Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (25 page)

“You have no idea how much I care,” Margalo said softly, through the closing door.

Nicky hurried across Summit. He considered climbing the stairway to Groton Avenue, the shorter route home. But he felt the dull throb in his hand and thought better of it. The stairway lamplights were broken and the stairs were dark. Anybody could lurk there.

He was ten paces from Eggplant Alley when he heard a familiar truck engine and a familiar horn blast and a familiar voice that hollered, “Nicky, hey Nick-EE! Is that you? Thank God it's you.”

Dad pulled alongside in the delivery van. He stopped in the middle of Summit, engine running. Dad crouched in the big doorway of the Yum-E-Cakes truck.

“Nicky, where in the name of Francis Albert Sinatra have you been? Are you trying to give us heart attacks? What's that on your shirt? Is it paint? It looks like blood. What's that on your hand? Are you all right? Don't we have enough to worry about with Roy without you disappearing on us?”

Nicky stuck with the story that he was bouncing a ball against the PS 19 wall (which was true). And he lost the ball down Summit (which was sort of true). And he had lost track of time looking for the ball (which was pretty much untrue). And he sliced his hand on glass (which was true) while looking for the ball in the gutter (which was a lie). There was no way he would mention the twin evils of the hooligan mugger and the hippie Margalo. That would cinch it. His parents would never allow him out of the apartment again.

Nicky lay in bed that night, his hand aching, the scent of green apples in his nostrils. That girl had unnerved him. As he fell asleep, Nicky made a promise to himself. He promised that if Margalo came walking down the street toward him ever again, he would simply run away, as fast as his feet could carry him.

T
he next afternoon Nicky stood in the rain at the big front door of the Only House With Trees. Nicky banged the big brass knocker. He stared at the stone lions and the stone lions, dripping rainwater, stared back with surprised eyes.

Nicky dropped his book bag, heavy with textbooks, and knocked with wet knuckles. He had walked straight there from school. He had remembered during lunchtime, over baloney and milk, that Roy's glove and Spaldeen were left behind in the big house, lost in the shuffle of the sad, strange farewell the night before.

A lock turned and the big door swung open. A short, wiry black woman, dressed in white pants and a white blouse, looked down at Nicky. She said in a British accent, “Yes, how can I help you?”

“I'm here to see Margalo, please,” Nicky said, water dripping off his nose.

“And your name is please?”

“Nick Martini.”

“Martini?”

“Martini.”

“Rick?”

“Nick.”

“Wait, please.”

The woman closed the door and latched it. Nicky moved closer to the house, under the shelter of the overhang, out of the rain.

The door was unlatched and it swung open and Margalo was saying over her shoulder, “… outside in the rain, for goodness' sakes.” Then with a smile to Nicky, “Hey-lo, there. Come on in. You look like Oliver Twist out there in the rain.”

Nicky stepped in, shivering in the dry warmth of the house. He wondered, “Who the heck is Oliver Twist?”

Nicky's school clothes and book bag dripped and made small pools on the thin rug. A grandfather clock slowly clunked. He said, “I hope it's okay. I came by to get my glove and ball. I left them here yesterday.”

“Yes,” Margalo said. “I'm glad you came by.”

“Mad?”

“Glad. I am glad,” Margalo said.

Nicky, dripping water, said, “I'm glad you're glad. Are you glad I'm glad that you're glad?”

Margalo sighed. “As silly as your brother.” She looked in the direction of the kitchen. She looked back at Nicky. She looked up the stairs. She said, “Why don't we go up to my room? We can talk. We can't hang out in the kitchen. Maria is cooking. She blares her soap operas so loudly you can't hear yourself think. Come on.”

Nicky followed Margalo up a wide, carpeted staircase. Nicky's shoes squished as he climbed.

“You were lucky to catch me,” Margalo said as she reached the landing. “I was at the university all day and just returned.”

She said over her shoulder, “Columbia.”

On the second floor, they walked down a long corridor. They passed two closed doors. Margalo stopped at the third door. A poster was thumbtacked onto the door, advising in fantastic psychedelic lettering:
WAR IS UNHEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING BEINGS
.

“Here's my humble sanctuary,” Margalo said.

The bedroom was a dazzling array of clutter and color. Nicky's bottom lip hung open as he took it all in. The orange carpet and lime-green bedding. The aquamarine curtains. The bright blue beanbag chair. The cherry-red beanbag chair. The oversized, striped pillows strewn here and there on the floor. The yellow gooseneck lamp. The stacks of books, piled like toy blocks. The mounds of tossed blue jeans, belts, shiny boots, skirts, vests, dresses. A pair of pure white panties on the bed, which made Nicky struggle to keep his breathing normal. The albums and album covers everywhere, scattered like a dropped deck of cards. The posters of long-haired rock stars. A protest sign that wondered sweetly,
WHAT IF THEY GAVE A WAR AND NOBODY CAME
? The protest sign was propped in a corner, alongside a pair of skis.

Margalo swept a hand toward the beanbag chairs. “Your choice. Blue or red.”

Nicky plopped onto the blue beanbag. There is no dignified way to sit in a beanbag chair. And in this case Nicky landed so that he was slightly tilted upward, his black school shoes in the air, pointed toward the ceiling. His white socks seemed to shine like headlamps.

Margalo struck a match and touched it to a small stick propped
in a drinking glass. The stick looked exactly like a punk stick, the kind Roy used in the old days to light firecrackers. A gray curl of smoke rose from the glass and filled the room with a smell like that of roach spray.

“What's that?” Nicky said, worrying about illicit drugs.

“Incense,” Margalo said. “Do you like it?”

“Sure,” Nicky said, his head aching instantly from the stench.

Margalo clicked on her stereo and moved the phonograph arm onto an album. The room reverberated with the braying of an electric guitar. She lowered the volume.

Margalo sat cross-legged on the floor. She adjusted her long, flouncy skirt over her knees. She reached behind her neck and tugged away a rubber band and her hair fell around her shoulders, adding the scent of green apples to the incense stink. She twisted the rubber band onto her wrist.

“Comfy?” she said.

“Sure,” Nicky said, shifting because his legs were tingly and falling asleep.

“I'm glad you came by.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“I didn't mean to blow your mind last night.”

Nicky shrugged, making the beanbag squeak. “You didn't.”

“About Roy.”

“You didn't blow my mind,” Nicky said.

“I didn't want you to go away thinking I didn't care. About whether Roy is all right.” She took a massive breath. “He is all right, isn't he?”

“He's perfectly safe.”

Margalo exhaled. She closed her eyes, as if she were allowing the words to settle into her tummy.

“Good.” She ran both hands through her hair. Her blue eyes stared at a place on the carpet. “Good.”

“I thought you knew,” Nicky said. “I thought for sure that Roy was writing you. I guess.”

Margalo didn't say anything.

“In fact, in one of his letters to us, he wrote that he wrote. To you. Letters.”

Margalo didn't say anything.

Nicky shrugged. “Maybe they got lost in the mail or something.”

Margalo said, “Go into that top drawer of my desk over there.”

“Me?”

“Yes, over there,” Margalo said, nodding toward a white rolltop desk, cluttered with books.

Nicky got out of the beanbag chair, which required rolling to the floor on his hands and knees. He went to the desk.

“This one?”

“Yes.”

He pulled on the drawer, which slid open smoothly, revealing a stash of envelopes, all with red, white, and blue borders, all with the military return address. Letters from Roy, thrown in a drawer.

“He did write you. You said you didn't communicate.”

“I haven't opened them. One person talking is not communicating,” Margalo said.

Nicky blinked. He turned over one of the envelopes. The flap was unbroken.

Margalo said, “He called here once, too.”

“He CALLED here? From Vietnam? You can't call here from Vietnam.”

“You can, apparently. Maria answered.”

“What did he say?”

“I didn't talk to him. I told Maria to tell him I wasn't here.”

Nicky's mouth parted slightly, the bottom lip pulled down.

“I don't mean to blow your mind,” Margalo said. She unfolded her legs and stood. She moved closer to Nicky. She locked her eyes on to Nicky's eyes.

“I love Roy with all my heart,” Margalo said.

Nicky felt goose bumps rise on his arms.

“I told him not to go to that stupid war. I told him if he went, that I would cut him out of my life like a cancer.”

She looped her hair behind her ears. The electric guitar music stopped. The phonograph arm rose, retracted, and clicked. Now the only sound in the room was Margalo's voice.

“I told him that if he wanted to go to war, fine. But he was not going to take me to war with him. Do you understand?”

Nicky shrugged.

“I don't want to know what he is doing and how he is. Do you understand?”

Nicky nodded. He did not want to talk about the war. Not now, not in this room, not with that green apple smell, not with this girl, not with those panties on the bed. Talking about the war made his stomach hurt. He wanted to change the subject.

He said, “I think I should go. I have a ton of homework.” He made a P-U face and said, “Algebra.”

“Yes,” Margalo said densely. She spoke in a detached manner,
like a peeved adult. “Yes. Algebra. Math used to drive Roy out of his mind, too. I'll walk you down to the kitchen. That's where the glove and ball are.”

Nicky had forgotten about them.

Nicky preceded Margalo down the carpeted staircase, book bag bouncing against his knee. He couldn't see her face when she said, “I don't want this to sound harsh, but I don't think you should visit anymore. Is that too harsh?”

“No,” Nicky said, feeling the harshness like a slap in the mouth.

“By seeing you, I'll know about Roy. It would be the same as staying in touch with Roy. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Nicky said.

“I don't wish to be dragged to war.”

“Yeah,” Nicky said.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and faced her, waiting. He shrugged. “If I do happen to run into you, you know, by accident, or something, I could just make a deal. You know, promise not to say anything about Roy.”

Margalo's hand dripped off the banister as she stepped down from the bottom stair. She faced Nicky. Those blue eyes drilled into him. He was glad, now more than ever, that he and Margalo were the same height.

“I would see it in your face,” Margalo said softly. “I would know in an instant. So my answer has to be no.”

They walked through the house, on thin carpets and gently groaning floorboards, past oil paintings illuminated by tiny brass lamps, past shelves crammed from ceiling to floor with clothbound books, through a small room with a giant black piano and a harp,
through an elegant dining room with a long gleaming table, into the kitchen where the television was going full volume. Maria did not look up from the sink as they passed through to the breezeway.

Roy's glove, the Spaldeen in the pocket, was balanced atop a battered leather suitcase. Nicky picked up the glove. Margalo opened the door for him. Nicky stepped out into the rain.

“If you're really having trouble with algebra, I can help you with it,” Margalo said.

“Help me with it?”

“Sure. I hate it, but I am very good at it. Why don't you come by tomorrow after school? If you want.”

“Sure,” Nicky said. “But what about, you know. My face …”

“You're starting to look like him more and more.”

“Who?”

“Roy, silly. Same milk-chocolate eyes.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. You ought to let your hair grow.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, so long,” Margalo said. She partially closed the door, showing only her face in the opening, drops of rain glistening on her cheekbones. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

Nicky walked home, barely noticing the soaking rain, or the car that needed to brake suddenly to avoid striking him on Summit. He entered the courtyard to Eggplant Alley. He didn't hear Mr. Storch's xylophone dingling from Building A. He didn't smell the fish dinner cooking somewhere in Building C. Nicky's brain was scrambled. Margalo had done it. She had blown his mind.

N
icky visited the Only House With Trees the next afternoon, straight from school. Nicky knocked on the big door. He looked at the stone lions, and the lions looked back with smugness.

“Hey-lo,” Margalo said. She locked her blue eyes on to his face. She studied. She smiled. “Come on in, I've got popcorn popping.”

Together that afternoon they unlocked the mysteries of algebra. And Nicky tossed popcorn to the setter dog, Martha.

“How is your dog? Chuckles? Was that her name?”

“Checkers. He's a little under the weather,” Nicky said, not wanting to get into the sad subject during this happy moment.