What happened was Jerry Manche had mentioned it to a few guys who worked for the Yankees, and then one of them mentioned it to a couple of newspaper reporters, and then of course they started yakking about it. By the time the story got to the announcer, he didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret.
So Lonnie knocked over the first domino, when he asked Murcer to hit the home run, and after that it was just one domino falling into the next domino. It was no one’s fault.
We were still standing at the front door while Mr. Selig was telling us that. Lonnie waited for him to finish and asked if Quentin was going to school, and Mr. Selig shook his head. He told us that Quentin was back in the hospital, that he kept waking up during the night because he couldn’t breathe. “I think maybe it’s just his nerves,” Mr. Selig said. “His mother’s with him.…”
Then he started to sob and waved us away.
As Lonnie and I were walking back toward the bus stop, he turned to me and said, “You knew, didn’t you?”
“How could you tell?”
“The way you were walking home afterwards,” he said. “The rest of the guys were staring down, thinking about stuff. But you were staring straight ahead, like there was nothing to think about. Plus, something’s been eating at you these last couple of weeks. I figure it must’ve been that. Magoo told you, right?”
“Lonnie—”
“That’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. I figure it’s got to be him. Who else from the block would know except Quentin’s mom and dad? I figure they must’ve told him, because he’s their rabbi, and because that’s the kind of thing you tell a rabbi, and I figure he must’ve told you. I don’t know why he’d do that—”
“Neither do I,” I said.
Lonnie looked at me, and I looked back at him, but we kept walking.
“How long do you think he’s got?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You really don’t know, or you know and you’re not supposed to tell anyone?”
“I really and truly don’t know. I swear on my mother’s life.”
Those words kind of hung between us for a couple of seconds.
“Anyway,” Lonnie said, “it’s a good thing the truth came out.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because we can treat him like a king.” Lonnie swallowed hard. “I mean, as soon as he gets out of the hospital …”
“Yeah.”
“I doubt he’s going to go back to school.”
“Why wouldn’t he go back to school?” I said.
“Because what’s the point? I mean, why does it matter anymore if Quentin can change fractions to percents? What good is it going to do him?”
“What else is he going to do?” I said. “Going to school has got to be better than sitting around and waiting.”
“Here’s what I was thinking. What if, as soon as he gets home from the hospital, the rest of us just skip school until the summer?”
“C’mon, Lonnie!”
“Think about it, Jules. It’s only a few months. We can just hang out at his house and get him whatever he wants. He wants a vanilla milk shake, bam, one of us can run downstairs to Vera’s and get him a vanilla milk shake. He’ll never be alone. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Lonnie, it’s not going to happen. It’s not realistic.”
“Why isn’t it realistic? My mom will write me a note. She knows what it’s like to lose people.”
“Even if she does, it’s just a note from your mom. Who says Principal Salvatore will go for it?”
“Then we’ll go to the newspapers,” Lonnie said. “We’ll tell them how we just want to spend time with our dying friend, and how our school principal won’t let us. Let’s see what Salvatore says with an office full of reporters.”
“You just want to skip school.”
“I never denied it, Jules. But I want to skip school for a good reason. That makes a big difference. Don’t you want to spend as much time as you can with Quentin? You said yourself you don’t know how much time he’s got left. He could die next year, or he could die next month.”
“Lonnie, we can’t talk about it like this. It’s not right. It’s just … not right.”
“You’re the one who says we should be realistic. I’m trying to be realistic.”
“How about if we wait until Quentin gets out of the hospital and then figure out the rest of it?”
“That’s fine with me,” he said.
April 18, 1970
Twelve
Quentin died last night. Friday night. April 17, 1970. Eight days after the Yankees announcer messed up and said the thing he said. I want to remember that date, April 17, 1970. He never came home from the hospital. The last time I saw him, he was hugging his mom.
He was twelve years old.
I mean, he was twelve.
TWELVE!!!
April 20, 1970
Keep It to Yourself
Why do people get philosophical at times like this? Why do they have to go on and on about the meaning of it? I mean, you expect that kind of thing from your parents, and maybe even your sister. But the stuff comes at you wherever you turn. Your teachers. Your mailman. Even the guy who picks up and drops off your laundry. They’ve all just got to get in their two cents about how things will be all right no matter how much it hurts right now.
Yeah, Quentin died. Yeah, it’s real sad. End of story. I mean, did we really need another trip to Miss Medina’s office this morning? She’s a real nice lady, but I doubt she could’ve picked Quentin out of a lineup. Do I need her to tell me time heals all wounds? I felt like saying, “That’s it? That’s the best you’ve got?” But I sat there in her office and didn’t talk. None of us did. Not even Lonnie. He could have let her have it. But he didn’t. My point is, why is it the guidance counselor’s business? What’s she going to tell me that I couldn’t have figured out on my own?
You know what old Mrs. Griff did? She nodded as I came into homeroom. That’s it. Just a quick nod, as if to say, Sorry about your friend. She made more sense than the rest of them put together.
April 22, 1970
Long Island
It was hot out this morning, like middle-of-summer hot. I think it was maybe seventy-five degrees, but it felt even hotter because we had to wear blazers to Quentin’s funeral.
The cemetery was way out on Long Island. The ride was pretty bad. I was sitting in the backseat of the car, next to Amelia, and she kept reaching across and squeezing my hand. I let her do it because it seemed to mean a lot to her. But it just made me hotter. The sun was glaring through the windows, and my mom and dad were whispering back and forth in the front seat, and I was staring down at the buttons on my blazer, and the back of my neck was sweaty, and the middle of my back was sweaty, and it was the wrongest, sweatiest feeling I’d ever had.
We parked in a lot next to the chapel, which was a large beige building in front of the cemetery. There were a half dozen cars there already. The first person I noticed was Beverly. She was standing at the front door of the chapel. She took a step forward when she saw us drive up, but she held back and waited for my parents and Amelia to get out of the car and walk into the chapel. Then she ran up to me and hugged me, which would’ve been all right, except for how hot and sweaty I was.
She was weepy, of course. But she managed to get out, “It’s so bad.…”
“Yeah,” I said.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I kissed her on the cheek. That seemed to work. She wiped her eyes and smiled at me and told me she’d see me later. Then she went into the chapel to sit with her family.
I waited outside for the rest of the guys to show up, which they did over the next ten minutes. We didn’t talk much. Howie razzed Shlomo a couple of times about how shiny his shoes were, how he could see his reflection in them. He didn’t mean anything by it. You couldn’t blame him for doing it because it filled up the silence. The only good thing about standing there was that it
was shady, and there was a breeze blowing, and I started to cool off.
Lonnie was the last guy to arrive. His mom and dad were walking in front of him, and I expected Mrs. Fine to be crying her eyes out, but she had this stiff look on her face. Her eyes were flat. Her mouth was straight. It was like she had no expression at all. What was even weirder was that she didn’t stop to hug us, and she’s the biggest hugger I know. But she and Mr. Fine had their arms locked together, and they were looking straight ahead, and they walked right past us as if we weren’t there.
Lonnie came over and said, “You’re going to say something, right, Jules?”
“What do you mean?”
“After the service, when we go out to the grave, Magoo is going to ask people to come forward and say stuff. That’s how funerals work.”
“How do you know?”
“My mom told me. She asked me if I was going to do it.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
“Because I’m not the word guy. You’re the word guy.”
That was as far as we’d gotten when a blue limousine pulled into the parking lot. I thought at first it was a funeral car. But then I noticed the pinstripes and Yankees logo. The limousine rolled to a stop, and out stepped Bobby Murcer and Jerry Manche. They were wearing dark suits and sunglasses. They walked around to the trunk, popped it open, and pulled out a huge horseshoe of flowers. I mean, the thing was just enormous—at least six feet tall. It wasn’t heavy, though. Jerry Manche was carrying it by himself as he and Murcer walked toward us.
Murcer took off his sunglasses and slid them into his pocket. Then he put out his hand and shook each of our hands. “How’re you fellas holding up?”
“We’re doing all right,” Lonnie said. “Nice home run.”
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t think that guy would ever throw you a strike.”
Murcer smiled. “Neither did I.”
Jerry Manche said, “Hey, Bobby, I’m going to bring the flowers inside. You take your time.”
Murcer nodded and then walked over to me. I was looking off to the side because I didn’t want to have another conversation, but he ducked down and made me look him in the eye. “How are you doing, young man?”
“I guess I’m all right.”
“Life’s tough to figure out, isn’t it?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Just hold on to what’s important.”
I didn’t want to keep looking him in the eye, so I nodded and said, “All right.”
He shook my hand again and headed into the chapel.
As soon as Murcer was gone, Lonnie started in on me again. “C’mon, Jules, you’re the obvious one to get up and talk.”
“I think you’re the obvious one to get up and talk. I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re not supposed to think about it,” he said. “Just speak from the heart.”
Shlomo was nodding. “It doesn’t matter what you say. You say whatever you feel like saying. When my bubbe died, people got up and told stories about her, or they talked about what a nice person she was, or they just said how much they were going to miss her. It’s not a big deal. You say something, and then you sit back down.”
“Then why don’t you do it?” I said.
He shook his head. “Not going to happen.”
Lonnie said, “Be logical, Jules. It’s got to be you.”
“What if I say the wrong thing?”
“You’re not listening. There’s no right or wrong.”
I took a deep breath. “All right, fine, I’ll do it.”
“So what are you going to say?”
“Lonnie!”
“It’s a joke. I’m just trying to break the mood.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Danley Dimmel and his mom walking up the path from the parking lot. It took me a second to realize it was the same guy we egged last year. Danley towered over his mom, who was maybe five feet tall. The sight of him in a dark blazer and a tie was strange. He looked like a grown-up, like a guy who worked on Wall Street. Except the closer he got, the less grown-up he looked. He looked like a guy who wasn’t used to wearing a blazer. It was too tight on his shoulders and too short on his arms. Also, his tie was crooked, and he kept fidgeting with his hearing aid.
I gave a quick wave to Danley, but he didn’t notice me. Which you could understand. He was sobbing, and his mom was sobbing even worse, so he was kind of distracted.
The next car to drive up and park was a clunky green Rambler. Out of it stepped Principal Salvatore and Miss Medina. The two of them saw us standing off to the side. They walked over and told us how sorry they were for our loss. Their voices were different outside of school. “We’re so sorry for your loss” were the exact words Principal Salvatore said, and then Miss Medina said, “So sorry.” That was it. But it was real dignified, the way they said it. Like they really and truly were sorry for our loss.
As we watched them head through the front door of the chapel, a tall guy in a dark suit poked his head out and called to us, “You boys need to come inside. We’re about to start.”
The service was pretty much what you’d expect: a blur of Hebrew words, lots of standing up and sitting back down, with sobbing and weeping in the background. From the second it started, I wanted it to be over. But Rabbi Salzberg dragged it out, getting in his two cents about how none of us can know God’s purpose, how we have to accept God’s wisdom. Like I said, it was pretty much what you’d expect.
After the last “amen,” the tall dark-suited guy who’d called us into the chapel cracked open the side door, and sunlight blazed into the room. Rabbi Salzberg stepped off the stage, and the rest of us followed him out to the cemetery. It was maybe a hundred-yard walk to the grave site, which was where Quentin’s coffin was.
That thing was beautiful. I just stared at it. I mean, you take wood shop, and you make a two-foot bookshelf, and you step back and look at it, and you feel kind of proud. But then you see something like that coffin, and you realize how rinky-dink your bookshelf was. The way that thing was put together, the way the wood was polished—I mean, it was gleaming in the sun. So were the brass handles. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, even when Rabbi Salzberg started to speak.
We were sitting in metal folding chairs on the grass next to the grave. I was sitting between Lonnie and Howie, staring at the coffin, and not much listening to the rabbi. I knew there were prayers going on, and more sobbing and weeping, but I wasn’t paying attention. I did hear him winding down, though. I looked back at him right as he was asking if anyone had anything to say about Quentin. But for some reason, it didn’t register. I just sat there.
Lonnie gave me a quick elbow, and I stood up.
Rabbi Salzberg smiled at me. “Yes, Mr. Twerski?”
“I just wanted to say …” I swallowed hard, twice.
“Yes?”
“I mean, I just don’t …”
That was it. That was all I could get out. There was a long, painful silence as I tried to say something else. Words kept buzzing and fluttering around in my head, but I couldn’t get hold of them and put them together into sentences and make them come out of my mouth.
It was maybe a half minute after I stood up that Lonnie pulled me back down. Then he stood up. His legs were shaking as he started to speak. “I just wanted to say that Quentin was the greatest guy. He was just the greatest guy I ever knew. I always tried to be nice to him, and I think … I remember the time he got his eyebrows burned off on the Fourth of July. Except it was the fifth of July. That was real funny. Not because of what happened. But because of how it happened. The way he took it. I remember it so clear.…” Then, suddenly, Lonnie started to cry. It was the first time, the only time, I’d ever seen him cry, in all the years I’d known him. But you could understand it, getting up in front of all those people, staring at Quentin’s coffin. What I mean is you couldn’t hold it against him. I sure couldn’t, because I was doing it too.
Plus, by that time, pretty much everyone there was bawling their eyes out. But you know who was bawling the loudest? Danley Dimmel! He was the next guy who got up and spoke. He did a better job than I did. It turns out, before Quentin got sick, he’d been going over to Danley’s stoop and playing cards with him. I guess he wanted to make up for how bad we egged Danley. That’s how come it got to him, Quentin’s dying. Quentin was that kind of guy. The only person who wasn’t bawling her eyes out, or at least the only one I saw, was Mrs. Fine. That was another thing I couldn’t figure out. With how emotional she got about other stuff, you’d figure she’d be going through Kleenexes about a mile a minute. But she was just sitting there, a couple of rows behind us, taking the entire thing in, and not even batting an eye.
Maybe ten people got up and said stuff. Except for Lonnie and Danley, I didn’t know any of them. I’m guessing the rest were Quentin’s aunts and uncles and maybe a couple of older cousins. They just kept saying again and again, in different words, what a sweet kid he was—which no one was arguing about in the first place. Really, looking back, Danley’s saying how Quentin used to play cards with him was the most interesting thing anybody said.
Once the talking part of the funeral was over, Rabbi Salzberg gave a signal, and four large guys in dark suits lifted Quentin’s coffin onto a machine that lowered it into the grave. That started another wave of loud bawling. Mr. and Mrs. Selig leaned forward and kissed the coffin on its way down. Then Rabbi Salzberg asked the rest of us to pick up a handful of dirt from the mound next to the grave and toss it onto the coffin.
Lots of people backed away when they heard that. They couldn’t do it. But I did it. I figured after messing up the talking part, I owed Quentin the tossing-dirt part. The dirt was wetter than I’d thought. Flecks of it stuck to my palm, but I got most of it onto the middle of the coffin. After I did it, Beverly did it. Then the rest of them came forward and did it. First Lonnie, then Howie, then Shlomo, then Eric.
Finding the Worm Page 21
