THAT SUMMER IN BROOKLYN

The light pierced through the frame of the closed door. It broke into the darkness of the hallway, gleaming bright white. I took a step forward and rested my head on the old, gnarled wood.

“I saw Eli, earlier today in Rosalee Bushkinov’s Bakery, buying a box of muffins.” There was the sound of Dad’s kitchen chair shifting from side to side as he spoke to my mom. “He ate the whole damn box of muffins all by himself right outside the bakery.”

I heard Mom's slippers smack against her heels as she walked through the kitchen. She turned on the faucet. As always, when Dad was about to deliver his rants, she stayed calm.

“The boy looked like a shmuck with all the crumbs on his shirt, standing there with his shorts up his ass! It’s all Harvey Ackerman’s fault—that idiot! He left his wife and his son, still in diapers, to fend for themselves, left the family for some fooling around with other women; peacocking through the streets!” Dad’s chair squeaked. “Deb had no choice but to move from Philly back to her parents' home. That poor boy never saw his father again.”

The clattering and clinking of Mom’s dish washing wasn’t enough to muffle his ranting and raving. The constant flow of water didn't make his words any less loud or indistinct. “Now Deb’s son is growing up without a fatherly figure, without a role model to show him how to become a good, strong man.”

I pressed my palms against the wood. Mom was quietly walking around the kitchen, fiddling with the dishes.

“On the other hand, Harvey Ackerman is the biggest Bozo I ever walked past! He would not have been able to show his son anything. The guy doesn’t know his ass from his elbow!” I stood behind the kitchen door and heard Dad say that to Mom on a warm summer evening in our home in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.

Everyone between New York Avenue and Utica Avenue kinda knew Eli was odd. It wasn’t only that he resembled a giant meatloaf, or that he was wearing pants that seemed to be three sizes too small for him. Eli never talked much, but when he did, he almost never looked anyone in the face. He would pant every time after he spoke. Worst of all was this irritating smacking sound he made when he pressed his tongue to his gum and suddenly let it drop.

Rudy Hauser didn't like Eli any more than my dad liked Mr. Ackerman. But we all happened to go to the same middle school. It also happened that we walked home together. And that again meant we all played Stoop Ball together.

Rudy was the best batter I ever played with. He was able to throw the ball hard enough to make it fly so far at full speed it was close to impossible to catch. I thought of myself as a pretty good fielder, catching the ball most of the time before it bounced twice, sometimes on the fly. Eli couldn’t pitch, catch or run at all. He couldn’t pick the ball up either… because his fat was in the way.

Rudy Hauser let Eli play with us just because he wanted something to laugh about.

“C’mon boy, ya can do it! C’mon, c’mon!” Rudy used to kneel down next to the ball, resting one side of his head close to the ground, his hands propped up next to his head, looking at the ball and at Eli's hand. He watched Eli desperately trying to pick up the ball from the ground.

Eli would be panting like an old steam engine as he tried to grab it. If he somehow managed to touch the ball with his fingertips, Rudy would stretch out his little finger and nudge it aside. The sight of this always made my stomach clench.

“Stop it.” I’d pick up the ball.

“I am just having fun—that’s all.” Rudy shrugged his shoulders, pretending to be puzzled, as if he was unaware of any wrongdoing.

It was always the same. I picked up the ball for Eli. He threw it on the stoop for someone else to try to catch it. Almost every time, the ball bounced a little on the stoop and rolled back to Eli's feet. Rudy lay on the ground laughing. Always. Not caring if his clothes got dirty. Not caring that Eli saw him laughing. Not caring about making me feel uneasy too.

Eli didn't just like muffins from the bakery. He was also very fond of the subs and sandwiches at Sergio's Deli. On the way home from school, he stopped at least once a week at the corner of Midwood Street and Albany Avenue to get his meatball hero with parmesan and marinara sauce.

The first time I joined Eli at Sergio’s, the welcome was more than a little frosty.

“Who da hell are ya, huh?” Sergio glanced at me. Living for decades in America didn’t erase his Italian accent, but had fused it with a Brooklyn drawl. Combined with his pitch-black hair, wildly motioning hands, and booming voice, he might as well have been a character from the movie Wise Guys. “Hope ya ain’t like dat Wisenheimer my friend heahr was with da last time.”

Somehow, I knew he meant Rudy.

“Let me tell ya somethin. My friend heahr might be a feeble fella mindwise, ya know, but he’s still a nice fella. Ain’t nothin wrong with bein a little slow, but deahr’s a lot wrong with bein an asshole. Ya know whadamean?” He threw his arms forward and sideways in jerky motions, palms out, to emphasize his outrage. With each sentence, his voice grew deeper than it already was.

The steaming heat rose from the pavement, wafted in through the open door of the deli as hot air mixed with exhaust fumes, forming beads of sweat on Sergio’s forehead. The AC in the corner hummed faintly, refusing to give up its already lost battle.

“So ya know, I told dat Peewee to go see wheahr he gotta go.” Sergio raised an eyebrow. “Hope ya ain’t a wiseguy fella yaself.”

Indifferent to Sergio's monologue, Eli stood in front of the display of subs and sandwiches. He pressed his finger hard against the glass. The tip turned white and made a slight downward arc. From the many smears of fingerprints on the glass, I guessed this was Eli’s usual way of giving his orders.

Sergio turned to Eli. “Is dat whatcha want?” Like a conductor waving an invisible baton in the air, he pointed at a Reuben Sandwich.

Eli just shook his head. Nope.

“I dunno whatcha want unless ya talk to me.”

“Meatball hero.” Eli still had his finger pressed on the glass.

“Meatball hero it is. Comin right away.” Sergio turned around, revealing the pink bow of his apron resting above his butt like a gift wrapping. “Ain't nobody sittin in my deli, but if ya guys chummed up, have a seat at my table.” Still his back turned to us, he was motioning with his head to the small grey table next to the AC.

I got a Pepsi on the house—along with a silent warning. Sergio pointed with two fingers from his eyes to mine several times and gave me a grim look. Still, that didn’t stop me from going to the deli with Eli once a week after that. Sergio was intimidating, but he was just as generous. Eli and I always got our sodas for free.

Eli never talked during our visits. He just chose to eat his sub—interrupted by the occasional smacking of his tongue—while I was sipping on my soda. Sergio, however, had a lot to say. He knew about everyone and everything on his street. Who made out with whose wife or husband. But he left the details out. We were too young for that, he said. Still, sometimes I would blush when I listened to him.

“Well, look at dat! Ya can change ya colahr to match ya haiahr! Like dat strange animal. What was its name again? Kamelon animal?” As I tried to loosen the straw that had sucked itself to the tip of my tongue, he slammed his flat hand down on the counter and burst out laughing, his big belly shaking.

“Calm down, kid. Da straw will choke ya othawise. I am just goofin on ya.” He laughed until he began to wheeze.

After our visits to Sergio’s, we went home together. I had to pass Eli's grandparents' house anyway. I had given up trying to engage Eli in any conversation. All I got in response were grunts and groans. Once there was a can on the sidewalk and I kicked it in his direction. It rattled and rolled, hitting his shoe—he walked on, unmoved. I got used to walking side by side in silence.

In the end, Madonna helped me. Since Eli was not the chattiest person to talk to, I thought I might as well listen to some music on our way home. I pulled my Walkman out of my backpack, put on the headphones and listened to Madonna.

I began to bob slightly as I walked, my chin moving back and forth, matching my steps to the rhythm of the music, and then I noticed Eli following my movements, matching his steps to mine. It surprised me how rhythmic Eli could be. His walk was otherwise very clumsy and sluggish.

We continued walking home at the same pace, taking turns with the headphones. Without talking to each other—as usual. It was always the same song by Madonna Eli wanted to hear. He let me know this by trying to grab the Walkman hanging on my belt, wanting to press the rewind button on it.

Did I tell him I could do that myself? Yap. Did he take me up on it? Nope. So I passed him the Walkman, always right before Madonna finished her song.

It didn't go unnoticed by my dad that I went home with Eli. He was a nosy man. If he had been a homebound old woman, he would have stood behind the curtains all day long, watching the neighbors. But he was born a man, still earning his living as a tailor, getting most of the gossip about everyone within an 8-mile radius from his customers. And as a tailor, he had a lot of customers who had a lot to tell him about. Thus, they also told him about my awkward walks home with Eli. Fortunately, no one had yet come around to tell him about our visits to Sergio's.

On a Saturday afternoon, I sat behind the counter in his tailor shop on a squeaky black swivel chair and waited for him to call it a day. Dad was sitting in the back corner at his sewing machine. His glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose as he sat there hunched over, holding a man's shirt in his hands, examining the sleeves he had just shortened.

"Do you see how I did that? I removed the cuff by cutting open the seam. Then I measured how much of the sleeve I wanted to cut away ­­—"

“Dad, why are you telling me that? I don't even wanna know.”

He looked up, his eyes fixed on me as he spoke. “Let's talk about what I would like to know then.”

I held on to the edge of the counter and swiveled from right to left, noticing the squeak was more piercing when I turned right than when I turned left.

“I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with Eli lately, listening to some music.”

“We just walk home together. That’s all there is.”

“Hope you’re nice to that boy.” Dad’s bushy eyebrows always gave his gaze a somber quality.

“Yeah, I am keeping him away from muffins.”

He pushed his head back, showing his second chin. It took him a while to catch on. “You shouldn't eavesdrop on adult conversations.”

“Eavesdropping? Dad, you were screaming.” My laughter joined the squeaking of the chair.

He wrinkled his forehead and looked at me over the rim of his glasses. After pausing for a moment, he said: “Someday you'll find out that the imbalance of this world can sometimes make you lose your temper, even when you shouldn't.”

Rudy also noticed that Eli was walking home with me. He extended his cruelty to the schoolyard – pushing and embarrassing Eli, laughing at him. His bullying became even worse when Eli didn't respond to his meanness.

Rudy gave him a bouncing ball to practice Stoop Ball with. The only reason he did that was so everyone would know what a bad player Eli was. Rudy always wanted to know where he kept the ball.

“Where’s the ball, boy? Show it to Papa.” He sneered, surrounded by a group of students half-circling him.

I am sure Eli could have knocked him down. He was bigger than Rudy, who looked small and scrawny next to him. But Eli didn’t. He took whatever shit Rudy threw at him with a calm and indifferent demeanor.

I stopped talking to Rudy. I started to realize I didn’t like him at all. Rudy wasn’t a friend, he was just a jerk. He was full of himself. All he cared about was making others think he was so cool and awesome.

I started playing Stoop Ball with Eli but without Rudy. It wasn't so much that we were actually playing Stoop Ball, as it was teaching Eli how to throw the ball at the stoop with enough force so it would bounce back far enough for me to somehow catch it. He went along with it. With every throw, he let out a soft grunt. His upper body jerked forward. The fingers of the hand he wasn't throwing with were spread out helplessly, like the hand of a baby just learning to drink from a cup, not knowing how to control its limbs, focusing all its strength and attention on drinking. We did this for a couple of weeks. Eli got a little better at pitching but was still terrible at catching.

Then came the hottest day of that summer. It was after school. I remember feeling pretty upbeat, because I had just aced my pre-algebra quiz and couldn’t wait to tell Dad about it.

It was very muggy that day. The city's smoldering stench hovered idly over the streets. The houses kept their shutters closed against the unbearable heat. There was hardly anyone outside. The streets were almost deserted. A film of sweat covered my face and made my skin feel sticky. My socks were so wet, they were skidding around in my sneakers. I was longing for a cold soda at Sergio’s.

“Let’s play.” Eli’s hot beet-red face looked at me expectantly.

“Now? In this heat? Our balls will fry like scrambled eggs, dude.”

“Let’s play.” He repeated again. Unfazed by the fact he was soaking wet himself.

“Okay.” I only gave in because he almost never spoke to me otherwise and for the first time I felt he actually noticed me. “Just six pitches, I can't take more than that today.”

Before I could finish my sentence, Eli grabbed the ball he’d gotten from Rudy and was ready to go. He stood exactly as I had taught him. Somehow, I was surprised at how well he'd listened to me. He threw the ball, as he always did, with too little force, causing it to bounce down the stoop and land at his feet. It was incredible how strong he was, yet how little throwing power he had.

The sun was high in the sky, burning its rays into our skin. The dust from the streets stuck to our hands, turning them ash-gray. Our movements grew slower. I breathed harder and heard the blood rushing in my ears. Eli was about to throw his fifth pitch. As he bent down, I saw his shorts were soaked with sweat between the legs.

“Dude, look at you!” I pointed my finger at his shorts.

Eli pushed his stomach back with his hands. He looked down at himself. The tips of his hair were wet. Drops of sweat fell from his forehead onto his shirt. There we were, standing in front of each other, looking down at him.

Suddenly I pictured us as at Sergio's. Eli pressing his wet finger on the glass display to place his order. I thought of Sergio sweating in his stuffy shop every day; the AC in the corner just a noisy gimmick and nothing else. I imagined him looking at us asking—What da hell has happened?—waving his hands all over the place. I remembered Sergio calling a chameleon a kamelon animal, and how he started to wheeze when he couldn't stop laughing.

Right then and there, I started to laugh myself. The warm air in my lungs pushed itself out as soon as it went in, cramping my stomach. I was laughing so hard I could not stop. Leaning forward, I wrapped my arms around my middle and let the bursts of laughter shake my body, laughing the last bit of life out of me. I saw Eli pushing his feet hard into the ground, then moving away.

I didn’t see it coming. The ball. It was thrown harder than Rudy could have ever thrown it, like a fastball right off the hands of New York Met Dwight Gooden, cutting through the hot air like scissors through paper. I kept on laughing until the ball hit my right eye with a loud thud, shattering the orbit into pieces. The clattering in my head sounded like a broken vase holding its own shards inside. I don't know if it was the pain or the surprise I felt first, when I saw colors imploding before me. Red, blue and black were humming agonizingly in my head. Eli became a shadow, without a face, just black. Right then, I thought I heard Madonna's song Eli and I had been bobbing along to. How can this be, I thought. My Walkman was still in my bag, turned off.

And just as the ball hit me, the impact threw me onto the stoop. As I fell, I thought of Harvey Ackerman being an idiot. And if he had been a good husband to his wife, maybe she would have stayed with him in Philadelphia. Maybe she would not have moved back to her parents. Maybe Eli would have been a happy boy then, who talked more and ate less. Someone who would have had friends, who would have liked him, not someone who was pitied at best.

I thought of my dad, who had grown up without parents, turning him into the man he was, concerned about other children who had less than his own. And if he hadn't carried around the broken heart of a child, he might not have cared about how children like Eli were doing. Maybe then he would not have passed on to his own son a sense of trying to make up for all the idiocy of each and every being, culminating in the rage and pain of one who felt he had been failed.

It was at that very second, before the sky went dark and the sun moved away, before my head touched the concrete, I remembered my dad’s words—Someday you'll find out that the imbalance of this world can sometimes make you lose your temper, even when you shouldn't—understanding their pain that instant, and as I closed my eyes, two words were fading away in my head: I forgive…I forgive…I forgive.

My skull cracked on impact, but that did not kill me. What killed me was the edge of the stoop that broke my neck—and that was that summer I died. Fifteen years ago. On Midwood Street.