Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle (4 page)

“H
EY
M
USCLE
M
AN,”
I grunt. It kills me to say hello to the kid, but I have no choice. I've been standing alone at the Fourth of July barbeque for over an hour now. No one else is talking to me.

“Why hello, Tammy.” A stupid grin is smashed across his face. “This is a real nice party. Don't you think?”

I shrug. Billy Rattle's parents always have a July 4
^th
barbeque. To me, it looks the same as last year's and the year before that. A bunch of neighbors. Hamburgers. Hot Dogs. Sparklers. Mr. Rattle's accordion playing. Pretty standard stuff.

“Is MaryBeth still mad at me?” I ask, even though I'm not sure why I care. I did nothing wrong, and she's just being stupid.

“Oh gosh, I hope not,” he says.

A group of neighbors on the other side of the yard is getting ready to do the bunny hop. MaryBeth Grabowsky is in the middle of the crowd, jumping up and down, practicing her bunny steps. I try to catch her eye.

When she sees me, she throws me a dirty look and hops to the other side of the line.

“Did you play kickball today?” I ask.

Muscle Man nods. “It wasn't the same without you, Tammy. Too bad you couldn't play.”

I wonder if Muscle Man is rubbing it in. It's not like I didn't
want
to play. As I expected, I was banned.

“What happened with Big Danny?” I ask. “Was he banned too?”

“Two days, same as you, and a few kids called him a thief.”

I shake my head. “Big Danny is not a thief.”

“For the record, when we voted about you, I voted to let you play,” says Muscle Man. “After all, you were the one who gave me my name.”

For a moment, I'm not sure if he means it or if he's being sarcastic. “You
like
your name?”

“Sure.” He nods. “I think it fits me good.”

In truth, I think it fits him too. But not in the same way he does. After all, what else can you call a kid who goes around bragging that he's the bravest, smartest, strongest, fastest person who ever graced the planet?

“They'll let you play tomorrow. You were only banned for two days,” he says.

“Yeah, you know how it is when they ban you. It never lasts for long,” I say.

Muscle Man nods, and I realize that this is another one of his falsehoods. The kid has no idea of what I'm talking about. As far as I know, Muscle Man McGinty has never gotten ousted from a kickball game. Not even once.

And on Ramble Street,
that
is something to brag about.

Muscle Man turns to leave, but I step in front of him. “Just a minute. You never told me what happened with the letter. Did you hear anything?”

Muscle Man ignores me. He waves hello to Mrs. Murphy, who's sitting alone in a corner, wrestling with a giant piece of Mrs. Rattle's Fourth of July pie. “Hi, Mrs. Murphy. How are your roses growing? Did you get rid of those mealy worms?”

Mrs. Murphy, a cranky old lady who hasn't cracked a smile since November of 1963, giggles. “The roses are doing well. The worms are gone. How nice of you to ask about them.”

“Did I ever tell you about the mealy worms in my old garden?” begins Muscle Man, but I won't let him finish his tale.

“What happened with the letter?” I interrupt. “Can your caseworker get it to Kebsie? Will she write back?”

Before he can answer, a cheer goes through the crowd.

“We want Pizza! We want Pizza! We want Pizzarelli to sing!”

Mr. Pizzarelli, who always takes this day off from his job as a police officer, pretends to be surprised. To get the crowd going, Mr. Rattle plays the accordion in time with the chants. “Peet-zah! Peet-zah!”

“What's happening?” asks Muscle Man.

“Never mind what's happening. What about the letter?” I yell, but my words are drowned out by the noise.

Mr. Pizzarelli jumps up after the crowd is worked into a frenzy. He holds up his hands, and the crowd goes quiet.

I lean toward Muscle Man. “The letter?” I whisper. But before I can say anything else, a dozen people shush me at once. I turn around and see Mrs. Murphy, her lips pursed in shushing position, waiting for me to speak again.

I sit down on the grass next to Muscle Man and listen to Mr. Pizzarelli sing. After he does a few solo numbers, a few of the neighbors join him. By the time Mr. Pizzarelli gets to “This Land Is Your Land” and “God Bless America,” most everyone on Ramble Street is singing.

But the last song belongs to Mr. Pizzarelli. He always ends with his favorite, “If I Were a Rich Man.” It brings the house down. This year, he gives his best performance.

As soon as he finishes crooning his last “bid de bid de bum” and before the neighbors can call out for an encore, Muscle Man is at his side.

“Hey, Mr. Pizza. Great voice. You really know how to work a crowd. Did I ever tell you about the time I sang on Broadway? Let me know if you ever need some pointers on how to hit those high notes.”

For a moment, I think that Muscle Man is finally going to get his due. You'd think that a cop would be able to spot a fib and that there'd be a special penalty for lying to a police officer (maybe one that involves handcuffs). But Mr. Pizzarelli only smiles at him and heads over to the line of people who are getting ready to dance the Alley Cat.

Muscle Man tugs at my arm. “Come on, Tammy. Let's dance.”

I plant my feet firmly into the ground. “Forget about it.”

Muscle Man races toward the Alley Cat line, and I race after him. He's not getting away this easy.

When we reach the group, Mr. Rattle is instructing the dancers. “Hop. Skip. Turn. And then you all shout, ‘Meow.'” He plays a few notes on his accordion and the dance begins.

Muscle Man is three steps behind the others, twisting and hopping like no alley cat I ever saw. I wave my hands in front of his face, but he turns and dances in a new direction.

The music stops, and suddenly I'm shouting, “What about Kebsie?”

Muscle Man, whose hands are held up like paws in alley cat position, struggles to catch his breath.

I move in front of him. This time he's not getting away. “Did you give the caseworker the letter?”

Finally, he nods. “Yup, you should be hearing from Kebsie soon.”

“D
ON'T DRIP ON
me,” Billy Rattle warns Big Danny. It's Big Danny's and my first day back after being banned, and Billy Rattle is still grinning from his victory about the fifty cents.

We're crammed elbow to elbow on the front stoop of the Grabowsky house, and Big Danny is eating his usual, a Mr. Softee double black and white twist, so Billy Rattle has good reason for worrying about drips.

Only two of us didn't buy anything when the truck came around. Me and Muscle Man sit empty-handed, watching the others slurp down their cones.

It's a sun-melting-tar kind of afternoon, and I bet that ice cream tastes good. Muscle Man is probably thinking the same thing. I can tell by the way he eyes the drops that land on the sidewalk.

The other kids don't notice the two of us staring at their cones like they're worth a million bucks. They have other things on their minds.

“What if the moon is gooey and soft? What if the astronauts get swallowed up as soon as they walk on it?” Big Danny never takes his eyes off of his swirly cone. “The surface of the moon could be as mushy as ice cream.”

“Impossible,” says John Marcos. He grabs a napkin and wipes his hands. For a boy, John is neat. “You have ice cream on your brain.”

“John's right,” chimes in MaryBeth Grabowsky. “My uncle works for Grumman. He helped build the LEM. He says the moon is as hard as a rock.”

“Your uncle has something to do with the first moon walk?” I notice that she and John are sitting real close. “Yeah, right.”

“What's the matter with you, Tammy?” Billy Rattle smirks. “Don't you know that the LEM was built a few miles away from here in Bethpage?”

When it comes to brains, Billy Rattle is a few marshmallow candies short of a bowl of Lucky Charms. It bothers me that he seems to suddenly know so much about the moon walk. Especially since I don't.

“You don't even know what the LEM is, do you?” John Marcos looks me straight in the eye, and it's as if he's reading my mind.

“‘LEM' stands for ‘Lunar Excursion Module'. That's the name of the craft that's going to separate from the
Apollo 11
spaceship and land on the moon,” says Billy Rattle, of all people.

“Don't you remember last week when MaryBeth's uncle came over and told us all about it?” asks John Marcos.

MaryBeth beams when John mentions her name, and I wish her eyes weren't such a deep shade of turquoise.

“I wasn't there,” I mutter.

“Were you grounded?” asks MaryBeth. “You're always grounded.”

The others snicker.

Muscle Man pushes his way between Big Danny and me. “I have an uncle who is the boss of MaryBeth's uncle. He runs the whole thing. The LEM. The moonwalk. The works.”

“Oh, yeah?” Now, it's my turn to snicker. “What's his name?”

Muscle Man doesn't skip a beat. “Neil Armstrong. My uncle is Neil Armstrong, the astronaut.”

“Yeah, right. Your uncle is the head of the
Apollo 11
mission.” I say the words loud and slow so the others in the group understand exactly how tall this tale is getting. “Neil Armstrong, the man who's gonna be the first person to walk on the moon, is your uncle?”

“Uncle Neil,” nods Muscle Man. “He's like a father to me.”

The others in the group turn away. Billy Rattle shreds his napkin into tiny pieces. Big Danny stares down at his shoe. MaryBeth plays with her shiny hair, and John Marcos swats a mosquito. I try, but I can't make eye contact with a single one of them.

“Like a father,” I huff. “Jeez.”

“My parents are going to let me stay up late and watch the whole thing,” says Billy Rattle, his lips blue from his berry Italian ice.

“Me too,” chimes in just about everyone else.

I keep my mouth shut. I doubt there's a chance of my staying up that late for anything. My parents would never go for it.

There's no need to say any more. The ice cream is finished. The talking is done.

John Marcos picks up the ball and bounces it two or three times on the sidewalk. “You ready?” He nods to the gang.

We head toward Billy Rattle's house. In the summer, his front lawn is known as “the field.”

Muscle Man stays behind. “I think I'll sit this one out.” He yawns. “I'm kind of tired.”

“Maybe you can go call Uncle Neil and see how things are going with the blastoff.” I have to add more. “You're not tired. More like you stink at kickball, and you don't want to play.”

“That's not true, Tammy. I'm a good player,” he says, with his fake smile.

Muscle Man never gets angry when I challenge him, and it burns me to bits.

“You're the worst player on the block.” I can't let it go. Instead, I do a nasty imitation of Muscle Man trying to kick the ball.

John Marcos gives me a sharp elbow, MaryBeth Grabowsky sighs, and Billy Rattle's blue lips start to move. But whatever Billy is planning to say, he never gets a chance. Muscle Man cuts him off.

“Come on, Tammy, you know that's not true.” Nothing stops Muscle Man when he's on a roll. Right then and there, Muscle Man utters the stupidest words that any kid has ever said.

“I'm the best player on Ramble Street. I could take you on, all at once, if I wanted to.”

Five mouths drop open at the same time.

Billy Rattle bangs the side of his own head. I don't blame the kid. I'm wondering myself if my hearing's gone screwy.

Kickball is our game. No, it is more than a game. It is sacred.

On Ramble Street, tough talk about kickball cannot be ignored.

There's only one thing to do.

John Marcos closes his fists. “Prove it!”

“Name the date and time,” says Muscle Man.

“Tomorrow morning. Ten o'clock,” says Big Danny. The others nod.

“I'll be there,” Muscle Man says with a grin, but I bet that behind that crooked smile is a barrelful of regret. On the outside, he looks cool, but inside, he has to be shaking. After all, he just challenged the entire block to our favorite game.

A delicious feeling creeps into me, like I'm suddenly filled with dozens of Mr. Softee's swirly cones. It's the day I've been waiting for. No more stupid grin. No more slimy words. This time he crossed the line. And he's going to pay for it.

Tomorrow, Muscle Man McGinty is going down.

T
HERE ARE LUCKY
people in the world, and then there are people who always seem to find themselves knee-deep in trouble. It's not hard to guess which group I fall into.

If I were lucky, the morning of the us-against-Muscle Man game would be different. I'd wake up to singing birds and sunshine, scarf down a bowl of Apple Jacks, and be the first one standing on the Rattle's front lawn.

But I'm a “trouble” person. And that means I'm in deep water from the moment the day begins. First, there are no Apple Jacks. Shirley forgot to buy cereal. “That stuff will rot out your teeth.” She reaches for a cigarette. “Here, eat this instead.”

I stare at the plate of eggs she plops down in front of me. They're cold and runny.

“Can I go out and play?”

“You're not wandering around the neighborhood in this rain.” Shirley waves her hand at the window, and I have to admit I can't see a thing but gray sheets of water.

“But Mom, there's a big game today,” I protest. “Everyone is going to be there.” The rest of the kids will find a way out of their houses, I'm sure of it. After all, this is important. A little rain is nothing compared to honor.

“Besides, Tim is coming home,” she says, “and this time I want things to be nice.”

I play with the yolks while my mother rattles off chores that need to be done. When she finishes, I try again. “The game won't last long. It's just a morning thing.”

My mother isn't budging. And I begin to worry that the game could go on without me.

Shirley takes a can of lemony stuff and sprays it all over the kitchen counters. “Come on, Tammy, let's get this place looking nice for Tim.”

“A lot of good it's going to do.” I point to the den where Marshall is holed up with the morning paper. “They're still going to argue.”

Shirley scrubs the counter. “No, your father's promised and so has Tim.”

“Yeah, right. Until they see each other in person. Then the fireworks will start.” I act out the scene from the last time Tim was home, using a deep bellowing voice for Marshall. “When are you going to get a job, Tim?”

And a medium voice for Tim. “Dad, you work for ‘the man.'”

And then I go back to Marshall's bellow. “Mr. Rendizzi is not ‘the man.'”

Before I use the medium voice, I roll my eyes, the exact way that Tim does. Then in my best imitation of my brother, I say, “Dad, you work for big business. That's ‘the man.' And all ‘the man' cares about is making money off of the little people.”

“That is enough, Tamara,” says Shirley, and I can tell by the way that she glares at me that I'm exactly two seconds away from getting grounded.

Big Danny is right. I'm always getting punished for doing practically nothing. All I did was try to remind my mother that a sparkling kitchen cannot stop my brother and father from fighting.

“I'll clean up downstairs,” I volunteer. It's one of her main gripes. The basement serves as a combination of laundry room and Tim's room. It's always a mess.

Shirley takes a drag of her cigarette and waves me away. “Put a load of laundry up while you're down there.”

I grab a basket, throw in some dirty towels, and hop down to the basement as fast as I can. Nothing's keeping me away from that game, not even Shirley.

There isn't really anything in the basement to clean. Most of the books, records, and concert souvenirs belong to Tim. He took the place over before he went away to college. In his senior year of high school, he even slept down here.

I turn on the washing machine and wait for the water to fill. I stare at Tim's poster of Jimi Hendrix.

The poster is falling off the wall, one side of it curls down from the dampness. I find some tape and stick it back as best I can.

I decide that it's time to use my special powers. I sink into Grandma's old rocking chair, the one we keep in the basement because everyone thinks it's ugly. And I summon Tim.

“Tim telephone. Tim telephone. Tim telephone.” Faster and faster I chant, until it sounds like it's all one word. “Timtelephone. Timtelephone. Timtelephone.”

Nine times out of ten, Tim will call if I try real hard.

When it doesn't happen right away, I think about something special about him. Today, I think about the time Tim taught me how to climb the big oak tree. The trick is to step on the chopped-off limb with your left foot and swing over with your right. When he still doesn't call, I think about how he spends hours in the basement listening to music and how he says Jimi Hendrix's guitar playing makes him feel restless. When that doesn't work, I stare long and hard at the picture of Tim and his best friend, Vinnie Pizzarelli. I wipe off a thin layer of dust until I can see them both, smiling back at me.

The phone rings.

I listen for Shirley to pick it up. I can tell by the way she says hello that it's Tim.

I lean back into the chair and sigh. My special powers worked again.

After a while, Shirley calls down the stairs and tells me to pick up the phone.

I grab the one by Tim's desk. “I got it,” I shout to Shirley.

Both Tim and I wait for her to hang up before we speak.

“Hiya, Beanpole. Did you will me to call?”

“Yep.”

Tim laughs. “Just make sure you use your secret powers for good, okay?”

“They only work with you. I've tried them a million other times and nothing.” A million and one is more like it. I've willed and chanted and wished until I turned blue. I've tried for no homework. A snow day. A new bicycle. Ice cream for dinner. And, of course, I've been willing Kebsie to call for forty-seven days now. My special powers are very limited.

“The parents treating you okay?” Tim asks.

“Shirley and Marshall are treating me fine,” I say, just so I can say their names out loud.

“Shirley? And Marshall?” Tim laughs. “Is that what you're calling them now?”

“Not exactly to their faces,” I explain.

Tim laughs again.

“Are you coming home this weekend?” I ask.

“I meant to, but I'm really busy. I'm taking a summer class, and then there's a big concert upstate. It's gonna last for days, and I really want to go.”

I kick at the nearby table. The picture of Vinnie and Tim goes crashing to the floor. “Does that mean that you won't be home all summer?” I ask.

“Jimi Hendrix will be performing there,” he says, as if that explains everything. When I don't say anything, he adds, “Everyone will be there.”

“Be there or be square, right?” I say, because it's Tim's favorite expression. I'm never quite sure where “there” is, but in Tim's book, the worst thing you can be is an out-of-touch “square.”

There's a sharp crackle of static, and I'm reminded that Tim is calling long distance.

“Hey, Beanpole. I finally got a letter from Vinnie. Can you tell Mr. Pizzarelli that? He says he's doing okay. That things have quieted down.”

I pick up the picture of Vinnie and Tim and rub my hand against the glass, checking it for damage. It was taken two years ago in front of Vinnie's first car, back when Vinnie Pizzarelli didn't have a care in the world, before his number came up in the draft.

“Is he still your best friend?” I ask, without really thinking.

“What?”

I take a big gulp and ask again. “Is Vinnie Pizzarelli still your best friend?” I want to know.

“Of course. Jeez, Tamara, he's thousands of miles away from home, fighting a war. If anyone needs a friend, it's a guy who's over in Vietnam.”

“Even if he doesn't write to you?”

“He's in a war, for Pete's sake. He can't write all the time. His letters are like gold to me. And to his dad, too. That's why it's important for you to go tell Mr. Pizzarelli about the letter. Tell him I'll bring it the next time I come home. Promise me you'll go see Mr. Pizzarelli?”

“Yes.” I rub my hand along the picture and make a point to touch Vinnie's face. “I promise.”

“Even when someone is far away, they don't stop being your best friend, Beanpole.” There's more static. “Ah look, I gotta go.”

He hangs up and leaves me with nothing but his and Vinnie's picture and a basement full of the empty feeling of missing Kebsie. Funny about how talking about Tim and his best friend makes me lonely for mine.

I reach for the box of Oreos Tim keeps stashed in his top drawer and shove one into my mouth.

“Even though you are far away, Kebsie Grobser,” I whisper, “you will never stop being my best friend.”

I stare at the picture of my brother and his friend, wishing it were of Kebsie and me. We didn't have anything like it. There were group pictures at birthday parties, but I didn't have one of just the two of us.

I shut my eyes and imagine the picture is of me and Kebsie. I have the perfect image of us eating hot dogs on the field trip to Teddy Roosevelt's house. That day, Kebsie plopped herself down at the picnic table and did imitations of Mrs. Webber. When I was the only one who laughed, Kebsie told me I was cool. That was the moment I decided I liked her better than anyone.

I hold the picture close and try real hard to burn the image of me and Kebsie into its frame. When I open my eyes, Vinnie and Tim are still staring at me, smiling in front of Vinnie's car.

My secret powers need work.