Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle (9 page)

I
T'S
F
RIDAY BEFORE
the kids on Ramble Street get together again. We stand in front of the Grabowsky's looking at each other, like we're not sure what to do.

Finally, Big Danny picks up the ball. “Wanna play?”

“Yeah, let's get on with this game,” I say, and I give Muscle Man my best you'd-better-not-try-to-weasel-out-of-this stare.

“I'm ready when you are.” He gives me the same look back.

I head toward the Rattles' front lawn, but no one follows.

“What?” I turn around to the crowd.

Billy Rattle is the first to speak. “We were talking before you got here. We're bored. It's not fun anymore. Why don't we play regular teams instead?”

John Marcos nods. MaryBeth, who's standing right next to him, pumps her head up and down too.

“Cool,” says Big Danny, and he bounces the ball like it's all settled.

Everyone agrees, and I suddenly notice that the group has dwindled. Tony Mogavero is back with his Catholic school friends. Conchetta Marchetta and her sisters are off playing at their pool. The Donovan twins are probably fighting with each other somewhere, and Benny Schuster is probably telling them to stop. Muscle Man's older brother, Greg, is who knows where. Even Janie Lee Grabowsky found some friends her own age.

Muscle Man shrugs. “Well, if you all give up,” he says.

“Wait a second,” I hold my hand up in the air. “You're not giving up? You don't admit that we beat you fair and square?”

“You didn't exactly beat me, Tammy, you gave up,” he says. “Your team is the one that doesn't want to play.”

“No!” I grab the ball from Big Danny, who stands there with his mouth hanging open because no one in the world would ever dare to take a ball from Big Danny. “Not until he gives up. We're not done with this game. Not until he admits he's a loser.”

The other kids groan, except for MaryBeth Grabowsky, who crosses her arms in front of her and
humphs
.

“These are the rules! We don't stop playing until he admits defeat.” I can't believe I have to explain it to them.

“Jeez, Tammy!” says John Marcos.

“Doesn't honor mean anything to you?” I point to Muscle Man. “He called us out! He said he could beat us all!”

“Sometimes you're a real pain in the…” Big Danny takes one look at MaryBeth Grabowsky and changes what he's going to say. “Butt.”

Billy Rattle points down the block. “What's Mr. Pizza doing?” he whispers, as if Mr. Pizzarelli could hear him from three houses away.

“It looks like he's digging a hole,” says Big Danny.

“Who cares?” I ask.

“Jeez, Tamara, the man lost his son,” says Billy Rattle.

MaryBeth throws me a look that would make a lesser person pee in her pants. But I don't need a comment from Billy Rattle or a nasty look from Miss Never-Said-Something-Stupid-in-Her-Life Grabowsky to know it came out different than I meant it.

I didn't mean that I didn't care. I meant that he has every right to do whatever he wants to the front of his house. Of course, I cared. I knew Vinnie better than anyone here.

I slam down the ball, and it goes flying off toward Mr. Pizzarelli's.

“Let's go see if he needs help,” says Big Danny.

Before I can utter a word, they're all halfway down the block.

I turn to follow them and see Muscle Man slinking away. He's headed toward Mrs. Kutchner's garage, probably intending to hide out.

I march over to tell the other kids, “Hey, guess who didn't come? Mus—”

Something about the sight of Mr. Pizzarelli makes me stop in midsentence. Knee-deep in a hole, he looks old and weak and tired. His skin is shiny with sweat.

“You need any help, Mr. Pizzarelli?” asks Big Danny.

Mr. Pizzarelli doesn't answer. It's like he doesn't even notice that a whole group of kids is staring at him.

“What's he doing?” asks Billy Rattle.

Big Danny points to a sapling with its roots wrapped in a burlap bag. There's a hand-painted sign next to it that says, “In memory of Vincent Paul Pizzarelli, 1951–1969.”

We form a circle around Mr. Pizzarelli, one that's so tight I wonder if he can breathe. He gives us all a quick nod. Then he goes back to digging.

There's a sharp poke in my back.

“Can you move, Tammy? I need to get in.” I'd recognize the wormy voice anywhere.

I step aside, and Muscle Man, who's carrying a shovel, jumps into the hole.

He presses the shovel into the earth and digs.

Shink. Thwump. Shink. Thwump. Shink. Thwump.
Muscle Man and Mr. Pizzarelli share the same steady rhythm, like they've been shoveling together for years.

Neither one says a word, and I wonder if Mr. Pizzarelli even knows that Muscle Man is there. But then Muscle Man hits a rock. As he teeters off balance, Mr. Pizzarelli grabs his arm. As soon as Muscle Man is steady on his feet, the two go back to their digging.

Just as I'm beginning to think it's a nice thing that Muscle Man is doing, he slides into another lie. “They planted a tree for my mom and dad when they died,” he says. “It's on the corner where it happened.”

Nothing stops this kid. Not even the death of Vinnie Pizzarelli.

I roll my eyes at MaryBeth who rolls her eyes back at me. “Didn't anyone tell you?” she whispers. “His parents died in a car crash.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Tammy, it's true. It was in all the papers.”

There's something about the way Muscle Man grips on to his shovel that makes me wonder if this time, it's not a made-up story.

“Both?”

MaryBeth nods through one of her looks.

“How was I supposed to know?” I whisper back, and I regret asking it the moment I said it. Because if you ask MaryBeth Grabowsky a question, she always has an answer.

She folds her arms in front of her. “You could have talked to him. It's called having a conversation, Tamara.”

“Duh. Why did you think he's in a foster home?” Billy Rattle chimes in, and his voice is hardly a whisper.

“I didn't know.” The truth is I hadn't thought about it. Not even once.

I never asked Kebsie about her family, either. Not even once.

“When?” I ask.

“Three months ago,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Jeez, Tamara. Didn't you notice he wasn't at Vinnie's funeral?” says Big Danny.

Of course, I noticed.

“Mrs. Kutchner was worried about him going to one so soon after his parents',” says MaryBeth.

If Muscle Man hears us talking, he sure doesn't let on. He's so busy digging that he's covered with sweat, like Mr. Pizzarelli.

“What kind of tree is it?” asks Muscle Man without skipping a
shink-thwump
of his shovel.

“A pear tree,” says Mr. Pizzarelli.

“Mine too,” says Muscle Man.

Mr. Pizzarelli holds on to Muscle Man, like he needs him for balance. Big Danny jumps in and helps steady him from the other side. Then, when it seems like Mr. Pizzarelli can stand on his own two feet, Big Danny begins digging out the dirt with his bare hands.

John Marcos pulls the burlap off the tree's roots. Everyone else is silent, watching. Billy Rattle's hand is placed over his heart, like he's about to say the pledge. MaryBeth has her hands clasped like she's praying.

Mr. Pizzarelli lifts the tree into the hole, and we all take turns putting dirt around the roots. “Do you want to say a prayer for Vinnie? That's what we did when we planted our tree,” says Muscle Man.

Mr. Pizzarelli takes a deep breath, and it looks like he has to try a few times before his words come out. “That would be nice.”

When we're done, Mr. Pizzarelli puts his arm on Muscle Man's shoulder. “Do you want to say a prayer for your mother and father?”

And that's what he does. When he finishes, every single one of us says, “Amen.”

T
HAT AFTERNOON, THERE'S
another note taped on my front door.

I miss Kebsie so much I can't wait for the moon.

I run upstairs and open it quick.

I rip the letter into a thousand pieces and storm out onto Ramble Street.

It doesn't take me long before I see him, sitting in front of his house alone.

“Hiya, Tammy.” Muscle Man is so busy smiling that he doesn't see the first punch. It's a good left hook. Vinnie Pizzarelli, who taught me how to fight, would have been proud.

“How could you do it?” I scream. “Why did you write them?”

Before he can open his big mouth, I pummel him again.

“How'd you know about the howls? About the ‘Arroooo'?”

For this one, I'll wait three seconds. He answers in two.

“I heard you once, and I asked MaryBeth about it.” His mouth is full of dirt, so his words come out muffled.

Big Danny and John Marcos fly in from nowhere. It takes both boys to pull me off of the kid. Vinnie would have been proud of that, too. MaryBeth runs from her house straight to Muscle Man.

“What's your problem, Tamara Ann Simpson?” she screams.

Muscle Man wipes blood from his face. “It's okay, MaryBeth. Tammy and I were just horsing around. Don't get mad at her.”

“You phony!” I scream. “Why don't you tell them what you did?”

And the runt tells them everything.

“You faked letters from Kebsie Grobser? Why?” asks Big Danny.

Muscle Man is sobbing now. “Cause I didn't want Tammy to hurt anymore. Cause I wanted Kebsie to be the one who came back.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, you wormy liar.” I try to break free so I can give him one last punch, but Big Danny and John Marcos are holding me good.

“Think about it, Tammy,” shouts MaryBeth.

MaryBeth helps Muscle Man into the house, and I know that as soon as Mrs. Kutchner sees the blood on Muscle Man's face, I'll be grounded for the rest of the summer.

S
UNDAY MORNING,
I open up my bedroom window and stick my head way out so I can get a good look at what's going on at the Grabowsky's. Even though it looks like it's going to rain, the family is buzzing around their yard, getting ready for the moonwalk party.

“Let's have hot dogs made into little rocket ships,” says Mrs. Grabowsky. I'm sure she knows I'm watching, because her voice is loud. I bet she figures my ears are still ringing from all the yelling Marshall did when he got home from work last night and found out what I'd done. “And we can have Swedish meatballs made to look like meteors,” she adds, and I'm certain she's talking loud again to rub it all in.

“And marshmallows for moon rocks,” says Mr. Grabowsky.

“All my dolls can wear their space suits!” says Miss Thirteen Barbies.

Mrs. Grabowsky claps her hands. “Yes, the ones we finished sewing.”

“And I'll wear the one you made me, Mommy.” Janie Lee jumps up and down.

Mr. Grabowsky heads into the house and returns holding a large wedge of cheese. “Look, we can make a Swiss cheese carving of the moon.”

When I pull myself back into my room, it's business as usual. Unless you count the fact that I'm grounded until school starts as news, there's nothing happening at all in the Simpson house.

I head downstairs and find Shirley leaning out of the kitchen window, her neck strained in the direction of the Grabowsky's backyard. I wonder if she's been watching too.

“So, are we gonna watch the moon walk?” I ask.

As soon as she hears my voice, she pulls herself back into the room. “No, I don't think so.” Shirley lights a cigarette, and I move away from the smoke. “If we were invited to the moon-landing party, we would have watched.”

“We're never invited,” I tell her, in case she thinks we're not going because I punched out Muscle Man.

“We were invited last year to their Summer Olympics party.” Shirley turns on the television. “And we're always invited to the Rattle's barbeques.”

“Those are different. Those are whole-block parties where everyone is invited, not special parties. We're never invited to the special ones.”

Shirley sits up straight, waiting for her programs to flick onto the screen. “If you didn't hit that boy…”

I want to tell her that we're not invited because she watches too many soap operas and doesn't trade recipes with the other moms and never gets her hair done.

Instead I say, “I have an idea.” I stand in front of the TV, like I did before. “Let's have our own moon-landing party. We could get marshmallows and pretend they're moon rocks. It'll be fun.”

Shirley stares through me, like I'm not even there. “Maybe
next
time.”

“But next time isn't the first time.”

Shirley pushes me aside, her eyes fixed on the television. “I said not today.”

Marshall's answer is equally depressing.

“No matter how many men walk on the moon, how does it affect me? I still have to get up and take the 7:11 train to New York and work for Mr. Rendizzi at the Manhattan Plumbing Supply Company.” He's sitting in his easy chair, wearing the slippers that Tim gave him last Christmas.

“But Dad, this is history.”

“You should have thought of it before you punched out that kid. Grounded means no television, too.” He buries his face in a book.

I run to the basement, hoping Tim will call. It's been days since I spoke to him, and he doesn't even know about the grounding. I tape the Jimi Hendrix poster up on the wall for the thousandth time. I dust off his pictures, throw myself in Grandma's old rocker, and chant “Tim telephone. Tim telephone. Timtelephone. Timtelephone.”

The phone rings, and I creak my neck toward the upstairs floor.

“I know, I know,” says Shirley, “I can't believe that Brad would do such a thing.” Shirley is talking about her soap operas, so she must be talking to my aunt Maria. Tim would never talk soaps. I let her voice fade into the distance, and I work on my magic powers. “Tim telephone. Tim telephone. Tim telephone.”

Ten minutes later it rings again, but it's the St. Rose of Lima church reminding Shirley to leave her old clothes outside in a bag for collection.

Day creeps toward night, and I creep out onto the garage roof to check on the Grabowskys.

They're gathered around a giant piece of cardboard and a dozen cans of paint.

“Do you really think that we can make a good replica of the lunar excursion module, Daddy?” I hear MaryBeth ask her father.

Mr. Grabowsky laughs. “I think that our version of the LEM will do everything but fly.”

I know it's risky, but I lean my head off the garage roof so I can listen to Mr. Grabowsky explain how the astronaut Michael Collins will orbit the moon in the
Apollo
spaceship while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin fly the lunar excursion module to make the first landing.

“Can we drink Tang?” asks MaryBeth.

“What's that?” asks Janie Lee.

“That's a powdery drink the astronauts take to space,” says Mrs. Grabowsky. “I bought some this afternoon.”

MaryBeth gives Janie Lee a hug. “Just think, we will drink the same thing as the astronauts.”

Mr. Grabowsky holds up the cardboard LEM for them all to see. The others step back to admire their work. “This is an important night for history,” he says. “One day, your children will want to know where you were the night that the first man walked on the moon.”

“And we can tell them all about our party,” says Janie Lee.

“And how we watched it all together,” says MaryBeth.

And for the first time in my life, I wish I was a Grabowsky.