Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (35 page)

Mom turned off the faucet and the fresh soap bubbles made a ticking sound. She looked over her shoulder at Nicky and said, “You? You're the least responsible one of all.”

“Oh, no, I'm not. No, I'm not,” Nicky said, sweating.

And then he felt three years old again, hopeless except to his mother, and the tears and his terrible story poured out of him. How Dad had written the letter to Roy to order him to stay out of combat and to stay out of airplanes. And how Nicky had thrown the letter down the sewer. How one thing led to another, and so
it was because of Nicky that Roy went off in some airplane and went missing.

Mom nodded as she placed the dirty dishes and glasses into the sink water.

“So you threw that letter away, huh?” She spoke carefully and casually without looking away from the water. “I kinda knew you did something like that. But I don't see how that matters. Let me tell you a story. When your dad was a boy, one of his friends was spitting off the roof of his tenement. Spitting on people walking by. Being a brat. And this kid, this friend of your dad's, fell off the roof. So your father had a thing about roofs and such.”

“But if I didn't …”

“Just listen.”

“But it's my fault …”

“Listen to me. You know how many times Dad told Roy to never, ever, ever, EV-ER, throw water balloons off the roof? A million times. Do you know how many water balloons Roy threw off the roof? Zillions of them. So my point is, Roy didn't mind his father about water balloons. He would not have minded your father about airplanes.” All this while washing dishes and stacking them in the drainer.

Nicky felt his chest lighten. A pleasant breeze fluttered the curtains and dried the tears on his cheeks and chin.

“Blame,” Mom said. She wiped her forehead with the back of her soapy hand. “How can people expect to be forgiven when they won't forgive themselves? You want to blame someone, blame me. Or Margaret Mitchell. The one who wrote
Gone with the Wind
.”

Nicky laughed at the joke.

“I'm not joking,” Mom said. She worked a steel wool pad into a crusty broiler pan. “You don't know this story.”

Mom said that when she was pregnant with Roy, in the ninth month, she started reading
Gone with the Wind
. She was crazy for the book. She couldn't put it down. She was determined to finish it before the baby came, because everyone knows there's no time for book reading with an infant in the apartment.

So one chilly night she stayed up till three in the morning and finished
Gone with the Wind
. And at 9
AM
she went into labor. She was in labor all morning, all afternoon, deep into the night. At three minutes until midnight, old Doc Rosenberg told her “just one more big push, and the baby will be here.” But Mom was beat. She had stayed up all night reading
Gone with the Wind
. She didn't have the energy for that push. Not right at the moment. She begged for a rest. A contraction passed. She rested. Another contraction came and went. Doc Rosenberg said no more resting. Mom said, “Tomorrow is another day,” and pushed, and Roy was born at 12:01
AM
on November 21.

“So what?” Nicky said.

“So, remember the draft lottery? Remember what number Roy's birthday drew in the draft lottery? Number one. November twenty-first was number one. If you were born on November twenty-first, you were guaranteed to get drafted. And he was.” Mom made a face at the broiler pan. “And guess what about November twentieth? Dead last—three hundred and sixty-five,” Mom said. “Roy would have never left home.”

Years later, Nicky wondered if the
Gone with the Wind
story was true. Not that it mattered. He loved his mother for telling it.

“I'm sorry for crying,” Nicky said.

“Don't be sorry,” Mom said, washing. “Sometimes I feel hopeful. Sometimes I cry, too.”

“What makes you hopeful?”

“Knowing that Roy is out there somewhere.”

“What makes you cry?”

“Knowing that Roy is out there somewhere.”

She plunged her hands into the sink. “I just pray he has dry socks.”

Nicky wiggled his toes in his sneakers.

“Ma,” he said.

Mom swirled a sponge in a soapy glass and said softly, “Don't you dare hold your breath. Stay alive, Nicky. Enjoy. Play. Say a rosary. I do, every night. Light a candle. I do, every week. Count your blessings. Do you know what I'm going to do tonight? I'm going to make a big batch of eggplant parmigiana. I'm going to put it in the freezer for when Roy comes home. Maybe it's silly. Maybe not. Know what, though? It feels good to do something for him.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“You know how I am about cooking,” Mom said with a smile, and Nicky thought he was going to have to grow another heart just to hold his love for his mother.

Mom pulled the plug in the sink. There was a draining sound while Mom said, “I want to have all these nice things waiting for him when he comes home. You know how your brother loves eggplant parmigiana. Don't underestimate eggplant power. It is one of his favorites. My mother always said good things bring goodness.
Maybe the smell of it will lead him home.” She chuckled once and closed her eyes for a moment. The sink finished draining and emitted a raspy slurp.

And Nicky heard sweet sounds through the kitchen window, out of the orange dusk.

Thwock.

Clatter.

Jangle.

He took these sounds to bed with him.

N
icky was awakened by the sound of singing in the courtyard. One of the old love songs. The voice belonged to Mr. Misener, the grouchy superintendent. The morning was so sunny, so warm, so fragrant and dreamy, even the meanest man in Eggplant Alley burst into song. Nicky listened and a feeling washed over him, starting at his toes and finishing at his scalp.

Life was going to change today. For the better.

Mom and Dad sat at the kitchen table. Mom shuffled coupons. Dad stirred his coffee, spoon clanging. The stirring was odd, because Dad took his coffee with no cream, no sugar. There was nothing to stir. But Nicky expected this sort of thing from Dad on this day.

Nicky settled down at the table and noticed the calendar was gone from the refrigerator.

“Sal, did you remember about the cake?” Mom said.

Dad said, “Yeah, I gotta go down there today anyhow. I'll stop by Orzo's.”

Nicky sipped Tang and stared out the kitchen window at the PS 19 schoolyard. The schoolyard was streaked with sunshine and shadows, but it was empty. Nicky stared until his eyeballs hurt.
All he got was achy eyeballs. The schoolyard was empty. He did not see old things.

“Know what?” Nicky said. “Today I'm going to start up a stick-ball game.”

Mom sorted through coupons and said, “Nobody plays stick-ball around here anymore.”

Nicky said. “Well, I'm going …”

Dad said sharply, “Jesus H. CHRIST, Nicky. Not today.”

The kitchen was quiet except for the boink-boink-boink of the leaky faucet.

“Especially today,” Nicky said. “Don't you know? Today's the first day of spring.”

Mom rushed out the door for her Saturday shift at Gimbels. Dad grabbed his keys and mumbled about Orzo's. Nicky imagined a trip to Cherry Street would do Dad some good. For Dad, going to Cherry Street was like going to the roof.

Nicky fetched his B-4000 mitt, Roy's old mitt, and the yellow stickball bat from the bedroom closet and placed them on the coffee table in the living room. He parted the curtains. He scanned the PS 19 playground. Not a soul in sight. Not even a pigeon.

Nicky wandered the apartment. He stared at the living room sofa until his eyeballs ached. He did not see old things. The sofa remained empty. He stared at Roy's bed until his eyeballs ached. He did not see old things. The bed stayed empty.

He stared out the bedroom window. Tender lime-green grass was sprouting in the courtyard. Nicky stared at the courtyard until his eyeballs ached. And he saw a young man in an army uniform.
The young man climbed the steps from Summit Avenue, into the shadow of the archway, out of the shadow, into the courtyard of Eggplant Alley.

Nicky yanked back his head like a frightened turtle. Was that person in an army uniform, that man about the size and shape of Roy—was that an old thing?

Nicky's heart raced. He sweated. He did not look out the window. He listened closely. He clearly heard army shoes clonk on the courtyard walkway.

Nicky held his breath. He heard the door to Building B creak open five stories below.

Nicky tiptoed to the apartment door. He tiptoed because he did not want to disturb whatever was happening. It was like a great dream. He didn't want to chance waking up.

Nicky stood at the door and clenched shut his eyes and listened. The elevator thumped on the fifth floor. The elevator door crunched and rumbled open.

Army shoes clonked on the hallway tile. The steps faltered. The steps stopped.

The footsteps in the hallway moved briskly and surely and softened on the welcome mat, on the other side of the apartment door. Nicky saw a shadow under the door. He heard familiar breathing. And his head swooned at the odor of Old Spice after shave. It was a miracle.

Nicky threw open the door.

“Well, hey-lo,” the young man in the army uniform said. “I'm Manuel Rivers.”

Nicky's bottom lip stuck out.

The man said, “You must be Nicky.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

“I know your brother, Roy.”

Manuel Rivers sat on the sofa, on the plastic slipcover, and spoke of Roy.

He told Nicky that Roy was a great guy, a hard worker, and a fabulous stickball player. He said Roy often talked of Eggplant Alley and his family.

“He said this was the finest place in the world,” Manuel Rivers said. “He told me all sorts of tales about you guys. That reminds me, how's the dog?”

Nicky shrugged.

Manuel Rivers said he had no idea what Roy was doing in the observation plane on the day he went missing. He said Roy might have been helping out the pilot, who sometimes had trouble finding observers when he was ordered on routine, mostly unnecessary scouting missions. He also said Roy might have been merely taking a joyride.

“The only ones who know are Roy and the pilot,” Manuel Rivers said. He paused and looked at the rug. “The pilot didn't make it.”

Manuel Rivers said a search party found the wreckage of the plane three days later. He said the pilot's body was found in the wreckage. He said there was no trace of Roy.

“They went down in Vietcong territory,” Manuel Rivers said. “That's good news and bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“The VC don't report who they have taken prisoner. So anything could be possible.”

“Good news?”

“The VC don't report who they have taken prisoner. So anything could be possible.”

Nicky nodded. “So there's hope?”

Manuel Rivers said, “Oh, there's hope. Don't ever forget that.”

Nicky didn't say anything.

Manuel Rivers said, “You'd be a real numbskull to give up hope.”

“Roy always said I was a numbskull.”

“Yeah,” Manuel Rivers said, grinning for the first time. “He told me.”

Manuel Rivers shifted his feet. He looked at the ceiling. He studied his fingers. He was a man out of things to say. His eyes fell upon the baseball mitts and stickball bat on the coffee table.

“Hey, nice mitt,” he said. “Is that the B-4000? Very cool. Gotta game today?”

Nicky said, “Yeah, I do.”

Nicky and Manuel Rivers walked downstairs together. As they passed the second floor, Nicky glanced as always at 2-C.

The Band-Aid was gone from the door.

“Very interesting,” Nicky thought.

Nicky and Manuel Rivers walked out the back door of Building B, along the walkway in the cool shadows, and into the warm sunshine of the PS 19 playground. The beautiful spring day had finally drawn people outside. Fishbone, Icky, Skipper, and Bob
smoked cigarettes on the short wall. Residents of the tenements on Groton Avenue were spread along the stoops. A tinny radio was playing somewhere.

Nicky glanced up at Building B as he walked. He counted the windows—six over from the left, two up from the ground floor. He picked out Lester's kitchen. The window was closed. The lights were out. The lace curtain was drawn.

Nicky and Manuel Rivers approached Icky and the old gang. Nicky made introductions.

“Any sign of Roy?” Icky said.

“Not yet,” Manuel Rivers said.

Nicky held up the stickball bat and the gloves and said, “Anybody interested?”

Icky scowled.

Manuel Rivers said. “I hear you guys have some pretty smoking stickball in this neighborhood.” He nodded at Icky. “And you—I heard you got a pretty nasty drop pitch.”

Icky shrugged, clearly pleased.

“So bring it on, man,” Manuel Rivers said. “I mean, look at this day.” He turned his face up to the sun. “Perfect for stickball.”

Icky said, “Nobody plays stickball around here anymore.”

But Fishbone and Skipper and Bob looked at one another and shrugged. Fishbone shrugged again and said, “I'll play, if anybody wants to. Who's got a ball?”

Nicky did not have a ball. He had planned to go to Popop's for a new Spaldeen. Then he got busy looking for old things, and the morning flew by.

“I ain't got a ball,” Nicky said quietly, sadly, and he looked
down, feeling like a numbskull. His eyes were drawn to the dirty bottles and rusty cans and yellowed newspapers gathered at the base of the low wall. He spied something round. It looked like a rotten tangerine. Nicky toed his sneaker at the object. It was Roy's old Spaldeen, mottled green by the months since the stickball game in the snow with Lester.