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OTHER YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
ALL THE WAY HOME, Patricia Reilly Giff
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MELANIE MARTIN GOES DUTCH, Carol Weston
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TYLER ON PRIME TIME, Steve Atinksy
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
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Copyright © 2001 by Patricia Reilly Giff
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eISBN: 978-0-307-80983-4
Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press
v3.1
For Vincent Ambrose
with gratitude and love.
Dear Vinnie,
there when I needed him.
And always for
Jimmy, Christine, Billy,
Conor, Caitlin, and Patti.
Contents
Cover
Other Yearling Books You Will Enjoy
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Brooklyn, 1941 - Chapter 1: Mariel
Chapter 2: Brick
Chapter 3: Mariel
Chapter 4: Brick
Chapter 5: Brick
Chapter 6: Brick
Chapter 7: Mariel
Chapter 8: Brick
Chapter 9: Mariel
Chapter 10: : Brick
Chapter 11: Mariel
Chapter 12: Brick
Chapter 13: Mariel
Chapter 14: Brick
Chapter 15: Mariel
Chapter 16: Brick
Chapter 17: Mariel
Chapter 18: Mariel
Chapter 19: Brick
Chapter 20: Mariel
Chapter 21: Mariel
Chapter 22: Brick
Chapter 23: Brick
Chapter 24: Mariel
Chapter 25: Mariel
Chapter 26: Brick
Chapter 27: Brick
Chapter 28: Mariel
Chapter 29: Brick
Chapter 30: Brick
Chapter 31: Mariel
Chapter 32: Mariel
The Brooklyn Dodgers
About the Author
BROOKLYN, 1941
1
Mariel
Outside, the milk truck rattled along Midwood Street, the horse clopping, the bottles vibrating in their cases. Mariel heard it in her dream, just on the edge of waking.
The dream began again: green lace curtains with the sun shining through, a fine morning; a soft voice reciting a nursery rhyme: When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. The voice stops. The rippling in Mariel’s legs starts, her toes jerk.
It was only a dream, Mariel told herself, only a curtain and a nursery rhyme. It would hang over her all day, though, make her wish for her mother, wonder where her mother was, what had happened to her.
A quick picture flashed in Mariel’s mind: a red sweater thrown over her mother’s shoulders, her charm bracelet clinking, her cool hand on Mariel’s forehead.
If only she could see her mother’s face.
“Mariel?” a voice called from outside.
Squinting, she opened her eyes and looked out at the yard. The apple tree spread itself halfway to the bare board fence, almost hiding the row of houses in back. She loved that apple tree. Loretta, her almost mother, had put a small white fence around it so they’d stay out of its way when the two of them played baseball.
And Loretta was out there now, her hair tied up in a red kerchief. “Hey,” she called. “Are you ever going to get up? Want to go to a game today? The Dodgers might just win the pennant this year.”
Mariel thought of Geraldine Ginty, her enemy who lived across the street. Geraldine would say Loretta was razy cray, that the Dodgers hadn’t won the pennant during her whole life. Bums, she called them.
Mariel could almost see the green diamond in Ebbets Field where someone would be mowing for today’s Dodgers game. How lucky they were to live only a few blocks away. She slid her legs out from under the soft summer blanket and sat up, still remembering the dream.
Somehow it reminded her of Windy Hill and Good Samaritan Hospital, far away upstate, with the fountain outside and the rows of iron lungs inside.
She closed her eyes. Sirens screaming, sick to her stomach, legs rippling, jerking. Chest heavy. Someone saying: “Hold on, kiddo, another minute, almost there now. Breathe for me, will you? In and out, that’s the way. Here we are. Never so glad to see those doors.”
And someone else reaching out to pick up her doll for her.
“Don’t touch it,” the first voice said. “All her things will have to be burned, full of germs. Shame, such a little thing, can’t be more than four years old. Polio.”
Mariel stood up, her fingers fluttering. When the wind blows …
What did that nursery rhyme have to do with her mother?
Someday she was going back to Windy Hill.
Someday she was going to find out.
She leaned out the window. “Hold your horses,” she called down to Loretta. “I’m on my way.”
2
Brick
Brick Tiernan was on his way home, the egg money in his pocket, swinging his baseball bat. Only one road led from Windy Hill to their farm and it was long, coming up the hill and winding around Claude’s apple orchard.
Ordinarily he didn’t mind. It was summertime, a time he loved: no school, no homework, no studying. Everything seemed easy, even though he was up early weeding, milking Essa, checking out the apple trees, trying to get enough water to them, sweating in the fields, hair plastered to his head. And there were late afternoons to play catch with Pop in the field, or to lie under a tree whistling through a blade of grass.
Soon he’d round the last curve and see their farm. Mom called it the forever farm. And this time Pop said they’d never have to leave.
But today had a strange feel to it, an electric feel. It was on his skin and in his hair. He could even smell it. Jagged streaks of lightning shot across the sky, like the rays around the Green Hornet in the funnies. The town below had a greenish glow, and their neighbor Claude’s barn looked more orange than red. The apple trees were still; not one of the branches moved. The leaves were withered, dying for rain.
But the rain hadn’t come for weeks.
Brick raised his bat, trying for a Pete Reiser stance. If they were lucky, Pete Reiser would win the pe
nnant for the Dodgers this year. His father and Claude said it would be a miracle. The Dodgers hadn’t come near a pennant for twenty years.
He saw a baseball in his mind, dropping toward him, coming fast over the plate. Pow! He swung, a hard swing, a rounder, feeling the air thick and heavy. He tried it again.
But the smell of electricity stung the inside of his nose. He walked faster, glad he had just a few minutes more to reach home. Supper would be on the table: beans, sweet with molasses and chunks of pork, soft and meaty on his tongue, the ball game on the radio, playing Michigan with Mom and Pop afterward.
The sky exploded with light. The boom of thunder that followed was so fierce the road shook. It seemed to go on forever, a huge angry rumbling that filled his ears. Another bolt of lightning and in front of him, a tree blew apart. Great hunks of it crashed onto the ground beneath, and branches flew over his head, almost weightless. He dropped the bat and took a step backward and then another.
A smudge of gray came up over Claude’s orchard, quickly turning to black, a rolling greasy cloud high above him. The next streak of lightning lit up the woods; every tree stood out sharp and clear. Bits of dried grass burst into flame, and the flame jumped a foot, reaching out to him.
He began to run. The fire ran with him, taking a twisted path closer, then farther away, then zigzagging back toward him again.
Noise crackled overhead, and he thought of Claude’s apple trees, and then their own, the young trees his family was counting on to change their luck.
It was hard to keep going with almost no air, almost no breath. “One more hill,” he whispered to spur himself on. “A small hill, just have to get myself past Claude’s.”
Claude was at the edge of his orchard, one hand over his head against the flying bits of flame and dust, the other dragging a hose that was too big, too heavy for one old man alone. He was trying to wet down the trees as the leaves curled up and turned gray and apples popped off the branches; at the same time, he shouted something at the sky, or at the fire, or even at the trees.
Brick hesitated for the barest moment. The air was smoky and smelled like the apples Mom baked. He remembered the day he and Pop had planted their own apple trees, Pop grinning, his face dripping with perspiration. “In a few years we’ll have our own harvest. No more moving around.” He threw out his hand. “Just like Mom says. Forever.”
But Claude could never save his trees alone. Claude’s wife, Julia, ran outside, wrapping a towel around her head. And then Brick was in back of Claude, lifting the hose to snake around the trees, as Julia covered his head with a wet cloth that seemed to dry almost immediately.
He pulled the hose until he could hardly lift his arms. He knew Claude was tired, too; he could see his large hands on the nozzle, red and raw. Brick’s eyes stung from the smoke, his throat burned, his mouth so dry there was nothing left to swallow.
It seemed to go on forever, the fire, the pulling, Claude in front of him, Julia in back. But at last he looked over his shoulder to see the fire veering away from them, strangely jumping the river, and the sound of the bells clanging in town and the fire trucks coming.
Finally the rain began to fall. He could feel it on the cloth over his head and his hair, running down his nose and cheeks, cool on his upturned face.
Nothing ever felt as good as that water, bathing him and the bark of the trees and the leaves, bathing Claude in his straw hat and Julia in her towel, washing the heat away from the orchard.
3
Mariel
It was Labor Day. All the men in the neighborhood were home. Mr. Boyle across the street sat at his windowsill listening to the Dodgers game. Mr. Ginty waited at the fireplug while his bulldog, Dinty Moore, messed up the sidewalk again.
Mariel leaned against the stoop in front of her house spying on the street through the spaces in between the bricks. Geraldine Ginty stood at home plate, a sewer grate in the middle of Midwood Street. She stabbed at the air with her broom handle, waiting for the pitch. “Come on, baby,” she yelled to Frankie McHugh. “Whatcha waiting for?”
From her hiding place, Mariel knew Loretta was looking out the parlor window. Loretta, her almost mother. Loretta’s eyes beamed straight down on her head. Mariel could almost hear her thinking. Stand up, kiddo, let them see Mariel Manning. Get yourself over there to the game. No one in the outfield. How about you?
Loretta thought she wanted to play. Play with Geraldine Ginty? Play with Frankie McHugh? Mariel bent her head and peered through her eyelashes. An open wagon piled high with old clothes lumbered down the street. Across the top was strung a wire filled with sleigh bells. Benny the ragman sat up high in front, holding Daisy’s reins. His hat was a brown fedora with a rose pinned on the band. Daisy’s matched, but hers had two holes poked in for her ears. “Rags, old rags,” Benny called, batting the wire of bells with his stick.
“Time out till Benny gets by,” Frankie McHugh yelled.
Upstairs the parlor window shot open. Loretta’s voice floated down. “Dinner’s not ready, honey. You’ve got a while.” That was what Loretta said, but what she meant was: You can play ball as well as they can; there’s not a two-sewer hitter on the whole team. Give it a try.
Mariel squinted down the street; one sewer cover was close by, the next was all the way down toward the avenue. She could hit, maybe even as far as the second sewer, but not when Geraldine Ginty stood there, watching, corkscrew curls bouncing, her hands on her hips, and Frankie McHugh tried not to stare at her legs, which curved like the pretzels in Jordan’s candy store.
Who cared? They were both razy cray.
But how could she disappoint Loretta?
She pulled herself to her feet, her fingers fluttering like the butterflies that hovered over the lots on Empire Boulevard and zigzagged down the street. She told her fingers to stop fluttering, told herself what Loretta always said. “Nothing to do with polio, that little flutter. Don’t worry, honey. Pay no attention and it’ll all go away.”
Mariel even called herself honey, which made her smile inside her head. But she didn’t believe Loretta, not for a minute.
Benny’s wagon passed her now and she waved to him. Benny was a great guy. He gave everyone rides all over Brooklyn. “Sorry,” Mariel yelled to Daisy the horse. “No sugar today.”
At home plate, Frankie pitched a blooper that bounced off the end of Geraldine’s stick. “Home run,” Geraldine shouted, and took off.
Frankie began to screech. “Get the ball, Mariel. Get it.”
Mariel reached out with both hands, but it was too late. The ball bounced past her, smacked against a garbage can, and hopped away down the street. She took a step, looking back over her shoulder.
Geraldine came toward her, legs churning, elbows out. Frankie came, too, racing for the ball himself.
They both smashed into her, and the three of them went down.
For a moment Mariel couldn’t catch her breath. She told herself she was going to die. Then she took in air, took it in a huge gulp.
Geraldine scrambled up. “It’s a do-over.”
Mariel stayed where she was as Frankie looked down the street. “The ball’s gone. Rolled into the sewer.” He wiped his nose with the end of his shirt. “Now what?”
Mariel looked after it. “We could get a wad of gum, put it on the end of a stick and pull the ball right up.”
She blinked at herself. Great idea. Good going, Mariel.
Geraldine shook her head of wiry curls. “You must be crazy. First you say the Dodgers will win the pennant, then you tell me President Roosevelt can’t walk, and now it’s bubble gum on balls.”
Both of Mariel’s knees were skinned, oozes of red coming. She didn’t bother to answer Geraldine. She pulled herself up, nose in the air, and moved out of the street to turn into her alley. She didn’t really know if bubble gum would work, but she did know about President Roosevelt. Loretta had told her. The President wore a long black cape so hardly anyone knew; but his polio had been even worse than h
ers. “If Franklin Roosevelt could become President, Mariel …”
She had heard it a hundred times. Years ago, before he was President, he’d been strong and powerful, but one summer day he’d come down with polio. After that his legs were useless. “He never gave up, Mariel. He fought. He got to be President. And you know what he said?”
Mariel said it in her head. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” She opened the gate to her backyard. Except for the apple tree in the middle, the yard was a mess. It was a long skinny strip of crabgrass with a baseball diamond she and Loretta had worn into the ground.
And there was Loretta on her way out the back door, her hair black and shiny as the starling’s feather Mariel had found last spring.
“Want to hit a few?” Loretta asked.
Mariel closed Midwood Street out of her head; she told herself she was standing on the mound at Ebbets Field. She rubbed her hands in the soft dirt, then wiped them on her dress.
She reached for the broom handle carefully so she wouldn’t topple over, then gripped it hard. She had to watch out for splinters but she liked the feel of the wood in her hands. When she held on to something, held it as hard as she could, her fingers didn’t need to flutter around like butterflies. They felt comfortable and still.
She narrowed her eyes to size up the enemy, Loretta in her Hooverette apron, grinning as she wound up.
Mariel took a breath and swung. The sound she heard as the stick connected to the ball was the sound of a home run. That solid crack! She rounded the bases as Loretta flew toward the back fence for the ball.
“Better than Pete Reiser.” Loretta sank down against the apple tree.
“Well, almost.” Mariel grinned. She slid down next to Loretta, fanning her skinned knees with her hand. “Pete’s my favorite Dodger.”
“Know what I heard about him?” Loretta asked. “He got beaned by a ball, landed up in the hospital and the doctor said he couldn’t even walk.” She pushed her bangs off her forehead. Her cheeks were red and she raised her green eyes to the overcast sky. “Whew. Hot.”