Don't Talk to Me About the War (6 page)

R
oger lives on the other side of school, about a ten-minute walk. On the way, he repeats some of the jokes from last night’s Baby Snooks show. Charles and I heard it all last night and again at lunch, so we stay back.

We talk about school and baseball for a bit and then Charles says, “On Tuesday I have a math test and I’m having trouble finding the number of degrees in the angles, the length of the sides, things like that.”

I’m about to say that’s easy, but I realize it’s not easy for him. Instead I say, “I’m okay with that stuff. If you want, I could help you. Maybe Monday at lunch.”

“What about today after the game? Can you help me then?”

It’s Friday and I usually like to forget about school over the weekend, but why not? I have nothing better to do.

“Sure,” I say. “After the game.”

We stop in front of Johnny’s building and he and Bruce go in. They come back a few minutes later with a stickball bat—which is really a sawed-off broomstick—a rubber ball, and a few small bottles of soda, Pepsi and Orange Crush. I love Orange Crush. Johnny gives me a bottle and it’s real cold. I open it and take a long drink, and save the rest for later.

Roger gives Charles his books so he can have a catch. Then he and Johnny throw the ball back and forth as we walk. Charles and I, each with one arm holding books and the other holding an open soda bottle, follow Roger, Johnny, Ken, and Bruce.

We’re not on a main street with buses going by. It’s quiet here with just regular apartment buildings like the one I live in. Some people have an entire house for themselves and their families, but I think it’s nice here, especially on these quiet streets.

“Think fast!” Roger says, and throws the ball to me.

Both my hands are full! I can’t catch the ball. But I
can
think fast. I stick up my books and the ball bounces off them right back to Roger.

We get to Roger’s block and he takes his things from Charles. He drops his history book right in the middle of the street and says, “This is home plate.”

There are just a few buildings on his block and not much traffic. It’s a good place to play ball. Charles and I leave our books and jackets on the curb, between two parked cars, a Ford and a Hudson.

We all know the teams and the rules. It’s always us against the eighth-graders. Roger always pitches. Charles plays infield and I play outfield.

The rules are easy. You get two swings. A batted ball that hits a car or the curb is foul. A ground ball past the pitcher is a single. With fly balls it depends how far they go. Beyond the pitcher is a single, the first sewer is a double, the hydrant is a triple, and the second sewer is a home run. Of course, if Charles or I catch a fly, it’s an out.

I finish my Orange Crush and take my place in the street a long way from Roger’s history book.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Roger calls.

Ken stands by the history book with the stick held back, ready to swing.

Roger turns to be sure Charles and I are ready. Then he starts.

“Welcome to Ebbets Field. The great Roger Burns is on the mound,” he says, sounding just like Red Barber, the Dodgers’ radio announcer. Barber has a bit of a Southern accent and Roger is good at mimicking it. “Ole Roger is really sittin’ in the tall cotton, tearin’ up the pea patch, winnin’ game after game.”

“Just throw the ball,” Ken shouts.

“The fans are anxious,” Roger says.

There are just the six of us, so someone from the team that’s up has to catch. This time it’s Bruce. He crouches a few feet behind home plate, his hands held open, ready to catch the ball if Ken doesn’t swing at it, or if he swings and misses. Roger spins his arms around in an exaggerated pitcher’s windup and throws the ball. It goes over Ken’s and Bruce’s heads. Roger is really not a great pitcher. We usually lose, but Charles and I don’t care. We have lots of fun playing.

“Oh, Doctor,” Roger says in his Red Barber voice. “That pitch was way too high.”

He holds the ball against his chest, looks in at Ken, spins his arms again, and throws. This time it’s right over the plate. Ken swings and hits it hard, way over my head.

“Can of corn! Can of corn!” Roger calls, meaning it’s an easy ball to catch, but it’s not. I turn and run for it but it bounces past the fire hydrant. A triple.

We don’t have bases, but we know there’s a runner on third.

Ken’s team hits the ball hard and gets two singles and another triple. Luckily a few balls are right at us and we catch them. They score three runs in their half of the first inning. Now it’s our turn.

I always bat first. Charles crouches behind me, ready to catch the ball.

“Here’s Tommy Duncan,” Roger calls out. “Duncan is having a great year as the Dodgers’ center fielder and lead-off hitter. You remember, the Dodgers signed him right out of Theodore Roosevelt High School.”

Roger makes this stuff up, but it sounds good.

Ken pitches for the other team. He doesn’t wind up. He just reaches back and throws the ball.

I let the first pitch go. It’s a bit low. The next one looks good, and I swing and hit it on the ground right back to Ken for the first out.

Oh well. Even DiMaggio, baseball’s best player, has more outs than hits.

Charles is up next and now I’m the catcher. Charles hits the ball on the ground past Ken for a single.

Now Roger is up.

“Here’s Roger Burns,” he says. “You remember, he was brought here in a trade for Camilli. What a great trade for the Dodgers. Burns’s great bat really helps this lineup!”

Charles looks at me and quietly shakes his head, and I know why! First Roger says he’s a great pitcher. Now he’s a better hitter than Camilli, who had twenty-six home runs last year.

“Here’s it is, the first pitch to Burns.”

Roger swings and misses.

“What a cut! What a cut! It’s a lucky thing for the pigeons flying way out on Bedford Avenue that Burns missed that ball.”

That’s the street beyond the wall at the Dodgers’ Ebbets Field.

Roger swings at the next pitch and hits an easy pop-up to Ken.

“He’s going back, back, back. He reaches up and robs Burns of an extra base hit.”

That’s how the game goes. Lots of noise from Roger and lots of scoring for Johnny, Ken, and Bruce. I make a couple of good plays in the field. For one, I reach over my head and catch the ball with one hand. And I get three hits, but just singles, ground balls past Ken.

I don’t usually hit the ball real far. That’s because I’m thin and not real tall. Dad says I’ll probably grow a lot during high school like he did. You know what? I’d rather grow now.

We play for more than an hour, seven innings, and then stop. We lose by a lot, eighteen to four. But it was fun.

“Good game,” Bruce says.

When we finish playing, we usually sit on the curb and talk. But Charles wants me to go home with him now and explain the math, so that’s what we do.

His building is just a block away. We sit in the lobby. Charles pushes two chairs together, and I explain the math to him. We do some problems in the textbook and then I make up some more. After about a half hour he says, “I think I understand it.”

Wow! I taught him that stuff! Maybe I could become a math teacher. Of course, I’d have to go to college, and I’m not sure about that. But it did feel good helping Charles. Working with him, I realize I really like this seventh grade math. It’s so logical. English with Miss Heller is pretty good, too. I guess, mixed with all the boring stuff I don’t listen to in school, there’s some good stuff, too.

“Thanks a lot,” Charles says. “I’ll do some more problems this weekend. Maybe George can help me.”

He’s Charles’s older brother. I’ve met him a few times, and he’s nice and all, but not a great student.

I close my book and get up to leave.

“Do you know what George is planning to do in a few weeks?”

“No,” I answer.

“He’s graduating high school at the end of June and enlisting in the navy.”

I sit again and ask, “Do your parents know?”

“Sure. It was Dad’s idea. He said it will make a man of him.” Charles pauses and then says, “I’m not too happy about it. I’ll miss him, and then, you know, maybe he’ll get hurt. Some people think that soon we might be fighting in Europe.”

Charles and I talk a bit about the war. I don’t tell him, but the only reason I know so much about it is because of Beth. Charles knows about it because at dinner that’s mostly what his family talks about. His parents think we should prepare to defend ourselves, get ready to enter the fighting.

“George agrees. That’s one reason he’s joining the navy, and anyway, he likes water and boats. And he’ll get training, maybe for a job he can do when he gets out. He’ll also get to travel.”

I look at my watch. It’s almost five o’clock. “I’ve got to go,” I say.

“Sure, and thanks a lot for helping me.”

When I’m at the door I turn and look at Charles. He’s still there, in his chair, but he doesn’t even see me leave. I guess he’s thinking about George. That’s a big thing, joining the navy.

On my way home, I pass the school. It’s so different now with no kids there, so quiet. I stop for a moment and look at it. The two large front doors are closed now. The shades are all set exactly halfway down. That’s how Dr. Johnson wants them, so they look neat from the outside. I stand there and I wonder if Dr. Johnson takes his jacket off when he gets home. Probably not. I bet he sleeps in his suit, with his vest still buttoned, and not in a bed. He just leans against a wall, at attention, with his legs together, and falls asleep. That’s what I bet.

I
enter the lobby of our building and go upstairs. Mom is sitting by the dining table with two of her friends from church, Mildred Muir, who bakes great cakes and cookies, and Denise Taylor. Mrs. Muir is wearing pants. Now, lots of women do, but not Mom or Mrs. Taylor. They only wears dresses and skirts.

“Hi, Tommy,” Mrs. Muir says, and puts a large slice of chocolate cake on a plate for me. “Have some cake.”

“Thank you.”

I take it into the kitchen and pour a glass of milk. I’m sure they’re talking about Mom’s stiff legs and shaking hand. I try to listen, but I can’t. They’re whispering.

I finish the cake. It was great. I tell that to Mrs. Muir and go to my room.

At dinner, Mom is in a good mood. This seems to be one of her better days, and she liked having visitors. I wonder how she can seem so steady some days and so shaky on others.

“Denise told me I should see a doctor,” Mom says, “but not because she thought there’s anything wrong. She said I should do it for both of you, so you don’t worry, so I made an appointment.”

“I’m glad,” Dad says.

“I feel fine now, but you keep telling me to go, so I’m going. I just want him to say there’s nothing wrong with me, so then you can stop worrying. I’m going Monday.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dad says.

Mom’s appointment is in the morning, at ten o’clock.

After that, we’re all in good moods, as if the doctor has already said Mom is okay.

I am glad it’s Friday night, so I don’t have to go to school tomorrow and can sleep late. Dad always tells me he wants me to go to college, to become more than a clothing salesman. But I can’t imagine nine more years of school. That’s what it would take to get through eighth grade, high school, and college. Nine more years!

I do homework Saturday morning until I’m too bored to go on. In the afternoon, I tune to the Dodgers game, but there’s just music and talk. They’re in Philadelphia and the game has been rained out. It’s raining here, too, so I don’t go out. I just read some old issues of
Sporting News
and a book I have about Babe Ruth.

Sunday morning there’s a knock on my door. I look at the clock beside my bed. It’s just six thirty! I sit up quickly and ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dad says as he comes into my room. “It’s just that Mom wants to go to early mass.”

I don’t even get up this early for school!

Early mass begins at seven. It’s for people who work on Sundays and for old people who can’t sleep late. We usually go later, at eleven.

We walk to church. It’s just a few blocks, but I notice how difficult this is for Mom, how Dad holds on to her, how he helps her up the stairs. The later masses are always crowded, and we know lots of people. At this mass there are maybe twenty people and, like I said, they’re mostly old. I don’t know any of them. We sit in a back pew.

Father Reilly leads the service. Mom sings along, but when Dad and I kneel for prayer, Mom just leans forward.

When we leave, Father Reilly takes both Mom’s hands in his. “Peace be with you,” he says. “And how are you, Mrs. Duncan?”

“I count my blessings.”