Gold Dust

by Chris Lynch

  I got right up behind him, right at his back, and reached around him with both arms so that we were both gripping the bat. Then I leaned us both back away from the pitcher’s mound, taking some weight off our front feet, changing our balance completely.

  “Nothing personal,” I said.

  “No. Nothing personal.”

  “Feel that?” I said. “Feel the difference there?”

  He didn’t say anything, but I could feel in the way he bounced lightly on the rear leg.

  He got it. He shifted, back, forth, back, forth, feeling the difference. He swung, replanted, swung. He held his stance and stared ahead, visualizing the pitch, then swinging through the invisible ball.

  Finally, he allowed himself a small grin.

  “See,” I said. “See what cricket almost did to you? Good thing I showed up.”

  “Go on, feed the machine,” he said, already crouching, coiled, waiting to let loose.

  GIRL 17

  AS A RULE, I don’t like exceptions. I like rules.

  Beverly, however, was an exception. We called her “Redheaded Beverly” to distinguish her from regular Beverly. Regular Beverly had sandy hair and had attended St. C’s since first grade and walked to school because she was from the neighborhood. Redheaded Beverly, on the other hand, was interesting and weird and not like anybody else.

  One of the ways she was different was that she was a Ward 17, the only girl 17, so the lifelong St. Colmcille’s Community kids never completely seemed to get her. Another way she was different was that nobody from Ward 17 seemed to get her either.

  We were talking, Redheaded Beverly and I, in the schoolyard, which we did most mornings before the bell. It was the best place and time to talk to a girl, because it was almost as if you weren’t doing it. The entire population of St. C’s students was out and buzzing, acting the nutters, playing throwball or pitching pennies or just running around headless. And though you never could find out who was doing it, it was a constant that there was mad screaming going on at all times in the schoolyard.

  So while you wouldn’t think it was possible, you could actually exist in this little bubble in the center of all that and have real conversations with real people—even if they were girls—in the middle of all that.

  “I like baseball fine,” she said, “but I don’t think it is the most important thing in the whole world, like you do.”

  I took a shot. “I don’t think it’s the most important thing in the whole world, Beverly.”

  “Yes you do.”

  Should I try again? Could I?

  “Well it is,” I said.

  Here’s one of those things about Beverly that’s pretty decent. She wouldn’t fight with you. If she disagreed and wanted to let you know that but still get on with the conversation, she would say blah-blah-blah.

  “Blah-blah-blah. But if it were me, and I were trying to show a person new to the country what it was all about here, I’d take him to the symphony. Boston has one of the world’s greatest orchestras. Their conductor, Seiji Ozawa, is a huge international superstar.”

  “Um, Ozawa? Sorry Bev, but if I’m going to introduce my friend to American culture, I’ll probably start out with people who at least sound like they’re American.”

  “Oh, like Carl Yastrzemski.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Dur, Richard. Like there were more Yastrzemskis than Ozawas at the Battle of Bunker Hill, is that it?”

  “Well,” I said after careful thought, “probably. ...”

  “Blah-blah-blah. There were exactly the same number.”

  Sister Jacqueline, the principal and my homeroom teacher, appeared then in the yard with her mighty bell. That meant in a few minutes she’d be clanging away and we would have to line up.

  “Okay Mr. All-American, I’ll make you a deal. Let’s take a quick poll, right here in the yard. I’ll bet you a buck more kids can spell Ozawa than Yastrzemski.”

  I was about to let out a loud mock of a laugh but quickly, as my mouth hung open, made a stab at the spelling myself. Uh-oh.

  “Carl Yastrzemski is an American institution,” I said instead. “And I don’t think you have any right—”

  “You can’t spell it either, huh?”

  She was always like this. Difficult. Always making things complicated. Regular Beverly would have understood better.

  “Read the papers,” I said. “Real Americans call him Yaz.”

  “I’ll go one step further, even,” she pressed. “If you can find me more people who can spell Yastrzemski than can spell Ozawa, then I will go with you and Napoleon to a Red Sox game.”

  Now this was an offer. I was a little nervous—we weren’t talking about Carl Smith here after all—but more excited. And I had to have faith that my people could do this. I clapped.

  “However,” Beverly said, “if I win, you know where the three of us will be going, don’t you?”

  Rats.

  Together we began the test. Beverly and I started patrolling the yard trying to collar kids for the quiz. But even that proved difficult because the very sight of Sister Jacqueline and her bell set the whole place into extra rev motion as everybody tried to squeeze the last drops of pre-boring school life out of life.

  “Yo! Hey. Whoa. You there.” We tried, but nobody had the time.

  And I was increasingly pleased. Yastrzemski. Yastrzemski? What was I thinking? The girls I knew mostly had no interest in baseball, and the boys had enough on their plates trying to spell their own names. I was starting to picture myself sitting in Symphony Hall, in a coma.

  Ring, bell, ring.

  I have to admit, I lost my nerve so badly I finally angled our search over toward Sister Jacqueline, who had gotten herself wrapped up in a conversation with the custodian, Mr. Mendelson, and had drifted past bell-ringing time.

  “Sister,” I said. “Aren’t we late?”

  Sister took a quick gander at her watch, and sure enough started pumping that big brass beautiful bell so hard it was as if she thought she could pull back that lost ninety seconds of our education with the force of it.

  “Chicken,” Beverly said to me. Then she topped me. Went straight to the top.

  “Okay then,” Sister said. “That’s a good one. Let’s see. O-Z-A-W-A.”

  “Ya rat,” I whispered to Beverly.

  “And Y-A-S-T-R-Z-E-M-S-K-I.”

  Nuns. Is there anything they can’t do? I sighed with relief. Tie. Bet’s off. Until...

  “O-Z-A-” Mr. Mendelson began, after Sister called him back from his appointed rounds.

  One right.

  “Y-E-Z—”

  Come on, Mendelson, ya fink.

  “This is fun, and an interesting point, Beverly,” Sister Jacqueline said. “Let’s take it inside and try it out on the whole class.”

  Very bad idea. “Wait, wait, no, Beverly, we forgot to add first names. They have to spell the first names too. For me, Carl. For you, Seiji.”

  The two of them ganged up on me and shot down my proposal. Shot down even more mercilessly was my chance in the bet. I got creamed. Of the thirty-two kids in our class, about one quarter got neither name right. Four got both right.

  But in the important swing-vote category... I stopped counting the correct Ozawas once the figure reached twenty. As for Captain Carl... several boys punted and tried to get away with spelling Yaz. I figured after fifteen years in a Red Sox uniform it was high time he Americanized it anyway, but Sister did not agree. One girl began the spelling with a U. A couple more went straight from the Y to the S. Almost nobody could figure out what to do with the stupid Z, and to tell you the truth by the end I was angry enough at the guy to agree with them. He even threw us by moving the Z into a whole nother spot when he nicknamed himself, which I also mentioned in my defense, with no success.

  Sister made great use of the opportunity, turning the contest into a fascinating progression of phonetic, geographic, and civic lessons. She led a discussion on what constitutes culture, and wha
t constitutes “American.” It was all very nice and all very interesting, and gave a person no extra citizenship points for being a baseball player. She was clearly biased.

  Which was fine for Sister Jacqueline. She didn’t have to go to the stupid symphony.

  Napoleon Charlie Ellis was late that morning. He walked into the middle of the discussion and took his seat next to mine at the back of the class. Sister caught him on the fly, pulling him right in.

  He got them both right.

  MULLIGATAWNY SOUP

  “I NEVER TOLD YOU about my family, did I?”

  I was almost at school, enjoying a fairly blissful crisp and lonely walk through crusted thin snow. I normally walked alone to school, which was fine with me, and there were some days that felt more alone than others. This had been one of them, and it was welcome. It wasn’t cold in my head that morning, it was balmy. And it wasn’t white or slushy brown, it was green, everywhere, ragweedy and dewy. To be honest, Boston during the months after Christmas and before Easter can be nobody’s paradise, and it’s good if you can imagine yourself someplace better. I can do that, have always been able to. I’m lucky, I figure.

  But it helps to be alone.

  “I said, I never told you about my family,” Napoleon repeated. He was a bit winded, apparently from catching up to me. That cold air will cut up the lungs some days, especially if you’re not used to it.

  I heard him the first time, but I was not being rude. It was more like when you’re being woken up for school, you don’t want to be, but you are being shaken and shouted at, and it takes some time before you can get the hearing thing and the responding thing together.

  “I never asked,” I said. “Figured it was your business.”

  “I don’t mind discussing it.”

  “You don’t have to, though. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t mind, actually.”

  Jeez. What did I do? One second, there I was camped under a nice simple fly ball with a warm breeze in my face, and the next second I’m wrapped up in a guy’s family. I didn’t want to be wrapped up in any guy’s family.

  “Sure, Napoleon, tell me about your family,” I said, even if this all sounded weird and unnecessary to me. I knew all I needed to know about everybody. And everybody knew all they needed to know about me. That was the joy of never going anywhere, never meeting anyone. Unfortunately, I supposed, Napoleon had to be allowed a little catching up. But just a little.

  “I am only here with my father,” he said. “My mother stayed in Dominica with my older brother, Neville. He is going to graduate this term, and so they decided to stay until the end of the school year. My father had to start his job this term, so it was decided we would come now, together, and I would begin getting settled in school, meeting people. ...”

  I looked at him. I pointed at myself. “Me. You needed to get a jump on meeting me?”

  “Yes,” he said, fighting a little smile. He usually didn’t have to fight all that hard, as smiles didn’t often attack Napoleon. Not since he’d been in Boston at least.

  “So then, what, did you just wake up this morning with the urge to tell me about your family?”

  “No,” he said. Thought about it. “Yes,” he said. Then, “No.”

  “Hey Napoleon, you want me to leave while you settle this amongst yourselves?”

  “No,” he said, closing his eyes, getting himself together. He didn’t have long. We were almost at school.

  “It’s my father... he worries... that I might not be, meeting people. Might not be, acclimating, settling in. That I’m not getting along socially.”

  “I see,” I said. “Um, well he’s right, isn’t he?”

  “I know he is right,” he snapped.

  We were at the school doors. I got there first, held the door for Napoleon. I spoke as he walked past me. “And so instead of getting to know a lot of people a little bit, you’re going to try and get to know one person a lot? I don’t think it works like—”

  “So then tell me about your family.”

  Oh, no. This was really not my idea of chat. No batter, no batter. Humm, baby. I got it, I got it. That’s my idea of a personal statement.

  “Relax, will you?” I said, stalling. “Your dad’s not gonna quiz you tonight, is he?”

  “I cannot relax. There is no time. Are you my friend?”

  I did not think I had ever been asked that by anybody. If pressed, I would have said that I didn’t think anybody, anywhere had ever been asked that question. Not for real, anyhow. Not unless it was a joke. Why would anybody have to ask a question like that? You would just sort of know, wouldn’t you? If a person feels like a friend, that’s a friend, and you find yourself hanging out together, so you just do it and don’t ask questions. And if a person doesn’t feel like a friend then you would kind of know that too and you wouldn’t be spending time with them and so the business of asking wouldn’t be likely to come up anyhow. And if you weren’t sure?

  If you weren’t sure, I would figure the question would be too embarrassing to ask.

  Napoleon Charlie Ellis stared at me.

  The bell started clanging away.

  “We have to get inside,” I said.

  He continued with the staring thing. Staring me down with that expression that seemed to have loads of questions and demands in it. Working me with eyes that could peel layers off you like acid, until you gave up, answered him, confessed.

  “Ya, I’m your friend. All right? Can we go inside?”

  “Good,” he said, brushing past all businesslike, like he didn’t care all that much anyway. Which, I didn’t know a lot, but I knew that was a lie. “Good,” he repeated, “because I told my father you were.”

  I followed him in. So? was what I was thinking. Was this really that big a deal?

  I didn’t ask him out loud, though. I was afraid he would answer.

  “We have a special surprise for you this morning,” Sister Jacqueline said. “A speaker.”

  We don’t all speak with one voice often in Sister Jacqueline’s class, but she can always bring us together with the simple mention of the word “speaker.” I think it’s middle C we all groan in.

  “I think we can do better than that,” she said, unfazed by our lack of enthusiasm. “Our guest this morning is one of the world’s leading authorities in his field. ...”

  “In his field? We gotta listen to a farmer speech?” Manuel asked.

  Everybody laughed. Even Sister Jacqueline laughed. This was one of the better elements of being here in St. C’s, at least in this particular class. Sister ran a fairly loose ship, and as long as we didn’t take liberties, we were allowed some floor. Especially if you were funny, you were allowed some floor. Manny had the floor a lot.

  “No, as a matter of fact, our guest’s field is literature.”

  We reached high C with that groan.

  “He is a professor of creative writing and Caribbean literature over at Boston University, and has generously donated his time to...”

  Sister continued her glowing introduction, but my attention was pulled by Napoleon slinking down in his seat and covering his eyes.

  “What’s up with you?” I asked.

  “My father,” he said.

  “Really? That’s him? Cool.”

  “Yes? How would you like for your father to come and speak to your classmates?”

  “And what, lecture us about mufflers and brake pads? I’d love to see him try. No, my man, you’re the lucky one. This’ll be fun.” I reached over and gave Napoleon’s forearm a squeeze.

  “Please, let it not be fun,” Napoleon said.

  “Sorry, that’s out of my control,” I said.

  “... welcome Doctor Malcolm Ellis,” Sister concluded, as Dr. Ellis strode into the room and we all politely clapped for him.

  He was a serious-looking guy, about six foot one, with a lean face that had sharp angles like it was carved from stone, tightly cut graying hair, a trim mustache, and black frame glasses. He wor
e a pearly gray overcoat that he removed to reveal a dark blue suit with a vest. And a long scarf. Sister took his things and disappeared, leaving Dr. Ellis to us. We were silent, and more polite than we were for the average speaker, as he looked us over, expressionless. Then he smiled, and an entirely different face opened up as the flesh of his face rose and inflated, making roundness where there were those hard edges before.

  Manny raised his hand. Dr. Ellis nodded at him.

  “Doctor, I have this problem with nosebleeds—”

  “Try cutting your fingernails shorter, son,” he answered before Manny could even close his mouth.

  We love Manny. But we love to see Manny get topped. Most of the class laughed out loud, and clapped. But not everyone.

  “I rode two buses to see a minstrel show,” somebody from the back said in a low voice. Napoleon glanced over his shoulder, then faced front again.

  “Good one, Doc,” Manny said, pointing at the speaker. “I like that. Can I have it?”

  “You may if you can tell me what it would be called if you appropriated my work in writing, without permission.”

  “Plagiarism,” Manny shot back.

  “Ah, we are a well prepared group. That is good. For I am really only here to check the quality of my son’s education.” The broad smile opened wider as Dr. Ellis peered down at his son. His son smiled weakly. Everyone looked at Napoleon now.

  But, aside from the basic and obvious fact that it was the guy’s father, there seemed to be no reason to be embarrassed. As far as speakers went, the good doctor was not bad.

  He launched into a history of Caribbean literature, which didn’t figure to be on any test so I didn’t listen too hard. But what I did catch, and found impossible to ignore, was the sound of him. He spoke with a style, with a kind of music to him that was enough to hold some part of your attention no matter how boring his subject was.

  He seemed to hum, as he spoke, and sometimes to be laughing although I would catch this and look up and find that he wasn’t laughing at all but was in fact speaking intensely on some bit of literature that even the best of our students cared about only a little and the rest of us couldn’t even fake. There were moments when you could have been pulled all the way in, when he talked about somebody named Lovelace, and some mad-sounding book with dragons and carnivals and when he was whipping it up you thought, Get me that book. Until you realized Dr. Ellis was performing, selling little bits of a thing like they did in commercials, and the thing itself was going to wind up meaning all but nothing to the likes of you, so reading an entire book of it was out of the question.