War and Watermelon Page 12

  “With big signs,” Skippy says.

  “Small signs,” Jenny says. “Just making a point about nonviolence. And screwing the government.”

  “You using the car again, Ryan?”

  “Nope. We’re catching a ride with Jenny’s other cousin from Jersey City.”

  “Dad know?”

  “Dad doesn’t need to know. But I will tell you this: I’m taking action.”

  “We’re taking big-time action,” Skippy says.

  “Peaceful action,” Jenny repeats.

  “Maybe you,” Skippy says. “I’m gonna make enough noise to get this war ended.”

  We’ve reached Englewood, but the road ahead looks very congested. We’ve been listening to WMCA, so Ryan switches the channel, looking for a traffic report.

  He finds the Mets pregame, and we listen to that for a few minutes, barely moving forward. It’s Tom Seaver versus Ferguson Jenkins tonight, two of the best pitchers in the league. The Cubs have lost five straight, and the Mets have won three in a row and nineteen of their last twenty-five.

  People in other cars are holding up Mets pennants and beeping their horns when we hold up ours. But we’re at a standstill now, and we’re still a couple of miles from the bridge.

  Ryan finally finds a traffic report. There’s at least one accident ahead of us, and one lane of the bridge is closed, but it turns out that this is mostly Mets traffic. Everybody in New Jersey decided they couldn’t possibly miss this game.

  There’s not much we can do. We’re not near an exit, so we just wait it out. Ryan shuts off the engine.

  “You bring me some food?” I ask.

  Jenny hands me a small paper bag with two peanut butter sandwiches and a can of lemon soda. There’s no can opener, though. I drank a lot of water toward the end of practice, so I’ll be okay. I eat the sandwiches.

  Through three innings, Seaver has a perfect game going, so I can just imagine what it’d be like to actually be there. Donn Clendenon hits a two-run homer in the bottom of the third, giving the Mets a 4–0 lead.

  We’ve inched forward about sixty feet since the game started. A few cars have cut across the grass median and headed back the other way, but there are cop cars over there now.

  “This is ridiculous,” Skippy says, lighting another cigarette.

  Ryan smiles. “What’s Yogi Berra say? ‘It’s déjà vu all over again.’ But hey, we made it to Woodstock.”

  “Woodstock went all night,” Skippy replies.

  “That it did.”

  The perfect game gets busted in the fourth, but Seaver himself hits a leadoff double in the bottom of the inning and later scores.

  Ryan turns off the engine again. People have gotten out of some of the cars around us and are drinking beers. Everybody has the game on full volume, so we get out, too. Skippy bums a beer from somebody. We lean against the car and enjoy our second major traffic jam of the summer, laughing and cheering after almost every pitch. Everything’s going right for the Mets.

  By the time Jerry Grote hits an RBI double in the seventh, the Mets seem to have it on ice. A cop waves us across the median, and suddenly we’re going 55 again, heading for home.

  Dad’s not real pleased when he hears about the adventure. He’s standing in the kitchen with his arms folded while we tell him.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t abandon the car again and walk to the stadium.”

  Ryan frowns. “We would have, but we didn’t have any Tang.”

  Dad turns and faces Mom. “That’s typical Ryan. Six miles from his destination.”

  “What did you expect us to do, Dad? I mean, has it ever been hard to get to a Mets game before?”

  “You could have left earlier.”

  “Brody had football practice.”

  “Then you could have stayed home. But you haven’t learned that lesson, have you?”

  “What lesson? I’m not going to spend my life afraid to do stuff. You think reading about things the next day or watching them on TV is the same as being there?”

  “It’s better than not being there,” Dad says. “What’d you gain tonight? You missed the whole stupid game. When you went to that ridiculous Woodstock thing, you did more walking than watching. How smart was that?”

  Ryan lets out a huge sigh. “You don’t get it.”

  “You got that right. I don’t.”

  Ryan sets the keys on the counter and shakes his head. “Here’s the car. No harm done.” He points to me. “Brody’s home safe and sound. And guess what, Dad? We had a blast.”

  Dad snorts and looks at Mom again. “‘ A blast,’ he says. Sitting on Route 80 for two hours is his idea of a good time. Hey, here’s an idea. You like driving so much, maybe you can get a job as a truck driver.”

  “Wouldn’t be so bad,” Ryan says.

  “Or a tank driver,” Dad says. He raises his eyebrows. “You fill out those college papers?”

  Ryan frowns deeper and shakes his head. “I will.”

  “You better.” Dad picks up the keys and puffs out his cheeks. He fixes his eyes on me for the first time. “Nehemiah,” he says. “You better get to bed. . . . We all should.”

  Mom and Dad start up the stairs. I look at Ryan and we both hold back a laugh.

  “Ryan,” Dad says. “No more stunts, huh? Starting tomorrow, it’s time to get yourself on track.”

  Ryan waits until he hears their bedroom door click shut. “Tomorrow this time, I’ll be in Syracuse.”

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 10:

  Ducks in Order

  WMCA’s counting down the new top ten tonight, so I lie in bed with the light off and look out the window.

  Here’s the list so far:10. “Sweet Caroline” (Neil Diamond). Good song, but I’ve had enough of it.

  9. “Hot Fun in the Summertime” (Sly and the Family Stone). Cool.

  8. “Green River” (Creedence Clearwater Revival). Okay.

  7. “I’d Wait a Million Years” (The Grass Roots). Also okay.

  6. “I Can’t Get Next to You” (The Temptations). Good.

  5. “A Boy Named Sue” (Johnny Cash). Hilarious and cool.

  4. “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again” (Tom Jones). Okay.

  Coach Epstein said today that he’s hoping the substitutes will get “significant” playing time Saturday night. Wallington has a small team, and they’ve lost their first two games by about thirty points apiece. So the plan is to play the starters at the beginning, build up a lead, and then let the rest of us get a chance.

  I’ll believe it when I see it, but it would be cool to get some action other than in the final minute.

  First there’s this stupid school dance on Friday night. Why would I agree to go to another dance? Tony made me buy a ticket this afternoon. He says some kids from Corpus Christi are going to show up, so we might get another chance with Patty and Janet.

  Like I ever want to go through that again.

  Number three on the radio is “Jean,” which I kind of like but have heard too many times. I can’t figure out what number two is going to be. “Honky Tonk Women” has been at the top for four straight weeks with no end in sight.

  But after a commercial I hear the familiar sound of the Rolling Stones. They’ve dropped to second! I keep running down the past few weeks’ top songs in my head, but I have no idea what could be number one, unless “Get Together” has made a big comeback. That has to be it! My favorite song of all time!

  I run to the bathroom and brush my teeth. For the heck of it, I step onto the scale. I’m up to ninety for the first time in my life. I peel off my T-shirt and flex in front of the mirror. Looking good.

  When I get back to the bedroom, I can’t believe my ears. It’s “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies. At the top of the charts. All the way up from thirteen a week ago, where I was certain it had peaked.

  Life is just unfair sometimes. “Get Together” never made it past number three.

  I jolt awake when I hear the phone ringing. Dad picks it up in his and Mo
m’s bedroom and says hello. He listens for a minute, then speaks very softly, so I can’t make out what he’s saying. But I do hear it when he slams the phone down a few minutes later.

  “That idiot!” Dad says.

  I turn on my light and step into the hall. Their bedroom door is open, and I can see Dad pulling a pair of pants on over his pajamas.

  “He got arrested,” Dad says.

  “Oh my!” Mom replies. “Where is he?”

  “Way up in Syracuse.”

  “What? I thought he was sleeping at Skippy’s.”

  “Apparently not. They went to some protest. A war protest! Why not just invite the government to throw him on the front lines?”

  “Are you . . . are you driving all the way up there?”

  “No,” he says sarcastically, “I thought I’d go for a pleasant ride in the country in the middle of the night. . . . Of course I’m driving up there. Who the hell else is going to bail him out?”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, you better stay with Brody. Is there gas in the car?”

  “I think it’s three-quarters full.”

  Dad looks at his watch. “I guess that’ll get me there. That lunatic.”

  I step into the bedroom. “What’s going on?”

  Dad looks at me for a moment. “Nothing,” he says gently. “You can go back to bed.”

  “Is Ryan in jail?” I ask.

  Dad looks at Mom, then takes a deep breath. “He shoved a policeman.”

  “Is Jenny there, too?” Mom asks.

  “Apparently. She’s sitting in the police station, waiting. Skippy disappeared, so thank God we don’t have to worry about him.”

  Mom makes a scolding sound with her tongue. “Skippy’s just a kid.”

  “So was Billy.”

  Mom looks puzzled. “Billy who?”

  “Billy the Kid.”

  I follow them downstairs. It’s almost one o’clock. Mom plugs in the coffeepot, and Dad eats two doughnuts while he waits for the coffee to boil. “I’ll take it with me,” he says. “Do we have anything I can put it in that won’t spill?”

  Mom searches a cabinet and takes out an old plaid thermos.

  Dad shakes his head. “What a palooka.”

  “He’s only eighteen,” Mom says.

  “I’ll eighteen him.” He wipes some doughnut dust off his chest. He’s wearing his white work shirt from yesterday; I saw him fish it out of the hamper.

  “Drive carefully,” Mom says. “There’s no reason to hurry.”

  “It’s a four-hour drive,” Dad says. “By the time I get there, they’ll probably be fitting him in battle fatigues. Or prison gear.”

  “Don’t say that,” Mom replies.

  “Well, what do you think? They’ll throw a guy like Muhammad Ali in jail, but just wave off some stupid kid and give him a birthday cake? This is serious stuff.”

  Mom sniffs hard. “I know it is.”

  “If you’re gonna protest the war, you’d better have your ducks in order,” Dad says. “No college, no credentials, and he has the audacity to get himself arrested.”

  Dad leans against the kitchen door and shuts his eyes. Mom’s crying. He sighs and walks over to her, and they hug hard for a minute.

  “It’ll be all right,” Dad whispers. “It’ll be all right.” He kisses her on the forehead. “Call my office in the morning and tell them I should be in by noon.”

  Dad puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me toward him. “Get some sleep, Brody,” he says. “This is gonna be okay. Your brother is a horse’s ass, but I don’t want you worrying.”

  “I won’t.”

  Like heck I won’t. But what am I supposed to do?

  Just wait, I guess.

  No way I can sleep. I lie in bed and listen to the radio, worried about Ryan. The war is raging.

  I switch to a sports talk show. A caller is going on and on about why the Giants should fire their coach and get a new quarterback. They finally cut the guy off and announce the real news. The Mets swept a doubleheader from the Expos and are in first place.

  Unbelievable, but I can’t even get excited about it.

  I don’t want to lose my brother.

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 11:

  Let Freedom Ring

  Mrs. Wilkey is droning on about adjectives and adverbs. I look at the clock. 11:38. Seven more minutes of this and the agony will be over.

  There was still no word from Dad when I left for school this morning, but Mom said not to worry. They’d certainly be home before I got back for lunch. At least she hoped so. It all depended. She didn’t say on what.

  I glance over at Diane. She seems to be taking a lot of notes. I catch her gaze, and she lifts her eyebrows, then looks up at Mrs. Wilkey, who has her back to us while she writes on the blackboard.

  Diane tilts her notebook toward me. In big letters it says, Mrs. Wilkey’s ADJECTIVES: fat, ugly, old, BORING!!!!!!

  She underlines BORING!!!!!! and smiles at me.

  When the bell rings I open my desk and shove my notebook inside. Everybody stands and starts pushing toward the door in a huge hurry to get out.

  Diane nudges me with her elbow. “You going to the dance tomorrow night?” she asks.

  “Probably,” I say. “Yeah.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Should be okay.”

  “Yeah. Should be.”

  Mrs. Wilkey is sitting at her desk, biting into a jelly sandwich. A couple of people are still fumbling with their stuff at their desks, but mostly it’s just me and Diane standing there. I get the feeling that she likes that it’s only me and her, but maybe not. Talking about the dance makes me nervous, as if there might be some expectations about actually dancing with her.

  “I gotta leave,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Me, too.”

  Then again, hanging out with her at the dance might be cool. “I mean, my brother’s in jail,” I say. “Or he was. I gotta go see.”

  She points toward the windows at the back of the room, in the direction of the Municipal Building across the street. “Over there?” she asks.

  “No. Up in Syracuse.” It sounds a lot more important than being in the town jail, like Otis in Mayberry.

  “Hope he’s all right,” she says.

  “Should be. I guess.” I’m an inch or so taller than she is. Her hair is dark, shiny, and straight, and it’s parted down the middle and held back in a black hair band.

  “So,” she says, “see you after lunch.”

  “Right. After lunch.”

  I run the seven blocks and get home in about three minutes. The car isn’t in the driveway.

  “What’s going on?” I say as I enter the kitchen.

  Mom smiles at me. “Your father called after you left. Ryan’s all right. But I don’t know why they haven’t gotten home yet. Should be any minute.”

  She sets a hamburger and some string beans in front of me at the counter, but I don’t feel like eating. I just stare at the plate. She sits on Dad’s stool, sipping coffee.

  And then we hear the car pulling into the driveway. We leap up and look out the window as Dad and Ryan step out. I swallow and sniff back a tear.

  She hugs Ryan and cries a little. Then she lets him go and turns to Dad. “Honey, where’ve you been?”

  “We stopped off in Madison.”

  “Madison? That’s not even on the way.”

  Dad looks at Ryan. “Tell her.”

  Ryan shrugs. “He dragged me to the admissions office at Drew. I applied in person for January.”

  “Oh, Ryan,” Mom says. “I’m so glad.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I had much choice.”

  “You had a choice,” she says. “You made the right one.”

  Ryan sits at the counter and puts his head down.

  “Are you fellas hungry?” Mom asks.

  Ryan lifts his head. “Starving.”

  Mom throws a couple more hamburgers into the pan.

 
; Dad grabs another doughnut. “Guess I’ll shower and get on the bus,” he says. He yawns and shakes his head. “They dropped the charges, by the way. Just as long as he never gets in trouble in Syracuse again.”

  “Like I’d ever go back there,” Ryan says.

  “Or anywhere else,” Dad says. “No more of this protest nonsense, right?”

  “No more fighting with the pigs,” Ryan says. “But nobody’s shutting me up. First amendment says I can protest all I want.”

  Dad lets out a big sigh. “Let freedom ring.” He turns to go up the stairs. We hear him mutter, “What an imbecile.”

  I sit next to Ryan and pull my plate over, taking a bite of my hamburger. It’s gone cold, so I get the ketchup out of the refrigerator and drench it.

  “What exactly happened, Ryan?” Mom asks.

  “All we were doing was sitting with a crowd of people on the steps of the student center,” he says. “At midnight the campus police told us we had to leave, but we said we had a right to be there. They said we didn’t. Next thing we know the city police are there, too, pushing people around. I stepped in front of Jenny when one of them got too close. The cop was harassing her. He yells at me to back off. I go ‘Get out of my face and leave her alone!’ Then I don’t know what happened. I wound up pushing the cop. He twisted my arms behind my back and put handcuffs on me.”

  “Let me see.” Mom grabs his hands and inspects his wrists.

  “It was nothing, Mom.”

  “Did they take you away in a police car?”

  “Yeah. A whole bunch of us. I was never actually in jail, just in this holding area until they let me use the phone.”

  “And you’re sure they dropped the charges?”

  Ryan shrugs. “I don’t think they ever charged me with anything. Just wrote down my driver’s license information and asked me if I was a student there.”

  “And what about Jenny?”

  “Somebody drove her to the police station. We have no idea where Skippy took off to. He was at the protest for about two seconds. Probably found somebody to get drunk with.”

  “That’s our boy,” Mom says.

  “Yeah.” Ryan laughs. “Somehow I don’t think his heart was entirely behind the protest effort.”