In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson: July–September

On the way home that last day of school, Shirley heard their voices echoing. Beset, she wavered. Sometimes she ran, couldn’t wait to get away.

Sometimes she dallied, turning back for one more glimpse of P.S. 8.

Without stickball, the school yard had an eerie look, as desolate as Chungking during an air raid.

In fact, they welcomed the mayhem that emanated from the talking box as if it were a plague of locusts at harvest time.

Even so, one sultry afternoon when the curtains hung perfectly still, she volunteered to take Toscanini for a walk.

“In China, birds go for walks every day.”
“They do? Toscanini has made one walk in all his life—from shop to here.”
No wonder the bird had such a terrible disposition, Shirley thought.

Before appearing in public with Toscanini, however, Shirley had first to spruce up his cage.

A paste of Chinese herbs concocted by Mother had magically coaxed sore gums to adopt the twenty-eight intruders fashioned by the dentist.

A paste of Chinese herbs concocted by Mother had magically coaxed sore gums to adopt the twenty-eight intruders fashioned by the dentist.

Shirley threw herself on the mattress and lolled about like a fish tossed back to the sea.

Since he never went anywhere except in a handsome suit and jaunty bow tie, Shirley was surprised.

With his alchemy of ingenuity and patience, he transmuted the junk into valued presents for every tenant who lived at Number Four Willow Street.

With his alchemy of ingenuity and patience, he transmuted the junk into valued presents for every tenant who lived at Number Four Willow Street.

With his alchemy of ingenuity and patience, he transmuted the junk into valued presents for every tenant who lived at Number Four Willow Street.

Meanwhile, in her role of unhappy helper but obedient daughter, Shirley had become quite adept with tools and familiar with the inner workings of the old house.

He was much too meticulous an artist to permit so unsteady a hand to apply even a drop of paint to his hallways.

The familiar noises of the boiler and pipes no longer sounded so innocent, and though she knew spiders and vermin no longer lurked within, she pictured them, multiplied and magnified, waiting to take revenge upon the little landlord who had so callously ousted them from their ancestral homes.

The familiar noises of the boiler and pipes no longer sounded so innocent, and though she knew spiders and vermin no longer lurked within, she pictured them, multiplied and magnified, waiting to take revenge upon the little landlord who had so callously ousted them from their ancestral homes.

If only she had a gourd to ward off the wicked spirits that delight in displacing everyday things.

If only she had worn a talisman to insure her long life.

Like a criminal pardoned at the gallows, she ran from the scene, hand over hand, along the walls, up the stairwell.

To her horror she saw that the sticky goo had been no figment of her imagination.

Unbeknownst to her, Father had painted the furnace room and the paint had not yet dried.

Father cited scientific proof that birds often molt during hot weather.

Then she thought that perhaps she had imagined it all, for suddenly the voices were gone and she was afraid to venture down either path and be lost.

It was of a strange creature—a pigeon-toed bird with scanty green feathers and red palms.

Seated, Emily gave an efficient shake of her milk carton and asked without further ado, “Do you like to study?”

Clearing her throat, she replied in tones worthy of a monk collecting alms.

How much was not much, she wondered? Before she had a chance to inquire further, Emily rushed out of the room. She returned brandishing a long pin with a pearl on one end.

Now she could but watch as her friend performed the mad antics of a comedian in an old-fashioned movie—scurrying here and there, bumping into the furniture, tripping over her own feet, hiding the evidence and stealing up the stairs.

If she begged the child to bend, he stiffened. If she begged him to straighten, he slouched, almost slipping through her hands. Compared to this, dressing an octopus would have been a cinch.

Then, muttering thanks to the Goddess Kwan Yin, she flung her weary self into the armchair to seek solace in the uninterrupted enjoyment of the last inning.

Shirley earned three dimes that shone in her palm as brightly as medals for valor. She couldn’t wait to show them to her parents.

But as the magic number—any combination of Dodger wins or Cardinal losses needed for the Dodgers to win the National League pennant—dwindled from 7 to 6 to 5 to 4 to 3, Shirley fretted.

But as the magic number—any combination of Dodger wins or Cardinal losses needed for the Dodgers to win the National League pennant—dwindled from 7 to 6 to 5 to 4 to 3, Shirley fretted.