Stealing Home (5 page)

“Get going!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Bobbie poked her head into the hall closet and came out with a baseball, a bat, and two gloves. She held out the older-looking of the two. “You want to use this glove? It was my daddy’s.”

Joey flushed. “Nothing wrong with my glove!”

“I didn’t say there was. Sheesh! Just thought you might like to try it, that’s all.”

Joey looked closely at her. She didn’t appear to be making fun of him. He glanced at the glove. Holy cow. He
clung to his pride for five seconds, then reached for it. “Okay,” he said offhandedly, “just for a change.”

Rawlings.
Just seeing the fabled name stitched across the back sent a shiver up his spine. The glove was the color of wood that has weathered in the rain and wind, golden-brown turned a warm gray. It had the texture of aged leather, soft and supple. He slipped his hand inside. It was big, but still it felt as though his hand was made to go inside. The pocket pressed reassuringly against his palm. A thin band of webbing stretched protectively across the gap between the thumb and first finger. He lifted the glove to his face. It smelled of dirt and grass, sweat and sun.

Joey felt Bobbie’s eyes on him. She was looking at him oddly, as if wondering why he was getting so carried away by a simple baseball glove.

“What?” he said defensively.

“Nothing.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

As they walked down the street, Joey shot Bobbie a closer look. Her arms were wiry, her legs muscular. She moved easily, light on her feet. She carried the bat over her shoulder, her glove dangling from the tip. With her other hand, she tossed up the ball, caught it, tossed it, and caught it.

Who’da thunk it – a girl cousin who played baseball? Here he’d expected her to be all frilly and prissy, and instead she was a tomboy. What a stroke of luck!

Too bad she was a bossy, hot-headed, loudmouth know-it-all.

T
he playing field was a wide vacant lot, reddish-brown dirt, a few tufts of grass, and a lone maple tree at the back that had somehow been left standing. On one side stood a new house, its bricks bright red, its yard still raw earth. On the other side, separated by a chain-link fence, rose a tall, yellow-brick factory with a sign that said,
PURITY SOAP. WE KEEP BROOKLYN CLEAN.
Grayish-white smoke hung suspended over the chimney as if it didn’t have the energy to rise through the humid air into the sky.

Five or six boys were in the lot. A sandy-haired boy with sticking-out ears lobbed pitches to the batter, who hit every ball with a fast, level swing. A burly catcher crouched behind him, pounding the center of his glove, encouraging the pitcher to “Put it in ’ere,” and another sandy-haired boy chased down the hits in near right field.
Along the third base line, two fellows threw grounders back and forth. One, a chubby redhead, lumbering clumsily after the ball, missed nearly every one, and had to chase them into the yard of the unfinished house. But the other, small and wiry, olive-skinned, quickly scooped up the ball each time, as if he were scooping up a handful of water.

Joey watched wistfully, enjoying the boys’ easy patter, the smells of leather and dirt, the
thwack
as the ball hit the glove, the sharp
pop
as the bat connected with the ball. He admired the way the pitcher’s leg kicked up before he released the ball, the easy skip the groundball-catching boy took before his arm whipped around to throw.
You could pass,
he remembered his friend Harry saying. No one had looked at him funny on the street. If only he could slip right in with these kids …

The redhead missed a grounder and the ball rolled toward the road. He went to retrieve it, stomping down the slight drop to the sidewalk.

“Oh – hiya, Bobbie.”

She waved. “Hi, Grossie.”

The others turned and smiled.

“Hey, Vito, Louie, Larry.” She waved again.

Now Joey saw that two of the boys looked remarkably alike. Both had the same skinny build, the same sticking-out ears. They were dressed alike, too, in
rolled-up dungarees, brown T-shirts, navy Keds, and Brooklyn baseball caps. Must be twins.

Only the batter and the catcher didn’t greet Bobbie. “What do
you
want, Rosen?” the batter said, not bothering to look at her.

“What do you think?” Bobbie said.

Now he turned. “No girls allowed.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I say so.”

“Yeah, Eli says so. So scram,” the catcher said, jerking his thumb. He was big and muscular. Blond hair stuck out like straw from beneath his cap.

“Aw, come on, Eli, let her play,” the clumsy boy said.

The batter glared at him. “Who makes the rules around here, Grossman?”

“You do, Eli, but –”

“And just you remember it, Fatso.” Eli rounded on Bobbie. “Go find some girls to play with.”

“Girls around here don’t play ball, and you know it,” she grumbled.

“That’s ’cause girls can’t play.”

“They can so!” Bobbie said. “I’m better than half the boys in Brooklyn!”

The wiry boy pointed toward the back of the field. “Yeah, Eli, last time she hit one past the tree. That’s farther than you ever did.”

The other kids snickered as an angry flush spread up Eli’s face. The catcher leaned toward him. “You want me to get ’im, Eli?”

“Sure, Tommy. Teach ’im a lesson.”

As the catcher advanced, the small boy stepped back, hands up. “Aw, never mind.”

Eli and Tommy exchanged a smirk. Then Eli flicked his head at Joey. “Who’s that?”

“My cousin. Joey Sexton.”

Eli took a step closer, then stopped, eyes wide. “Yankees! What’re you doing with a Yankees cap?”

“Told you,” Bobbie whispered.

“It’s a free country,” Joey said.

“Not in Brooklyn,” Eli said. “Come on, Tommy.” The pair advanced closer.

Then Eli stopped short. “Is this your idea of a joke, Rosen?”

“What?”

“He’s not your cousin. Can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause he’s a nigger!”

No!
Joey’s inner voice screamed.
Not them, too. Not here.

“Watch your mouth,” Bobbie said. “And for your information, Mister Smarty-pants, he is so my cousin. Just came to live with us. So there!”

“Guess you don’t know everything, Fishkin,” one of the twins said with a chuckle. But he clammed up when Tommy took a step toward him.

Eli glared at the two cousins. “Well, I don’t care who he is. No nigger is playing in this field, and that’s final.”

“Don’t call him that,” Bobbie said. “Besides, Jackie Robinson’s a Negro, and if he’s good enough –”

“Yeah, and that’s one too many in Brooklyn,” Eli said. Tommy laughed.

Joey tensed. “What did you say?”

“I said, that’s one nigger too many in Brooklyn. You got a problem with that, Nigger Boy?”

“I got Negro blood in me, and I ain’t ashamed of it. But no one calls me
nigger
”

“I just did, Nigger.”

“You take that back!” Joey didn’t want to fight – especially on his first day in Brooklyn.

“N-n-n-nig –”

Joey jumped on him. Eli was a head taller. The move took him by surprise and he staggered as Joey’s fist caught him in the chin.

“Holy cow!” somebody said.

“Why, you –” Eli recovered quickly. He grabbed Joey by the shirt and punched him in the nose.

“That’s it, Eli,” Tommy shouted.

Joey tasted blood. His fist plowed into Eli’s stomach, but this time the bigger boy was ready and he hardly seemed to feel it. He returned the punch, hitting Joey in the eye. At the same time, Joey felt a ringing blow to the side of his head. Surprised, he turned. It was Tommy. Then he reeled as Eli caught him on the chin.

“Tommy Flanagan, you can’t go two against one, you dirty fighter!” Bobbie shouted.

“Shut up, Rosen, you and your nigger cousin both.”

“You take that back,” Bobbie yelled, and to Joey’s amazement she threw herself on Tommy. He stumbled and fell.

“Big tough Flanagan – knocked down by a girl,” Vito hollered, and the others laughed.

That enraged Tommy further. He jumped to his feet, grabbed Bobbie by the arm and started hitting her.

She stuck up for me,
Joey thought in amazement. A warm feeling swept over him, but it didn’t last long. Another punch from Eli connected with his chin and put him on his backside.

“Give up, Nigger Boy?” Eli towered over him.

In answer, Joey rose to his feet, only to suffer a series of punches to the neck and arms. Out of the corner of a rapidly swelling eye, he saw Bobbie struggling gamely, but getting the worst of it from Tommy.

Another punch to his brow knocked Joey to his knees. He reached out with his foot, but Eli jumped out of the way. Joey was staggering to his feet when a voice shouted, “You boys! Cut it out or I’ll call the cops!”

Everyone froze. A woman stood on the stoop of the new house, shaking her finger.

Eli let go of Joey. “Shoot,” he said to Tommy, “that lady knows my mama. Come on, let’s get out of here before she recognizes me.” Eli and Tommy scooped up their gloves and bats and took off.

Hands on knees, panting, Joey and Bobbie watched them go. The others gathered around. “You okay, Bobbie?” the redhead asked.

“Yeah, Grossie,” she said, wiping her face on her sleeve.

“You?” someone asked Joey.

He nodded, still winded.

“Those jerks,” Louie said. “Calling Jackie Robinson a … that name.”

“Aw, they’re just a couple of dumbbells,” Bobbie answered.

“You did good … both of you. Real good,” Vito put in.

“Well… we better go,” Grossie said.

“Yeah … better go,” the others echoed.

“Sure. See ya, fellas,” Bobbie said.

The boys gathered their things and left.

Joey took stock of himself. He could hardly see out of one eye. He felt wetness on his upper lip. He wiped his arm across his face and left a bloody streak on his forearm. His temple throbbed, and when he touched it gingerly, he winced at the pain.

Then he took a good look at his cousin. Her lower lip was bloody, there was a scratch across her forehead, the scab on her knee had torn off and was bleeding, and her shirt and shorts were filthy. She looked beautiful. Like a scrapper.

“Hey, thanks for … you know, coming in like that.”

She blushed. “That’s okay.”

“No one ever did that for me.”

“Well, you
are
my cousin. Besides, I can’t stand it when guys fight dirty. It’s just like Flanagan to gang up two against one. And just like Fishkin to call names.”

Joey gave a harsh laugh. “In my old neighborhood they used to call me
whitebread. Cracker.
I fought about that, too.”

She looked at him admiringly. “You’re pretty tough.”

“So’re you.”

They grinned at each other. Then Bobbie’s smile faded. “Zeyde’s gonna kill us,” she said.

Fear seized Joey. The old man already had it in for him. “Aw, jeez, I didn’t mean –”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault. It’s just that Zeyde gets mad when I fight. Mama too.” “Those guys –”

“Fishkin started it. I’ll tell them that. They’ll understand.”

“You think so?”

“Sure.” She smiled. “Come on.”

They picked up their stuff and started home. Joey knew he was in trouble. But right now he didn’t care. His cousin had stood up for him. When push came to shove, she’d been on his side. No questions, no hesitation.

He had a friend.

Zeyde was in his chair by the window, listening to the radio. Bobbie motioned Joey to follow her on tiptoe down the hall, but they had only crept past the living-room doorway when a voice rang out. “Hold it.”

They stopped.

“Come here.”

They shot each other a look. Joey’s heart pounded. They went into the living room and stood before their grandfather. His eyes flicked from one to the other, the color rising in his cheeks. Turning off the radio, he stood up.

“Zeyde, I can explain –” Bobbie began.

“I am ashamed.”

“It wasn’t our fault, Zeyde –”

“Roberta, you know better.”

“It wasn’t her fault… Zeyde,” Joey put in, the word strange on his tongue. “She only came in when –”

“Silence!”

Aunt Frieda peeked in. “What’s the matter?” Then, looking at the two children, “Oh, my goodness.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Bobbie!”

Zeyde pointed at Joey, his brows gathered into a thick black line. “Two minutes in this house and you disgrace us –”

“But Zeyde, it wasn’t his fault,” Bobbie argued.

“Bobbie, how could you?” Aunt Frieda twisted her apron in her hands. “You promised me you wouldn’t fight anymore.”

“I know, Mama, but I couldn’t help it.”

“And Joey,” Aunt Frieda went on, tears welling up in her eyes, “you mustn’t carry on like this.”

“But Mama, they were calling him nigger.”

“How terrible!”

“And then they ganged up, two against one.”

Zeyde pointed at Joey. “So you dragged her into it?”

“No, I –”

“No, Zeyde, it wasn’t like that –” Bobbie began.

“It’s bad enough for you, young lady, carrying on like that when you know better. But you!” He pointed at Joey,
his face crimson. “Running around like a wild thing, getting into fights, getting your cousin into mischief.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Roberta, you stay in your room for an hour. And you, Joseph, don’t show your face until suppertime.”

“But Zeyde, that’s not fair.” Bobbie said.

“Daddy –” Aunt Frieda began.

He cut her off with a slash of the hand, then turned back to Joey and Bobbie. “Go!”

Wild thing… disgrace…

Joey’s insides tightened. Had he blown it already? When he was allowed out of his room, would he be sent on his way?

At the top, of the stairs, Bobbie gave his hand a squeeze and went into her room. Joey was about to go into the bathroom when he heard Zeyde say, “I told you that boy would be trouble, Frieda.”

“Daddy, you wouldn’t!”

“No. Not this time.”

Joey let out a breath.

“Not that he doesn’t deserve it –”

“But, Daddy, it wasn’t really his fault. Such a cruel name those boys called him. No wonder he fought back. And maybe he hasn’t been taught any better.”