Friday, Sims came back to where Grant was sweeping. “Grant, your debt is paid. You can play baseball after school next week if you want.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re an honest boy, and I hope you don’t let Big Joe get to you.”
“How can I help it, Mr. Sims? Little Joe’s still missing. And . . . and Big Joe wrecked my elbow, so I still don’t know if I can pitch. Even if I can, Little Joe’s my catcher. It’s not the same. And Big Joe wrecked all of it.”
“That’s a darn shame. Hope the boy has the sense to come back home.”
Grant shook his head. “But I don’t blame him.”
* * *
On Saturday, Grant did his chores, including cleaning out the coal cookstove for Mamie. After he washed the coal dust off his hands and face and arms, he washed the kitchen floor for her. Then he hung the sitting room rugs over the back fence and beat dust out of them with a broom.
By ten o’clock, he took his glove and his baseball and headed toward the diamond. Orland was already there. He was sitting on the dugout bench, his glove beside him, with a pad of paper on his lap, too absorbed in his picture to notice Grant approaching.
Grant sat down beside him and Orland jumped. He quick spread his arm over the drawing, but not before Grant saw a smoking gun and a figure falling backwards.
“Let’s see.”
“No. You might tell your dad.”
“I won’t tell. Let me see.”
Orland lifted his arm. A lifelike Big Joe was reeling backward in the pencil sketch, a bunch of bullet holes opening up over his heart. In front of him stood a ring of boys, each holding a smoking gun. Unmistakable with details as good as a photograph, were Grant himself, Little Joe, Orland, and Frank. Also pointing guns at Big Joe, in a ring behind the boys, shooting over the boys’ heads stood Sims, Slider, Grumpy, and Little Joe’s mom, Mrs. Thorson.
Grant’s mouth fell open as he took in the murder scene. He looked at Orland. “You always get it right. You always get the feeling of the story, right there on paper. I can’t believe how good you are. And the crazy thing is, this is really true, isn’t it? I mean, how all of us want him dead?”
Orland shut his sketchbook. “Think I’d get arrested for thinking it?”
“It’s what we all think, isn’t it? I’ve never hated anybody before. I hate Big Joe.”
“Me, too,” said Orland. “And my mom says hate is a sin.”
“My dad says hate is a waste of energy.”
They sat in silence for a while.
“Think he’ll come back?”
“I don’t know.
I really don’t know.”
Orland opened his sketchbook again. He fumbled through the pages and showed Grant another page. It was a series of drawings, like the funny papers. In it, Little Joe was climbing up the coal train car, riding on the coal train. In another, Little Joe huddled in the corner of a room, but Grant realized Orland had drawn him in a boxcar, not a building.
“Do you think that’s what he did?”
“No idea. It’s what I’d do, I think,” Orland said. “Ride the train far away.”
“If I was him, and I could find a place to stay, I don’t think I’d come back if Big Joe was my dad.”
“Me neither.”
Grant threw the ball into his own glove over and over, relishing the smack of leather on leather. And aching that his ace catcher—Little Joe—wouldn’t be warming him up for a long time, if ever again.
“But he did promise me he’d be my catcher forever.”
“That’s if his dad doesn’t kill him first. Wanna play catch? Throw and check out your arm before everybody shows up?”
“Would you mind?”
“Let’s go.”
Orland hid his sketchbook and pencil under the bench with a rock on top of it, and the boys started tossing the ball back and forth.
Grant’s arm hurt, but he could throw softly okay.
After several minutes, Orland squatted down. “Okay, let’s see what you got.”
Grant wound up. He threw, his elbow felt like it wasn’t completely connected to his muscles, and the ball sailed over Orland’s head. Orland trotted after it. Grant threw again, over-compensating. Grounder. It bounced between Orland’s legs. He threw again. High. Orland missed.
Orland missed pitch after pitch, and Grant missed Little Joe. Not much got past Little Joe. But Orland wanted him to pitch as much as anybody, and throwing to Orland was better than throwing to Frank. And way better than anybody else. He threw. High. Again. Wide. Again. Low. Again, again, again, again, again. His elbow felt loose, like it still wasn’t fully connected. Like a scarecrow arm. His whole arm felt like fire was blazing up and down the bone, but finally, on about the fortieth pitch, he nailed a perfect fastball down the strike zone.
Orland flew up from his squat in a triumphant leap, ball in his glove. “Yes! Grant, you’re gettin’ it back, and this is the first day! Keep at it!”
He hurled the ball back to Grant.
Grant threw only three strikes in about two hundred balls, and his elbow felt like it was going to fall right out of his arm. “I don’t know, Orland. I got no control.”
“I know, but you’ve still got it. It’s been months, but you’re this good today, so think about tomorrow and the next day. You’re gonna do it. Listen to me. We’re gonna get you pitchin’. You know what you told me the doctor said. That Jewish doctor. That it’s up to you. That you gotta do it. And this is what we’re going to do, you and me. You’re going to make it to the big leagues. You’re gonna be a big-league pitcher. And I’m going to art school and be a real artist. Somehow. We’re going to, Grant O’Grady. You hear me? We ain’t gonna rust out here in Larkin.”
Thirty
Confession
By the following Monday morning, Grant had settled into an uneasy feeling that something horrible must have happened to Little Joe. Worse than running away. Wouldn’t he send word if he made it safely all the way to Montana? They had made a pact to send word back to their families, after all. Maybe he’d died trying to hop a train. Maybe his dad got in the car and caught up with him and killed him. Big Joe seemed like the kind of guy who’d rather kill his own kid than have him run away and make him ashamed. But then again, maybe Little Joe had hitchhiked somewhere and been robbed and murdered. Or maybe he ran all the way to McVille and somebody was helping him hide out. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . there was no way to know what the truth was.
At dinner on Saturday, Grant asked, “Dad? Do you think Little Joe will come back? Or you think he’s gone for good? I mean, it’s almost two weeks now.”
Slider set his fork down on the oilcloth tablecloth. He slowly buttered one of Mamie’s freshly baked buns. “I wish I knew, son. Your guess is probably as good as mine. If I had a dad like he does, I reckon I’d run away and never come back.”
Grant nodded. He couldn’t imagine. “Do you need to go look for him? Isn’t he a missing person?”
“Yes.” Slider considered this and handed the casserole dish of scalloped potatoes to Shirley. “I thought about that a lot. In fact, I have done some looking. But what do you think Big Joe would do if the sheriff brought him back?”
Grant moved a piece of ham around in his scalloped potatoes. “Beat him senseless.”
Slider nodded. “I’m thinking it’s not in Joe’s best interests to be found and brought home to his dad. He left on his own ’cause he needed to leave. I’m trying to protect the innocent here. You want to tell me any more about the specific incident that made him take off?”
Grant stared at the bits of onion he’d left on his plate after practically licking them free of potatoes and ham. “I’d rather not.”
Slider set down his spoon. “Then what case do I have?”
Mamie said, “Do you really have to eat any kind of potatoes with a spoon, Alfred?”
Slider smirked at her. “They’re so good, I want every last drop of sauce.” He turned back to Grant. “Son, you s
ure you don’t want to enlighten us? Seems like if we have a chance of finding him, that’s our only way to figure it out.”
So Grant finally told his dad and mom the whole story, how he’d forgotten he was carrying the honey and Suzy distracted him, working to pay Sims, and everything down to the conversation with Big Joe, Orland, Little Joe, and Frank.
Mamie looked at Grant with something akin to amusement on her face. “You do like honey, don’t you?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat it again,” Grant said. “Little Joe offered me a honey cake at school, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of it.”
Slider couldn’t keep the grin off his face anymore. “I thought Frank was the one always getting you in trouble, but I guess you can do it all by yourself.”
Grant felt his ears turn red. But he couldn’t quite manage a smile.
“Big Joe is the one should be paying for the honey,” Shirley said, looking up from the book in her lap.
Slider wiped his mouth. “Nope. He didn’t take honey from Sims. He picked it up off the ground. Sometimes life really ain’t fair, but Grant’s doing what a man’s got to do anyway, fair or not.” And Slider winked—actually winked—at Grant. Grant’s heart felt the first glimmer of lightness it had felt since the night Little Joe had run off.
Mamie brought dessert—her specialty custard pie—and they were quiet while they ate.
Harley said, “Little Joe really ran away for good for ever and ever?”
“We don’t know that,” Shirley said, shooting a worried look at Grant. “Hush up.”
“Ouch,” Harley said. “You didn’t have to kick me.”
Slider licked the last drop of custard off his fork, set it down, and pushed out his chair. He pulled himself to his full six-foot-four frame. “Maybe I’ll make a little run over to McVille this afternoon.”
“Can I go?” Grant asked.
Slider shook his head. “Sheriff’s business. Better if you stay put for now.” He scruffled Harley’s head and patted Shirley’s.
“Please, Dad? He’s my best friend.”
“Who said I was doing anything about Little Joe?” Slider said. “Better if you know nothing. In case anybody asks.” He winked at Grant and ducked out the door.
Slider wasn’t home yet when Mamie told Grant he had to go to bed, that he couldn’t wait up any later for his dad. He tried to stay awake, but he couldn’t.
In the morning, Mamie said Slider had taken off with just coffee in his belly.
“What did he say? Did he find Little Joe?”
“No idea,” was all Mamie would say.
Thirty-One
A Reappearance
In school on Monday morning, after the Pledge of Allegiance, Racehorse Romney said, “I have a surprise for you. Someone you all want to see.”
Grant and Orland practically jumped out of their chairs.
“Stay where you are. Calm down,” Racehorse Romney said.
Grant and Orland looked at each other. Orland’s eyes lit up with joy. Little Joe!
“Come on out,” she called toward the cloakroom. Little Joe! Slider had found him after all! Grant could hardly sit still, waiting for him to appear.
Out came a boy, all right, but not Little Joe. Seward.
“Sue!” Frank stood up at his desk. “Sue! You’re not dead!”
Seward-Sue walked out and stood by Racehorse Romney’s desk. His face was pinker than when he left. Grant realized he had looked sort of like a ghost when he got sent away. Grant had figured he’d never see Sue alive again, but here he was, alive and breathing. Now Sue’s hands hung limp, and his shirt hung loose over his skin that looked like a tent over his bones, he’d lost so much weight. But his face looked pink and full of life.
Sue looked at his toes, embarrassed. He sneaked a look up and smiled a little at Orland, and then at Grant. Grant grinned back.
“Class, welcome Seward back. We’re going to start the day with a little science lesson. Seward, would you tell the class about TB and about your experience?”
So Seward scuffled his feet and began.
“They took me to the TB ward. It’s called San Haven Sanitorium. I thought it meant they were lockin’ me up for good. To die. But San Haven, it’s up north of Dunseith. It was really clean and really white, and we had to rest and we had the windows open almost all the time for fresh air. And man, they fed us good food. We had vegetables and meat every meal! Not just potatoes, either. The nurses said we had to eat healthy and get fresh air. I thought everybody died in sanitoriums, but only five people died while I was there. And Saturday, they let ten of us go home ’cause we’re cured.”
That was the end of his speech, and he looked at Racehorse Romney. Racehorse nodded to the back of the room, and lo and behold, Sue’s desk was back where it had always been. Grant had been so busy looking at Joe’s empty one that he hadn’t noticed the return of Sue’s.
At recess, they pummeled Sue with questions.
“Was it really swell food?”
“My dad says it’s a big room full of people coughin’ blood all over each other. Is it?”
“We thought you’d never come back, that you were gonna die there.”
“Well, I didn’t die. Where’s Little Joe, anyway?”
The boys looked at each other. “He up and ran away,” Orland said.
“Huh? When? Why? Man, I’m so glad to be back, I’d never run away.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not Little Joe,” Grant said.
“Let’s shut our yaps and play some baseball!”
The boys chose sides for teams. All the boys in sixth, seventh, and eighth grade played every recess as soon as the school ball field dried up in the spring. At noon recess, they chose sides and played the same teams in the afternoon and next morning recesses, and at noon they chose new teams again.
Grant’s team batted first and by the time they got their third out, they had four runs and recess was over. He wouldn’t have to pitch until afternoon recess.
At the next recess, Sammy said, “Okay, Grant. I’ll catch for ya. You’ll have to give your arm a go.”
Orland trotted to the mound. “Grant. This isn’t any real game. Just go easy on your arm. You can throw just fine if you don’t throw hard. Don’t worry about fastballs. Just use it as practice. Get it over the plate. Let ’em hit it. Who cares. All right?”
So Grant threw lob pitches, and the opposite team howled with delight each time they cracked a double out into center field.
When the bell rang and they trotted back into the school, Tom Steensland gave Grant a friendly slap on the back. “Man, you should stay injured forever. I got a chance to get home when I play ya now.”
Grant smiled, but he ached inside. And he wished he had Little Joe to catch his pitches.
* * *
After school, Grant found Sammy, Orland, Frank, Tim, and Tom at the ball field. The boys took turns catching for Grant. His elbow cooperated every now and then.
Grant bit his lip. When Orland took his place squatting to catch him, Grant said, “Criminy, Orland. I don’t think I can get it back.”
“I hate Big Joe,” Orland said. “I know it’s a sin, but I don’t care. I hate him for your sake and Little Joe’s sake and I wish he was dead. Think I’ll burn in hell?”
Grant threw another pitch, harder than the rest. “If you do, you’re gonna have lots of company.”
“That was a good one,” Orland said, tossing it back. “You’re getting better. One outta five is lots better.”
“One outta five isn’t fast enough.”
“It’s not gonna come back all at once, you know. You’ve only been throwin’ for a couple weeks is all. Remember what you told us the doctor said.”
Grant threw two more pitches, and his elbow felt loose and disconnected, that scarecrow feeling again. Both went so high Orland had to trot after them.
Orland crouched and held out his glove. “Pretend my glove is Big Joe’s head.”
Gran
t grinned and wound up. His pitch shot straight down the pipe.
“Smokin’!” Orland jumped up and shook his gloved hand. “That hurt. Maybe that’s what you gotta do. Picture Big Joe.”
Grant threw again.
“Two in a row! You’re gonna do it, Grant O’Grady! I know it!”
* * *
When Slider came inside for supper, Grant couldn’t wait any longer. “Dad! Did you find him?”
“Who?”
“You know! Little Joe!”
Slider eased himself into his chair and leveled a look at Grant. Grant held his breath, waiting.
“I really don’t have any news for you.”
“How come you were gone so long, then?”
“You know, son, how you gave your word to Little Joe that you wouldn’t tell me that his dad had beat him up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this is a similar situation.” Slider looked Grant in the eye.
“Not even to me?”
“Son, Big Joe knows better than to come asking me about his son, when word leaks out that I went looking for him. But you know how Big Joe’s been hounding you. He’d try to get any information he could out of you, and that’s not fair. It’s better for you if you don’t know a blessed thing.”
Grant sank into his chair, relieved and sad, both. If Slider had given his word, that meant no matter what, he wasn’t going to tell Grant where Little Joe could be found. It also meant he must have found him, and Little Joe was okay. “Can you tell me if he’s ever coming back? I miss him catching for me. And besides, we agreed. That he’d be my catcher forever.”
Slider grinned and slid a slice of ham onto his plate. “Can’t tell you. Don’t really know, son. How’s pitching going, anyway?”
Thirty-Two
“Play Ball!”
The next two weeks, Grant pitched every day. He got a little better each day, and by the end of those two weeks, he only threw wild every fifth pitch or so. He could only throw hard for about half an hour, and he had to take aspirin every night in order to sleep because of how bad the elbow hurt. If he threw change-ups more often, he could throw fast longer. It took a lot of concentration, but it was worth it.
Slider’s Son Page 18
