Stealing Home (17 page)

Through moist eyes, Joey looked at the picture again and felt a tug. This was his only picture of Mama, and he’d gone without it for so long. How could he part with it?

But he had to. He wanted to.

Cradling the photograph in his arms, Joey went downstairs.

Bobbie and Aunt Frieda were in the kitchen. He heard their low voices, the opening and shutting of cupboard doors as they put the supper dishes away.

He looked in the living room. Zeyde was in his chair by the window, just sitting, looking out at the street. The radio was silent, the room unlit, except for the soft glow of evening light.

“I… Zeyde…” Joey swallowed. “I have something…” He held out the picture. “Look, Zeyde. This is for you.”

Zeyde looked. He went perfectly still. His face turned white. A spasm passed over it. Sudden tears filled his eyes. But then Zeyde rose, color flooding into his face, turning it crimson. He pointed his finger. “Get her out of my sight! Get out!” He swept the picture from Joey’s grasp. It struck the arm of the chair and fell, glass shattering on the floor.

Joey stood frozen. Speechless. Then fury surged through him, and he found his voice. “I hate you!” he shouted. He ran from the room and bolted upstairs.

Joey tore into his room. He knew what was coming, and he wasn’t waiting for Zeyde to send him away. Without even seeing what he was grabbing, he opened a dresser drawer and threw an armful of clothes into the still-open suitcase, then slammed it shut. Grabbed some coins, pushed the suitcase out the window, squeezed out after it, and climbed down the bars at the back of the house. Then he fled, blindly, not knowing or caring where he was going, half-running, half-walking, dragging the suitcase, fury driving him on.

He meant it. He hated Zeyde, hated him with every bit of hate he had in him –

Joey stopped. Where could he go? The image of a foster home, full of uncaring strangers, hit him. An orphanage, with other unwanted children … No!

Mrs. Webster! Yes, she’d take him in. In spite of all her bluster, she cared, he knew she did.

Running, dragging the suitcase, he caught a streetcar, transferred to the subway. Good thing he still knew how to get around. Uptown … uptown … He thought of Zeyde’s face, contorted in anger… Aunt Frieda’s hugs …

No. Don’t think.

The suitcase bumped against his knees as he made his way from the subway station to his old apartment, vaguely aware of the familiar streets, the dark faces, the
blare of blues from a car radio, the smell of an overflowing garbage can. Up the stairs, lugging the suitcase…

He pounded on Mrs. Webster’s door. No answer. Pounded harder. “Mrs. Webster! Open up, it’s –”

The door across the hall opened – his old apartment! – and a man, wearing a sleeveless undershirt and boxer shorts, looked out. “What you doing, boy? What you banging down the house for?”

“Where’s Mrs. Webster?”

The man shook his head. “Gone. Had one of those spells of hers, a bad one, and went into a nursing home.”

Gone?

The man took a step closer. “You kin of hers?”

Joey looked up. “Huh?… No.”

Before the man could say anything else, Joey bolted down the stairs.

Mrs. Webster gone. That meant… He trudged the few blocks to Miss MacNeill’s office, trying to shut out any feelings at all, just putting one foot in front of the other. It was nighttime, so Miss MacNeill wouldn’t be there, but he’d find a place to sleep, see her in the morning….

He arrived at the building and crumpled onto the step, the suitcase on his knees.

Then it hit him. It was over … really over. Bobbie and Aunt Frieda, the neighborhood and the fellas, his room, his home – all smashed with the swipe of Zeyde’s hand.

He’d thought he was changing Zeyde’s mind, but he should have known better. It didn’t matter how good he tried to be or how many prayers he memorized. Zeyde was never going to accept him.

Joey curled over the suitcase and sobbed, shoulders shaking, tears wetting his arms.

“Joey! Oh, my God!”

Joey jerked his head up.

Zeyde! Zeyde was running, stumbling toward him.

“Joey, thank God you’re safe!”

Zeyde threw himself onto the step beside Joey, wrapped his arms around him and burst into tears. “Oh, Joey… I’m so sorry….”

He was sorry! He was holding Joey, clinging for dear life, and it felt so good, Zeyde’s strong arms holding him.

“Joey, I didn’t mean it….” Zeyde’s chest heaved. “She left me, my Beckele … and then you –”

Broken cries.

“I drove her away … my temper, my stupid pride … all those years, filled with regret…. And then you – your face… her face … It was her, all over again.”

Zeyde buried his face in Joey’s hair. “From the first moment you came … I was so scared …”

“Scared?”

Joey saw the fear in his dark eyes, shadowed under the cold streetlight. “Scared to make the same mistake – and
then I did…. like a fool I did! Oh, Joey, I only wanted to keep you safe … but I didn’t know how –”

Zeyde held him at arm’s length. He gazed into Joey’s face. “Joey …” A long, shuddering sigh. “… forgive me.” His eyes were shiny and soft with tears. “Please, please … come home.”

Joey looked Zeyde in the eye, gathering his courage. “Then … you won’t ever send me away?”

“Joey, no! I would never – I could never let you go!”

Zeyde pulled Joey to him. Clinging to his grandfather, Joey’s last sobs poured out. Finally, he wiped his eyes. He put his hand in Zeyde’s.

“Yes, Zeyde … I’ll come home.”

O
ver the next several days, Joey and Zeyde spent hours talking about Mama. They told each other stories, sad ones and happy ones, and they cried and laughed and cried some more. They pored over photo albums. They walked around the neighborhood and visited Mama’s favorite places: the streets where she rode her bike, the apple tree she climbed to steal the apples, the back stoop where she put on shows for the neighborhood kids.

One day when they were sitting together, Zeyde turned to Joey. “Joey,” he said hesitantly, “did you ever hear of
shiva?
”

Joey shook his head.

Zeyde paused. “It’s the way that Jews mourn for the dead. And … I have to tell you this. After I sent your mama away, to my everlasting regret, I sat shiva for her.”

“But she wasn’t dead!”

“I know, but… I was so angry it was as if she was dead to me.” Zeyde’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

Joey’s throat choked up. It wasn’t fair of Zeyde. But as he swallowed down the tears, he saw that Zeyde truly was sorry.

An idea struck. “Zeyde,” he said, “could we light one of those candles for Mama?”

“What candles?”

“Like the one you lit for Bubbeh. That would sort of bring Mama back to this house.”

“In some ways you’ve already brought her home to me.” Zeyde hugged him. “But yes, that’s a wonderful idea. It hasn’t been a year yet, but who cares? I’ll teach you the prayer and we’ll say it together. All right?”

“All right.”

Several days later, Zeyde announced that he was going out to do an important errand. He came home with a parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm, a smile tugging at his lips. He beckoned, and Joey followed him into the living room.

Zeyde unwrapped the parcel. Mama! It was the picture of Mama, newly framed with a fresh sheet of glass.

Zeyde placed it on the mantel with all the other
pictures. Together they looked at her; at the wild hair and the shining eyes and the laughing face.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Joey whispered.

Zeyde squeezed his hand. “She’s home. Where she belongs.”

The next day was Saturday. Somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, Joey felt someone nudging his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Zeyde sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Joey, would you come to
schul
with me today?”

Joey bolted upright. “Really?” Then panic set in. “But… I don’t know anything, Zeyde. The prayers … what to do …”
And I couldn’t bear to make you ashamed of me.

Zeyde smiled. “That’s all right, you’ll learn. Please, Joey. I would be proud to have you come with me.”

Joey’s heart filled. “Okay, Zeyde.”

Soon they set out, Joey dressed in some of his new school clothes and carrying the velvet bag and the prayer book. Along the way, other grandfathers and grandsons joined them. Zeyde greeted each pair with a handshake and a smile. Then, his hand on Joey’s shoulder, he said, “This is my grandson, Joey. Becky’s boy. Isn’t he the image of her?”

J
oey clung to Zeyde’s hand as they inched toward the turnstile. They were surrounded by Dodgers fans waiting to get into Ebbets Field. People jostled at the gold-rimmed ticket windows, hoping for last-minute seats. Teenage boys in sharp blue-and-white uniforms waved booklets in the air, hollering, “Program! Get ya program heah!”

“I can’t believe I’m at the first game of the World Series.” Bobbie looked as if she were afraid to blink in case it turned out to be a dream.

Joey felt the same way, but he didn’t say so. Instead he squirmed miserably. In his back pocket was his Yankees cap. But he couldn’t wear it. It would be a lie – he just didn’t care about the Yankees anymore. Yet he couldn’t root for the Dodgers either, not in front of Bobbie and
Zeyde. Here he was in Ebbets Field, longing to cheer and throw his arms in the air – and he couldn’t.

They passed the turnstile and made their way to their seats, high up, midway between third base and home plate. Trying not to show his eagerness, Joey looked around. The base paths formed a perfect diamond. The infield was raked so smooth that the toothmarks of the rake were still visible in the reddish-brown dirt. Beyond it stretched the outfield, its fresh-mowed grass a brilliant green. 1947
WORLD SERIES: GAME
1 said the scoreboard. Beside the scoreboard, a sign proclaimed:
ABE STARK CLOTHING
– Hit This Sign, Win a Suit!

Had anybody ever hit it? Joey wondered. I bet Jackie Robinson could!

Down below, the umpire swept clean a gleaming home plate. The organ played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Smells of popcorn and hot dogs mingled in the air. All around Joey was a sea of blue and white.

If only he could be wearing those colors, too!

Beside him, Bobbie and Zeyde were giggling about something. Then Bobbie whispered, “Go on, Zeyde.”

Zeyde turned to Joey. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a Dodgers cap and handed it to him. “Go on, put it on,” he said.

“But… but I –”

“Oh, come off it,” Bobbie said. “We know all about you. Mama found your collection of Dodgers articles in your pillowcase ages ago.”

Joey’s face grew warm. “She did?”

“Zeyde knew, too,” Bobbie said smugly.

Zeyde smiled. “That day we listened to the game on the radio, the look on your face when Robinson got spiked… and then when the team rallied around him … it wasn’t too hard to figure out.”

Joey covered his face with his hands and groaned.

“We were just waiting for you to admit it,” Bobbie said. “Only you wouldn’t, you big lummox.”

Zeyde held out the cap again.

With a sheepish smile, Joey snatched it and tugged it over his curls. “How do I look?”

Zeyde grinned. “Like a real Brooklynite.”

Joey grinned back. Finally, he could show his true colors – blue-and-white! He took the cap off, waved it in circles over his head and put it back on. He jumped up and did a little dance in place. He raised his arms and yelled, “Wahoo! Go, Dodgers!”

Bobbie and Zeyde laughed. Joey laughed, too. Then he leaned back. “Whew! Now I can really enjoy the game.”

Zeyde leaned close. “Especially since you came in the front way this time.”

At the end of six innings, the score stood at four apiece. It stayed that way through two more innings.

In the bottom of the ninth, with the score still tied and the Dodgers at the plate, Jackie Robinson came into the on-deck circle. Awestruck, Joey watched as he warmed up with three bats at once, swinging them around in sharp, even bursts. He tossed away first one bat, then another, and stepped into the batter’s box. The fans erupted with cries of “Show ’em, Robinson!” and “We love you, Jackie!”

The Yankee pitcher, Spec Shea, delivered a fastball. Robinson swung. With a sharp crack, the bat connected. The ball shot into left centerfield, and Robinson took off.

The fans rose to their feet, craning forward.

Safe at first!

Cheers echoed through the stadium.

PeeWee Reese came up next. He doubled, sending Robinson to third.

Now Dixie Walker came up to bat. Robinson took a few steps off third base. “Go on, Jackie!” yelled several fans, but Shea, throwing quickly to the third baseman, held him. Robinson waited for Shea to check the sign with Yogi Berra, the catcher, then took one step away … another….

“Go on, Jackie!”

“Go for it!”

“You can do it, Robinson!”

Joey’s heart pounded.

Shea checked third. Robinson danced forward and back, and a mighty holler went up from the crowd. Shea held onto the ball. Robinson moved out a step farther. Shea went into his windup. Reese started moving off second base. Robinson skipped out another step.

Then Shea released the ball, and it was a wild pitch. It landed in the dirt behind Berra. Robinson took off. Joey jumped to his feet, along with the rest of the crowd. A roar rose and echoed in the air above the stadium.

Berra dove for the ball. Arms pumping, head down, Robinson streaked for home. Gripping the ball, Berra lunged toward the plate. Robinson slid, face first, two black arms outstretched in front of him, sending up a spray of dirt.

The fans held their breath –

The umpire fanned his arms out to the sides.

“Safe!” yelled Joey, Bobbie, and Zeyde together. “He stole home!”

Three blue-and-white Brooklyn Dodgers caps flew up into the air.