Country Hardball

by Steve Weddle

  COUNTRY

  HARDBALL

  STEVE WEDDLE

  F+W Media, Inc.

  For Helen

  Contents

  Champion

  The Ravine

  Purple Hulls

  This Too Shall Pass

  Good Times Gone

  The Thing with Feathers

  Good Money

  All Star

  That Kind of Face

  On Account

  Smoke Fades Away

  Reception

  How Many Holes

  Debts to Pay

  Country Hardball

  Prodigal

  Miracles

  Harvest

  Copyright

  CHAMPION

  “What happened to your face?” Champion Tatum asked his only son.

  The boy had been standing in the back doorway, waiting for his father to look up from splitting wood. Champion set the axe down on its head, left the piece of jagged oak where it lay, and crossed the path of hardpacked mud to the back steps.

  At ten years old, the boy could have stood on the bottom step and been even with his father, a man who had been beaten enough for the past fifty years. Instead, the boy stayed on the top step, making his father stare up at him, at the scraped chin, little pieces of gravel wedged like flecks of house paint into the skin.

  They went inside the house, five rooms that hadn’t been cleaned since Eleanor Tatum had come home from the mill late that Saturday night last June, skipped church the next morning, and walked into the front yard to put a bullet through her temple.

  “Never seen a woman do that,” Champion had overheard one of the deputies saying.

  “Must have been pretty messed up, do something like that,” a tall man Champion hadn’t seen before said. “Women usually take pills. You know, when they cash in.”

  “Damned shame,” another deputy said, shaking his head, scratching into his notepad.

  They all shook their heads and agreed it was a damned shame.

  Champion looked in the medicine cabinet for a can of antibiotic spray while the boy rinsed the cut out in the sink, washing watery blood and bits of earth down the rust-tinged drain. Champion moved the toothpaste, the cough syrup, the Q-Tips from shelf to shelf. He shut the mirrored door, easing it softly into a metallic click. He reached down below the faucet, held his palm up to catch the water, and splashed it around the basin until it was mostly white again. He wet a washcloth, pulled free some of the loose threads, wadded it into a ball at one end, and dabbed the boy’s chin. He set the cloth on the counter, reached under the boy’s arms to lift him onto the edge by the sink. Felt the warm strain in his lower back, took a step away from the boy. Told him to hop up on the counter, which the boy did with ease.

  “What happened to your face?” Champion asked again, drying the boy’s chin with a towel he’d found on the floor.

  “I fell.”

  He nodded. “Looks like it hurt.” He put his palms on the boy’s ears, tilted the boy’s head back to look at the drying blood under the chin.

  “’s fine,” the boy said. “Just fell is all.”

  “Reckon the other boy’s worse?” he asked, hoping his son had toughened up the last year. Hoping he was back to normal, back to being a boy. Fistfights and forts. Skinning squirrels. Running trot lines. Champion had taken to having an extra few drinks on nights the boy wouldn’t stop crying.

  The first few days after Eleanor Tatum had killed herself, Champion was the grieving widower, with Tatums from his side, Pennicks from hers, filling up the house. Neighbors came by with food and advice. A day at a time. Be strong for the boy. Call if you need anything. Then a week. A month. Then everyone moved on to the next death in Columbia County. The defensive end at the high school. Too young. A damned shame, they said, then celebrated the boy’s life with one Friday night in July at the Legion Hall while Champion and his son sat alone in the darkness. Everyone else had moved on, collecting tragedies like folk tales. near the Walkerville Cemetery, that. Champion woke up each morning, hoping his son was all cried out.

  The boy shook his head. The other boy wasn’t worse off. No one was worse off. “I had this stick,” the boy said. “The walking stick Momma brought back from when she went up to Hot Springs that time.”

  Champion remembered the time. The curled-up corners of her smile when she’d won employee of the year and they’d sent her up, an all-expense paid vacation for two, to a hotel for the weekend and she and Imogene McAllister had come back with gifts for their families and months’ worth of stories to tell. Eleanor had never been as happy as that weekend she was able to “get away,” as she’d called it. She’d brought back that walking stick and a marionette for the boy, a pair of boots for her husband. Champion thought about the gifts, but couldn’t remember whether she’d brought back anything for herself.

  Another boy, Kenny Jenkins’s son, had taken the stick away from the boy on the cut-through behind the fishing pond. “He said he’d give it back if I kissed the ground in front of his feet. And I didn’t want to start nothing. And there were like four or five boys standing with him and they were all looking at me waiting for me to do something.” And this. And that. And. And. And the boy was all alone.

  “So I just figured I’d like bend down and … ” He stopped. Wiped his nose as the tears came, as the cut in his chin reopened.

  Champion wet the rag, put it in the boy’s hand, pressed the boy’s hands to the wound until the boy winced. “Just hold this here. Not too tight,” he said. “So you bent down?”

  “Yeah, but I wasn’t going to kiss the ground,” the boy said. “Not for Toby Jenkins or nobody. I just leaned down like I was going to, then I was going to get back up like I’d done it and get my stick back and come home.”

  “But it didn’t work that way, did it?”

  “I put my head down and Toby shoved my face into the ground and then everyone goes off laughing.”

  “It’s all right. You’re home now.”

  “I gotta get that stick back, Dad. He took it from me. I gotta get it back.” The boy slid down from the counter.

  Champion took a roll of toilet paper from the top of the tank, unrolled a couple feet, gave it to the boy to dry his face, blow his nose. Then Champion took the cloth, pressed it to the boy’s chin to try to keep the wound closed.

  “We’ll go in the morning.”

  “We gotta go now.”

  “In the morning, son. It’s getting late. In the morning.”

  “You promise?”

  • • •

  Champion was up late watching the Astros give up a three-run lead to the Padres when he heard the boy wake up crying. Give it a minute, Champion told himself. Like he always did. A few minutes later, he told himself to give it a few more minutes. The Astros were up in the ninth with a man on third and one out. Champion heard a storm of noise from the other side of the wall. The boy kicked and cried, trying to exhaust himself to sleep, Champion hoped, but he knew better. He knew the boy was kicking, was swinging in the air. Fighting the emptiness around him.

  Champion Tatum stood up, walked into the kitcheI shook my head,an Hn, and pulled down what was left of the whiskey. He twisted off the top, downed a couple fingers’ worth, then put the top back on and placed the bottle back into the cabinet. Then he stepped out of his boots, turned off the television, and walked into the boy’s room. He took a deep breath, closed the door behind him, and climbed into bed with his son, putting the boy’s head on his shoulder until the boy fell asleep.

  When morning came through the sheets Champion had hung for curtains, he rolled himself off the mattress to the floor. Got to his elbows and knees and worked himself to standing. Next check the government sends, he thought, I’m getting the b
oy a real bed.

  Champion had finished his second cup of coffee when the boy came out of the bathroom, ready to go down the road to the Jenkins house.

  They got into the pickup and drove the half mile to see Kenny Jenkins. Champion looked at the distance in silence. Ten years ago I could have walked this no problem, he thought. Maybe twenty.

  They pulled into the driveway two minutes later, saw Kenny playing football with his sons, Toby and Wyatt. Kenny tossed the ball back onto the porch as a half-dozen dogs came chasing nothing around the corner of the house. The dogs stopped between the Jenkins boys and the pickup, barking until Kenny threw a stick at them, yelling at the goddamned dogs to shut the hell up.

  Champion and the boy got out of the truck and walked across the clumps of weeds and mud. Kenny pulled off his baseball cap, wiped his forehead with the bend of his elbow, put the cap back on.

  “Mr. Tatum,” he said, “what can I do for you?” He squinted an eye, tilted his head, smiled. Neighborly.

  “Seems to have been a problem with the boys yesterday,” Champion said, which made Kenny turn to face Wyatt and Toby at his side. “What did you boys do?”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” Toby said.

  “I didn’t do nothing neither,” Wyatt said as they both took a step to the house.

  “Probably nothing,” Champion said. “One of the boys ended up with my son’s walking stick. We just thought we’d save you some trouble and swing by and pick it back up.”

  Sounded fair, Champion thought. He looked at the man in front of him, half his age and twice his size. A little problem they had, a problem he was helping solve. Probably nothing.

  “Hang on a second, Champ,” Kenny Jenkins said, taking a step forward. “I know you ain’t accusing my boys of stealing.” The way he said “Champ,” more like a joke than a nickname. Like the way you’d call a puppy “Champ” when he came out of a fight with his ear dangling. Like the way you’d call an old mare “Champ” before you had to put her down.

  Champion looked over at his son, who was looking up at him. The boy looked across at the Jenkins boys, then to Mr. Jenkins. “It’s okay,” the boy whispered to his father. “It’s okay.”

  Champion Tatum took a step toward Kenny Jenkins. “We don’t want any trouble,” he said. “We just came for the walking stick.”

  “What if my boys say they don’t have your walking stick?” Kenny Jenkins asked, turning his head and spitting across the distance to the side of Champion’s shoe. “You gonna apologize for accusing them?”

  No one said he was killed.

  Then Champion took a final step to Kenny Jenkins. “Nobody needs any more trouble.”

  Kenny looked at Champion’s eyes. Champion held the stare, searching for his own reflection.

  Kenny turned to his sons. “Go get the stick, son,” he said to Toby.

  “But Dad. I didn’t—”

  “Get the stick.”

  • • •

  When they got back to the house, the boy stayed outside with the walking stick, running around the yard, pointing the end of the stick at nothingness, blasting spells into the air.

  Champion opened the window in the kitchen, sat down at the table, and listened to his son make explosion sounds as he jumped from stumps along the woods. He thought about what the boy had said on the way back. “You did it. That was great. Did you see his face? That was awesome.” And on and on.

  In the yard the boy swung the stick around, commanding all his followers to attack the castle.

  Inside the empty house, Champion Tatum po

  THE RAVINE

  When I came around the corner into his back yard, he had his glasses in his hands, rubbing the lenses with a blue bandana.

  I cleared my throat, and he looked up. We were about twenty feet apart.

  “The fuck you want, boy?” he said, standing up and grabbing his shotgun from the table. He was more than twice my age, in his mid-60s I’d guess. Thin, rough at the edges. And there were plenty of edges to the guy. Old snakeskin boots. Jeans. Brown flannel shirt hanging out of his pants.

  The sun was coming up over the tree line, past the acre-long field behind his house. Midmorning. About this time of year.

  “Mr. Greer, my name’s Roy Alison.” I pulled some papers out of my back pocket.

  “I know who you are, shitface.” He raised the barrels of the shotgun to my face. “Everybody knows who you are. You’re the piece of shit who killed his parents.”

  That stopped me. I guess I’ll never get used to that. Never get away from it. Which is fine. I did kill my parents.

  I was sixteen. Sitting in my room. Not bothering anyone. Put on some Blue Oyster Cult. Dropped a couple tabs of pumpkinhead. An hour later my mom busted into my room. My dad had been having kidney trouble a while and had passed out. She didn’t want to wait for an ambulance because we were out in the country. And she hated ambulances. Said they were a rip-off. So she loaded my dad into the back seat of the Impala and I was supposed to drive them to the ER. Yeah. Funny story. I thought the oncoming headlights were calling to me. Calling me home. So we all made it to the ER in ambulances. Of course, my mom and dad didn’t need ambulances by the time they got there.

  I was locked up for a while. Full of the empty darkness he was killed.

  Yeah, I’d had problems. But that was then. All I wanted in my new life was no trouble.

  Now I’m working for the county, driving around handing out paperwork, trying to live whatever a normal life is when you’re someone with my record, my past. As if anyone is normal.

  “I’m here for the county, Mr. Greer.” I held the paperwork out for him. “I need to talk to you about your outbuildings. They’re not up to code.”

  He set the gun down on the table and sat back down in his chair, pulled a buck knife from his shirt pocket, and started cutting chunks out of an apple.

  He had the same kind of metal lawn chairs we’d had at our house. Light green. Kind of a clamshell. Iron bars folded underneath so you could rock back and forth, humming a little tune to make you think of something else.

  “How long you been working for the government?” he asked me.

  “Started at the building office last week,” I said, still a little nervous looking at the gun, the violence within reach. I had three more visits to make before lunch, so I couldn’t waste the whole day here. And I had to get back for a birthday party at the office. I hadn’t been a free man for long and this job was the biggest piece of normal I had. My big hope for getting back on track, for keeping the darkness away. “I just need to give you a copy of this report and schedule a time for you to come by the office, Mr. Greer.”

  “Sit down, son.”

  “Thank you for the invite, sir, but I need to get moving.”

  He reached for the gun, then turned it on me, again. “Maybe my polite tone confused you, asshole. Sit the fuck down. I wasn’t asking.”

  I sat down.

  Mr. Greer set the shotgun in his lap. Then he ate an apple piece from his blade.

  “Wanna tell me how you ended up here?” he asked.

  I looked down at the paper, like I was reading something. “We got a call. Tip. Said you were breaking the zoning ordinance.”

  He shook his head, spit out part of the apple. “Not that, you dipshit. I know that. I made the call. I mean how you got here.” He emphasized the last word, looked around the property.

  He made the call? Why would he make the call? “I’m sorry, Mr. Greer. I don’t understand.”

  “Here. How did you end up here? Where you are now?”

  Ten seconds or so went by. Felt like longer. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but I figured I had to say something. “Google Maps. Took 79 through Emerson. Turned a couple miles out, down that a ways until I hit what I guess was a logging road. You’re all alone back here.”

  “Yeah. I’m all alone.” He folded his knife back into his shirt pocket and stood. He looked up to his outbuildings at the back of his property
. Maybe things would work out h. “‘We live as we dream—alone.’ That’s from a book, son.” He grabbed the shotgun and walked over to me. When I started to stand he put the barrels of the gun against my chest. “I was asking how you got here. Walking around like a free man. After you killed your parents that night. After you killed my daughter.”

  My arms were at my sides and I wasn’t even close to ready when the butt of the gun hit my jaw and knocked me cold.

  I’d given up drinking a few years ago. Drugs a year before that when I was back behind bars. And I tried not to cuss. Tried not to speed. Tried to live a good life now. Make up for what I’d done.

  “No reason you should know me,” Mr. Greer was saying. Mid-conversation. Like he’d been talking for a while. But I was just coming back around. I rubbed my jaw where he’d hit me. Scratched through my beard. Something was flaking there. Blood. Dirt. I blinked. Rubbed my eyes with my hands, which were tied together. “She kept saying how it was so sad, such darkness.” He was running a sharpening wheel, sparks flying off the knife blade. I looked out through the windows but only saw sky. I was pretty sure we were in one of the outbuildings I’d come to complain about. Yeah. Another funny story. “You know anything about darkness, shithead?”

  Yeah. I had some ideas. Some ideas I tried to stay away from. “I didn’t kill your daughter.”

  “The hell you didn’t,” he said. “You kill everything, don’t you? People like you? You’re a curse. A blight. A bringer of darkness.”

  For what must have been the twentieth time in the past however long I’d been at his place, I had no idea what he was talking about. “I didn’t kill your daughter.”

  Looking through the windows, I could see the sun at the top of the sky. Guess I’d been out a little while, but not too long.

  He stopped sharpening the knife and turned around to face me. “Maybe you should stop talking about my daughter right about now.”

  I’d wanted this job. I’d wanted to work outside. Drive around, listening to Drive-By Truckers, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Little Feat, all windows-down and fields full of sunshine. Sounds like a great day, back roads through Columbia County, grabbing a sandwich at the gas station, being your own boss in a sense. Staying away from trouble. Living a normal life.