All the Way Home

  “Why aren’t you friends with Brick?” Loretta said. “I thought this would be such a wonderful year for you.”

  Mariel put her hand up to her head. “I just have to get my hair clip.” And before Loretta could say another word, she was on her way to her bedroom to find the barrette she hadn’t worn in a year.

  She stopped in front of the mirror to take a look at her legs. Candles that had been left too close to the stove, curved instead of tall and straight. And Loretta thought he’d want to be friends. She felt a burning in her throat, and a quick feeling of wouldn’t it be nice to be Brick’s friend, as she found the barrette in the back of her dresser drawer and ran it through her hair, feeling scratchiness as she clipped it in.

  She decided she wasn’t going to bother about Brick Tiernan today. She was going to wear the new overalls with crisscross straps and red buttons that Loretta had bought for her on sale at Loeser’s department store. Brick Tiernan wouldn’t see her legs and neither would anyone else.

  They left early. “I’ve got a bag of plums because we’ll be thirsty,” Loretta told them, “and enough money from the penny jar to treat to ice cream.”

  The seats were wonderful, so close to the first-base line that Mariel could lean on the iron bar in front of her and watch Dolph Camilli at first, and Curt Davis, the pitcher, as he scuffed up the soft dirt around the pitcher’s mound.

  It was an easy first inning, a boring inning with the Giants’ pitcher, Fiddler McGee, putting the Dodgers out, one two three. Curt Davis did the same to the Giants.

  Mariel could see Brick out of the corner of her eye. He leaned forward, too, telling Loretta over his shoulder, “My father always wanted to see a game, and my friend Claude, too.”

  And even though she had promised herself she wouldn’t think about it ever again, Mariel remembered the picnic on Tuesday, remembered that they had looked at each other… had they really looked at each other?… and she had thought they might be friends.

  And then it was the second inning, the Dodgers were up, and Camilli walloped a pitch far above the scorecard clock all the way onto Bedford Avenue. By the end of the inning Lew Riggs had come home, too. Everyone was standing and cheering. And Brick, forgetting it was Mariel, pounded her on the shoulder.

  But that wasn’t the most exciting inning of the game. Not even watching Pete Reiser slide home when they knew the Dodgers were going to win, really win against the Giants’ one unearned homer, was the most exciting. It was toward the end of the game she’d never forget. And it was Pete Reiser who would do it for her.

  She had a mouthful of plums, she and Brick had even grinned at each other when Dixie Walker had a screaming fight with the umpire, a quick grin, and they both leaned forward watching as Pete Reiser came to the plate again.

  He took powerful swings in the air as the pitcher wound up. Pete was batting wild, the first ball out of play on the first-base line, coming close to the stands, and then the second even closer, bouncing off the wall with a pock that rang in Mariel’s ears. But it was the next wallop that made the difference. It popped up high, still far wide of first, and Mariel could see it coming, round and white, spiraling through the air toward her, with everyone in the stands, heads stretched, necks stretched, arms stretched, trying to see where it would go.

  All of them wanted to make the catch, Mariel most of all, even though she could feel herself losing her balance, knowing she had to reach out and grab the iron bar in front to hold herself up, instead of reaching for the ball.

  She wanted that ball, she could see it in her mind, raising her hands almost in slow motion as she felt her legs go out from under her, and it was coming closer, an arc straight down the first-base line, veering toward her, high but dropping, dropping as she tried to stay on her feet for one more second.

  She caught a glimpse of Brick’s arms, too, up, ready to make the catch, but saw them in a blur, knew he wasn’t going to be fast enough because it was her ball.

  She braced herself against the iron bar, both hands up, and the ball dropped, almost as if Pete Reiser had dropped it there on purpose, and it was hers, a hard stinging ball, her ball, in her hands, and she held on, feeling the pain of it in her wrists and in her arms.

  Her ball.

  And Loretta next to her screaming, and screaming, and Brick, too, both of them grabbing her shoulders, holding her up, and smiling, laughing, the three of them, the people around them clapping, somewhere up in back, Hilda the fan clanging her cowbell, and Pete Reiser, looking up at her, raising his hand in a little salute.

  12

  Brick

  Loretta never stopped talking on the way home. “It was the best day I’ve had in years,” she said, “to see Brick at his first game! To see Mariel catch that ball.” She shook her head. “And the Dodgers beat the Giants.”

  Mariel handed the ball to Brick to look at, and he could see the difference it had made. She was talking now, almost as much as Loretta, watching as he turned her ball in his hand.

  “Know why they call them the Dodgers?” she asked as they stepped off the curb crossing Bedford.

  “Dodging balls?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “It’s because of all the trolleys in Brooklyn. Everyone has to dodge them. So …”

  He nodded, still looking at the ball, the smoothness of the leather, the red stitching. Usually he hated to write letters, but he couldn’t wait to write and tell Mom and Pop about the game and the trolley story. He felt that sharp pain under his ribs, missing them, wishing they had been there to see the game. And then a second pain: Claude. How could he have forgotten Claude this afternoon? How could he have forgotten about going home?

  Supper was late because Loretta had burned the hamburgers to little black pieces of coal, and at the last minute had made tomato and lettuce sandwiches. “Can’t mess those up,” she said.

  “Good score today, four to one,” Mariel said. “And how about that fight between Dixie—”

  “And the umpire,” Brick said. “What was his name?”

  “Magurk,” Mariel said, licking the mayonnaise off her fingers.

  And then Loretta blasted water and soap into the sink until the bubbles frothed over the edge. “Go out in the back, both of you. Take a plate of chocolate chip cookies. They’re wonderful, if I do say so, not one bit burned, a miracle.” She winked at them. “Leave me to the dishes, the radio, and my feet on a pillow.”

  Brick took the last bite of his sandwich, reached for a couple of cookies, still warm from the oven, and pushed back his chair, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

  He went outside and stopped. In front of him was an apple tree with a tiny white fence around it. It was smaller than the apple trees at home, and not an apple in sight. What would Pop say about an apple tree in Brooklyn? What would Claude say?

  Mariel followed him outside. He had been so glad for her all afternoon, the look of surprise when she had caught that ball, the look of wonder. Somehow it had made them friends.

  They sank down on the weedy grass, leaning back against the apple tree’s little fence.

  “Billy Nightingale?” She picked up a thready bit of bark from the apple tree and began to shred it in her hands. Her head was down again, the crooked part in her hair showing.

  “That was from a sign on the laundry and a pet shop.…”

  She looked up, grinning. “Billy’s. Yes.”

  Then he heard the sound of sleigh bells outside the fence. It made him think of winter in Windy Hill, of the apple trees with snow covering their branches like blankets.

  “It’s the ragman on his way home. He’s late tonight,” Mariel said. “He lives in Manhattan somewhere.” She put the bits of bark in a little pile. “Almost on his way home. He has to stop at Jordan’s candy store. Daisy takes him there every night for water and a candy bar.”

  And then they were talking, both of them in a rush, about the game and Breezy Point on Thursday, and even Ambrose, who had come yesterday to see how he was doing. As she r
eached for one of his cookies, he thought about how easy it was to talk to her, the easiest thing he had ever done. At school in Windy Hill he had fooled around with the other boys, played ball with them, talked about the Dodgers, but not the girls. They were always playing jump rope near the fence, or talking in tight little knots, and he never knew what to say to them.

  He began slowly. “There was a fire. It hadn’t rained for weeks. Everything was dry, bone dry, and just waiting for that summer lightning to hit.” He took a breath. It was so good to talk about it, so good to tell someone.

  She looked up at him.

  “Almost everyone moved away from Windy Hill.” He shrugged. “The Depression is still bad, and there are no loans from the bank to pay for equipment or fertilizer. Most of the people just packed up and left their farms.” He frowned.

  She sat there unmoving, the cookie crumbling in her hand.

  “The fire took our trees and our corn.” He spread his hands. “Only Claude is left now, and he won’t be able to hold out for the winter.”

  He sighed, thinking of Pop’s hand on his shoulder, telling him he was proud that he had saved the orchard. Saved it for just a few weeks. Poor Claude.

  How could he tell Mariel what Claude was like? Claude wearing the old blue sweater Julia had knitted for him, the straw hat covering his gray hair, the way he knew the trees, touching them as if they were his family? How could he tell her how loud Claude was, and how soft and gentle Julia was and how she tried to keep Claude calm?

  He told about himself instead. “I’m not good in school.” He shrugged. “Terrible at reading, can’t sit still for it. Okay in arithmetic and science, though. Claude said I had to be, needed that for the trees.”

  “Claude,” she said.

  “I have Claude’s book,” he said. “Everything about apple trees is in that book. Everything in the world. It’s in French, though.”

  “Do you know French?”

  “Of course not.” They were grinning at each other now, leaning forward. Then he shook his head. “Claude’s hands were burned in the fire.” Brick didn’t even want to think about how his hands had looked afterward. “He’ll never be able to harvest. There’s only Joseph to help now. It won’t be enough.”

  Mariel looked up at the apple tree, then she leaned forward. “Couldn’t you go back? Couldn’t you harvest for him?”

  13

  Mariel

  “I’ll help you,” she said, even though she couldn’t believe she was saying it. She could see how it would be, how he’d get himself back to the orchard, back to Claude, and harvest the apples.

  She looked down at the new blue overalls hiding her legs. Now that she thought about it, Brick hadn’t paid any attention to her legs all week. Not like Geraldine and Frankie and the kids in school who pretended not to look but couldn’t help themselves.

  A quick picture in her mind. Geraldine Ginty standing in front of her outside the house when she had come to Brooklyn years ago. “Want to see the apple tree?” Mariel had asked.

  Mrs. Ginty from her window: “Get over here, Geraldine, right now.” And then in a loud whisper as Geraldine backed away from her, “Want to catch polio?”

  Geraldine had run across the street, darting out of the path of the milk wagon, turning back at the curb to stare at her.

  Loretta had stormed outside then to the middle of the street, her face red. “She’s not contagious, Mrs. Ginty, not for a long time.”

  Mrs. Ginty’s face was flushed, her hand to her mouth.

  “Any kid can get polio, anyone in the whole world, and the contagion is in the beginning, not later, not now. Mariel’s fine now. She’s terrific.”

  “Sorry,” Mrs. Ginty had said. “I’m really—”

  “I hope so,” Loretta said, “because this child of mine has been through so much.”

  “I’m really …,” Mrs. Ginty had begun again, and had crossed the street to Loretta and spoken in a low voice. “I am sorry. It’s just that I’m always afraid. If only we knew where it came from. Someone said it’s from the water, so we don’t go to the beach. Someone said flies bring it on fruit, so we don’t …”

  Loretta put out her hand. “It’s all right. Just—” She had broken off. And Mariel, looking at Geraldine still across the street, had stuck out her tongue. Just for a second.

  She wondered now if Geraldine remembered that.

  Loretta had taken her hand then and inside had showed her how to knit. “We’ll make gorgeous mittens, sky blue and pink. Don’t worry about the Gintys. Knit one, purl one …”

  “I had polio,” Mariel told Brick at last.

  He was nodding. He knew.

  “I can’t remember before that, only being sick in Windy Hill, in an iron lung because I couldn’t breathe, then coming to Brooklyn with Loretta.” She swallowed. “No one could find my mother.”

  He didn’t answer, but she could see his head go back just the slightest bit. And then she had another thought. Suppose he hadn’t noticed her legs? Suppose he was so worried about Claude that he hadn’t even thought about her or what she looked like?

  But if he was really going to be her friend …

  She had to take a chance. “There’s a stone carving of a king …,” she began slowly, picking her words. “It was back in ancient times, and his leg was thin and curved. Loretta showed it to me. He was walking with a stick.”

  She could see his eyes, never looking down at her legs, looking at her face.

  “So they know that polio has been around for thousands of years. And my legs are like that, too.” She stopped, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe, while she waited for him to say something.

  “My mother told me President Roosevelt had polio—” he began.

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. “That’s what I told Geraldine Ginty!”

  “The President has to crawl upstairs, he can’t take one step alone,” Brick said at the same time. “And he’s one of the greatest presidents we’ve ever had.”

  “That’s what Loretta says.” Mariel wanted to stand up, wanted to twirl around the apple tree, holding the bark …

  A friend. She had a friend.

  “I was in a room with green lace curtains,” she said, trying to think of how she could explain it. “The curtains blew in the wind and I could see the sky—” She broke off. “If I find that room, I’ll know what happened to my mother.”

  He was staring at her, looking at her so hard, listening. She raised her shoulders just a bit, trying to smile. “You have to go home,” she told him. “You have to go home right away and save the apples.”

  He shook his head. “I promised Ambrose I’d stay for a week.”

  She thought about it. “All right,” she said firmly. “But not one day longer.”

  He grinned at her, red hair down over his forehead. “You’re tough. Tougher than I am.”

  She smiled at him. Tough? She was afraid of everything all the time. “I am tough.” She crossed her fluttering fingers, hoping he didn’t see.

  Loretta came to the door. “Hey, kids. It’s getting late.”

  A few minutes later, Mariel stood at her window in her chipmunk-safe bedroom. Outside, the streetlights cast a warm orange glow across the yards. She thought about Brick living in Windy Hill near the hospital, her fingers fluttering against the screen. Loretta looking up from her knitting, yellow wool spilling onto the chair next to her. “One day you’ll go back to Windy Hill, sweetie. One day when you’re all grown up. You’ll see the hospital, and the hall where we turned and waved goodbye.”

  Mariel closed her eyes, thinking about her own mother. Red sweater across her shoulders, bracelet clinking … when the wind blows, the cradle will rock …

  14

  Brick

  It was hot and sticky. Overhead, clouds raced along, one piled on top of another. They started down Midwood Street and turned back to wave to Loretta. Claude’s book was tucked under Brick’s arm, and they carried bag lunches just the way he would have a
t home.

  The difference was they weren’t going to school.

  He was careful to move slowly. He didn’t want to make it hard for Mariel to keep up, even though she moved faster than he thought she could.

  And she certainly thought faster than he did.

  “No school today,” she had whispered over the breakfast table.

  He had glanced down the hall, too. Loretta was nowhere in sight, but he could hear her singing that Glenn Miller song. He remembered Mom and Pop dancing in the kitchen, the radio turned on loud, his father swinging his mother out, barely missing the table, and then back to him.

  Going home, Brick thought, going home today. But how? He tried to push the worry down deep inside his chest. What he was going to do was almost like the game they used to play at birthday parties, Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Someone spun you around blindfolded, gave you a little push, and you were supposed to find the right way by yourself.

  He didn’t even know the way out of Brooklyn.

  “I have to put you somewhere this morning,” Mariel said, leaning across the table, sounding as if he were a package. “A place where Ambrose won’t find you.”

  He swallowed a bite of Wheaties, wondering what she was talking about, but Loretta came into the kitchen, her nurse’s cap perched on her head, the point off center.

  “The Dodgers are taking on Chicago today,” Loretta said. She looked out the window, head turned. “Wonder if it’s going to rain there? Wonder if it’s going to rain here?”

  It is going to rain, Brick thought as he waited with Mariel to cross Bedford Avenue.

  “The hardest part,” Mariel said, “is the next block. Ambrose is always where you don’t want him to be.” She grinned at him. “He’ll be lurking around the park like the Shadow on the radio. But I know a place … He’s never caught me there, not once in all this time.”