Stealing Home (2 page)

“Now, Joey –”

“That must be it. What else could it be?” He grinned, barely noticing the pain of his swollen lip.

“Now, don’t you go getting all excited.”

Joey brushed that off with a wave of the hand. “Where do you suppose he is?” He started pacing the narrow kitchen. “D’you think he still lives in Chicago? I hear it’s a swell town. They got Comiskey Park –”

“Joey.”

“I bet he’s rich, a real big shot. And he’ll come get me in a shiny new car –”

“Stop now.”

“– and we’ll live in a fancy house with all the food you could ever want.”

“Joey!”

“He’ll buy me a new glove and bat, and play ball with me.” Joey’s eyes sparkled. “And take me to Yankee Stadium to see Joe DiMaggio –”

“Joey, stop!” Mrs. Webster grabbed his arm. Concern showed in her brown eyes. “Don’t go counting your chickens. We don’t know what the news is. I don’t want you getting your hopes up –”

He wiggled free. “I can’t wait to see him. My daddy! My daddy’s comin’!”

Smiling, he all but floated down the hall to the bathroom to wash the blood off his face.

MISS E. MACNEILL
ORPHANS’ SERVICES
BOROUGH OF BRONX
CITY OF NEW YORK

announced gold letters that wobbled over waves of smoky glass in the office door.

Joey hated that word.
Orphan.
A child with no mother or father. No family. Always before, when he’d come to Miss MacNeill’s office, it had made him feel lonely and scared.

But not today. Today, standing beside Mrs. Webster, as tidy as her neat stitches could mend his shirt, as clean as her vigorously applied washcloth could scrub his ears, as presentable as he could be with a split lip, he could look right at that word and laugh. He was no orphan!

Why,
he thought with a shock,
my daddy might be in Miss MacNeill’s office right now!
Yes, he imagined, his mind racing, when Miss MacNeill had finally got hold of his daddy, he was so anxious to be reunited with his long-lost son that he’d hopped on the first train and was, at this very moment, pacing the floor, waiting for him.

Joey raised his hand to knock.

“Take your cap off before you go in a lady’s office,” Mrs. Webster whispered.

Joey snatched off his New York Yankees cap and stuffed it in his back pocket, then knocked. At Miss MacNeill’s cheery “Come in,” he burst into the office and looked around.

His father wasn’t there. The room was empty – except for the usual desk and filing cabinet, the geranium on the windowsill, the stack of folders, the New York cityscape on the wall. Miss MacNeill, looking summery in a pale yellow blouse and straight brown skirt, came around her desk to greet them with a smile.

“Mrs. Webster, Joey, hello.” She motioned. “Please, have a seat.”

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Guess he couldn’t get here that fast. When’s he coming?”

“
Who?
”

“My daddy.”

“Your daddy?”

“You found him, didn’t you?”

Miss MacNeill hesitated and looked away. “I think you’d better sit down, Joey.”

Joey placed his hands on his hips. “Not till I know where my daddy is.”

Mrs. Webster yanked him by the arm. “You sit down when Miss MacNeill tells you to, and don’t give her any sass.” He sat. Glared.

Miss MacNeill circled around behind her desk, sat down, opened a folder, closed it. “Joey… I’m afraid I have very sad news.” She paused. “Well, there’s no good way to put this, Joey. I finally tracked your father down to Newark, New Jersey. He … died … about a year ago. There was … an incident in a barroom and he and another man were –”

“No!” Joey jumped to his feet. “You’re lying!”

Dead! Not his daddy, too. Now he really was an orphan. The strong arms that he’d imagined holding him vanished. The shiny car. The home in Chicago …

“There’s more, I’m afraid,” Miss MacNeill went on. “Your grandparents, your father’s parents, have also passed away. They were living in Kansas City, but a car accident took them three years ago.”

Grandparents
. As soon as she said it, a memory arose in Joey, one that had been buried for years. Two black
faces smiling down at him, warm arms holding him against a soft chest, mingled smells of lilacs and starch and hair oil.

“What a shame,” Mrs. Webster said, shaking her head. “They were good folks, your grandmama and grand-daddy, Joey. You know, they wanted to take you when your mama and daddy started … going downhill. But your parents wouldn’t let them.”

They’d wanted him.

But they were dead. So that possibility, only just remembered, was gone. Tears started to Joey’s eyes. He clenched his teeth not to cry.

Mrs. Webster rose, enfolding him in her arms.

He jerked away. “Leave me alone.”

Then it hit him. Newark. That was only over the bridge in New Jersey. His grandparents had an excuse, but his daddy had been living right nearby all those years, and he’d never got in touch with him and Mama, never come to see them. Never played with his son, never helped out during the bad times, when Mama was shooting the drug into her arm. His daddy hadn’t cared. Not about Mama. Not about him.

“I hate him!” His fist flailed out and knocked over a can of pencils on Miss MacNeill’s desk. The pencils clattered to the floor. Joey wished he could break every one.
He wished he could find his daddy and kill him all over again. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Joseph Sexton, how can you say such a thing!” Mrs. Webster scolded.

Joey tossed his head. “He didn’t care about me. Why should I care about him? Now I got no family –”

“But Joey, you do!” Miss MacNeill broke in.

Joey looked up. Miss MacNeill was smiling. “That’s why I called you here. I wanted to tell you right away, but … Please sit down.”

Joey sat, feeling a shiver of excitement.

Miss MacNeill riffled through the papers in the file. “When the police released your mother’s things a few weeks ago, there was a bundle of papers, including her birth certificate. And guess what, Joey – her maiden name wasn’t Green, as we thought, but Greenberg. And I’ve found your mother’s family – her father, sister, and niece – alive and well and living in Brooklyn. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Mama’s family! Joey never knew Mama had any family. Why… they’d be his family. He had one after all! For a moment, hope flared in his chest.

Then it died right down. “Greenberg?” he said suspiciously. “How come Mama never told me her name was Greenberg? How come she changed her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How come she never talked about them? How come they never came to see us?”

Miss MacNeill looked serious. “I don’t know, Joey. I’m sure there were reasons.” She brightened. “But that’s not important right now. The important thing is, I spoke to your grandfather, Mr. Sam Greenberg, and to your aunt, Mrs. Frieda Rosen – she’s your mother’s older sister, Joey. She’s a widow; her husband died in the war. And she’s very anxious to meet you and welcome you into their home.”

Welcome you into their home.

Mama’s sister. His aunt. His grandfather. He hadn’t even known they existed.

“A girl?” he said. “The kid?”

Miss MacNeill consulted her notes. “Yes. Roberta, her name is, and she’s your age, Joey. Just turned ten in April. A couple of months older than you.”

“Won’t that be nice, a cousin to play with?” Mrs. Webster said.

Joey snorted. “Who wants to play with some girl? She’s probably all prissy, like the girls in my class. Rather have a boy.”

“Even so, isn’t it swell to discover a cousin you never knew you had?” Miss MacNeill said.

It was, though Joey wasn’t going to admit it.
Maybe
, he thought,
if this Roberta isn’t too girly-girly, I could teach her how to play baseball.

“You know, Joey,” Mrs. Webster said, “your mama’s people is white folks. Might be easier for you to get along.”

That might be true, too,
Joey thought.
Couldn’t be worse, anyway.
He was sick of being picked on by Jerome and the other Negroes. Sick of being called names. Sick of being left out of games. Once, his friend Harry, one of the other mixed-race kids, had said to him, “You’re lucky, Joey. You could pass.” Meaning, pass for white. Joey supposed Harry was right. His skin was a creamy light brown, not much darker than Mama’s. His black hair sprang into thick curls, but not the kinky, all-over mat of a Negro. His nose was a little broader than a white’s, a little flatter; his lips a little fuller. But stand him next to Jerome, and he looked white. Sure he did. Why else would the Negroes call him
whitebread?
If he could fit into a white neighborhood…

He grunted. “Guess so.”

Miss MacNeill smiled. “Good. I’ll get back to your aunt right away.” She tapped a pen thoughtfully on her fingers. “Funny … they seemed surprised to hear about you, Joey –”

“What do you mean, surprised?”

“Well… they didn’t seem to know about you. But –”

“Didn’t know about me! Why the heck not?”

“You watch your mouth,” Mrs. Webster warned.

“Didn’t know – or just didn’t care?”

“Joseph Sexton, you mind how you talk about your mama’s people,” Mrs. Webster scolded.

“Why should I? They never did anything for Mama and me.”

Miss MacNeill leaned forward. “Joey, I know it seems strange that your relatives didn’t know about you. There seems to have been a lack of communication between your mother and her family, a misunderstanding of some sort. But honestly, your aunt was very excited. She said she couldn’t wait to see you.”

Joey didn’t answer. Something had been niggling around in the back of his mind, and now he knew what it was.
She
couldn’t wait to see you.
She
was anxious to welcome you.
She
was eager to have you come.

He looked straight at Miss MacNeill. “What about him?”

Miss MacNeill flushed. “What do you mean, Joey?”

“You said my aunt was excited. What about my grandfather?”

Miss MacNeill shuffled some papers on her desk. “Well… we spoke at length, and he… was willing to have you come.”

Joey saw right through that. “He doesn’t want me.”

“Now, Joey, I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He looked at Miss MacNeill’s flushed face. “What’s going on?”

Miss MacNeill hesitated. Then she said, “All right, Joey, I’ll give it to you straight. Your grandfather was a little unsure about this. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you –” She put up a hand as Joey started to speak. “He just wasn’t sure if it would work out. He said you could come. And as long as you behave yourself, you can stay.”

“What!” Joey jumped to his feet. “It’s like a test? If I’m bad, I get kicked out?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to anybody! I don’t need him! I can take care of myself.”

Mrs. Webster grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “Now, you stop that foolishness. You should be grateful. Here’s family that’s willing to take you in –”

“Well, I don’t want to be took in by them.”

“You’ve got no choice, mister, and I suggest you button your lip so’s they don’t change their mind.”

“Let ’em. I don’t care.”

But even as he said it, he knew Mrs. Webster was right. Mama was dead. His daddy was dead. His daddy’s parents were dead. He couldn’t stay with Mrs. Webster. Even though she’d been kind to him – and he’d never admit it,
but she
had
been kind, taking him in, letting him cry and rage those first few weeks, patching up his cuts and scrapes, putting up with his fighting and sassing – she was too sickly and poor to care for him. That left a foster home. Or, worse, an orphanage. Away … alone … with no one who loved him…. No, it was too terrifying to think about.

So he was stuck – with relatives who didn’t want him.

Miss MacNeill came around the side of her desk and took Joey’s hands. “Joey, this is a wonderful chance for you. A new family, a new start. Surely it’s not too hard for you to be a good boy, is it?”

“Well…”

“You do manage to behave once in a while, don’t you?”

Joey chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Not too often,” Mrs. Webster teased.

“Hey!”

Miss MacNeill smiled. “It’ll work out, Joey, you’ll see. They’re family, after all.”

Joey grunted. It still rankled.
Behave or else.
But maybe Miss MacNeill was right. They
were
family. Mama’s family.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“Attaboy,” Miss MacNeill said, and Mrs. Webster patted his hand.

Miss MacNeill spoke to Mrs. Webster, making arrangements, then turned back to him. “It’s settled, then, Joey. Mrs. Webster will pack up your things and bring you down here on Monday. Then I’ll take you over to meet your new family in Brooklyn.”

Joey was tugging his Yankees cap over his black curls when it hit him.

“Brooklyn!” he said in disgust. “That’s Dodgers territory. I’m goin’ to live with Dodgers fans in Brooklyn!”

W
alking beside Miss MacNeill down a tree-lined street in Brooklyn, Joey clutched a battered suitcase that Mrs. Webster had packed for him.

He’d actually choked up saying goodbye to the old lady. When she’d wept, he’d had to rub something out of his own eye. Then she’d said, “Now you behave yourself, you hear?” and he’d replied, “You ain’t the boss of me,” and felt much better.

Now, though, he was too busy checking out his new neighborhood to think about Mrs. Webster. When he and Miss MacNeill had stepped off the streetcar at Utica Avenue, it had been like stepping into a new world. Compared to Courtlandt Avenue up in the Bronx, Utica Avenue was busy and rich-looking. New Studebakers, DeSotos, and Fords rumbled past on either side of the streetcar tracks. Stores sported new red-and-white striped
awnings and crisp, clean signs.
GROSSMAN’S CHILDREN’S WEAR,
said one, and the window was full of frilly dresses and sharp-looking shorts sets.
FELDMAN’S TOYS
had jumpropes and roller skates and dolls piled high. The sidewalks were swept clean. There were no piles of garbage, no smell of pee in the alleys….