Stealing Home (7 page)

He jerked himself back to reality. That was over. Now he lived here. And here he was, stuck in his room. Within these four walls. In this prison. Again.

T
he next morning was Saturday. Joey was leaning on his windowsill, wondering what he and Bobbie would do that day, now that he was allowed out of his room. He heard the front door open and close. Zeyde appeared on the front walk, dressed in a suit. He was carrying a book and a small cloth bag.

A moment later, a man and boy came out of a house a few doors away. The man looked to be Zeyde’s age, so Joey supposed the boy was his grandson. They greeted Zeyde and walked on with him.

Joey watched until Zeyde was out of sight, then found Bobbie. “Where’s Zeyde going?” he asked.

“To
schul,
” she answered.

“She used to hold my hand on the way to
schul
” Joey remembered Zeyde saying last night. So Mama used to go. “What do you do there?” he asked.

“Pray. Sing Shabbas songs.”

“I thought Shabbas was last night,” Joey said, ready to bristle if she told him again how ignorant he was.

But she didn’t. Instead, she explained, “It’s Friday night and Saturday. That’s how Jewish holidays go – from sundown to sundown.”

“Oh.” Then he added, “I saw another man and boy walking with Zeyde.”

“That must have been Mr. Litvak and his grandson, Peter,” Bobbie said. “Lots of men like to go with their grandchildren. The zeydes teach them stuff.” She giggled. “And show them off.”

Not Zeyde,
Joey thought.
He doesn’t want to show me off. He’s probably ashamed to be seen with me. Well, what do I care? I wouldn’t want to go with him anyway.

He forced a smile. “So what are we waiting for? Let’s go play.”

A few days later, when Joey and Bobbie were lying on the living room floor, reading the sports pages – Joey reading about the Yankees, Bobbie, the Dodgers – Aunt Frieda came in. “What are you two doing reading the paper?” she said. “You haven’t done your chores yet.”

“Aw, Mama,” Bobbie began, “not now.”

“Yes now. You know chores are to be done first thing.”

“Great!” Joey said. “Now, we’ve got chores on top of rules.”

“Yes, sir. If you’re part of this household, you’ve got to chip in. You can start now, by sweeping the walks. Joey, you take the front, and Bobbie, you take the back. And no sweeping the dirt into the street. You sweep it up in the dustpan and empty it into the trash. Now, get moving.”

Muttering “slave driver” under his breath, Joey headed outside with a broom.

Sweeping the walks wasn’t all. Joey and Bobbie had to dry the dishes and put them away. Joey had to empty the wastebaskets into the kitchen trash so Zeyde could take it out, and Bobbie had to hang fresh towels in the bathrooms on laundry day.

One day, when Joey and Bobbie were playing in the backyard, Aunt Frieda called them in. She marched Joey upstairs. “What’s that pile of clean laundry doing on your bed? I gave it to you an hour ago. You put it away right now.”

A minute later he heard Aunt Frieda scolding Bobbie in the kitchen. “Are these your dishes from milk and cookies, young lady?”

“Yes, but I was going to get to them later, Mama.”

“You know better. Clean them now, Bobbie.”

Joey stopped, a clean T-shirt in his hands. At least Aunt Frieda wasn’t just picking on him. She was picking on
Bobbie, too. Something she’d said came back to him: “If you’re part of this household …”

Aunt Frieda was treating him like a regular family member.

That didn’t mean she wanted him to stay.

Still, she was hounding him, just like she hounded Bobbie! She wasn’t giving up on him.

But could he trust her? She always went along with Zeyde, and Joey knew Zeyde didn’t want him.

The next time it was Joey’s turn to dry the dishes, Aunt Frieda gave him a dishtowel and told him to get busy. Joey purposely delayed. He went to the bathroom and combed his hair. He filched a cookie and sat at the kitchen table eating it.

Aunt Frieda came in. “What are you doing, Joey? You’ve got to pull your load around here, you know. Get moving!”

Joey tried to hide a smile, but Aunt Frieda caught it. She smiled back quizzically. “What are you up to, you rascal?” She gave his bottom an affectionate swat. “Joey, I swear you do this on purpose, just to rile me.”

Joey quickly turned away. She’d yelled at him! She expected him to pull his load! It was the best talking-to he’d ever had.

J
oey and Bobbie walked down the street, heading for the vacant lot. The sun beat down on Joey’s shoulders and he could already feel a line of sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. It was a scorcher, but he wouldn’t have cared if it was twice as hot. Today the golden bat was perched on his shoulder, and dangling from the end of it was Bobbie’s daddy’s glove. Bobbie had casually tossed it to him, and he’d just as casually shoved his ratty old one under the bed. The glove felt so good on his hand. Just like the bat felt so good on his shoulder.

Joey pictured himself leaning on the bat while he shot the breeze with the fellas, as if he leaned on brand-new Louisville Sluggers every day … holding it high and ready, waiting for the pitch… swinging it around straight and true, for a grand-slam home run….

If I get to play this time
, he thought, catching himself.
If the two goons aren’t there.

As he and Bobbie got closer, he saw Grossie, Vito, Louie, and Larry. No sign of Eli and Tommy.

Good.

“Hiya, fellas,” Bobbie called.

The boys looked up. “Hey, Bobbie. Joey.”

“Hiya, fellas,” Joey called back.
They remembered my name.

“Hey, Joey, you all right now?” Vito asked. “Not too banged up?”

“Yeah, fine.”
He cared.

“Whatcha looking at?” Bobbie asked.

Grossie raised his head. “Did you hear? About Jackie?”

“No, what?” Bobbie asked in alarm. “Is he hurt?”

Louie thrust a newspaper clipping at her. Joey looked over her shoulder. A bizarre sight met his eyes. There was a photo of Jackie Robinson at the plate, and something black on the field near the home team’s dugout. The headline said: “Robinson Taunted with Black Cat.”

Joey looked closer. Was that what the black smudge was – a cat?

“What!” Bobbie said. “Who did that?”

“The Phillies,” Grossie answered.

“The players were ragging him all game. Then they threw a black cat on the field,” Larry added. “Then they yelled, ‘Hey, Jackie, there’s your cousin.’ Says here the Philly fans were laughing and cheering.”

“But not all of ’em, Lar. Some booed,” his twin said.

“Those rats!” Bobbie said. “Those stinking dirty low-down rotten rats!”

“Poor Jackie,” Grossie said. “I don’t know how he stands it.”

Joey felt the heat rush to his face. Everyone knew that Jackie Robinson had faced terrible abuse ever since he’d come up to the majors: name-calling, petitions to keep him off the team, even death threats. And he couldn’t fight back, because he’d promised the Dodgers’ owner, Branch Rickey, that he wouldn’t.

Joey knew how it felt – just like Jackie Robinson did. How people picked on you just because of your color, when you knew that your color had nothing to do with whether you were good or bad. Joey wished he’d been there, in Philadelphia. Maybe Robinson couldn’t fight back, but
he
sure could. He’d show those cowards –

Joey caught himself. What the heck was he doing, getting all wound up about Jackie Robinson? Robinson was a Brooklyn player. A Dodger!

Finally, Louie shoved the clipping in his back pocket and they started to play. Bobbie and Vito were named
captains, and the kids divided into two sides, Joey, Bobbie, and Grossie against Vito, Larry, and Louie. Because there were only six of them, they decided to play half the field. That meant that, depending on whether a kid batted righty or lefty, only first and second base, or second and third, were in play. There was no catcher, and a throw to the pitcher on the mound, or a forced play, was an out. Joey knew the rules all too well. There’d been plenty of times when he’d only been able to scrounge up a handful of boys – other mixed-race kids who’d been excluded from the Negro kids’ teams.

Everyone went to the side of the lot, where a sheet of plywood, with a strike zone marked on it, leaned against the factory fence. They dragged it back and propped it upright behind home plate, anchoring it with big rocks, front and back.

Bobbie and Vito chose for home and away. Vito’s team won home first and ran out to the field, Vito on the mound, Larry at shortstop, and Louie in left field. Bobbie, a righty, picked up the bat and stood in the “batter’s box,” a square outlined in the dirt.

“No batter, no batter,” Louie chanted.

“Comin’ right atcha, Louie.” Bobbie grinned.

Vito threw. Bobbie swung. Crack! The ball shot past Larry’s outstretched glove and dropped in front of Louie.

Wow,
Joey thought,
she can hit.
Bobbie streaked toward first.
Fast, too.

Louie snatched the ball. Bobbie started sliding as Larry ran to cover Louie’s throw. He made the catch, but in a spray of dirt, Bobbie had already tagged.

She jumped up, brushing off her legs and shorts. “Safe!”

“Lucky drop,” Vito teased.

“Lucky, my eye,” Joey said loyally, and Vito laughed.

Grossie walked to home plate.

“Come on, Grossie, big hit now, you can do it,” Bobbie called.

Grossie made wide circles over his shoulder with his bat as if trying to present a moving target.

Vito threw. Grossie swung and missed by half a foot. “Stee-rike one!” Vito yelled.

“’S’okay, Grossie, you’ll get the next one,” Bobbie called.

Grossie’s bat circled. Vito delivered. Crack! A grounder toward third base. “Foul,” Vito yelled.

“O and two,” Larry said happily. “We got him, fellas.”

On the next pitch, his eyes squinting in concentration, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, Grossie connected. As the ball soared high into near right, he chugged toward first. Looking up, Larry stuck out his glove – and missed.

Bobbie rounded second and sprinted for third. Grossie advanced toward first. Larry ran down the ball and tossed it to Vito – not in time.

“I made it!” Grossie panted. “I got on base!”

“Way to go, Grossie,” Joey cheered.

“Okay, Joey, baby, bring us home,” Bobbie called from third.

Joey dug his front foot in and raised the bat high over his shoulder. The Louisville Slugger felt smooth and solid in his hands.

The first pitch came in. Joey swung, and even as he came around, he knew it was a good one. The ball hit the “sweet spot” with a satisfying crack and then sailed far and high, over Vito’s head, over Louie’s outstretched glove, heading toward the maple tree.

“Holy cow,” Grossie said, standing dumbstruck on first, watching the arc of the ball, as Bobbie raced for home.

“Move, Grossie!” Joey shouted, and with a jolt the redhead lumbered to second.

Louie chased the ball as Bobbie touched home. Grossie chugged, arms pumping. Joey touched first. Grossie rounded second with Joey close on his heels. Louie scooped up the ball.

“Run, Grossie!” Joey yelled. Plodding along, Grossie touched third, with Joey right behind him. Louie threw as
Grossie crossed home. Joey was next, practically treading on Grossie’s heels, a split second before the ball landed in Vito’s glove.

“Safe!” Bobbie yelled.

“Three runs score!” Grossie said.

“Good hit, Joey,” Vito said grudgingly, “even if you did get it off me.”

Joey laughed.

By the end of the half-inning, Joey’s team had scored five runs, and they were jubilant as they took the field, Bobbie at the mound, Grossie at short, and Joey in the outfield. In short order, Vito and Larry were out. Then Louie came up.

Louie’s skinny,
Joey thought.
Doesn’t look like much of a hitter. Might as well play him in close.

Crack!
A high fly soared back… back… Cripes! Joey backed up, farther … farther …

“Watch out!” Bobbie warned.

Then Joey remembered – the maple tree. Too late. His heel caught a root just as the ball fell into his glove. He fell backwards, somersaulted, sprang up – and held up the ball.

“He’s got it! What a catch!” Bobbie yelled.

“Sheesh,” Louie said forlornly.

Beaming, Joey ran in. Bobbie and Grossie slapped him on the back. This was great – playing ball with friends,
teasing and trading insults, falling in the dirt, sweating and cheering, being part of a team….

Joey was just coming up to bat in the second inning when someone roared, “You again?”

He turned. Eli Fishkin. And Tommy Flanagan.

“Shoot,” Bobbie muttered. “There goes the game.”

Eli pointed at Joey. “I thought I told you you couldn’t play here.” He jerked his thumb. “Get lost.”

Joey looked at the arrogant expression on Eli’s face. “Who died and made you king?”

Vito chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t remember anybody crowning you, Fishkin.”

“Hey, it’s King Fish.” Joey bulged out his eyes and opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

More chuckles.

“That’s not funny,” Eli said.

Tommy took a step closer to his friend. “Why’s he making like a fish, Eli?” he whispered.

“Shut up, Flanagan,” Eli muttered.

“And this one’s like an ox – big, dumb Prince Ox,” Joey added, pointing at Tommy.

“I am not an ox!” Tommy said. Then, to Eli, “What’s an ox?”

“It’s like a cow, dummy.”

Tommy’s ears turned red. “I am not an ox. Or a cow.” The other kids burst out laughing.

Eli gave Joey a shove. “Shut up, Nigger.”

“You shut up,” Joey returned. “I don’t see any crown on your head. You only think there’s one.”

The other kids murmured agreement.

“Or a throne,” Joey added. “Or a – what do you call that thing – you know, that long thing that kings hold?”

“A scepter,” Grossie said.