But the real reason she was feeling anything but glum was simple: the voice. As she was coming off the field after the third out, looking up into the stands as she jogged toward the dugout, it hit her. She realized whose voice it was. Someone whose face she was never going to find in the grandstand.
It must have been some kind of hallucination, brought on, probably, by stress. The sound of her father's voice saying her name. But even if it was a mistake, some kind of biochemical brain event, she felt better. She heard what she heard, and she felt transformed, energized. She felt as if she'd been given some kind of injection—a shot of her dad. All of a sudden a couple of wild pitches didn't seem quite so tragic.
On the field, Desmond Davis had doubled to right field and then stolen third. He was the go-ahead run. Lloyd Coleman struck out, but with Mario Coppola at bat, Coach Morales signaled for the suicide squeeze play. Mario put down a perfect bunt, and Desmond thundered across the plate.
Molly whooped and hollered along with everyone else and stood with the mob of her teammates and pounded Desmond when he got to the dugout. Molly was happy for him and happy for the team. She also felt tremendously relieved. This was no longer the game she'd lost. She was off the hook.
“Williams on deck,” Coach V shouted over the top of their happy noise. “Vogel in the hole.” It hadn't occurred to Molly that she might be called upon to hit. She grabbed a helmet and found her favorite bat and stepped out of the dugout to loosen up.
Everett Sheets was at bat. He was digging himself in, kicking the dirt with his cleats, getting settled, slowing the game down in his own fashion.
Molly took a swing of the bat and on her follow-through sneaked a peek into the stands. It wasn't professional, but she couldn't help herself. What Molly saw tugged at her heart a little. All the moms and dads, shoulder to shoulder, kids from school, little brothers and sisters scrunched together—Celia right in the middle of the crowd, her head bent over her lap in concentration, stitching like mad. Beyond the grandstands were a few solitary onlookers, keeping their distance. One was a pacing man, too nervous apparently to sit still, Everett Sheets's dad, probably—they had the same curly hair. There were even a couple of dogs, one chewing a tennis ball, another getting its belly scratched by a little girl. All together, the scene could have been a Norman Rockwell painting. It would be called Loved Ones, which was a corny phrase Molly had heard a million times and never really thought about one way or another. Now, for the first time, she didn't just understand it, she felt it.
The umpire called a strike on Everett, and while he re-turned to his excavations in the batter's box, Molly took an-other swing and stole another glance at the crowd.
This time she saw her. Standing off a few paces from the grandstand, all by herself, a solitary figure. Her mother. She must have come right from work. She must have cut out early, which she never did.
Her mom was wearing a navy skirt and jacket, a white blouse, heels. On her lapel there was a pin Molly had made for her years ago as a Mother's Day gift, glue and colored beads, homely but sincere. Back then Molly still believed her mother when she said homemade was best.
To see her here was almost as unlikely, almost as shocking, as it had been to hear her father's voice. Her mother at a baseball game! Another miracle.
When she saw Molly, she gave a wave. It was quick and shy, a mini wave. If you'd blinked, you might have missed it.
Molly wanted to acknowledge her, but she didn't want to be unprofessional about it. She touched the brim of her batting helmet, which seemed like a baseball thing to do. It was her own private baseball sign. It meant “Hi, Mom.” It meant “I'm glad you're here.”
Her mother seemed to get it. She raised her hand and touched the brim of her hat, which she wasn't wearing, so it was a kind of comical gesture—her hand in the air, touching nothing. But Molly understood. It was the thought that counted.
Everett, meanwhile, had grounded out for the third out. Molly returned to the dugout, took off her helmet, and watched her teammates grab their gloves and prepare to take the field for the bottom of the seventh, the last half inning.
“Molly?” It was Morales, standing behind her, watching her watch her teammates take the field.
“Coach?”
“Care to join them?” He was smiling, almost.
“On the mound?” Molly had just assumed that he'd seen enough, that she was done for the day.
“Yes, Molly,” he said. “The mound.” He pointed. “That bump? It's that big circle of dirt in the middle of the field.”
In the last inning Molly didn't hear the voice—she heard her teammates, and Coach Morales, calling out singsong encouragement; she heard Celia hollering and whistling from the stands; she could hear Lonnie humming from behind the plate; she just didn't hear that voice. But she didn't need to.
On the mound Molly felt like she was humming. She felt entirely at ease, somehow. She felt as if she were wearing her dad's old beat-up magic hat. As if no harm could come to her now.
The third-base coach was clapping his hands, trying to rally his team, sounding just a little bit desperate now, but Molly wasn't really tuned in to him. She was throwing to Lonnie's glove, playing catch, the same game of catch she'd started so many years ago. Her butterfly had once again become full of mischief. It performed a couple of tricks even Molly had never seen before, a couple of new dips and dives. It was like a kid showing off. Look at me! it seemed to be saying. Look what I can do!
The first batter tapped a ball out in front of the plate, where Lonnie pounced on it and threw him out. The next batter was Mr. Mustache. He swung helplessly at three knucklers and sat down.
One more out and the game would be over. The next hitter sent a hard ground ball to Lloyd Coleman at shortstop, who fielded it cleanly and then promptly threw it about ten feet over Everett's head at first base.
The runner advanced to second base, and the ball was thrown back to Molly. She noticed that Lloyd had returned to his position at shortstop, but he didn't look right. His chest was heaving. She could hear him breathing in shrill, whistling gasps, like a teapot ready to boil.
Now, upset about making an error, he didn't look like a tough guy. He didn't look like a wannabe thug, he didn't look like the kid who'd so intimidated her. He was just a boy trying not to cry.
Molly did what a good teammate should do. She took a few steps toward Lloyd. Kneeled down and pretended to tie her shoe. Gave him time to compose himself. “Shake it off,” she said. “We'll get the next guy. No problem.”
Lloyd tugged at his cap. “Sorry,” he said. “My fault.”
“Forget about it,” Molly said. “It's nothing. NBD.”
“Right,” he said.
Molly stood up. You made an error! She felt like saying. A bad throw. So what? It's a baseball game. A game. Who really cares? A bad throw? In the great scheme of things? A bad throw? Of course she didn't say that. She understood that your own errors always feel tragic.
Molly took a couple more steps toward Lloyd, and he met her halfway. She held her glove over her mouth the way big league players did when they conferred on the field. Molly figured that they didn't want their opponents to read their lips, but the sight of two men talking through gloves, their faces covered with them, like jet pilots wearing oxygen masks, always amused her. It seemed like such a guy thing.
“My glove smells awful,” Molly said. “How ‘bout yours?”
Lloyd's face relaxed. He looked so relieved, so grateful. What had she given him, really? Not much. How hard was it? Not hard at all. It was easy.
Lloyd covered his face with his own glove then. “Terrible,” he said. Something like a laugh came out from behind the glove. “It smells terrible. Like mink oil and sweat.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Molly glimpsed the umpire coming out to get them moving. “I suppose I should pitch the ball,” she said.
“I suppose,” Lloyd said. He still had his glove over his face, but Molly could see that his eyes were h
appy now. He was ready.
The next batter was a stout, serious-looking boy, biting his lip, squeezing the bat—his whole body was a clenched fist. Molly almost felt sorry for him. Almost. She struck him out on three pitches.
22. YES CRAZY
oan of Arc heard voices,” Celia said. “She was a saint.”
“So did Charles Manson,” Molly said. “He was a psycho.”
They were sitting together on Molly's front steps. It was getting dark. There were clouds rolling in, and it was starting to smell like rain.
“You think I'm crazy?” Molly asked. They'd been talking over the game and had covered almost every angle, rehashed just about every aspect, on and off the field, chopped it thoroughly to pieces—Molly's performance, her mother's surprising appearance, the fact that Lonnie looked good in his gear.
Molly had finally told Celia about what she'd heard. The voice. She knew it was going to sound crazy when she explained it, and it did. But it was not the sort of thing she could keep to herself. Molly had to tell someone, and Celia was her someone.
“Yes,” Celia said.
“Yes?” Molly said. “Yes crazy?”
“Yes crazy,” Celia said. “Absolutely crazy.”
“You think so?” Molly said.
“But good crazy,” Celia said.
“Right,” Molly said. “Because I've always thought of in-sanity as a big plus.”
“You know what I mean,” Celia said. “You're not ordinary. You like to act that way, but you're not. You know how to pretend. You can pass. But you can't fool me. You have a gift. You've been touched. Whatever you want to call it. You have a magic pitch. That's a gift. And you heard your dad today. He was sending you a message. That's another gift.”
Molly thought of the word “gifted.” Sometimes teachers had called her that. Before Honors, she was in the program for the gifted and talented. Molly had always thought “gifted” was just another word for “smart,” but now she understood what it really meant. She said it out loud, “I'm gifted,” and Celia didn't laugh at her.
“You are” Celia said, so forcefully it was startling. “You are gifted.”
They sat together then for a while, neither of them saying anything. It was a good silence. Celia took her stitching project out of a bag and fiddled with that. Molly watched some bats flitting low in the sky, swooping and diving. She listened to the sounds on the street, a dog barking, which she knew was Hank, the gray-faced boxer from down the block, the wind rustling the leaves of the trees overhead.
It was her street, her neighborhood, her life. She knew that someday in the future it would not be hers anymore. But she would remember it, she would treasure it, she would miss it. She would hold it in her heart. She knew that someday she would look back at this very moment and miss it. “Remember that night,” she could hear herself telling Celia years from now. “Remember how we sat on the steps….” She felt like crying. Never had life seemed more beautiful and more sad. Talk about crazy!
Molly heard something then, a rattling and clicking. She looked down the block. There was something coming down the street toward them, a shadow in motion. It was Lonnie on his old blue bike. He turned up the driveway, rode a few feet across the lawn, and dismounted on the fly, letting his bike drop on the grass.
“Molly,” Lonnie said, a little breathlessly. He was wearing a T-shirt and a baggy pair of cargo shorts. His hair looked damp, fresh from the shower. He arrived with such Paul Revere urgency, she expected some big, important news.
Molly hadn't seen him since the general riot of celebration and congratulation on the field after the game. Before she'd been able to get in a word with him, alone, he'd disappeared into the school and the boys’ locker room. She wanted to thank him for being so solid behind the plate.
“Hey, Lonnie,” Celia said, and he seemed to notice just then that she was there, too.
“Oh,” Lonnie said. “Hey, Celia.” And he turned back toward Molly.
“I've got something for you,” Lonnie said.
“The boy comes bearing gifts,” Celia said. “I knew I liked him.”
Lonnie reached into one of his big pockets and pulled out—a baseball.
“It's a ball,” Celia said.
“It's the game ball,” Lonnie said. “I stuffed it in my pocket after the last out. Nobody asked for it back.”
“It's a stolen ball,” Celia said.
“It's like a keepsake,” Molly explained. “A souvenir.”
“Wow,” Celia said. “This is like some kind of ancient ritual. Some Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare thing. Are you pledging your troth?”
“My troth?” Lonnie said. He looked a little scared.
“Knock it off,” Molly said. She took the ball from Lonnie. “Thank you,” she said. It was scuffed and stained with grass and dirt, which Molly liked—that old-school look. The ball felt good in her hand. Her time on the mound that day was already starting to seem distant, even dreamlike. This would remind her it had been real. If it weren't so late, if it weren't already almost dark, she would have asked Lonnie if he wanted to play some catch. She wouldn't mind throwing a little. More craziness.
“Would you care to join us?” Celia said. While Molly had been daydreaming, Lonnie had been standing there, awkwardly and expectantly, as if he were waiting for a tip or something.
“May I?” asked Lonnie, gone all formal suddenly. He was wary of Celia, Molly thought—she had that effect on people.
“Yes, please,” Molly said. “Pull up a piece of step.”
They sat there, the three of them, Lonnie on Molly's left, Celia on her right. Lonnie noticed Celia's project. “What is that?” he wanted to know.
“Good question,” Celia said. “Time will tell.”
Lonnie had more questions for Celia, real questions. He wanted to know all about what she was doing, how she was doing it. Before long Celia was giving him a lesson, Stitching 101, and he was a pretty quick study.
“Do you know how many stitches there are in a base-ball?” Molly asked. It was something she knew. It was the sort of thing an announcer would tell you during a slow point in a game. It was baseball trivia. She must have filed the information away, and now she blurted it out. “A hundred and eight.”
“You know, Lonnie,” Celia said, “you could probably make your own baseballs. Cut some fabric, stuff 'em, and stitch 'em up.”
“I suppose,” Lonnie said.
“Not to play with,” Celia said. “They'd be works of art.”
Celia was riffing now, Molly was pretty sure, just messing around the way she did, but Lonnie looked interested.
“It would be the coolest modern art ever,” Celia said. “The Albright-Knox would be all over it. You could do for baseballs what Andy Warhol did for soup.”
“Hmmm,” Lonnie said. Molly could see the wheels turning.
“You could experiment with different textures, different colors,” Celia said. “You could paint little landscapes on them.”
Molly tried to imagine what it would be like to throw a painted baseball. It might be fun. It would freak out the batter for sure.
“You could do some abstract expressionist thing,” Celia said. “Use different-colored rectangles, maybe, like those paintings we studied by what's-his-name.”
“Mondrian.” Lonnie knew. Was Celia serious? Was Lonnie going to start making baseball art? Molly had no idea. There was no way to predict. What a couple of interesting friends she had.
It started to rain then, just a few irregular, fat drops at first, then more steadily. Under cover of the roof, Molly felt safe and protected. When she was little, she used to sit here and watch thunderstorms. She could see the sheets of rain pounding the streets, sometimes even feel a mist, but not get soaked.
“Your bike,” Molly said.
“That's okay,” Lonnie said. So they sat there, the three of them, not talking, just watching the world get wet.
The door swung open behind them. Molly's mother was standing there with s
omething in her hand. It was dark now. The rain had passed. Molly had been thinking about getting up, about standing and stretching her legs. She had even announced her intention to do just that. She just hadn't gotten around to it.
Celia stood immediately. “Mrs. Williams,” she said. “It's a pleasure to see you.”
Celia had this way with adults. She shifted into a style that was excessively polite, almost. She would be formal, so formal it was clear that it was a kind of game, one that parents could play, too. She managed to be respectful and playful both—smart, but not a smart aleck. Not many kids could pull it off, but Celia could.
Molly's mom smiled. “It's a pleasure to see you, Celia,” she said. “It always is.” Molly could see that what her mother was holding was a tray with some tall glasses on it.
“I like what you've done with your hair,” Celia said. “It's very becoming.”
“Thank you,” her mother said.
“I believe you know Lonnie,” Celia said, and gestured in his direction. He stood up, sort of, in a kind of awkward crouch.
“Hello, Lonnie.”
“Hi,” he said.
“I was thinking you might be getting thirsty,” Molly's mother said. “Would you care for some lemonade?”
Lemonade? Lemonade? If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Molly had heard that plenty of times. Probably it was something her dad had said. But Molly doubted there was a single lemon in their kitchen. Where did her mother come up with lemonade? Molly didn't know about any frozen or powdered lemonade in the house either, nothing in a can or a carton. Her mother wasn't even the lemonade type. And yet there it was, big as life, three tall glasses, complete with straws and clinking ice.
The Girl Who Threw Butterflies Page 13
