and said, “The heck with it. I’m going to buy a glove!”
“Not that glove,” Roger Lussier said. “Not aglove with Lefty Grove’s autograph. Look what it says at the bottom of the sign.”
We all looked, although we knew the words by heart: “This Glove Is Not For Sale Anywhere.”
Rollie Tremaine scrambled to pick up the cards from the sidewalk, pouting more than ever. After that he was quietly obsessed with the Presidents, hugging the cards close to his chest and refusing to tell us how many more he needed to complete his set.
I too was obsessed with the cards, because they had become things of comfort in a world that had suddenly grown dismal. After Christmas a layoff at the shop had thrown my father out of work. He received no paycheck for four weeks, and the only income we had was from Armand’s after-school job at the Blue and White Grocery Store—a job he lost finally when business dwindled as the layoff continued.
Although we had enough food and clothing—my father’s credit had always been good, a matter of pride with him—the inactivity made my father restless and irritable. He did not drink any beer at all, and laughed loudly, but not convincingly, after gulping down a glass of water and saying, “Lent came early this year.” The twins fell sick and went to the hospital to have their tonsils removed. My father was confident that he would return to work eventually and pay off his debts, but he seemed to age before our eyes.
When orders again were received at the comb shop and he returned to work, another disaster occurred, although I was the only one aware of it. Armand fell in love.
I discovered his situation by accident, when I happened to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen to the floor in the bedroom he and I shared. I frowned at the paper, puzzled.
“Dear Sally, When I look into your eyes the world stands still …”
The letter was snatched from my hands before I finished reading it.
“What’s the big idea, snooping around?” Armand asked, his face crimson. “Can’t a guy have any privacy?”
He had never mentioned privacy before. “It was on the floor,” I said. “I didn’t know it was a letter. Who’s Sally?”
He flung himself across the bed. “You tell anybody and I’ll muckalize you,” he threatened. “Sally Knowlton.”
Nobody in Frenchtown had a name like Knowlton.
“A girl from the North Side?” I asked, incredulous.
He rolled over and faced me, anger in his eyes, and a kind of despair too.
“What’s the matter with that? Think she’s too good for me?” he asked. “I’m warning you, Jerry, if you tell anybody …”
“Don’t worry,” I said. Love had no particular place in my life; it seemed an unnecessary waste of time. And a girl from the North Side was so remote that for all practical purposes she did not exist. But I was curious. “What are you writing her a letter for? Did she leave town, or something?”
“She hasn’t left town,” he answered. “I wasn’t going to send it. I just felt like writing to her.”
I was glad that I had never become involved with love—love that brought desperation to your eyes, that caused you to write letters you did not plan to send. Shrugging with indifference, I began to search in the closet for the old baseball glove. I found it on the shelf, under some old sneakers. The webbing was torn and the padding gone. I thought of the sting I would feel when a sharp grounder slapped into the glove, and I winced.
“You tell anybody about me and Sally and I’ll—”
“I know. You’ll muckalize me.”
I did not divulge his secret and often shared his agony, particularly when he sat at the supper table and left my mother’s special butterscotch pie untouched. I had never realized before how terrible love could be. But my compassion was shortlived because I had other things to worry about: report cards due at Eastertime; the loss of income from old Mrs. Belander, who had gone to live with a
“Not that glove,” Roger Lussier said. “Not aglove with Lefty Grove’s autograph. Look what it says at the bottom of the sign.”
We all looked, although we knew the words by heart: “This Glove Is Not For Sale Anywhere.”
Rollie Tremaine scrambled to pick up the cards from the sidewalk, pouting more than ever. After that he was quietly obsessed with the Presidents, hugging the cards close to his chest and refusing to tell us how many more he needed to complete his set.
I too was obsessed with the cards, because they had become things of comfort in a world that had suddenly grown dismal. After Christmas a layoff at the shop had thrown my father out of work. He received no paycheck for four weeks, and the only income we had was from Armand’s after-school job at the Blue and White Grocery Store—a job he lost finally when business dwindled as the layoff continued.
Although we had enough food and clothing—my father’s credit had always been good, a matter of pride with him—the inactivity made my father restless and irritable. He did not drink any beer at all, and laughed loudly, but not convincingly, after gulping down a glass of water and saying, “Lent came early this year.” The twins fell sick and went to the hospital to have their tonsils removed. My father was confident that he would return to work eventually and pay off his debts, but he seemed to age before our eyes.
When orders again were received at the comb shop and he returned to work, another disaster occurred, although I was the only one aware of it. Armand fell in love.
I discovered his situation by accident, when I happened to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen to the floor in the bedroom he and I shared. I frowned at the paper, puzzled.
“Dear Sally, When I look into your eyes the world stands still …”
The letter was snatched from my hands before I finished reading it.
“What’s the big idea, snooping around?” Armand asked, his face crimson. “Can’t a guy have any privacy?”
He had never mentioned privacy before. “It was on the floor,” I said. “I didn’t know it was a letter. Who’s Sally?”
He flung himself across the bed. “You tell anybody and I’ll muckalize you,” he threatened. “Sally Knowlton.”
Nobody in Frenchtown had a name like Knowlton.
“A girl from the North Side?” I asked, incredulous.
He rolled over and faced me, anger in his eyes, and a kind of despair too.
“What’s the matter with that? Think she’s too good for me?” he asked. “I’m warning you, Jerry, if you tell anybody …”
“Don’t worry,” I said. Love had no particular place in my life; it seemed an unnecessary waste of time. And a girl from the North Side was so remote that for all practical purposes she did not exist. But I was curious. “What are you writing her a letter for? Did she leave town, or something?”
“She hasn’t left town,” he answered. “I wasn’t going to send it. I just felt like writing to her.”
I was glad that I had never become involved with love—love that brought desperation to your eyes, that caused you to write letters you did not plan to send. Shrugging with indifference, I began to search in the closet for the old baseball glove. I found it on the shelf, under some old sneakers. The webbing was torn and the padding gone. I thought of the sting I would feel when a sharp grounder slapped into the glove, and I winced.
“You tell anybody about me and Sally and I’ll—”
“I know. You’ll muckalize me.”
I did not divulge his secret and often shared his agony, particularly when he sat at the supper table and left my mother’s special butterscotch pie untouched. I had never realized before how terrible love could be. But my compassion was shortlived because I had other things to worry about: report cards due at Eastertime; the loss of income from old Mrs. Belander, who had gone to live with a
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