Stealing Home (6 page)

“That’s no excuse.”

“But it’s not fair to punish one more than the other.”

“Don’t give me fair! We’ve got to be firm with that boy or he’ll just get worse – and he’ll be a bad influence on Bobbie. Not even one day here and he’s got her brawling like a hoodlum. You want he should make her wilder than she already is?”

“No!”

“Well, he will, if we don’t stop him.”

“Oh, dear. Do you really think so, Daddy?”

“I know so. You let me handle this, Frieda.”

There was a sigh. “Yes, Daddy.”

Their footsteps went in opposite directions.

Joey stood there a moment, his hand gripping the top of the banister. Then he went into the bathroom and slammed the door. He should have known he wouldn’t get a fair deal. His grandfather had it in for him. And his aunt knuckled under like a scared little mouse.

Instead of waiting to get kicked out, he should just leave now. Show them they couldn’t treat him like this.

But where could he go?

Leaning on the sink, he regarded his bloodied face.

I told you that boy would be trouble.

Tears stung his eyes. Quickly he blinked them away.
Why should
I cry?

But the tears spilled out anyway. He grabbed a cloth and pressed it to his face, whether to stop the blood or the tears, he didn’t know.

T
he next day passed without incident. Joey and Zeyde stayed out of each other’s way, and that was fine with Joey.

That night Bobbie set up a checkers board on the kitchen table and challenged Joey to a game. She was ahead, two games to one, and they were in the middle of the fourth game, when Aunt Frieda came into the kitchen. “All right, you two, put it away. Time for bed.”

Joey ignored her, double-jumping Bobbie.

“Joey, did you hear me? I said put it away. It’s bedtime.” Aunt Frieda’s voice was sharper this time.

Joey grinned at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I be kidding?”

Joey looked at Bobbie. “You got a bedtime?”

“Yeah. It’s a little later in the summer, but –”

“Well, I don’t. I always go to bed when I feel like it.” He reached for Bobbie’s men that he’d jumped.

Aunt Frieda folded the checkers board in half, scattering the pieces. “That’s enough, Joey. It doesn’t matter what you did before. In this house, you have a bedtime.”

“I’m not going to bed in the middle of a checkers game!”

“Oh, yes you are.”

Joey glanced at Bobbie. She didn’t look the least bit upset. “That’s no fair –”

“No,” Aunt Frieda said firmly, “what’s no fair is for you to stay up to all hours and then be tired and miserable the next day. Now, march.”

Grumbling, Joey got up from the table. Bedtime! Of all the stupid things.

Aunt Frieda was just bossing him around because she didn’t like him. Well, he wasn’t too crazy about her, either.

A couple of days later, Aunt Frieda knocked on Joey’s door to see if he had any clothes that needed washing. Busy rearranging his Phil Rizzuto and Spec Shea baseball cards, he called, “Yeah, I guess so.”

Aunt Frieda poked her head in the door. “You want to give them to me, Joey? I’m ready to put in – Joey!”

“What?” He turned so quickly he nearly dropped the thumbtacks.

“Look at this room!”

Joey looked around the room. Bed, dresser, chair. “What?”

“What?” she repeated. “There are clothes everywhere! And your shoes, just kicked off and left. And your bed isn’t made!”

“So?”

“It’s a pigsty!”

Joey looked around again. All right, so he’d pretty much dropped his dirty clothes wherever he’d taken them off. What was the big deal?

Aunt Frieda put her hands on her hips. “Joseph Sexton, in this house we have rules.”

“More rules!”

“Yes, and you’re going to follow them. First of all, you’re to make your bed every day –”

“What for? I’m just gonna sleep in it again –”

“And you put your dirty clothes in the laundry bag I gave you. And you put your shoes in the closet when you’re not wearing them. And you pick up after yourself.”

“I never had to do any of that stuff before –”

“I don’t care. You’re not going to live like a slob in this house. I want your dirty clothes – in the laundry bag – in
five minutes. And you’ll clean this room before you go out to play.”

She left.

“You’re picking on me,” Joey called after her, but she didn’t respond.

For crying out loud, he’d never heard of so many rules in his life.

That night when Joey came down for dinner, there was a platter of pot roast on the table, dark brown with fragrant juice pooling around it, a bowl of crisp green beans, a mound of rice, steaming like a small white volcano. And, in the center of the table, a basket of crusty rolls.

Everyone had just sat down at the table when Joey grabbed a roll and bit in.

“Joey!” Aunt Frieda and Zeyde said together.

He swallowed. “What?”

“You don’t just grab like a heathen!” Zeyde said.

“What do you mean, a
heathen?
”

“Joey,” Aunt Frieda said a little more gently, “it’s not polite to take first. You pass the rolls and wait until others have helped themselves.”

“Says who?”

“No manners,” Zeyde grumbled.

“Well, no one ever told me,” Joey said defensively. “And besides, what if there’s none left by the time it gets to me?”

Aunt Frieda and Zeyde exchanged a sad look. What did
they
have to be sad about?

Aunt Frieda put her hand on his arm. “There’s plenty, Joey. There’s always more.”

“There is?”

Another look. “Yes, Joey.”

“Well… okay.” Joey put the roll on his plate.

In bed, though, thinking about what Aunt Frieda had said earlier, Joey wasn’t convinced. Everybody knew that the smartest thing was to take while you could get. How could you be sure there would always be more?

He climbed out of bed, tiptoed across his room and opened the door. All quiet. He crept down the stairs and into the kitchen. Silently, he opened the bread box and took out two rolls. Back upstairs, he tucked them under his pillow. He wasn’t hungry, but just in case.

Three nights later, when his pillow was lumpy, he would find them, as hard as if they’d been fired in clay.

The next day was Friday, and all afternoon, the most delicious smells had been coming out of the kitchen. Aunt Frieda had stayed home from work. When Joey asked why, she’d given him a surprised look and said, “So I can prepare Shabbas dinner, of course,” so he’d figured it was
one of those Jewish holidays. He only hoped he didn’t have to do anything.

Now, Joey was in his room. Bobbie had told him, with considerable disgust, that they had to dress up for Shabbas dinner. He agreed – it was stupid to have to get dressed up, and he wasn’t going to do it.

But then he thought,
Aw, might as well It cant hurt. And it might get me in better with Zeyde and Aunt Frieda. Probably not. But what the heck.

He put on his good shirt and pants and brushed his hair, doing his best to tame the unruly curls. He put his sneakers away and switched to his brown school shoes. Aunt Frieda would like that. Maybe Zeyde would, too.

Joey tapped on Bobbie’s door. “Come in,” she yelled crossly.

She was in a light blue dress with a double row of white and dark blue rickrack around the puffy sleeves and hem. On her feet were white anklets and shiny black party shoes. Even her hair was combed. She looked thoroughly miserable.

Joey couldn’t resist. “You look… nice.”

“Shut up!”

He chuckled. If there was any consolation, it was that Bobbie hated getting dressed up more than he did.

Usually they ate in the kitchen, but tonight the dining-room table was covered with a white tablecloth, and the places set with good dishes – white with a thin gold rim.

Zeyde and Aunt Frieda were there, Zeyde in a neat white shirt and black pants, Aunt Frieda in a pretty pink dress. The two adults looked them over. Joey thought he saw grudging approval in Zeyde’s eyes, though his grandfather didn’t say anything. “Very nice, Joey,” Aunt Frieda said with a smile. A small ripple of pleasure went through him.

Aw, don’t get carried away,
he told himself.

Joey thought they’d sit down to eat, but instead, they gathered in front of the sideboard. On it sat a pair of golden candlesticks with stubby white candles in them, a honey-brown loaf of braided bread, and a silver goblet, encrusted with red and blue stones and covered with strange, square-looking writing, full of wine. Aunt Frieda draped a lacy white scarf over her head, lit the two candles, and began to circle her arms as if pulling the smoke toward herself, chanting in a foreign language.

Watching Aunt Frieda, Joey thought he could see Mama too, but the memory was hazy and the words hazier still.

When Aunt Frieda finished, Zeyde broke off a piece of the bread and held it up. “
Baw-ruch a-taw ah-do-noi
…” he said, and Bobbie and Aunt Frieda chimed in. Suddenly
Zeyde broke off. He turned to Joey. “What’s the matter, you aren’t saying the prayer?”

“I… I don’t know the words.”

“Why not?”

“I… just don’t. Mama didn’t…” He didn’t want to get Mama in trouble again. “I mean, I never learned them. We didn’t do this.”

Zeyde’s eyebrows gathered. “Never lit the candles? Never said the Shabbas prayers?”

“When I was little … maybe.”

“Never went to
schul?
”

“N-no.”

“No observance, no respect, no nothing,” Zeyde said disgustedly. “She just turned her back on her faith – and her duty to her son.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong!”

“It’s a disgrace!”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Joey said hotly. “You think we had money for candlesticks? There wasn’t even enough for food half the time, so you can –”

“No money!” For a moment, Zeyde’s expression softened.

“Stop blaming Mama –”

The soft look disappeared. “That’s enough out of you!”

“– for every little thing.”

“I said that’s enough!” Zeyde yelled. “Such a way to talk, and on Shabbas yet.” He pointed. “Go to your room.”

“But Daddy, what about dinner?” Aunt Frieda sounded dismayed.

“He can eat in his room.”

Joey didn’t wait to be told again. He turned on his heel and left.

Behind him, he heard Zeyde say forlornly, “She used to hold my hand on the way to
schul.
She used to braid the tassels of my
tallis
….”

Taking the steps two at a time, Joey raced upstairs and slammed his door.

Half an hour later, there was a tap on the door. Aunt Frieda came in with a tray, which she set on the dresser. Her eyes were red from crying.

“Oh, Joey,” she sighed, sitting beside him on the bed, “you did it again.”

“What’d I do?”

“Talked back. Raised your voice.”

“He started it. Picking on Mama.”

“That’s no excuse to be rude.”

“I’m not letting him say those things about her. It’s not fair.”

“But you only make it worse when you lose your temper. And then Zeyde gets mad. And then there’s a big fight, and … and then Shabbas dinner is ruined!”

Joey saw the tears in her eyes. He thought of how she’d slaved in the kitchen all day. He thought of how pretty she’d looked in the white lacy scarf, and the sweet sound of her voice as she’d sung the prayer.

A pang of remorse stabbed him. But there was no way he was apologizing. All she ever did was take Zeyde’s side. She never stuck up for him.

Aunt Frieda sighed. “Oh, Joey, if you could only hold your tongue –”

“
My
fault again!”

“I didn’t say that. Come here.” She leaned across the bed and gathered him into her arms. Joey stiffened, pushed her away. She got up and quickly left the room.

Joey folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t going to feel bad. He didn’t need any hugs from her – they didn’t mean anything anyway. She’d given him that big warm hug the first day he’d got here, and look what that was worth. She’d been bossing him around with those stupid rules and siding with Zeyde ever since.

Joey eyed the tray. He should refuse to eat. The smell of roasted chicken made his stomach growl. The aroma of something crisp and savory, something spicy and sweet…

He was starving. He set the tray on his bed and tucked in.

There was the same bread Zeyde had been saying the prayer over. It was flaky on the outside, soft on the inside, and so tasty it was almost sweet. Roasted chicken, some white meat and a whole leg. Potatoes, crisp on the outside, flaking to buttery softness on the inside. Sliced tomatoes, oozing pearls of juice. He used a second piece of bread to mop the plate clean.

In a little bowl was some kind of fruit thing, peaches and blueberries with a crunchy cinnamon topping. Joey didn’t he think he had room for dessert, but he took a deep breath and plunged in. A few minutes later, he was wiping up the last crumbs with his fingertip.

He leaned back against his headboard and sighed happily. If Shabbas meant eating like this every Friday night, he was happy to be a Jew. He couldn’t remember ever eating so much – or such a delicious meal.

Instantly he felt guilty.
Mama was a good cook,
he thought hastily.
She was – in the good times.
Her meatloaf had been scrumptious. Her mashed potatoes had been like velvet. And when she made spaghetti sauce, stirring the pot all afternoon, sprinkling in herbs and spices, her best friend, Connie Busto, said it was like real Italian.

But Mama hadn’t done much cooking in the bad times. And even when things were going well, she’d never
been able to afford anything but the toughest cuts of meat, the bruised apples, the slightly soft potatoes.

Cooking isn’t everything. Mama was good at other things. Like … like laughing. And dancing.
He smiled, remembering how she used to put on one of her favorite records – Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” – and how they’d jitterbug around the living room….

Then the doorbell would ring, and it would be one of her beaus, and off she’d go, promising not to be late, and sometimes she wouldn’t come home all night, and in the morning Joey would find her passed out on the couch….