I looked at Martin’s face. We didn’t say anything else. We just walked back to the house. We walked through the back door into the kitchen. All of Martin’s dirty magazines were on the table and open to the fold-out pictures.
“Not again.” Martin sighed.
“You filthy boy.” Ma pulled her hair, wet from perspiration, out of her face. “You pull on yourself.”
Martin turned and walked out.
“Don’t you leave this house!”
Martin stopped and turned around.
Ma walked to me and put her arm around me. “Why can’t you be a good boy like Craig?”
Martin sighed again.
“Oh, Martin, you’re just like your father. He’s out now, up to no good. The mighty Dr. Suder. He says he’s gotta go see if Sara Harris is about to have her baby, but I know better. He’s with that Lou Ann Narramore from down at the drugstore.”
“That’s not true,” Martin said.
“Why can’t you be a good boy like Craig, here?”
Martin looked at me real hard-like. His lower lip was pushed out slightly and his cheeks were puffed. He turned and walked out.
“You are a good boy, Craigie,” Ma said and hugged me tight. “You’re not like your father. You’re like me. You’re just like your mother, just like your mother.”
She hugged me tighter and I tried to pull away. I fell back and to the floor. I pulled myself up by grabbing the table and I knocked some magazines to the floor. Ma got down on her knees and started pulling them together.
As I stood over her, looking at the bald spot on top of her head where she’d tried to shave, I thought about what Martin had said about knocking sense into her. I picked up a china bowl from the dish rack and broke it over her head. She fell on her face. I let out a scream.
Martin came running in and saw Ma stretched out on the floor. “What happened?”
“I broke a bowl over her head.”
Martin kneeled down and picked up Ma’s head and let it drop. He closed his eyes for a second. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t tell anyone you hit her.”
“I have to tell Daddy.”
“No. We’ll just say she passed out. Just like that. Do you hear me?”
“I don’t know, Martin.”
“Look here.” He pointed at Ma. “She’s out cold, maybe dead. Do you want to go to jail?”
“No!”
“Then what are you going to tell Daddy?”
“She passed out. Just like that.” I paused. “She’s not dead, is she?”
Chapter 3
Martin and I were standing at the foot of the bed looking at Ma and Daddy was standing on her right, holding her hand. The curtains were open and the hospital room was flooded with light and it kinda made Ma look like she had a halo. The old lady in the bed on the other side of the room divider was moaning something awful.
“Oh, shut up, you old hag!” my mother yelled.
“Okay, dear, settle down,” Daddy said.
Ma looked down along her body and over her feet at me. “Come here, Craigie.” She held up her left hand.
I walked over to her left side and took her hand. The sun was hot on my back through the window. I looked closely at the wrapping on her head.
“Craigie.”
“Yeah, Ma?”
She looked at Martin and then at Daddy. “I’d like to be alone with Craig.” Her eyes moved again to me.
Daddy and Martin left the room and I watched the big door swing slowly closed.
“Craigie,” Ma said, “you’re a good boy. You’ve got to be careful in life. Don’t trust anyone. Trust not a living soul and walk cautiously amongst the dead.”
“Yes, Ma.”
She narrowed her eyes to slits and I got scared. “You know, your daddy’s been a bad boy. He’s been running around with that Lou Ann Narramore down at the drugstore.”
“No, Ma.”
She sat up and leaned toward me. The sun had made me hot and sticky, so I was scared and uncomfortable. “He is and I don’t want to hear another word out of you about it. Your daddy is running around and we’re going to catch him. You and me. You hear me?”
I nodded.
Daddy pushed his head into the room. “Craig, we’re about ready to go.”
“Get out!” Ma screamed.
Daddy’s head disappeared.
“Okay, Craigie.” She pulled me down and kissed my forehead. “Go on, but remember what we talked about.” She stroked my face.
I nodded and turned and started out.
“Craigie.” She called me back. “I love you the most. You were a breech baby. You were difficult. I almost died having you. That’s why I love you the most. You and me. We’re going to catch the two of them in the act, your father and that Lou Ann Narramore.” She fell back into her pillow. “From down at the drugstore.”
I started out again.
“Hey, psssst,” called the old lady in the other bed. I stopped and looked at her.
She summoned me with her finger. “Come here, little boy.”
I walked slowly toward her and looked into her face, which was contorted with pain.
“Look around,” she said, “and see if you can find my pills. They’re yellow. They’re for the pain. Please, little boy.”
“Huh?”
“Your mother took my pills and hid them. I don’t know why, but she did. And now the nurse won’t give me any more. Please, the pain is real bad.”
Ma snatched the divider back and yelled, “Go home, Craig!”
I ran out. In the hallway, Daddy looked at me and said, “She is still your mother.”
Ma spent one night in the hospital and Martin and I waited in the living room for Daddy to bring her home the next day.
“Daddy thinks it might be the heat,” Martin said, “that’s got Ma acting this way.”
“Martin, I’m scared.”
“Why should you be scared? She likes you. I’m the one who should be scared.”
“Do you think Daddy is running around with Lou Ann Narramore?”
Martin thought. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
The front screen door pushed open and Ma and Daddy walked in. Ma didn’t say anything. She just walked past us and into her bedroom. She came out wearing her coat.
“Dinner,” she said. “Dinner, dinner, dinner …” She walked into the kitchen.
My wife, Thelma, is waiting on me when we land in Seattle, but the kid ain’t with her. I walk to Thelma and give her a big hug and pull back to take a look at her. I put my arm around her and we’re walking out of the terminal and I ask where little Peter is.
“He’s at my mother’s house,” she says.
“How come?”
“It’s late. He’s got camp tomorrow.”
I nod and pull her closer.
“Besides, I thought it would be nice if we were all alone tonight.”
We drive home and enter the house. I throw my bag down and turn to Thelma and grab her and give her a big kiss. She takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.
Turns out I can’t perform. It’s a problem I’ve been having and I don’t know what to say.
“Still,” Thelma says and glares at me for a second. “That’s just terrific.”
“Please—”
“I’m tired of being patient, Craig.” She rolls over and sighs.
I fall asleep and wake up to all this noise and I turn on the light to find Thelma pedaling on her exercise bicycle. I look at the clock.
“It’s three-thirty in the morning,” I complain.
She doesn’t pay me any mind. She just pedals faster and her head is moving back and forth and perspiration is streaming down the sides of her face.
“Come to bed.”
She stops pedaling. “Is it your leg? Does it hurt?”
I shake my head.
She starts pedaling again.
I wrap my head up in the pillow
s, trying to block out the sound, but it ain’t no use. And now she’s singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows but …” I get out of bed and go to the kitchen to look for something to eat.
I find some ham in the refrigerator and make a sandwich. When I finish my sandwich and down a glass of milk, my eyes become hard to keep open. I put my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands and that’s the way I wake up four hours later.
Thelma comes in and finds the foil on the counter. “You didn’t eat the ham, did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I was meaning to throw that out. It was spoiled.”
I put my face back into my hands. I get up and walk out of the kitchen, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom. I stand in the shower for a long time with the water pounding my back. Things are bad. I can’t make love to my wife, I can’t run bases, and I couldn’t get a hit if they was pitching me basketballs underhanded. And my kid hates me. To top it off, I got a bum leg that don’t hurt.
I’m sitting in the kitchen, reading the paper, and Thelma slides a plate of breakfast in front of me. I’m still thinking about that spoiled ham I got into and I look up at Thelma. Turning down this meal would be a grave error.
I eat and I read in the paper how I ain’t the only person in the world concerned with my slump. The headline of the sports page reads: MARINERS SEEK TO PLUG HOLE IN SUDER’S GLOVE; and below that, Sows Seeds of M’s Misery. I decide to skip the off-day practice Lou has called.
I move into the den and watch some television. I’m on my third soap opera when Thelma calls me into the bedroom. She kisses me and I pull away, shaking my head. It ain’t that I can’t get erect, I can’t stay that way.
“You don’t love me anymore,” she says.
“This sort of thing happens all the time.”
She pulls a tissue from the box on her nightstand and wipes the tears from her face.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
She just stares at me.
“Thelma, try to understand. I’m in a terrible slump. I can’t hit, I can’t field. It’s eating at me. I can’t get my mind off of it.” I look into her eyes. “I still love you.”
“Then show me.”
“There’s more to love than just sex.”
“Original.”
“I promise this won’t last very long. Thelma?”
“You’re only thirty-two.” More tears.
“So?”
“So, does this mean … mean …?”
“No, no, it’s just a passing thing. I promise. I just need to get my head together.”
This seems to quiet her some.
I pull the curtain back at the living room window and see my son getting off the bus. I open the front door and he walks by me, without a word, into the kitchen.
“Peter,” I call to him and follow him into the kitchen. “What’s wrong, son?”
His mother hands him a glass of milk and he looks up at me and says, “Nothing.”
“Your mother tells me you’ve been fighting.”
“Yep,” he says and downs his milk.
“Wanna tell me about it?”
“Nope.” He walks out of the kitchen.
I sit down at the table and bury my face in my hands. I look up to find Thelma’s sympathetic eyes resting on me and she comes over to me and pulls my head into her breast and massages my temples.
“When’s your next game?” she asks.
“Tomorrow night.”
“Good, you need a rest.” I can tell she’s forcing herself, but I appreciate the pampering.
“Does he hate me?”
“No, of course not.”
“He wouldn’t even look at me.”
“He’s just a little upset.”
“I wish I knew what my problem is.”
Thelma doesn’t say a word. She just keeps rubbing my head and sighing and looking out the window. I decide to try again with Peter and what I do is ask him if he wants to play catch.
He nods his head and he grabs his glove and I grab my glove and we go outside. We’re tossing the ball back and forth and I get to thinking and the ball hits me in the face. I pick up the ball and look back at Peter and see him standing there with his glove by his side, looking away. “Ball,” I says as I toss it his way and he puts his glove up and catches it. After a few more tosses my mind slips away again and the ball gets by me and rolls into the street. I chase the ball into the street and a car nearly flattens me and a teenage girl leans out of the car.
“Stay out of the road, stupid!” she screams.
I pick up the ball and turn to see Peter walking into the house and I’m feeling pretty lousy and all I can do is shake my head.
“Ma says doing that will make you go blind,” I said to Martin as I watched the sheet above his middle move up and down.
“She’s crazy,” he said. He moved his flashlight beam to another open magazine.
“I don’t know, I’ve heard other people say the same thing. Reverend Austin from the candy store told Virgil Wallace that doing it would put hair on his palms.”
“He’s crazy, too,” Martin said.
“Why?”
“Because he just is.”
“No, I mean, why do you pull on yourself?” I asked.
“Because it feels good.”
“But why?”
He stopped and turned off his flashlight. “Sometimes you just feel like you have to do it.”
“Virgil Wallace does it all the time out behind the old school. I’ve seen him.”
“Just who is this Virgil Wallace?” Martin hit me with the beam of his flashlight.
I put my arms in front of my face. “Turn that off.”
He turned it off. “Who is he?”
“You’ve seen him. He’s that waterhead fella, wears them bright socks.”
“Oh, you’re talking about Moe.”
“Moe?”
“The guys call him Moe.”
“Why do they call him that?” I asked.
Martin didn’t say anything. We were silent for a while and then the silence was broken by the barking of a dog.
“I’ll bet that’s Dr. Counts’s hound,” Martin said.
“Have you ever seen Lou Ann Narramore?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’ve seen her.”
“What’s she look like? Is she pretty?” I pulled my head up and rested it on my palm, my elbow stabbing my pillow.
“Yeah, she’s pretty,” Martin said. “She’s real skinny and she’s got big … big … Hey, you’re too young to hear this.”
I didn’t say anything. I just looked past Martin and out the window at the moon. The dog had stopped barking and the night became still and very quiet. Then Martin started up again, his flashlight panning from picture to picture.
The next morning I woke up early, got dressed, and went downstairs. I had plans to visit the pond and when I walked into the kitchen I found Ma at the counter, stirring the contents of a bowl and running in place. She was wearing her heavy coat and a brand-new pair of black high-top sneakers. Perspiration was pouring off her face and the fur about her collar looked matted in places.
“What are you doing, Ma?”
“Running … to lose weight…. Lou Ann … Narramore … skinny … lose weight….”
I started out.
“Where … you going?” she asked, still running.
“The pond.”
She stopped running and looked at me. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Be careful,” she said.
Chapter 4
The next day I show up for batting practice and I find a note on my locker telling me to see Lou Tyler and so I go into his office. I give a knock and he yells for me to come in. Inside, I don’t see him anywhere and I call out his name and he answers me from the bathroom.
“That you, Suder?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m taking a massive grunt here. Make yourself at home.”
> Lou’s office is filled with stuffed animals and I’m paying close attention to his newest addition, a big grizzly bear. Lou took up taxidermy when his wife died four years ago and since then he’s been stuffing every dead thing in sight. He’s got birds hanging from the ceiling and snakes on the floor and a goat in the corner and now a bear. He’s got even more displays all over his home. The players got together and managed to keep the creatures out of the clubhouse, but overflow might send them in there yet.
“What is it, Suder?” The bathroom door swings open and there’s Lou sitting on the toilet, holding The Sporting News. “You say something?”
“No,” I tell him.
“How do you like my bear?” He smiles broadly.
“He’s a big one,” I says, looking back at the monster.
“Took me a month to stuff that sucker.”
I follow the jagged line where the bear was sewed up from his neck to his crotch.
“Tell you what,” Lou says. “I’m going to be on this bowl for a while. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just talk to you from here.”
“Sure, I don’t care.”
“Here,” Lou says, tossing me a can of air freshener. “I’m used to it, but you might have some trouble. Give a blast of that stuff when it gets too strong.”
I nod.
“You know, Roy Rogers stuffed Trigger.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Well, he had him stuffed. He didn’t do it personally. I heard he wants to be stuffed himself when he dies. And then he wants to be set up on Trigger. Ain’t that something?”
“Sure is.”
“I wrote him a letter telling him that I’d be glad to stuff him for free, but I ain’t got no response yet. It’s been seven weeks now. I hope he ain’t died already.” He lets out a load of gas and there’s some splashing. “Better give a spray of that stuff.”
I hold up the can and press the button and shoot myself in the face.
“That’s wildflower scent—watch the bees when you go outside.”
I wipe my face with my sleeve.
“I ate a shitload of spaghetti that my daughter made up, last night.” He tightens his face and grunts and then he reaches back and flushes. “If I never see spaghetti again, it’ll be too soon.”
Suder Page 2
