by Nan Marino
“That happened in my old neighborhood,” says Muscle Man. “That’s how they told Walter Martin’s parents. When Mrs. Martin heard, she fell straight to the floor.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, but the other kids circle round him.
“Didn’t stop crying for a week,” he adds.
“I’ve heard of this happening,” says John Marcos.
Across the street, the grown-ups are gathering too. Mrs. Murphy puts down her gardening hoe and stands next to Mrs. Kutchner. Mrs. Grabowsky runs across the street so fast that she almost loses her sandal.
Then, Mr. Grabowsky turns down the block, swinging his briefcase, like he does every night on his walk home from the train station. Normally on days when the Mets are playing, nothing stops Mr. Grabowsky from getting inside and watching the game, but as soon as the ladies stop him, he puts down his briefcase and joins them.
A few minutes later, Vinnie Pizzarelli’s Aunt Carmella pulls up in her old Chrysler. Before anyone can ask her a question, she rushes into the house with her head down. Even Mrs. Grabowksy, who can find out other people’s business in less time than it takes for most people to put their socks and shoes on, can’t get to her before the Pizzarelli’s door closes.
“I’ve seen this before.” Muscle Man’s voice is flat. “This isn’t good.”
“Ah, come on, it’s nothing,” I say, but even I am starting to doubt my own words.
“I saw two guys get killed on the TV last night,” says Billy Rattle.
“So? That was on TV. Those people were acting,” I say. Sometimes Billy Rattle has gravel for brains.
“Duh, Tamara. It wasn’t a TV show. It was in the news. They’re always talking about Vietnam. They show it on the news all the time,” says Billy Rattle.
“Don’t your parents ever watch the news?” asks MaryBeth Grabowsky.
“Duh back,” is what I want to say. Shirley only watches Jack LaLanne and soap operas, and Marshall thinks television rots a person’s brain. I bet Tim watches. If Kebsie were in a war on television, I’d watch every night, searching for a glimpse of her.
I bounce the ball harder. It echoes on the sidewalk.
That ball, slamming onto the sidewalk, is the only sound on the block. Even Muscle Man keeps his big mouth shut.
We all stand, huddled together, waiting for the soldier to leave. The kids on one side of the street, the adults on the other. Everyone, quiet and waiting.
As the minutes pass, the groups grow bigger. Somehow the people of Ramble Street have a way of knowing when something serious is going on. Even my mother leaves her television set and finds her way to the swarm of grownups on the other side of the street.
Janie Lee is the first of the kids to break from our side. She heads over to where her parents stand. From the way Mr. Grabowsky shrugs his shoulders and pats her hand, it’s clear that he has no answers. All we can do is wait.
As soon as Mr. Pizzarelli’s door opens, there’s no need to ask if the worst is true. Aunt Carmella’s sobs hit the sidewalk.
Suddenly, it feels like all of the air has been taken away from Ramble Street. I gasp to take a single breath.
Chapter Nineteen
Shink. Shink. Shink.
Dear Kebsie,
What do you mean congratulating MaryBeth Grabowsky for her Barbies and since when do you say “neato”? How come you didn’t tell me anything important, like where you are or what’s happening with you?
After your last letter, which was miserable, I promised I’d never write to you again. But something terrible happened. Vinnie Pizzarelli died in Vietnam.
We found out yesterday. They said that he died a hero. Vinnie saved the lives of three of his troop.
The funeral service is on Saturday and Tim is coming down from upstate this afternoon. When Marshall called him, Tim cried. Shirley spoke to him too and then passed the phone to me. I told Tim that I couldn’t imagine losing a friend like that. I mean, you moved away, but at least you’re not dead.
Everyone is going to the service tomorrow. Well, everyone except for Muscle Man McGinty, the kid who lives with Mrs. Kutchner now. I heard Mrs. Kutchner whisper to Mrs. Grabowsky that it was “too soon” to take him, whatever that means. If you lived here, you would be going, I just know it.
Remember the day that you and I snuck behind Vinnie’s beat-up Oldsmobile and threw a water balloon at him while he was checking the oil? And boy, did he get us back with that hose. Remember how soaked we all were? It’s all I can think about.
I thought you’d want to know even though you left here without so much as saying a peep.
Your bf,
Tamara
“Oh, jeez,” says Marshall when he catches me watching the soaps on Friday afternoon. “Not you too.”
I don’t say anything. Neither does Shirley, who’s right beside me.
Ever since morning, when Shirley patted the couch motioning for me to sit next to her, I’ve been watching her programs.
Every once in a while, she fills me in. “Amanda is really innocent of the murder. But Bob wants her to go to jail because he fell in love with Ruth when they were both stranded on an island in Tahiti. Of course, Ruth wants to marry Alex, but Alex needs to recover from his amnesia before he can marry anyone.”
The stories are very complicated. Now I know why Shirley must pay such careful attention.
Marshall mumbles something about brain decay and is about to shuffle off to the den with his book when the front door opens.
A stranger steps into our living room. At least, that’s what I first think when I see the man with long hair, a beard and mustache, ripped jeans, and a T-shirt that says, “Peace.”
“Hey, Beanpole,” the stranger says.
“Tim?” I hesitate. Who else besides Tim and Vinnie would call me that?
Shirley throws her arms around him. “Tim!” If she thinks there’s something wrong with Tim’s ripped jeans and long hair, I can’t tell.
Marshall barely holds out his hand. “What happened to you?”
“Not now, Marshall,” says Shirley.
Marshall’s face grows puffy, like it’s filled up with things he wants to say. But instead of talking, he stands alongside me, watching Tim and Shirley with their arms around each other.
I want to run to Tim. I want to tell him how sorry I am, but something’s holding me back.
“Tim,” I say softly. “Vinnie’s letter. I…I…”
His face is so buried in Shirley’s shoulder that I wonder if he hears me.
After a while, he lifts up his head. “What about Vinnie’s letter?”
I try to explain. I want to tell him that I meant to tell Mr. Pizzarelli, but that I kept on forgetting. I want to tell him the truth, but no words come out.
The only sound in the room is voices from Shirley’s soap operas. A commercial comes on, one that has a snappy jingle.
“It walks down stairs, without a care
And makes the happiest sound.”
“Tamara, did you tell Mr. Pizzarelli about Vinnie’s letter?” Tim asks, with a sinking voice. Tim never calls me Tamara, except on very special occasions.
I still don’t speak.
“It’s Slinky. It’s Slinky. For fun, it’s the best of the toys…”
“You told Mr. Pizzarelli, right?” Tim pushes Shirley away and is looking right at me.
On TV, the Slinkys are marching, two at a time, down a wooden plank.
Tim stares at me, waiting for an answer.
Shink. Shink. Shink. I don’t care how loud the commercial is on the television or how much the Slinky inside of me is grumbling, I can’t add to Tim’s sadness.
I take a deep breath and say the words I hope will make Tim feel better. “I gave the message to Mr. Pizzarelli. I told him about Vinnie’s letter.”
Tim sighs. My stomach does a backflip.
Tim gives me a smile, weak, but at least it’s something. “Thanks, Beanpole. I knew I could count on you.”
The Slinkys on TV
fade away, but I know from the way my stomach twists and turns that the Slinky inside me has a lot more to say.
Chapter Twenty
Vinnie Pizza
AT THE CEMETERY, everyone has a story to tell about Vinnie Pizzarelli. Cousins, friends, aunts, uncles, neighbors. They all stand up and tell about their special times with Vinnie.
Tim tells about how he and Vinnie both lost their first tooth on the same day. And about how they liked the same girls in school. And how Vinnie was the one who convinced him to go to college.
Marshall twitches. I bet he thought that he was the one who talked Tim into going to school. All this time, it was Vinnie, whose grades were bad like mine.
When Vinnie’s cousin, Joey, tells about how when they were both five, they took all the doorknobs off of every door in the house, the crowd laughs. Vinnie’s Uncle Joey tosses back his head and chuckles.
“This is just wrong,” I whisper to Shirley. “You can’t laugh at a funeral.”
Shirley, who is standing next to me, just says, “Shhh.”
There are tons of things I learn about Vinnie. Some of them I wish I could ask Vinnie about. I thought I knew him, since he was my brother’s best friend and all. But each person says something different.
They say he was a brave man. I never doubted for a second that Vinnie was brave. It’s the “man” part that gets to me. My father is a man. Mr. Pizzarelli, who is staring down at a blade of grass, sobbing quietly, is a man. Vinnie wasn’t a boy exactly, but a man? That sounds funny. That means that Tim is a man, too. I look at Tim, who is standing next to Marshall, in a new way.
They say that Vinnie thought of his Aunt Carmella as his second mom. Everyone knew that Vinnie’s real mom died when Vinnie was seven. Aunt Carmella is Mr. Pizzarelli’s sister. She came over every day to take care of Vinnie when he came home from school. Vinnie always called Aunt Carmella “the old lady.” “I gotta go. The old lady cooked dinner, and she spits nails when I’m late.” “Can’t do it, Tim. The old lady will get mad.” But in a card he made for her only last spring, he called “the old lady” the world’s best mom.
I glance over at Aunt Carmella, who’s standing with her arms locked around Mr. Pizzarelli. When Vinnie’s cousin holds up the card, she buries her face in a tissue.
They say that he was a practical joker. Well, everyone knows that. They tell about the time that he wrapped every car on Ramble Street with toilet paper. He even wrapped his own car so no one would suspect. He sure had me fooled. I didn’t think he did it.
They say that his favorite color was orange.
That he always said grace before he ate.
That he believed that the 1969 Mets were going to go the distance and win the World Series. Behind me I hear Mr. Grabowsky whisper, “Amen.”
That his favorite toy as a baby was a stuffed teddy bear named Merlin.
That he’d never leave someone in the lurch.
When everyone’s done telling stories, seven soldiers fire their rifles three times. With each sharp crack of the guns, I feel Vinnie slipping further and further away.
They fold the flag that’s draped over his coffin and hand it to Mr. Pizzarelli.
“On behalf of a grateful nation,” a soldier says.
Mr. Pizzarelli clutches the flag to his chest. Aunt Carmella collapses, and it takes three Pizzarelli cousins to hold her up. Tim and Shirley sink into each other, and Marshall has his arms around both of them. I stand apart from them, until Shirley pulls me toward her.
All of Ramble Street, except for Muscle Man McGinty, huddles together.
The laughter has stopped. There are only tears.
Except for me. I look around and notice I’m the only one not crying. All I can do is think about a book that Mrs. Webber read to us, the one where Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn show up at their own funeral. And I expect Vinnie to do it too. He’s the kind of guy who’d pull a trick like that.
Even when they lower the coffin into the ground, I keep waiting for him to come back and say, “Hiya, Beanpole,” and joke with Tim and call Aunt Carmella “the old lady” and tell us that it was all a terrible, horrible mistake.
Chapter Twenty-One
One Single Word
ON SUNDAY MORNING, there’s a note taped to my front door. I recognize the crinkled-up paper immediately.
I wait, like I did the last time, to read by moonlight. But at night, when I crawl out onto the garage roof, the moon that greets me is only a sliver. I struggle with my flashlight. After three sharp bangs on the tar paper, it works.
Dear Tammy,
Sometimes people mean more than their words say. Sorry my note was short. I wanted to say I missed you in the last note, but I couldn’t.
I am very sorry to hear about Vinnie Pizzarelli and I wish I could have gone to the funeral. I just couldn’t.
And don’t be too hard on Muscle Man. Maybe he couldn’t go either?
From your bf,
Kebsie
“Wanted to say I missed you in the last note but I couldn’t?” “Don’t be too hard on Muscle Man?” Another lame letter.
Kebsie Grobser is turning into one giant disappointment. I’m about to toss the letter over the rooftop when I see something written in pencil way down at the bottom.
It’s faded, but I hold it up to the flashlight.
“Arroooo!”
As soon as I see the word, I am filled with hope.
Kebsie wrote, “Arroooo!”
A hundred million bits of happiness wash over me.
Kebsie Grobser, my fearless friend who howls like a lone wolf in the moonlight, is back.
I read her note over and over again. I try to find more of Kebsie in it. I wish she’d said something smart-alecky. Or made a comment about Muscle Man, like “Don’t take any guff from the runt.” But there’s nothing. The only thing that I can really hold on to is that one “Arroooo!” The rest of it is a riddle.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Who Says You Can’t Learn from Television
I SPEND THE whole next morning reading the letter over and over, and I still don’t understand it. The funny thing is whenever I had something that needed to be figured out, I’d turn to Kebsie.
But now Kebsie is the one who needs to be figured out.
Kebsie is a straight shooter. The girl says what she means and means what she says. That stuff about meaning more than words has me stumped. She might be trying to tell me something, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what.
I run my hands over the note so many times that the words smudge together. No matter how much I try, I have no answers.
I need help. I am desperate.
I go through my options of people to ask. It’s slim pickings. First I think about showing the note to Big Danny. He knew Kebsie, and he didn’t roll his eyes when she came his way, the way most of the kids on the block did. But Big Danny is such a boy. Anytime I try to talk to him about something serious, he makes lame jokes and changes the subject.
There’s always Tim. He understands these things, but he’s hardly been around. He spends all his time at Mr. Pizzarelli’s. Besides, he’s not in a talking mood these days.
For a crazy second, I think about having a heart-to-heart with Miss Know-It-All Grabowsky.
Instead, I go to the living room, where Shirley is watching her programs.
On TV, there’s a commercial. A group of ladies are in a grocery store squeezing toilet paper. I wait for it to be over before I speak. “Do you think that sometimes people mean more than they say?”
Shirley pats the couch next to her, but I don’t want to watch. I want answers.
I ask again. “Do you think people tell you things in ways other than words?”
“That’s a very difficult question, Tamara,” she says. But before she gives me a decent answer, the show comes on, and Shirley is lost in her soaps. I edge toward the kitchen, figuring my time is better spent making a peanut butter sandwich.
“Look.” She points at a tall, ski
nny man on the television. “Don’t you remember from the other day? That’s Brad. See how he’s telling Emma that he loves her? What he really means is that he loves her, but he loves Anna more. It happens all the time, Tammy.”
Brad is holding Emma close, and I can’t see how she’d know that he loves someone else. “How can you tell?” I ask.
“It’s not easy, but you can learn a lot from the TV.” She motions again for me to sit next to her. “Watch and learn.”
The next scene comes on. Emily tells Michael to go to Peru in search of his treasure. “Now, why do you think that Emily says she’ll be fine, even though her heart is breaking?” Shirley asks.
Before I can finish my shrug, Shirley continues. “She’s hiding her feelings. Emily doesn’t want Michael to know how much she’s hurting.”
Another scene comes on, and a bunch of ladies are sitting in a hospital room, telling the one in the bed that no one will notice her injury, even though she is wrapped up like a mummy with bandages and gauze. “Why do you think they’re telling her that?” asks Shirley.
“Because they’re the stupidest group of ladies to walk the planet?” It’s probably wrong, but it’s my best guess.
Shirley presses her lips together. “No, they’re not stupid. They’re trying to spare the feelings of their friend.”
“Oh.” I sink back into the couch, wondering if that’s why I told the lie to Tim about delivering Vinnie’s message.
“Relationships are complicated, Tammy. Friendships. Family. And especially marriage…” Shirley’s voice fades. “Marriage is very complex. You’ll see. Just wait till you start dating.”
“Great.” I sigh. On TV, a blonde woman smiles right at us. “Do they ever send notes?”
“What?”
“These people.” I wave at the television. “Do they ever send notes?”
Shirley nods. “Sometimes they do. Notes are very mysterious. They are always filled with clues about other things. Notes are very tricky.”
