Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle

by Nan Marino

  The blonde woman is crying now, and Shirley is captivated. But I have one more question.

  “What about real life?”

  Shirley doesn’t answer.

  I stand in front of the TV, right in between my mother and the theme song to As the World Turns. “I want a real-life example. Tell me a time when people said things and they really meant more.”

  “It’s the same in real life.” She motions for me to get out of the way. “Come on, Tammy, I’ve been waiting all week to see this part.”

  “How? Tell me.” I hold my ground.

  Shirley puts her arms on my shoulders, and I wonder if she’s going to push me aside. Instead, she pulls me toward her. “Remember when you were upset at Vinnie’s funeral service? When the people laughed?”

  I nod.

  “I suppose,” she says softly, “what they were saying with their laughter was that they loved Vinnie and they’re going to miss him very much.”

  Neither one of us speaks.

  I touch Shirley’s arm. “Me too,” I say, and my mother nods.

  The blonde lady is smiling again, and Shirley pats the couch again for me to sit next to her. Instead, I head back upstairs and into my room.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When You Can’t Stomach the Truth, Try Some Cheese Fondue

  THAT EVENING, SHIRLEY serves dinner in our backyard. She puts a large cauldron in the center of the picnic table and lights the flame underneath it.

  “It’s cheese fondue,” she explains. “I thought since Tim is heading back to school tomorrow, we’d have something fancy.”

  Swirls of barbeque smoke float in from the Grabowsky’s house next door. I try to guess what they’re cooking. There’s a hint of sweetness that makes me think of chicken, but then the smoky aroma of char-grilled burgers fills up both our backyards.

  “Who wants homemade potato salad?” I hear Mrs. Grabowsky say. She always sounds like she’s singing when she talks about food.

  I take one look at the charred flecks of burnt cheese simmering at our table, and it takes all my strength not to shout out, “Can you pass some over to the Simpson’s, Mrs. Grabowsky?”

  Shirley places a piece of stale bread on a long fork. “See, you each take a cube and dip it in the cheese.”

  “Is this sanitary?” grumbles Marshall. He’s so busy shooting nasty looks at Tim’s hair that you could have put a king’s feast in front of him and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  I close my eyes and imagine the hamburgers on the Grabowsky’s barbeque.

  I listen for the sizzle.

  Next door, Mr. Grabowsky must have said something funny, because Mrs. Grabowsky, MaryBeth, and Janie Lee laugh. All three Grabowsky girls sound exactly the same. Their high-pitched giggles float into our yard with the barbeque smoke.

  It’s easy to pay attention to the Grabowsky racket because in Simpsonland, there’s not much conversation going on. Although it is just like Kebsie said, every single one of us is saying more than our words.

  “Tim, please pass me the bread cubes,” says Marshall, but I can tell from his glare that it’s not all he wants to say. What he really wants to say is “Tim, please pass me the bread cubes, and when are you going to straighten yourself out and get a haircut?”

  Now I’m pretty sure the sweet, tangy smell wafting over from the Grabowsky’s is grilled chicken. I bet that Mrs. Grabowsky made some of her famous honey barbeque sauce.

  “Here,” grunts Tim, and passes over the bowl, but what he really means is, “Here, and when are you going to stop working for the man and pay attention to the war and all the bad stuff that’s going on in the world?”

  “Thanks,” says Marshall, but what he really wants to say is, “Thanks? This is the thanks I get for having to get on the 7:11 train every morning and go into the city to make money so I can pay for your college tuition so you could grow your hair too long and tell me that I’m working for the man?”

  Hamburgers. It’s not chicken. It’s burgers. That’s what they’re eating next door. Smoky. Juicy. Burgers. And I bet they’re filled with Mrs. Grabowsky’s special homemade relish.

  “The food is good, Mom,” I say, but what I mean is, “Shirley, can we have a barbeque instead of fondue, and can you please say something that will stop Marshall and Tim from fighting?”

  “Anyone want a meat cube?” asks Shirley, but what she really means is, “Anyone want a meat cube for the cheese fondue I slaved over, and I will not have either of you ruining this precious family time so you both better simmer down.”

  But from the look on Tim’s and my father’s faces, neither one has any intention of simmering down.

  “My pitching is really good this year,” I announce. “And we’re right in the middle of a game with this new kid—”

  Marshall interrupts. “Are you still playing that game all day? You could try reading.”

  “In the middle of the summer? While I could be playing kickball?” I shake my head. “I can’t see it.”

  “You are as obsessed with kickball as your mother is with her soap operas.” Marshall waves his hand in the direction of Shirley and me.

  I put down my fork and chew on a stale bread cube, trying to figure if what my father said is true.

  “All kids like kickball,” says Tim. “She’s not obsessed. It’s nothing like Mom.”

  This time, Shirley puts down her fork and chews. For a while the entire Simpson family does nothing but chew.

  “Anyone want seconds?” Mrs. Grabowsky sings in the next yard.

  “I do,” cry the other Grabowskys at the exact same time.

  “Anyone want seconds?” asks Shirley in our yard.

  “No, thank you,” mumble all of us Simpsons at the exact same time.

  “Are you sure, Tim?” Shirley sighs. “I made it special.”

  Tim glares at Marshall. “I’m not hungry,” he says.

  “You could eat a little more. Your mother worked real hard to cook this food,” Marshall says, and what he means is, “Your mother worked real hard to cook this food and even though it’s filled with burnt specks and is probably unsanitary, you are being ungrateful by not eating the cheese fondue.”

  “I’m tired of this. I’m leaving,” says Tim. And that is what he really means.

  “Where are you going?” cries Shirley. “I made chocolate fondue for dessert.”

  “Let him go,” says Marshall.

  Marshall and Tim stare at each other one last time.

  Tim gets up to leave. “See you later, Beanpole.”

  But I know that means he’s not coming home for a long, long time.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I Never Asked

  IT’S FRIDAY BEFORE the kids on Ramble Street get together again. We stand in front of the Grabowsky’s looking at each other, like we’re not sure what to do.

  Finally, Big Danny picks up the ball. “Wanna play?”

  “Yeah, let’s get on with this game,” I say, and I give Muscle Man my best you’d-better-not-try-to-weasel-out-of-this stare.

  “I’m ready when you are.” He gives me the same look back.

  I head toward the Rattles’ front lawn, but no one follows.

  “What?” I turn around to the crowd.

  Billy Rattle is the first to speak. “We were talking before you got here. We’re bored. It’s not fun anymore. Why don’t we play regular teams instead?”

  John Marcos nods. MaryBeth, who’s standing right next to him, pumps her head up and down too.

  “Cool,” says Big Danny, and he bounces the ball like it’s all settled.

  Everyone agrees, and I suddenly notice that the group has dwindled. Tony Mogavero is back with his Catholic school friends. Conchetta Marchetta and her sisters are off playing at their pool. The Donovan twins are probably fighting with each other somewhere, and Benny Schuster is probably telling them to stop. Muscle Man’s older brother, Greg, is who knows where. Even Janie Lee Grabowsky found some friends her own age.

  M
uscle Man shrugs. “Well, if you all give up,” he says.

  “Wait a second,” I hold my hand up in the air. “You’re not giving up? You don’t admit that we beat you fair and square?”

  “You didn’t exactly beat me, Tammy, you gave up,” he says. “Your team is the one that doesn’t want to play.”

  “No!” I grab the ball from Big Danny, who stands there with his mouth hanging open because no one in the world would ever dare to take a ball from Big Danny. “Not until he gives up. We’re not done with this game. Not until he admits he’s a loser.”

  The other kids groan, except for MaryBeth Grabowsky, who crosses her arms in front of her and humphs.

  “These are the rules! We don’t stop playing until he admits defeat.” I can’t believe I have to explain it to them.

  “Jeez, Tammy!” says John Marcos.

  “Doesn’t honor mean anything to you?” I point to Muscle Man. “He called us out! He said he could beat us all!”

  “Sometimes you’re a real pain in the…” Big Danny takes one look at MaryBeth Grabowsky and changes what he’s going to say. “Butt.”

  Billy Rattle points down the block. “What’s Mr. Pizza doing?” he whispers, as if Mr. Pizzarelli could hear him from three houses away.

  “It looks like he’s digging a hole,” says Big Danny.

  “Who cares?” I ask.

  “Jeez, Tamara, the man lost his son,” says Billy Rattle.

  MaryBeth throws me a look that would make a lesser person pee in her pants. But I don’t need a comment from Billy Rattle or a nasty look from Miss Never-Said-Something-Stupid-in-Her-Life Grabowsky to know it came out different than I meant it.

  I didn’t mean that I didn’t care. I meant that he has every right to do whatever he wants to the front of his house. Of course, I cared. I knew Vinnie better than anyone here.

  I slam down the ball, and it goes flying off toward Mr. Pizzarelli’s.

  “Let’s go see if he needs help,” says Big Danny.

  Before I can utter a word, they’re all halfway down the block.

  I turn to follow them and see Muscle Man slinking away. He’s headed toward Mrs. Kutchner’s garage, probably intending to hide out.

  I march over to tell the other kids, “Hey, guess who didn’t come? Mus—”

  Something about the sight of Mr. Pizzarelli makes me stop in midsentence. Knee-deep in a hole, he looks old and weak and tired. His skin is shiny with sweat.

  “You need any help, Mr. Pizzarelli?” asks Big Danny.

  Mr. Pizzarelli doesn’t answer. It’s like he doesn’t even notice that a whole group of kids is staring at him.

  “What’s he doing?” asks Billy Rattle.

  Big Danny points to a sapling with its roots wrapped in a burlap bag. There’s a hand-painted sign next to it that says, “In memory of Vincent Paul Pizzarelli, 1951–1969.”

  We form a circle around Mr. Pizzarelli, one that’s so tight I wonder if he can breathe. He gives us all a quick nod. Then he goes back to digging.

  There’s a sharp poke in my back.

  “Can you move, Tammy? I need to get in.” I’d recognize the wormy voice anywhere.

  I step aside, and Muscle Man, who’s carrying a shovel, jumps into the hole.

  He presses the shovel into the earth and digs.

  Shink. Thwump. Shink. Thwump. Shink. Thwump. Muscle Man and Mr. Pizzarelli share the same steady rhythm, like they’ve been shoveling together for years.

  Neither one says a word, and I wonder if Mr. Pizzarelli even knows that Muscle Man is there. But then Muscle Man hits a rock. As he teeters off balance, Mr. Pizzarelli grabs his arm. As soon as Muscle Man is steady on his feet, the two go back to their digging.

  Just as I’m beginning to think it’s a nice thing that Muscle Man is doing, he slides into another lie. “They planted a tree for my mom and dad when they died,” he says. “It’s on the corner where it happened.”

  Nothing stops this kid. Not even the death of Vinnie Pizzarelli.

  I roll my eyes at MaryBeth who rolls her eyes back at me. “Didn’t anyone tell you?” she whispers. “His parents died in a car crash.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Tammy, it’s true. It was in all the papers.”

  There’s something about the way Muscle Man grips on to his shovel that makes me wonder if this time, it’s not a made-up story.

  “Both?”

  MaryBeth nods through one of her looks.

  “How was I supposed to know?” I whisper back, and I regret asking it the moment I said it. Because if you ask MaryBeth Grabowsky a question, she always has an answer.

  She folds her arms in front of her. “You could have talked to him. It’s called having a conversation, Tamara.”

  “Duh. Why did you think he’s in a foster home?” Billy Rattle chimes in, and his voice is hardly a whisper.

  “I didn’t know.” The truth is I hadn’t thought about it. Not even once.

  I never asked Kebsie about her family, either. Not even once.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Three months ago,” she says.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Jeez, Tamara. Didn’t you notice he wasn’t at Vinnie’s funeral?” says Big Danny.

  Of course, I noticed.

  “Mrs. Kutchner was worried about him going to one so soon after his parents’,” says MaryBeth.

  If Muscle Man hears us talking, he sure doesn’t let on. He’s so busy digging that he’s covered with sweat, like Mr. Pizzarelli.

  “What kind of tree is it?” asks Muscle Man without skipping a shink-thwump of his shovel.

  “A pear tree,” says Mr. Pizzarelli.

  “Mine too,” says Muscle Man.

  Mr. Pizzarelli holds on to Muscle Man, like he needs him for balance. Big Danny jumps in and helps steady him from the other side. Then, when it seems like Mr. Pizzarelli can stand on his own two feet, Big Danny begins digging out the dirt with his bare hands.

  John Marcos pulls the burlap off the tree’s roots. Everyone else is silent, watching. Billy Rattle’s hand is placed over his heart, like he’s about to say the pledge. MaryBeth has her hands clasped like she’s praying.

  Mr. Pizzarelli lifts the tree into the hole, and we all take turns putting dirt around the roots. “Do you want to say a prayer for Vinnie? That’s what we did when we planted our tree,” says Muscle Man.

  Mr. Pizzarelli takes a deep breath, and it looks like he has to try a few times before his words come out. “That would be nice.”

  When we’re done, Mr. Pizzarelli puts his arm on Muscle Man’s shoulder. “Do you want to say a prayer for your mother and father?”

  And that’s what he does. When he finishes, every single one of us says, “Amen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Last Note

  THAT AFTERNOON, THERE’S another note taped on my front door.

  I miss Kebsie so much I can’t wait for the moon.

  I run upstairs and open it quick.

  Dear Tammy,

  Sometimes people have to go without getting a chance to say good-bye. I’m sorry I had to. I hope we can still be friends.

  You wanted me to tell you a story about my new life with my mom. I have a story about a boy who lives nearby. He gave me seven hair ribbons. I think I’ll marry him one day.

  From your bf,

  Kebsie

  I rip the letter into a thousand pieces and storm out onto Ramble Street.

  It doesn’t take me long before I see him, sitting in front of his house alone.

  “Hiya, Tammy.” Muscle Man is so busy smiling that he doesn’t see the first punch. It’s a good left hook. Vinnie Pizzarelli, who taught me how to fight, would have been proud.

  “How could you do it?” I scream. “Why did you write them?”

  Before he can open his big mouth, I pummel him again.

  “How’d you know about the howls? About the ‘Arroooo’?”

  For this one, I’ll wait three seconds. He answ
ers in two.

  “I heard you once, and I asked MaryBeth about it.” His mouth is full of dirt, so his words come out muffled.

  Big Danny and John Marcos fly in from nowhere. It takes both boys to pull me off of the kid. Vinnie would have been proud of that, too. MaryBeth runs from her house straight to Muscle Man.

  “What’s your problem, Tamara Ann Simpson?” she screams.

  Muscle Man wipes blood from his face. “It’s okay, MaryBeth. Tammy and I were just horsing around. Don’t get mad at her.”

  “You phony!” I scream. “Why don’t you tell them what you did?”

  And the runt tells them everything.

  “You faked letters from Kebsie Grobser? Why?” asks Big Danny.

  Muscle Man is sobbing now. “Cause I didn’t want Tammy to hurt anymore. Cause I wanted Kebsie to be the one who came back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you wormy liar.” I try to break free so I can give him one last punch, but Big Danny and John Marcos are holding me good.

  “Think about it, Tammy,” shouts MaryBeth.

  MaryBeth helps Muscle Man into the house, and I know that as soon as Mrs. Kutchner sees the blood on Muscle Man’s face, I’ll be grounded for the rest of the summer.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tang

  SUNDAY MORNING, I open up my bedroom window and stick my head way out so I can get a good look at what’s going on at the Grabowsky’s. Even though it looks like it’s going to rain, the family is buzzing around their yard, getting ready for the moonwalk party.

  “Let’s have hot dogs made into little rocket ships,” says Mrs. Grabowsky. I’m sure she knows I’m watching, because her voice is loud. I bet she figures my ears are still ringing from all the yelling Marshall did when he got home from work last night and found out what I’d done. “And we can have Swedish meatballs made to look like meteors,” she adds, and I’m certain she’s talking loud again to rub it all in.

  “And marshmallows for moon rocks,” says Mr. Grabowsky.

  “All my dolls can wear their space suits!” says Miss Thirteen Barbies.

  Mrs. Grabowsky claps her hands. “Yes, the ones we finished sewing.”