Part 8 (1/2)
The ball followed the shout, arcing back over the street to land and roll in the young gra.s.s 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 bemus.e.m.e.nt, 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 pet.i.te 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 bas.e.m.e.nt-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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 Princess 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.”