Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (32 page)

The elevator smelled better, too. The Rosatto brothers moved to New Jersey, without saying good-bye. Right afterward, the elevator assumed the pine scent of cleaning fluid, and retained this new, pleasant odor. A young family from Cuba took the Rosattos' old apartment. And one day Mom came home from work and said, “I just rode the elevator with that new woman who moved into 3-D. The Cuban. She said she would be happy if I stopped by sometime for Cuban black coffee. She says it's stronger than espresso, if you can believe it.” Mom thought over this development and concluded, “I think maybe I will. She doesn't seem so bad.”

On Valentine's Day, the weatherman on the radio said the temperature was seventy-two degrees in St. Petersburg, Florida, where the New York Yankees huffed and puffed through the early days of spring training. Nicky removed his sweater in the kitchen upon hearing that news. The sports announcer on the radio said the Yankees were expected to field their best team in years, and they had a real crack at the World Series. Nicky daydreamed about taking in a Yankee game with Dad and Roy in the summer. And he wondered if Dad might somehow score World Series tickets from the big shots at Yum-E-Cakes Inc.

Late that afternoon, Mom came through the door from work and Nicky was in the living room, doing homework. In the kitchen, Mom sniffled and stifled a sob. Nicky heard the sounds of sorrow and his stomach turned.

“Nicky,” she gasped. “Please come in here.”

His heart thudded. He was afraid to walk to the kitchen. He had to force his feet to move. He reached the doorway to the kitchen. He held his breath and examined Mom's face. His eyes darted to her hands. She held an envelope, with a red, white, and blue border, and an unfolded piece of paper. But the handwriting on the envelope was not Roy's. The paper was the thin, tissue-like stationery used by Roy. But the handwriting on the paper was not Roy's.

Someone, not Roy, had sent them a letter from Vietnam. That kind of letter never brought good news.

But Mom was smiling. She licked her lips and closed her eyes. She was smiling. Nicky looked carefully. He was not mistaken—she
was smiling. Mom blinked through tears and presented the fluttering sheet to Nicky.

“It's from Roy,” she said.

“Is he all right?”

“He's great,” Mom sniffed. “Read it. He's coming home on March twenty-first.”

“Next month?”

“The first day of spring.”

Nicky took a deep breath. Now his hand trembled. He saw Mom stare at the hand. Nicky smiled weakly and said, “You scared me.”

“Why do you always expect the worst?” Mom said.

“I don't,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Nicky read:

Dear Gang,

I am dictating this letter to my friend Sgt. Manuel Rivers. I will explain that in a moment.

Sorry I have not written for so long. We have been straight out busy. I had to even work on Christmas Eve. (Manny says I should quit whining.) You would not believe the paperwork that goes into fighting a war. But I had a good Christmas. First me and some of the fellows went into Saigon during the truce. The place was really festive. It was my first chance to get to meet real Vietnamese people besides the girls who come in here and do our laundry. Anyway, it was a very busy and noisy place. It reminded me of Chinatown. Then we celebrated Christmas Day here at the base. Someone scrounged up a real tree. We decorated it. Then
we opened our presents and someone had a case of Schlitz. Then get this—we played with our toys! Man, it was like the old days when we were kids. Remember them? Some guy got a race car set and we set it up and took turns racing. Another of the fellows from my unit got water balloons. He was running around soaking everyone. Plus get this—Manny (he says to put in he is from Mount Vernon) got a Spaldeen from his mother. We got a broomstick and we played stickball all Christmas afternoon, drinking Schlitz. Hey Nicky, look out, I have developed a pretty good sinker pitch here and if you want to play stickball this spring you had better be ready to be struck out.

Oh, Ma, also, the Christmas cookies were a big hit.

This brings me to the good news and the bad news. I have been hurt. But not too badly. During a stickball game two days ago, my pal Sgt. Rivers stepped on my right hand. He is a big lummox (am not!). I was going for a ball and he was going for a ball, I slipped, he walked on my hand. This is what they call “a non-combat-related injury.” The doc says my tendon is messed up and three fingers are broke. The hand is infected. Ma—I needed you to wash it and put a band-ade on it. The good news is, I can't type with a busted hand. By the time it heals, it will be time for me to come home. My commo said all I have to do is train my replacement and I can catch the bird home. I feel crummy, like I am not doing my duty. But the big man insists. So Gang, I am coming home early! My DEROS is now March 21. Circle that on your calendar.

I guess I should make plans, huh, Dad? I'm thinking about college for real, which I should have done before. Now I can use the GI Bill for it. I guess I will just be happy to see you all, and
eat some of Ma's eggplant, and yes even to see you, Nicky. I guess your pretty big now, but not too big for your big brother to beat your brains in if I have to.

I have to run. See you all in 40 days.

Love,

Roy

PS—How is Checkers?

A squeaking sound made Nicky look up from the letter. Mom was using a black permanent marker to draw a thick black circle around March 21 on the kitchen calendar.

“It sounds like he had more fun on Christmas than we did,” Nicky said.

“Oh, don't complain,” Mom said. “Count your blessings.”

Dad came home from work, and Mom met him at the door. She handed him the letter, as if it were a report card with straight A's. As he read, Dad stood with the door open, pine-scented elevator air puffing in from the hallway,
Daily News
folded under his arm.

“Where's the black marker?” Dad said.

“I already did it,” Mom said.

“Okay, someone get me a beer.”

Dad drank his Ballantine in loud happy slurps and stared at the date circled on the calendar. He was beaming. “Know what?” he said. He belched happily. “Know what? I'm gonna stop by Orzo's tomorrow. I'm gonna order up one of those big sheet cakes. Like the one we got him for graduation. I'll have Orzo write on it.
WELCOME HOME ROY
. How does that sound?”

Dad gazed at the circle on the calendar. He said, “Seeing that, now it seems real.”

Dad took a seat at the kitchen table.

“It feels warm in here. Hey, Nicky-boy,” he said. “Whaddya say the three of us take in a Yankees game in the spring? Like the good old days?”

“Promise?” Nicky said.

“Sure.”

“Can Lester come?”

“Sure.”

“Promise?”

“I just said so,” Dad said.

Nicky rapped on the door to 2-C. He heard feet shuffle, a brushing against the peephole. Then a clunk, a squeak of a closet door, the jangle of coat hangers, a door click shut.

Lester opened 2-C.

“We just heard from Roy,” Nicky said. “He's coming home March twenty-first.”

“Very interesting,” Lester said, eyes cloudy behind his thick glasses.

“Isn't that great? Maybe your dad will be home by then, too.”

Lester shrugged.

“When is your dad coming home?”

Lester shrugged. “He doesn't write to us as often as your brother does,” he said flatly. “He always said combat is twenty-four-hour work. I don't know. When we don't hear from him for a while, I worry that something's happened to him. Then I hope maybe he
isn't writing because he's on his way home, and he will just show up at the door. That's how my daddy is.”

“You'll hear from him,” said Nicky, resisting the gloom that emanated from Lester like a bad odor.

Lester stood in the doorway to 2-C and shrugged.

Nicky said, “Gotta run. I gotta go to the library. Why don't you come over after school tomorrow?”

“Surely,” Lester said.

“Bring your mitt. I'm sure it could use a good oiling.”

“I don't want to ruin the Willie Mays autograph, remember?” Lester said.

“Maybe I can find a spare B-4000 for you to borrow,” Nicky said.

“It will probably be too big for my hand.”

Nicky gave up. “Listen. I gotta get to the library. I'm sure everything will be cool. I'll see you later.”

Nicky strolled down Mayflower Avenue and patted the rear pocket of his flared blue jeans, brand new from Gimbels. He had a Valentine in that pocket, and he did not want it to fall out onto the sidewalk. On the front of the card was an outlandish cartoon drawing of a small dog. The inside of the card read, “They call it puppy love.” Nicky had picked out the card at Walgreens, bought the card, filled out the card to Margalo, and carried the card in his book bag for three days. But he was unsure about this card. He pressed the small button next to the large door at the Only House With Trees, and looked at the stone lions while the stone lions looked back with sly eyes, and Nicky didn't know if he would actually deliver the card to Margalo.

Margalo pulled open the door. “Hey-lo,” she said. She wore a blue sweater and faded jeans and she was barefoot. Her hair was ponytailed. She said, “Why don't you start coming around to the kitchen?” Then, as if remembering a chore, she studied Nicky's face.

She smiled. She smiled extra big.

“You have brought me something,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“You have brought me some good news.”

Nicky shrugged. He thought, “They all have radar.”

Margalo pulled two kitchen chairs across the floor so they faced. She sat in one chair. She directed Nicky to the other. Their knees touched. Margalo leaned close and drilled her blue eyes into Nicky's face. He could smell green apples in her hair.

She said, “What's the good news?”

Nicky told her about the letter from Roy. He told her that Roy was all right and that he was coming home early. On March 21.

Margalo took hold of Nicky's hands. “The first day of spring,” she said quietly.

She sighed.

“Oh, my,” she said.

Nicky said, “So what are you going to do? I mean, when he comes back?”

“Do? About what?”

Nicky said carefully, “About … anything.”

“About us?”

Nicky's ears felt hot.

“I guess first thing I'll do is read all his letters,” Margalo said.
She released one hand from Nicky's, touched her hair, and gripped Nicky's hand again. “Then I guess I'll see him. I'll kiss him. I'll marry him. I'll leave him forever.” She laughed. She tossed back her head. “I don't know. How can I know? I don't mean to blow your mind.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

Margalo continued in a low, solemn tone, “The most important thing is that he's done with that evil, immoral war.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

She said, “He should have never gone. Never. I'm going to have to process that. I'm going to have to work to forgive him for that.”

She flickered her eyes at Nicky.

“I don't mean to blow your mind.”

“You didn't,” Nicky said. He took a deep breath and said, “I want you to know something. I'm proud of Roy. He doesn't need to be forgived. He needs to be thanked. He served. He did his part. He will always have that. And I want you to know something else. That when the time comes, I hope that I'm as brave as Roy. I hope I do my duty.”

There was a long silence in the kitchen.

“I didn't mean to blow your mind,” Nicky said.

“Well,” Margalo said, smiling thinly. “What's gotten into you?”

Nicky shrugged.

Margalo gently released Nicky's hands and leaned back into her chair. Her blue eyes seemed to examine every pore on his face. Nicky stared back into her eyes. He saw something new in those eyes. He concentrated hard, telling himself, “Don't blink. Don't look away.” He would hold his ground on this one. He saw tiny
specks of green in the blue. He saw her pupils dilate, a hot black, then shrink again.

Margalo leaned forward. Her nose was just a few inches from Nicky's face. He could strongly smell green apples in her hair. It was like taking a big bite of green apple. She sucked in her bottom lip. She looked like a person weighing options. She looked a little like Roy, just before he tossed a water balloon.

Margalo spoke quietly, nearly in a whisper, as if to a co-conspirator. “How old are you going to be this year?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“How old are you going to be this year?”

“Fourteen.”

Margalo examined a place on the tile floor, then shifted her eyes back to Nicky. He felt the hair on his neck tingle.

She said quietly, “It would seem to me that you're old enough.”

“Don't say anything,” Nicky ordered himself. He heard a steady, rhythmic, sloppy panting. He panicked. “Is that me?” Then he saw the dog. The panting sound came from Martha the Irish setter, passing through the kitchen.