Billy Goat Hill

by Mark Stanleigh Morris

  As though responding to an announcer’s cue, Carl begins a remarkably soft and dulcet rendition of “God Bless America.” It is strange how the ambiance has shifted from an almost violent caterwaul to sublime calm. Lying here so close to Miss Cherry, I feel like a circus tiger soothed by the trusting presence of my trainer. As the sky blushes toward nightfall, Carl’s melodic praise of God and country is lifted up on a gentle breeze and sent as a sweet gift throughout the neighborhood. I’m thinking maybe Carl is a kind of wise savant, the way the Sergeant said. It takes a wise man to know just when to sing.

  As I gaze above and behold the most beautiful orchid sea, I am immersed in a wonderful sense of security. I feel so loved—a feeling I want to last forever, want to be real. Maybe I just need to know when to sing.

  Miss Cherry takes my hand in hers. She turns her head to me, her lips very close to my ear, and speaks with a soft, mother-like tenderness. “You know, if I weren’t already betrothed to Lyle, and you were twenty years older, I’d marry you in a minute.”

  He did tell her.

  I want to ask her what betrothed means, figuring it must be a term from the secret language of undercover cops. Instead, I decide to ferret it out later. “That’s real sharp, ma’am,” I say, for the moment beguiled into feeling nothing at all like a doofus.

  “Lyle and I won’t be having any children. But I love being around kids, especially you and Luke.”

  “Lucinda wouldn’t mind sharing us with you.”

  With the crickets of spring providing a cacophonous background score for Carl’s loyalist medley, we lie here enjoying the performance like concert patrons at an evening on the green. We gaze to the heavens with the same awe and wonder that human beings have been experiencing for thousands of years. To me the brightest stars are symbols of my innermost thoughts, and I scan from horizon to horizon reviewing the events of the day. Like the earliest astronomers, I scour the constellations in search of the paradigm that will make it all add up.

  I wish I could find my guiding star, or at least a way to uncross my star-crossed life. My biggest problem is I am only eleven years old, and try as I do, I lack the intellectual maturity to solve the complex riddle of emotions that overflow from every cell within me. The adults lying in the grass beside me have made an important impression, but I need more, so much more. I need grown-ups permanently engraved in my life. I wish I could find the strength to tell them how I feel. I wish it all could be so as I ruminate over the vast galaxy above.

  I sit up for a moment and allow myself to float with the sunset.

  Miss Cherry sits up next to me. “This is my favorite part of the day. This is the moment of mellow transition when the day’s events merge into the stillness of the vespertine.”

  “Vespertine…I like the sound of it. What does it mean?”

  “It’s a fancy word for the evening. I think of the vespertine as that magical instant between dusk and twilight. If you blink, you’ll miss it.”

  This is a magical moment for me, my vespertine. Someone up there must be watching out for me; I just know it in my heart. I close my eyes and try to picture a twinkling stellar solution for all my woes, and thoughts of Rodney float across my mind. “Jesus loves you very much.”

  Memories of Rodney’s voice ripple across the sky of my soul. In the form of a prayer, I silently proffer myself as a votive child in hopes of bringing Miss Cherry and the Sergeant closer to me. For deep down in my loneliest of places I know that the truth I desire cannot be found, or understood, without the abetting love of a wise mentor. I just wish it were possible to stay here with them forever.

  The moist chill of night has already fogged her windows when finally the Sergeant puts the key in Queenie and fires her up. Luke and I stand at Miss Cherry’s window. I feel awful not knowing when I will see them again. On top of that, there is no escaping my cowardice in missing the opportunity to confess my sins to the Sergeant.

  It has been a very good day, the best in a long time. But the reality of April fools comes like a slap in the face when Miss Cherry smiles, reaches through the open window, and hugs me one last time. “Good-bye, Wade. I’m very happy I got to spend some time with you.”

  “Me too, ma’am—bye.”

  I try my best to be a man, but I can’t stop the uncooperative tear that trickles down onto the pudding box radio tucked snugly to my chest. I take a quick step back from the car and turn the radio up louder, desperate for a happy song to bring me back under control.

  I am in trouble from the opening drumroll. The greatest rock and roll crooner of all time opens my floodgates wide, his bittersweet empathy burning into me like lashes from a whip. He sings of the painful side of love, of desperate longing for things that can never be, of pitiful crying when pitiful crying is the soul’s only defense against crushing abject sorrow.

  A modicum of leftover pride compels me to turn away and walk toward the house, my head hanging low, Roy Orbison my singing guide. I close the front door and slump to the floor. Tears flow to beat the Arroyo Seco, and only Roy understands the depth of my misery.

  Luke stays by Queenie and handles the last farewell. I turn off the radio, get up from the living room floor, and go into the bathroom to blow my nose. When Luke finally meanders into the house, I am sitting on my bed with my eyes closed. He hums something upbeat and cheerful as he comes over and sits on his bed directly across from me. Two inches separate the toes of our sneakers.

  Mac strolls into the bedroom and jumps up beside me. He licks my cheek, not to be sympathetic or affectionate—he just likes the salty tear trails.

  Carl has stepped it up a notch and is now blasting out a thunderous interpretation of “Wild Blue Yonder.” He usually finishes up on a religious note, probably a strategic move to mollify his wife. Tonight I am sensing he’s in the mood for “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  Behind my closed eyes I am thinking, What a way to live. My life has become a topsy-turvy ride down a churning rapid of wild emotion. In fact, I’m not really living at all. I am more like a slave with no hope for a better future or a better life. Except my master does not pop a bullwhip or wield a club to beat me into submission. My master is a wicked trio of guilt, loneliness, and heartache.

  I know Lucinda loves me with all her heart, and my condition is not the result of her failings. I do not begrudge my mother. If I were capable of blaming anyone other than myself, it would be Earl—but I don’t even blame him. I am my own worst enemy, and deep down I know that I’ll have to find a way to negotiate an armistice with myself. I have enslaved myself, so I’m the one who must find the way to freedom. Only the dead are not slaves, a poet once said. I hope that isn’t true.

  I can handle the days; it’s the nights, the dreams of Three Ponds that keep me in a choke hold. I need my good dreams back, the ones that used to star me and Duke Snider. I need to dream of Miss Cherry and the Sergeant. I need to keep them with me at night, inside these closed eyes. I must try harder to overcome my guilt.

  And still, as I sit here on my bed wrestling with my thoughts, I feel Luke’s presence and know that there is some purpose and good in my life. If not for Luke, I surely would have turned to dust long ago.

  Meanwhile, the silver ball bearing rages like a tempest in my pocket. It does not approve of my taking solace in brotherly love or playing dream ball with the Duke. It does not like me partaking of anything positive. Like a hexed amulet, it tenaciously throbs with disapproval and blocks the forgiveness I so desperately want. The battle rages on.

  Luke sits quietly on his bed and patiently respects my feelings. When finally I sigh and shift my legs, he speaks. “They gave me this, Wade.”

  I open my eyes, and he hands me a sealed, plain white, business-size envelope. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. They said to give it to you. That you should open it because you’re the oldest.”

  I look at the envelope and wonder what it could possibly be.

  A final good-bye note?

  A s
ubpoena?

  An arrest warrant?

  It is torturing Luke that he’s not the one designated to open the envelope. “They said we—um, you I mean—could open it anytime you want.”

  “Well—what do you think this is, Mac?” I hold the envelope to Mac’s nose and let him sniff.

  “Geez! Don’t let the darn dog slobber on it.”

  “What do you think, Mac?” He sneezes, and I, too, notice the smell of Miss Cherry’s perfume on the envelope.

  “Come on you big dumb donkey, open it!”

  “Let’s not be hasty now—it might be a trick or something.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” His face puffs and mantles under his new bulldog coronet.

  Teasing and baiting Luke is good medicine. The bigger the rise I get out of him, the more it recharges my batteries. He is glowing red as a beet, his britches full of ants, and thanks to him I feel a thousand percent better than I did five minutes ago.

  I look at the envelope again. It is addressed: To Luke and Wade, in cursive handwriting with bright blue ink—definitely a feminine hand. I note that Luke’s name is before mine. Being the oldest carries with it an obligation to be magnanimous once in a while. “Here,” I say, surprising the heck out of him. “You open it.”

  Now it’s his turn to surprise me. He pulls out his peewee pocketknife and carefully slits open the envelope, rather than the usual barbaric shredding I expect. He removes a single folded sheet of bond paper and lets the envelope fall to the floor. He unfolds the paper, holds it out in front of himself, and carefully scrutinizes its contents, as though he were censoring a note from his teacher to Lucinda.

  The top half of his occasionally cherubic face appears above the sheet of paper. His eyes change from an expression of curiosity to either ecstasy or horror, I am not sure which, as the paper slips from his fingers and joins the envelope at our feet. There before my very eyes is what can only be described as a true miracle.

  In Luke’s impish little hands are four, third-base-side box-seat tickets for the opening game at the brand-new house that O’Malley built—Dodger Stadium. A million volts of ec-c-c-static electricity zap through my body. “Wow!”

  Luke screams loud enough to drown out Carl, and Mac howls to his ancestors with the power of a hundred full moons. Luke leaps off of the bed and hops around the room. He whoops and squeals with the vehemence of a rainmaker challenging a ten-year drought. Mac and I join the rumpus in a wild romping effort that is not to be outdone by Luke. I grab my new radio and crank the volume knob all the way up just as Bobby Darin’s “Splish Splash” comes over the air.

  Luke hands two of the tickets to me, and we parade from room to room holding the precious little documents high above our heads like the honored regimental standards of a proud cavalry. Two uproarious bantlings we are, strutting little peacocks, lucky leprechauns flaunting the proverbial pot of gold.

  The radio blares out instructions like a coach on the sidelines inspiring his team to victory. We go crazy with excitement, dancing with each other, imitating what we’ve seen on American Bandstand. The songs pour out from the radio, and we respond accordingly, doing “The Twist” side by side, wiggling our behinds and snapping our fingers and pounding on our knees like make-believe bongos. Finally, in one huge encore, Johnny and the Hurricanes launch us into a frenzy that completely wears us out. Beyond the point of exhaustion, we crash back on our beds where the lofty celebration began. Our private party has lasted for over an hour.

  The sweat of my unbridled joy evaporates slowly, cooling me down, leaving more salt crystals for Mac. I watch Luke’s chest rise and fall. He is fast asleep, probably deep into a catbird hunt with his new bully bird dog leading the way. He smiles in his sleep as I work at a stubborn knot in my shoelace.

  I gently remove the tickets still clutched in his hand and match them with the ones that I’ve been revering. I study the four tickets, put them in numerical order, and read and reread all of the important information printed on the front and back sides. I stare at them for a long time. They really are real tickets. Amazing.

  I put them with my Duke Snider baseball card collection that I keep in an old oxbow chest of drawers in the corner of the room. I tuck them under a pair of oversize corduroy pants that I won years before in an audience raffle at the Pinky Lee Show.

  I debate whether to slip under the covers or wait up for Lucinda to tell her about the miracle when I see the sheet of paper and the envelope still lying on the floor. Mac jumps up on the bed as I pick up the paper. There’s some writing on the paper that I didn’t notice before:

  Dear Wade,

  Lucinda said it was okay. “C” and I will pick you and Luke up plenty early so you can watch the players take batting practice and warm up. We’ll have a real blast!

  Your friend,

  Lyle

  PS. I have to go back to Miami for a few more days.

  PPS. Never look back, Wade.

  Miami…so that’s where he got the tan.

  “Never look back,” I say out loud.

  Then deep inside my spirit I hear Rodney’s voice. “Remember, Wade, Jesus is the best friend you can ever have.” I smell horsecakes and smile while I put the piece of paper in the envelope and place it in the drawer with Duke and the tickets.

  “Never look back,” I mutter again. What in the heck does that really mean?

  Mac looks at me with droopy eyes. “Move over, boy. I’m tired, too.”

  I shuck off my jeans, turn out the light, and slip under the covers. Lucinda won’t mind if I don’t wait up for her tonight.

  “What a day, Mac. What a day.”

  He thumps my leg with his tail and licks my cheek.

  Outside my window, Carl croons on.

  I lie here in the dark and listen to Carl pour out his heart. It is kind of sad, really. I understand now that he misses his native Russia, and this is how he expresses his longing. I am his audience, and I realize more than ever how much I identify with him. I reckon we are both misunderstood souls, savants of the vespertine maybe, who are forever seeking but never quite finding our place in the mysterious order of things—life.

  Then I decide I don’t like the idea of being anything like Carl. Carl is a drunk, just like Earl, and I certainly don’t ever want to become a drunk like them.

  I turn the radio on low and hold it by my ear. As Santo and Johnny play “Sleep Walk,” I drift off in a dream of being there when Duke Snider hits three home runs in one game for the third time in his career. And briefly, my discontent and self-pity are driven back into the darkness where they belong.

  Lucinda comes home about an hour after Carl’s vocal chords give out. She isn’t alone. She and a “guest” tiptoe into the house, but vigilant Mac detects them easily. He jerks up in bed on full alert, knocking the radio into my head and awakening me from a light slumber. “No barking,” I whisper.

  Mac settles down, but he is far from happy about a stranger being in the house. Lights go on in the living room, and I hear muffled voices and giggling. Three, two, one, the bedroom door opens, and I know she is looking in on us. I hold Mac still and pretend to be asleep. She leaves the door open a crack as usual.

  Mac could easily barge his way into the living room and confront the stranger, but he chooses to obey my command. A few minutes transpire while I attempt to listen to more muffled conversation.

  This is the first time Lucinda has brought someone home with her, as far as I know. I don’t like it. Earl has been gone for over two years now, and in all this time Lucinda has never shown any interest in men. I thought she was only interested in her work, nothing more.

  Curiosity forces me out of bed. I silently order Mac to stay put and then listen at the door. I gain little information—the sound of ice cubes tinkling against glass, more giggling, and Lucinda’s voice saying what possibly sounds like the name Fred or Ned several times. Then the living room lights go off, and moments later I hear her bedroom door click shut.

  My curiosity g
rows. In T-shirt and underpants, I creep out into the hall and make my way down to Lucinda’s bedroom door. A moment later the light at the floor beneath her door disappears, leaving me standing in total darkness. I hear the man talking now, not so muffled. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.

  The man says, “You’re not going to say, ‘April fools…are you?”

  Then I hear lots more giggling.

  Wait a second! That voice sounds like that mean cop, Shunkman, from that night on Billy Goat Hill. No way, it can’t possibly be that guy. Now I’m playing April fools’ tricks on myself.

  I slink back to the bedroom feeling rattled and powerless. In the dark, I carefully slide the dresser drawer open and reach under the corduroy—just to make myself feel a little better. I slip back in bed feeling as uneasy about being awake as I feel about what usually visits me in my dreams. Some choice. I close my eyes and soon surrender to fatigue.

  Just before the dead man of Three Ponds jumps out from behind the cardboard and shouts, “Hello there, murderer, have you missed me?” Miss Cherry’s voice echoes down from the direction of Billy Goat Hill… “Lieutenant Theodore Shunkman, how nice it is to see you out and about on this lovely evening.”

  At precisely midnight, Carl and his Chevy save me from my nightmare. I awake with a start. I hide under the covers the rest of the night until I hear the guest leave just before dawn. When sunrise has sufficiently brightened the room, I lower the covers. Mac sits on the floor, watching and staring out the window. Something tells me he’s been sitting there on point all night long.

  I pity the poor burglar who ever makes the mistake of picking this house to plunder.

  have risen up some from the nadir of my dilemma. When Luke flashed those Dodgers tickets, it gave me some hope, something to look forward to. I check under the corduroy pants no less than a dozen times per day. The drawer handle can’t take much more.

  I struggle over whether to quiz Lucinda about her late night guest—just to see what she might have to say. I suppose no good can come from raising the subject; I expect her to tell me some sort of elaborate fib, and I’m not sure I want to set myself up to be punctured that way. I probably don’t have the nerve anyway.