Authors: Ellen Schwartz
“But Daddy,” Aunt Frieda said, her face reddening, “maybe if we’d –”
Joey’s grandfather slammed his glass down on the small table. “That’s enough.”
Sounds of sipping. Throats clearing. “Well” Miss MacNeill said into the silence, “this must be a very happy day for you.”
“Yes … yes, it is,” his aunt said.
“I only wish it hadn’t taken a tragedy for your family to be reunited.”
Aunt Frieda’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, Miss MacNeill.”
“I was sorry to be the one to bring you the sad news,” Miss MacNeill added. “But what a stroke of luck to find you.”
“Yes … how
did
you find us?”
“Well, after – after I received Joey’s case, I started looking for his family. I tracked down his father, Mr. Horace Sexton, only to find out that he had … passed away. Then I came upon your – Mrs. Sexton’s birth certificate, and discovered that her maiden name was Greenberg.”
His aunt looked puzzled. “What else would it have been?”
“Well, she’d been using the name Green. Rebecca Green Sexton. So we thought –”
“Green? She changed her name?” Joey’s grandfather said sharply.
Aunt Frieda put her hands to her cheeks. “My God, she must have –”
“You see?” the old man snapped. “She didn’t want us.”
How does he know?
Joey thought angrily.
He has no idea what Mama wanted.
His aunt began, “Oh no, Daddy, I don’t believe that –”
“Go on, Miss MacNeill,” his grandfather interrupted.
“Uh … where was I?” Miss MacNeill stammered. “Oh, yes, Greenberg. So then it was a matter of going through all the Greenbergs in Brooklyn. Let me tell you, that was no easy task,” she added with a chuckle. “Luckily, Mrs. Webster didn’t mind keeping Joey a little longer –”
“Mrs. Webster?”
“Oh, I thought I told you about her. She’s your sister’s neighbor. She lived across the hall. After … the death – I don’t know how long afterward, I gather Joey was on his own for a day or so before Mrs. Webster took him in –”
“On his own?” Joey’s grandfather said, looking shocked. “All alone?”
“It was only two days,” Joey said defensively. “I was used to it anyway. I can take care of myself.”
“Used to it!” A pained look, followed by an angry flush. “She was not a fit mother.”
“Daddy…” Aunt Frieda soothed.
“Don’t you say that about Mama!”
“Joey!” Miss MacNeill gasped.
“How would
you
know, anyway?”
“Joseph!” His aunt’s hands flew to her face.
“You never bothered to come –”
“Silence!” his grandfather roared.
“Joey, you mustn’t speak like that to your grandfather,” said Miss MacNeill.
“You impertinent hellion!”
“Joey, apologize,” Miss MacNeill said. “Right now.”
Joey sat, teeth clenched.
They were all waiting.
“Sorry,” Joey muttered in a barely audible voice. His only satisfaction was that he didn’t mean it.
A heavy silence.
“Well, I –” Aunt Frieda stammered.
“I think …” Miss MacNeill said, “I really should be going. I must get back to the office.” She stood, smoothing her skirt. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Greenberg, Mrs. Rosen.” She rested a hand on Bobbie’s shoulder. “I’m so glad Joey will have a friend.” She turned to Joey. “Wait for me by the front door.”
“But –”
“By the front door.”
Joey started down the hallway.
“I don’t know about this,” he heard his grandfather say.
Joey stopped. A cold band squeezed his heart.
“Now, Daddy, it’s just a little rough patch,” his aunt soothed.
“I’m sure it’ll work out, Mr. Greenberg,” Miss MacNeill said.
Joey didn’t hear his grandfather’s reply, but when nothing happened, he supposed he wasn’t getting thrown out. Yet.
The band released. Relief washed over him.
He quickly pushed it away as Miss MacNeill’s heels clicked sharply down the hallway. She stopped in front of him, hands on hips. “Now, you listen, young man –”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“If you hadn’t opened a fresh mouth –”
“He started it.”
“He’s your grandfather, Joey. You must show respect.”
“Not if he talks about Mama that way.”
“Joey, you’ve
got
to behave.” she said sharply. She took his chin in her hand. More softly she said, “Please, Joey. Try. You can do it.”
But what if I cant?
he thought.
Miss MacNeill knelt, hugged him. And then she was gone.
J
oey’s spirits lifted as he followed Bobbie upstairs. To the right, at the top of the steps, was Aunt Frieda’s room. Joey caught a glimpse of a yellow and green flowered bedspread as he passed by. Directly across from the staircase, at the back of the house, was a bathroom, its floor and walls tiled in white with a zigzag pattern of black around the edges. Fresh white towels hung on racks. On the left, at the back, was Bobbie’s room. At
least,
Joey thought, glancing in,
there are no dolls on the bed.
Finally Bobbie led him to a small room at the front of the house, next to hers. “This is your room,” she said.
Joey stood in the doorway, gripping his suitcase. He hardly dared to believe it, though he’d dreamed of it for days.
“Aren’t you going to go in and unpack?” Bobbie asked. That bossy voice again. “Yeah,” he tossed back.
“You want to go out and play after?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll change and come get you.”
She left. Carefully, Joey put the suitcase on the bed and turned to survey his room. It was small, maybe ten steps in each direction. A dormer window faced the street, with a wide sill that was perfect for resting your elbows on. Quilt with blue-and-white overlapping circles on the bed. Small, dark brown dresser with a doily on top. Wooden arm chair. Small closet. Clean smell of furniture polish.
His
room. His place. At the apartment, he’d shared a room with Mama, or when she was too messed up, slept on the sofa. Now he had his own room. His own dresser. He could put his things where he wanted. Not that he had so many. Just what was in the suitcase.
He clicked open the latches, quickly stripped off his “school clothes” – black-and-white checked shirt and black trousers, both still stiff from Mrs. Webster’s starch, and brown oxfords – and put on a striped T-shirt, shorts, and his comfortable old Keds.
That left some underwear and socks, a pair of pajamas, a couple of T-shirts, and a pair of dungarees. This was the sum total of his clothing, or at least those items that Mrs. Webster had deemed worth keeping. She
hadn’t made him go back into the apartment, not after he’d come home that terrible day and found Mama slumped on the floor, a vacant look in her unseeing eyes. Mrs. Webster said he’d seen enough, more than enough for one boy, and had gone herself to sort through Mama’s things, pack up Joey’s few decent clothes, and empty the refrigerator.
Now, Joey put his clothes away, opening and closing his dresser drawers with pleasure. Even though the dresser was small, his clothes took up barely half the space. He took out his baseball glove, threw the doily into a drawer, and put his glove in its place.
Finally, all that remained in the suitcase were his most prized possessions. His Yankees baseball cap. His Yankees baseball cards. His Yankees photos. His Yankees newspaper clippings.
He jammed the cap on his head, then surveyed the room, wondering where to put the rest. His eye fell on a bulletin board hanging on the wall beside the window. There were even some thumbtacks stuck in it. Perfect.
Right at the center, in the place of honor, Joey stuck his Joe DiMaggio baseball card. Above the card he tacked a picture of DiMaggio that he’d clipped out of the paper just the other day, the bat swinging around, the powerful shoulders twisted, the head lifted, watching as the ball
soared. Below it, another photo of DiMaggio, this time leaping for a catch at center, his arm straight up over his head, his feet extended beneath him. There was a small grease spot on DiMaggio’s arm – Mama had been about to use the sports section to drain fried potatoes, and Joey had rescued it just in time. He’d made her promise never again to drip grease on anything to do with the Yankees. The Dodgers, okay. The Yankees, never. She’d given him her word.
To the right of the DiMaggio card, Joey tacked a recent article about the Yankees’ winning season – “Yanks Notch 38th Win of Campaign,” was the headline; to the left, the 1947 New York Yankees team picture, the names smudged from running his finger over them so many times. Around the outside edges, he placed his other baseball cards. Allie Reynolds, rearing back in pitching motion … Yogi Berra, cradling the catcher’s mask against his chest … Snuffy Stirnweiss, bat cocked over his shoulder… Phil Rizzuto … Spec Shea …
At last Joey stood back to admire his work. It was a shrine, that’s what it was. And never was there a team that deserved it more.
He closed and latched the suitcase. It still felt heavy, but a quick look showed that there was nothing left inside. He stashed it in the closet.
A knock sounded at the door.
“You ready?” Bobbie’s voice called.
“Yeah.”
She came in. The blouse and skirt were gone. In their place, a red polo shirt, white shorts, and a blue baseball cap with a white B.
Joey stared at the Dodgers cap. She stared at his Yankees cap, then looked past him to the bulletin board. “Yankees!” Her cheeks colored. “You can’t put up Yankees stuff in here!”
“Why not?”
“’Cause!”
“’Cause why?”
“’Cause … this is Brooklyn. Dodgers territory.”
Joey put his hands on his hips. “So? It’s a free country. I can root for whoever I want.”
“Not in Brooklyn!”
“I’m from the Bronx and I root for the Bronx Bombers.”
“You’re from Brooklyn now. You got to root for the Dodgers.”
“Never!” He tossed his head. “Besides, why would I want to root for that bunch of losers?”
Her finger stabbed his chest. “You take that back!”
He scoffed. “The Dodgers always lose.”
Her face turned red. “That’s not true. We’re doing better this year –”
“Ha! The Yanks have won ten World Series. How many have the Dodgers won?”
Bobbie went silent.
“Zero. Zilch. None.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Truth hurts.”
“Listen, bud, if you live in Brooklyn, you better be for Brooklyn. And you better get rid of that Yankees cap –”
“Forget it! I
ain’t
gonna take down my pictures and I
ain’t
gonna take off my cap and I
ain’t
gonna stop rooting for the New York Yankees. So there!”
They stood toe to toe, baseball caps touching.
Finally, Bobbie said through gritted teeth, “The only reason I’m puttin’ up with you – the
only
reason – is ’cause you’re my cousin. You got that?”
“Well, the only reason
I’m
puttin’ up with
you
is ’cause you’re
my
cousin.”
They glared at each other.
“All right, let’s go,” Bobbie muttered.
Joey grabbed his glove, hoping Bobbie wouldn’t notice how ratty it was. They crossed the room. Bobbie turned in the doorway. “You’re gonna get the stuffing beat out of you in that cap.”
“I don’t care.”
She shrugged. “Don’t come running to me when the bullies start in on you.”
Joey’s cheeks grew warm. “I ain’t asking no girl to take care of me.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
They pounded down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, Bobbie called around the banister, “Zeyde, we’re going out to play.”
Joey didn’t want to talk to her, the impossible, bossy loudmouth, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Who’s Zeyde?”
She looked at him. “What do you mean, who’s Zeyde? Zeyde’s my grandpa. Your grandpa.”
Joey blushed. “What kind of name is that? Besides, I thought his name was Sam.”
Bobbie looked stupefied. “It means grandfather – in Yiddish.”
“What’s Yiddish?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know nothin’? Yiddish is a language. What Jews talk.”
“Jews? You mean, you’re Jewish?”
“You didn’t know that?”
Joey bristled. “How’m I supposed to know? Miss MacNeill never said nothing about no Jews.”
“Well, we are. You are.”
“
What!
”
“You are, too. Your mama was Jewish, and in the Jewish religion, if your mama’s Jewish, you’re Jewish. So you better get used to it.”
Your mama was Jewish.
Even as she said it, distant memories floated up: Mama with a white kerchief over her dark curly hair, lighting candles, chanting some strange words he didn’t understand. Mama cooking a big dinner and singing a funny song. Those must have been Jewish things, he realized now. But that was a long time ago. He couldn’t have been more than two or three when the memories faded.
Must have been when Mama got into the drugs.
Joey thought over his new-found status. “Do I have to do anything?”
“Being Jewish, you mean? Well, you got to say prayers and stuff. Those are in Hebrew, not Yiddish. That’s another Jewish language. And you got to go to Hebrew school –”
“School? More school?”
Sympathy glinted in Bobbie’s eyes. “Yeah. But only during the school year. You get the summer off.” “Whew.”
“And sometimes you got to go to
schul
–”
“What?
Another
school?”
“Not school,
schul.
It’s Yiddish. Means synagogue.”
“What’s synagogue?”
Bobbie rolled her eyes. “Cripes, don’t they teach you anything in the Bronx? It’s a temple. Where Jews pray.”
Joey digested that. This religion was sounding like a lot of work.
“And you got to light Shabbas candles –”
Joey hated to ask. “What’s that?”
Bobbie put on a martyred look. “I see I’m gonna have my hands full, showing you what’s what.”
“Don’t do me any favors!”
“Okay, I won’t!”
They glared at each other.
“You want to stand around all day asking questions, or you want to get going?”