Part 40 (2/2)
Addie stared into his eyes, those beautiful ocean eyes. She thought of Meg. And then she imagined a beach as wide as the world, a froth of waves that raced over her feet and Jack's as they watched the sun seal another absolutely ordinary day. ”Nothing,” she said, smiling hard from the bottom of her heart. ”Nothing at all.”
1979.
New York City Jack and J. T. and Ralph hunkered down in the crawl s.p.a.ce beneath the staircase that led up to the second floor of the St. Bride penthouse, a spot usually reserved for the vacuum but that worked equally as well as a clandestine spot for ten-year-old boys trading baseball cards and secrets. ”I'll give you Keith Hernandez for Luis Alvarado,” J. T. said.
”You think I'm a moron?” Ralph scowled. ”Hernandez is worth three White Sox.”
”I've got Bruce Sutter,” Jack said. ”I'll trade him for Hernandez.”
”Cool.”
The boys swapped cards, turning them over to read the stats, a faint bubble-gum smell enveloping the deal.
”I've got a Don Baylor,” J. T. said.
”California sucks this year.”
Ralph snickered. ”I wouldn't use a Baylor card to sc.r.a.pe dog s.h.i.+t off the street.”
”He's an MVP, you jerk.” But J. T. shuffled the card to the back of his s...o...b..x all the same.
Suddenly, Ralph held up the crown jewel of baseball cards that summer, Willie Stargell from the Pittsburgh Pirates. ”I'm willing to trade. For the right price.”
Jack riffled through the heap of cards he'd collected. Ralph wouldn't take a Palmer or a Guidry, the two best players Jack had. There was only one other card he could even think of trading for equal value, although the player was just a really c.r.a.ppy outfielder for the Chicago White Sox who couldn't have hit a curveball if it were hanging dead still on a string in front of him. What made Jack's card the envy of every other young collector was the name on it.
”Holy s.h.i.+t,” J. T. breathed. ”Jack's got Rusty Kuntz.”
The three boys dissolved into fits of laughter. ”Man, you have Kuntz,” Kuntz,” Ralph said. Ralph said.
”I need Kuntz!” Kuntz!” J. T. cried, and then rolled on the floor, giggling so hard he couldn't catch his breath. J. T. cried, and then rolled on the floor, giggling so hard he couldn't catch his breath.
Ralph held out his hand for the card. ”Bet it's easy to give up Kuntz when you can get the real thing.”
”What's that supposed to mean?”
Ralph pursed his lips, kissing at the air. ”Oh, Jack,” he said in a falsetto. ”You are the awesomest boy in the whole school!”
J. T. snorted. ”Rachel Covington might as well take out a billboard at Yankee Stadium, she's so in love with you.”
”She is not,” Jack scowled. ”She's just a girl.” Okay, so she hung around him a lot since he'd gotten an older kid to stop spreading the rumor that she'd gotten her period when she was only eight years old. So what if she had big b.o.o.bs stuffed into a training bra? All the girls were gonna, one day, and as far as Jack could see, they were an incredible nuisance, probably slapping you under the chin when you were trying to run for speed or distance.
”Jack and Rachel sitting in a tree ...” Ralph sang out.
”Shut up!” Jack reached over and s.n.a.t.c.hed his Kuntz card out of Ralph's hand.
”Hey!”
”I don't like Rachel Covington, okay?”
”Whatever,” Ralph muttered.
Suddenly the small door to the alcove opened. Corazon, the cook and housekeeper, frowned at them, fists planted on her thick hips. ”Out,” she ordered. ”I need to clean.”
The boys scrambled from their hiding place with their boxes of baseball cards, J. T. and Ralph elbowing each other as they walked down the hall. ”I don't have a girlfriend,” Jack yelled after them, squeezing Rusty Kuntz's card so hard it folded down the middle.
It turned out that Corazon wasn't just doing her routine sweep and vacuum of the penthouse. Jack's mother had called and told her to get ready for a guest. Jack sat on a kitchen stool, watching the Mexican woman slap at a lump of dough on the butcher block. He kept looking at it and wis.h.i.+ng it was Ralph's face.
”You want some bread so badly,” Cora said, ”you might try the loaf that's already been cooked.”
”I don't want bread.”
”No? Then how come you stare like a starving man?”
Jack set his elbows on the counter. ”Just wis.h.i.+ng I had something to beat up, too.”
Cora pushed the dough across the table. ”Be my guest.” She wiped her palms on her ap.r.o.n, leaving behind daffodil handprints. ”J. T. and Ralph left in some hurry today.”
Jack shrugged. ”They're losers.”
”Oh, si? si? Just this morning you couldn't even sit through breakfast, waiting for them to show up.” She covered Jack's hands and molded the dough along with him, giving him a rhythm. ”You have a fight?” Just this morning you couldn't even sit through breakfast, waiting for them to show up.” She covered Jack's hands and molded the dough along with him, giving him a rhythm. ”You have a fight?”
”I don't like Rachel Covington. You know, I mean, I like her ... I just don't like like her. I don't her. I don't like like any girl.” any girl.”
”They were teasing you about that?”
”All's I did was stick up for her because she was too scared to do it for herself.”
”Then it's no wonder she's fallen for you, querido.” querido.”
Jack leaned his cheek against his hand, heedless of the mark of flour he left behind. ”Cora, what makes girls like that? Why can't they just say thanks and get out of your hair?”
Corazon smiled at him. ”You know how your mother keeps her Christmas card list? How she sends to people who send her one, and that list gets longer and longer every year?”
”Yeah,” Jack muttered. ”I have to lick the d.a.m.n stamps.”
”Watch your mouth,” Cora reprimanded. ”See, love's like that. Once you give it, even by accident, you're on that list forever.”
”What if I don't want to send Rachel a card back?”
The housekeeper laughed. ”You never know. Maybe she'll keep them coming anyway. But maybe one day she'll go through that list and cross you off.”
”I don't want her to be in love with me,” Jack muttered. ”I'm gonna tell her to stop.”
”You can tell her, but that doesn't mean it's gonna change anything.”
Jack punched at the dough. ”Why not?”
<script>