Free Neil Armstrong Is My Uncle by Nan Marino Page B

Grabowsky’s front lawn.
    â€œWhat now?” I head for home plate and grab the ball myself. If I have to be pitcher and catcher too, this game will go on forever.
    â€œLook, Tammy,” whispers Muscle Man. He points to a man in uniform walking down the block.
    â€œWhat’s a soldier doing on Ramble Street?” asks John Marcos.
    â€œLook at those medals on his chest,” says Muscle Man.
    Whoever he is, he looks pretty official.
    The others join us at home base.
    â€œWhat do you think he wants?” MaryBeth asks.
    â€œMaybe he’s a friend of Vinnie’s.” I brush her question off, anxious to get on with the game.
    â€œIf he is, I’ve never seen him,” says Big Danny.
    The soldier doesn’t look like he’s ever been here before. He checks each house number with a piece of paper he’s holding.
    He finally stops in front of the Pizzarelli house. He checks the number one last time. And then he marches to the door.
    We all inch closer, waiting to see what happens next.
    It takes a while for the door to open. Poor Mr. Pizzarelli probably worked the night shift and was in the middle of a nap. I wonder if he’s going to yell about being woken up, the way he did the time when Kebsie and I made too much noise outside his bedroom window.
    As soon as he sees the soldier, he lets him in, and the door slams closed behind them.
    â€œThere you go. He’s a friend of Vinnie’s. Now, can we get back to the game?” I ask.
    But no one moves.
    â€œMaybe he came to tell Mr. Pizzarelli that Vinnie’s dead,” says Big Danny.
    We all stare at Mr. Pizzarelli’s closed-up door.
    â€œThings are fine. My brother got a letter from him a few days ago.” And I suddenly remember that I never told Mr. Pizzarelli. A ball about the size of the one I’m holding forms in the pit of my stomach.
    â€œThat happened in my old neighborhood,” says Muscle Man. “That’s how they told Walter Martin’s parents. When Mrs. Martin heard, she fell straight to the floor.”
    â€œYeah, right,” I say, but the other kids circle round him.
    â€œDidn’t stop crying for a week,” he adds.
    â€œI’ve heard of this happening,” says John Marcos.
    Across the street, the grown-ups are gathering too. Mrs. Murphy puts down her gardening hoe and stands next to Mrs. Kutchner. Mrs. Grabowsky runs across the street so fast that she almost loses her sandal.
    Then, Mr. Grabowsky turns down the block, swinging his briefcase, like he does every night on his walk home from the train station. Normally on days when the Mets are playing, nothing stops Mr. Grabowsky from getting inside and watching the game, but as soon as the ladies stop him, he puts down his briefcase and joins them.
    A few minutes later, Vinnie Pizzarelli’s Aunt Carmella pulls up in her old Chrysler. Before anyone can ask her a question, she rushes into the house with her head down. Even Mrs. Grabowksy, who can find out other people’s business in less time than it takes for most people to put their socks and shoes on, can’t get to her before the Pizzarelli’s door closes.
    â€œI’ve seen this before.” Muscle Man’s voice is flat. “This isn’t good.”
    â€œAh, come on, it’s nothing,” I say, but even I am starting to doubt my own words.
    â€œI saw two guys get killed on the TV last night,” says Billy Rattle.
    â€œSo? That was on TV. Those people were acting,” I say. Sometimes Billy Rattle has gravel for brains.
    â€œDuh, Tamara. It wasn’t a TV show. It was in the news. They’re always talking about Vietnam. They show it on the news all the time,” says Billy Rattle.
    â€œDon’t your parents ever watch the news?” asks MaryBeth Grabowsky.
    â€œDuh back,” is what I want to say. Shirley only watches Jack LaLanne and soap operas, and Marshall thinks television rots a person’s brain.