Ganady laughed, notwithstanding he was sincerely worried about Nikolai, who had rarely, in his almost eighteen years, lied to his parents, and never—so far as Ganny knew—about something so important.
“What happened?”
Ganady reflected that he would have to get used to watching his brother meditate on the ceiling as if he found a vision of the Virgin there.
Perhaps he did, after a fashion.
Nick launched into a tale that, to his younger brother, was rife with excitement and intrigue. He and Annie had been cautious at first. Each staying close to their cadre of friends, touching only with wary glances that turned to lingering looks.
Then Stefano—Steve, to his classmates—had gone outside with his buddies, and the couple had maneuvered themselves to a quiet corner next to the fire stair. They had reckoned, however, without Antonia’s so-called friend, Maria Teresa Reghetti who, seeing the sister slip into the shadows with her proscribed beau, ran to find favor with the ‘dreamy’ older brother by ratting them out.
“They didn’t even wait for me to leave the dance. They came right over and tried to ‘escort’ me outside. I said ‘no thanks,’ so Steve took a swing at me.”
“And that’s when you got the black eye?”
“Nyeh. I ducked and he fell into the punch bowl.” He paused to savor the moment, sending Our Lady of the Plaster a sly smile.
Ganady giggled. “Then how’d you get the black eye?”
“Steve got up and let me have it with the punch ladle. You should’ve seen him. Soaking wet. His shirt was all pink. Then his buddies got into it and some of my guys got into it and the chaperones had to break it up.”
“You mean...a rumble?”
Nick laughed. “Rumble? Where’d you pick that up, kid?”
“I heard it somewhere,” Ganny said defensively. “And don’t call me ‘kid.’”
“Sorry...yeah. Yeah, we got into a rumble.”
“Aren’t you in trouble?”
“I probably will be when Mama and Da get a call from the Center.”
“Gosh, Nikki!” Ganady clutched his pillow. “Aren’t you scared of what they might do?”
Nikolai cocked his good eye in his brother’s direction. “Like what? Make me go to mass instead of the dance on Friday night?”
Ganny’s jaw dropped.
Nick grinned. “You’re gonna catch flies.”
oOo
The Center contacted their parents Saturday morning. There was shouting, inevitably, but little of it directed at Nick. Most of Da’s ire was for the director of the Center.
“What sort of kids do you let into this place, em? Calling my son a kike. What sort of filth is that? You let such things go on? ...What?”
Ganady leaned closer to the banister, as if he might actually be able to pick words out of the faint buzz of sound that spat into his father’s ear.
“I don’t know anything about that. All I know is this boy was drinking and my Nikolai saw him. And for this he calls my boy filthy names? ...Yes, yes. Well, my Nikki will not be at any more of your dances. He has decided his time will be best spent at church.”
The click of the phone returning to the cradle was resolute, but not angry. Da did not even seem angry when he called Nikolai downstairs for a talk.
Ganny watched his brother pass by, then scooted down two steps so as to eavesdrop more effectively.
“I spoke to the Center,” said Da. “This other boy says he was trying to keep you away from his sister. Do you know why he would say this?”
There was a long, pregnant pause during which Ganady was certain he heard the scales in Nikolai’s head, weighing his options.
“Her name is Annie,” said Nick finally. “Annie Guercino. I really like her. I mean, we really like each other. But her brother doesn’t care much for me.”
“Because?”
“Because I’m not Italian like them and because Annie and me caught him and his buddies smoking and drinking outside the Center last Friday night.”
“And why did you not tell us this before, Nikki?” Mama must be standing in the kitchen doorway. Ganady imagined her there, drying her hands on a checkered towel, smoothing back her dark, curly hair.
“I guess I was afraid if her family didn’t like me, you might not like her.”
There was another silence into which Da sighed and Mama murmured, “Oh, Nikki.”
Ganady, unable to stand the suspense, moved to where he could just see his brother’s face through the banister. The elder Puzdrovsky brother was watching his parents’ faces intently.
“Nikki,” said Mama at last, “how are we to know if we like her when we haven’t met her? If you like her, then I think we should like her very much.”
The relief on Nick’s face was clear.
“What about her family?” asked Da. “Have you met them?”
“Just her brother.” Nick grimaced and touched his black eye.
“But not the parents?”
Nick shook his head. “Annie thinks if her Mama met me, she’d like me. She says her Mama’s the queen of the family and what she says goes. But her brother is always watching her. The only time we can talk is right after school when Steve is in his study hall. He’s not doing so good in school.” He hid his smirk in an inspection of Baba’s braided rug. “If he wants to graduate he’s got to take this special study hall...and stay out of trouble.”
“This is how he stays out of trouble?” asked Da.
“Vitaly?” Mama’s voice sounded tentative. “Should we talk to this girl’s parents, do you think?”
“Nikki is almost a man. I think we should let him find his own way through this.”
“Then you’re not going to make me stop seeing Annie?” asked Nick.
Da laughed. The sound so surprised Ganady that he almost laughed himself.
“Nikolai,” said Da, “I would be the last man in the world to say you should not see a girl because of her people. If I could think of a way to help you, I would.”
Nick grinned. “Yeah, well, maybe if you had some magic arrows.” He glanced up to catch his younger brother’s eye.
“Magic arrows?” repeated Da.
“It’s a joke,” Nick said and winked.
Swallowing a chuckle, Ganny slipped quietly up the stairs.
Eight: Princess Nadia
Nick no longer went to the dances on Friday nights; he went to mass. The very mass the Guercinos attended, at which he could sit and fill his eyes with the Princess Antonia, and her brother could do nothing.
Baba, of course, had invited her eldest grandson to shul. His reply had been a rueful shrug.
“I’m not Jewish, Baba,” he’d said, and Baba had merely nodded and continued her meal. But Ganady had seen the hurt in her eyes before she lowered them to her roast chicken.
Ganady was still miffed at Nikolai for this tactless rebuff, when, on a fine Saturday afternoon one week after the cessation of school, the elder boy suggested the trio go over to Passyunk Square to see if they could cobble together a baseball game. Ganady contemplated declining, but Nick had been in short supply of late, and passing up a game of ball was unthinkable.
Alas, there was no one about to be cobbled—there were only a couple of old men playing chess on a park bench. Nick did not seem at all disappointed, but merely suggested they play catch for a bit. They did, but Nick was soon bored.
“Batting practice,” he announced, and sent Ganny out to pitch while Yevgeny played catcher.
Ganady was neither good nor bad at pitching. His pitches were solidly over the plate (Nick’s glove) but not of a speed or location that would ever warm the cockles of a coach’s heart. He was, however, a good first baseman, as Father Cravic at Saint Casimir would agree. He put his pitches where Nick could hit them. As Ganady was also covering all positions in both infield and outfield, he was eventually exhausted.
“My at bat!” he announced after Nikolai had popped up his thirtieth ball. “You pitch.”
Ni
ck caught the thrown ball and flipped it into the air as the winded Ganady trotted up to him. He glanced up and across the street, his dark eyes gleaming, the ball leaping rhythmically from his hand.
“One last hit,” he said.
“Nikki!” Ganady complained, “you’ve had your turn.”
Behind Nick, Yevgeny rose, as if to underscore Ganady’s protest.
Nick ignored them both. “He stands in,” he said, doing his own play-by-play. He hefted the bat, balanced the ball on his fingertips. “He waits for the windup, the throw!”
The ball popped upward, Nick swung, his hands meeting in mid-arc on the grip of the bat. There was a crack of sound and the ball sailed away toward South Thirteenth.
“It’s outta here!” cried Nick, then dropped his bat and tore off in pursuit of the ball. “I’ll get it!”
It was, indeed, “outta here.” It cleared a row of trees, crossed the street, hit the sidewalk and fetched up on the front stoop of a house whose flower boxes already contained a riot of color.
Ganady and Yevgeny exchanged glances and shrugs, then watched as the ball hit the front door and rolled easily to the very edge of the top step.
Reaching the curb, Nick did not cross the street. Instead, he lingered on the strip of grass between curb and sidewalk. Ganady exchanged another round of silent commentary with Yevgeny and was about to call out to his older sibling, when the most extraordinary thing happened.
The front door of the house opened and a raven-haired girl appeared, framed in the doorway. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped forward and knelt to pick up the baseball. Across the street, on the narrow sward of lawn, Nikolai Puzdrovsky straightened and shoved his hands into his pockets. Behind him, Ganady echoed the movement, his fingers meeting and enfolding the scuffed baseball deep in the flannel confines.
The girl on the stoop rose, ball in hand, and brushed a gleaming wave of hair from her cheek. For a moment she regarded the watching Nikolai, then held out the baseball and smiled.
Nikolai tossed a grin over one shoulder at Yevgeny and Ganady, then loped across the street and up the steps to stand face to face with the girl. Their hands met around the baseball, lingered, then parted. Then the Beauty opened the door of her house again and gestured for Nikolai to follow her inside.
He turned back toward the park then, his face wearing as beatific a smile as Ganady had ever seen there, and shouted, “I’ll see you at home!”
The ball followed the shout, arcing back over the street to land and roll in the young grass to the other boys’ feet. Nick disappeared into the house.
“Wow,” said Yevgeny, after a moment of thoughtful silence. “That must be her, huh? Princess Annie?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
It was the first time either boy had seen more of her than a wing of hair, a curve of cheek and a flash of dark eye.
“She’s pretty.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Wow,” said Yevgeny again. “It’s just like in Baba’s story about the three princes, only American, just like you said.” He bent to pick up the ball, looking at it as if seeing it for the first time. “Do you suppose it really works?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s like faith. You know—it’s believing that makes it work. Like with ‘Hail Marys.’”
Yevgeny’s gaze was severe. “‘Hail Marys’ really work.”
“Yeah, but I asked Father Z once and he said that what makes ‘Hail Marys’ work isn’t the words, but faith in the words.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. But I think Nick had sort of already picked his princess. It wasn’t like the ball really found her.”
“So what?” Yevgeny’s eyes glittered. “Let’s try it, Ganny. Let’s see if the ball will find us princesses, too.”
Ganady started to ask what either of them would want with a princess in the first place, then realized the question would lack conviction.
“Well...” was what he said.
Yevgeny picked up the bat and cast about the park for a place from which to swing it. He chose the spot they traditionally used as home plate for impromptu games of ball, closed his eyes, and turned himself about in a circle.
“Yevgeny,” said Ganady. “This is silly.”
“No it’s not. It’s magic!” laughed the other boy. “Look at me! I’m Baba Yaga’s house!” He kept turning.
The old men at their chess game looked up to watch and gesture, no doubt wondering aloud what had become of boys these days. Before Ganady had time to be thoroughly mortified, Yevgeny stopped turning, tossed the ball up and swung. He connected solidly, the ball shot away—a line drive, out of the square to the south.
Both boys ran.
On the curb at Reed, they paused in bemusement, for though the ball had arced cleanly into the street, it was nowhere to be seen. They peered under cars, peeked into flower boxes, and were contemplating the door-well of Giovanni’s Shoe Repair when a soft voice behind them said,”I think it bounced into that flower box.”
They turned, eyes falling in unison on a petite blonde with eyes that rivaled Yevgeny’s for sheer blueness. They were locked on Yevgeny’s face at the moment, while the cheeks flushed pink and lips the color of spring roses parted soundlessly. She wore a sweater as blue as her eyes and a headband to match, while a dark blue skirt swirled above blue bobby sox and loafers from which new pennies gleamed.
“Your baseball,” she said, and pointed upward. “I’m afraid it went up there.”
Her words were softly accented in the rhythms of the homeland. A glance at Yevgeny’s face showed this was not lost on him, and that he was lost.
“Yeah?” he said, but made no effort to look where she was pointing.
Ganady did look. The flower box in question was on the second floor of the brownstone before which they stood. Worse, it was above the basement-level stairwell.
The girl nodded. “I know the old woman who lives there.” Her nose wrinkled delicately. “She’s not very nice.”
“You don’t think she’d give it back?” asked Ganny, when he realized Yevgeny’s tongue had gone lame.
“I don’t think so.”
Ganny sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to go up and get it, then.”
The girl looked at him for the first time, her princess-perfect face showing wide-eyed concern. “Oh, but how dangerous of you!”
Ganady shrugged, squared his shoulders and tucked his glove into the waist of his pants. He took one step toward the brownstone, eyeing the basement railing, when Yevgeny, coming suddenly to his senses, said, “No, I’ll get it!” He blushed violently. “After all, I hit it over here, didn’t I?”
Seconds later, while Ganady and the princess looked on, he was teetering on the wrought-iron railing.
“Your friend is very brave,” said the princess. “Or very foolish, yes?”
Ganny glanced at her and was surprised by the glint of humor in her eyes. He grinned. “Yeah, well, he’s kind of a show-off, I guess.”
She laughed. It was a bubbling rill of sound that reminded Ganady of his mother.
“Show-off, yes,” she repeated, her eyes on Yevgeny. “What are your names?”
“That’s Eugene,” said Ganny wickedly, and felt a very tiny stab of contrition. “A lot of people call him ‘Gene.’”
“Gene,” she repeated, watching ‘Gene’ climb from the railing to the first floor window sill.
“Yeah. My name’s Ganady. Everybody calls me Ganny, though.”
She favored him with a direct appraisal.
“Nadezhda Chernenko,” she said and wrinkled her nose again. “I like to be called ‘Nadia.’ I live right there.”
She pointed to a house of mellow golden brick two doors up. The golden-haired princess lived in a golden castle.
Yevgeny was now perched atop the first-floor window and was reaching up for the flower box.
“We live on the zibete,” said Ganady, watching his progress.
“The...the zee-bett?” asked Princes
s Nadia. She shook her head.
“Seventh Street. The zibete, that’s—em—that’s Yiddish for ‘seven.’”
“Oh. Are you Jewish?” She glanced from him to Yevgeny, a tiny furrow creasing her brow.
“We’re Catholic. But my Baba is Jewish, so...” He shrugged.
“Oh, me too. Catholic. We go to Saint Stanislaus.”
“Us too,” said Ganny. “I wonder we’ve never seen each other.”
“Oh, we go to early mass and always sit in the back because my little brother cries sometimes.”
“I’ve got it!” proclaimed Yevgeny. He clung to the window box by one hand. The other was raised, triumphantly, fingers wrapped around the baseball.
At that exact moment, the window was flung open, a frizzled gray head popped out and a voice like the dead of winter demanded, “What are you doing, you zle (children)? Stój! Odejdz! Go away!”
A broom issued forth from the window then, flailing at the baseball in Yevgeny’s hand.
Startled, Yevgeny slipped and fell, skidding down the wall and landing, feet first, in the flower box one floor below. The broom withdrew as swiftly as it had appeared.
“Zawolam policje!” cried the old woman and brought the window down on a spate of Polish invective.
Ganny and Nadia ran to where Yevgeny was attempting to extricate himself from the window box. He had managed to do this by the time they reached him. The three quickly withdrew to the sidewalk to examine Yevgeny’s wounds. He had scraped the palms of both hands thoroughly and had gone through the knee of his chinos.
“Oh, dear!” said the Princess Nadia, her brow puckered with sweet concern. “You have hurt yourself. If you come to my house, you can wash and put some ointment on it.”
“Well...yeah...sure,” said Yevgeny and sent Ganady a significant look.
“Uh, I gotta go,” Ganady said. “My, um, my brother is waiting for me in the park.”
Yevgeny nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. Uh, see you later, okay?”
“Sure.” Ganny bent to pick up the baseball bat his friend had left lying on the sidewalk.
Princess of Passyunk Page 7
