monopoly with Roy, which would lead to tossing water balloons off the roof with Roy, which would lead to getting the sacred medal back from Roy. Nicky was thinking this when the skinny black kid showed up.

This kid had his hands jammed into his pant pockets as he strolled across the asphalt, straight into the huddle of Roy's friends. He walked up like he was a lifelong chum, just one of the old gang. This black kid said, “Looks like you could use another.”

Roy and his friends blinked at one another, shrugged, and exchanged glances that said, “Beats me.” No one knew what to
say. This was a shocking development. It was an unwritten rule. The white kids of Eggplant Alley and the black kids of Groton Avenue did not mix.

Lester interrupted the story. “Very interesting. Why didn't we mix in those days?”

“We still don't mix. I already told you. That's not the way it works around here.”

“How come?”

Nicky sighed and said, “Are there any black folks where you come from?”

Lester studied the roof tar. He said, “Not too many.”

“Then you don't know about it. It's like cats and dogs. Cats don't play with dogs. Why? I dunno. They just don't.”

Nicky went on with the stickball story.

Mikey Loughran spoke up first. He asked the skinny black boy, “What's your name?”

The skinny black boy said, “Jackie.”

Mikey Loughran didn't see Icky's angry glare, and continued “Are you from around here?”

Jackie said, “Yeah, sure. Right over there. Second from the end. Number Ten.” He pointed to a yellow brick building across Groton Avenue. The building had saggy wooden front steps. A window on the second floor was cracked and repaired with a length of black tape.

Icky snorted, “What a dump.”

Jackie made a face and said, “Yeah, well, it's home.” He rubbed
his hands together and said, “Okay, whaddya say, sports fans? Let's play.”

Icky said solemnly, “Geez, you know what? We don't need no more players. Too bad. Maybe some other time.”

Jackie lifted his chin and moved his lips as he tallied up the players. “Sure you need players. Come on, man. I can PITCH. Let me see the ball.”

Mikey Loughran numbly handed over the ball.

“Loughran, what are you doing?” Icky snapped.

Jackie windmilled his arm and pretended to throw. “I got a heat ball you won't even see. It's got wings.”

Icky said, “Wings? That's nice. But you know what? We got plenty pitchers. We got pitchers coming out our ears.”

Jackie rolled the ball in his hand. He bounced it on the asphalt a couple of times. He flexed his wrist—the curveball motion. He looked fresh, young, and happy as he handled the Spaldeen. Jackie itched to play. You could see it in his eyes. He couldn't resist the spring warmth, the watercolor blue sky, the excitement of the freshly painted white lines. When Jackie set foot onto his wobbly steps and saw the white kids gather across the street with gloves and sticks and balls, he probably had no choice. He was lured off the steps to the schoolyard, like a thirsty man to a water fountain. He was just like the boys from Eggplant Alley.

“I'll strike you all out, one at a time. My pitches have wings.”

Icky said, “Maybe. But not today.”

Jackie took a step toward the mound and said, “Batter up, sports fans. I'm pitching.”

Icky's face shaded pink and his red crew cut seemed to bend
forward, like the hair on a dog's back. Icky inhaled deeply, signaling that enough was enough.

“Now, hear this. I already told you, we don't need no players. We … don't … need … no … players.”

No one said anything. Icky went on, “So go play your games and let us play ours.”

Jackie said, “But …”

“We don't need players.”

“But …”

“We don't need players.”

“But …”

“We don't need players. I don't want to have to tell you again. What can't you unnerstand? Jesus Christmas, you people really are stupid.”

Jackie stopped bouncing the ball. He squeezed the Spaldeen in his hand.

“What was that?”

“You heard me. Get the wax out of your ears.”

“Man, what is your problem?”

“I ain't got a problem. And don't you look at me that way. You wanna start something with me?”

“I ain't looking for a fight.”

Icky pushed Jackie's shoulder and said, “Well, maybe you found one.”

Jackie stepped back and said with disgust, “I ain't trying to start nothing.”

Icky said, “Who do you think you're starting with? I guess you want to start something with me.”

Jackie looked into the white faces. The white faces stared backed with expressions that said, “What did you expect?” And Jackie gave up. He seemed to fold. He examined the ground. He studied his sneakers.

Icky maintained his fighting stance, hands clenched, feet planted, body coiled. Icky's eyes were blinking fast. He wrinkled his nose and said, “If you wanna start with me, let's get started. Otherwise—take a powder.”