Stealing Home (11 page)

Joey glanced at Zeyde. There were tears in his grandfather’s eyes. Joey knew why. He knew about Dixie Walker – everybody did. How he’d started a petition to try to keep the “nigger” off the team. How, earlier in the season, he’d refused to shake Robinson’s hand. And now –

Joey felt all choked up, too. To his surprise, his own eyes filled.

The whole Dodgers dugout has stormed onto the field! They’re all standing behind their teammate, Jackie Robinson,
Barber said jubilantly.

“Isn’t that great, Zeyde?” Bobbie said. Joey quickly wiped his eyes.

“Hey, I saw that.”

“What? I got dust in my eyes.”

“Yeah, sure. You were blubbering over Robinson.”

“I was not blubbering!”

“Were so. Wasn’t he, Zeyde?”

Zeyde nodded. “Looked a little choked up to me.”

“Aw, get out. What do I care?”

“Bet you’re softening up on the Dodgers.”

“You’re nuts,” Joey blustered.

Of course he didn’t care about the Dodgers. Or Robinson.

Did he?

Well… forget the Dodgers. But heck, a fella couldn’t help caring about Jackie Robinson. His incredible speed. His blazing bat. Most of all, the way he held his head high in the face of the constant abuse, and just played his game. Of course Joey admired that.

He sure wasn’t going to admit it to Bobbie, though. He’d never hear the end of it!

The game resumed. The Dodgers got three hits in the bottom of the sixth, but were unable to score. In the top of the seventh, Branca walked three in a row, then allowed a triple that tied the game. He was yanked.

“Don’t worry, Zeyde, Casey’ll save it,” Bobbie said as the reliever was brought in.

Casey gave up two quick base hits, then the go-ahead run.

“We’ll get it back, Zeyde.”

The Dodgers stranded two runners in the seventh.

“Two more innings to go. We’ll rally.”

Another Cardinals home run.

“Not again,” Bobbie wailed. “Please not again.”

A Brooklyn error.

Bobbie groaned.

And the final score, St Louis eight, Brooklyn four,
Red Barber said mournfully. Zeyde switched off the radio and an answering stillness enveloped the street as the radios of Brooklyn fell silent.

Bobbie slumped back against Zeyde’s legs. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Well…” she said to Joey, “aren’t you going to rub it in?”

Joey thought about it. He could say I told you so. He could point out how satisfying it was to root for winners instead of a bunch of bumblers who always broke your heart.

But, looking at Bobbie and Zeyde snuggled together, sharing their misery, he felt a swift pang of… what? He didn’t know. He just knew he wasn’t in the mood for teasing anymore.

“Nah,” he said, trying to sound jaunty, “I’ll cut you a break – this time.”

Tugging down his Yankees cap, he left them huddled together by the radio.

T
he next day, after breakfast, when Aunt Frieda was at work, Zeyde announced that he was going to rearrange the furniture in his room so he could move his bed near the window and catch a breeze at night.

“Okay,” Bobbie said absently, and went upstairs.

Joey stayed in the kitchen, reading the sports pages. Soon he heard grunts coming from Zeyde’s room. He tiptoed down the hall and peeked in. Zeyde was stripped down to his undershirt. He was heaving against a dresser, but it wasn’t going anywhere. Joey watched for a moment. Then he ran upstairs. “Come on,” he said to Bobbie, “we’ve got to help Zeyde.”

“What do you two want?” Zeyde asked when they appeared in his doorway. His forehead was beaded with sweat.

“We’ve come to help,” Bobbie said. “It was Joey’s idea.”

Zeyde looked at Joey with an odd expression for so long that Joey squirmed. “Was it, now?” he finally said.

They stripped Zeyde’s bed and threw the sheets on the living-room couch. They pulled out the dresser drawers and stacked them in the hallway, undershirts on top of underpants on top of socks on top of pajamas. That left the bookcase. Loading up with as many books as they could carry, the three of them took turns carrying armloads of books into the living room and stacking them in towers on the floor. Some of the books smelled old, and their pages were yellow. Some had pages that were edged in gold, so that from the side, they looked like small, flat, golden treasure chests.

Emptying the top shelf, Joey picked up a blue velvet bag that zipped at the top and a black book with strange writing on the cover, which Joey supposed must be Hebrew.
These are the things I saw Zeyde carrying to
schul
that day,
he thought. When his grandfather was in the other room, he whispered to Bobbie, “What’s in the bag?”

“Zeyde’s
tallis
,” she answered. “His prayer shawl.”

She used to braid the tassels of my
tallis … Joey remembered Zeyde saying that first Shabbas night. He’d sounded broken-hearted, as if he really missed Mama doing that.

As he carried his armload out of the room, Joey wondered what Zeyde’s prayer shawl looked like, and
how he prayed in it.
Maybe hell take me with him to
schul
someday,
he thought.

Finally, when the bookcase was empty, Zeyde took a photograph down from the top. It was of a woman – a nice woman, from the quick look that Joey took. “Who’s that?” he said.

“Bubbeh,” Bobbie told him.

“Who?”

“My grandma. Our grandma,” she corrected.

Mamas mother,
Joey thought.

Zeyde held out the picture for Joey to see.

She was plump, double-chinned and round-cheeked, with big round eyes.
The same as Mama’s and Aunt Frieda’s,
Joey thought. Her mouth was turned up in a gentle smile. She looked like the kind of mother you could pour out your troubles to, and she’d give you a kiss and a hug and somehow everything would be better.

“Did you know her?” Joey asked Bobbie.

She shook her head. “She died when Mama – my mama and your mama – were teenagers.”

Zeyde didn’t say anything. He just gazed at the picture. Joey felt a swift stab of sympathy.

Grunting and heaving, the three of them moved the bed to where the dresser was, the bookcase to where the bed was, and the dresser to where the bookcase was. Then they put all the drawers and books away.

“Look at you!” Joey laughed, pointing at Bobbie. Her cheeks were smudged with dust, and the fronts of her shirt and shorts were brownish-gray.

“You, too,” Bobbie said, and they both laughed.

Zeyde wiped his forehead with his arm, leaving a dirty smear on his face. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two nickels and dropped one into each of their hands.

Joey could have kicked himself, but it slipped out before he thought. “You don’t have to pay us, Zeyde.”

Zeyde shook his head with a smile. “That’s all right. A little treat doesn’t hurt.”

“Thanks!” Joey and Bobbie said together.

Bobbie turned to Joey. “What are you going to spend yours on?”

“Baseball cards,” he said without a moment’s hesitation.

“Me, too!”

There was a brief discussion with Zeyde, who at first was not inclined to let them go up to Gershon’s on Utica Avenue by themselves, but relented after they washed their hands and faces, changed their clothes, and promised that they’d go straight to the store and straight back.

And pick him up a cigar while they were at it.

And not tell Aunt Frieda.

Faces clean, hair combed, clutching the precious nickels, Joey and Bobbie entered Gershon’s Drugstore.
Joey remembered being in there with Miss MacNeill on his first day in Brooklyn. How long ago that seemed!

Bobbie led Joey to the front counter, where a woman with short, brown, gray-flecked hair and green eyes stood at the cash register. Behind her, glass shelves held cigarettes, packages of Wrigley’s chewing gum, and boxes of red-banded cigars.

“Hi, Mrs. Gershon,” Bobbie said.

“Hi, Bobbie. Who’s this?”

“My cousin, Joey. Joey, this is Mrs. Gershon.”

“Your cousin?” The woman frowned in confusion. Joey tensed. Was she going to be one of the mean ones, like Mr. Stein and Mrs. Yanofsky?

Recognition dawned on the woman’s face. Her hand flew to her heart. Tears filled her eyes. “Oh, my God. Becky’s boy.”

Joey relaxed.

She reached her hand across the counter. “So good to meet you – Joey, is it?”

Joey nodded, sending her a smile. Her clasp was warm and firm.

She wiped her eyes, shaking her head. “Should have known. You look just like her.”

“Did you know my mama?” Joey asked.

“Did I know her!” Mrs. Gershon repeated, waving a
hand. “Sure I knew her. Like a little sister. I used to babysit her and Frieda.”

“You did?” Joey asked. “What were they like?”

Mrs. Gershon’s eyes sparkled. “Devils, that’s what. Every time I had to babysit those two, I knew I was in for it. That Becky was always playing jokes.”

“Like what?”

“Well… one time she put a cricket in my pocketbook, and when I opened it, it jumped out and I nearly had a heart attack.”

Bobbie and Joey laughed.

“And she never went to bed when she was supposed to,” Mrs. Gershon added. “Popping up every minute, hopping into Frieda’s bed, coming downstairs for a drink of water. Boy, was she a live wire!”

Joey nodded.

Mrs. Gershon went on, “One time when I was babysitting, Frieda went right to sleep, like she always did. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t get Becky to sleep. I read her stories. I rubbed her back. Nothing worked. Finally, I was so worn out, I fell asleep! Hours later, when your Bubbeh and Zeyde came home, it was Becky who greeted them at the door, wide awake. ‘Hi, Mama, hi, Daddy, did you have a good time?’”

All three of them laughed.
How wonderful to hear happy memories of Mama,
Joey thought.

Bobbie asked to see the baseball cards, and Mrs. Gershon lifted down a cardboard box. Inside were dozens of small packets, each containing a baseball card and a flat rectangle of pink bubble gum. “You a Dodgers fan, Joey?” she asked.

Before he could answer, Bobbie said, “Nah, he’s from the Bronx.”

Mrs. Gershon gasped. “A Yankees fan! Outa my store.”

Startled, Joey looked up. She was smiling. He smiled back.

Joey and Bobbie pawed through the packets. Joey picked out the Yankees players, Bobbie, the Dodgers.

“Who you gonna get?” he asked.

“Don’t know.”

More digging.

Then Joey unearthed a Jackie Robinson card. The serious face. The muscular arms. The ebony skin.

Joey thought about how Robinson had stood tall after being spiked by Enos Slaughter. About how he’d handled the black cat incident, with dignity. About his sixteen stolen bases. About his incredible batting average.

His hand closed over the card.

Wait a second!
What was he doing? Bobbie would tease him to death if he chose Robinson. Was he turning traitor to his beloved Yankees?

No, of course not. He was still loyal to New York. Joe
DiMaggio was still his hero. It was just that Robinson was – well, so swell. Surreptitiously, Joey slid the Robinson card into his other hand, then continued sorting.

“Hmm …” Bobbie mused. She had Carl Furillo in one hand, Vic Lombardi in the other, and was looking back and forth between the two. “Lombardi,” she decided. “Who’re you getting?”

“Uh…” Joey snatched the first Yankees card that came to hand. “Snuffy Stirnweiss.”

“Don’t you already have him?”

“Uh … yeah. But I can always use another one. Can’t have too many Snuffy Stirnweisses, that’s what I always say.”

She gave him an odd look, then glanced at his other hand. “What you got there?”

Joey’s cheeks grew warm. “N-nothing.” He tried to shove the Robinson card down in the box but Bobbie grabbed his hand and pried it open.

“Jackie Robinson!” She hooted. “Thought you were going to sneak that by me?”

“No, I –”

“I knew you were going soft on Brooklyn.”

“Am not!” He dropped the Robinson card. “I was just moving it out of the way, that’s all. I wouldn’t buy a Dodgers card if you paid me.”

Bobbie ignored him. “Hey, Mrs. Gershon, Joey’s turning into a Dodgers fan.”

“Oh, really?”

“Caught him red-handed with Jackie Robinson.”

“No! I want Stirnweiss. See?”

“He just won’t admit it,” Bobbie said. “Probably got a secret stash of Dodgers cards in his room.”

Laughing, Mrs. Gershon rang up their cards and the cigar for Zeyde. Once outside, Joey and Bobbie opened their packages. After comparing their players’ stats, they broke up the gum and shoved all the pieces into their mouths. Sweetness burst over Joey’s tongue as his jaws worked furiously, trying to chomp the brittle bits into a chewable mass. He blew his first, thick bubble, popped it and chewed again, making the gum more elastic. He stretched it with his tongue, preparing to blow a bubble.

Bobbie beat him. “Look,” she said, her voice muffled, pointing at a big round pink bubble.

Joey’s finger darted.
Splat!

“Why, you –” She came after him.

Laughing, Joey turned aside, then blew his own bubble. Bobbie chased him, finger outstretched. He twisted one way, then the other. Pop! He ran straight into her finger.

“Ha!”

Down the street, around the corner, blowing and popping bubbles, running, spinning, laughing, faces getting stickier and stickier.

“Gotcha!”

“Gotcha back!”

Bobbie darted out of reach. “Missed me!” Then, in a singsong voice, “You like Jackie Robinson.”

Joey felt his ears go warm. “I told you, I was putting it back –”

“Baloney. Admit it, you’re coming over to Brooklyn.”

“I am not!” Joey’s whole face felt hot now. Spotting his chance, he darted in and smashed Bobbie’s bubble, her biggest yet. Gum stretched practically to her ears.

“You’ll pay for that!”

Laughing, Joey took off. But an uneasy feeling rippled through his stomach.

He’d
wanted
that Jackie Robinson card. What was happening to him?