A Midsummer Madness

by Guy Franks

  Shake expected Hank to pop into his office for a heart to heart but it never happened. Fine, thought Shake. He’d be on the bench again tomorrow. Shake finished up his paperwork, dressed into his street clothes, and looked around for Orson before he left the park. He found him in Rex’s office going over gate receipts.

  “No Rex, huh?” said Shake.

  “No,” replied Orson, looking up and losing count. “I tried calling but no answer. I’m about to drive over there.”

  “Why don’t you wait until tomorrow morning?”

  “Can’t, got something going on. Plus I’m a little worried. Has he ever missed a game?”

  “Never.”

  “So I’m heading over there as soon as I’m done.”

  “All right. Probably a good idea. If you find out anything weird give me a call or come by. I’ll be at the Mermaid.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.”

  At The Mermaid Tavern, he had a beer, talked baseball with his coaches, and ended up sitting alone at the bar with Lucy. Larry Benedict was still there but he sat by himself at a table—but not really by himself as Bernie stood over him arguing with him as usual. Shake and Lucy watched the two go at it. It almost looked like Larry and Bernie were enjoying themselves.

  “Think they still got the hots for one another?” wondered Shake out loud.

  “Maybe,” replied Lucy. “He did a number on her a few years ago.”

  “That’s her story.”

  “Is there a different story? He told her he loved her, wanted to marry her, even took her to see his parents. Then dumped her.”

  “He’s a sworn bachelor.”

  “You think so.”

  “I know so.”

  “You don’t know as much as you think you know, Coach.” Here Lucy—Dark Lucy—pointed one of her black fingernails at him and said, “How about this? We’ll play a little game in the name of love. You tell Larry that you overheard Bernie tell me she still loves him, and I’ll tell Bernie I overheard Larry tell you he still loves her. See what happens.”

  Shake chuckled. The little plot tickled his fancy. “Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps,” he quoted. “I’m in, but what do you think will happen?

  “They’ll either take it for a lie or lower their guard and let the truth shine through.”

  “Maybe. But no casting spells to make them fall in love,” he joked.

  “I can’t make anybody love anybody. That should be obvious?” Lucy slid gracefully off her bar stool and said “I’ll be right back,” and went upstairs.

  She returned in twenty minutes, hiked up her dress, and slid back onto her bar stool where she crossed her legs. He smiled at her and she smiled back. She smelled of weed but also of musk and rose oil. Don the bartender came over and she ordered a soda water with lime and asked Shake if he wanted a fresh beer. He’d been nursing the same beer for almost an hour and it was still half full. He was good, he told her. She waited for her drink and then leaned into Shake. She put her arm around him and started talking dirty in his ear. He answered yes to all her questions and waited for the cue to go upstairs. She slid her arm off his back and took his chin between her thumb and finger.

  “We make a good pair, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “Sure we do.”

  “Sure we do,” she repeated, dropping her hand down to his leg where she ran her black fingernails along his quadricep. He could tell she was stoned and maybe a little more than usual.

  “What’s on your mind, witchy-woman?”

  “You know… But I was thinking… There’s a big festival coming up. Lithia. The summer solstice… It’s Saturday the twenty-first. There’s a ritual at sunrise and I’d like you to come… I’d really like you to come.”

  “You always like it when I cum.”

  “Listen,” she said slapping him playfully on the thigh, but her eyes were unusually serious. And so Shake listened—something about the Sabbat and the Sun God and the Fire Festival of Lithia—and she finished and looked at him awaiting his answer.

  “What time you say it was?”

  “Sunrise, so it won’t interfere with your game. It’s no more than an hour or two, and it’s a powerful time for couples.”

  Shake suddenly had an image of himself standing in the morning fog in the middle of the coven with a ritual robe on. “Sunrise,” he said apathetically. “I’m still sleeping at sunrise.”

  “Please. As a personal favor to me.”

  He studied her for a moment. She was oddly serious about all this and he didn’t know quite what to make of it. Some of her Wicca stuff was fun but this sounded like a big deal. She wasn’t trying to recruit him was she? He was more likely to go to sea on a merchant ship than become a Wiccan. But her plea was something new—the whole personal favor thing—and he didn’t know what to make of it. It made him stop and think and he rubbed his chin. Another image of himself dancing with her witch buddies around a bonfire popped into his head.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” he said. Right after he said it he noticed a change of hue in her face.

  “You do that,” she replied curtly. She turned back to her soda water with lime and called Don over to talk some business. When they were done, she rubbed her forehead and said, “I’ve got a splitting headache. I’ll see you tomorrow night, right?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  She nodded slowly, kissed him on the cheek and went upstairs.

  Shake watched her walk upstairs and rubbed his chin again in thought. He’d gotten up for sex, was all ratcheted-up for it, and now he had to push the reset button. It was like hitting a blast to left field and thinking it’s a homerun only to see it die on the warning track for an out. What was that all about, he wondered. Who is’t can read a woman? She seemed almost angry with him. If so, that was a new dynamic, but he was sure she’d get over it. There were no obligations between them and he liked it that way. He was a free agent having a good run of it with one ball club. If she was angry about something she’d get over it and tomorrow they’d be back to normal.

  Orson pulled into the horseshoe driveway of the Lyon estate. He went up the steps and used the lion’s head knocker to rap on the door. A middle-aged man in a cardigan sweater opened the door.

  Orson

  Hi, may I talk to Mr. Lyon?

  Servant

  It’s a little late. Who are you?

  Orson

  Orson Kent. I work with Mr. Lyon at Beehive Stadium.

  Servant

  You’re one of those baseball people?

  Orson

  Yes, I am, and I’m looking for Mr. Lyon. He didn’t show up for the game tonight and I’ve paged and called him but no answer. I just want to make sure he’s all right. Is he home?

  Servant

  It’s really too late for this, and I have strict orders from Mrs. Cornwall not to let baseball people into this house.

  Orson

  ‘Baseball people’, huh? Look, I just want to know if Rex is okay.

  Servant

  Mr. Lyon is none of your business. Not at this hour. Come back tomorrow.

  Orson

  Okay, Mr. Belvedere. Go get Rex or go tell someone I’m here. I’m not leaving till you do.

  Servant

  Get your foot out of the door. Don’t make me call the police.

  Orson

  The police! Go ahead, you big fat jerk!

  Servant

  You have no call to insult me! Get your foot out of the door before I call the police.

  Orson

  I’ll get you to call somebody! I’ll wrap that stupid sweater around your neck!

  Servant

  What! Hoa! Stop!… Help! Help!

  (They scuffle in the doorway and Rae and Ed Cornwall enter.)

  Rae

  What th
e hell? Stop this instant! Who the hell are you? Ed, call the police.

  Ed

  Everyone calm down. Let go of his sweater… Now what’s your name?

  Orson

  Orson Kent. I work for the Kingsmen.

  Ed

  You’re Horace Kent’s kid, right? Pleased to meet you. I just talked to your dad a few days ago. Here, everyone, calm down. I’m Ed Cornwall and this is my wife Rae. Orson, right? Orson, come into the den and sit down with us.

  Orson

  No, thank you, sir. I was just looking for Mr. Lyon. He didn’t show up for the game today, which is unheard of, and folks want to know if he’s okay.

  Rae

  My father doesn’t live here anymore. He moved out.

  Orson

  But I thought he owned this house?

  Rae

  You thought wrong. He was a guest in my house and now he’s not.

  Orson

  Where can I find him?

  Rae

  Your guess is as good as mine. Try the Travel Lodge out on the inter-state… But what was the meaning of you accosting poor Chester here?

  Orson

  Chester! That figures. Cause I don’t like his face.

  Rae

  Maybe you don’t like mine either?

  Ed

  Now, dear, he didn’t…

  Orson

  Well, to tell the truth I’ve seen better faces on a horse’s ass.

  Rae

  Out! Get out! You baseball people are all alike. Chester, if he’s not gone in five seconds, call the police.

  Orson

  No need. I’m leaving, Ma’am. Thanks for your hospitality.

  The next morning Orson had a golf date with Balt. Tee time was 7:30. He was still a little flustered from last night and had yet to track down Rex, but he pushed that all from his mind once Balt walked onto the first tee carrying his bag.

  They were paired up with two other guys to make a foursome. The two were big guys—they looked like old frat buddies to Orson—and probably played football together in college. Now in their late thirties, they were company men fighting the battle of the bulge. Golf was probably the only exercise they got nowadays.

  They flipped coins for starter and Balt won. He took his driver out of his bag and accidently walked up to the woman’s line.

  “Hey, Alice, you’re back here with the men,” joked one of them as he nudged his buddy with a laugh.

  “Oops. Shit. I’m still asleep,” said Balt hoarsely. “I tied one on last night.”

  “Tell me about it,” replied the other frat brother.

  Balt hit his drive down the center of the fairway but not too far.

  “Very dainty,” quipped one of the frat brothers as he stepped up to the tee. His buddy chuckled. Orson glanced over at Balt and rolled his eyes as if to say, “We’ve got eighteen holes to play with these knuckleheads.” The frat brother’s drive traveled significantly farther than Balt’s but hooked left into the rough.

  Orson hit a nice drive down the middle of the fairway. The second frat brother drove one past Orson but hooked it like his buddy. The Baked Potato Pi Brothers were both in the rough.

  “Two peas in a pod,” said Orson with a smirk as they walked off the tee.

  The same pattern developed over the next five holes: the frat brothers continued to have fun with Balt’s drives while Orson took a verbal shot at the two whenever he had a chance. But once on the green (and to Orson’s delight), Balt proved himself to be an excellent putter, and somewhere around the sixth hole the quips stopped. After the last hole, they shook hands all around and headed for the clubhouse.

  Orson grabbed a table for two, asked Balt what he wanted to drink, then went over to the bar and ordered a Heineken for himself and Bloody Mary for Balt. He opened a tab with the thought of having a few drinks with Balt. They sat down together and talked about the round and made fun of the frat brothers, and when Balt finished up his Bloody Mary, Orson started up to get him another one.

  “I got to go,” said Balt, pushing back his chair.

  “Just one more?” entreated Orson.

  “No, got to go, but I owe you a drink. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

  Orson liked the sound of that. “Well, hey,” he said standing up with him. “Let me pay the tab and I’ll meet you out in the parking lot.”

  “Sure,” replied Balt as he headed out to get his bag. Orson paid off his tab and walked past the frat brothers on his way.

  “Taking off?” asked one of them. “Sit down and have a drink with us.”

  “Love to, guys, but gotta run. Game day.”

  “That’s right. Good luck.”

  “Say goodbye to your buddy for us,” said the other one. “You know he’s as queer as a three dollar bill.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that,” replied Orson as he walked away. He was going to give them two free passes to a Kingsmen game but kept them in his pocket instead.

  As he retrieved his bag he thought about that crack—“He’s as queer as a three dollar bill”—and wondered why, if it was that obvious to the Baked Potato Pi Brothers, why it wasn’t that obvious to him? He wanted it to be true and had wrestled with the question for months. The answer meant everything to him, and if it was clearly apparent to two strangers what the answer was then it should be good enough for him. In his worried mind, the clouds suddenly cleared and the sun came out. That was it. Let the truth be told.

  He came up to Balt as he was loading his golf bag into his trunk. Orson noticed a bumper sticker that said “ERA YES” and another one for the Boston Red Sox. Balt closed the trunk and smiled at him and held out his hand. Orson took it eagerly.

  “That was fun,” said Balt. “Let’s do it again.”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you at Beehive later today.”

  “Yeah.

  They had walked, rather awkwardly, around the car to the driver’s door with their hands still clasped. Orson was going to use it to pull Balt into him but he hesitated for a moment, looked around, and let go of Balt’s hand as three golfers with bags in tow walked past them. Balt opened his car door and it was now between them. Orson looked longingly at Balt and gracefully shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly Balt leaned over the door and kissed him quickly on the lips. With a blush in his cheeks, Balt jumped in his car, closed the door, and sped off without looking at him.

  In his yearning heart, Orson leapt for joy, from shock and awe left by his golden boy.

  13

  CHAPTER

  Why, this is very midsummer madness.

  Twelfth Night

  Saturday, June 21st rolled around and the Albany-Colonie Yankees were in town. The Kingsmen were riding an eight game winning streak. At the park it was Black & Decker Day and some lucky fans stood a chance of winning a cordless drill, a 12 inch chain saw, and the most coveted gift of all—a 208cc gas-powered snow blower. It was also the Summer Solstice and the Fire Festival of Lithia but not many folks were aware of the Lithia part of that. Shake was aware of it because Dark Lucy had invited him to the sunrise ritual. He never gave her a straight answer about going or not, but Lucy hadn’t brought it up again so he was off the hook.

  All-Star votes were in and Shake asked Rick to gather up the team before batting practice so he could announce their names. The Dominicans were in the trainer’s room perfecting their English by watching reruns of All in the Family, Steve Basset was in the laundry room leading his small prayer group, and Hank Prince was on time for once and at his locker without sunglasses on. When Shake looked around the locker room, everyone was present and accounted for.

  The Kingsmen led the league in all-stars with seven. Shake read off the names that included four pitchers (Basset, Santiago, Ellsworth and Cappadona) and three position players (Burks, Estrella, and Hamilton). Cons
picuously absent from the list was centerfielder Hank Prince. His counterpart on the Admirals—Hank Percy—had been voted in ahead of him. Shake congratulated the all-stars—he himself would manage the East Team—and the players clapped and quickly slipped into good-natured ribbing.

  A locker door slammed shut loudly. It was Hank. Next he opened it, threw clothes in and slammed it shut again. Players around him stepped back to avoid flying objects. Hank grabbed his bat and glove and stormed out of the locker room but stopped at the water cooler, took aim with his bat, and smashed the plastic jug, sending water flying in all directions. With that he stomped out the tunnel and onto the field.

  “Something you said?” quipped Larry.

  “I guess that got his attention,” added Rick.

  “Guess so,” agreed Shake. He looked at the cracked water jug and the wet floor. “Watch it on your way out,” he dead-panned to his team. “Wet floor.”

  Shake walked back to his office and thought about Hank. Nearly three months into the season and he had worked at getting the young man’s attention—at getting some fire in his belly—with talks, fines and even benching, but nothing seemed to stick. Now the All-Star voters had done what he couldn’t: they had gotten Hank’s attention. But would it stick, he wondered. He hoped so.

  He heard loud yelling (now what?) and walked back out where he found Rex shouting at the top of his voice. Speed stood nearby holding towels.

  Rex

  Who in the goddam hell broke my water cooler! Who, goddam it! They’re gonna pay for it by god—and clean up this mess! Which one of you did this?

  Shake

  Calm down, Rex. It was one of my players. We’ll take care of it.

  Rex

  The hell you will, Glover! I wanna know who did this. I want them suspended!

  Shake

  I’ll take care of it. Stop your shouting. We’ll get it cleaned up. Speed’s got towels.

  Speed

  Crying towels for some.

  Rex

  I want the vandal suspended! It’s vandalism!

  Speed

  The pump don’t work ’cause the vandals took the handle.

  Shake