“We can miss too, Murphy,” Meyer yelled back. “Remember that. We can too.”
Murph muttered something under his breath, adjusted his cap, then focused his attention on Mickey.
“Let’s go, Mick. Enough of this. Hit the glove. Hit Lester’s glove. Let’s go.”
Mickey heard Murph’s encouraging words, but somehow the other voices, the ones hurling invectives in his direction, seemed louder. It hurt his ears. His eyes were burning, too, still preoccupied by that empty seat. He walked around the perimeter of the mound, breathing deeply, repeating Murph’s command in his mind before stepping back on the rubber. His eyes vacillated between the signs Lester was flashing to the area behind home plate and that empty seat. If it wasn’t for Lester pounding his glove and calling to Mickey to bring the heat, he may never have reared back and fired the next pitch—which was another fastball equally wild to the opposite side of the plate. Murph shook his head and silently cursed Ozmore, especially when the crowd started buzzing. It was hard enough to appease the clubhouse critics, but once the fans started voicing their displeasure he was really going to have an issue.
“I hear ’em, I hear ’em,” he said to Keely before he had a chance to say anything. “I won’t let him go too long.”
Mickey’s third delivery missed its mark, too, something that had Murph on the top step considering doing the unthinkable. He had never before pulled a pitcher after just one batter and certainly didn’t want to start now with Mickey. Besides, he had nobody else warm yet. But the kid was crumbling and the crowd growing more restless by the second. His only hope, if he had to go get him this early, was to have the boy feign an injury so that whomever he brought out of his bullpen would have plenty of time to get ready. He had just about hatched the entire plan and was about to put it all in place when a sound rang out that stopped him as if he had run into an invisible wall.
“Strike one!”
Murph turned to look at Mickey, who was toeing the rubber now with a look of quiet conviction. His motion was smooth and effortless, almost poetic in its execution.
“Strike two!”
There seemed to be, all at once, a force at work that now belied the desperation of the situation.
What the hell? Murph asked himself.
He scanned the field for a clue but only saw the same incredulous look he had on his own face on the faces of the other eight out there. He looked into the Pirates’ dugout next, where he noticed that every man wearing black and yellow was standing, watching open-mouthed as if they had just seen a ghost or some other supernatural entity. They were befuddled.
Murph shrugged. It made no sense to him, none in the least, until he caught a glimpse of a young lady with soft eyes and long sandy curls sitting in her seat watching the game. She had just arrived at the park, and as she made her way to her seat, she held up her hand to Mickey and mouthed the words good luck before sitting down. Murph never saw that. But the sight of Jolene in her seat and Mickey smiling was enough to have him back on the bench, legs crossed, fears vanquished.
“Strike three!”
It was from that position that he watched the remainder of the game. When it was all said and done, Mickey had fanned fourteen Pirates in all and allowed just three hits en route to one of the most dominating performances of the season. The Bee Hive was vibrating all night with thunderous applause and cheers for the young man that Braves’ fans were only just now getting to appreciate. Naturally, the festivities that had accompanied all of Mickey’s starts at Borchert Field paled in comparison, but there were indicators everywhere that it was about to begin all over again.
Midway through the game, one of the more creative of the thirty-seven thousand faithful fans who was sitting in the center field stands began a homage to Mickey’s mound domination, celebrating each strikeout by pasting on the cement overhang a series of Ks that he made from hot dog wrappers, a charcoal briquette, and chewing gum. Others who were less creative chose to honor their newfound hero in a much more traditional manner, chanting in unison “Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!” each time the young man came on and off the field. And there was a swarm of reporters by Mickey’s locker following the boy’s brilliant performance, all clamoring for a little time with the young phenom they were all calling “The Bean Town Burner.” Even the Braves players who ordinarily were the object of the media’s attention had to smile at the storm of interest in Mickey. The only one who was not swept away by all the hoopla was Ozmore, who showered, got changed, and left the ballpark all within a half hour. But not before Murph got a chance to say something to him, something he’d been crafting throughout the game.
“Hey, Ozzy, I sure am glad you don’t have any problem with those two kids being friends,” he said, winking. “Sure is something special, huh?”
Murph expressed a similar, albeit far more sincere, sentiment to Jolene, who he was fortunate to catch just as she and Mickey were leaving together.
“Boy, am I sure thankful you showed up today,” he said, smiling. “And just in the nick of time.”
Jolene appreciated Murph’s gesture, but it made her sad as she recalled the awful exchange that she had with her brother just hours before the game.
“Well, thank you,” she said. “Sorry I was so late. I had a little trouble getting to the ballpark. Wasn’t sure if I was going to make it at all actually, but sometimes you have to go with what you know is right. Know what I mean, Mr. Murphy?”
Her response seemed to free some encumbered spirit deep inside. All at once, everything was imbued with sharper focus and vitality. The air was sweeter and the lights outside the stadium burned with limitless splendor.
“I sure do, young lady,” he said. “I sure do.”
A short time later, Mickey and Jolene walked for a while, a careless jaunt that took them down Commonwealth Avenue and across some smaller streets, the last of which narrowed into a long, winding path comprised of dry earth and cracked concrete that broke apart beneath their feet as they strolled. The crumbling road twisted and turned interminably before giving way to an open area flanked by towering sycamores and a vast expanse of grass that lay sleepily beneath the muted glow of yellow light wafting from the iron street lamps. Here and there, figures glided in the soft shadows, disappearing now and again until the only real indicator of their presence were the whispers and soft laughter they emitted. Mickey and Jolene followed the sounds to a wooden bench, where they sat for a while.
“You sure did make a lot of Braves fans happy today, Mickey,” Jolene said while they stared up at a brilliant gathering of stars that appeared to be pressed against a canvas of black velvet. “That was really incredible.”
“I like baseball,” Mickey said. “Pitching is fun most of the time.”
She laughed and shifted her eyes over to him. “Yeah, I imagine anyone who can do what you can would find it fun.”
He was still looking up at the sky as she spoke.
“That over there is the Great Bear, Jolene,” he said, pointing to a group of stars. “You see him? If you look at the Big Dipper over there, and those two stars that make the outside part of the bowl, and follow them a ways, you can see him.”
“Yeah, yeah, I think I can see him,” she said smiling. “I mean I think I do. The only constellation I could spot when I was a kid was Orion, on account of his belt. Those three stars right there. Never was much into the others when I was a little girl. I would mostly just stare at them and pretend they were diamonds that I could reach up and grab and hold in my hand.”
“Oh there are lots of them to see,” he continued. “Over there, that’s Aries, the Ram, and there is the flying horse, Pegasus, and over there are the Gemini Twins, and there is—”
“How do you know so much about the stars, Mickey?” she asked, pushing the hair away from her face so that she could see him better.
“There is Leo the Lion. You can see his head and mane right there.”
“I see it, I do,” she said. “But come on. Tell me. How do you
know all this?”
He tilted his head down and turned to her, caught momentarily by the way the starlight gleamed off her hair.
“My mama taught me,” he said. “She taught Mickey everything. From a book first, then just by sitting with me and looking up.”
Her mind swirled as she thought about what he had just told her. “And you’re sure nobody taught you how to play baseball?” she asked. “Not even how to throw the ball?”
“Lots of folks helped Mickey learn baseball,” he said. “Mr. Murphy, Pee Wee, Boxcar, and Farley. There was Woody, and Arky, and Jimmy Llamas. They all helped Mickey learn baseball. Lester and—”
“No, no, silly,” she said laughing. “I know that. I mean did anyone teach you about baseball. You know, when you were a little boy?”
He grew quiet, completely unprepared for the flood of memories her words unleashed. He sat for some time, his gentle rocking the only visible sign that he was still with her.
“Mickey, is everything okay?” she asked, placing her hand on his.
“Papa said that there were no use for games on a farm,” he said, breaking the silence almost tearfully. “Especially for a water head like Mickey. Only thing I was good for was baling the hay and making the slop for Oscar and the other pigs. I was real good at that. Oscar loved them apples. Mama taught me poems and about music and skipping stones and how to make a house out of cards, but never told Papa. If he found out he’d just get mad and start yelling and throwing things and hitting us.”
Instantly she was lost in a succession of memories. The horrible yellow wallpaper in her bedroom. Her father’s voice, cold and abusive, and the smell of whiskey when his breath found her nose. The long nights spent by herself, staring out the window at a world moving swiftly by. The message that both her parents managed to convey with ruthless regularity—the message that made her think and believe that she was less than ordinary and had no business pursuing anything that others could.
“It’s funny, you and me,” she said. “Looking at us, nobody would ever guess how much alike we really are.”
Mickey took time to examine her entire face, feature by feature, before moving his eyes in a more cursory fashion across her entire body. “You and me ain’t alike none, Miss Jolene,” Mickey said. “I have brown eyes and yours are green. I am tall and you’re a little shorter. My hair is dark and short and yours is—”
“Okay, okay,” she said. She stroked his hair, slowly so that she could feel the thick wisps of brown in between her fingers, and kissed him on the cheek. “You are really cute, Mickey Tussler, you know that? Really cute.”
They walked back to her house, hand in hand, under a magnificent moon that splashed a silky sheen across the sidewalks. The air was cool and fresh and carried on it the distant song of crickets and some other night dwellers. They talked some more about growing up and the things that bothered each of them and those things that made them smile. It was free and easy. Jolene had never laughed so much in one night. She found that Mickey was the most refreshing person she had ever met. She was certainly not in the habit of hanging onto every word a person spoke, but she found herself doing just that as they strolled along. Mickey had just finished talking about the way he always ate his mashed potatoes and was about to tell her all about the owls back in Indiana when a car pulled up next to them.
“Do you know how late it is, Jolene?” the driver asked. “Do you?”
Her face lost its softness and twisted into an ugly mask.“Go away, Buddy. We are heading home. It’s fine. Murph is picking Mickey up at our house. We were just walking and talking.”
“That’s right, you were. No more. Now get in this car right now. I’m taking you home.”
“I am not a little—”
“Listen, Jolene, don’t make me get out of this car and—”
“Stop it! Stop it right now, Buddy! Just leave us alone. Drive yourself home and I will meet you there shortly. You’re making a scene.”
“Jolene, are you going to get in this car or not?”
She did not answer him. She just kept walking with Mickey slightly behind and Buddy rolling alongside her.
“Jolene, get in this car or I’m—”
“Jolene does not want to get in the car, Buddy,” Mickey said without warning. He had caught up to her and was standing right beside her now. “Didn’t you hear her say that?”
Buddy threw the car in park, turned his body to the side, and leaned toward the opposite window so that he could face both of them squarely.
“What did you just say, buckshot?”
“Buddy, stop it. Right now. Don’t you start with him now.”
“No, no. If Romeo here wants to say something, I’m ready to listen. Come on, Romeo. You got something to say?”
“Mickey’s not Romeo,” the young man replied flatly. “Mickey is Mickey. From the team, Buddy. Remember? Mr. Murphy says we are like family. You know Mickey.”
Frustration flowed through Buddy. “You’re kidding me, right?” he said. “Really, Jolene? This is what you’re willing to fuss over?”
The whole scene began to dissolve in front of her—slowly—as if merely watching from a safe distance. It might have played out a dozen different ways, each preferable to this. The thought was paralyzing at first, then served to ignite inside her a rebellion whose seeds had been sown years before.
“You listen to me, Buddy Ozmore,” she said as she thrust her head through the open window opposite her attacker. “I am walking home with Mickey now. I will be walking with him tomorrow too. And the day after that. We may even eat together or see a movie. And I am telling you right now, stay out of it. I am not a child, and you are not my father. So leave me the hell alone and just worry about yourself.”
Her words were loud and pointed and reverberated in the dark spaces between the buildings and houses. Her outburst was so explosive that even she did not know what to do afterward. So she took Mickey’s hand and started to quietly walk, her eyes fixed directly in front of her.
Buddy was far more animated. He slammed his open hand on the steering wheel and began rolling after her. “That’s fine, little lady,” he screamed before speeding off into the night. “But you listen and listen good. You’ve done it now. For real. So you have your little walks and talks and whatever else it is you think you want to do with this weirdo. But when it all turns to shit, and you see I’m right—like I always am—don’t come crying to me.”
CAN OF CORN
Despite Ozmore’s protests and threats, Mickey and Jolene continued to see each other. Jolene found in Mickey someone who would allow her to be herself, free from judgment and expectation. And Mickey looked at Jolene with eyes of wonder. There was something familiar and warm and safe about her, even though he hadn’t known her for all that long. But there was also a rising undercurrent of new feelings attached to her, ones he had never felt before.
Being with Jolene was easy, even with Buddy’s objections. These were unchartered waters for Mickey, whose entire life had been spent in the throes of struggle. When he was very young, the signs of this struggle were frequent and disturbing. The inability to perform even the most rudimentary tasks, like reading or completing puzzles, resulted in him kicking walls and slamming his fists against his forehead. It enraged Clarence, who tried to remedy the issue with his own fists. All it did for Molly was break her heart.
As Mickey grew older, Molly employed other strategies to help Mickey cope with his inability to execute certain tasks and the frustration that always followed. She would often take his hands and rub them until the fit had run its course or divert his attention away from what was plaguing him by singing or playing the clarinet when Clarence was not around. When those activities became impractical and ceased to work, she moved to more calculated measures, like loosening his collar and rubbing the back of his neck or simply removing him from the situation at hand. These stratagems were all effective for a while, but the grim reality that she would not always be around to help him h
aunted her. That’s when she decided to teach Mickey her favorite poem, “Silver,” by Walter de la Mare.
At first she would sit him on her lap when he was in the midst of one of his episodes and softly, gently recite the words in his ear. The words had a soothingly hypnotic effect on the boy. “Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon.” It wasn’t long before Mickey learned the words himself and would recite the lines with her as she spoke. “This way and that, she peers and sees, silver fruit upon silver trees.” It became their special thing—and always worked when he was feeling threatened or just out of sorts. When he grew older still, and she was not around to recite the words for him, she discovered much to her relief that he had adopted the practice and could execute it all by himself. “Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog.”
Mickey had not had to rely on this crutch as much lately, although he still invoked the words now and again when his world began tilting in ways he could not negotiate. But Jolene had seemed to balance him and everything around him so that when he finally spoke the words again, it was only to share them with her during one of their conversations.
“Your mother taught you that?” she asked. “That is so sweet, and the words—they’re beautiful.”
She held his hand as the two of them sat on her front porch, gazing up at a moon that revealed itself in a starless sky almost on cue.
“My mama taught me lots of things,” Mickey said. “She’s real smart.”
“Sure sounds like it,” Jolene said. “Sounds like she really loves you too. That must be a nice feeling.”
She could not help but think of her own mother and how the woman she called Mom was absent from her life in so many vital ways long before she had passed away. She could recall as a young girl trying everything to get her mother’s attention and maybe, just maybe, a warm embrace. She saw how her parents, especially her mother, had fawned over Buddy and his extraordinary athletic ability. So she had tried everything she could get her hands on—croquet mallet, basketball, roller skates, tennis racquet—anything to turn her mother’s head her way. But her lack of physical dexterity and coordination and her mother’s indifference rendered each endeavor a colossal failure.
Welcome to the Show Page 14
