Few Philly regrets as old year leaves.
From a baseball standpoint, 1934 was not kind to fans.
“I’m sorry,” I say. My words break an uncomfortable silence as we walk around the corner toward our houses.
“Stop apologizing to me,” Lola says. “I knew what I was getting into.”
“You aren’t mad?” I say.
“Of course not. We made a deal, even if I didn’t like it. And I can’t say I told you so. But …” Lola smiles.
“No, you can’t say that. Rule #21,” I snip. “Never say I told you so.”
“But don’t be blind, Jimmy. You know that was a little crazy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.
“Nothing,” she says, giving in. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“We aren’t fighting. Just disagreeing. People disagree, Lola.”
“Sure. And we’ll laugh about this one day soon. Just not now. I’m cold and tired.”
“Okay. See you later!” I say in a high voice that makes me sound like I’m trying too hard.
“Sure. See you,” she replies, and walks into her house.
Dinner comes and goes, and I can barely think about anything. I slurp down spaghetti and bean soup, eager to leave the table.
“How is Mrs. Carson doing?” Ma asks.
“Fine.”
“Is your friend Santa still around? When are they moving?” Pop asks.
“Don’t know.”
“You didn’t make any money today, did you?” Nina asks.
“No.”
“I thought you were gonna shovel,” she digs.
“How’s your job search?” I scoff.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ma says. As the minutes tick away, I’m more and more eager to take a closer look at that invoice burning a hole in my pocket.
Pop and I finish drying the dishes while Ma is at the table drinking a cup of coffee.
“Can I go to my room?”
“Of course, dear. Thank you for helping,” Ma says while listening to Amos ’n’ Andy on the radio.
I run to my room and pull out the invoice, crumpled in a ball, and examine it again. It is definitely a bill, and probably the only copy they had. The words “materials delivered upon receipt of payment” stand out. At the very least, if they forget to pay this bill, I’ll have delayed the shipment of materials. And then maybe the season will start, and they’ll have to wait to build until next year.
But where are those blueprints? They were supposed to be waiting for Connie Mack. I need to talk to Lola. Maybe this invoice will give us some time to figure out a new plan.
As I’m examining the quantity of metal sheets, green paint, cement, and hours of labor that it will take to install the wall, I remember the small piece of paper that was taped underneath the desk.
Where did that go? I search through all my pockets and find a tiny note crumpled up in a little ball in my winter coat. At first glance, it seems just like a piece of scrap paper with random numbers. But when I look closer, there are little dashes in between five sets of double-digit numbers. It looks like a combination. The combination to a safe.
I tug on the Bingle and stick my head out the window. No response. There is too much snow for the roof, so I run down the steps, burst onto the porch, lean over the rail, and knock loudly on the door. I stand there staring at the paper, tapping my foot. Where is she? Dinner should’ve been over a while ago. I hop over the small rail and tap again.
“Lola,” I knock on the door. “Lola!”
She opens the door and looks at me with that sideways glance. I can see our breath in the cold, and there is an awkward silence as I try to figure out how to start.
“Here,” I decide to just give her the invoice.
“You stole this!”
“Well yes, but I didn’t mean to. It all happened so fast. You saw that. I was holding it and I must’ve shoved it in my pocket.” This is not untrue, but my voice is high and squeaky as I try to explain.
“So you stole it.”
“No! I also have this.” I proudly show her the small piece of paper with the numbers on it. My feet shuffle in the cold.
“What is this?” she asks.
“I found it under the desk.”
“Oh, like you found the invoice?”
“Yes.” I choose my next words carefully. She’s concentrating on all of the wrong things. “Another thing I didn’t mean to take, but like I said, it all happened so fast, so quit nagging.” None of this is untrue, and she seems to believe me.
“What is it?”
“Don’t you see the dashes in between?” I wait for her to look more closely, but quickly lose patience. “I think it’s the lock combination to the safe we saw in the closet. If we can open it, maybe we’ll find those blueprints, or something even better that will stop them. We are so close, Lola, I can feel it!”
“Jimmy Frank, you stop this right now!” Lola throws both papers at my feet, and I scramble to pick them up. “We made a pinky promise! No more. All I could think about under that desk was how my parents were going to lose the only steady business they have. We can barely afford anything anymore! Neither can you! Just stop this—it’s too dangerous!” Her face is bright red.
“I’ll put the invoice back. I’ll put the numbers back under the desk. But we didn’t actually move the blueprints, so the thing I promised is not actually finished. I’ll just take a peek into the safe. It’ll be harmless.”
“Do you hear yourself? All of your ideas have been great. Right? Just ask Jimmie Foxx or Mr. Dilworth or Mr. Pott. Now you want to break into somebody’s safe? Why can’t you see how you are putting all of us at risk? We’ll all lose more than a view if you keep going!”
“Fine!” I stomp down the steps, hurt and unable to control my anger. “Fine! You’ll be sorry, Lola, when you’re walking around without any friends, because I was your only friend. Fine!”
“Why are you yelling at me?” she cries. “And what about the rules? Rule #2: Things always happen for a reason! What about Rule #10!”
“Count your blessings? Please! And what about Rule #12?” I yell back. “A best friend would stick with me!”
“This isn’t burying a dead fish at first base,” Lola says more softly, tears starting to stream down her face. Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “I am your best friend.”
“You were my best friend,”
I snap. I grab my bag and start to run.