Gods of Wood and Stone

by Mark Di Ionno

“Be nice, but if they give you any trouble, come get me,” she told him, and Michael felt embarrassed. It was said in front of Mr. Grudeck, who might think Michael wasn’t man enough. Not for the job, not for June.

  Michael saw the way she fawned over Grudeck and patted his arm, like they were a couple. At first Michael thought she was just being nice, but then he saw it was more. His ears got hot. He was too young, sure, but Mr. Grudeck was old. How could she like him like that?

  She told Michael to lock the door, then stand by it, to let the customers out and no one in.

  “It’s kinda early,” Michael said. “We’re open till nine.”

  “It’s been a long day,” she said. “And a good one.”

  * * *

  WHEN THE LAST FAN LEFT, June and Grudeck went into the back while Michael folded up the banquet tables and straightened up the store.

  He heard Grudeck say, “I should get going,” but they each popped open a beer. He could hear June giggling from time to time, punctuating something Grudeck said in a husky voice.

  When Michael was done, he went into the back, hoping Grudeck was on his way out. But they were both sitting there with a fresh beer and Michael felt a thing in his stomach he’d never felt before. Like weak. And sad. And kind of lonely.

  “Are you all done, hon?” June asked.

  “Yep,” Michael said, and stood there, awkwardly.

  Grudeck reached into his pocket, pulled out two tickets to the induction ceremony, and handed one each to Michael and June.

  “They’re not in the VIP section, but they’ll get you in,” he said. “Come by if you can.”

  “I will!” chirped June.

  “Thanks anyway, Mr. Grudeck, but I’m leaving in the morning,” Michael said, and tried to hand it back.

  “Keep it. As a souvenir. Or give it to one of your friends. I got a bunch.”

  June then looked at Michael and said, “Okay, well, I have a little something for you, too,” and handed him the bat that was leaning against the table. “Mr. Grudeck signed it for you.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said to both, then, “Thank you, June.”

  June . . . that’s right, Grudeck thought, thank you, kid.

  Michael just stood there, feeling uncomfortable, unwanted, uneverything. Frozen.

  “Well, okay, Mike,” June said. “It’s been great having you here, and you come back and visit, okay?”

  She got up to give him a good-bye hug, and Michael barely touched her with his arms because he was afraid if he squeezed her, he would never let go.

  “You did a good job here, hon, and good luck to you out there,” she said, letting go quickly.

  Grudeck rose and shook the kid’s hand.

  “Thanks for the bat, Mr. Grudeck.”

  “Sure thing, kid. And when you get bigger and stronger, maybe you can try it in a game,” Grudeck said.

  The words stung Michael, but Grudeck didn’t notice the burst of anger in his eyes.

  Michael went out the door. He was supposed to meet Horace, but figured he would circle the block a few times, and come back after Grudeck finally left. He would get June alone, and tell her all the things he rehearsed but was always afraid to say.

  The streets of Cooperstown were happy. It was the night before Induction Day, and people milled around, families with children gathered outside the baseball-themed ice cream parlors and the other souvenir shops, all still open. Some had lines for other signing events, with old Hall of Famers sitting at tables autographing merchandise like Grudeck. Everyone had full shopping bags and the stores were all lit up in the diminishing evening light, and for some crazy reason, it made Michael think of Christmas, Cooperstown’s other big holiday.

  Michael slung his Joe Grudeck bat over his shoulder and walked. He was going to miss this place. Maybe his dad was right. Even Joe Grudeck said he was a smart man.

  * * *

  THE CAPS CAME OFF the third beer and the girl said, “I really shouldn’t, I’m already a little woozy.”

  Grudeck didn’t have time to encourage or discourage her before she brought the bottle up so fast, the foam spilled out of her mouth. She laughed and wiped it away with her hand, her eyes following Grudeck’s to her lips, and then to her fingers as she squeegeed the neck of the bottle.

  “I should shut out the front lights,” she said. “So people know we’re closed.”

  Grudeck watched her walk away, noticing the little athletic swivel from being up on the balls of her feet. Within seconds the whole place was dark, except for the glow coming out of the bathroom. She appeared in the doorway, backlit only by the light from the streets of Cooperstown, and the image drew Grudeck back to the Syracuse girls in his motel doorway.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to do that,” the girl said, and fumbled for a switch.

  “Don’t,” Grudeck said, and he was on her. He scooped her up in his arms and kissed her hard, openmouthed. She was aggressive with her tongue and grabbed his head with both hands to lift herself to him. He grabbed that gorgeous little ass of hers with both hands, roughly, and pulled her in, and she ground against him.

  “Is there a place we can go?” he said.

  “I have roommates,” she said.

  “Shit,” he said. The hotel was out, obviously.

  He spun her around, thrust his hand down her shorts, and found the right place with his finger. He held her tight around her belly with his other arm, exposing that sweet spot, and she felt his strength and it made her feel weightless and powerless and it didn’t take long. She tried to spin back toward him, but he carried her over to the table like that and bent her over it. He undid her shorts and yanked them down, revealing a red thong, and he took each side of her ass in each hand and squeezed as hard as he could.

  And still nothing. Rubbery-numb down there. She pushed into him, rotating her hips in a clumsy circle, to make something happen.

  And this is what Michael saw.

  The girl he loved, barely visible in the bathroom light, facedown on the table with Grudeck behind her, grinding themselves into each other. At first he thought Grudeck was hurting her, and he was about to take the bat and smash in the window, but then June got up and turned around. She undid his belt and pants and crouched down in front of him. Michael couldn’t see everything, it was too dark, but in a sliver of the bathroom light he saw her blond hair bobbing and he knew what she was doing and couldn’t watch anymore. He took off for the farm museum, running to see his dad.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nothing was working. The girl was all mouth; she didn’t know the hand rhythm like Joanie MacIntosh, and Grudeck wasn’t responding. This beautiful girl, sucking away, and still nothing. Dead. He reached down and pulled up her shirt, to expose her naked back and her hip line, and the image of her blond hair and all that skin and the red thong over her naked ass exploded hot in his head. He’d never wanted anyone more. And still nothing. He felt for her breasts, encased in a flimsy bra. They were girl-firm and the nipples hardened and jumped in his hand. And still nothing. Fucking nothing. He didn’t bring his pills; yeah, the straight and narrow. He closed his eyes. Concentrate. But his mind tumbled, all bad thoughts. Cheating on Stacy. The speech. The goddamn speech. The Syracuse girls, teary, telling their story. This girl, now, had a story, too. “Oh, and by the way, big Joe Grudeck couldn’t get it up.” No pills. No lead in the pencil. No pressure in the fire hose.

  He pulled her to her feet and smoothed her shirt back down.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But this isn’t right . . .”

  “Am I doing something wrong?” she asked, now tugging him with her hand.

  “No, no,” he said, extricating himself from her grip and zipping up. “It’s just that . . . you’re so young. Really young. Like, young enough to be my daughter. I feel like a creep.”

  “What do you think? I’m a virgin?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think that,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “Look, sweetheart, you
’re a beautiful young girl, but I’m a middle-aged, broken-down guy,” Grudeck said, searching for the right words. “You had a few beers, maybe got some stars in your eyes, and I’d bet you’d regret this in the morning, and I would, too, like I took advantage of you.”

  “I know what I’m doing . . . ,” she protested, but Grudeck stopped her, putting a finger to her lips.

  “Tell ya what. On Monday before I leave, I’ll stop by and take you out to lunch, and we’ll see where it goes from there. Okay?”

  “Sure, I guess,” she said, embarrassed and hurt, as she pulled her shorts up, shaking her head. “I guess.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and quickly left, forgetting his money.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Joe Grudeck fucked June.

  Michael muttered it to himself, over and over, feeding the rage and betrayal in his head.

  Joe Grudeck fucked June.

  He walked, then ran, then walked again, then sprinted, face red with anger and sweat, with tears mixed in. But no matter how fast he went, he couldn’t escape the sentence pounding in his head.

  Joe Grudeck fucked June.

  How could she? He was gross. Old fat bastard. He wanted to break the bat in a million pieces. Smash fenders, shatter car windows, just whack it against all those tourists’ cars parked along Pioneer and Chestnut. All those Boston fans here to see that asshole, Joe Grudeck.

  Michael was crying, bent with that hollow weakness in his gut, trying to straighten up when people approached. Families with children, headed to the souvenir shops and to get ice cream. Little kids, boys and girls his age. Girls his age. They looked at him with concern. He didn’t care. Let them see him cry. How could they be happy?

  Joe Grudeck fucked June.

  He started to run up Lake Street, where the road wound out of the business district and past the last few in-town Victorians, but lost his breath on the hill between the Otesaga Hotel and the farm museum property. Now, with no one around, he swung Grudeck’s bat into the jagged edges of the rock wall every few steps.

  Joe Grudeck fucked June. Whack. Joe Grudeck fucked June. Whack. Fucked June. My June. Whack. The vibration stung his hands, making him even angrier. He climbed the wall and ran hard across the fields up to the Cardiff Giant circus tent to find his dad.

  Michael rushed breathless into the tent, but Horace was gone. He saw the box of red, cheap souvenir Grudeck bats, and flipped it off the stool, letting them spill all over the grassy floor. He ground them into moist earth, some snapping under his foot. Pieces of shit. Just like Joe Grudeck. With big bat still in his hand, he chopped down on the rest, breaking as many as he could. Now it was time to finally crack and splinter his “gift.” He held it high over his head and brought it down in the pile of little bats, but it only mushed them into the ground. He did it again, and this time a broken piece of the souvenir bat kicked up into his face, and it stung like a slap. Joe Grudeck fucked June.

  The Giant was the only rock around, the only thing hard enough to bust the big Grudeck bat. Michael swung it over his head the way he saw his father swing an ax a million times, and brought it down with all his might. A stone divot flew off the Giant. He did it again, and again, and the crimson wood stain of the bat left blood-colored smudges on the Giant. Finally Michael heard a satisfying crack and saw it run through the wood, but it wasn’t broken. His hands were raw, but he did it again. Joe Grudeck fucked June. And again. Joe Grudeck fucked June. And again. Joe Grudeck fucked June. And again, until the barrel was a mash of dents and the handle splintered enough so he could twist it apart and rip it in two. He threw the pieces into the pile of broken little bats, then went down to the blacksmith shop hoping to find his father, leaving the Giant desecrated by a dozen pockmarks the color of an open wound.

  * * *

  HORACE WAITED FOR MICHAEL. When the hearth fire died down, he stoked it, and as time passed, he distracted himself by melting some of the candlesticks, plates, and other household items he’d made. He gloved up and held the pieces over the fire with tongs until they glowed red, then hammered them into dense lumps of iron. Destroying evidence. Burning bridges. One day he was there, the blacksmith, the next, gone; all traces of his craft reduced to first-year-metal-shop paperweights. There comes a time in every man’s life . . . , he thought, but couldn’t finish it.

  When it was apparent Michael wasn’t coming, Horace packed the hearth with coal and, in his last planned act of defiance, bellowed it to an inferno. He shut the exhaust vents to let the dense, particulate-filled smoke quickly engulf the shop, leaving its chalky gray stain and stench on everything. Horace emerged from the blackness, ready to start his new life. He shut and locked the door, then took in a deep breath of fresh, heavy dusk air, made moist by evening dew, and looked down at Otsego Lake, dark green now, long past its last blue shimmer of daylight.

  He felt peaceful, not even too disturbed that Michael didn’t show.

  He’d see him soon enough in Ohio.

  He’d surprise him, stay for a few days, catch up with Natalia in Rochester for a while, then head back to Ohio. A new life.

  Horace drove off, lamp kerosene cans, chain saw, and tools rattling in the back. Through the open car window, he heard several cracks echoing through the farm museum valley and figured someone was in the hillside forest, chopping wood. He steered the Escort, struts groaning under the trunk weight, through the downtown, slowing for the crowds of tourists. He went past Gone Batty to see if Michael was still working, but the store was dark.

  * * *

  MICHAEL FOUND THE SMITHY DOOR locked and the inside dark, so he pulled out his phone to call Horace. He forgot it was off, and when it powered up, he saw all the missed text messages and calls from Horace, and figured his father was too angry to deal with now. He decided to call his dad in the morning, after he and his mom were on the road to Ohio.

  Ohio. Suddenly, the thought of leaving scared him. He thought of all his dad had said about home, this place, his friends. What did he say? Something about the context of your life. Michael looked down at the lake and the green mountain behind it. It was a beautiful place; his dad taught him that. Maybe he shouldn’t go.

  Even dumb-ass Joe Grudeck seemed to have regrets; Michael saw it in his face when he said, “I missed a lot, too.”

  Michael walked to the bench, the one in front of the plain white church, and sat and gripped his head with his hands. So many thoughts. So much ache.

  His mom wanted to go, but why? Was it just for him? Was he being selfish? Or maybe she was trying to get him away from his dad? Was that it? The thought of Horace left back, alone in the old house, made Michael sad, and it washed out some of the anger and betrayal he felt in his gut. But there was a new quiver. He wanted to see June again. He wanted to be near her, even just at work. Ohio would be so far away. He would miss Cooperstown. People came from all over to be here, and he was moving away. Something about that didn’t make sense. He thought of what his dad said. You can get where you want from right here.

  “Dad.” He said the word out loud, surprised by the childlike sound of his own voice.

  * * *

  AS HORACE TURNED UP HIS dirt driveway off Chicken Farm Hill Road, he remembered he’d forgotten to take the last copies of “American Rubism” from the Giant’s tent. He’d planned on using them to start the fire, destroying evidence, burning bridges. Better to keep them anyway. He wanted to give extra copies to Natalia, because she was credited in the footnotes, so he’d just go back in the morning and get them on his way out of town. Besides, it would be fitting to take a last look across the valley and lake to the mountain, and see the smoke rising over the trees as his house burned down.

  In the house, he went to work. He packed his few clothes in plastic garbage bags, and collected Michael’s mythology and nature books. He got the fireproof box with birth certificates, Social Security cards, and other important papers, and packed it all in the car. All except his marriage license. He put that on top of the wood-burning s
tove with more foreclosure notices and collection agency threats.

  He crammed the woodstove with those papers, and then some live pine kindling, which would spit embers like gobs from the mouth of Satan. He neatly arranged eight dry quarter logs on top, leaving enough air between them for good ventilation. It would be a hot fire, a hellfire. If the embers failed, the heat alone would ignite the kerosene fumes. But for tonight he threw open every window in the house, then got a mop and spread the lamp kerosene evenly on the hardwood floors like polish. It would soak in overnight, and the airflow would not let the fumes accumulate. But in the morning, he would lay down a fresh coat, close the windows tight, put a match to the stove, and get the fuck out of there. Kerosene had a low flashpoint.

  There comes a time in every man’s life when . . .

  Horace drove downhill to the end of the long driveway, parked, and slept restlessly in the car.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Grudeck got back from the bat shop and called Sal, and they met in the same dark corner of the Hawkeye.

  “I’m in a Jack Daniel’s kind of mood,” Grudeck said, hoping to burn out the snot-lump of frustration and shame in his throat. Frustrated because he wanted it badly, and couldn’t do it. Shamed because she was just a girl, and Stacy was home, and he couldn’t do it. Joanie MacIntosh. Now this. All the guilt. He fell off the straight and narrow, crashed with a thud. No, a dud.

  Three drinks in, Sal said, “Take it easy, Tiger. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Like I haven’t had big days before, huh, Sal?” Grudeck snapped.

  “Whoa. Whatever bug is up your ass, I didn’t it put it there.”

  Grudeck didn’t apologize, but when he said, “Don’t worry, I can handle it,” it had a conciliatory tone.

  They were quiet for a few moments and Grudeck’s mind drifted to Stacy. What to do about Stacy. He wished she’d come. All this, the speech, the girl, all the bullshit up here . . . if only she were here.