Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (10 page)

“We're going to hit the old buzzard's neon sign,” Roy said. “Stupid sign. Know how it says
POPOP'S
, right? I'm going to punch
out that middle
P
. The old buzzard's sign, it'll say
P-O
space
O-P'S
. Get it?
POOP'S
! Ha ha ha ha. Am I a genius or what?”

Nicky felt queasy. He wished he were behind one of those orange windows, sitting down to a comforting plate of piping-hot meat loaf. He didn't like this caper. Nicky imagined the reform schools were crammed with kids who lied to their parents and went out at night and broke things with slingshots.

Nicky and Roy walked on, sneakers flapping on the sidewalk. They crossed Summit and started down Radford Street, a crummy stretch of cracked sidewalks, empty lots, and row after row of four-story tenements. One of the many neighborhoods going bad. Nicky had never walked along Radford at night. He felt as if he were strolling into a dark forest.

The red neon sign of Popop's variety came into view, and Roy nudged Nicky across the street into Ludlow Park, a weedy patch of broken benches and piles of litter. Roy grabbed Nicky by the sleeve and led him into the tall bushes that bordered the park. They moved along, branches brushing their faces and jackets, bottles clinking at their feet, until they were positioned directly across from Popop's.

Popop's neon sign hummed. Behind the dirty front window of the store, a smaller neon sign burned green, advertising Ballantine beer. A dim light shone inside the store, and a potato head moved back and forth in front of the light.

Roy coolly, quickly, methodically got down to business. He locked his wrist into the slingshot. He selected a marble from the Band-Aid box. He pulled back on the tubing. Nicky eyed the taut, quivery rubber and got goose bumps from the sight of such deliciously pent-up destructive power.

Roy let go. The slingshot made a snapping sound.

There was silence.

Then a sharp knock—the sound of a marble striking wood, like a baseball hitting a bat.

“Shucks,” Roy said.

Roy loaded. He aimed.

He fired.

Nicky saw the marble blur into the darkness.

There was a whining sound—the sound of a marble ricocheting against concrete.

Followed by a click—a marble skipping along asphalt.

Then from far down the block came a clank—the marble against automobile hubcap.

“Darn,” Roy muttered.

Roy reloaded. He aimed.

He fired.

The marble flashed against the red neon and this time Nicky knew for sure, he could feel in his belly …

The first
P
in Popop's sign disintegrated in a shower of delicate glass. The
P
fizzled as the glass tinkled gently to the sidewalk.

And the second
P
sputtered electrically and went dark.

For a second, the sign flashed:

O OP'S
.

Then the entire sign went dark.

And the Ballantine sign went dark.

The lamp in the window went dark.

The lights of the apartment towers went dark.

The red light atop the water tower went dark.

The halo glow from Broadway went dark.

Two cars careened through the intersection at the end of the block, horns shrieking. The traffic light was dark.

Nicky and Roy swiveled their heads. There wasn't a light burning anywhere. Somehow, Roy had turned off every light in the Bronx.

Windows scraped open. Voices called in the darkness.

“Hey, anybody got power?”

“Who turned off the lights?”

“I think the whole block is out.”

Nicky clutched Roy's sleeve. He feared he would lose his big brother in the blackness.

“Take it easy, numbskull,” Roy said. “The lights will come back on in a minute.”

They waited in the bushes. They waited a minute.

They waited ten minutes. The lights did not come back on.

“Oops,” Roy said.

Nicky and Roy ran home. They barely recognized Eggplant Alley. The buildings appeared dead, like three giant burned-out light-bulbs.

Nicky clasped Roy's jacket as they climbed the dark stairway in Building B. On the second floor, Mr. Bartolo stood outside his apartment. He swung a camping lantern. Mr. Bartolo was a former marine, always well prepared for emergencies. A transistor radio was going inside his apartment.

“Mr. Bartolo, are the lights out all over New York?” Roy said.

“The radio said the lights are out all up and down the eastern seaboard. From Washington, DC, to Canada.”

“That's quite extensive,” Roy said casually.

“I wanna go home,” Nicky said.

Mom was waiting for them at the doorway of 5-C. She had jammed a fistful of birthday candles into the supper meat loaf. She held the flickering, glowing slab of meat shoulder-high, like a torch. Mom looked like the Statue of Liberty, if the Statue of Liberty moonlighted as a waitress. For the rest of his life, Nicky could not see meat loaf without remembering this sight.

The Martinis passed the night of the Great Blackout around the transistor radio. They ate cornflakes and Yum-E-Cakes by candlelight. They played poker. The radio batteries ran down. The last snatches of news they heard reported that the blackout was the largest in history, and the cause was unknown, and the FBI was on the case to investigate reports of sabotage.

Nicky and Roy lay in bed in the darkest, quietest night in the history of Eggplant Alley.

Nicky whispered, “Roy, maybe we ought to go on the lam.”

“Don't be a numbskull. We don't know for sure if we did this. Besides, nobody's got proof.”

“I think we ought to tell Mom and Dad.”

Bedsprings cheeped with startling shrillness and suddenly Roy's face was inches from Nicky's nose, close enough for Nicky to smell mint toothpaste on his big brother's breath.

“Not a word of this, to anyone,” Roy said. “You and me are in this together. This is real trouble.”

Roy sat on Nicky's bed. Roy slipped his hands under his pajama collar and lifted his silver chain and St. Christopher medallion
over his head. He felt for Nicky's hand in the dark, and let the chain slither into Nicky's palm.

“I haven't taken this off since I made First Communion,” Roy said.

“I know.” Nicky said. He could not remember his brother without the silver chain.

“I'm giving it to you. It's a symbol of our loyalty, courage, and all that junk. It's you and me, for good. We're a team. Like Roosevelt and Churchill, Abbott and Costello. Like Sacco and Vanzetti.”

Nicky slipped the chain over his head and tucked the medallion inside his pajama top. The metal felt cold against his chest.

Long after midnight, Nicky was awakened by a bright light shining directly into his eyes.

FBI agents with flashlights!

Coming to take him to reform school!

“It was ROY!” Nicky mumbled, and then he realized the light in his face was the bulb from the dresser lamp. The lamp was switched on when the lights went out. The power was back.

The kitchen radio was going at breakfast. The latest news report said Governor Rockefeller thought the blackout was “unbelievable,” and that President Johnson thought it was “an outrage with grave implications.” The cause was still under investigation.

The news announcer added, in a solemn tone that Nicky considered ominous, “Nothing has been ruled out.”

Nicky pushed away his Cocoa Puffs.

Late that afternoon, Nicky moped into the kitchen. Mom looked up grimly from the potatoes she was mashing.

“What's wrong?” Nicky cried. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Mom said. “Why so nervous?”

“I am not nervous,” Nicky said, nervously.

Mom shook her head sadly.

“What is it?” Nicky said, jumping.

Mom said, “I was just on the phone with Mrs. Moscowitz and she told me some very disturbing news.”

“She saw us?”

“She said that when the power went back on, the elevator started up and went down to the lobby. You know, I don't think I should tell you this. Never mind.”

“What? What? What?”

Roy strolled into the kitchen and said, “The doors opened in the lobby and out plopped Mr. Van Der Woort.”

“So?” Nicky said.

Roy said, “He was stiff as a board.”

“Roy!” Mom barked, shaking the wooden spoon, flipping bits of mashed potato onto the floor. “Show some respect.”

“Colder than a mackerel,” Roy said, leaving the room.

On Saturday morning, Nicky sat on the rug in front of the television and stared at Bugs Bunny cartoons. Mom stood three feet away, ironing. Dad and Roy were down on Cherry Street, buying lard bread.

Nicky had the creepy sensation he was being watched. He glanced up. Mom was watching him.

Mom ironed and stared. Nicky blinked at Mom. He was nervous. He knew the woman had radar.

Mom said, “It's written all over your face, you know.” And
Nicky cracked, right there on the living room rug, as the television showed Bugs blowing up Daffy Duck.

Nicky cried. He spilled his guts. He sang like a canary. He told Mom everything.

In the fiery aftermath, while Dad foamed and Mom lectured, Roy shot a look at Nicky and said, “I am through with you.”

The next time Nicky walked into Popop's, Popop called him “the little anarchist” and asked, “Where is your brother the big Bolshevik?”

Nicky could only shrug.

Roy was many places, but no longer at Nicky's side.

No longer on Nicky's side.

No matter what Mom threatened, Roy refused to talk to Nicky. He refused to watch television with Nicky. He refused to pass the peas to Nicky. He refused to buy a Christmas present for Nicky. He refused to apologize when he stepped on and crushed Nicky's brand-new Gemini space capsule.

On New Year's Day, Nicky found Roy at the kitchen table. Roy was drinking hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and reading a comic book.

Nicky sat at the table with Roy.

Roy looked up. Nicky smiled.

Roy grabbed his mug by the handle, closed his comic book, pushed back his chair, and strolled out of the kitchen.

Nicky placed his face onto the tabletop. He pressed his cheek to the warm circle left by Roy's mug.

“Hey.”

Roy was calling from the doorway. In the seconds it took his big brother to pad across the linoleum, Nicky's mind eagerly worked. Maybe Roy was going to shake his hand. Let bygones be bygones. Whip up a hot chocolate. Tell a naughty joke he heard in high school. Nicky longed for the day when the big boys finally let him hear the naughty jokes.

“The medal,” Roy said flatly. “Gimme back my medal.”

Roy walked out of the room, St. Christopher medal in his fist, and Nicky thought about a day at the beach years earlier. Nicky was about three. He was left on the beach blanket under the charge of Grandma Martini. One of the Scalopini cousins had borrowed his favorite beach pail, his beloved Mr. Peanut beach pail, and left it at the water's edge. Nicky was too scared of the sand and ocean to retrieve the pail. He sat under the umbrella on the blanket and watched the waves roll in. The waves lifted his pail and carried it toward Europe. Grandma Martini refused to leave Nicky to get it. She waved a hand and said, “Don't worry, Nicola. One thing leads to another. It come back sooner or later.”

Nicky remembered the total heartbreak of watching Mr. Peanut's dimpled face drift away, receding to a colorful speck on the gray waves, leaving him forever. Because he had the same feeling when Roy, his big brother and only friend, grasped the St. Christopher medal and walked away from the table, out of the kitchen.

Nicky listed this, in the black composition notebook under his mattress, as the second thing that ruined his childhood. In the night, he remembered this and fell asleep reminding himself to not make friends with this goofy Lester Allnuts. Dogs just die, friends just disappear.

N
icky rapped softly on the door to 2-C. He was passing by the apartment on his way home from school. He figured he might as well stop by and ask Lester about going to the roof. Not that Nicky cared one way or the other. He merely wanted to map out his afternoon. Set the agenda for this bright Monday. If Lester wasn't going with him to the roof, Nicky planned to brush up on his yo-yo skills.

Lester opened the door, eyes bugging out happily behind his thick glasses.

“Roof today?” Nicky said, motioning toward the ceiling with his thumb.

“Yes, my mama gave me permission. I'm looking forward to it.” Lester stepped back from the doorway. “Would you like to come in?”

“Nah, thanks.” Nicky hefted his book bag. “I gotta get home. See you up there at four?”

“Yes. You can teach me the city ropes.”

Nicky reclined in the sun on the warm roof tar. Lester pushed through the gray door at four o'clock sharp, just as the bells of St. Peter's clonged over on Ludlow Street.

“Take a load off,” Nicky said, indicating a place near him on the tar.

Lester examined the gritty tar and sat.

“All right,” Nicky said. He took a deep breath. “Here's what you have to know about Eggplant Alley.”

“I have a question,” Lester said, raising his hand.

“Already?”

“Yes. Why is it called Eggplant Alley?”

Nicky scratched the side of his face.

“I dunno,” he said. “Doesn't matter. Now, do you wanna hear what I have to say or not?”

“Surely.”

“Okay,” Nicky said. He took a deep breath. “First thing to know, if a ball goes in the sewer, don't stick your hand in after it.”

“Okay.”

“Because there are alligators living in the sewer system. They'll chomp off your hand. People bring baby alligators as souvenirs from Florida. The 'gators start growing. People flush them down the toilet. They live off sewage and grow to be like six hundred pounds.”