Stealing Home (8 page)

“Right.” Joey flashed his friend a smile. “Or a scepter. So I guess you’re not king after all.”

“Shut up!” Eli’s hands balled into fists. His ears turned red. He made as if to go after one kid, then another, but stopped in frustration.

Boy, it’s great to be dishing it out for a change,
Joey thought. “So, guess what – you don’t own the field,” Joey said. “We all get to say what goes on here.”

“Yeah, Eli!” Louie shouted.

“Eli,” Tommy said uneasily, “what’s going on? Aren’t you going to make him stop?”

“Yeah. Right now,” Eli growled. He advanced on Joey until they were practically nose to nose. There was sweat on his forehead. “Shut up!” he blustered. “I am in charge. I make the rules. I say who plays here. And no two-bit punk – especially one who’s a nigger – is going to tell me what to do. So scram!”

Joey stood his ground. “Nope.”

Eli charged him. Before Joey knew it, he was flat on his back with the other boy on top of him, rocks digging into his spine, Eli’s knee pressing into his stomach, and hands squeezing his neck. Joey kicked and twisted from side to side, grinding into the dirt, but couldn’t dislodge Eli.

“Quit it, Eli!” Bobbie yelled. “You’re choking him!” She grabbed hold of one of Eli’s arms with both hands and tugged, and Joey felt a slight lightening of the pressure. Although he was relieved, he wanted to tell her to stay out of it – but before he could get a word out, Tommy had shoved Bobbie and sent her sprawling.

“You big bully,” Vito shouted as he entered the fray, “leave her alone!”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Joey managed to roll over and get to his knees, gasping for air. He was grateful that Vito had jumped in to help Bobbie. Maybe together they had a chance of beating Tommy. He struck out again at Eli and a dust cloud rose as the five went at it with surprising fury.

Though it was now three against two, Joey, Bobbie, and Vito were getting creamed. It was clear that the two bigger boys were not just angry, they were enraged.

A bruised and bloodied Vito called to the kids on the sidelines. “Come on, guys! You gonna just stand there?”

Grossie, Larry, and Louie stood in a cluster, looking frightened. Louie made a slight move as if to jump in, but checked himself and stayed where he was.

Bee-e-e-e-p!
A loud whistle blasted from the soap factory on the other side of the fence. Moments later, workers started pouring out of the gates in twos and threes, swinging lunch pails, pulling on caps, calling good-byes.

Everyone froze. Eli darted a look over his shoulder and scowled. “Shoot,” he said to Tommy. “We’ll catch it if they see us fighting. Come on.” They scooped up their caps and gloves.

Eli pointed at Joey. “This isn’t over. You’re gonna learn who calls the shots here.”

“Never.”

Eli sneered. “I’ll finish you off next time.” As the first wave of factory workers approached, he and Tommy took off down the street.

Joey turned and surveyed his pals. They looked like they’d been in a prize fight.

Bobbie swiped an arm across her face. “Boy, they were mean today.”

“Didn’t like getting laughed at,” Grossie said. “That’s what set ’em off.”

“You really had ’em going there, Joey,” Larry said.

Joey rolled his eyes. “Fat lot of good it did. We still got pummeled.”

“Slaughtered,” Bobbie said disgustedly.

Joey turned to Vito. This was the second kid who’d stood up for him. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Yeah, thanks, Vito,” Bobbie said.

“That’s okay,” Vito said, shuffling his feet. “Just wish I could have made more of a difference.”

“Hey, you were the only reason we didn’t get killed,” Joey said.

There was a moment of silence.

“Uh… sorry, you guys,” Louie said in a low voice. “You know… for not coming in.”

“That’s all right,” Joey said.

“No. We should’ve,” Larry said sheepishly.

“We were chicken, just plain chicken,” Grossie admitted, turning red. “At least, I was.”

Louie and Larry nodded, looking uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry about it, fellas. It wasn’t your fight,” Joey said. He sighed. It was his fight, all right, and it looked like he’d have to keep on fighting it – and keep getting pounded – until Fishkin and Flanagan got it through their thick heads that he wasn’t going anywhere.

They all retrieved their bats and gloves and said goodbye. Vito, Louie, and Larry went in one direction, Joey, Bobbie, and Grossie in the other.

Bobbie sighed. “We’re in for it now,” she said.

“I know,” Joey said.

“What do you mean?” Grossie asked.

“Zeyde’s gonna kill us.”

“What for?”

“Fighting,” Joey answered.

“But they started it. Eli jumped on you!”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But it wasn’t your fault! Tell your grandpa that.”

“He won’t care. He’ll still think it’s my fault.”

They trudged on. Suddenly Grossie stopped. “Wait – I know! Why don’t you guys come to my house first? You can wash up there. You get all cleaned up, I bet your grandpa’ll never know.”

“But Grossie, your mama’ll see us, and she’ll tell my mama, and –”

“No. She’s not home. She’s helping out in the store today. And my sister’s out, too. Went to see the new Fred Astaire movie with her girlfriends.”

Bobbie turned to Joey. “Well? What do you think?”

“He’ll know,” he said glumly.

“Come on, you guys,” Grossie said. Then, earnestly, “It’s the least I can do.”

Joey thought of Zeyde’s wrath. He shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

By the time Joey and Bobbie emerged from Grossie’s bathroom, two muddy-gray washcloths in hand, scabs
were beginning to form on their scrapes and the bloodstains on their clothes were a dull brown.

Grossie surveyed them critically. “Not bad. But you both have bruises on your faces.”

Joey shrugged. “Oh, well, nice try.”

“Wait!” Grossie cried. “I got another idea. Stay right there.” He ran down the hall and came back a moment later with a small compact in his hand.

“What’s that?” Bobbie said.

“My sister’s face powder.”

“Her
what?
”

“Face powder. It’ll cover up the marks.”

“There’s no way you’re putting that stuff on me!” Bobbie cried, backing away.

“Or me!” Joey said.

“But you’ve got to hide those bruises somehow,” Grossie argued. “Come on, Joey, at least let me try.”

“But makeup’s for girls.”

“Not
all
girls,” Bobbie growled.

“You’d rather get punished?” Grossie said.

Joey thought of Zeyde. If he was caught fighting again … would Zeyde really do it? All of a sudden, a little makeup didn’t sound so bad. “All right. But just a bit, Grossie.”

“Promise,” Grossie said. “Close your eyes and hold still.”

Something soft and velvety brushed against Joey’s forehead. It actually felt nice, though the bruise smarted. Back and forth went the soft pad, light as a feather on his skin.

“There,” Grossie said in a satisfied tone. “See, Bobbie? It’s almost invisible.”

Bobbie peered at Joey. Her expression changed. “Well…”

“Told you. Now, hold still.” As he approached with the pad, Bobbie squirmed.

Now that he’d gone through it, Joey could enjoy Bobbie’s misery. “Oh, dah-ling,” he crooned.

“Shut up,” she said through gritted teeth.

Joey chuckled. “I think you hate this more than I did, Bobbie.”

“I do,” she snapped. “I hate girly stuff.”

“But you look so glamorous …” Joey teased.

She lunged. “I’ll give you one!”

“Hold still!” Grossie said. He managed to get the powder on, then led them to the bathroom mirror.

“I got to hand it to you, Grossie,” Bobbie said grudgingly. “It works. But the minute we get by Zeyde –”

“
If
we get by Zeyde –”

“– I’m washing it off!”

Joey and Bobbie walked quietly into the house. Zeyde was in his chair in the living room, reading the paper. He
looked up. Joey held his breath. Bobbie went very still.

“Been playing ball?” Zeyde asked.

“Yup,” Bobbie said, staying in the doorway.

“Have fun?”

“Yup. Sure did. Didn’t we, Joey?”

“Uh … yeah. Lots of fun.”

“You’re filthy,” Zeyde said.

“That’s because… we were practicing sliding,” Bobbie said. “So we can get good at it. And steal bases. Like Jackie Robinson. Right, Joey?”

“Right.”

“And we kept practicing, all afternoon. Leg slides. Stomach slides. So naturally we got dirty and a little banged up. Right, Joey?”

“Right.” He elbowed his cousin. She was trying so hard, he was sure she’d tip Zeyde off.

Zeyde gave them an odd look. “I don’t mind. It’s just dirt.” He returned to his paper.

Joey and Bobbie took the steps two at a time, Joey choking down the laughter. He turned to his cousin to congratulate her. But she wasn’t there. She was already in the bathroom, washing her face.

A
streetcar rumbled down the middle of Utica Avenue, people swaying to and fro as they clung to the overhead straps. A shiny black Studebaker pulled up behind an old white Ford, and the mustachioed driver in a Panama hat beeped his horn importantly,
bee-beep!
A group of old men wearing little round caps sat on a bench, arguing in a strange, throaty language. Three teenage boys strode by, talking baseball.

Across the street, the curved chrome front of Max’s Diner gleamed in the sunshine, and the smell of grease and potatoes floated on the air.
SUMMER SALE,
said a sign in the window of Grossman’s Children’s Wear. The neon-lit marquee of the Rialto Movie Palace proclaimed
THIS SUMMER’S HIT – LORETTA YOUNG & JOSEPH COTTON IN THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER
.

Walking down the street between Bobbie and Zeyde, Joey drank it all in. He hadn’t been downtown since the day he’d first come to Brooklyn, and even though they were only doing errands today, he wanted to see the sights, smell the smells, meet the people, get to know his new neighborhood.

First stop was Cohen’s Bakery. Joey’s mouth watered as he looked at the jelly doughnuts sprinkled with sugar, the chunky peanut butter cookies, the cinnamon rolls with plump raisins peeking out like shy children. There was a tray of oatmeal cookies at the side of the store. Joey glanced from left to right, seeing if anyone was looking, and reached his hand out. But his hand stopped in midair as he realized he didn’t need to steal. There was plenty at home. Strangely, he felt relieved.

While Zeyde picked out a dark brown pumpernickel studded with caraway seeds, a man with a kind-looking plump face and wearing a white apron came out from behind the counter and shook his hand. “How are you, Sam?”

“All right, Irving, how are you?”

“Can’t complain. Though I do anyway.” He laughed and his stomach shook. He turned to Bobbie. “Hello, Roberta.”

“Hi, Mr. Cohen.”

He smiled at Joey. “And who’s this?”

“My cousin, Joey.”

The man looked puzzled for a moment, then nodded. “Oh, you must be Rebecca’s boy.” He put his hand on Zeyde’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I just heard the other day. A terrible loss.”

Zeyde stiffened. It wasn’t anything you could see, but Joey could feel it. “Thank you, Irving,” he said curtly.

“And are you living with your grandpa now?” Mr. Cohen said kindly to Joey.

Joey nodded.

“That’s good.” He smiled at Zeyde. “A blessing to have another grandchild in the house, eh, Sam?”

For a long moment Zeyde didn’t answer. Then he inclined his head. It wasn’t a yes and it wasn’t a no.

Joey’s heart sank. But what, he asked himself, pushing away a sudden slash of disappointment, had he expected?

Next stop was Stein’s Hardware. A tall, balding, dour-looking man with a beaky nose and sunken cheeks said a gloomy hello to Zeyde. He was wearing a canvas apron with many pockets, a ruler poking up from one, a tape measure bulging in another, and a hammer dangling from a loop on the side. He weighed out a bag of nails for Zeyde, took Zeyde’s money, and handed Zeyde the bag, all without smiling or saying a word to Bobbie or Joey.

As they were leaving, Joey heard the man say in a low voice to a customer, “So
that’s
the boy.”

“How can Sam parade him around?” the customer whispered.

“Doesn’t look too happy about it,” Mr. Stein replied.

“Well, honestly, can you blame him?”

Zeyde was already out the door, so Joey couldn’t tell whether he’d heard. He longed to turn around and yell at the men, but forced himself to keep walking.

“Don’t pay any mind, Joey,” Bobbie whispered. “Mr. Stein’s an old meanie. He’s miserable to everybody.” She gave him a smile, but Joey knew it was one of those smiles that was trying too hard. He didn’t smile back.

Then they went to Kaplan’s Produce. Mr. Kaplan, a bear of a man with thick, curly black hair, asked Bobbie who her friend was. When she told him, he said, “Pleased to meet you, Joey,” and shook his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then, while Zeyde picked out salad greens, Mr. Kaplan winked at Bobbie and Joey and slipped them each a fat, juicy peach. Joey rubbed the fuzz on his shorts and bit in. Juice dripped down his chin and neck, tickling and feeling sticky at the same time. Licking the nectar off his fingers, he forgot all about Zeyde’s stiffness and Mr. Stein’s rudeness, the whispers and raised eyebrows.

They turned the corner and entered a large store with a green-and-white striped awning.
YANOFSKY’S DELI
spelled gold letters on the window. Joey breathed deeply. Tangy pickles … sauerkraut… smoked herring …

Then he remembered. It was in one of Mama’s good times, when she’d had some money, and they’d splurged by going out to lunch at a deli on Bergen Avenue. Joey couldn’t remember the name of the deli, but he remembered the sandwich. Layer on layer of smoky pastrami between thick slices of rye bread, with spicy mustard and juicy tomato and lettuce. The sandwich was so fat he’d had to stretch his jaw to get his mouth around it, and Mama said he looked like a crocodile eating a big fat toad. He’d finished every bite. And then he’d eaten five whole pickles, one after the other, and he and Mama had laughed all the way home.