Stealing Home (9 page)

He turned to Bobbie. “Did I ever tell you about the time I ate five pickles? At once?”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Am not. Five whole ones. And they weren’t weasly ones, either. Great big ones. Mama and I were –”

“Who’s the boy, Sam?”

A woman was at the cash register. A plump woman with bulging cheeks, pencilled black eyebrows beneath steel-gray hair, and a red mouth whose color extended beyond the edge of her lips.

A short silence. “My grandson, Joseph.”

“Grandson? What grandson? Oh! You mean Rebecca’s bas –” She gave a sly smile. “I mean, Rebecca’s child?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s he doing here, Sam?”

Another silence. “Rebecca died.”

“She did? How did she die? What happened? Tell me.”

A pause. “She just died.” Zeyde turned away and started putting things in a basket he carried over his arm.

The woman stared at Joey. Not kindly, like Mr. Cohen and Mr. Kaplan. Coldly, like Mr. Stein. Sizing him up.

She leaned across the counter toward a customer who was unloading her purchases. “You know about Rebecca Greenberg, don’t you, Ceil?” she said in a loud whisper. “How she ran away and married a schvartze?. If they were married at all.”

Joey turned to Bobbie. “What’s that?” he whispered.

“Wh-what?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear.”

She turned red. “Never mind.”

“Oh no, you don’t. Tell me.”

She hesitated. “It’s Yiddish. Means black.”

A beat. Then it sank in. “Nigger.”

Bobbie nodded.

“… such a scandal, I tell you, Ceil,” the woman said, punching the cash register keys. “After all, this is a
respectable neighborhood. Or it
was,
anyway, until
she
started carrying on …”

Joey glanced at Zeyde. Although his grandfather’s back was turned toward the woman and he was busy choosing a can of coffee from the shelf, Joey knew that this time he’d heard. He had to have heard, the way her voice shrilled across the store. Zeyde’s face was hard and cold, the way it got when he was angry. Joey knew that look well, and for once he was glad to see it. Any minute now, Zeyde would give that lady what-for and that would shut her up.

But Zeyde said nothing.

“… no good to begin with, so what do you expect?” the woman was saying. The customer nodded in agreement.

Say something, Zeyde,
Joey thought.
You’re not going to let her get away with it, are you?

His jaw clenched, Zeyde put a can of sardines in his basket and moved down the row.

“… a wild girl, and then to live in sin like that. Well, I tell you …”

Joey glanced at Bobbie. She too was looking at Zeyde as if willing him to speak up.

Please, Zeyde,
Joey thought desperately.
I know you’re mad at Mama. And at me. But you cant let her go on like this!

Zeyde took a bottle of ketchup off a high shelf. His face was purple.
He must be furious with the woman, Joey thought. So why doesn’t he do anything?

“… never to be heard from again. And then for the brat to just turn up like that. Well! Did you ever?”

Joey’s ears were hot. He felt like grabbing the lady by the collar and telling her to shut up her fat face. But he knew he mustn’t. He’d been in enough trouble already. And if he did …

But why didn’t Zeyde do it?

“… well, filth breeds filth, that’s what I always say….”
Filth!

Joey cast one last look at Zeyde. Not a whisper of protest. Not a flicker of outrage.

He marched over and slapped his hands on the counter. “Shut up!”

The woman looked up, startled, her mouth a round, red
O
.

“Don’t you say those things about me and my mama!”

Bobbie chimed in, “Yeah, Mrs. Yanofsky!”

“Why, you little –”

“And I’m not a sh – shvar – whatever you said –”

“How dare you!”

“And my mama was not filth –”

“Of all the disgraceful –”

“And neither am I!”

“You tell her, Joey!” Bobbie said.

The woman looked triumphantly at her customer. “It just goes to show –”

“You don’t know anything, so stop telling lies, you mean old –”

“Silence!”

“– rotten liar!”

“
silence!
”

A hand gripped his shoulder. Fingers bit in.

Zeyde threw his basket onto the counter and, without releasing his hold on Joey, marched him out of the store. Bobbie trailed behind. A wave of murmurs followed them.

Outside, Zeyde gripped Joey’s shoulders with both hands and shook him. His black eyes seemed to bore holes in Joey’s. “You troublemaker! Don’t you ever speak that way again!”

“But she said –”

“I don’t care what she said.”

“But Zeyde,” Bobbie cut in, “you heard her –”

“That’s enough, Bobbie.”

“No one’s going to talk about Mama like that!” Joey shouted.

Zeyde turned back to him. For a moment, less than a moment, his expression changed, and Joey thought
maybe Zeyde was proud of him. But then Zeyde scowled even more darkly. “It’s not for you to say, you little hellion! She’s your elder, and you don’t raise your voice to your elders.”

“But –”

“No buts, you hear me? Not another word!” He shook Joey again. “You’ve shamed me. Shamed me in my own neighborhood.” He released Joey, practically flinging him away, turned, and started walking home.

Joey stood, watching his grandfather walk away from him. And he faced the truth. There was only one reason Zeyde hadn’t told the woman off – because he agreed with her. Because he believed that Mama was a disgrace. Because he was ashamed of his half-breed grandson.

Joey’s eyes pricked.

Don’t you dare cry! What did you expect? And who cares anyway?

His eyes brimmed as he blindly trudged home.

Aunt Frieda was sniffling. Stuck in his room – with the door open a crack – Joey could hear her. “Oh, dear, such an embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment doesn’t begin to describe it,” Zeyde snapped. “It was a disgrace.”

Then, footsteps on the stairs. “But Zeyde, you didn’t tell her –” Bobbie’s voice.

“What are you doing here, Bobbie?” Zeyde said sharply. “This is between your mama and me.”

“But you didn’t tell Mama what Mrs. Yanofsky said,” Bobbie insisted. “She called him a schvartze, Mama –”

“What!”

“Bobbie, leave us alone,” Zeyde said.

“Is that true, Daddy?”

“It makes no difference. The mouth on him –”

“And all kinds of bad things about his mama –”

“About Becky?” Aunt Frieda sounded shocked.

“Bobbie, that’s enough!”

“And how they were no good and Joey was filth –”

“
What?
”

“Bobbie! Leave us now!”

There was a short silence as Bobbie left the room. But Joey didn’t hear her feet on the stairs, so he figured she must be hiding in the hallway.

“Is that true, Daddy?” Aunt Frieda said in a sharper tone.

“Yes, but –”

“No wonder he was upset! That poor boy, to stand there and –”

“Poor boy!”

Aunt Frieda paused. “I think … that is … you should have stuck up for him, Daddy,” she said.

“Frieda!”

“Well… how could you let her say those things?”

“What, I should let my grandson insult a respectable storekeeper, in front of everybody?”

“Respectable! Sadie Yanofsky is the biggest yenta in Brooklyn and everybody knows it.”

“Frieda!”

Joey heard a stifled giggle. Bobbie. He wondered what a
yenta
was.

“Well, it’s true,” Aunt Frieda said. “Filth! Did she really say that?”

Zeyde grunted.

“Oh, Daddy, how could you just stand there? How could you not shut her up?”

“What, and dignify the ravings of the likes of Sadie Yanofsky? Besides,” Zeyde’s voice rose, “the point isn’t what I did or didn’t do, it’s what he did. It was outrageous. He’s getting worse, Frieda. You know he is.”

“Maybe we’re going about it the wrong way, Daddy. Maybe we’re handling him wrong.”

“What! You don’t think he needs to be brought into line?”

“I do … but all this punishing and yelling doesn’t seem to be helping.”

“He’d be ten times worse without it! It’s like Becky all over again. I was too lax with her, but I won’t be with him. Though who knows if anything will work with that
boy?” He paused. “Maybe he should go back, Frieda.”

“Daddy!”

Joey froze.

Zeyde’s voice changed, and he was nearly crying. “Frieda, we’re failing! And if we can’t succeed –”

“No, Daddy! We’re not failing. We’re not going to. And Joey is not Becky. He’s a fine boy. Please, have a little more patience.”

“I can’t fail!” It seemed to be torn out of him.

“No, of course not, Daddy. We’ll bring him around.”

There was a long silence. “If only I could believe that.”

“I believe it,” Aunt Frieda said.

Joey quickly shut his door. He was safe – for a little while longer.

Not that he cared one way or the other.

Oh, stuff it
, he thought. That wasn’t working anymore, because the truth was, he wanted to stay. He couldn’t deny it any longer; couldn’t pretend he didn’t care.

I believe it
, Aunt Frieda had said. It warmed Joey just to remember the words.

But Zeyde –

Wait a minute.
Ravings.
Zeyde had said,
The ravings of the likes of Sadie Yanofsky.
Joey rolled that around in his head, trying to figure out what it meant. Could it be that Zeyde thought Mrs. Yanofsky was wrong, too?

Oh, if only Joey could believe
that.

H
ours later, Joey leaned out of his window, resting his elbows on the sill, trying to catch a breeze. He’d been grounded for the rest of the afternoon and all through dinner. He’d eaten another meal alone, from a tray.

The air was still and heavy. Joey fanned his face with his hand. No relief. He leaned out farther. The old woman who lived across the street rocked on her stoop, back and forth, back and forth. A man walked by, his shirt a flag of white in the gathering dusk, his footsteps tapping an even beat. A fragrance of roses drifted up from the neighbor’s garden, the smell of someone’s fish dinner. Joey listened to the evening sounds: mothers calling their kids, crickets singing, the distant rumble of the streetcar. A horn honked, a screen door clicked shut.

Bored, bored, bored. Joey examined his Yankees collection. His team had won again, and he’d added a new
clipping, a picture of Snuffy Stirnweiss clouting a home run, the ball a small white blur in the distance, Snuffy looking up with a smile on his face. Joey moved the picture an inch to the left. Straightened his Joe DiMaggio card.

He paced. Ten steps to the door. Ten steps back. Ten steps to the door. Ten steps back.

Downstairs, the radio shut off. Footsteps on the stairs. The sound of a toilet flushing. The house grew quiet.

Joey changed into pajamas. He lay on his bed, hands beneath his head. There was no way he was going to be able to fall asleep. It was all Zeyde’s fault. If his grandfather had only stuck up for him with that woman, he wouldn’t have got into trouble. And then he wouldn’t have been grounded. Then he wouldn’t be so restless.

He sat up. What was he doing in here? There was no way he was staying in this room one more minute, and if his grandfather thought he could make him, he had another think coming. Getting sent to his room never used to keep him in. Why, he’d snuck along the ledge from the bathroom window to the fire escape outside Mama’s apartment so many times that his footprints were practically etched into the stone.

So why not here? He could sneak out and sneak back in before anyone knew. Get a breath of fresh air, stretch his legs, see the stars. And besides, he’d get back at Zeyde.

Joey tiptoed to the door. All quiet. But what if the stairs squeaked? No, better not risk it. He turned and eyed the window. A better bet. He eased the sash up higher and squeezed out onto the roof. It sloped gently toward the street. Not too steep. He’d been on worse. He squatted there. All quiet. Dark. Good. He crept over the peak, around to the back of the house. Carefully he sat down and dangled his feet over the roof ledge. This was more like it. The damp green smell of grass filled the air. It was still hot, but there was a slight breeze out here, enough to stir the sleeves of Joey’s pajama top. Better than in his room. His prison cell. Might as well have bars on the windows.

Bars.
Suddenly Joey remembered seeing bars on the back of the house. A fire escape! Not the kind with spiraling stairs, like at Mama’s, but a sort of ladder with iron rungs, built into the back wall. Why, he wasn’t stuck up here! He could climb down, take a stroll around the block, maybe even scoot over to Utica Avenue and see what was happening. He was free!

Because of the roof’s overhang, he couldn’t see the top rung. But he was pretty sure that if he turned over onto his stomach and felt with his foot, he’d be able to locate it.

Just as he was about to flip over, he heard the sound of a match striking, smelled sulphur and then, a moment later, cigarette smoke. He looked from side to side. There
was no red glow of a cigarette tip in the backyard of the Shapiros’ house to the left, or in the Nussbaums’ yard to the right.
Must have come from someone’s kitchen window, then.

Carefully Joey turned over onto his stomach. There was nothing for his hands to grab onto, so, keeping his weight on his chest, he groped with his foot. Where was the bar? There. He put his weight on it, then, clinging to the roof with his upper body, slid down a little farther, feeling with his other foot. A pebble came loose from the roof and pinged off the back kitchen railing. Motionless, Joey held his breath. Nothing. Whew. He felt the bar and was just stepping onto it when –

“What’s that? Who’s up there?”

Zeyde!

All Joey saw were the whites of Zeyde’s eyes and the glowing tip of his cigarette. Frantically, he tried to heave his leg back up and over the roof ledge.

“Joey! Oh, my God!” Zeyde cried. “You rascal! Of all the – Get down here this minute!”