by Lois Ruby
I yank a rumpled shirt from the bottom of the laundry pile and run across the street to give Luke the signed Rizzuto card. He’s back to sitting in his driveway. “Brought you something.”
He takes the yellow envelope without a word and slides the beautiful 1949 Rizzuto card out of the cellophane pocket. Studies the autograph for about five long minutes. “This is . . . so fine . . . so very fine.” He slips it in his shirt pocket, placing his hand over the pocket the way you do to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Luke starts out so low and flat that I can barely hear him, and so slow that it’s hard to connect the words.
“You . . . play . . . the . . . bugle . . . I . . . heard . . . you.”
“Yeah, but I’m no good. We’ll blow a few blasts at commencement, and that’s it until next June.”
“Don’t . . . like . . . bugles . . . hundreds blaring . . . bitter-cold . . . night.”
What’s he talking about?
“Chosin . . . Reservoir.” His eyes aren’t dead now; they’re thousands of miles away, back in Korea.
Word by drawn-out word: “You’re hunched behind a hill. Can’t feel your toes, but they’re throbbing inside your stiff boots anyway. Chinese storm in on the side of the North. Bugles, that’s their battle cry, bugles blaring, blaring. Supposed to unnerve the enemy, which is us, which is me. Shells bursting, lighting the black night. Blood, guts flying, and those bugles blaring, driving you ’round the bend. Head’s splitting. Don’t think you’re going to get out alive. Lotta guys don’t, your buddies don’t, but you do. You do.”
“Oh, man.” What else can I say? A big sour wad clogs my throat. I’m about to either cry or puke.
Long silence, then, “Don’t blow . . . the . . . bugle . . . anymore . . . Marty.”
“I won’t, Luke, I swear. Not at commencement, not anywhere. Ever.”
Later, I stash the bugle in the back of my closet, under a sleeping bag, so there’s no chance that I’ll hear it blaring in the night, like Luke did at Chosin Reservoir.
♢
At the final bell, last day of school, a victory cry explodes all over the building. Guys are whooping it up and flinging notebook papers and gum wrappers and holey sneakers out of their lockers. Pirates toss their ball caps in the air and slug through the schoolyard like one big wobbly-celled amoeba, with Connor as the nucleus. You’d think they were a winning team, instead of the worst losers in Palmetto Junior-Senior High history. Makes me want to duck and cover again.
Well, who needs them? This is what I have going for me this summer:
Luke Everly, who says three or four words a day that aren’t about bugles
the Mick, who hasn’t got a clue that a guy named Marty Rafner even exists
Mr. Sokolov and his Read!
and the countdown to the Rosenbergs’ execution next week.
How could it get any better than that—or worse?
♢
Earthquake? No, Mom with her knee in my back, shaking me awake. “Wonderful news, Marty! Some new lawyers got a brief to the judge saying that the Rosenbergs were tried under the wrong law. Brand new evidence. There’s hope!”
My head’s foggy, and I stammer, “Does this mean they won’t go to the Chair Thursday?”
“It might. Be happy for them, Marty!”
“I’m happy, I’m just not awake.”
But by the time I am awake, the world’s changed again. Mom’s brushing her teeth at the kitchen sink. She turns around, foaming at the mouth with toothpaste, and mumbles, “The Supreme Court denied a stay of execution on a five to four vote.”
“No hope?”
“Well, it’s not over yet.” She spits into the sink. “Those new lawyers are appearing before Justice Douglas for reconsideration. He’s more open than the other three dissenters. At least the Rosenbergs might get a delay until October, because all the Supreme Court justices are leaving on vacation today. One’s even scheduled for surgery, so there’s no calling them back. October! Lots of things could happen to save them in four months. It’s the only major victory the Rosenbergs have had in more than two years.”
Good news, bad news, or is it worse news? It’s hard to tell. I need to escape. So I take a lawn chair across the street and park right next to Luke. I don’t even try to make conversation. We just sit there like two geezers on the porch of the old folks’ home.
Luke says, “I’m . . . going . . . away.”
“Where ya going, Luke?”
“Can’t . . . say.”
“Wendy and Carrie, too?” Being a hopeless optimist, I stupidly want to believe they’re all heading to the lake together for a little sun.
“It’s . . . not . . . your . . . fault.”
“What’s not?”
“You . . . did your . . . best . . . kid. Go . . . home.”
♢
The radio’s blasting some cheerful Perry Como number when I walk back inside. Mom grabs me and plants her hand on my shoulder and plasters her palms to my sweaty ones. “We need a little cheering up. It’s in honor of Ethel Rosenberg. She’ll never be able to foxtrot with her sons.”
Mom guides me around the room, since I can’t dance worth spit, but before I know it, she’s swinging me this way and that, pumping my arm, twirling under my armpit like I’m a giant and she’s four feet tall. My feet move—everything moves, including my liver and spleen—in time to Perry Como warbling, “Don’t let the stars get in your eyes, don’t let the moon break your hearrr-art . . .”
Chapter 34
Wednesday, June 17
One day left for the Rosenbergs. I picture them in their individual cells poring over their lists of things they wanted to get done before their lives went dark forever: Climb Mount Everest, eat kangaroo steak in Tasmania, learn to play pinochle, take in a World Series game, see your sons old enough to shave.
The radio’s reporting last night’s ball scores, interrupted by news.
“. . . a late-breaking bulletin in the Rosenberg case: Chief Justice Vinson has ordered the Supreme Court justices to return to Washington for an unprecedented special session to review Justice Douglas’s stay of execution, issued earlier today. Justice Black, scheduled for surgery this week, has delayed his operation and will meet with his brethren on the Court.”
Good news!
“. . . expected that the Court will vacate Justice Douglas’s stay, and that the execution will be carried out on Friday, June 19, at 11:00 p.m. Stay tuned for further developments.”
Bad news.
Yesterday it was two days to go. Now, a day later, it’s still two days to go. Weird math. It would confuse even Dr. Sonfelter. Does it count as good news if you got yourself ready to die on a certain day, then it got bumped back?
Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table with her head propped up in her hands. “Don’t say anything, Marty. I need to figure out how I feel.” She passes me the Sentinel. There it is on the front page:
ROBBY AND MICHAEL VISIT PARENTS FOR LAST TIME
They’ll never see their mom and dad again, so I’m trying to figure out what they’ll talk about in the reception room at Sing Sing.
SON 1: So long. It’s been a nice few years, except for the last two while you’ve been in jail and we’ve been farmed out to anybody who’d take us.
PARENT 1: Have a good life.
PARENT 2: Sorry we’ll miss the next seventy years of it.
SON 2: Hope it doesn’t hurt too much when they pull the switch. Hey, he kicked me!
SON 1: Did not!
SON 2: Did too!
PARENT 1: Boys, boys, no fighting.
PARENT 2: Always remember, sons, we love you.
SON 1: Yeah? Funny way of showing it.
Maybe it won’t be like that at all. Maybe they’ll be slobbering and hugging and promising things that can’t ever happen. I’ll always be with you. Or maybe they’ll just find ways to hang out in different corners of the boxing ring.
The whole Rosenberg thing is making me sick, which
means hungry. I slap two pieces of bread and a chunk of Velveeta into a pan. So, while I’m waiting for it to get gooey, there’s a shadowy shape outside the kitchen door—someone’s head, but I can’t tell whose because of the checkered curtains on the window. An envelope slides under the door, and the shadow disappears.
Another threatening note? I thought we were past that. I pick up the yellow envelope with my heart pounding.
Inside is the Phil Rizzuto card; no note. Why is Luke returning it to me?
I stand there for a long time, trying to puzzle it out, until smoke and the nasty smell of burning cheese shakes me into action. Turn off the stove and fly out the kitchen door, still clutching the yellow envelope. I sprint across the street without looking for traffic. The FBI guys will honk if a car comes barreling down Oxbow. They wouldn’t want me splattered on their windshield.
A gust of wind has blown Luke’s chair across his lawn because he isn’t there to anchor it. I ring the bell, knock, look in all the windows, the backyard. The garage door won’t go up, and all the doors are locked, no lights on anywhere. Where’d he go? And why did he return the card that he’d called so very fine?
At the FBI car: “You know the guy who’s always sitting right there outside his garage except when he rolled down the driveway? Did you see him leave?”
“We didn’t see a thing,” Kluski replies. Some spies they are.
But Milgrim, who still has a human bone left in his body, says, “Correction: he walked north, up toward the campus.”
I run to the College, with my two keys flopping on a chain against my T-shirt. It’s a big campus with lots of buildings and trees and cars. How can I zero in on him? As soon as I clear one place, he can move into it after me. I mean, like he’s experienced in combat, boondoggling the enemy.
If I were running away, where would I go? Up to Whittier Tower, where I’m emperor of the world, because I’m the only one besides Connor’s father who has a key.
Unless Luke made himself a copy that day he made my house key! Yeah, the tower key was on the same string. He even commented on it.
I swear, it takes me less than a minute to sprint to Whittier. The door’s so tall that I have to stand on my toes to reach the lock with the key around my neck.
It’s already unlocked.
The stubborn door creaks open onto darkness, and I start climbing up the winding stairs, quiet as an alley cat. They say that when you’re in a scary situation adrenaline pumps through you. That’s how an ordinary kid can lift the front end of a car, or run the mile in four. Me, I never dreamed I’d have the energy to climb these stairs so fast, no gasping.
All the way up the corkscrew stairs I’m thinking about what to say. Nothing seems right. Should I pull a Mom and ask him a zillion questions? No, no questions. Should I lie? I just happened to be on my way up here; thought I’d keep you company. Talk about dumb. Guilt, will that work? Some Bubbie Sylvia psychology? I’m really disappointed in you, Luke. If you fall, you’ll smash the pretty flowers down there. Now, that’s not a nice thing to do, is it, sweetheart?
Should I beg him to come down with me? Should I grab him and wrestle him to the floor? Sure, like he isn’t three times bigger and stronger than I am. But there are those war wounds; maybe I can take him.
Nothing feels right. I’m a kid. I’m not trained to do stuff like this. But maybe he just wants company while he enjoys the breeze on a hot, humid day. Yeah, that’s it.
I’m panting my way up the last ten steps when I remember him saying, It’s not your fault . . . You did your best, kid. Sure sounds like goodbye.
Chapter 35
Wednesday, June 17
My lungs feel like water balloons by the time I see light at the top of the stairs. I don’t want to scare Luke. So, before he hears my footsteps getting closer, I call out in a real calm voice, “Hey, Luke, it’s me, Marty. How ya doing?” I wait to see if he’ll answer. “I brought you your Phil Rizzuto. You didn’t mean to give it back to me, did you? He signed it to you.” Probably wrecked a $15 card by sticking it in my back pocket, but that’s not my main worry right now.
I’m on the third step from the top, just high enough that my head shows over the platform. Already there’s enough wind that my hair whips around my face. He better be holding on tight. Don’t see him, but he’s nearby; I feel him there, like heavy air. I slide the envelope across the floor, as far as I can reach, anchoring it with my fist.
“I forgot to check the lineup for tonight’s game, Luke. Don’t know if Rizzuto’s playing, but I’d sure like to get down to my radio in time for the first pitch, wouldn’t you?”
Ahead of me, wind and Luke. Behind me, dark winding stairs that look real inviting all of a sudden. But I’m in too deep to turn back.
I’m up on the platform now, but not too close to him. Just crouching there on my knees, catching my breath, hunched up against the stone wall. The bell blocks my view of the other side of the tower; the bell-pull is close enough that I could yank it, and it would cause a thundering clang, turning us stone-deaf for life.
“Hey, Luke? You heard, didn’t ya, that the Army drafted Willie Mays?”
No comment.
“Aren’t you wondering what the Giants are gonna do without Mays for two whole seasons?”
Is Luke listening? The wind dies down a little. Now his breathing is the only sound. So silent up here, so peaceful. So treacherous. “Anyway, it’s not gonna be Yankees-Giants this year in the Series. Wanna make a bet it’s gonna be Yankees-Dodgers?” I inch like a crab along the wall.
Now I see his Marine boots, polished to a blinding shine. “Luke? What do you think? Yankees, for sure, right? You said it yourself, Rizzuto all the way.” I keep scooting along on my rear, pushing the yellow envelope ahead of me.
Suddenly his boot comes down on the envelope, sending my heart hammering. Blood rushes through my veins like they’re hot water pipes. He’s in full white dress uniform, Marines cap and all. He stands ramrod-straight, with his back to me.
“Who . . . sent . . . you . . . up . . . here, kid?”
“Nobody. You knew I had a key, you cut it yourself. Made yourself one, too. So, I guess we’re both s’posed to be up here. It’s kind of cozy, don’t you think?”
Cozy? It’s terrifying, and I’m three parts chicken, even on the ground.
Suddenly Luke bends over the half-wall like he’s trying to pick up a nickel on the ground, three hundred feet down.
“Hey, man, don’t do that! Want me to have a heart attack?”
He raises his head, his chest, in slow motion, then snaps back into attention, gloved hands clasped behind his back. Phew! Close call. It must hurt his war wounds to stand so rigid. Seems like he’s not moving a muscle or taking a breath, like he’s sealed in ice.
The wind stirs up again, enough to make the bell swing a little. Its rusty chain creaks, which makes my skin crawl. Now he stands in the open space, holding on to nothing but air and swaying like the bell. If his Marines cap weren’t strapped under his chin, it would fly to the next county. His pants legs flap in the wind. The wind could knock him right over the edge!
I huddle against the wall of the tower, hoping my cold sweat will glue me to the stone. “Listen, it’s a little windy up here, Luke, and the radio says a storm’s on its way.” A lie, but I’ve got to use whatever ammunition I can muster up. “I don’t know about you, but it’s scaring me, ’cause everybody knows I’m a sniveling coward.”
Here’s his chance to agree. Nothing.
“So, would you mind if we both went on down the stairs?”
I watch him unsnap his cap and slip it off his head. His buzz cut is too short to catch the breeze as he flings that cap down, way off across the next building.
“Say, I was just thinking about Carrie. Cute kid. What happens when she’s old enough to swing a bat? Which one of us is gonna be her coach, you or me?”
He doesn’t take the bait.
“Better be you, because I swing at everything, even
a goose egg. Hey, I’d swing at a watermelon. I’ll bet Carrie’s got natural talent. You think your daughter’s got what it takes to be a lady jock when she gets bigger?”
No answer but the howling wind.
Deep breath: “Listen, I’ve got the number to reach Wendy. I’m gonna tell her to bring Carrie over here. I want to see for myself if she’s got quick reflexes, you know? See if there’s any hope for her to be the best slugger on our block someday.”
He still stands there swaying. His lips move like he’s saying a prayer. This is crazy. We’ve gotta get down those stairs, both of us. My heart thumps so hard it feels like it’s swelled to fit my whole chest and is beating against my bones to escape.
Quick, I need a new plan. Last ditch effort. It’s a gamble, but nothing else has worked.
“Okay, here’s the deal, Luke. I’m starting down, ’cause, I’m getting a little panicky up here in this wind, and I don’t like the way that bell’s starting to swing. So, I’m going to yell out one-to-ten slowly as my foot hits each step, okay? By the time I get to ten, you’ll be on the first step, heading down. Do we have a deal?”
Luke moves his boot and bends over to pick up the Rizzuto envelope, which he sticks inside his coat. Is this a good sign?
I swallow dry. “Do we have a deal?” I start down the cobbled, winding steps. The dungeon wall oozes fuzzy slime, but I cling to it like a barnacle to a boat.
Shouting behind me: “One. Two. Do we have a deal, Luke? Do we? Three. I can’t hear you. Four.”
He’s not coming. Is he gonna stay up there until it gets dark? All night? Forever?
“Five . . . Say something, Luke, I’m getting pretty shook up. Do we have a deal or don’t we?” Long pause. “Six . . . seven . . . eight.”
