—Maniac Magee—
by Jerry Spinelli

Chapter 29

 

For most of November, winter toyed with Two Mills, whispered in its ear, tickled it under the chin. On Thanksgiving Thursday, winter kicked it in the stomach.

But that didn't stop the old man and the boy from joining the ten thousand who thronged to the stadium on the boulevard to see the traditional high school football game. The arctic air laid panes of ice over the crayfish edgepools of Stony Creek. The effect was the opposite on human noses. Maniac's and Grayson's ran like faucets, and not a handkerchief in sight. They deputized their sleeves and grabbed handfuls of napkins from the refreshment stand.

Two Mills won the game, thanks to a last-minute 73-yard TD pass from quarterback Denehy to James "Hands" Down. From the instant his old trash-talking sandlot pal cradled the ball in his long brown fingers, Maniac was jumping on his seat, screaming trash at Hands's pursuers every step to the goal line (and glancing about to make sure Mrs. Beale wasn't hearing).

By the time they got back to the baseball room, they were nearly frozen. But the freeze was good, for it made the warmth of the little apartment all the more welcome. Within fifteen minutes the space heater had the place positively tropical, while in the toaster oven their five-pound Thanksgiving chicken was already beginning to brown. A pair of hot plates and a squad of pots were pressed into action, and by midafternoon the two were sitting down to a feast of roast chicken, gravy, cranberry sauce, applesauce, SpaghettiOs, raisins, pumpkin pie, and butterscotch Krimpets.

Maniac thought of Thanksgivings past, of sitting around a joyless table, his aunt and uncle as silent and lifeless as the mammoth bird they gnawed on. He said this grace: "Dear God, we want to take this opportunity to thank you for the best Thanksgiving dinner we ever had... well, I ever had. I guess I shouldn't speak for my friend Grayson---" he peeked across the table. "Grayson," he whispered, "is this your best one, too?"

The old man opened one eye; he shrugged. "Don't know. Ain't tasted it yet."

Maniac glared, rolled his eyes upward, hissed: "Gray-son."

The old man flinched. "Uh, yeah" --- he squinted one-eyed at the chicken --- "yeah, I guess it is."

"The best," Maniac prompted.

"The best."

Maniac went on: "And we want to thank you for this warm house and for our own little family here and for Grayson learning to read. He's already read thirteen books, as I'm sure you already know. And one more thing. If you could find some way to let the Beale family know I'm wishing them a happy Thanksgiving, I'd really appreciate it. They're the ones on seven twenty-eight Sycamore Street, in case there's any other Beales around. Amen."

"Amen," said Grayson.

They stuffed themselves silly, then collapsed and listened to polka music. Grayson had brought over a record player a week before, along with his entire music collection: thirty-one polka records. Grayson loved polkas.

Of course, one cannot listen to polka music for long before getting up and dancing, which is what the two thanksgivers did as soon as their bloated stomachs allowed. They danced and they laughed, record after record. Whether it was the polka that they danced is another question.

It was nearly dark, both of them having re-collapsed, when Maniac said, "Is there any paint around?"

"Guess so," said Grayson. "What for?"

"You'll see. Can you get some, and a brush?"

The old man dragged himself up. "What color?"

"How about black?"

Five minutes later the old man was back. "Got brown. That do?"

"Fine," said Maniac. He opened the can, stirred the paint, put a jacket on, grabbed the brush and went outside. Grayson followed. He watched the kid paint on the outside of the door, in careful strokes:

101

Maniac stepped back, admiring his work. "One oh one," he proclaimed. "One oh one Band Shell Boulevard."