Harvest of Thorns

by Paul E. Wootten

  “I couldn’t do that to my best girl. Besides, the sofa wasn’t the problem. I kept replaying the game in my head.”

  “That’s the best thing about baseball,” Chan said. “Always another game tonight.”

  “You sure you guys can’t stay? Seeing you there really helped.”

  “You’ll be fine. We have to get to Missouri. I don’t know if I could stand another night of Ryan’s kicking and snoring anyway. What time’s your mother getting here?”

  “They left at sunrise, so probably middle of the afternoon. Uncle Larry and Aunt Donna are coming with her, and some of my cousins too.” Lorenzo stuffed a chunk of sausage into his mouth. “You really should stay. Mommy and Aunt Donna are bringing fried chicken, mac and cheese, a bunch of stuff.”

  “South Georgia comfort food,” Chan laughed. “Nah, we need to get down the road and you need the space.”

  Things got quiet as Lorenzo dug into a large stack of pancakes. Chan nibbled on a slice of cantaloupe and some blueberries.

  “You looked kind of slow last night with that big number on your back.”

  “Too bad,” Lorenzo replied. “That number’s going with me to the Hall of Fame.”

  Chan grinned. “Pretty brash talk for a guy with four at-bats.”

  “You know why I took that number,” Lorenzo said. “Anybody ask me, I’m gonna tell ‘em it belonged to the best man I ever met. A guy who took me in after people I trusted ripped me off. Gave me a place to live, made me part of his family.”

  Chan picked at the remaining fruit, embarrassed by Lorenzo’s remarks.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Channy. I’m excited about what’s happening. It’s just... it’s gonna be hard watching y’all drive away. I mean leaving Mama to go play ball was hard too, but this is just so—”

  “Okay, okay! Enough! I’ll leave Ryan with you, but you have to feed him.”

  For a split second Lorenzo seemed to think this was a serious offer. Then the laughter started.

  “You’re gonna have to find two jobs to feed that boy,” he cackled.

  For the next hour, the conversation remained light, mostly about big league life and what Lorenzo should expect.

  “What’s next for you, Channy?”

  “I’m not sure. Lance thinks I’ll be getting some calls. We’ll probably stay in Louisville and see what happens. There might be some interest from other teams, but I’m not sure I want to uproot the kids.”

  “Something’s gonna break for you,” Lorenzo said. “Maybe television. Between the hot tub and restaurant commercials, you’re already on more than a TV preacher.”

  “I’ve still got some money socked away. That buys me time to figure things out.”

  They chatted a few more minutes before Lani appeared and requested bacon and eggs. Chan woke up Ryan to get his breakfast order, then phoned room service. Soon, the trays were delivered, along with two packages for Lorenzo. Lani and Ryan wasted no time digging in.

  After a quick breakfast and quicker showers, they prepared to leave. Nobody said much, but everyone knew it was time. Chan reached for the suitcases.

  “C’mon guys. Let’s get out of here. Lo has to get ready for his family.”

  Their protests were muted. Lani and Ryan seemed ready to accept that their surrogate big brother wouldn’t be around much anymore.

  “One thing before you leave.” Lorenzo grabbed the boxes that had arrived with breakfast.

  “Something to remember me by until we get back together.”

  The kids tore into the boxes and gasped as each pulled out two Cincinnati Reds jerseys. Lorenzo had even gotten the sizes right. The backs of the white home jerseys were emblazoned with the number fifty-one and Lorenzo’s last name.

  “Just like mine,” he said proudly.

  The gray road jerseys were an older style, from several years before, but had the same number on them.

  “That’s like the jersey your Daddy wore when he played here,” Lorenzo said softly. “It even has his name on it.”

  Ryan was delirious with pleasure as he hugged Lorenzo. Even Lani, who tended to be more reserved, seemed awestruck by the gift. She embraced him too, and when she whispered in his ear, Chan could see tears rimming his friend’s eyes.

  “I love you too, Lani-girl.”

  Ryan headed for one bedroom, Lani the other. A few moments later they reemerged wearing their new gifts.

  Both had chosen Chan’s jersey for the trip west.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Whether he was going cross-country or around the corner for a few items at Kroger, Chan’s approach was simple.

  Just get there.

  They made it out of Cincinnati, rested and bellies full. The ride across Ohio and Indiana was quiet. Lani was immersed in one of The Chronicles of Narnia books Chan had given her for her birthday. Ryan was eagerly devouring the latest saga of Captain Underpants, occasionally asking his sister for help, but not as often as a few weeks earlier. An English and Literature major in college, Chan passed on the love for reading that Miss Bertie had instilled in him. No bedroom televisions or five-hundred channel cable service in the Manning house. Lorenzo had complained about the lack of good movie channels, but had come to see the benefit when a then-four-year-old Ryan read The Cat in the Hat to him one evening.

  “I never read anything in my life, ‘cept when I had to,” Lo confided one evening as he flipped through one of Lani’s old paperbacks. One thing led to another, and Chan had recently noticed him carrying a John Grisham novel on a road trip to Toledo.

  Chan smiled wistfully. He would miss Lorenzo. The young man was without guile, and Chan had let down his guard with him more than he had in years. Initially he took him in as a favor to the team after several of his high school buddies formed their own entourage and wiped out most of his signing bonus. He’d helped Lorenzo get back on his feet, but Chan knew that he had gained the most from their time together.

  Getting to see Lorenzo take his place in the major leagues was a double-edged sword. Certainly Chan was happy for him. It had always been a question of when rather than if Lo would make it, and Chan was euphoric that his friend was realizing his dream.

  There was also personal sadness. Lost in the excitement of the last night’s packed stadium was the reality that Chan might never again play baseball. Lorenzo’s exploits in his first game garnered headlines on the front page of the morning sports section. Columnists were proclaiming the rise of a new star. Chan’s release was buried several pages back, in agate type under a small headline titled, Transactions.

  In truth, he had probably laid awake longer last night than Lorenzo. While Lorenzo was replaying his exploits, Chan was staring at the ceiling.

  Considering options.

  Options that included baseball.

  Because, as much as he wanted to believe that he knew his baseball career would someday end, the truth was he hadn’t given it more than the occasional fleeting thought.

  Until yesterday morning, he believed he could return to the pinnacle.

  Even when things were at their worst, his hopes of returning to the big leagues were dimmed, but never extinguished.

  As the bedside clock had passed midnight, then one, then two, he’d laid there.

  Considering options.

  Another organization? There were twenty-nine other big league teams.

  Lance Skelly said he’d tried to interest them, but how hard had he really tried?

  Japan? There were always a few American players who found success there. Gaijins they were called. A few years in Japan could be the experience of a lifetime for Lani and Ryan. And perhaps he might perform well enough to return to the States and play again.

  His arm felt good, but he remembered the pain. There were the admonishments of the surgeon after the second surgery. “You don’t want to go through this again. Next time might impact you for the rest of your life.” He’d encouraged Chan to give up baseball. That was three years ago.

  But what do you do when yo
ur livelihood depends on throwing a baseball with brute force, one-hundred or more times every four or five days?

  You keep throwing it.

  Until you can’t throw it anymore.

  ###

  “Daddy, why didn’t we ever meet our Grandpa?”

  Ryan’s innocent question raised Chan from his silent contemplation.

  “He lived far away, and worked a lot.” A partial lie. Saxon County was a day’s drive from Louisville. Farmers aren’t as busy in the winter, baseball’s off-season.

  “Did you like living on a farm?”

  There was nothing about Saxon County I liked, Chan thought, except Miss Bertie and my dog, Dixie.

  “I liked playing baseball better.”

  “Did you have friends in school?” Ryan was persistent.

  “I played baseball and football. I had teammates.”

  “Will we like Missouri?”

  You won’t be there long enough to know.

  “Missouri is very pretty. The house where I grew up is on an island in the Mississippi River.”

  “Did your momma die, like mine did?”

  Chan saw Lani give Ryan the stink-eye.

  “My mother was in an accident when I was six.”

  “Daddy,” Lani said cheerfully, “can we have Italian for supper tonight?”

  That Lani. Chan smiled at how perceptive she’d become. She intuited that he didn’t like talking about his past. They had never discussed why, but somehow she knew it hadn’t been pleasant.

  After a quick stop for lunch, they settled in for the rest of the drive. A portable DVD player and several of the latest kids’ movies were concessions Chan made the year before, one that he was very happy about now. After a ten-minute argument, Lani prevailed and they settled in to watch The Lion King for the fifteenth time. It was one of their favorites, and Chan’s too. He made a point to always sing along, loudly and off key. Today, though, his mind was other places. He pulled his cell phone from under the seat. The screen indicted two messages.

  Only two?

  It’s the quality, not the quantity he thought, pressing the voicemail button.

  The first message was from nine-fourteen the evening before. He recognized the voice immediately.

  “Hi Chan, its Saundra. I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m sorry things went down like they did this morning. You’re a special guy and I know you’ll land on your feet. I’m praying for you. Take care.”

  “Message deleted. Next message. Today at ten-oh-six am.”

  “Chan, it’s Billy Meyer. I just heard the news. I hope things work out for you. About that next commercial spot, uh... we’ll probably go in a different direction. Maybe another player. Been good working with you, though.”

  “Message deleted. No more messages.”

  During a gas stop in St. Louis, Chan ran by an internet café, found a signal, and checked his e-mail. Two new messages had come to his private account. ‘Your Encouraging Word of the Day’ was the subject line of the first. Without thinking, he clicked on it, then tried unsuccessfully to delete it before it opened.

  Junk mail. From a Christian radio station that had somehow gotten his address. He sped through the message looking for the unsubscribe button. He was clicking to delete the message when something caught his attention. He scrolled back until he found it, a verse from the Bible, Jeremiah.

  I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord.

  Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

  God, you must not have heard, he thought, rereading the verse.

  I know the plans I have for you.

  Maybe you know the plans you have for Lorenzo.

  Plans to give you hope and a future.

  No more baseball, Chan thought. No voicemails filling my mailbox. Two e-mails in two days, one of those sent by mistake.

  Then, remembering the second e-mail, he clicked back. He saw Lance Skelly’s name.

  Hope? A future?

  Maybe they’ve reconsidered.

  Maybe there is a future.

  Maybe God does know.

  The message was short. Sent three hours earlier, it read, ‘Chan we need to talk. I called last night, but missed you. Call me when you get this.’

  He grabbed his cell, cycling through his contact list until he found Skelly’s number. He was about to punch it in when the phone buzzed.

  “Chan, it’s Lance.”

  “Lance. Sorry I didn’t get back to you. I just got your message.”

  “It’s okay. Can you talk for a moment?”

  Chan glanced around. The kids had returned from their bathroom break and resumed watching The Lion King.

  “Sure.”

  He held his breath, hoping for the best.

  The team wanted him back.

  Another team was interested.

  A team from Japan was interested.

  Skelly said, “I just wanted to apologize again for the way I handled the situation yesterday. You’ve meant too much to our team and community to be treated like that.”

  Oh, man.

  “Apology accepted. Was there something else?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Chan’s heart was pounding.

  “After you left yesterday, Saundra told me about the call she received. I wanted to let you know that the organization is sending a flower arrangement along with our condolences for the loss of your father.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Sixteen years, two months, eleven days.

  Too soon, Chan thought as he exited Interstate 55.

  Up ahead, twin water towers loomed in the late afternoon sun, a subtle reminder of the day he left Saxon County, the day he made a promise.

  A promise he kept for sixteen years, two months, and eleven days.

  He hadn’t considered having to come back to bury his father. They hadn’t spoken since the afternoon he left for graduation. Daddy hadn’t shown up for the ceremony that night, despite saying he would. Earl Manning had grown more reclusive as his mental state deteriorated, so it was probably for the best.

  “Where’s your house, Daddy?”

  “Still a few miles away, Ryan. We have to stop in town.”

  Ryan and Lani had been quiet the last few hours. The movies helped, but Chan could tell they were still processing everything. Despite growing up in a home without a mother, and with a father who travelled the country playing baseball, they lived sheltered lives. Discovering that a grandfather died before they got to know him shook their world a little. The visit with Lorenzo was a pleasant diversion, but the long ride had given them lots of time to think. Chan answered their questions without getting into too much detail.

  He expected to see more change around Adair. A Walmart had sprung up near the interstate. Beyond that, the road from the highway into town was much like before. Older frame homes, interspersed with the occasional Victorian, lined St. Charles Street. A few small businesses were scattered about. Raymore Hardware, Wilma’s Flowers and Gifts, a DynoStop convenience store. The kids took it all in.

  St. Charles Street led to the Adair City Square. Like many Midwestern county seats, the square framed the county courthouse. The streets were named for the side of the three-story brick courthouse they fronted. Addresses on the square could drive people nuts. Twenty-Four East North Street or Forty-Two South West Street. Visitors usually gave up and asked for directions.

  A few long-time businesses had closed. Schaefer Shoe Store was now Ripley’s Antiques. Leonard’s Barbershop had morphed into Inxxxx Tattoos. Other enterprises had withstood the test of time, particularly the taverns. How a town Adair’s size could support four bars was a question for the ages. Each side of the square had its own bar, each with its own uniqueness. Duck’s Tavern on South Street advertised “Friday Night Karaoke.” Schmidt’s Pub on West Street had a banner in front proclaiming “Adair’s Best Tenderloin.” The Hut on East Street had commandeered two spaces for ‘Biker Parking Only.’ Only the Davi
s Bistro, site of the Diplomat Diner years before, had resisted the urge to proclaim something. By doing so they actually made their own statement. No bikers, no karaoke, no tenderloin. It was the busiest of the four.

  Parking on the city square was diagonal to the curb, and Chan pulled the Explorer into a spot in front of the Harmon Funeral Home. Lani took notice.

  “Are we going in, Daddy?”

  “I don’t want to sit in the car; it’s hot!” Ryan whined.

  Chan assumed the funeral home would have a waiting area, but then his eye caught a small shop three doors down.

  “Do you want to sit in the waiting room, or would you rather have doughnuts?”

  ###

  A bell tinkled when they opened the door. Kaufmann’s Doughnut Shop was tiny. Five tables and a display case across the back of the store. Three men drinking coffee at a corner table eyed them warily. When Chan nodded, they quickly returned to their coffee and newspapers.

  A petite young redhead was working the counter. Ryan charged past the tables to the display case.

  “Hello! Can I get you something?” Her smile was her best feature.

  “Maybe,” Chan replied. “I have an appointment at the funeral home. Would it be okay if my children sit at a table with milk and doughnuts?”

  The redhead looked them over, then smiled.

  “I know who you are. You’re Chan Manning, the baseball player!”

  “I am. I’m sorry I don’t know who you are.”

  “Oh, no worries! I’m Norma Elgan. I was just a kid when you lived here.”

  “Well it’s good to see you, Norma. This is my daughter Lani, and the boy with his nose stuck to your display case is Ryan.”

  “I’ll be happy to keep an eye on them. We’re open until six. You go on and do what you have to do.”

  Chan left a twenty, kissed the kids, and made his way to the door. He was stepping into the hot August air when one of the men at the corner table spoke.

  “Mr. Manning.”

  A thin angular man stood up. “I’m Joe Wesley. I used to see you when you came into the farm supply store. I worked there.”