Keeping Score (8 page)

Maggie went down to the kitchen and came back with a roll of tape. She put the photograph on her bedroom wall. Then she sat down to write to Jim.

Dear Jim,

THANKS FOR THE PICTURE! I put it up on my wall near the picture of Willie, so now I have "Say-Hey" and "Jay-Hey" right next to each other, ha ha!

Maggie shared all of Jim's letters with Treecie. The next time Treecie came over, Maggie showed her the photo he had sent.

"Pretty good shot," Treecie said. "Good lighting on their faces." She held it up and narrowed her eyes a little. "But they're too centered. I'd have shifted things so they were more to the side. See, if the subject is off-center, your eye gets drawn to it, so you have to look at the whole thing, not just the middle."

Maggie hadn't even noticed whether Jim and Jay-Hey were in the middle or not.
Treecie sees the photo first. I see what's
in
the photo first.

Jim and Jay were standing in front of a tent. The tent had a wooden door and a canvas roof. Jim was wearing his army uniform and a cap. Jay had on a white T-shirt and trousers the same shade as Jim's and a cap like Jim's too. A piece of heavy cord was tied tight around Jay's middle, scrunching up the waistband of the pants to make them fit.

Jim was smiling broadly. Jay was smiling too, but not as much; Maggie thought maybe he felt a little shy about having his picture taken.

She tilted her head at Treecie. "Do you think Jim's teaching him to keep score too? Or just how to play?"

Treecie rolled her eyes. "Are you crazy?
I
can't even keep score, and I've been a baseball fan for ages!"

They giggled. Maggie had tried to teach Treecie to keep score last season. After only a few minutes, Treecie had stopped the lesson and declared, "Sheesh. I like baseball, but not THIS much."

Maggie couldn't understand it. Keeping score was so much fun—how could anyone
not
want to do it?

"I wish it could be a job," she said now.

"You wish what could be a job?"

"Keeping score of Dodger games."

Treecie tapped her chin with one finger. "Maybe it is."

"Maybe it is what?"

"Well, you know the stuff in the newspaper, the box scores and stuff you're always looking at? Somebody must keep track of all that." Treecie's eyes lit up. "Wow, if it
is
a job, it would be
perfect
for you!"

Maggie furrowed her brow. Treecie's words had brought to mind a certain kind of play. A batter would hit the ball, but it wouldn't go very far—it would stay in the infield. The batter would get to first base safely. Sometimes it was because the ball was hit in such a way that the fielder couldn't possibly reach it in time. That was scored as a hit. Other times, when the fielder messed up, it was an error. Maggie couldn't write the play down until the radio announcer said something like, "That'll be an error on the shortstop, according to the official scorer."

The official scorer.
She had heard those words many times but had never really thought about them. Maybe Treecie was right—maybe scoring games
was
a job, and if it was, maybe it was something she could do when she grew up. It was the first time Maggie had given any serious thought to one of Treecie's career ideas.

"You know what would help him?" Treecie said. "Jay, I mean."

"Help him what?"

"Help him learn about baseball quicker. Baseball cards. You should send him some, I bet he'd like that."

Treecie was a genius, and Maggie told her so. In her next letter to Jim, Maggie sent two packs of baseball cards for Jay-Hey.

Jim's reply took longer than usual to arrive. For three Saturdays in a row, Mr. Armstrong called out
"Sorry, Maggie-o" as soon as he saw her. Then, on the last day of school, an envelope from Korea was waiting on the hall table.

Dear Maggie-o,

Sorry I haven't written in a while, but I'll tell you why a little later in this letter. WOW, does Jay love those cards you sent. He looks at them a hundred times a day and asks me about a million questions about the stats! They're already getting pretty worn out and me too, I'm worn out from answering all his questions, ha ha.

Anyway, me and Jay-Hey were working on something and it's finally ready, so that's why it's taken so long to send this letter. Turn over to see what it is. It took him a while to learn because our alphabet is different from theirs, but he wrote the whole thing himself.

Happy 4th of July even though this might not get there in time.

Your friend Jim

Maggie turned the letter over. In the middle of the page was a note that had clearly been erased and rewritten several times.

To Maggie-o,

Thanks for cards. I like!

Jay

"You could be pen pals!" Treecie said when she saw the note from Jay. "A pen pal from Korea, that would be SO neat."

Treecie had a pen pal who lived in Ohio, a girl named Martha whom she had met on Long Island two summers ago. Maggie wished she could have a girl for a pen pal. If she and Jay ended up writing to each other, maybe she could ask if he had a sister or a friend who was a girl. Then she would have
two
pen pals from Korea.
Maybe someday we could even visit each other—wouldn't that be amazing.

Over the next few weeks, a flurry of small parcels left Brooklyn. Maggie continued to write to Jim, and in almost every letter she included something for Jay. Treecie came up with the idea of sending him a comic book. Maggie thought of a postcard showing the Statue of Liberty. She didn't wait for replies; whenever she or Treecie got an idea for something else to send him, Maggie wrote and sent it right away.

Treecie also took a photograph—a real one—of Maggie with the firehouse guys. Treece grumbled about the uselessness of her camera, something about the contrast in the photo not being quite right, but Maggie thought the picture was just fine and mailed it to Jim in her next letter.

Then Treecie went to Long Island for the summer. Maggie always missed her, but this year it seemed even worse than usual. After Treecie left, Maggie couldn't seem to think of anything else to send to Jay. The gift had to be inexpensive, of course, and also small and light enough to mail easily.

It had been almost three weeks since she had sent him anything, which felt like way too long. With no better idea, Maggie decided to send him more baseball cards, so she went down to Mr. Aldo's shop to buy a pack.

And there, at the candy counter, she found a perfect gift.

I'm putting something for Jay in with this letter. It's a new thing Mr. Aldo just started selling at his shop. If you flip open the top, a little piece of candy comes out.

It's called PEZ, I hope he likes it!

The start of the school year always made Maggie feel a little breathless. New teacher, different kids in her class, the feeling of being a year older, which was somehow a lot stronger when she went into a new grade than it was on her birthday. She had a new white blouse with a darling round collar. And after weeks of begging, she had finally persuaded Mom to cut bangs into her hair. She couldn't pass a mirror or a window without pausing to look at her reflection; the bangs really did make her look older.

Besides that, Treecie was back from Long Island, and they had so much to talk about. They talked as fast as they could every second on the way to school and at recess and when they saw each other on the weekends, and still it seemed as if they would never get caught up.

But Maggie had hardly anything new to tell Treecie about Jim—because she hadn't received a letter from him in ages. Mr. Armstrong didn't call out to her anymore on Saturday mornings; he just shook his head as soon as he came around the corner.

One evening at bedtime, Maggie opened the lid of the shoebox where she kept Jim's letters. She took them out of their envelopes and put them on the bedspread.

Six letters from Jim, with the one note from Jay-Hey.

May 31. That was when Jim's last letter had been written. Jay's note had come in the same envelope.

And now it was the beginning of September. More than three whole months without a letter.

Why was it taking so long? Were his letters getting lost in the mail? Or was he just not writing to her anymore?

Maggie refolded the letters, put them back into their envelopes, and returned them to the shoebox. She pressed her lips together hard.

There were two possible reasons why she hadn't heard from Jim in so long. And neither was good news.

The first reason was easier to talk about.

"I mean, I thought we were friends, but maybe I'm wrong," Maggie said as she and Treecie walked home from school the next day. "Maybe to him I'm just some—some pesky little kid, but he had to be nice to me because my dad got him his job."

"What are you talking about—of
course
he likes you!" Treecie said. "If it was because of your dad, do you think he'd have spent hours and
hours
scoring games with you? Don't be ridiculous. He could have given you a—a Hershey bar or something if he just wanted to be nice!"

Maggie had to smile. Treecie, loyal and reassuring and annoyed all at the same time.

"Still, maybe it was stupid of me to keep writing to him," Maggie said. "I—I don't know why—"

"I do," Treecie said. "Baseball."

"Well, sure, but—"

"No, listen. I mean, I like baseball and I love the Dodgers and all that, but when you two talk about baseball, it's almost a whole different game. The stuff in your scorebooks—it's like some secret code or something, that nobody else could figure out. What I mean is, you talk about baseball different to him than anybody else. And you miss that."

Maggie looked at Treecie gratefully and nodded. It was true. Ever since Jim had left, she had been going to the firehouse less often. Not that she didn't like the other guys; they were her pals, especially George, and she still listened to games with them from time to time. But it wasn't the same without Jim there.

"Anyway, maybe it's not his fault," Treecie said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, suppose he's not an ambulance guy anymore. Suppose he got transferred into some supersecret spy job, and he's not allowed to write to anyone. Or he's ... he's behind enemy lines or—wait, I know!"

Treecie stopped walking and grabbed Maggie's arm, her eyes wide. "He's been captured! He's a prisoner-of-war, and he's being kept in some awful jail, and the—the warden's daughter is really smart, and she sneaks him extra food, and they've fallen in love, and she's figuring out a plan to help him escape!"

"C'mon, Treece, this isn't a movie," Maggie said.

Still, Treecie had said aloud what Maggie had been thinking: The second possibility was that Jim
couldn't
write to her.

He's still alive,
she thought.
If he wasn't, we would know—Dad would have heard.

Not dead, then. Hurt? Or captured?

And how could she find out?

She asked her dad first. Dad said he hadn't heard anything about Jim, so the next time Maggie passed by the firehouse, she spoke to George.

"Yeah, Maggie-o, I did hear somethin'," he said. He set down the sandwich he was holding and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "I mean, it wasn't me, it was his sister."

George went on to explain that Jim's sister in New Jersey had phoned to say she had received a letter. "She told me things are a little tough for him. But he—he's doin' okay, I guess." He paused for a moment, then picked up the sandwich and waved it at her. "Bologna?" he said.

Maggie shook her head.

"You sure? Aw, go on."

Maggie saw the ragged edges of the bread and the semicircle shapes of George's bites, and it didn't look the least bit appetizing. "No thanks, George."

He shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Guess that means more for me."

Maggie said goodbye and headed home.

The relief that she felt on hearing that Jim had been in touch with his sister was tangled up with other not-so-good feelings. Of course it was normal for Jim to write to his family, but she couldn't help feeling jealous of this sister she'd never met.

And if he was still writing to other people, did it mean Treecie was wrong—that Jim wasn't a real friend after all?

Maggie thought about the games they had scored together, their long conversations about baseball, the times they had taken Charky for walks in the park. She shook her head.

I
know
we were friends.

There was some other reason he wasn't writing to her, and she had no idea what it could be.

Good thing the Dodgers were doing so well: The 1952 season was one day of joy after another. The Bums had been in first place since the beginning of June, winning game upon game—so many that the losses hardly hurt at all.

Secretly, Maggie knew it was at least in part because of her.

Before the season started, Maggie had figured out how she could help the team. She would score every play of every single game that she listened to. She wouldn't miss a single pitch.

And she would pray for the Dodgers the night before each game.

Okay, so her praying hadn't worked last year, but
maybe saying prayers was like collecting something. Maggie thought of Treecie's shells.

Years ago, when Treecie had first announced that she was collecting shells, she had only three. It was not a very impressive collection, although of course Maggie didn't tell her that.

Now on a shelf in Treecie's room, there was a big pickle jar full of shells. She had found them on the beach near her uncle's farm. "I like thinking how they could have come from really far away," Treecie had said.

Maybe saying prayers was like collecting shells—maybe you had to say a whole lot of them before they added up to something. Maggie pictured her prayers as a string of words trailing upwards. Maybe she had to say a bunch more prayers before the string was long enough to reach Heaven.