Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle (7 page)

I
CARRY
K
EBSIE'S
letter with me all day. After fifty days of missing her, it feels good to have her around, even if it's just in paper form.

Something inside me isn't in a hurry. So I keep her letter with me. And wait.

I wait until after everyone gets called home for dinner and the kickball game is done for the day. I wait until after Shirley fixes me a Swanson's TV dinner. I'm so busy thinking about the letter in my pocket that I hardly taste any of it, even the apple cobbler, which is my favorite part, even though Shirley never cooks it right and it always sticks to the aluminum tray. I wait until Marshall and Shirley are sound asleep and the only things awake on Ramble Street are the crickets.

I slip out my window and onto the garage roof. All this time, I didn't know what I was waiting for. But as soon as I see it, I know instantly. I was waiting for the moon.

The moon is only a quarter slice, and there are a few clouds in the way. My flashlight batteries are wearing out, but one good bang sends a light beaming.

I open Kebsie's letter slowly and carefully.

I read it again and again before the words sink in.

“Tell MaryBeth congratulations?” “Neato?” That's not the Kebsie Grobser I know.
Tell MaryBeth that Barbie dolls are stupid. Tell MaryBeth to make sure she gets her dolls muddy. Tell MaryBeth to wipe that prissy look off her face.
Those are things that Kebsie would say in a letter.

I wonder if Kebsie's in trouble. Maybe she's trying to tell me something. Maybe “neato” is a secret code word. Maybe she's really trying to say,
Help! I'm being abducted by evil Soviet spies who are forcing me to tell national secrets!
But something lumpy inside me knows this is wishful thinking. There are no signs of worry or trouble in this note, and Kebsie doesn't know any national secrets.

This is a letter from someone who's too busy to write because she is probably walking around her new neighborhood using the word
neato
.

All this time, I thought I was something special. I guess I was just someone to hang out with while Kebsie Grobser lived on Ramble Street. I was nothing to her.

There's no name for the feeling inside of me. The emptiness I got from missing Kebsie seems like good times compared to this new feeling.

I rip up the letter and promise myself that I'll never, ever write to her again.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
my own team pulls a fast one on me.

We're lined up at home plate when MaryBeth Grabowsky drops a bombshell. “Janie Lee and I were talking about it last night. We think it would be a nice thing to give Muscle Man another chance to kick.”

Janie Lee jumps up and down in agreement.

“I'd be okay with that,” says John Marcos, and MaryBeth smiles.

“But it's our turn. We're up. He shouldn't be up until he earns it,” I protest.

“The score is 43 to nothing. What harm would it do?” asks Big Danny.

Harm? What harm? It would change the rules of kickball. Rules that we live by and think are important. What if we changed other rules? The entire game would be different. What if, instead of running to first base, we ran to third? Or maybe it's ten strikes and you're out. Where does it end?

“This is wrong.” I stare at the pitcher's mound, where Muscle Man is patiently waiting.

The team puts it to a vote. I am outvoted.

It looks like I'll have to strike Muscle Man out all over again.

John Marcos signals for me to pitch a slow ball.

I answer with my fastest pitch.

“Are you gonna call it?” I ask him. “What strike is this?”

John Marcos throws the ball back at me. “Call your own strikes.”

And that's what I do. “Steee-rike one,” I say in my best umpire's voice.

“Hold on a sec, Tammy. I'm not warmed up.” Muscle Man drops to the ground and begins doing push-ups. He then moves into a weird combination of jumping jacks and deep knee bends.

Jeez. The kid thinks he's a junior version of Jack LaLanne.

“Whenever you're ready, Jack.” I smirk.

Muscle Man kicks at the air a few times. Finally, he gives me a nod. And I throw the ball.

My next pitch is exactly the same as the first one.

Even though he's seen this pitch before, Muscle Man kicks way too soon. His foot sticks out in front of him, and he holds it there while the ball rolls over home plate.

I look at John Marcos to see if he's going to call this one. When he doesn't, I shout, “Steee-rike two.”

John Marcos picks up the ball, slow and with one hand, and tosses it back in a lazy way. The ball stops midway between the pitcher's mound and home base.

Muscle Man himself has to run after it. “Your pitching is really good today, Tammy,” he says as he tosses me the ball.

“Still think you can beat us all?” I ask, to remind my team exactly why we're doing this.

Muscle Man doesn't answer. He's too busy looking at something way in the outfield. Ready or not, I throw my next pitch.

He doesn't even try to kick. For a second, I think the moment I've been waiting for is finally here. “Do you give up?” I shout, but Muscle Man only stares past me. John Marcos stands alongside him, and the ball drifts over toward the Grabowsky's front lawn.

“What now?” I head for home plate and grab the ball myself. If I have to be pitcher and catcher too, this game will go on forever.

“Look, Tammy,” whispers Muscle Man. He points to a man in uniform walking down the block.

“What's a soldier doing on Ramble Street?” asks John Marcos.

“Look at those medals on his chest,” says Muscle Man.

Whoever he is, he looks pretty official.

The others join us at home base.

“What do you think he wants?” MaryBeth asks.

“Maybe he's a friend of Vinnie's.” I brush her question off, anxious to get on with the game.

“If he is, I've never seen him,” says Big Danny.

The soldier doesn't look like he's ever been here before. He checks each house number with a piece of paper he's holding.

He finally stops in front of the Pizzarelli house. He checks the number one last time. And then he marches to the door.

We all inch closer, waiting to see what happens next.

It takes a while for the door to open. Poor Mr. Pizzarelli probably worked the night shift and was in the middle of a nap. I wonder if he's going to yell about being woken up, the way he did the time when Kebsie and I made too much noise outside his bedroom window.

As soon as he sees the soldier, he lets him in, and the door slams closed behind them.

“There you go. He's a friend of Vinnie's. Now, can we get back to the game?” I ask.

But no one moves.

“Maybe he came to tell Mr. Pizzarelli that Vinnie's dead,” says Big Danny.

We all stare at Mr. Pizzarelli's closed-up door.

“Things are fine. My brother got a letter from him a few days ago.” And I suddenly remember that I never told Mr. Pizzarelli. A ball about the size of the one I'm holding forms in the pit of my stomach.

“That happened in my old neighborhood,” says Muscle Man. “That's how they told Walter Martin's parents. When Mrs. Martin heard, she fell straight to the floor.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, but the other kids circle round him.

“Didn't stop crying for a week,” he adds.

“I've heard of this happening,” says John Marcos.

Across the street, the grown-ups are gathering too. Mrs. Murphy puts down her gardening hoe and stands next to Mrs. Kutchner. Mrs. Grabowsky runs across the street so fast that she almost loses her sandal.

Then, Mr. Grabowsky turns down the block, swinging his briefcase, like he does every night on his walk home from the train station. Normally on days when the Mets are playing, nothing stops Mr. Grabowsky from getting inside and watching the game, but as soon as the ladies stop him, he puts down his briefcase and joins them.

A few minutes later, Vinnie Pizzarelli's Aunt Carmella pulls up in her old Chrysler. Before anyone can ask her a question, she rushes into the house with her head down. Even Mrs. Grabowksy, who can find out other people's business in less time than it takes for most people to put their socks and shoes on, can't get to her before the Pizzarelli's door closes.

“I've seen this before.” Muscle Man's voice is flat. “This isn't good.”

“Ah, come on, it's nothing,” I say, but even I am starting to doubt my own words.

“I saw two guys get killed on the TV last night,” says Billy Rattle.

“So? That was on TV. Those people were acting,” I say. Sometimes Billy Rattle has gravel for brains.

“Duh, Tamara. It wasn't a TV show. It was in the news. They're always talking about Vietnam. They show it on the news all the time,” says Billy Rattle.

“Don't your parents ever watch the news?” asks MaryBeth Grabowsky.

“Duh back,” is what I want to say. Shirley only watches Jack LaLanne and soap operas, and Marshall thinks television rots a person's brain. I bet Tim watches. If Kebsie were in a war on television, I'd watch every night, searching for a glimpse of her.

I bounce the ball harder. It echoes on the sidewalk.

That ball, slamming onto the sidewalk, is the only sound on the block. Even Muscle Man keeps his big mouth shut.

We all stand, huddled together, waiting for the soldier to leave. The kids on one side of the street, the adults on the other. Everyone, quiet and waiting.

As the minutes pass, the groups grow bigger. Somehow the people of Ramble Street have a way of knowing when something serious is going on. Even my mother leaves her television set and finds her way to the swarm of grownups on the other side of the street.

Janie Lee is the first of the kids to break from our side. She heads over to where her parents stand. From the way Mr. Grabowsky shrugs his shoulders and pats her hand, it's clear that he has no answers. All we can do is wait.

As soon as Mr. Pizzarelli's door opens, there's no need to ask if the worst is true. Aunt Carmella's sobs hit the sidewalk.

Suddenly, it feels like all of the air has been taken away from Ramble Street. I gasp to take a single breath.

“Oh, jeez,” says Marshall when he catches me watching the soaps on Friday afternoon. “Not you too.”

I don't say anything. Neither does Shirley, who's right beside me.

Ever since morning, when Shirley patted the couch motioning for me to sit next to her, I've been watching her programs.

Every once in a while, she fills me in. “Amanda is really innocent of the murder. But Bob wants her to go to jail because he fell in love with Ruth when they were both stranded on an island in Tahiti. Of course, Ruth wants to marry Alex, but Alex needs to recover from his amnesia before he can marry anyone.”

The stories are very complicated. Now I know why Shirley must pay such careful attention.

Marshall mumbles something about brain decay and is about to shuffle off to the den with his book when the front door opens.

A stranger steps into our living room. At least, that's what I first think when I see the man with long hair, a beard and mustache, ripped jeans, and a T-shirt that says, “Peace.”

“Hey, Beanpole,” the stranger says.

“Tim?” I hesitate. Who else besides Tim and Vinnie would call me that?

Shirley throws her arms around him. “Tim!” If she thinks there's something wrong with Tim's ripped jeans and long hair, I can't tell.

Marshall barely holds out his hand. “What happened to you?”

“Not now, Marshall,” says Shirley.

Marshall's face grows puffy, like it's filled up with things he wants to say. But instead of talking, he stands alongside me, watching Tim and Shirley with their arms around each other.

I want to run to Tim. I want to tell him how sorry I am, but something's holding me back.

“Tim,” I say softly. “Vinnie's letter. I…I…”

His face is so buried in Shirley's shoulder that I wonder if he hears me.

After a while, he lifts up his head. “What about Vinnie's letter?”

I try to explain. I want to tell him that I meant to tell Mr. Pizzarelli, but that I kept on forgetting. I want to tell him the truth, but no words come out.

The only sound in the room is voices from Shirley's soap operas. A commercial comes on, one that has a snappy jingle.

“
It walks down stairs, without a care

And makes the happiest sound.
”

“Tamara, did you tell Mr. Pizzarelli about Vinnie's letter?” Tim asks, with a sinking voice. Tim never calls me Tamara, except on very special occasions.

I still don't speak.

“It's Slinky. It's Slinky. For fun, it's the best of the toys…”

“You told Mr. Pizzarelli, right?” Tim pushes Shirley away and is looking right at me.

On TV, the Slinkys are marching, two at a time, down a wooden plank.

Tim stares at me, waiting for an answer.

Shink. Shink. Shink.
I don't care how loud the commercial is on the television or how much the Slinky inside of me is grumbling, I can't add to Tim's sadness.

I take a deep breath and say the words I hope will make Tim feel better. “I gave the message to Mr. Pizzarelli. I told him about Vinnie's letter.”

Tim sighs. My stomach does a backflip.

Tim gives me a smile, weak, but at least it's something. “Thanks, Beanpole. I knew I could count on you.”

The Slinkys on TV fade away, but I know from the way my stomach twists and turns that the Slinky inside me has a lot more to say.