Читать книгу Full Circle - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 9

For many reasons, August of 1950 was not a pleasant time to be nine months pregnant, particularly for my mother, Alice Brummel. The war in Korea, less than two months old, weighed heavily on the minds of Americans everywhere, and my mother was no exception. Worried that there might be rationing, she’d taken to buying large quantities of things like bread, sugar, and coffee, all of which she stored in the basement, along with bottles of water and extra blankets, which she fully expected to need when the North Koreans began running rampant through Pennsylvania and it became unsafe to venture outdoors unarmed.

When she wasn’t stocking up on emergency supplies, she was contending with my father, Leonard Brummel. Unlike his wife, my father felt that the whole Korean business would be settled swiftly and efficiently by the superior war-waging power of the good old U.S. of A. Unconcerned for his own safety, he was therefore free to focus instead on the war raging between his beloved Philadelphia Phillies and everyone else in major league baseball.

The summer of 1950 belonged—as far as the entire baseball-loving population of Pennsylvania was concerned—to the team that had been dubbed the Whiz Kids. Young, cocky, and with the talent to back up their attitude, the Phillies had stormed to the front of the National League thanks to the work of guys like Andy Seminick, Granny Hamner, Dick Sisler, and Robin Roberts. These resident gods of Shibe Park were my father’s sole interest during those hot, sticky days, and every evening he came home from his insurance salesman job, settled into his favorite chair with a bottle of Duke beer, and listened to the night’s game on the radio.

My mother was not without a sympathetic ear, however. As luck would have it, her best friend and next-door neighbor, Patricia Grace, was also pregnant. Like my father, Patricia’s husband, Clark, was also unavailable for support, but not because he was in love with a baseball team. Clark Grace, who didn’t know an earned run average from a double play, was a scientist—a physicist—and suddenly much in demand by the military. He was currently spending most of his time in Washington, working on something he described vaguely to his wife and neighbors as “a possible new fuel source made from hydrogen.”

With their husbands otherwise occupied, Alice and Patricia spent most of their time together. As their bellies swelled in tandem, they passed the mornings playing cards while lamenting their sleeplessness, their hemorrhoids, and the utter unattractiveness of maternity clothes. Out of concern for the welfare of the country, they were careful to limit themselves to two cups of coffee and four Lucky Strikes apiece, not wanting to take more than their share. In the afternoon, they did their shopping at DiCostanza’s grocery store and, if Clark was staying in Washington, made dinner together in Alice’s kitchen, leaving a plate in the refrigerator for Leonard before going downtown to see a movie or sit in the park. If Clark was home, dinners would be made and eaten separately, but as soon as Leonard was ensconced in front of the radio and Clark in his study, the two women would be out the screen doors of their kitchens and on their way.

Given this closeness, it was no surprise when both Alice and Patricia went into labor within minutes of one another. On a particularly torpid Thursday afternoon, while searching for potential ingredients to put into the fruit salad recipe they’d clipped out of the Ladies’ Home Journal earlier in the day, Patricia was in the process of thumping a honeydew melon to test its freshness when she felt a wetness on her legs and realized to her dismay that her water had broken right there in the produce section and that her good shoes were most likely soiled beyond repair. Turning to alert Alice, she discovered her friend looking at the apple in her hand with an astonished expression that suggested that she, too, was engaged in something more significant than simply admiring the quality of the fruit.

Moments later, they were on their way to Mercy Hospital, Alice at the wheel of the Nash Rambler Leonard had purchased for her use in May, but which she’d rarely taken out of the driveway. Patricia, in the passenger seat, clutched the door handle and called out directions. By the time they reached the hospital, both women were breathing heavily and barely able to remember their names to give them to the attending nurse. It wasn’t until they were installed in beds next to each other and receiving simultaneous injections of scopolamine that they realized they’d forgotten to inform their husbands of their impending fatherhood.

As it turned out, there was no immediate hurry. Both women would be in labor for some hours, giving Leonard and Clark time to arrive at the hospital and take up stations in the waiting room, where they sat nervously and passed the hours waiting to hear their names called. For Clark, the call came shortly before midnight, when a nurse arrived to tell him that he was the proud father of a healthy baby boy. He had hardly finished receiving congratulations from Leonard when an almost identical nurse appeared to announce that the second birth had occurred at exactly one minute after twelve.

And so it was that Jackson Howard Grace was born on August the 10th and I was born on August the 11th. As for my name, had it been up to my father it would have been Phillip, for obvious and unfortunate reasons. My mother, however, stood her ground and I became Edward Canton Brummel. My father’s disappointment at this turn of events faded later in the year when the Phillies won the National League pennant for the first time since 1915 in a nail-biter that came down to the last game on the final day of the season and a 4 to 1 win against the favored but despised Brooklyn Dodgers. And although they subsequently lost the World Series to what my father referred to for the rest of his life only as “that other team from New York,” he continued to view his Whiz Kids as the greatest team in baseball history.

The next several years passed quietly, as Jack and I did the requisite growing up and our parents duly noted every coo and giggle, every burp and bowel movement, each more glorious than the last. Our days were spent together, as were most holidays, our grandparents living far enough away that regular visits were difficult. Our mothers even dressed us alike, so that we were often mistaken for brothers, despite Jack’s having his mother’s fair hair and blue eyes and me having inherited my father’s darker looks.

Thankfully, my mother’s preoccupation with the North Korean army waned as it became apparent that although the war was not going to end as quickly as my father had believed, it was highly unlikely that our small house was going to become the base of operations for Kim Il Sung’s militia. And once it did end, in the summer of 1953, she and Patricia celebrated by throwing Jack and me a third birthday party, complete with matching cakes and a pony upon whose back we were posed for numerous photographs.

In an age where most of us move fairly frequently to accommodate changes in schooling, employment, romantic involvement, or just plain boredom, it seems inconceivable that both my family and Jack’s remained in the same houses for more than fifty years. Yet they did, and for the two of us it meant that neither knew a time without the other. From the time I can remember, Jack was there, as present and as constant as the sun.

The differences between us first emerged when we were old enough to begin talking. Jack discovered early on that adults found him charming and irresistible when he spoke, a trait he was quick to use to his advantage. I, on the other hand, preferred to remain quiet, observing the world around me and trying desperately to find in it some sense of order that would explain the reasons things happened the way they did. Our mothers joked that while Jack’s first word was “more,” mine was “why.”

These contrasting personalities extended to the ways in which we explored our surroundings, beginning with the shared lawn between our two houses and extending in larger and larger circles to include first our street, then the neighborhood, and eventually the whole town. Where Jack threw himself headlong into life, expecting someone to be there should he happen to fall and assuming that everything would be okay, I wavered before every step. Jack wouldn’t hesitate to climb a tree or attempt to ride a bike, and even when he fell or scraped a knee, he laughed, delighted at the many ways in which the world could surprise him. I was more likely to be the one encouraging caution, to which Jack’s reply was always a playful, “You worry too much.”

Our partnership had benefits for both of us that extended beyond the simple joys of friendship. As we advanced in school, my studiousness meant that I was able to help Jack with his assignments, which held little interest for him. He, in turn, was the buffer between myself and the social world of public school. Shy and awkward around other children, I dreaded the daily social interactions that Jack took for granted, in fact looked forward to. Popularity came naturally to him, where for me it was almost completely unimaginable. Yet due to my association with him, I was spared a number of humiliations that otherwise would have assuredly befallen me. In the cafeteria, I always had a place at his side, and when the time came for choosing teams for kickball, I was always Jack’s first pick.

Whether Jack was aware of what he was doing for me, I don’t know. I think for him it was simply a matter of my being his best friend, and he was doing for me what best friends did for one another. Certainly we never spoke of it, any more than we spoke about how I did his math problems and helped him cheat on the occasional test. It was just the way things were, and the way they continued to be as year followed year.

I recall having only one fight with Jack during this time, in the summer we turned nine. It was over superheros. We were in Jack’s bedroom, sprawled on his bed reading the latest issues of our favorite comics, which we’d just picked up from the drugstore, along with an assortment of sour drops, bubble gum, and licorice. Turning the pages of his Superman comic, Jack posed the question of who would win in a battle between Superman and Batman. “I mean, if one of them was a bad guy,” he clarified.

“Batman would win,” I said without hesitation.

“Batman?” Jack asked, clearly ready to disagree.

“Sure,” I said. “He’s smarter. Superman is strong and all, but he’s not as smart as Batman.”

“You don’t have to be smart to win a fight,” Jack told me, shaking his head. “What a dope. Everyone knows it’s more important to be strong than smart.”

“What do you know?” I shot back, suddenly angry and not sure why.

“Don’t get sore at me,” said Jack, surprised by my outburst. “I just said Superman could beat up Batman.”

“He could not!” I shouted. “Take it back.”

I felt myself shaking. I stood up, hands balled at my sides. “Take it back!” I said again.

Jack sat up and looked at me as if I was some new creature he’d never encountered before.

“No,” he said stubbornly. “I’m not taking it back.”

I threw myself at him, all fists and anger. He fell back on the bed, momentarily caught off guard. I was on top of him, pinning him with my knees. I raised my hand to hit him, but stopped. He was looking at me with a confused expression, making no attempt to cover his face or otherwise protect himself. I felt my heart beating wildly in my chest as I struggled to understand what I was doing. Beneath me, Jack’s body rose and fell as he breathed, waiting to see what I would do.

I scrambled off the bed and stood in the middle of the room, glaring at my friend. Jack didn’t move. The comic book was crumpled at his side, the pages torn. At my feet, Batman’s face looked up at me. My cheeks burned with shame and lingering rage.

“You go to hell!” I told Jack.

His mouth fell open. Although Jack was proficient at cussing, I’d never sworn before, and the shock of hearing it must have taken him by surprise as much as my attack had. I could sense that I’d grown some in his estimation, and the knowledge thrilled me.

I turned and ran from his room, unable to look at him. Back in my own room, I shut the door and threw myself on my bed. Tears came hot and thick as I sobbed, letting out the emotions that roiled inside of me. Suddenly I didn’t know who I was or what I was feeling. The world had turned upside down, throwing me off balance in a way that at the same time filled me with both fear and excitement. In Jack’s room, for just a moment, our roles had been reversed, and for the first time I’d seen that perhaps neither of us was exactly what we appeared to be.

Eventually I slept, and when I woke, it was to hear my mother calling me for supper. I went down and joined her and my father at the table, where I ate my meatloaf and green beans silently while my parents talked to one another about their days. When I was done, I asked to be excused and slipped out the screen door to the backyard.

Jack was there, as I’d known he would be, sitting on the back steps of his house. He was holding a Mason jar in his hands and looking at a firefly he’d caught. I went over and sat next to him.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“Want to sleep over tonight?” he asked.

I nodded, watching the firefly blink on and off and wondering if its light would burn my fingers if I touched it.

“Sure,” I told Jack.