Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (21 page)

Lester said, “I thought he had some very interesting points.”

Nicky shrugged.

Lester said, “Know what we're going to do tomorrow?”

“Whazzat?” Nicky said, unlocking the door.

Lester said, “Play stickball.”

“If it ever stops raining.”

“It will.”

Nicky said, “It just has to.”

“Look.”

From under the elevator door crawled the cockroach, antenna missing, body crumpled. The bug hobbled across the hallway tile, toward the smell of simmering stew in 5-A.

“He doesn't give up,” Lester said.

“Yeah,” Nicky said. “What a numbskull.”

T
he next morning, Nicky opened his eyes and listened. He heard no rain. He darted to the window. He saw no puddles, no clouds. The weather had changed. For the better.

The sky was summery blue. A feast for the eyes. Nicky pulled on a T-shirt and dungarees, skipped breakfast (who could eat?), and made straight for Lester's apartment, taking the steps down two at a time.

“Today we will play stickball,” Nicky thought, but then he ceased this hopeful thinking. He knew if you thought about something too hard, expected something too much, it would never happen.

Lester's mother, wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe, her red hair stored in a tight bun, answered the door to 2-C.

“He's outside. I think he's on the playground organizing that ball game,” she said.

“Yeah. Stickball,” Nicky said. “Thanks a lot.”

Nicky turned to go.

“Wait for a minute, Nick,” Lester's mother said. She stepped into the hallway. “I hope you accept my dinner invitation one of these nights. I'm not that terrible a cook, you know. I make a very nice corned beef.”

“Okay,” Nicky said, confused. What dinner invitations?

“Good, then,” Lester's mother said. “Enjoy the stick game.”

The sun was bright on the schoolyard. Nicky blinked against the light and focused on what appeared to be a crowd of older boys. A large sampling of the old gang was hobnobbing on the sun-washed concrete. Icky, Fishbone, Freddie, Mumbles, Joe Z., Bob (who somehow never acquired a nickname), Little Sam, Skippy, Cuddles, Duke, and Skipper—all present and accounted for. It was like a reunion. Except for the shaggy hair and sideburns, except for the bell-bottom jeans, the scene was straight out of 1965, an Instamatic print from the good old days.

“Hey, here he is, little Nicky all grown up,” someone said.

The voice belonged to a skinny kid, with bushy brown hair covering his ears. The kid wore gold-rimmed glasses. Nicky tried hard to place this skinny kid, then all at once he understood. This was Paulie the Mick, now taller, now without the crew cut, now without the nerdy black horn-rimmed specs.

Paulie the Mick was here, and that was all the evidence Nicky needed. He was convinced the sweet hand of fate was pushing events along this morning, arranging this, setting up that, making sure nothing went wrong, not this time. Paulie the Mick's family had moved away three years earlier. And here he was on the playground. The morning shaped up to be something truly mystical and amazing. Like a dream. One for Ripley's.

Paulie said, “Whaddya hear from Roy?”

“He's good,” Nicky said. “What are you … Did you move back here?”

“No, I ain't crazy. I just came down to see this jerk,” Paulie said.
He pointed at Little Sam, his old best pal, his shadow from the good old days.

“I'll jerk ya,” Skipper said. He grinned and swung the stickball bat with gusto.

Paulie the Mick shrugged. “I just got it in my head to drop in on the old neighborhood. Funny thing, I don't know why. And just the other day, I was telling the guys at the shop about stick-ball. It was like I had a preposition or something.”

Lester appeared at Nicky's side. He wore a San Francisco Giants cap, pulled a little too far down on his head. The cap made his ears stick out.

“Where did you find all these guys?” Nicky said.

“It was very interesting,” Lester said. “They found me. I came out with my glove and the bat and the ball. I sat on the wall over there. I was waiting for you. Next I knew, they were swarming around me. They were around me like bees on a Popsicle.”

“That's very poetical,” Skipper said, eavesdropping.

Icky's voice boomed from the crowd. “All right, let's cut the crud. Are we gonna get this game going? Let's pick sides. Mumbles and me are captains.”

Sides were chosen. Nicky was picked second-last, again. Lester was picked dead last, again.

Icky put his hands on his hips and surveyed the playground and Groton Avenue. “Listen up. I don't think we're gonna have any trouble with the colored folks today. I don't see any around.”

The gang of boys swiveled their heads. The tenement stoops were empty. The sidewalks were empty. There were no faces and elbows perched in the tenement windows. It was eerie, as if the
residents of Groton Avenue had simply moved away overnight. Nicky thought, “This is fate, destiny.” He thought the moon and the stars were lined up just right, creating this perfect moment, this sweet spot in time to play stickball. Everything was clicking. The sky was clear. The old gang was on hand and somehow, as if by magic, they were filled with little-kid enthusiasm. The black people were out of sight. The universe was snapping into place.

Icky continued, “And if we do have any trouble, there are plenty of us here. We don't have to worry about nothing. If anybody tries to crash the game, just tell them to take a long walk off a short pier. That simple.”

Lester cleared his throat and said, “Pardon. Excuse me, please. I'd like to mention something.”

“What?” Icky snapped.

“I was only thinking. We should consider this.”

“What?”

“If anybody else wants to join in, I propose we merely let them.” Lester shrugged. “That way, we are guaranteed to avoid trouble.”

“Oh, thanks for the advice—stupid advice. Anything else?”

“Please, if I may, we could use an extra player or two. Imagine playing with full teams? That would be great, don't you think?”

“What's with the soft sell?” Paulie the Mick said. “Who is this kid?”

“New kid,” another voice said.

“I already said NO,” Icky said. “No mulignane crashes the game. It'll only lead to trouble. Okay? If I want any more advice from you, I'll beat it outta you.”

Paulie the Mick said, “Hey, remember the time Ick tried to play basketball with 'em?”

“Forget that,” Icky said.

Lester refused to let the matter go. He held on, like a terrier to a chew toy.

“Fellows, if I may …”

Nicky glared at his friend. Didn't he know the planets and the stars were lined up? What more did he want?

Lester looked away from Nicky's glare and went on, “It's just an idea. I have an idea. Why don't we take a vote?”

The boys moaned.

“Sheesh. Enough with the Boy Scout schtick,” Icky said. He shook his head and simmered. His face developed a pinkish glow. “You're new here, and now you know better than us how to live here? You outsiders crack me up, you really do. Martini, where did you find this nigger-lover anyhow?”

Lester's head jerked back, as if he had been slapped hard in the face. Mumbles shook his head. Leave it to Icky to cross the line.

“Do we have to go through this crud now?” Mumbles whined. “Let's just play.”

Paulie the Mick said, with a trace of embarrassment, “Okay, Icky made his point. Let's just play.”

Icky pulled a battered, folded Yankees cap from his rear pocket and yanked it down onto his head. The tight cap made strands of his long red hair curl over his sideburns. He said, “Okay, let's play.”

Lester, injury in his eyes, looked at Nicky.

Nicky looked down at the asphalt, as if searching for a dropped coin.

Nicky's team trotted onto the concrete diamond. The positions were sorted out. Mumbles at pitcher; Freddie, Little Sam, and Skipper in the infield; Paulie the Mick in center field; Cuddles in left field; Nicky in right field.

Right field was the traditional exile for the worst player. Nicky was not insulted by the assignment. He didn't feel bad about anything. Not even the ugliness between Icky and Lester—he planned to explain to Lester later that Icky was a totally nasty crude jerk. Icky was always talking loud and saying stupid things. Not even Icky could ruin this day.

They were about to play stickball.

“Anything hit to the outfield, I got it,” Paulie the Mick said. He was called the Mick because he played the outfield like Mickey Mantle. Paulie was known as the second-best center fielder in Eggplant Alley. Roy was known as the best.

“Got it,” Nicky said.

Nicky grew happier with each step into right field. The sunshine on his neck soothed him like a warm, tender hand. In the open space of the schoolyard, a delicate breeze rippled Nicky's T-shirt. Nicky felt as if he were walking into a concrete heaven, a place he had imagined, a place he had looked forward to, and a place he would look back on.

He reached his position and soaked up the scenery. He was moved deeply. His teammates swayed and shuffled as they awaited the first pitch. The boys with gloves flexed the leather, massaging away the awful deathly stiffness of summers without stickball.

Skippy, the first hitter, took practice swings, hitched up his jeans, and arranged himself into a batting stance. Eggplant Alley loomed over the players. The windows of Building B glinted and the red brick glowed in the morning light. The building seemed to smile.

Nicky wanted to pick out his kitchen window. He wanted to find the place where he once sat and mooned down on the stick-ball games, hoping and wishing and dreaming, day after day, summer after summer in the good old days. He wanted to recall the ache, now that the ache was gone.

Nicky counted windows from the bottom floor up.

“… five,” he said to himself, gazing up at the familiar kitchen curtains. He grinned, because he was down here at last, playing the game, finally playing stickball, and while he silently rejoiced, there was the thwock of bat on ball.

Nicky glanced away from Eggplant Alley. His eyes focused on a pink blur cutting through the air. The Spaldeen rocketed straight at him. Car accidents, narrow escapes, split-second sports plays—they actually do unfold in slow motion. Nicky was fascinated by the ball as it grew larger and larger. He meekly raised his arms at the last moment, almost in afterthought.

The ball whacked him in the forehead.

Nicky's forehead tingled. He was vaguely aware of jeers and yelps. He thought he had better look for the ball. Where was it? Down at his feet? In his glove? Where was it? He was moving, staggering, as if in a dream. A crummy dream.

Behind him were footfalls and a rummaging sound and a chain-link clatter. Paulie the Mick swore and kicked through the
newspapers, wrappers, cans, and bottles accumulated like beach flotsam near the fence. Paulie fished out the ball, heaved it. The throw was far too late. Skippy was dancing across home plate, laughing.

Mumbles glared at Nicky.

Paulie the Mick barked, “Get your head out of your butt.” He trotted back to center field, muttering.

“I wasn't ready …,” Nicky said.

From the other team, someone taunted. “Butterfingers in right field! Hit it to right!”

Nicky thought, “Butterfingers. They mean ME.”

He wished Roy were there. He needed a friendly set of eyes. He picked out Lester, who toed at something on the asphalt, eyes down, arms folded.

“Look alive!” Mumbles shouted, and he squared his shoulders for the next batter.

Nicky's forehead was numb. His ears and face burned with embarrassment. He prayed the inning would pass without another ball coming his way. He did not want the ball hit to him.

“Not to me,” he thought. “Please, not to me.”

It was a desperate sensation, the worst feeling in the world for anyone wearing a baseball mitt, on a baseball diamond anywhere. Don't hit the ball to me—it was a plea of surrender and cowardice.

Fishbone popped out to Mumbles. Nicky exhaled with relief.

Joe Z. walked.

“Whew,” Nicky said.

Bob struck out.

Nicky thought, “Good.”

Icky walked. The bases were loaded.

“Not to me, not to me, not to me,” Nicky chanted to himself.

Lester was up. Lester stepped uncertainly to bat. He adjusted his cap, further splaying out his ears. He pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and rested the stick on his shoulder. Nicky thought his friend looked terrified.

Now Nicky relaxed. Poor Lester. Easy out. No batter. He was more likely to fly to the moon than to get a hit.

Strike one. A pink blur smack in the middle of the painted square.

Strike two. A weak, feeble wave. Lester swung like Mrs. Furbish. Nicky thought Lester probably had his eyes closed.