by Don Reid
But just as she was returning with the attire, another nurse tapped Buddy on the arm.
“Lieutenant, Mrs. Stone is in the lobby. She came over in the police car. She’s pretty upset and says she wants to see you.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there.”
Kathy Painter Foster had just given them each a white, ankle-length cotton gown. Buddy handed his back to her.
“Cal, you go on in and see Harlan. I’ll go talk to Darcy and see if I can calm her down.”
“Fine. I’ll be out to see her shortly. I don’t figure they’ll let me stay long. Hopefully the doctor is here and nearly ready to start.”
“He is,” Nurse Foster said to Cal as she led him through the double doors. “He should be ready in just a few minutes.”
Darcy Stone was sitting in a straight-back chair in the empty waiting area. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she was staring blankly ahead as if seeing nothing and no one. She looked even smaller than her five-foot-two frame. She was still pretty, even with her pale skin and ruffled hair. She stood and hugged Buddy a long time before saying anything.
“I love him so much, Buddy.”
“I know you do. Do you feel like talking?”
“I talked to the other officers at the house and all the way over here. I don’t know if I have the strength to talk anymore.”
“Henry,” Buddy yelled to the officer on the door, “get us two coffees, please.” He looked back to Darcy and sat her down with his hand on her shoulder before sitting beside her.
“I know it’s hard, but tell me everything and exactly the way it happened.”
Rubbing her hands and periodically her stomach and the top of her thighs, Darcy spoke slowly and distinctly.
“It must have been around five o’clock. We both heard something in the kitchen. Harlan got up to go see what it was, and I went right behind him. It sounded like—I don’t know—a thud or something. Like somebody had pushed in the back door. Nothing breaking or anything like that. Just sort of a thud. When we got to the kitchen door from the hallway, we both saw him. He was hunched over like he was looking for something to hide behind, but he was right there in the middle of the floor. I think I screamed, and Harlan said something like, ‘What’s going on here? Who are you?’”
And then she began to cry again.
“That’s okay. Take your time. The coffee’s here.”
“Harlan said, ‘Who are you?’ and then he mumbled something, and I couldn’t tell what he was saying.”
“Who mumbled something? Harlan?”
“No. The guy. And that’s when Harlan picked up a kitchen chair and threw it at him. He kind of ducked, and that was when I first saw the gun. My heart just stopped, and I couldn’t move. The next thing I heard was a shot. Sort of a pop. But then my ears started ringing, and I knew it must have been louder than it sounded. And Harlan sort of stumbled back against the kitchen table like he’d tripped over something. I wasn’t sure what had happened. I grabbed him to keep him from falling, and the guy just ran out the door.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. He had on a mask.”
“A mask? What kind of mask?”
“You know, a thing that covered his face.”
“Like a Lone Ranger mask, or one that covered his whole head?”
“No. Not his whole head. It was a Halloween mask. Looked like a clown or something.”
“But you saw his skin?”
“His skin? What do you mean?”
“The color of his skin.”
“Oh. He was white. Dark complexion. Dark hair.”
“How tall?”
“I’m not sure. Like I said, he was sort of bent over.”
“What did his voice sound like?”
“I told you I couldn’t understand what he said.”
“I know you couldn’t understand his words. I just mean his voice. Was it high pitched or gravelly or young or old?”
“I’m not sure. Just kind of normal I guess. I’m not very much help, am I? Have you been in to see Harlan?” And then she started to cry again.
“No. Cal is back there with him right now.”
“I’ve got to go back and see him. He was talking and everything when they carried him out on the stretcher. But I’ve got to go back and see him.”
“What about the twins? Where are they?”
“Boy Scout camp. They’re there for the whole week. Thank God they weren’t at home. Can I go back?”
“Not yet. Tell me about the gun. What did it look like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it a pistol or a rifle?”
“It was a pistol.”
“Do you know the difference between a revolver and an automatic?”
Darcy shook her head and hugged her arms tighter as if she was trying to get warm.
Buddy rubbed his face and took a long swig of his coffee. He had more questions, but he could sense she was out of answers. And until she knew her husband was going to be all right, she was in no shape to concentrate on the information he had to get from her. He put his arm around her and did the only thing either of them could do at this point. He waited.
Chapter Five
He dated a lot of girls in his teens, but never anyone he was really serious about. He and Cal and Buddy often triple-dated—they went to movies and softball games in the summer and basketball games in the winter. They all went to the prom their junior and senior years, but the only girl who was a part of all of these adventures was Buddy’s steady, Amanda Peers. Even on the nights Harlan and Cal didn’t have dates, they would tag along with Buddy and Amanda to go eat or go skating at RollerLand. Amanda knew most of the girls Harlan went out with, though she didn’t necessarily approve of or like all of them. There were lots of girls from MJHS and some from the neighboring county schools. She and Buddy and Cal used to laugh at how, just when they got to know one of Harlan’s girls, he’d show up with a new one. This fed the reputation he was building in school and in town. But everybody loved him or admired him—even the girls he wouldn’t date and the guys he stole girls from. While H. V. Stone only thought he was everybody’s friend, Harlan Stone really was. Both could sell themselves in a split second with a simple flash of a smile.
Football season was over their senior year, and spring was coloring the valleys of Virginia a bright, deep green. The three stars of the gridiron decided they would try out for the baseball team. They hadn’t done that since their freshman year, and they thought it would be fun. Coach Randolph was thrilled to have them, as they were three of the best athletes in the entire school. He had been trying to get them back on the baseball field for three years with no success, and with their renewed interest he saw a chance to finally win a regional title if not a state title. Cal Vaxter was his starting pitcher, and Harlan and Buddy were perfect on the hot corners of first and third. But it was their hitting ability he was counting on for the big payoff. With the training and muscles these guys had developed for football, they would be his third, fourth, and fifth-place hitters for sure in every game. But these sweet dreams and big plans culminated in an unexpected, pre-season visit from H. V. Stone. When he knocked on the door of Coach Bill Randolph’s tiny office just off the main floor of the gym, it was obvious what the tenor of the meeting was going to be.
“Mr. Stone.”
“Coach, how in the world are you?”
“Just fine, sir. Come on in, and I’ll try to find you a place to sit. I’ve got magazines and ball equipment all over this place.”
“That’s quite all right, young man. Those are the tools of your trade. The brushes with which you create your art. And you do know that what you do is art, don’t you? Just as sure as if that ball field out there is a canvas and you’re the master creat
ing a beautiful painting with each one of those players being your colors. You stir them and mix them and then place them where you want them, and in the end, you have a magnificent, winning piece of art.”
“Well. I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“It’s the only way. And you’re the right man for the job. You know the game from the inside out. I used to watch you play for the Mt. Jefferson Eagles. You were some catcher. And the catcher is the soul of the team. The pitcher is the star; the best hitter is the hero; but the catcher—he holds it all together and makes it a team. You were the best, Billy. You were the best.”
“Well, thank you, sir. I certainly enjoyed those years playing …”
“And you’re a good coach, too.”
“Thank you. I don’t …”
“You know what I think? I think you’re going to have a winning season this year. You’ve got the Vaxter boy. Good arm. Tireless and strong. You’ve got Briggs on third, and there’s nothing going to get past that boy. You don’t even need a shortstop with him at third. And, of course, Harlan at first. He’s got a glove like flypaper. Shoot, Coach, you won’t even need an outfield when those three boys get through with a batter.”
Coach Randolph didn’t make an attempt to answer or acknowledge the last statement. H. V. Stone never let anyone say anything until he said whatever it was he came to say, and he was just getting started.
“Of course, I’ll be honest with you, Billy. Football is my game. It’s the real man’s game. Hard and rough and real. Blood and flesh mixed in with grass by the time a game is over, to where you can’t tell what’s red and what’s green. That’s a real game. And that’s what I’ve always wanted for my boy. Harlan is a football player. This thing with baseball, he’s just fooling around. Having some fun. But he’s in your hands. And I don’t want him hurt. He’s going to play for Virginia come fall, and I don’t want some crazy kid with a wild arm throwing balls at his head. A man’s head is no match for a baseball, Billy. I don’t want him sliding in to a base and messing up knee joints and ankles. In other words, I don’t want him messed up in some boy’s game so it would hinder him in a real man’s game of football next fall. Do you get my drift?”
“I think there’s a lot more chance of getting hurt …”
“Playing football? Of course, there is, Billy. But it’s also more honorable. If somebody’s going to take my boy out, let it be a man with muscle. He can handle any other boy his age and size on personal contact. And if he doesn’t, then, as I said, there’s some honor in injury. But just between you and me, Coach, don’t let my son get hurt diddling around on the baseball diamond. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear you, Mr. Stone.”
“I’m no fool, Coach. I know that was a noncommittal answer. You didn’t say you understood or that you agree with me. And when I leave, you can justify yourself by saying all you admitted to was that you heard me. But that’s okay. You have to leave a man a little room for dignity, I always say. Don’t you, Billy? Well, I guess I better get back to work. I got my own kind of diamonds to take care of. Somebody might be looking for a diamond necklace before the day’s over, and I certainly don’t want to miss any opportunities. Good to see you, Coach, and I hope you have a winning season.”
Harlan never knew about his father’s visit to the coach’s little office off the corner of the gym floor. Billy Randolph never told anyone except his wife, over the dinner table that night. He considered talking to the athletic director but thought better of it and kept the conversation and all the feelings it commanded in him to himself. He played Harlan Stone the way he had always meant to play him. He played every inning and went to bat as many times as possible in every game. Billy showed him no favors and his father no respect. He prayed before every contest that no boy on either team would see injury during the game, and in the five years he had steered the varsity team, his players had gotten only minor scrapes and bruises. The only time Billy even let himself think about H. V. Stone was when he would spot him in the stands and sometimes when he would close his eyes at night to go to sleep. The words the old man had said to him never bothered him all that much. It was the words he never said back to him that haunted him most.
Chapter Six
Coach Randolph was two games from a regional title and graduation was less than two weeks away, and he knew if he could just keep the six seniors he had on his first string focused for ten more innings of high school baseball, he could put the trophy in the glass gym case and the contract for another two years of coaching in his desk drawer. The home-field advantage for the Eagles was a plus, and a three-run lead in the top of the fourth meant they could get four more turns at the plate if they needed it. Billy Randolph was thankful for the high school rule of seven-inning games because he just knew his heart couldn’t take anymore. The excitement of winning had proved more stressful to him than the previous losing years. Out of the corner of his eye, as he watched his catcher call time and walk to the mound to confer with Cal Vaxter, he caught the dust of a car coming much too fast through the parking lot. As the dust cloud cleared, all his attention was drawn to the man getting out of the driver’s seat. It was city patrolman Ollie Moore. He was walking toward the dugout faster than Billy had ever seen him move; all two hundred and seventy pounds of him nearly running across the gravel walkway with a hand on his holster and the other on his hat to keep the first from flapping and the second from blowing away. He came straight toward where Billy was standing at the side screen by the dugout. He was out of breath, and he kept his voice low.
“Hey, Billy.”
“Hey, Ollie. What’s the hurry?”
“Where’s the Stone boy?”
“In the field. Why? What’s wrong?”
“It’s his daddy. H. V. He’s had a heart attack or a stroke or something. I’m not real sure. But it looks bad.”
Coach Randolph looked up to get the umpire’s attention to call time but then realized the game was still in a time-out. Ollie Moore and his uniform and his urgent body language had gotten everyone’s attention, and they all were looking at the coach and the officer, waiting for a sign or an explanation.
“Harlan,” Billy yelled, “come on in.”
Harlan Stone jogged slowly toward the two authority figures as the stands and the field fell silent. When he got there, Coach Randolph put his hand on his shoulder and spoke directly and softly in his ear.
“It’s your dad. He’s at the hospital. You need to go with Ollie.”
Harlan Stone, first baseman, running back, playboy of the senior class, asked no further questions. He dropped his glove on the bench and picked up his street shoes and followed Sergeant Moore to the still-idling police car. It was his last moment in the world he had known all his life.
For the little information Ollie Moore—city employee and renowned defender of local law—had, he got it right. His mention of both heart attack and stroke proved prophetic. H. V. Stone had been in his jewelry store at 4:35 that afternoon, standing by one of the glass showcases, leafing through a Time magazine. Seeing his son’s baseball game was not a high priority in his life. He had never missed a football game no matter the weather or the distance, but he had let it be known by his inattentiveness that “this bat-and-ball nonsense” was not a contest he planned on watching with any regularity. So while his son was on the field in regional playoffs, he was minding the store with his longtime underpaid employee Maxine, who was dusting the showcases and looking busy until the next customer came in, and his longtime crony employee Fritz, who was in the back with the jeweler glass in his eye. Fritz did all the repairs and engraving and polishing—anything that could make a ten-dollar piece of merchandise look like a hundred-dollar masterpiece. The little bell above the door had dinged, and H. V. looked up.
“Mrs. Shanvell. How in the world are you?”
“Oh, middling. Just
middling.”
“Well, you look like a ray of sunshine to me. How’s that no-good husband of yours?”
“He’s the very reason I’m here. He has just become an Inside Guardian in his lodge.…”
“That would be the Odd Fellows. Well, congratulations to him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Stone. So I was wondering what you would have with the Odd Fellows’ symbol.”
“Oh, I have all kinds of things and can order you even more. We have a lapel pin here with their Triple Links on it. Or I can have that made up for you in a ring. Something gold plated.”
“That would be nice. But he doesn’t like to wear a ring much. They tend to break him out. I think I like the idea of that lapel pin. Mr. Stone? Are you all right?”
H. V. Stone was suddenly leaning with one elbow on the showcase, his head down. His breathing became audible and labored as he looked up at his frequent and loyal customer and said, “Sure, I’m fine, Mrs. … ah … what can I help you with?”
“The lapel pin,” Mrs. Shanvell said with a question in her voice.
“Do you have it?”
“Do I have what?”
“The pin. You said you had a pin … Maxine! I can’t think … get Fritz.”
And without another word, he fell to the floor, and Mrs. Shanvell screamed while Maxine ran to get Fritz.
Harlan arrived at the hospital in the police cruiser the same time his mother arrived from their house in her Ford coupe. She grabbed his hand, and they pushed through the doors together. Neither spoke, but they both knew what the other was thinking. But even as well as they knew him, they didn’t figure on just how tough a character he was. It was a stroke all right, and three days later he had a heart attack lying in the hospital bed. But even the combination of those two mighty forces couldn’t do more than make a dent in the hard-shelled heart and soul that had become H. V. Stone. But that dent was enough to change the lives of the son and wife forever. Herschel Stone wouldn’t die, but he would really never again live life as he had become accustomed to living it. And neither would anyone else around him.
