Roy was closing up the Red Hot Ranch, a hot dog shack where he worked three days a week after school and on Saturdays, when through the front window he saw a white Cadillac pull up to the curb. His mother got out of the passenger side. She was dressed to the nines, wearing a black cocktail dress beneath an ermine stole. Roy went outside to meet her. It was just after seven p.m., the sky was beginning to seriously darken and the air was cool.
“Roy, darling,” said his mother, “I’m glad I caught you.”
She bent a little to kiss him but barely brushed her maroon mouth against his left cheek so as not to smear her lipstick. Before Roy could say anything, she handed him a five dollar bill.
“This is for dinner, baby, and something extra,” she said. “I won’t be home until later tonight.”
Roy looked at the car. A man he didn’t know was seated behind the steering wheel. The man was wearing a midnight blue suitjacket over a tan shirt with a tie that matched his coat.
“Honey, you work so hard. Get some Chinese, the vegetables are good for you.”
His mother’s hair was flaming red, like Rita Hayworth’s. She showed Roy every one of her spectacular teeth and waved goodbye to him as she got back into the Cadillac. The man had kept the motor running.
“Thanks, Ma!” Roy shouted as the car moved away.
Roy went back into the Ranch. He was thirteen years old and in a little more than an hour he would be playing in the city-wide All-Star baseball game. When he’d seen his mother arrive, he thought that she had come to take him to the ballpark, which was about half a mile away. He thought she had remembered his telling her the day before that he had been one of the youngest players chosen for the game; most of the All-Stars were fifteen or sixteen years old. She had never come to one of his games.
Roy did not start in the game that night but he got to pinch-hit in the sixth inning and he banged one off the lower right corner of the scoreboard for a triple, driving in two runs. Because he’d hit the scoreboard, Roy was awarded a case of Coca-Colas from the Bucharest Grocery.
After the game, knowing the case of Cokes would be too heavy to carry home, Roy passed the bottles out to the other players. They sat next to the field drinking Coca-Cola and talking about the game. The air had turned chilly but the boys were still perspiring and excited, so they joked and clowned around until they’d polished off most of the case.
Walking home, Roy felt sticky and cold from where sweat had dried underneath his wool uniform. He was proud to be seen wearing the shirt with the words All-Stars across the chest in big black letters. He hoped his mother would be home by now.
When Roy got there, the white Cadillac was parked in front of his house. He had one bottle of Coca-Cola left, stuffed in the left rear pocket of his baseball pants. Roy took it out and sat down on the steps of the Anderson house across the street. He’d given back the church key the boys had borrowed to open the other bottles to Marge Pavlik, the woman who ran the concession stand at the field. Roy had seen men take caps off bottles with their teeth but he didn’t want to try it. Skip Ryan had lost part of his right front tooth that way; he could spit eight feet through the space.
Roy put down the bottle, closed his eyes, and thought about the ball he’d hit caroming off the scoreboard. It had rolled behind the rightfielder, who’d overrun it a little. After he’d slid into third base safely, Roy had stood up and looked back at the totals on the board, hoping the official scorer did not charge the outfielder with an error, which would have reduced the hit to a double. The Bucharest prize was given only for triples. No error was posted. The third base coach, Eustache “Stash” Pavlik, Marge’s husband, had come over, said, “Good goin’, kid,” and swatted Roy on the behind.
Roy heard a car door open and close, followed by the sound of an engine starting. He opened his eyes and saw the white Cadillac disappearing around the corner. Roy stood up and headed across the street, then he remembered the Coke, went back and picked it up. Mrs. Anderson opened the front door.
“Roy,” she said, “can I help you?”
“No, thanks, Mrs. Anderson. I was just sitting on your steps for a few minutes. I’m going home now.”
“You look very nice in your uniform, Roy.”
“Thanks.”
“Did your team win?”
“Yes, ma’am, we did.”
“Mr. Anderson and I like baseball. Tell us the next time you’re going to play.”
“I will, Mrs. Anderson.”
Roy started to go, then he turned back.
“Mrs. Anderson, I won a case of Cokes tonight. Would you like one?”
He held the bottle out toward her. She took it.
“Thank you, Roy, how kind of you to offer. Good night.”
“Good night,” said Roy, “say hi to Mr. Anderson.”
“I will.”
Roy stood there.
“Roy,” said Mrs. Anderson, “are you all right?”