Okay for Now

by Gary D. Schmidt

  "Such a beautiful day," said my mother.

  My father didn't say anything. He was probably thinking about Babe Ruth.

  The Annual Ballard Paper Mill Harvest-Time Employee Picnic was always held at Mary's Lake, and since we got there late, we had to park about a mile away—all because, my father said, I hadn't finished the deliveries on time, not that it mattered, since Douggo couldn't hurry up if there were an atomic bomb on his butt. But even from a mile away, you could smell the chicken grilling as soon as you got out of the car. And you could hear hollering and cheering. People called and waved at each other as we walked toward the lake, and then they waved at us, and two women came to meet my mother and took her by the arms and brought her over to introduce her to someone else she had to meet because they didn't live very far from each other at all, and hadn't they seen her this fall at St. Ignatius?

  My father and brother and I passed by some long tables and someone called out to us and my father grunted back and then the someone looked through a bunch of wrapped packages and picked two up and called to me and my brother and handed them to us.

  Inside was a Timex watch. I'm not lying. A Timex watch with a second hand and a real leather band and numbers for regular time and numbers for military time. A Timex watch. Compliments of the Ballard Paper Mill.

  My brother looked at me. I looked at him.

  Sometimes—and I know it doesn't last for anything more than a second—sometimes there can be perfect understanding between two people who can't stand each other. He smiled, and I smiled, and we put the Timex watches on, and we watched the seconds flit by.

  It was the first watch my brother had ever owned.

  It was the first watch I had ever owned.

  My father looked at our wrists. "The metal will turn your skin green," he said. "Wait and see."

  I did not know that so many people worked at the Ballard Paper Mill. It looked like all of Marysville was there. There was a group playing volleyball, and no one was even pretending to keep score.

  There was a baseball game going on, husbands against wives. I guess you can imagine how funny that was. My father went over to stand with Ernie Eco, to laugh and smirk.

  There were about ten guys throwing horseshoes, and the clangs and the cheers that came from them made it seem like it was all-fired important—like it probably was to a bunch of chumps.

  I went down to the lake, and it was so hot that there was a whole bunch of kids swimming (which I decided not to do because of you know why) and about eight teams were doing chicken fights and some were diving off each other's shoulders, and James Russell was there and he waved at me to come in but I shook my head and he nodded.

  And drifting over everything was the smell of grilling chicken, and the snap of buttery fat when it fell in the fire, and the smoke that drew up over the baseball game and the volleyball and the horseshoes and drifted over to the rows of long tables with bright white cloths over them, where the women—including my mother—were setting out the bowls of salad and plates of rolls and pitchers of pink lemonade and platters of corn on the cob that were steaming and more bowls of salad until people started to crowd away from the baseball game and then one of the cooks by the grills hollered out, "We're all set here!" and everyone came and found a place in line while the cooks carried the long trays heaped with chicken, and the smell in the hot blue air was so wonderful and I looked over at my mother and she was smiling to beat the band, like she had come home after a long time away.

  It turned out that my brother was the first one in line. There's a shock.

  But it didn't matter, because even if the whole town of Marysville had been there, they couldn't have eaten everything that was loading down those tables. It was like something out of a fairy tale. When a platter was empty, it got lifted away, and another one, even fuller than the first, magically appeared in its place. And there was more chicken cooking, and more vats of hot water with steaming corn, and then onto the line came all the kids from the lake, who were dripping wet, and they were all hollering that it didn't matter if they ate like slobs because they were just going back into the water anyway, and then everyone finishing the salad and chicken and corn and trying to sit back and rub their stomachs and then big aluminum carts being wheeled across the lawn and every kid in the place running to them and reaching in for lime Popsicles and strawberry shortcake and ice cream sandwiches and James Russell grabbing me and yelling "C'mon!" and I was running over too and reaching in for an orange Dreamsicle.

  An orange Dreamsicle. You know how good an orange Dreamsicle tastes on a blue fall day when you're full of grilled chicken and your mother is laughing a real laugh like she used to and once you look over and your father is holding her hand like they haven't in a long long long time?

  Until Ernie Eco came and she walked away.

  Then all the mothers cleared the tables and swept off the long white tablecloths and, all laughing, folded them together and boxed up the extra food, and there was a lot. The kids ran down to the water again and James Russell yelled, "C'mon!" but I shook my head again. So he ran down to the lake and I tried not to hate him when he took a flying dive and skimmed into the water, came up laughing, and some little kid was climbing on top of him for more chicken fights.

  Then most of the adults started to gather around the cleared tables and I went over to the deserted horseshoe pits to see what was so all-fired important about throwing horseshoes. Someone yelled that the Trivia Contest was going to start soon and everyone should choose a partner to work with. I looked back. My father was standing with Ernie Eco. They were whispering together. They'd probably win.

  I picked up a horseshoe and threw it. It came up short. By a lot.

  I tried another. It came up short again. By a lot.

  I heaved another. Long. By a lot.

  Terrific.

  I threw the last one. It hit short again, but rolled until it flopped in the sand near the post. Not bad.

  Which is what an old guy said when I went to gather up the horseshoes. "Not bad. But I think if you hold it on the bend, you might get a little more distance."

  I picked up the four horseshoes. "You want to show me?"

  He took a shoe and held it with the ends out. "Like this," he said. He walked over to the post. "You stand with your heel here, and swing it back." He did this a couple of times. "Then you release it on the upswing." Which he did. It wasn't a ringer, but it clanged the post. "Everything after that is just practice," he said.

  So I tried it. I stood with my heel like that, and swung my arm a couple of times like that. I looked at him. He nodded. So I let one fly like that.

  "I think," he said, "you might want a little more arc to the throw. That way they won't run away after they hit the ground."

  I let another one fly. Short. Too much arc.

  "Not bad," he said.

  I handed him the last shoe. I'm not a chump.

  He took the shoe into his hand like he had done it a million and a half times. He set his heel. He swung his arm.

  The horseshoe left his arm and carried up into the blue air. It turned once, slowly, like it was taking its time. As it fell down toward the post, it threw out its two ends like a diver and dropped onto the sand without even bouncing, without even touching the post, but circling it so perfectly that it was like someone had walked up there and set it down that way on purpose.

  I looked at him.

  "I told you, it's all practice from here," he said. "But what I could use some help on is the Trivia Contest. I've been working at it for twenty-five years and never even come close to a ringer."

  He held out his hand.

  We shook.

  "Partners," he said, and we went over to the cleared tables.

  Back there, a few kids were eating the last of the ice cream sandwiches, while a bunch of the men had lit cigars, and their long smoke whispered up into the golden trees. Piles of yellow pads and pencils were on the tables, and partners were taking them and writing their names
on top. Some of the partners were pretty serious about it all, and they sat there numbering their pads. (This was my father and Ernie Eco.) Most were leaning back and laughing, probably because they didn't know two cents about the Babe, and they figured they weren't going to win anyway.

  They were right.

  Then some guy wearing a tie—a tie! at a picnic!—this guy stood up on a chair and held a black notebook over his head and everyone cheered. I figured the guy with the tie must be Mr. Big Bucks Ballard, the jerk who didn't know how to run the paper mill as well as my father and Ernie Eco could blindfolded. "The Trivia Contest Questions!" he hollered, and everyone cheered and clapped again. "Ten questions," he said, "and a tiebreaker if we need one. The team with the most correct answers is the winning team. The prize this year: a baseball signed by..."

  Okay, you're going to think that I made this next part up, but I didn't. Sometimes, you just have to trust me. This is what the guy with the tie said:

  "...a baseball signed by Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, and Joe Pepitone!"

  Cheers from all around, except from my father and Ernie Eco.

  "Plus, this year, a fifty-dollar bonus for each partner."

  You can bet there were cheers at this.

  "Plus, assigned parking spots right by the mill entrance for one whole year."

  I guess this sounded good to a whole lot of people, since there were a whole lot of cheers with this too.

  "So let's get started."

  A baseball signed by Roger Maris, Mickey Mantle, and Joe Pepitone! Who, if you remember, were the three Yankees to hit home runs in Game Six of the 1964 World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals.

  Who cares if Mr. Big Bucks Ballard is an idiot!

  I looked at my partner.

  "Do you think we have a chance?" he asked.

  "You bet," I said.

  "Question Number One," said Mr. Big Bucks Ballard. He was still standing on the chair. "How long was Joe DiMaggio's hitting streak in 1941?"

  My partner looked at me. "Do you know?" he said.

  I took the pencil and wrote down 56. If he didn't even know that one, I thought, he wasn't going to be much help.

  "Are you all ready? C'mon, folks, either you know it or you don't. I wouldn't bother guessing if you don't. Next question: How many consecutive scoreless innings in World Series play has Whitey Ford pitched?"

  Groans and laughter all around us. "Are you kidding?" someone hollered.

  I handed the pencil back to my partner. "Thirty-three and two-thirds," I whispered. He wrote it down.

  "Next question. In 1960, the Yankees hit more home runs than any other team in baseball history. How many did they hit?"

  More groans. More laughter. I whispered, "One hundred and ninety-three." My partner wrote it down.

  "Okay, ready for an easy one?"

  Cheers.

  "What two years did Roger Maris win back-to-back MVP awards?"

  "Even I know that one," said my partner. He wrote down 1960 and 1961.

  "All right, let's see how you are with batting averages. What is Joe DiMaggio's lifetime batting average?"

  "Three twenty-five," I whispered.

  "What was Mickey Mantle's best batting average for any year of his career?"

  "Three sixty-five," I whispered.

  "What was the team average for the Yankees in the 1960 World Series?"

  Groans.

  "Three thirty-eight," I whispered.

  "Calm down, calm down," said Mr. Big Bucks Ballard, pulling at his tie. He must have been getting hot. "There have to be some hard ones to separate the men from the boys—apologies to Mrs. Stenson there." Laughter. "Okay, try this one: How many American League pennants did the Yankees win under Casey Stengel?"

  My partner looked at me. "Ten?" he said.

  I nodded. He wrote it down.

  "Question Number Nine: We all know that in 1961, Roger Maris broke the Babe's home-run record with sixty-one home runs. How many did Mickey Mantle have in that same year?"

  "Fifty-four," I whispered. My partner wrote it down.

  "The last question: Which five years in a row did the Yankees win the world championship?"

  "That, I can remember," said my partner, and he wrote down 1949, 1950, 1951, 1952, and 1953. "I was at the last game for every one of those," he said.

  "Every single one?" I said.

  He nodded. "There's no pleasure in getting to be an old coot unless you have some fun along the way."

  Do I need to tell you that when Mr. Big Bucks Ballard read out the answers, we had every one right? Do I need to tell you that my father and Ernie Eco did not? Do I need to tell you what my father thought about that? Or what my father thought about a Trivia Contest on the New York Yankees that didn't have a single question about the Babe?

  But it wasn't over yet. When Mr. Big Bucks Ballard asked if anyone had gotten all ten right, three teams raised their hands.

  Terrific.

  "Here you were all grumbling and carrying on," said Mr. Big Bucks Ballard, "but I guess it wasn't as hard as everyone thought." He took a sheet of paper from inside the black notebook. "So now we go to the tiebreaker question, and this time, I admit, it's a doozy! Okay, here we go, for just these three teams, to see who gets the baseball, the bonus, and the parking spots. Ready? You all ready? Okay, and no help, folks. Ready? Okay: What is important in baseball about the number two hundred and sixteen?"

  It was like all Creation stopped, it was that quiet.

  "Could you repeat the question?" called one of the teams.

  "What is important in baseball about the number two hundred and sixteen?"

  I watched the other teams. You might as well have asked them to name the atomic numbers of all the inert gases.

  My partner looked at me. "I have no idea," he said.

  I whispered to him.

  "Are you sure?" he said.

  I nodded.

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I counted once."

  He smiled—not like my mother, but it would do.

  "Does anyone know?" hollered Mr. Big Bucks Ballard from his chair.

  The other two teams shook their heads. My partner kept smiling. He leaned down to me. "Tell them," he said.

  So I did.

  But if you think I'm so all-fired smart, you won't think so after I tell you what happened next.

  There was some scattered clapping, and Mr. Big Bucks Ballard came down off his chair, walked over, and shook our hands. "How did you know that last one, kid?" he asked.

  "He counted once," my partner said.

  Mr. Big Bucks Ballard worked at his tie some more. He looked really hot. "How are we going to award these prizes?" he said. He looked at me. "You're not driving yet, so you don't exactly need a parking spot. And it's hard to give you a bonus when you're not even working at the mill."

  "We'll figure it out," said my partner.

  Then Mr. Big Bucks Ballard looked at my partner. "And how about you? You know you're not supposed to win."

  "How come?" I said.

  He laughed. "Kid, how do you think it would look if the boss won all the prizes?"

  "Pretty bad," I said. "But you weren't even playing."

  "Not me," he said. He pointed to my partner. "But he was."

  I looked at my partner. "Bob Ballard," he said, and held out his hand.

  The ride home was pretty quiet except for my father, who pointed out how unfair it was not to have a single question on the Babe, not one, and how the whole contest was a setup anyway, how Mr. Big Bucks Ballard knew the questions all along, because how else could anyone know that last question about 316?

  "Two hundred and sixteen," I said.

  He glared at me in the rearview mirror. "Don't you get it?" he said. "He set you up more than anyone. He just strung you right along and made it look like you were answering when he knew the answers from the beginning. What a freaking cheapskate. He didn't want to give away the mon
ey. He didn't want to give up the parking spots. He probably doesn't even have the stupid baseball. What a con artist. He probably didn't figure that anyone would see right through him. Did he even give you the baseball?"

  "He told me to come to his office tomorrow after school."

  "You shouldn't count on anything. That's the way it is in this freaking world. You're nothing but a jerk if you do."

  I looked over at my brother. He was polishing the glass face of his Timex watch.

  Maybe my father was right.

  I didn't go to Mr. Big Bucks Ballard's office on Monday.

  I didn't want to find out if that's really the way things were in this freaking world.

  Here are the stats for the first week of November:

  No fights in the downstairs hall, even though I came close.

  One fight in the upstairs hall. A loss.

  Two fights in the PE locker room. Two wins, after I showed I would kick just about anywhere.

  Two fights in the boys' bathroom. Two losses. There might have been a whole lot more fights in there, but I stopped going. You're right. It was pretty uncomfortable.

  Four fights on the way home from After School Detention. Four losses.

  After After School Detention on Friday, I decided I didn't want to make it a week with five consecutive losses on the way home, so I gave the jerks who were waiting the slip by going out through the gym entrance—I had to hope the So-Called Gym Teacher wouldn't see me, which he didn't—and across the track and out the back field and around toward The Dump.

  It took me right past the Ballard Paper Mill. So I figured, Why not?

  When I got to the mill—and I'm not lying, you know when you're getting close to a paper mill, and it's not because of the pretty scenery—when I got to the mill, I walked around to the mill entrance, facing the river. Right by the front door, right next to the stupid front door, in the best parking spot in the whole paper mill, my father's car was parked. Next to it was Ernie Eco's pickup.