About the B'nai Bagels (15 page)

“Well, son, your mother is an emotional woman. Whatever she does, she does with her whole heart and soul. And her heart is large, and I think that her soul is, too. And the excess spills out in talk. But I don’t think she thinks that she is talking to God in that light fixture. She talks to Him quietly in prayer, and she doesn’t bother Him about Little League or spinach.”

“She thanks Him for every game we win!”

“She’s not thanking Him for the game as such. She’s thanking Him for giving her the strength and the stamina. She knows that she, not He, is planning the strategy.”

“She plans strategy all right, but so did Rebekah.”

“Your mother has been talking to God ever since we got married. However, I’m sure that if He ever answered back, it’s been by answering prayers. Not
viva-voce
.”

More words. “Does
viva-voce
mean out-loud?”

“Very good,” Dad said. Another thing about my dad. More than liking to show how smart he is, he likes me to show how smart I am.

“She keeps sending those messages, and I’m not sure that she doesn’t think she gets messages in return. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mother plotted a Little League victory the way that Rebekah plotted.”

“If your mother plotted anything, Mark, don’t you think that you would have found out about it? How can your mother keep anything from us? She wears her thoughts on her face like a cosmetic.”

“She keeps things from us.”

“Name one.”

“I’ll name one: the fact that my option price was eight hundred and she bought me for nine-twenty-five. The fact that she blackmailed Spencer into being coach. The fact that she knows I have a
Playboy
magazine hidden under my mattress. How’s that for one?”

“That would do for three.”

“I can count.”

“How can you say that she keeps things from us when you know all the things that you say she keeps from us?”

“She thinks she’s hiding things from me, but I listen in.”

“Why don’t you listen in further and see if you can discover what she’s keeping from you now?”

Just as he said that, Mother’s voice drifted upstairs. You can hear everything from anywhere in that house.
Downstairs my mother was singing, actually singing, “Oh, it ain’t gonna rain no more, no more…” She was singing
fortissimo
. Her singing told me two things: first, that she was no Barbra Streisand and second, that she was no Rebekah. I also remembered that she had said that winning would be the
second
nicest thing.

Dad quietly left the room.

After he left I noticed his shoes, which he had taken off; I picked them up and carried them into the office. The extension phone was in there. What would Hersch think of his Crescent Hill buddy now? I picked up the receiver and dialed the first three digits of Hersch’s number. But I hung up. I picked up Dad’s shoes again and took them into his room. If they had been any decent, normal style, I’ll bet that I could have borrowed them.

I went to bed convinced that my mother was innocent. My father had convinced me. I wasn’t sure how he had done it, but he had. I was also convinced that I had to tell Mother and Spence. It would cost us the championship, but I had to let them know. In a way, my telling would make me responsible for our losing the championship.

And there will always be people who will think that I wanted to tell to show Barry up because about now everyone knows how badly I wanted Hersch back. But I
know that’s not the reason because I never finished dialing Hersch’s number. I never told Hersch about Barry then or ever.

It was a decision to do the right thing. It wasn’t revenge; I could have gotten even with Botts, and never did. And it wasn’t tattle telling. It was a decision I made by myself in bed that night after everyone thought that we had won the championship, and I knew that we hadn’t.

E
ven though school was out for the year, Saturday still meant services at the synagogue. I sat alone and walked out alone. In addition to wishing me Good Sabbath as I left, the rabbi also wished me congratulations. I could hardly wait to get home to mope. I moped around all the rest of the day. Mom kept getting called to the phone. Congratulations! Congratulations! Finally, she told me to stop moping around and go read a book. That was her answer to everything: go read a book. I got down the
Official Rules for Little League Baseball
and looked for a loophole. I couldn’t find one. Mother was so happy that she was bubbling somewhere in her soul. I couldn’t puncture that even though I knew that the longer I waited to tell, the more deflated she would feel.

By suppertime I still hadn’t told. Mother spooned out the goulash; its burnt flavor hadn’t improved with
age. I sang “Happy Birthday” to it, and Dad gave me a nudge under the table.

Talk about baseball never ends with the season. Especially in our house with our mother. “I sure would like to put Simon and Sylvester in the Tournament,” she said. “But I guess it’s not fair to the twelve-year-olds who are also good and next year it will be too late for them.”

Spencer added, “They sure beat almost everyone I’ve seen in the League. Maybe the Bagels could sponsor four players. The twins deserve some special kind of recognition.”

“I think so, too,” Mother agreed. “If we can’t get two extra places in the Tournament Team, what else do you think we could do for them?”

“How about giving each of them a sock in the nose?” I quietly suggested.

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Mother put down her fork and gave me a puzzled look. I knew that I was about to burst that bubble in her soul. But I knew that I better do it before too many more days of too many more congratulations.

“Didn’t you notice that Simon pitched the last inning with his left hand? Didn’t you notice that Simon took his last time at bat, batting left-handed?”

Mother squinted real hard. Everyone stayed quiet.
Mother changed her focus from space to Spence. “Spencer, which of those two boys is the lefthander?”

Spencer answered, “The one who is number 4.”

Mother cocked her head to one side and said, “That’s right. That’s right. I
think
that’s right.” Then she went into the dining el and returned with yesterday’s official records. She was nervous; she cleared the place in front of her by shoving the back of her hand against her cup and saucer. I knew how she was feeling; it’s like hearing from some kids after a test about some question you can’t even recognize, and then you have a sinking feeling because you realize that you may have skipped that whole side of the paper. It’s panic until you get your paper back and see what it has done to your grade.

What a rattling of papers there seemed to be before she said, “Here. See. Simon was pitcher and was last in the batting order.”

And Spencer said, “That’s right. Simon is number five.”

“And Simon also happens to have four teeth and Simon also happens to be the right-hander.”

“What’s the matter with his teeth?”

“Nothing is the matter with Simon’s teeth. It’s Sylvester who has the extra one. On the bottom. I couldn’t see his teeth anyway.”

Spencer leaned over and began to gently bang his
head against the table. “What’s with the teeth?” he moaned. “What’s with the teeth?”

“Teeth is the way you can tell Simon from Sylvester. All you have to remember is that Sylvester has five incisors on the bottom, and Simon has four and that is the opposite of their baseball numbers. Also, Sylvester has an
e
in it and so does
left
. Simon has an
i
in it, and so does
right
. It also helps to know that Simon has an
o
and so does
four
, the number of incisors, not the baseball number and Sylvester has an
e
and so does
five
, the number of incisors.”

Dad was the only one who followed my explanation. He said, “Very good. Mnemonics. That’s what it’s called when you find little tricks like that to remember things.” Even in an emergency my dad can’t resist getting a little education into me. But he had understood. “What you are saying is that Simon, who wears number five shirt, should have batted and pitched right-handed but instead batted and pitched left-handed?”

“That’s right, Dad. Like Jacob and Esau.”

“Are you convinced that your mother is no Rebekah?”

“Yeah, I’m convinced.”

“From the Bible you quote when I need from the baseball manual,” she said to Dad. Then to the light fixture she added, “You should please excuse the expression.”

I caught Dad’s eye and said, “See what I mean? She tells Him everything. All the time.”

Mother said, “This discussion is no discussion; it is a crossword puzzle. Four down. Five across. Not a discussion at all.”

Dad said, “Bessie, sit down.”

Spencer popped up from his seat to grab the papers in front of Mother. And Dad added, “You better sit down, too, Spencer.” Spencer sat. It was difficult for Dad. “What I have to tell you is… that what Moshe was trying to say was… that what may have happened yesterday was… to use plain, everyday language… Simon and Sylvester may have pulled a switch.”

“Don’t be silly!” Mother said. “I’m certainly no great authority on numbers like certain people in this house, but I do know a four from a five. Even on the back of a shirt, all wrinkled, I know a four from a five.”

Dad said, “Isaac did not know Jacob from Esau when Jacob was dressed in Esau’s clothes.”

Mother looked up at the light fixture and said, “Again!”

Spencer shook his head. “How could they have done it? There was a huge crowd. The biggest they’ve had all season.”

Dad answered, “For that information, you better ask Mark.”

Everyone looked at me, and I was about to begin saying that it was Barry Jacobs’ idea. But I didn’t. Instead I said, “I think you ought to call Simon and Sylvester, Barry Jacobs, and Franklin P. Botts. Call a meeting. They can give you all the answers. I’m not sure I can.”

I had hardly finished saying it when Mother had taken down the phone book from the top of the refrigerator.

That evening they gave me money for a movie and enough for Hersch; they also gave me fifty cents for popcorn plus a ride for both of us to the shopping center where the movie was. Never before had I been allowed out at night to a movie without being accompanied by my parents. A double feature besides. One of those that always gets circulated after the Academy Awards featuring in the one the male Oscar winner and in the other the female supporting star or some such combination.

Hersch’s mother was supposed to pick us up from the movie. We waited for her in front of the theater, and it was then that Hersch mentioned baseball for the first time that evening. Between the popcorn and listening, we didn’t do much talking in the movie. Hersch asked, “Do you know yet who’s going to be on the tournament team?”

“I guess that will be decided this evening,” I answered
in a normal tone instead of a sneaky voice that would arouse his suspicions.

“I think that Barry should make it for sure; it would be great if both of us could make it.”

Second chance. Some new, deeper voice (my own new voice?) told me to stay quiet, and I did.

Hersch added, “You know, Mark, you’ve come a long way; you’re quite a ball player now. I’ll bet if your mother weren’t manager and your brother weren’t coach, you’d be a choice candidate for the Tournament team.”

That was a nice thing for him to say; it showed that he understood that having my mother as manager made me something less than my own person. I didn’t answer except with nice thoughts. Then his mother picked us up.

Mother, Dad, Spencer, and Aunt Thelma were all sitting in the living room when I walked in. They were all examining fingernails or shoelaces or lint on the living room carpet. They had the look of losers.

“Well,” I asked, “was it true?”

Aunt Thelma answered, “Yes, your mother just called and forfeited the game.”

I walked over to my mother and put my arm around her shoulder, and she reached up and patted my hand. “Too bad, Mom,” I said.

She looked up at me with eyes sad and moist. “Sometimes you just can’t always tell about people.” She swallowed her own private marshmallow, and Aunt Thelma made a sound that was somewhere between a shudder and a sigh. Mother said, “Where did I go wrong, Sam?” She was pitiful.