Sticks

by Joan Bauer

  Mom’s listening some more. Then she says, “Yes, Joseph, I’ve heard you.” She sighs. “All right . . . goodbye . . .”

  She turns to me. “That was quite a performance.”

  I get up and brush myself off.

  “Sit down,” she says, looking gray.

  Camille and I sit.

  “I meant Mickey.” Mom gives Camille a little push out of the kitchen and leans against the stove, folding her arms. “I know how much you want Joseph to help you, Mickey, and I’m sure I’d feel the same way if I were you. But there’s something you need to know.”

  “Okay.”

  Mom brushes her bangs back like they’re heavy. “You need to know that when your father was dying, he asked Joseph to look in on us from time to time, just to make sure we were okay. I’m sure your dad saw things in Joseph other people . . . couldn’t. He asked Joseph to get to know you and help you. I never felt comfortable about this because Joseph always had trouble staying around, but he promised left and right that he’d be there for us. He wasn’t.” Mom steps toward me slow. “He moved out to Los Angeles after your dad died, which was certainly his right.” Mom is looking at me all sad and worried. I hate it when she looks like this. She touches her head the way she does when she gets a headache.

  “Mickey, we’re always honest with each other, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want you to know how much it bothers me that Joseph didn’t fulfill his promise. He was your dad’s best friend. He didn’t call us. He didn’t bother to write once in nine years. He just moved away. And now he’s back. Nobody’s perfect and we need to try and forgive people when they’re not. But I’ve got to tell you, Mickey, I don’t know if Joseph is the kind of person you can count on.” She takes a big breath. “I’ve known someone else like this. He never changed.”

  “Who?”

  Mom sighs and looks down.

  I’m sitting at the table looking at the mud spot on my sneaker.

  “Are you going to ask him why he didn’t call us?”

  “No.”

  I don’t know how hard it was when Dad died. Camille said the hospital bills kept coming and the insurance wasn’t enough. I’m thinking about Dad and how he trusted Joseph Alvarez to do the right thing. He doesn’t seem like a guy you can’t trust, but like Francine says, you never know about people.

  “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Mom is saying. “I don’t want you to go blindly into working with someone whose history has been that he rarely stays and finishes the job. Are you ready to accept that?”

  “He might have changed,” I say.

  “He might have,” she agrees, “and he might not have.”

  I swallow big. I don’t know what to do. Dad wanted him to help me. Dad taught him how to play. Isn’t that important too?

  Mom shivers and pulls her robe tighter, but it can’t cover the worry in her face.

  “Could I just try, Mom? If he hasn’t changed, I’ll blow it off. I swear.”

  Mom closes her eyes for a long time. The leaky faucet’s going again. Poppy keeps trying to fix it. “He said he’d be back in town on Saturday, Mickey. He has to go to Texas.”

  “It’s okay then?”

  “For now.”

  Mom leans back. Her face looks beat. “But if I don’t like what I see just once, and I mean once, I’m pulling the plug. If Joseph can’t make it work it’s not because of you, Mickey, it’s because of him.”

  CHAPTER

  I’m waiting for Saturday to come.

  If Joseph Alvarez shows up I’m going to take that real positive. If he doesn’t, it could mean lots of things because everyone knows truck drivers get stuck in bad traffic.

  Arlen said his uncle Chester went to live in Milwaukee and didn’t contact anyone in the family for seven years and then showed up with a wife, two kids, and ten pounds of bratwurst and everyone forgave him.

  Francine said to wear a bulletproof vest and to call 911 if Joseph Alvarez does anything fishy.

  I promised I’d call.

  Rory Magellan did something stupid—took apart his cousin Marna’s new stereo to see how it worked and couldn’t put it back together. Arlen said a true scientist always draws diagrams when he’s disassembling something so he can put it back. Marna told Francine about it and Francine’s almost got her convinced to find out what Rory’s planning for the science fair. Arlen says if Francine can pull this off, she’ll be one of the great nuns of all time. Arlen forgot his bookbag twice this week; he’s going nuts waiting.

  Mrs. Riggles announced that so many kids are participating in the science fair, it’s being moved from the gym to Town Hall and Mayor Blonski is going to present the awards. Arlen throws back his head.

  “My parents didn’t vote for Blonski!” he tells me, groaning. “We had a KROLL FOR MAYOR BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE poster right on our front lawn.”

  Arlen and I are walking Mangler across the covered footbridge over the connector to the New Jersey Turnpike, which is a block from his house. The noise is so loud. I’m looking down at all the trucks roaring by. None are as cool as the big green Peterbilt.

  “How do you know when you can trust people?” I ask Arlen.

  He looks down at the freeway sign, TRENTON—KEEP RIGHT, and shivers. Arlen went to Trenton for the semifinals of the state geography bee last month and lost on Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia.

  “I guess it’s by what they do,” he says, glaring at the sign.

  We’ve been studying about George Washington, who always did what he said he was going to do. They asked him to be king of America and he said no. “A man of unshakable honor,” Mrs. Riggles called him.

  We cross the footbridge onto Clyborne Street, which is as far from home as my mom lets me go without an adult. The April buds are just forming on the trees. People on Clyborne are serious about their trees because the leaves help soak up the noise from the interstate. Mangler’s walking proud, getting the usual attention.

  A woman puts down her shopping bag. “Is that a Pig?”

  “I believe it is, ma’am,” says Arlen.

  “Well, isn’t that something,” says the woman, leaning down to look at Mangler, who snorts. “It doesn’t look dirty. I thought pigs were dirty.”

  Other people start gathering round. Arlen goes into his pig speech about how pigs are really misunderstood and have been forced by humans to live in slop.

  “They’re highly intelligent,” he says to the group. “Abraham Lincoln had a pet pig.”

  “I didn’t know that!” says a man.

  No one knows this except Arlen. He takes a raisin out of his pocket, holds it just out of Mangler’s reach.

  “Dance,” he says to Mangler.

  Mangler gets up on his hind legs reaching for the raisin and takes a few small steps toward the food. At home Mangler does this to music. Beethoven’s Fifth is his favorite. Arlen gives Mangler the raisin and the crowd starts applauding.

  “Good pig,” Arlen goes, patting Mangler’s head. “That’s a real good pig.”

  Petie Pencastle, Matt Fitz, and Jeremy Dozier turn the corner by Jude’s Grocery. They empty out their pockets, shaking them down to the lintballs, and put their dimes and quarters on the sidewalk. Arlen and I smell money and head over.

  Petie’s counting by the sidewalk grate. “We got a dollar ninety-three,” Petie says, scratching Mangler’s head. “You guys got any?”

  Arlen and I come up with eighty-eight cents. Petie’s squinting in the sun trying to add in his head.

  “Two dollars and eighty-one cents,” Arlen says.

  Petie kicks at the grate and does some figuring. “Candy bars are forty-five cents each. That’s enough for us to get six. Okay?” Petie, Matt, and Jeremy head for Jude’s front door with the money.

  Arlen tells Mangler to sit. “I can buy us more candy with less money,” he says. “You guys like M&M’s?”

  “Sure,” Petie says, “but they’re forty-five cents a bag too.”

 
Arlen hands Mangler and his leash to Matt, the youngest, and heads inside Jude’s, past the BEST BETS OF THE WEEK sign, to aisle six. CANDY. He picks up a one-pound bag of M&M’s.

  “Six bags of M&M’s at one point sixty-nine ounces each is ten point fourteen ounces total and costs two dollars and seventy cents. For two dollars and seventy-nine cents, we are now going to buy sixteen ounces of M&M’s.”

  Petie and Jeremy are silenced by genius. Arlen buys the candy and we follow him outside. Arlen sits on the LOANS WHILE U WAIT bench by the bus stop; he divides the candy into five piles and keeps an extra handful as a “management fee.”

  Arlen and I head toward Pinkerton Park and the new baseball diamond. “With math,” Arlen says, scarfing chocolate, “you can have a real good life.”

  * * *

  It’s Saturday, 12:23. I’ve been on table five since nine this morning. I haven’t gone to the bathroom or anything because I want to be standing here looking tough when Joseph Alvarez shows up. Arlen went to Francine’s to throw himself on her mercy. Camille dragged the laundry basket through Vernon’s to wish me good luck, which was real nice. I look out the window for the hundredth time. Mrs. Cassetti’s sweeping the welcome mat in front of her bakery again, which means business is slow.

  Man, I hope he’s coming.

  I hope I’ve got what it takes.

  I hear the truck before I see it.

  I quick chalk my stick.

  Tap the balls down perfect.

  Flick a piece of lint off the table.

  My heart’s thumping crazy.

  I’m waiting.

  Where is he?

  Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe I saw one of those mirages people get in the desert when they want something bad.

  But I didn’t. Joseph Alvarez bursts through the front door. He’s wearing his big Western hat; his boots look spit-shined. He’s carrying a leather pool cue case and he looks like somebody you don’t mess with for one minute. He tips his hat to Poppy, who smiles as wide as I’ve ever seen her.

  I run up to him, grinning.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  “He’s a bomb waiting to go off,” Poppy says, cracking open a roll of quarters.

  I bring him to table five.

  He puts his hat on a chair, opens his case, and takes out an awesome pool stick—a Balabushka. I’ve seen pictures of those in Billiard News.

  Man . . .

  He screws it together. It’s got different shades of wood around the handle in a triangle pattern. He rolls the cue ball across the table to me.

  “Well now, Mickey Vernon. Let’s see what you can do.”

  “Okay!”

  I plant my feet strong, push up from my heels, focus on smashing the cue ball with my power break.

  Pow.

  It’s more like a dud. The cue ball rolls four inches.

  I bite my lip and look down.

  “Happens to everybody,” Joseph Alvarez says. “Try again.”

  I try again and don’t get much.

  “You nervous?” he asks.

  “No.” I wipe my sweaty hands on my best jeans.

  “Slow, disciplined, focused,” Joseph Alvarez says, moving the two ball near the side pocket. “Just tap her in.”

  I push into the shot too hard and scratch—the cue ball plops in the corner. A scratch in pool is a bad thing.

  Joseph Alvarez gets the cue ball, hands it to me. “Shoot anything,” he says. “No big deal. Have fun with it.”

  I try a couple of bank shots, but I miss those too. This is probably the worst I’ve ever played. I slap my stick on the table.

  “Don’t go doing that, son. It’s not the stick’s fault. Pick it up.”

  I swallow hard and pick the stick up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Joseph Alvarez looks at me, scratching his beard. “I need to talk to your mom.”

  He’s giving up on me already! “She’s at the library all day studying. I’ll do better—I promise!”

  “It’s not about that.”

  He walks to the counter and says something to Poppy, who looks at me for a long time and nods.

  Joseph Alvarez walks back, slaps on his cowboy hat. “Let’s go,” he says, heading for the door. “Poppy said it was okay.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To your first lesson.”

  CHAPTER

  We’re moving down Flax Street in the Peterbilt, sitting high.

  The steering wheel is made of wood. Two little cowboy boots hang down from the rearview mirror. The seats are covered in dark leather.

  Everything is better in a truck.

  We roll by St. Xavier’s—the dark old stone makes it look like a castle. We head past the police station with those big steel doors that look like you’re walking into a refrigerator. The Peterbilt moves on, churning up a cloud of dust near the cars locked behind the chain-link fence at Zeke’s Towing.

  I can see the flat roof of Grover Cleveland Elementary. “That’s where I go to school,” I say.

  Joseph Alvarez slows down and gives it a good look.

  “The clock in the front’s always ten minutes slow no matter what the principal does to fix it.”

  “You like school?”

  “It’s okay. I don’t like oral reports or grammar.”

  “Not hot for those myself.”

  He turns down Botts Street and smiles at the new stores going up. Gillette’s Movie Palace is getting a coat of bright yellow paint, which should do Camille a load of good.

  “This was all junk when I was around last,” Joseph Alvarez says. “Old machine shops, a dumpy liquor store, rats in the alley. Folks work hard here to make things better.”

  People look as we roll by. A lady lifts her baby up to wave at us. We wave back; it’s like being in a parade. I’d sure like to see Buck right now.

  I say I think I’m riding in the best truck in America.

  “I’m glad you think so, son. Some drivers beat a truck to death and wonder why it’s not performing for them—you’ve got to treat it nice and it’ll take care of you. I try and let my truck tell people who I am.”

  Joseph Alvarez pulls into the parking lot of GameLand, which is where Arlen had his tenth birthday party. It’s got miniature golf, shooting, archery, and all kinds of games inside, except pool. We have to park near the street, there’s so many cars.

  “Out,” he says.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Only way I know how to teach pool is how your dad taught me.”

  Joseph Alvarez takes off his hat and starts up the walk, which is painted with big red footprints. I run to catch up. We stop at the little white booth.

  “Full game package or a la carte?” asks the woman chewing gum behind the cash register.

  “The works,” Joseph Alvarez says, taking out his wallet.

  I take his arm. “They don’t have any pool tables here . . . .”

  “That’s right.”

  We walk through the main door, which makes a laughing sound when anyone comes through it. Kids are screaming, bells are going off. We stand there looking at the red, white, and blue rooms jutting out like boxes in a maze. A little boy starts wailing when his father says he’s out of tokens. A tired mother is counting the little girls around her.

  “She’s going to lose it,” Joseph Alvarez says to me. “On three. One . . .”

  The woman throws down her purse.

  “Two . . .”

  The woman throws back her head.

  “Bingo.”

  She starts shouting that no one is moving anywhere at this birthday party until she finds Ashley!

  We laugh good and walk through the arcade of blinking video games into a smaller room with Ping-Pong tables. Joseph Alvarez picks up two paddles.

  “Your serve,” he says, tossing the little white ball to me.

  I miss the catch. “I’m not good at Ping-Pong.”

  “Serve.”

  I
serve bad. Joseph Alvarez returns the ball, bouncing it right on the line; it sails past me.

  “Zero–one on the serve,” he says as I run to get the ball. “Serve again.”

  I do and it’s worse. He nails it past me like I’m blind.

  “Why,” I ask, “are we doing this?”

  “Focus on the ball, son. Zero–two.”

  We play to zero–eleven. It doesn’t take long. Joseph Alvarez writes our names on a scorecard and under his he puts a 1 for winner, which sure seems like rubbing it in.

  “Know why you lost?” he asks.

  “Because I’m ten.”

  “Nope.”

  “Because you’re better.”

  “Because I make those spin shots you haven’t figured out how to hit yet.”

  Like I said.

  Joseph Alvarez beats me seven to zip and each time he wins he puts a little mark under his name. I say shouldn’t we be getting back to the pool hall for practicing and he looks at me hard and says, “You can’t learn to win, Mickey, until you learn how to lose.”

  The words hang over the fat red nose of the painted clown poster.

  We walk through the arcade to the snack bar. The man behind the counter has a T-shirt with a hot dog on it. Joseph Alvarez buys two Mountain Dews and says, “How are you at archery?”

  “Awful.”

  He nods, steers me to the archery section, and hands me a bow and arrow. “Shoot,” he says.

  Well, I’m standing there like a ding-dong trying to put the arrow in and hold it up; the arrow keeps falling out of the bow and every kid there for a birthday party is laughing at me. Joseph Alvarez stands next to me, stretches his bow back, and hits a perfect bull’s-eye. He says to hold the bow steady, and I say I think I got a bad bow. I’m sweating now because people are waiting in line for their turn and I’m sure everyone thinks I’m stupid. I try to shoot and the arrow makes a little leap toward the ground.

  “Focus,” he says to me. “Concentrate on the arrow, the bull’s-eye, making it happen.”

  I can’t!

  “C’mon. You can do it.”

  I throw my bow down and storm off past the shuffleboard court, the miniature-car raceway. My head’s pounding and my brain’s melting. Joseph Alvarez comes alongside me and hands me a golf club.