don’t mean he’s crazy, it’s just that his best pitch is the screwball. The Dodgers lose 7-0.
The second game starts out better. The score is tied in the twelfth inning, so that’s not as bad as losing a one-hitter, but then the Giants score eight times. I keep listening, hoping the Dodgers will come back in their half of the inning, but they score just once and lose 12-5. What’s worse is, with the two lost games, the Dodgers are no longer in first place!
Mom and Dad come home in the middle of the second game. Mom is tired. Dad tells me it’s the steps. Climbing them is difficult for her.
Later, Dad helps Mom prepare dinner, and while we eat, Dad says he’ll help Mom with the laundry and cleaning. The doctor said exercise would help, and Mom says, if it’s okay with me, from now on when I get home from school, she’ll be downstairs. “If you don’t mind, you can help me shop, or just walk with me.”
I say, “Of course, I don’t mind,” but I think about Roger and Charles and stickball. I can’t play with them after school, not if Mom will be sitting in the lobby waiting for me.
“You don’t have to hurry home,” Mom says. “I won’t leave the apartment until three fifteen, after Helen Trent.”
It takes a long time for Mom to get down the stairs, so I figure she won’t reach the lobby until about three thirty. That gives me time to wait for Beth after school, walk with her, even time to talk a little.
During dessert, strawberries with some powdered sugar sprinkled on them, Mom smiles and says, “Your friend Beth seems very nice.”
“Yes,” I say. “She is.”
The next morning, when I get up, Mom is already sitting by the table. At my place is a plate with a roll, a tab of butter, and a glass of milk. Mom hadn’t done that for a while, prepare my breakfast and sit with me in the morning.
“It’s nice out today,” Mom says. “You don’t need a jacket.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I guess this will be one of Mom’s good days.
While I eat the roll, Mom reminds me that she’ll be downstairs this afternoon, that we’ll walk together and shop.
Goldman’s is busy again, not like yesterday. Mr. Simmons is sitting across from Beth, and excited as usual about the war news.
“The stories that keep coming in about these men are really something,” he says. “One British soldier’s boat capsized and he swam seven or eight miles before he was rescued.”
“There are lots of great stories,” Beth says, and gets up. “I’ll read more of them this afternoon.”
I help Beth fold her newspapers. We both say good-bye to Mr. Simmons and to Mr. Goldman and leave the coffee shop.
When we meet Sarah at the corner, I tell her what the doctor said about Mom’s disease, and by the time I’m done, we’re walking into school.
Sarah pats my arm, which is somehow comforting. It’s always good to have friends, but especially now.
“I want to tell you some things,” Sarah says. “I want to tell you what my Mutti, my mother, one day said to me. I think you should know it. I will tell you at lunch.”
Sarah walks to the right and we go to the left. When we’re at our lockers I ask Beth if she knows what Sarah is talking about.
“Yes, I do know, but Sarah has to tell you.”
All morning, during math, science, and history classes, I wonder what Sarah’s mother said, and how it relates to Mom’s sickness.
At lunch, Roger goes on and on about last night’s Baby Snooks show.
“Snooks was at the harbor, by the docks, and pointed to boxes on a ship and asked what’s in them. ‘Cargo,’ her father said. ‘But where’s the car?’” Roger asks in his Baby Snooks voice. “‘There is no car,’ her dad said. ‘If the boxes were carried in a car it would be called a shipment.’”
Roger wrinkles his nose, looks up, and squeaks, “Huh!”
Roger laughs. When he sees we’re not laughing he says, “Don’t you get it? Things carried on a ship are cargo and things carried in a car are a
The second game starts out better. The score is tied in the twelfth inning, so that’s not as bad as losing a one-hitter, but then the Giants score eight times. I keep listening, hoping the Dodgers will come back in their half of the inning, but they score just once and lose 12-5. What’s worse is, with the two lost games, the Dodgers are no longer in first place!
Mom and Dad come home in the middle of the second game. Mom is tired. Dad tells me it’s the steps. Climbing them is difficult for her.
Later, Dad helps Mom prepare dinner, and while we eat, Dad says he’ll help Mom with the laundry and cleaning. The doctor said exercise would help, and Mom says, if it’s okay with me, from now on when I get home from school, she’ll be downstairs. “If you don’t mind, you can help me shop, or just walk with me.”
I say, “Of course, I don’t mind,” but I think about Roger and Charles and stickball. I can’t play with them after school, not if Mom will be sitting in the lobby waiting for me.
“You don’t have to hurry home,” Mom says. “I won’t leave the apartment until three fifteen, after Helen Trent.”
It takes a long time for Mom to get down the stairs, so I figure she won’t reach the lobby until about three thirty. That gives me time to wait for Beth after school, walk with her, even time to talk a little.
During dessert, strawberries with some powdered sugar sprinkled on them, Mom smiles and says, “Your friend Beth seems very nice.”
“Yes,” I say. “She is.”
The next morning, when I get up, Mom is already sitting by the table. At my place is a plate with a roll, a tab of butter, and a glass of milk. Mom hadn’t done that for a while, prepare my breakfast and sit with me in the morning.
“It’s nice out today,” Mom says. “You don’t need a jacket.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I guess this will be one of Mom’s good days.
While I eat the roll, Mom reminds me that she’ll be downstairs this afternoon, that we’ll walk together and shop.
Goldman’s is busy again, not like yesterday. Mr. Simmons is sitting across from Beth, and excited as usual about the war news.
“The stories that keep coming in about these men are really something,” he says. “One British soldier’s boat capsized and he swam seven or eight miles before he was rescued.”
“There are lots of great stories,” Beth says, and gets up. “I’ll read more of them this afternoon.”
I help Beth fold her newspapers. We both say good-bye to Mr. Simmons and to Mr. Goldman and leave the coffee shop.
When we meet Sarah at the corner, I tell her what the doctor said about Mom’s disease, and by the time I’m done, we’re walking into school.
Sarah pats my arm, which is somehow comforting. It’s always good to have friends, but especially now.
“I want to tell you some things,” Sarah says. “I want to tell you what my Mutti, my mother, one day said to me. I think you should know it. I will tell you at lunch.”
Sarah walks to the right and we go to the left. When we’re at our lockers I ask Beth if she knows what Sarah is talking about.
“Yes, I do know, but Sarah has to tell you.”
All morning, during math, science, and history classes, I wonder what Sarah’s mother said, and how it relates to Mom’s sickness.
At lunch, Roger goes on and on about last night’s Baby Snooks show.
“Snooks was at the harbor, by the docks, and pointed to boxes on a ship and asked what’s in them. ‘Cargo,’ her father said. ‘But where’s the car?’” Roger asks in his Baby Snooks voice. “‘There is no car,’ her dad said. ‘If the boxes were carried in a car it would be called a shipment.’”
Roger wrinkles his nose, looks up, and squeaks, “Huh!”
Roger laughs. When he sees we’re not laughing he says, “Don’t you get it? Things carried on a ship are cargo and things carried in a car are a
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