Keeping Score (16 page)

Now maybe there was only one way left for her to try to help Jim. To chase that awful look out of his eyes and get him to talk again.

That would be worth a really
big
sacrifice.

Maggie could go almost anywhere in the neighborhood on her own now, but the rule was that she always had to tell Mom where she was going.

"I need to go to church again tomorrow," Maggie said. "I want to say a novena for Jim to get better."

A novena. A special kind of praying. Nine days, nine candles, nine prayers. It was one of the things you did when you needed a saint's help. When you couldn't get what you needed on your own.

She saw the doubt in Mom's face.

"After I'm done, I'll come straight home," Maggie said. "It won't take long."

"It's not your being out and about I'm thinking of," Mom said. "It's just that ... Maggie, things don't always turn out the way you hope, and I'd want you to be understanding that."

"But it worked for you, so I thought maybe—"

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"Treecie told me. A long time ago. Remember, when Gil Hodges was in that really bad slump, and he got benched and everything? Treecie's mom told her that you asked for prayers for him. At knitting circle."

"Oh. Treecie was telling you that, was she."

Another brief silence, then Mom sighed. "Sometimes prayers get answered, and sometimes they don't," she said. "It's a simple fact, it is."

Maggie had already figured that out. It seemed like praying
did
work, at least part of the time. Like her prayers for the Dodgers. They still hadn't won the World Series, but they had always been right in there with a chance.

What she couldn't work out was
why
some prayers worked and others didn't.

"But if you want something really bad, and—and it's not something selfish, it's for somebody else—doesn't God ... I mean, wouldn't He—"

"No," Mom said. "That isn't how it works." Then she checked herself, shaking her head. "I shouldn't be saying that. I don't know how it works, so I wouldn't know how it doesn't work, either."

Maggie couldn't decide if Mom's words made things better or worse. On the one hand, it was disappointing that Mom wasn't being more helpful—that she didn't have a special secret about how to make prayers work. On the other hand, it made Maggie feel it was okay to be confused about it, because it seemed that grownups were confused too.

She sighed. "I have to do
something,"
she said. "I mean, if there's a chance that this might help—even just a little chance—then I have to try. Don't you see?"

Mom drew in a breath and nodded. "Yes, I do," she said. She reached out and gave Maggie a quick hug that turned into a little shake. "So long as you see, too."

***

Maggie still had a lot of dimes left because she had bought only seven tickets to the game. On the Monday morning after the game, she put a dime in her pocket. So slim and light, yet she could feel it there all the way to the church.

The church stood back from the street a little, five wide, shallow concrete steps leading to the big wooden doors. She pulled open one of the heavy doors, stepped inside the dim quietness, and stood still, letting her eyes adjust. Then she walked to the bank of candles at one side of the nave.

Maggie hadn't told Mom quite everything about her plan for the novena. The prayers would actually be for two things. For Jim to get better, of course. But to prove how much she wanted it, Maggie had decided to make that big sacrifice and pray for something else as well.

For the
Giants
to win the pennant and the World Series.

Maggie put her dime through the slot in the wooden box, took a new candle, and lit it. She placed it carefully among the others that were burning.

She stared at the candles for a while. Their little flames were mostly steady, but a flicker or two revealed the drafts of air wafting through the nave.

Now she walked to the back row of pews and crossed herself. She entered the pew, knelt, closed her eyes.

It won't count unless I mean it. With all my heart, no cheating.

Maggie opened her eyes and stared at the wooden back of the pew in front of her.

Pray for the Giants to beat the Dodgers?

I can't do this. I can't do it and really mean it.

Another voice inside her head:
Yes, you can. All you have to do is think of Jim—how he looked.

She reached into her pocket and took out her rosary. The beads were smooth and cool under her fingertips.

Holy Mary, Mother of God...

Maggie crossed herself again, got to her feet, and left the pew. She stopped for one more look at her candle. It would be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and each day she would put another dime through the slot and add another candle, until she had done it nine times altogether.

It seemed like a special sign that a novena had nine candles. Just like the nine innings of a baseball game.

For the rest of the season, Maggie felt as though she was being torn in two. She
couldn't
wish for the Dodgers to win. That would be going against her novena, which might be a sin—she wasn't sure, but it certainly felt wrong.

Maybe it wouldn't matter. If Mary, Mother of God, and all of Heaven were working on the novena, surely whatever Maggie was thinking wouldn't make a bit of difference....

But even as that thought formed in her head, Maggie knew it was utterly dishonest. After all, the whole idea of praying for the Giants to win meant giving up the possibility of the Dodgers' winning. It wasn't like wanting Willie to do well and wanting the Dodgers to win at the same time. It had to be one or the other, and now that she had begun making the novena, she had to stick to it.

But she also found that she couldn't
not
wish for the Dodgers to win. Cheering for the Bums had been part of her days for so long, it seemed as if it was now part of her. She was a Dodgers fan. It was as simple as that. There was no way she could listen to a game without wanting them to win.

There was only one solution.

Maggie stopped listening to the games.

It almost killed her. In fact, she was pretty sure it
would
have killed her if it hadn't been for the fact that she only had to make it through a couple of weeks before school started again. A new school, junior high, and instead of walking she would take a bus there. But her head was crammed with so many thoughts about baseball and Jim that there was hardly any space left to think about school.

Those two weeks were the longest of her whole life. She had to leave the house whenever a game started because Joey-Mick or Mom would be listening to it. Even when they weren't, the temptation to turn on the radio was too strong.

She would go to the firehouse and take Charky to the park. Charky was always happy to see her, and if he wondered why their outings were suddenly so much longer than usual, he never asked.

Maggie always had to hurry to get to the park because the radios up and down the block would be on full blast. At times she could hardly bear it, and she
would take off running as fast as she could, away from the sound of the game, away from the possibility that she might listen for a pitch or two and get sucked into the game and start rooting for the Dodgers.

Of course, not listening to the games meant that she wasn't scoring them, either. She had put her scoring notebook away the very evening she made the first prayer of the novena. The last Dodgers' game she had scored was on August 15, the day after the one at Ebbets Field. As she closed her closet door, she tried to console herself with the knowledge that Brooklyn had won both of those games.

For eight more days Maggie went to the church and lit a candle for Jim. She thought it would get easier, but each time she had to have the same silent argument, thinking that she couldn't be sincere, knowing that she had to be.

On the last day of the novena she stayed at the church a little longer than usual, standing before the bank of candles and watching them burn.

It was up to Heaven now. Heaven, with maybe a little help from Willie Mays.

Even though she wasn't listening to the games, Maggie continued to read the newspaper; after all, she had to see how the Giants were doing. Each night she checked the league standings. The Dodgers had a hot streak in the middle of September, winning seven games in a row. With nine games left in the season, the race was still nerve-strainingly close.

After yet another game-long walk in the park, Maggie returned to the firehouse with Charky a few steps ahead of her.

"Hey, Maggie-o!" George called. He was putting away his folding chair; as usual, he had been sitting out front listening to the game.

"Hi, George. Just bringing Charley back," she said. She unclipped the leash and went inside the bay door to hang it on its hook.

As she came out, George gave her a look. "Dodgers lost," he said.

"Oh"

"Oh? That's all you got to say? Maggie, what's goin' on?"

"Nothing. I mean, nothing really."

George shook his head. "Look. I seen you taking Charks out every day at game time. You haven't listened to a game with us in more'n a week. You don't wanna tell me, fine, but don't tell me it's nothin' when I know it's somethin'."

Maggie glanced down at the pavement for a long moment. Then she looked up at George. "I can't tell you," she whispered.

"Can't? Or won't?"

She looked down again. The silence between them seemed to grow until it felt heavy on her shoulders and she slumped under its weight.

George sighed. "Maggie-o, it's not just lately. The time's comin' when you won't be hangin' around here as much anymore. And that's fine, that's the way it oughta be, you growin' up and all that. Happened with your brother, too. But listen here—"

He reached out and put one finger under her chin so he could lift her head and look right at her face.

"This house isn't goin' anywhere, and neither am I. So whatever it is, now or anytime or—or whenever—you be sure and lemme know if there's anything I can do to help."

He pulled his hand away. "That's all," he said.

Maggie cleared her throat. "Okay," she said. When what she really meant was,
Thanks with all my heart forever and ever and ever,
and it must have shown on her face because George nodded.

"Okay," he said. Then he got out his battered lunch box and opened it. He unwrapped his sandwich and took a big bite.

"Roast beef," he said as he chewed, "and horseradish."

He held it out toward her.

Maggie hesitated. She didn't feel like eating just now....

"Go on," he said.

She leaned forward and took a bite, the way she always had. The tang of horseradish filled her mouth, so strong it was almost like a pain, but delicious at the same time.

"Attagirl," he said.

Following their hot streak, the Dodgers lost five straight games, which took them out of contention. When the season ended, they were in second place, five games behind the pennant winners.

The Giants.

The Giants were going to the World Series!

Maggie found to her surprise that she was looking forward to the Series. Now that Brooklyn was out of it, she had no qualms about cheering for the Giants against the American League's Cleveland Indians. Some Brooklyn fans, like George, hated the Giants so much that they were rooting for the Indians. But Maggie knew that even George admired Willie Mays.

She took out her scorebook again to get ready for the Series. Opening it to the back pages, she felt a resigned satisfaction as she wrote "GIANTS" on one page and "INDIANS" on the other. Not as good as writing "DODGERS," of course, but she had missed keeping score.

And, although she tried not to think of it too often, it looked as if the novena might be working....

After running home from school, Maggie got to hear a lot of the first game of the Series. It was a long, slow game that went into extra innings, the score tied, 2–2, and the Giants finally tallied the winning run in the tenth on a three-run homer by Dusty Rhodes.

Better still, as far as Maggie was concerned, was the play Willie made in the eighth inning. With two Cleveland runners on base, the batter Vic Wertz hit a fly ball to deep center. A double off the wall, for sure—Maggie closed her eyes and listened to the crowd roaring over the voice of the announcer; she could see the ball soaring farther and farther....

But Willie had started running the instant the ball hit the bat. And he didn't stop. He ran and ran and ran,
and at the last moment he looked over his shoulder-it was impossible, he'd never in a million years get there in time—but the ball plunked into his glove and
then,
even more impossibly, he spun around so fast and threw the ball in so hard that the Cleveland runner on second base could only make it to third after tagging up, and Willie's cap flew off as he fell down from the force of his throw.

Willie had saved a run from scoring, maybe even two—runs that could have won the game for Cleveland. The three exclamation points didn't seem like enough. Maggie wished she had a pen with gold ink to record that play.