Stealing Home (16 page)

People glanced at Joey. His cheeks flamed.

“That little brat… did you hear how he spoke to me last time he was in here?”

Heads shook disapprovingly. Joey wished Aunt Frieda would hurry so they could leave.

“A disgrace, that’s what he is.”

Several people gave Joey dirty looks.

“Undisciplined, just like his mother …”

Shut up, you witch!
Joey thought, but he held his tongue. He glanced at Aunt Frieda. Chatting with the man at the deli counter, she appeared not to have heard. She got in line at the cash register, and Joey and Bobbie joined her. She smiled at them. “See, it only took a minute, and Zeyde loves these so.”

“… what do you expect from a mixed marriage? Of course, nothing good …”

Aunt Frieda’s head jerked up.

The customer at the front paid and left. The line moved up. Now there was only one person between them and Mrs. Yanofsky.

“How they have the nerve to parade him around ….”

Pink bloomed on Aunt Frieda’s cheeks.

“… with his
schvartze
blood….”

The pink spread to Aunt Frieda’s ears.

“A boy like that, bringing shame on the family…”

For a moment, Aunt Frieda seemed frozen. Then she thrust forward, pushing aside the woman in front of them, pushing aside Mrs. Yanofsky’s hand that was outstretched to take the customer’s money. Aunt Frieda was shaking. But her voice, when she spoke, was low and measured. “
That boy,
Mrs. Yanofsky, is my nephew. My sister’s son. My flesh and blood.”

Mrs. Yanofsky’s mouth fell open. Aunt Frieda put her arm around Joey’s shoulder and hugged him to her. His heart thumped.

“There is nothing shameful about him.” Aunt Frieda’s voice rose. “Nor about my sister.” She tossed the bag of pickles onto the counter and pulled Bobbie to her other side. “Nor about my family.”

Mrs. Yanofsky backed up a step.

“And, Mrs. Yanofsky –” Aunt Frieda leaned forward, “if you ever expect to see me or any member of my family in this store again, you will stop telling lies about us – and mind your own business for a change!”

Aunt Frieda swept Joey and Bobbie out of the store. They stopped on the sidewalk. Aunt Frieda put one hand over her mouth and the other over her heart. Her eyes were large and startled-looking.

“Oh, my,” she said in a strange voice.

“Mama, you were wonderful!” Bobbie said.

“I can’t believe I just did that.”

“You were grand!”

“Oh, my goodness.”

“You told her, the old
yenta?
”

“Bobbie!” Aunt Frieda protested. But her lips were twitching.

“Well, that’s what you always call her,” Bobbie said.

“I suppose I do.”

All this time Joey had been unable to speak. Finally, he said, “Aunt Frieda?”

“Yes, Joey?”

“Will you be in trouble with Zeyde, too?”

Aunt Frieda laughed shakily. “Maybe.” Then she patted his head. “No, of course not, Joey. I did what was right. Zeyde will understand.”

I
hope
so, Joey thought.

Aunt Frieda shook her head. “Boy, that felt good!” She took each of them by the hand. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Joey skipped down Utica Avenue, one hand full of parcels, the other entwined with Aunt Frieda’s.

My flesh and blood. My family.

Home.

A
fter supper a few nights later, Zeyde took from the cupboard a glass that Joey had never seen before. It was the size of a regular small drinking glass, but it had Hebrew writing on it and – strangest of all – a candle inside, a short stubby candle that nearly filled it up. Joey wanted to ask what it was, but remembering how he’d got in trouble for not knowing about Shabbas, decided to keep quiet.

Aunt Frieda and Bobbie gathered around. Joey joined them. Zeyde lit a match, and reciting words that were different from the Shabbas prayers, lit the candle. He put the glass with the lit candle on the counter and then silently went out of the room, followed by Aunt Frieda.

“What’s that?” Joey said to Bobbie.

“It’s a
Yarzheit
candle. You light it on the anniversary of when someone died. It’s to remember them.”

“Who’s this one for?”

“Bubbeh. Our grandma.”

Joey remembered the first day he’d come to the house, when Zeyde had said, “She died almost thirteen years ago.” Thirteen years – that was a long time to be without someone you loved. It had only been months since Mama died – and oh, how he missed her. He wished he could light one of those candles for her.

That night, Aunt Frieda and Bobbie went out to visit a friend of Bobbie’s whose mother had just had a baby, Bobbie protesting all the way out the door that she didn’t want to wear a dress. Joey looked at his Jackie Robinson clippings for a while, then found himself thinking about that candle in the kitchen and wondering what Zeyde was doing. He went downstairs. His grandfather was sitting in his usual chair by the window. On his lap was a photo album. Zeyde was taking a long time over each page, sometimes pulling the book closer to his face, sometimes running his fingers gently over a picture.

He must be looking at pictures of Bubbeh,
Joey thought, and felt a swift pang of sorrow for his grandfather.

I wish there was something I could do.
Joey wanted to go to Zeyde, comfort him somehow. But what would he say?

Joey remembered the picture of Bubbeh on Zeyde’s bookcase. He could bring Zeyde the picture. “Here, Zeyde,” he’d say, “this’ll make you feel better.”

But what if it didn’t? What if Zeyde got mad at Joey for touching his things?
Besides,
Joey thought,
Zeyde probably wouldn’t want to be comforted by me.

Silently, he slipped away.

The newspaper lay open on the kitchen table. “Dodgers Posting Best Season in Six Years,” screamed the headline, and, in smaller type: “On Track to Win NL Pennant.”

In spite of himself, Joey sat down and started reading.

Sew up the pennant! Wouldn’t that be something!
Joey thought. Not that he cared one way or another, of course. But still, wouldn’t it be swell, his first year in Brooklyn? Almost as if he’d brought them luck!

He thought about how Brooklyn would go nuts. They’d declare a holiday.

Quickly, he clipped the article and ran upstairs. As he was shoving it into his pillowcase, the other articles fell out, spilling onto the floor. Joey scanned the headlines.

At first they were all about Robinson. But slowly, unmistakably, they had begun to change. “Dodgers Are Giant-Killers.” “Rally Gives Long-Suffering Brooklyn Fans Hope.” “Boys in Blue are ‘Dem Bums’ No More.”

Staring at the clippings, Joey had to admit it: he’d crossed the line. He was no longer just collecting Jackie Robinson stuff. Now he was collecting Dodgers stuff.

He didn’t want to think about what
that
meant. Quickly, he gathered up the articles and stuffed them back into the pillowcase.

Several days later, a shriek brought Joey running downstairs. Bobbie jumped on him, thrusting the newspaper in his face.

“We did it! We did it! Look!”

Joey scanned the headline. “Dodgers Clinch NL Pennant!” Before he could stop it, he was smiling. “Wo –” He stopped short.

“Ha!”

Joey tried to look innocent. “What?”

“
Wha-at?
” Bobbie mimicked, smiling smugly. She pointed at him. “You’ve become a Dodgers’ fan.”

Joey busied himself searching for bagels and cream cheese in the refrigerator. “You’re cracked.”

“All right, mister, then why were you grinning like a baboon?”

Joey concentrated on spreading cream cheese on his bagel. “Because … the Yankees clinched four days ago, that’s why.”

“Didn’t see you grinning then.”

“And… I can’t wait to see the Yanks whip the Dodgers in the World Series. Four straight.”

“In your dreams.”

“In your nightmares.”

“Sure, sure. Big fan. Been clipping lots of Yankees articles lately?”

Did she know?
She couldn’t. He was sure he’d been too sneaky. He nodded. “My bulletin board’s full of ’em.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Bobbie said smoothly. “Too bad you’re such a rotten actor.” She pointed at him. “Admit it, the Dodgers have finally won you over.”

“No way!”

Bobbie just laughed.

Joey licked cream cheese from his fingers. He didn’t so much as glance at the newspaper lying open on the table,
nor did he say a word when Bobbie folded it up and put it in the garbage under the sink.

But later that evening, he spirited the sports section out of the pail, brushing away potato peels and onion skins – good thing Aunt Frieda hadn’t dumped coffee grounds on it – and clipped out the article. In the privacy of his room, he devoured it.

“Dodgers defeat Cubs to win pennant by five games…. Robinson posts a homer and a steal in clinching game…. Big parade tomorrow through downtown Brooklyn…. Manager Burt Shotten predicts Series win over Yankees….”

It was those last words that brought Joey up short. Because as he read them, he realized that Bobbie was right.
He had become a Dodgers fan.
He wanted the Brooklyn Dodgers to win the World Series. And not just win the Series – but win it against the New York Yankees!

For a moment, his conscience pricked him. How could he turn his back on the team he’d idolized since he was a little kid?

Like a cold you don’t even realize you’re catching until you start sneezing, the Dodgers had infected him. What with the way the fans had embraced Jackie Robinson, and the team had pulled together and figured out how to win, and what with gentlemanly Red Barber and the raucous Dodger
Sym-phony
Band, and the way the fans stayed
loyal, year after losing year – well, he just couldn’t help getting caught up in it. Dem Bums had won him over. And now he couldn’t wait to cheer on the boys in blue, along with the rest of Brooklyn.

He pictured Bobbie’s reaction: “I knew it! I told you so.”

No way! So now what?

Keep the collection hidden.

He started putting the clippings back into the pillowcase, but then stopped. There was a good chance that Bobbie was on to him – that girl’s eyes were entirely too sharp. He had to find another hiding place. A better one.

But where? His eyes roved the room, alighting on the dresser, the bed, the closet…. The closet. The suitcase. That battered old suitcase he’d brought with him from Mrs. Webster’s. Perfect!

He took the suitcase out of the closet, remembering the day he came – how long ago that seemed! – and hid the clippings inside. Then, as he was closing the suitcase, his hand felt something in a zippered compartment inside the top lid. He felt with his palm. It was flat and hard, like a large, thin book. Funny, he hadn’t noticed it when he was unpacking.

He unzipped the compartment and reached inside. It wasn’t a book because it had crimped metal edges. He gripped the thing and pulled it out.

Mama!

It was that picture! The one that used to sit on Mama’s dresser. The one he’d wished he had.

Oh, how pretty she was! She was wearing a dress, and even though the picture was black-and-white, Joey remembered the red of that dress, cherry-red, with white diamond-shaped buttons and a sweeping white collar and a full skirt. She had on matching red shoes with curvy heels and a little hole in the front where her toes peeked out. She’d been wearing a hat – he remembered the hat, too, red felt with a sprig of white berries on the brim – but she’d taken it off. It was in her hand, hanging down at her side, and the other arm was stretched out, resting on a railing. Her hair was loose and full and curly. It must have been a windy day because her hair was blowing every which way, out from the sides, up in the back, and her head was slightly turned, as if she were trying to keep it out of her face. She was laughing and her whole face was smiling. Looking at her, Joey could hear that laugh, the deep chuckling sound that came from way down in her belly. She laughed as if nothing else could be as funny or as wonderful at that moment.

Joey clasped the picture to his chest. A lump filled his throat. One tear trickled, another, another, and then, for the first time since he’d wept in Mrs. Webster’s arms, he gave way to grief. Rocking back and forth on his knees, holding the picture, holding himself, he howled.

When he finally subsided, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he thought how strange it was that he hadn’t known that Mrs. Webster had packed the photo in the suitcase. But thank goodness she had! It was so good to see Mama’s face again….

A thought struck. Maybe … Zeyde would love this picture. Though Zeyde hardly ever talked about Mama, and then only to say bad things, he must miss her terribly, just like Joey did. Maybe this picture would comfort Zeyde, the way the pictures in the photo album had comforted him the other night.

Joey knew that it was no accident that there were no pictures of Mama in the house; he knew that Zeyde had removed them all. But that was a long time ago. Maybe now he wished he had one. And this picture was so pretty, so
Mama,
how could Zeyde not love it?

And maybe … Zeyde would be so pleased at this gift, so impressed that Joey was giving him this precious thing, that he’d change his mind about Joey. Maybe he would
want
him to stay.

But even as he thought it, Joey knew that that wasn’t why he wanted to give the picture to Zeyde. He wanted to give it to him … because … he loved him! The realization filled him with astonishment. And, Joey realized with a pang that brought fresh tears to his eyes, he wanted Zeyde to love him, too. Oh, if only Zeyde did! If only
Zeyde would hold him and hug him and be proud of him.