The truth was, deep down, Oscar liked the idea that his father didn’t ever take him to his home because he was a gangster. This was better than the other thought that sometimes crossed his mind. It went like this: His father didn’t take him to his home because he was ashamed of his son. His father never mentioned that Oscar was different, but he was. It was like what his mother, in the dry cleaning business, had learned to call a returning stain. You could think you got it out, but it would always come back.
And so Oscar invested a lot of time in the idea that his father was a gangster. There was the way his father was always so nervous (was someone after him?), the way he only had certain days free, even the duffel bag he always carried. What was in it? A semiautomatic?
Although he liked the idea of his gangster father, Oscar really didn’t want to live on dangerous turf filled with tough customers.
As usual on Route 93, there was a clog in the artery and they were stuck in traffic, not far from the blue gray buildings of Boston pointing up at the bulging clouds. He looked out his window at the huge oil tanks and Boston Harbor beyond that, and the undersides of airplanes as they descended toward Logan Airport. It suddenly seemed like a massive, wild city. He turned to his mother in the car. He said, “I don’t think I can live with Dad.”
His mother glanced at him. “Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be safe,” he said.
“Are you kidding?”
“No,” Oscar said.
“Your father’s always taken the safe route! You know that!”
“No,” Oscar said. “I don’t know anything about him.” He meant it as an accusation, meaning Why haven’t you ever told me anything about him? But his mother didn’t take it that way. She didn’t like blame. She’d read books on it, and they told her things like: The past is the past. You can’t live in it, so move on!
She said, “Well, then, this is the perfect opportunity!”
They rode on in silence for a while. Route 93 stumbled into the chaos of the Big Dig. Someone had painted over the V in a Reverse Curve sign, making it read REVERSE CURSE.
The Red Sox were getting close again this year—Game 3 of the American League Championship Series against the New York Yankees was going to be a home game the next night. The Red Sox had lost the first two games, and so things weren’t looking good. The Boston Red Sox hadn’t won a World Series in eighty-six years—ever since trading Babe Ruth to the Yankees. The Red Sox had come close a number of times, but in the end they always lost. And this particular fall, the Red Sox had gotten close again, but they were now losing to the Yankees in the playoffs, two games to zero.
Everyone’s mood was bleak. The die-hard Red Sox fans were morose. They shuffled around in their bulky coats and ball caps already glum and despairing. If they held on to some hope—a leftover bit from their childhood—they kept it hidden away. It was fragile, delicate—a glass-blown version of hope. Oscar hid his hope, too; but when he thought of the Red Sox—how close they were—the hope swelled in his chest. It made his throat ache and his eyes tear up, just a little bit.
Oscar didn’t want to believe in the Curse, but he liked something about the idea of it. The Curse went something like this: Babe Ruth had been a stand-out young pitcher with the Boston Red Sox. During Babe’s time in Boston, the Red Sox won the World Series twice—in 1916 and 1918. But then owner Harry Frazee sold Babe to the New York Yankees to fund his Broadway show No, No, Nanette. The Yankees went on to win twenty-six World Series, while the Red Sox found various torturous ways to lose.
Oscar thought about all of the big names: Ortiz, Damon, Martinez—how they must have felt in last year’s playoffs when Aaron Boone hit a home run off Tim Wakefield in Game 7 of the ALCS. When it happened, when Boone’s bat hit the ball, Oscar had been alone, watching the game on TV above the dry cleaners and its noisy hum of machinery. To feel cursed was the worst feeling in the world. He sometimes felt that way himself.
There was one thing he knew about the Red Sox: They would disappoint him. They would always seem as if they might win, but in the end they would let him down. Oscar thought that this wasn’t such a big deal to other kids. He heard the way they talked about the Red Sox, the way they’d spout off about wins and losses; but he knew that they weren’t really feeling it deeply in their souls. It wasn’t an old scar. They didn’t really understand. And it had dawned on Oscar recently that maybe this was true because these other kids who talked about being Red Sox fans had families who didn’t disappoint them. But Oscar did, and so it seemed like being doubly hurt. Yet he couldn’t stop hoping. That was the hardest part of all—he couldn’t stop hoping that his mother and his father and the Red Sox would all come through for him someday.
His mother pulled up to the sidewalk at the Hotel Buckminster. Pizzeria Uno was on the ground floor, but Oscar finally had a view of the tall lights, the scoreboard, the green walls of Fenway Park off to the left. He’d never been inside Fenway Park, and in that way the visits with his father at Pizzeria Uno were torture—to be so close.
His mother put the El Camino into park. They were idling outside of Pizzeria Uno. Oscar could see his father’s profile through the plate glass window.
“Don’t ruin this for me, Oscar,” his mother said, twirling the beads on her necklace. “I’m actually going to go somewhere. I’m actually going to be happy. And if everything goes just right, you’ll be the Baltimore Prince of Condos one day. And we won’t have to rent some awful apartment that stinks and work in a place that’ll kill me with its hot fumes. And you’ll sell condos when you grow up too. I’m doing this for us. I can’t risk messing it up!”
Oscar was staring at his father through the window and then at the old-man suitcase between his knees. His father was holding the menu up but not really reading it. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad to be the Condo Prince of Baltimore. He didn’t like being stuck in the life that he had. Maybe it would work out. Maybe it would be better. He didn’t want to mess things up for his mother.
“Please, Oscar,” his mother said. “Just ask. If he says no, well, it’ll be fine. We’ll work it out. Just go and ask.”
Oscar nodded and got out of the car. He looked at his mother and she waved out the open window. It was an even bigger, grander wave than at school, bigger and grander than the moment called for—even for his mother, who was becoming more and more dramatic these days. It was the kind of wave you give to people onshore when you’re on a ship that is setting out to sea. His suitcase was still in the front seat, though, so he knew she wasn’t leaving him. It just felt that way.
CHAPTER TWO
The Dusty, Golden Box
OSCAR PUSHED OPEN THE GLASS door of Pizzeria Uno. Bells wired to the door handle gave a weak jingle. He didn’t want to look at his father, because he knew his father was smiling in his sad way, and so Oscar kept his eyes down and walked fast. He was used to walking this way at school. It was one way he tried to be invisible. He slid into the booth, picked up the menu, and hid behind it.
“Hey there, how are things?” His father had this way of speaking that sounded as if something was broken inside of him—even when saying the simplest, most commonplace things.
“Fine,” Oscar said.
“Slow in here today,” Oscar’s father said.
“The Sox have the night off.”
“Yep, I guess so. No game.”
His father coughed, a little rattle in his chest. His father didn’t like to talk about baseball. But Oscar knew he was a serious fan, deeply pained by each loss, because sometimes he’d slip and give some very specific fact. Once he told Oscar that the field grass was 85 percent rye and 15 percent Kentucky bluegrass. Still, Oscar was sorry he’d brought up the Red Sox, especially now as they were down in the series against the Yankees and news was out that their prize pitcher, Schilling, had a bad ankle. Oscar wanted to be the perfect kid so that when he asked if he could stay with him, his father would say: Yes, of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way!
Oscar
didn’t know how to be perfect, though. His mother didn’t want him to mess this up, but he felt pretty sure that he was going to. And he wasn’t sure how to ask his dad if he could stay with him. Should he mention Marty Glib? No, he decided quickly. Oscar’s father didn’t want to hear about Marty Glib. Sometimes Oscar thought his father was still in love with his mother (even though he’d been the one to leave), and that was even more painful than baseball talk.
His father placed a present—a big box wrapped in comic book pages—on the table. “How about we wait until the end of the meal. Something to look forward to,” his father said.
“Okay,” Oscar said. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He dreaded what might be wrapped up in the box. It wasn’t so much that he was looking forward to it as he was putting it off. Oscar decided that he should put off asking his dad about staying with him too. That way his answer—surely a no—wouldn’t hang over the whole meal.
Oscar ordered a couple of slices of pepperoni pizza. His father ordered the chicken parm sandwich (and the waitress delivered a meatball sub). This time Oscar didn’t eat much either. His father asked about school, and Oscar went into a lot of unnecessary detail about how much he loved gym class even though the mats smelled like terrariums. He stretched the truth a little, too, saying that he’d accidentally knocked over Alyson Perry in her Girl Scout uniform during a game of tag but they were still good friends, and that he and Steven Lannum talked all the time about Martinez’s pitching stats.
His father nodded along.
“Coach O’Donnell sometimes gets mad about things that he shouldn’t. He gets things all wrong,” Oscar said. “I don’t think he should get like that. I mean, I’m always trying to do the best I can.”
His father said, “I know. I know. Why do people get so angry when things don’t go the way they want?” He looked down at his duffel bag and patted it twice.
Oscar didn’t understand what that could mean, but this part of the conversation seemed like an opportunity. He said, “I think people should just deal with the situation they’re given and do the best they can, don’t you?”
“I do,” his father said, now fiddling with the zipper on the bag.
“Like,” Oscar said, as quickly as he could, “like how Mom’s going away for a few months and she wants me to stay with you. Like how she wants me to go home with you today. That’s not what I want,” Oscar said, beating his dad to the punch. But then the next part came out as a question: “And it isn’t what you want either, right?”
His father’s head snapped up. “What did you say?”
“I said, like how Mom’s going away and wants me to stay with you. She’s got an old-man suitcase all packed for me. She wants me to go home with you today.”
Oscar’s father slid out of the booth. He stood there with his hands on his hips, his face pale. It glistened with sudden sweat. He turned away and then back again. “It’s too dangerous. I can’t risk…I told her this already. Today? Home with me today?” He turned away again and then came back. He stared at Oscar as if he just remembered something—something very important. “Are you the one who will save us?” he asked. “Could it be you?”
Oscar wasn’t sure what to say. “Save who?” he asked. “From what?”
His father shook his head. “It can’t be. Not possible. We just have to face facts. This is forever.” He paused and then said, “Excuse me.” And he walked across the restaurant and disappeared into the men’s bathroom.
Oscar had no idea what had just happened. How dangerous would it be? What couldn’t his father risk? Oscar looked out the window for his mother’s El Camino. He’d have to tell her that it hadn’t gone well, that they’d have to come up with another plan.
Her car wasn’t there, though. Oscar wondered if she’d run off on a last-minute errand.
Oscar kneeled on the seat to look up and down the street in both directions. And that’s when he saw that his father had left behind the duffel bag. He’d never done that before.
Oscar wanted to look inside of it, of course. He knew he shouldn’t. It was private property. And yet he had to know what was in there. He had a right to know if his father was a gangster carrying guns with him all the time, didn’t he?
Oscar got off of the seat quickly and went around to the other side of the booth. He glanced at the men’s bathroom door. His father wasn’t coming and so he quickly unzipped the bag. He looked inside, just peeking at first, scared of what he might find. But it wasn’t what he expected at all. It was just a box. Dusty, made of metal—in fact, gold in color. Could it be made of gold? Oscar went to open it, but it had an old, dented lock. He rummaged around in the bag for a key, but the bag was empty. Oscar zipped up the bag and scooted back to his own spot, and just in time. His father was at the cash register, paying. Oscar stared at him, and—he couldn’t help it—Drew’s Sizemore’s voice was in his ear. “Who’s your daddy?” the voice chanted like a crowd in a stadium. “Who’s your daddy?”
When his father was done paying, he walked back to the booth slowly. He’d wet his hair and combed it. He didn’t sit down. He just stood there. He raised one hand, ready to explain. His hand was shaking. He said in a quavering voice, “This won’t work, Oscar. I’m sorry. You know how much I’d love for you to be with me, but, well, it’s just…”
“Too dangerous,” Oscar said.
“Yes, I mean…” His father started mumbling to himself. “How would you ever get back to your life? You’d end up stuck, like me. It would be…” He stopped himself.
Oscar wasn’t sure what all the mumbling was about. His father picked up the duffel bag, swung it over his shoulder, and grabbed the present. Oscar was wondering if he’d get out of opening the gift in front of his dad. He could just duck into the car with his mother, take the gift, and they’d drive off; and Oscar wouldn’t have to feel like a faker. “C’mon. Let’s go meet up with your mother. I’ll explain it to her one more time.” He coughed nervously. “I can’t believe she’d spring a thing like this. She should know by now that I can only do what I can do. Plus, what about school? Did she think of that?”
“She said I’d take a little vacation, and then you’d set me up somewhere near you.” Oscar felt hot and nauseous. “This would all be very temporary,” he said, waving his hand just like his mother had in the car. “She said we can make other plans if you said no.”
His father smoothed out some crumpled bills and left them on the table. They walked out of the restaurant together, the bells jingling again. Rain sizzled on the pavement. When they got outside, they both stopped. Sitting on the sidewalk under the awning was an old-man suitcase—wheel-less and plaid, with a plastic handle.
There was a note attached to its handle with a rubber band. Oscar ran to the suitcase. He pulled out the piece of paper. The note was simple. It said:
Oscar,
I love you! This is all for the best; you’ll see!
Love,
Mom
Oscar looked up and down the street, but his mother was nowhere in sight.
Oscar and his father waited under the awning of Pizzeria Uno for two hours.
“She’s got to come back,” his father kept muttering. “This isn’t funny, you know.”
Oscar knew that his mother wasn’t trying to be funny. She wasn’t the type. And he knew that she wasn’t coming back. But he still wasn’t sure that his father was going to take him home. While pretending to keep an eye out for the El Camino, he watched his father out of the corner of his eye. Malachi Egg, he thought. Who is Malachi Egg?
His father paced, staring at his watch and then flicking it with his finger as if the thing were broken. His cough seemed to be getting worse. He went on a long, hacking jag. His cheeks flushing deep red, he doubled over, wheezing and hacking. When he finally stopped, he was breathless. He straightened but seemed woozy.
And then the wind kicked up, pushing the rain sideways. Plastic bags in the gutters swirled and sailed down the street. The rain beat on the awning o
verhead, on the street and the roofs of cars. It was so loud that it sounded like a roar all around them.
Oscar shouted over the rain, “She isn’t coming back!”
His father nodded as if he’d known it for a long time. And Oscar wasn’t sure what to say next. It occurred to him again that maybe it wasn’t so much that his father was afraid to take him to his place as it was that he was ashamed of his son. Wherever his father lived, did he have a picture of Oscar like his mother had promised to show to Marty Glib? Did people in his father’s other life—gangsters or tough customers or whoever—know that Oscar was his child, his black child. Did they even know he existed? The idea made Oscar’s stomach turn. He sat down on his suitcase. He was suddenly worried that he was going to start to cry. He could feel his face tightening up. He didn’t want to cry in front of his father. He pulled his lips in tight. He wanted to be matter-of-fact, grown-up. He said to himself, “I don’t care what happens.” But he didn’t mean it. His father didn’t want to take him home. His mother had left him. His chest felt constricted, his throat cinched.
He said, “I’ve had a really bad day. I got punched in my back and sent to the principal, and my mother picked me up and told me she was going to leave me with you. And you don’t want me. And it’s not like this is the first time someone didn’t want me. I’m cursed,” Oscar said. The tears were streaming down his face now. He backhanded his wet nose and sat down on his suitcase. “I’m the kind of kid that nobody wants around. Look at me!” Oscar said, staring down at his ski vest and his too-tight baseball uniform shirt. “I’m stuck like this. Like me. Cursed forever.”
When he looked up at his father, he was surprised at what he saw. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this: his father’s face streaked with tears too, but his face shining, hopeful, a smile lifting his cheeks, his eyebrows. Oscar wasn’t sure what to do with this odd, affectionate look. He stood up abruptly. And then feeling awkward, he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
The Prince of Fenway Park Page 2
