Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (30 page)

On Christmas Day, Nicky slept straight through till eight thirty. This was a Christmas morning record. Even on the Christmas when he was delirious with the Hong Kong flu, Nicky had leapt out of bed and dived under the tree, close on Roy's heels, at 6
AM
sharp. But on this Christmas morning, Nicky swung his feet to the floor and absently gazed out the window, a boy not really looking forward to the day. The snow had turned to a slushy rain. His eyes were drawn to Roy's empty bed.

Nicky yawned and slithered off his bed. He found his slippers. He shuffled to the toilet. Then he went out to the tree. Mom and
Dad followed the same route, from the bathroom to the tree. No one bothered to turn on the tree lights.

They opened presents.

Nicky received the three top gifts he had requested. A blue turtleneck shirt, which he picked out of the Gimbels catalog. Five new books in the Hardy Boys mystery series. And the main present, the baseball mitt. Nicky gasped when he opened that one. His parents had sprung for the expensive B-4000.

“Do you like it?” Mom said. “Now that I'm working …”

“It's the best,” Nicky said.

“We figured we'd get you the best,” Dad said. “Although, it beats me what you need a mitt for.”

“Salvatore, don't ruin it,” Mom said.

“For stickball,” Nicky said, admiring the mitt.

“Nobody plays stickball around here anymore,” Dad mumbled.

Nicky said, “Mom, Dad. Open yours.”

Mom adored her crucifix. Dad was puzzled by the scented candles. He removed them from the box one at a time. He sniffed them carefully. He wrinkled his forehead.

“Am I supposed to eat these?” he said.

And it was over before they knew it. The present opening passed in a flash, which only made sense. Roy wasn't here—the gift total was reduced by one-third.

Mom, Dad, and Nicky sat on the rug and fiddled with their gifts. They didn't know what to do with themselves. No one could look away from the presents that were tagged for Roy.

“I guess we'll have another Christmas in the spring,” Dad said through a yawn.

“It's too quiet,” Mom said. “Put on Bing Crosby.”

Mom went to the kitchen to start breakfast. Dad pulled on his galoshes and headed out to buy the newspaper. Nicky thought they acted like two people who couldn't wait to get out of that living room.

For the first time in Nicky's lifetime, they did not visit Aunt Serafina and Uncle Dominic for Christmas dinner. Dad said the roads were too slippery for a drive. Nicky looked down the length of Groton. He saw traffic whoosh with ease through the skim of slush on Lockdale. He shrugged. He didn't feel like going anyhow.

Nicky read his new Hardy Boys books on his bed. He tried to pace himself. He didn't want to burn through them all at once.

Mom listened to the radio in her bedroom. Nicky heard her spin the dial when a news broadcast came on.

Dad camped out in the kitchen. He said the kitchen was the warmest room in the house, today at least. He drank coffee and ate Christmas cookies. He read the
Daily News
and sniffed his new candles. Dad seemed partial to the boysenberry.

By the late afternoon, Nicky had finished every one of the Hardy Boys books. He looked out his bedroom window. Christmas lights blinked colorfully around the courtyard. A man and a woman, bundled in heavy coats, strolled the walkway, their arms loaded with gifts. Suddenly Nicky's bedroom seemed suffocating. The apartment felt hot. Nicky's legs crawled.

“I'm going out for a walk,” he told Mom.

“On Christmas?” Mom said from her bed.

“I wanna look at the lights.”

As he passed the kitchen, he told Dad, “I'm going out for a walk.”

“The boysenberry is nice,” Dad said. “But this orange. It's starting to grow on me.”

Nicky huddled against the cold and kicked at the slush as he walked though the courtyard. He strolled down Summit and rated the Christmas displays on the tiny lawns. One house was lit up brightly enough to be seen from New Jersey.

Nicky doubled back and headed down Mayflower. He gazed at the Only House With Trees. He looked through the bare branches at the large, dark house. He thought about the delicate sofa in the warm room. For the first time all day, he felt a Christmasy tingle in his gut.

He walked all the way down Mayflower. He turned left and walked along Broadway. It looked like a scene from one of those horror movies where Martians invade and the cities are evacuated and the streets are abandoned. There wasn't a soul or a car in sight. Even the crazy, dirty Moon Man was not at his beggar's post on the sidewalk. Nicky imagined the Moon Man at home, carving up a large turkey, surrounded by happy family and friends. Even the Moon Man was having a better Christmas than Nicky.

He started the climb up Radford. Popop's neon sputtered. Popop's was open. “It figures,” Nicky said.

Across the street in Ludlow Park, the old black woman sat on her park bench, paper bag of peanuts at her side, and Nicky felt a warm glow in his chest. The woman stared at Nicky as he walked into the park and strolled straight to her bench. Nicky said, “Merry Christmas.” The woman nodded.

Nicky sat on the bench.

The woman scooted farther down the bench away from him.

Nicky was happy. He surveyed the ground that he and Margalo had cleaned of bottles and cans. The grass was slushy. A small amount of trash had accumulated. But only a tiny amount. Nicky counted only six bottles and two cans. Thanks to Margalo and Nicky, on this Christmas, this old woman did not have to sit amid a pile of garbage to feed her squirrel.

“A beautiful night,” Nicky said. He wanted to start a conversation with this woman and work his way onto the subject of the cleaned-up garbage. He wanted to bathe in the woman's happy reaction and torrent of thanks. He wanted this, as another Christmas gift to bring to Margalo.

The woman didn't say anything. She clutched her bag of peanuts closer to her lap.

“Say, isn't it great that this part of the park was finally cleaned up?” Nicky said, twisting to look over the ground with admiration.

The woman didn't say anything.

“Yup,” Nicky said. “It took a lot of work for us to clean that junk up. But it sure was worth it.”

“You?” the woman said, suddenly enlivened. “You're the one who took away those bottles and cans?”

“Well, yeah,” Nicky said modestly. He shrugged. “No big deal.”

“You cleaned this place up?”

Nicky nodded proudly.

“Well, I guess I owe you a heap of thanks,” the woman said.

“No need …”

“For this,” the woman said.

She removed her wool hat. A section of her hair was shaved clean. On the bare patch was a six-inch-long set of ugly black sutures.

“Do you know who put those bottles and cans there?” the woman said, her voice rising.

Nicky shook his head.

“I put them there,” the woman said, not in a friendly tone. “I put them there so if any fool tried to sneak up on me in the dark, I'd hear him making a racket, creeping through all that garbage.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“A couple times, I heard them creeping up, way far down by those bushes. I just got up and got out of here with plenty of warning.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“But you cleaned them up. Well, thank you mightily. First night with them bottles gone, I don't hear a thing when that fool snuck up and conked me on the head with that pipe. He snuck up quieter than a cat. Grabbed my purse. AND my peanuts.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“I just got out of the hospital last week.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“I'd appreciate if you would bring them bottles back, so I can feed my squirrel and be safe.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“Although I haven't seen him. My squirrel friend. Without me to feed him for a month, I bet he up and died.”

Nicky said glumly, “Listen, lady, I thought we were doing you a favor.”

The woman glared at Nicky. She looked at the sack at her side. She gritted her teeth and simmered.

“You thought,” she grumbled.

Nicky shrugged stupidly.

“You thought.”

Nicky wished he were somewhere far away from this park bench.

“You thought WRONG,” the woman barked. She flung the sack of peanuts at Nicky. The bag hit him in the chest and split open, showering Nicky with peanuts.

Nicky stood up.

“Next time, mind your own business,” the woman said bitterly. “Do me a favor, son—don't do me any more favors.”

Nicky started to walk away.

The woman shouted, “MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.”

Nicky broke into a run. He ran out of the park. He felt a peanut trickle out of his hair. He heard it click on the sidewalk as he ran. He sprinted up Radford. His breath made clouds in the cold air. He thought, “I don't think I'll mention this to Margalo.”

N
icky pushed the tiny button alongside the big door to the Only House With Trees. He looked at the stone lions and the stone lions looked back with bright eyes. It was morning on New Year's Day, clear and painfully cold. As usual, the start of a new year made Nicky ask the traditional dreaded question, “What will happen next?”

Margalo answered the door.

“Hey-lo,” she said. She studied Nicky's face. She smiled. “Come on in, you look like Oliver Twist out there in the cold,” Margalo said.

She wore red flannel pajamas. Her chestnut hair was delightfully mussed. A fire crackled and popped in the kitchen fireplace. It was the first actual fire in a fireplace Nicky had even seen. Every Christmas Eve, Nicky watched the Channel 11 broadcast of the burning Yule log. It was nothing more than a film of a fire in a fireplace, but it was perfect for city dwellers without the real thing. In the good old days, Roy would make a big show out of warming his hands by this roaring fire pictured on Channel 11.

Margalo prepared two mugs of hot chocolate. She topped off Nicky's mug with a mountainous splutter of whipped cream.

“How do you like the glove?” she said.

“The B-4000 is a great mitt,” Nicky said.

“Do you think it will be cool for stickball?”

Nicky nodded while sipping the hot liquid through the cold whipped cream.

“It will be time for stickball before you know it,” she said.

“I suppose you are right,” Nicky said. “If we have enough players.”

“You have whipped cream on your lip. You need players?”

“Sometimes not enough people want to play. Sometimes too many people want to play. If you know what I mean.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Margalo said. “Think of this.” Margalo tossed her head, flipping her hair off her shoulders. “Maybe I can play.”

Nicky laughed. Margalo, not laughing, not smiling, fixed her blue eyes on him.

She said, “What's funny?”

Nicky didn't say anything.

She said, “Jesus, why are you putting me down? I can play.”

“I wasn't. I didn't think …”

“I guess you didn't,” Margalo said icily.

Margalo clunked her mug on the table. She pushed back her chair and stood. Nicky felt a sudden knot in the bottom of his stomach. So this is what it was like to have a girl throw you out of her house.

Margalo yanked open the door to the breezeway. Nicky felt a coldness on his shins, and on his heart.

“On second thought …,” Nicky said.

“Just be quiet,” Margalo snapped. Nicky stared deep into his hot
chocolate. He wished he were tiny enough to dive into the cup and disappear under the whipped cream. His throat was too tight to sip.

Margalo rummaged around the breezeway, tossing items heavily, muttering. At last she produced a tennis ball and a baseball glove.

“Come on,” she said. She tossed the glove at Nicky. It smacked him hard in the chest. “You catch. I pitch.”

After the sofa and a chair were shoved aside, the kitchen in the Only House With Trees was big enough for a real catch. Margalo stood by the table. Nicky remembered the distance from pitcher to batter on the PS 19 schoolyard—forty paces. Nicky counted forty steps from Margalo, moving far into the sitting room. He squatted like a catcher.

Margalo pinwheeled her arm.

“Ready,” she said.

Nicky nodded.

Margalo threw fastballs, straight and speedy and true. She threw hard enough to make the tennis ball pop in Nicky's mitt. She threw a slithery curveball, a tough trick with a tennis ball. She broke off a tantalizing drop pitch, every bit as mesmerizing as the famous drop pitch thrown in the good old days by Icky Rossilli. She threw and threw. Nicky noticed she made a small grunting sound with each pitch.

“What do you think?” Margalo said. She was building a sweat, playing ball in flannel pajamas in the dry heat thrown off by the fireplace. Strands of moist chestnut hair were stuck to her cheeks.

“Do you think I can play with you boys in the spring? When the sky is powder blue and the sun yellow and the pear tree showers us with a blizzard of white blossoms?”

“Oh, yes,” Nicky murmured.

“You want to play with me?”

Nicky nodded dumbly.

“Promise?”

Nicky nodded. He didn't trust his mouth to work. Because he was thinking some very private thoughts. He knew he shouldn't think this way. He knew these thoughts were silly and wrong, worse than all the other forbidden thoughts combined. But he saw Margalo, a girl who could pitch, her moist cheekbones delightful in the firelight, and he ceased thinking altogether. Nicky whispered in his head, “Oh, I love you. I do love you.”

“You should see the expression on your face,” Margalo said. “You didn't think a girl could pitch, did you? I'll show you in the spring. Wait till the spring. I'll show you I can play your freaking game. Why the face? Sorry. I don't mean to blow your mind.”