I am 364 days into my ninth year. The seeds of rebellion are taking root with each footstep of a forbidden walk. He and I are breaking every rule we know, told many times over in the two languages spoken in our respective homes: Greek and broken English. We are risking the back end of a wooden spoon if caught breaking it. We are NOT among the permissible cluster of cousins that allow us this passage to the candy store on the corner at the end of our block. It’s just the two of us.
It is the way of the time. The gaggle of kids who inhabit our short city block live with common understanding that we are all “cousins” in one way or another. It is our very own concrete refuge from the world outside it’s perimeter under the watchful eye of our hard working parents and family members. They are all somehow related by blood or affinity, many weary from work in factories and restaurants while elders worn out from their years of labor stay home to keep a watchful eye on all of us in the meantime. We are raised in small apartments where people often come and go when they just arrive because “the old country” is too poor to hold them or if times are rough from too little work or money.
It is a sprawling block where a cup of sugar is passed from one window to the next, a taste of the finished product handed back through the same window the only thank you needed. It is a block of clothes lines strung from one building to the other, waving the colors of dresses, work pants, underwear, and socks, all eventually recycled from one family to the next when outgrown, even with a bit of fray around the collar, “Nothing a little mending can’t fix.”
It is a block where the crack of a stick ball bat punctuates the early evening along with shouts of “Run” to a cardboard base before “You’re out!” can be called, followed by the clamor and hollers of dispute.
“No candy store unless you ALL go together,” the decree our parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles proclaim time and again, the excuse being if we are fewer than ALL of us, the kids from the next block will outnumber us, steal our 2-for-one penny candy with the only language they know: their fists. Pennies are hard to come by, the collective protection of our cousin clan a must.
He catches me off guard when he asks.
“Feel like taking a walk to the candy store? Just you and me?”
He is a few years older than me. His dark shock of hair, deep brown eyes and too few words have always been part of a mystery that draws me to him, this willingness now to break the rules an even greater attraction. We are distantly related and not sure how, but the risk feels right to both of us, more delicious than the small brown bag of candies we anticipate once we reach the sweet shop. The late day air has turned cool, but the pennies in our hands feel hot to the touch.
On THIS walk, I begin to understand the requirement of walking to the corner in a crowd of cousins to be more than keeping our candy safe. Something inside telegraphs the idea of one boy and one girl on the edge of a moment when they are considering more than just each other’s skinned knees is verboten for reasons other than possible theft.
“You turn 10 tomorrow,” the strength of his words making me tingle.
I wonder how he knows.
Then, “It’s the best birthday you’ll ever have.”
I find my voice and muster just one word.
“Why?”
“It’s the first time you will have two digits. That will never happen again unless you’re luckier than mostly everybody in the whole wide world.”
We make it to the corner shop unnoticed, fill our bags with tootsie rolls, Mary Janes and smooth squares of chewy caramel. Walking home, they never tasted so good.
We never get caught taking that forbidden walk alone to the candy store , but we are caught by some other un-nameable thing. The next day, when I turn 10, I know I am in love with the boy who told me of the importance of two digits, who over 65 years later, continues to celebrate each two-digit year I get out of this life.
We may never make three digits, but we ARE luckier than most, still walking together after all these years.