Stealing Home (3 page)

But what was most amazing to Joey was the sea of white faces. Men, women and children, old and young, all white. A few people looked at him curiously, but no one seemed bothered. Maybe he
would
fit in.

Miss MacNeill paused in front of a drugstore called Gershon’s. “I need some chewing gum, Joey. Do you mind?”

Inside was a newsstand. “I’ll wait for you here.” While Miss MacNeill went to the candy counter, he picked up a Brooklyn newspaper and turned to the sports section. In the bustle of getting ready the day before, he hadn’t heard the Yankees’ score.

“Jackie Robs Pirates’ Ace with Ninth Inning Homer,” read the headline. Jackie Robinson, of course. You didn’t have to be a Dodgers fan to know who that was. Joey scanned the opposite page. “Robinson Notches Twelfth Stolen Base.”
Man, that guy is fast,
Joey thought. All those people who’d said a Negro would never make it in the major leagues – bet they were eating their words now. Black, white, or purple – Jackie was showing them that it
wasn’t color that mattered, it was skill. And boy, did he have it.

Joey scanned down the page. “Brooklyn Skipper: ‘Jackie’s Got the Goods.’” “Robinson Says Scare Tactics Won’t Stop Him.” Cripes, enough already. He turned the page. There, finally –

A voice behind him said, “Yanks Double Red Sox, 6-3.”

Joey whirled. “Miss MacNeill! You scared me.”

“Checking the score?”

“Yeah.” Joey folded the newspaper and put it back on the rack. Following her out of the store he added disgustedly, “They hardly even report Yankees news here. Everything’s Robinson, Robinson, Robinson.”

“Don’t you like Jackie Robinson?” she asked.

“Sure I do. He’s fantastic. I wish he was on the Yankees. But he’s a Dodger.”

“That makes him the enemy, does it?”

“Of course.” Joey eyed her suspiciously. “Aren’t you a Yankees fan?”

“You bet. Bronx girl, through and through. But I wonder … now that you’re living in Brooklyn –”

“Forget it!” Joey said. “Nothing could make me stop rooting for the Yankees.”

“All right, Joey –”

“They could torture me. Pull out my fingernails. Burn me at the stake. I’ll never be for the Dodgers.”

“I don’t think your new family has torture in mind,” Miss MacNeill said.

“They better not,” Joey said darkly.

They turned down a side street. Here there were homes, and instead of the soot-darkened apartments of his old neighborhood, these were stately row houses of dark red brick. And there were patches of grass, shady trees, clusters of purple and yellow petunias edging walkways and fringing window boxes. An ice-cream wagon bell clanged from a side street, followed by the excited chatter of children looking to buy an Italian ice on this sweltering day.

Men in straw boaters hurried by. Women in house-dresses and straw sun hats pushed baby carriages. On stoops and front walks, girls cradled dolls, colored, played hopscotch. Little boys with red neckerchiefs darted behind shrubs, popping up to shoot each other with imaginary guns. “Got you, Injun! You’re dead!”

Families
….

No. Forget it. He wasn’t part of any family yet. And if he stepped out of line, he’d be out on his ear. No point getting his hopes up.

But he couldn’t help it. Maybe his grandfather would play ball with him … or take him fishing. And his aunt – would she look like Mama? Would she bake cookies? Tuck him in at night? And his cousin – even though she
was a girl, maybe she wouldn’t be too bad. Maybe she’d even be a friend….

Idiot! It wasn’t going to happen.
His family hadn’t wanted him for the last ten years. They weren’t going to now.

But they were taking him in. Surely that meant something.
And what if they lived in a nice brick house like that one across the street, with a pot of pansies on each step? Maybe it would even be big enough for him to have his own room, instead of sleeping on the couch. Wouldn’t that be something!

He snapped out of it as he and Miss MacNeill crossed Schenectady Avenue, then continued onto Crown Street. Miss MacNeill paused in front of a row house and checked the number against a paper in her hand. “Here we are,” she said cheerfully, and started up the walk.

Joey stopped dead. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready. He was dying of curiosity. He didn’t want to meet them. He wanted to run away. He longed to see them.

He ran to catch up, taking the steps two at a time.

Footsteps sounded. The knob turned. The door opened.

She was so like Mama, Joey started. Older, fairer, softer, rounder, the cleft in her chin only a dimple, not a deep ridge like Mama’s and his. But the brown eyes and the full-lipped mouth were just the same. Put them side by side and you’d know in an instant they were sisters.

I’m not going to cry.

Staring at him, she gasped. Joey froze, instantly wary. But a moment later her hand leaped to her heart and her eyes flooded with tears. “Oh my God – Joseph?”

Miss MacNeill held out her hand. “Mrs. Rosen?”

“Forgive me, you must be Miss MacNeill. It’s just that he –” To Joey, “– that you – oh, Joseph!” She gathered Joey in her arms.

She was warm and she smelled like roses and she was holding him like she’d never let go. Joey could feel her heart pounding against his shoulder. For a moment, his beat wildly in rhythm and he melted against her.

She broke off with a laugh. “Excuse me! What am I thinking, keeping you out there on the doorstep? Please, come in, come in.”

Joey and Miss MacNeill stepped into a narrow hallway. Behind his aunt, running footsteps pounded, then stopped short. Joey peered around her. A girl. About his age. A little taller. Slim. Very short, curly, dark hair. Round brown eyes. Full lips. Swarthy skin – not as creamy-brown as his, more olive, like some Italian kids he knew.

She looks like me,
Joey thought with a shock.
I look like her.

Hands on hips, she was staring at him. Glaring, actually. “You play ball?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you hit?”

“Yeah.” What was this?

“Field?”

“Yeah!”

“All right, then.”

Joey fumed. Just who did she think she was, grilling
him
about baseball? Okay, so now that he looked, he saw that she did have on Keds, the white canvas scuffed to a satisfying gray-brown. And she did have scabs on her knees. So she wasn’t completely girly-girly. But still, where did she get off?

“Roberta, where are your manners?” His aunt turned to Miss MacNeill. “I’m sorry, Miss MacNeill. My daughter, Roberta.”

“Hello, Miss MacNeill,” the girl said, finally looking at the social worker.

“How do you do, Roberta?”

“And your cousin. Joseph Sexton. My daughter, Roberta.”

The girl grimaced. Turning to Joey, she snapped, “Don’t ever call me that. I’m Bobbie.”

“All right! And don’t you dare call me Joseph. I’m Joey.”

His aunt ruffled his hair. “Joey, is it?” She smiled. “Then you must call me Aunt Frieda. That’s who I am, after all.”

He looked up. “Okay … Aunt Frieda.” The words felt strange in his mouth. He’d never called anyone aunt before.

Aunt Frieda motioned down the hall. “Please, come in, let’s go in the living room. Make yourselves comfortable. Let me get you a cold drink. You must be parched, such a hot day….” She led them down the hallway. Directly ahead, a flight of steps, dark wood with red carpet runners, led upstairs from the end of the hall. On the left was a dining room. A square table of honey-hued, gleaming wood stood in the middle of the room, and brightly colored paintings – a sailboat tilting in the wind, a country cottage surrounded by willows – hung on the walls. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen, the floor a checkerboard of big black-and-white squares. A fresh lemony smell wafted out.

It’s so tidy
, Joey thought.
Such a nice place to live.

Then it hit him. This was Mama’s house! She had grown up here! How strange it was to imagine her as a baby, a little girl, a teenager, in these very rooms.

His aunt turned to the right, into a long, narrow living room. Along one long wall was a tan-colored couch with curvy wooden arms; on the opposite wall, a fireplace, its mantel crowded with framed photographs. At the back end of the living room there was a door to another room, now closed. Facing onto the street was a big bay window.
In front of it was a large console radio on a small table.

Then Joey saw him. In the flurry of meeting his aunt and cousin, of seeing the house, he’d forgotten all about him. Now, rising to his feet from an armchair near the window, was a man. His grandfather. Mama’s daddy.

He wasn’t big, medium build, but he gave the impression of tallness. Back straight, head high, arms straight at his sides. His hair, steel-gray still flecked with black, waved back thickly from a high forehead. Mama – God, he looked like Mama. The deep cleft in the chin. The dark eyes. They were on him at once, those eyes.

Shock. Joey saw it on his grandfather’s face. The old man’s body seemed to tense, though he didn’t move a muscle.

Joey’s heart sank.

But in the next moment, though he still hadn’t moved, his grandfather’s body seemed to soften. His eyes turned liquid, pools of warm brown shining at him.

Joey stood there, confused.

“Oh, Daddy,” Aunt Frieda said, her voice breaking, “isn’t he just the image of Becky?”

A long pause. Then, “Yes,” he bit off harshly.

There was an awkward silence. Aunt Frieda started edging out of the room. “I’ll… uh … get that lemonade now. Excuse me.”

Another moment of stillness. Joey’s grandfather settled back into his chair by the window, Bobbie in a matching chair facing his. Miss MacNeill sat on the couch, Joey beside her.

Somebody say something,
Joey thought, and finally, Miss MacNeill did. “What a lovely home, Mr. Greenberg. Have you lived here long?”

“Thirty-six years. Since Frieda was a baby. We raised our … our children here, my wife and I. She died, almost thirteen years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He lifted his hand in acknowledgment, then let it fall. “I was going to sell the house once Frieda married and moved out – after all, what did I need a big house for? But somehow I never got around to it. And it all worked out in the end, because after Manny died – that was Frieda’s husband – she and Bobbie had someplace to come, they shouldn’t be alone.”

Miss MacNeill looked at Bobbie. “That must have been very hard for you, Bobbie, losing your daddy.”

Bobbie nodded.

“How old were you?”

“Seven. But he went overseas when I was four. I can hardly remember him.”

Like me,
Joey thought.

Bobbie took a framed picture from the mantel and brought it to Miss MacNeill. “That’s him,” she said. Joey looked over Miss MacNeill’s shoulder. A man in an Army Air Corps uniform, wavy hair beneath his pointed cap, big grin, crinkles around the eyes.

Miss MacNeill smiled up at Bobbie. “He looks nice.”

“Yeah.” Bobbie sighed, taking the picture back. “I miss him.”

And suddenly Joey remembered. A picture of Mama, taken about four years ago, during one of her good times. She hadn’t looked so great in her bad times – hair unwashed, skin pale, collarbones sticking out because she forgot to eat. But this picture had been taken when she was off the drugs, and she looked so pretty, with a big smile and her dimples showing. It had sat on her dresser, with her perfume bottles and lipsticks. He wondered what had happened to it.
Must have gotten overlooked when Mrs. Webster was packing up Mamas things.
He felt a pang, wishing he had that picture.

But there must be other pictures of Mama here,
Joey thought, scanning the photographs on the mantel. There was a fat baby in a bonnet – Bobbie, he guessed. A wedding picture, in which he recognized his aunt as the young bride. An older couple – the man was a younger version of his grandfather, so the woman must be his
grandmother. Bobbie on a tricycle. Aunt Frieda in front of a shiny sedan, her arms full of flowers.

No pictures of Mama.
Why not?

Joey’s aunt came back in, carrying a tray, and handed around glasses. Everyone sipped. The lemonade was delicious and Joey wanted to down it all in one gulp, but he made it last. You never knew when there was going to be more.

“Mrs. Rosen, I think you said you work in a law office?” Miss MacNeill said.

Joey’s aunt flapped her hand. “I’m just a secretary.”

“Not just!” Bobbie protested. She turned to Miss MacNeill. “Mr. Turchin – that’s Mama’s boss – said she’s the best secretary he’s ever had.”

“Bobbie!” Aunt Frieda said, mortified.

“Well, he did.”

Joey hated to admit it, but he liked the way his cousin stuck up for her mama.

“And Mr. Greenberg, what do you do?” Miss MacNeill asked.

“I’m retired. Was in the printing business for forty years. Now that Frieda’s gone back to work full-time, I look after the house, do the marketing, take care of Bobbie.”

“And now you’ll have Joey, too,” Miss MacNeill said.

Another pause. “Yes.”

“You turned ten in April, right, Bobbie?” Miss MacNeill said.

“Right.”

“And Joey had his tenth birthday a couple of weeks ago.” To Aunt Frieda she said, “Isn’t it nice how close they are in age? Did you and your sister realize your babies were only two months apart?”

His aunt colored, gripping her lemonade glass. “Uh… no. I mean, we knew… that is, I was expecting Bobbie at the time, and I knew that my sister was expecting, too. But we had no idea about Joey –”

Her father shot her a look and she broke off.

What’s going on?
Joey thought.

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Miss MacNeill said. “When we spoke, you didn’t seem to know about Joey. It’s odd, isn’t it, what with you living here and your sister just up in the Bronx.”

A look passed between Joey’s aunt and grandfather. Then she stammered, “Well, uh … we weren’t in touch. You see, she left and … we didn’t hear, and …” A stricken look crossed her face. “… and the years went by. Maybe we should have tried to keep in touch, but –”

“She made her bed and she had to lie in it.”