This was almost too much for Art who was now writhing about on the ground, keeping his left shoulder down and running with his legs so that he spun around in a circle.
Lee stopped and everyone looked at Art.
Ronnie put a finger to the side of his head and twirled it in a circle.
Phil shook his head at the display and said, “At least he's keepin’ his pants on."
A couple of the other boys agreed.
Realizing that everyone had stopped and they were looking at him, Art came to his senses and settled down.
"Anyway,” Lee held up his fingers splayed apart. “She ended up with her legs all up in the air like this."
"Gross!” came from three different boys at the same time.
"Yeah! Gross!” Lee, agreed, then waited, and with impeccable timing laid the bomb on them. “But it's even worse than that. She was wearin’ a diaper!"
"A diaper?” half a dozen boys chorused.
Lee beamed and nodded.
Suddenly, pandemonium reigned supreme, as everyone broke out laughing.
Art was hysterical and turning a circle a second.
Ronnie had his blade of grass to his mouth and was pealing off long, shrill shrieks, so loud they surely must have felt like they were going to shatter his teeth.
Jeff's group, who couldn't have heard everything, must have thought they'd all gone crazy.
But it was too hot to whoop it up and cavort for long. One by one the boys ceased punching each other and laughing, but a legend had just been born. Old Lady Ringle would forever after be known as the “Diaper Lady."
Art finally got up, completely out of breath from his exertions. Trying to hang on Lee's shoulder, he had his tongue out and was trying to make a big show of how tired he was.
"That was too much,” he puffed. “You ain't shittin’ us Lee, are you? That lizard really did jump out of her hair, just like you said?"
Lee pushed Art off, and crossed his heart then held his fingers up as if he was about to recite the Boy Scout pledge.
Ronnie spoke up, voicing the question which was surely on everyone's mind. “What are we gonna do to her next, Lee?"
Suddenly everyone was quiet.
"Don't know,” Lee replied. “Don't y'all think that was enough?"
"Come on, Lee.” This was Billy Reynolds. “We know you. You've always got another plan."
"Yeah,” the other boys chorused.
Lee's grin broke out slightly, just at the corners of his mouth, but he fought it back, trying to look serious. He knew it's sometimes better to act like you don't have an idea, especially when you don't.
"No really. We already got her back for the last time. It's not fair to do stuff to her until we have a reason."
"Awww! A reason! A reason!” Jimmy Rolls got up and waved his arms. “It'd take a thousand years to pay her back for everything she's done to us."
"Yeah,” everyone chorused.
"Okay. Okay.” Lee finished his Coke and tossed the bottle near the base of the tree. “All I can say right now is that Halloween ain't that far away."
This set off another huge celebration.
Jeff ambled over and took his confrontational stance before Lee.
"Ya'll girls ready to finish gettin’ your asses whupped?"
Lee stared back hard, waiting for the right amount of hesitation, then said, “Play ball."
In the eighth inning the Crabbe Street boys were still leading one to nothing. Art had struck out every time at bat, but had fortunately been hit by a wild pitch when he'd froze and didn't duck. If he hadn't been so afraid and had actually been standing in the batter's box it would have missed him. But as it was, it caught him solidly on the left shoulder. He went off to cry under the tree, while Frank Spears, one of the unchosen, took his place as the runner on first base.
Next up, Lee hit a boomer off the first pitch from Jeff, and it sailed over the ditch and rebounded off the street before finally landing in the grass beside Margaret Ringle's driveway. It was now two to one. Ronnie was up next, and promptly hit a pop right to second base, retiring the side.
The heat of the summer sun had started to wear on Phil Coleman. He had a strong right arm but didn't get out much, except to go door-to-door spreading the word with his parents. He was starting to fade, and the hits began to roll in.
Lee was at his place at first base, and Ronnie was at second. Burl was catching, Billy Reynolds played third, and Jimmy Rolls, their only left-hander, was at shortstop. Fred, Burl's brother, was playing deep in right field, with Robert Cox in center and Frank filling in for Art out in left field.
Baseball is a game of moments, regardless of whether it's being played at the professional or sandlot levels. At the big stadiums, you can go get a hot dog or stand in line for a beer and not miss much as batters come and go, with only an occasional curving hit soaring down the base line or quick double play to bring the crowd to its feet. But when it gets to be the ninth inning, bases loaded and two out, everyone knows something exciting is about to happen. This is what makes baseball an addiction.
And this is exactly where the Valentino boys found themselves when Jeff Mock stepped up to the plate. Clinging to a one run lead and the Crabbe street boy's heaviest hitter at bat. Jeff, stepped up and whacked the sole of each shoe with his bat, then hunkered down. Holding the bat out above his head he circled the tip of the bat around in nervous anticipation and glared out at Phil. “Come on, you pussy,” he threatened. “I'm gonna knock that damn ball right back down your fuckin’ throat."
Everyone was yelling something at either the batter or the pitcher. The unchosen had all come over from under the shade to stand behind home plate. Art, nursing his sore shoulder, was among them.
The first pitch was hot, right down the middle. Jeff swung and fanned it, twisting completely around with the tremendous effort.
"Yeah, right down his throat!” Art jeered.
Jeff glared back at Art, who seemed to shrink, and then moved back behind the other boys.
Everyone picked up the volume a notch.
Phil took off his cap and wiped the sweat with the back of his hand. Pulling his cap back down, he held the ball behind his back and looked right then left. Stretching out, he hurled another throw straight to Burl, but it never made it to the mitt. Jeff connected, driving a screamer right at Lee, who jumped as high as he could, but it sailed overhead, curving out away from the field, no question a foul ball. It was strike two.
Jeff pounded the bat on the piece of cardboard that served as home plate while Fred shagged down the ball. Phil swung his arm around and rubbed his shoulder, looking to the sky for any help he could get, his lips moving as he prayed. When he had the ball again, he stood back and caught his breath, then turned to face the batter.
Jeff crouched down, swinging the tip of his bat in a tight circle, staring right down the line into Phil's eyes.
Phil's lips moved, and he must have asked Jesus to watch over him, then threw it for everything he was worth.
Jeff swung and connected with a sharp crack of the bat.
The ball came right back at Phil, hitting him in the foot. Like a ricochet from a rifle, it careened straight to Jimmy Rolls who scooped it up it, but missed the tag on Phil Black, who was streaking towards third. With no time to think, Jimmy hurled it at Lee, who was stretching out from first, waiting for the throw.
In this moment of moments, everyone watching could see that the timing would be critical. Jeff was blasting towards Lee, his big elbows swinging wide, obviously intent on running through the first baseman.
Lee wasn't looking at Jeff; he was concentrating on the ball flying straight at him.
The runner from third's foot was hanging in the air above home plate when the ball reached Lee's glove just a split second before Phil crashed into Lee. In a tangled blur, both boys went down rolling in the grass.
Both sides began to scream, “He's Safe! He's Out!” But no one knew. Where was the ball? If Lee had dropped it, that wa
s it.
Lee rolled up and kicked Jeff's leg away as they were still tangled up. He held up his glove, then opened it, and let the ball fall out, catching it in his right hand.
The boys from the outfield threw down their gloves. Leaping as they ran, they joined in with the infielders and even Burl, the catcher, to pile on Lee who was still on the ground.
The Crabbe Street boys hung their heads and looked over at the pile of screaming arms and legs like someone had just told them Santa Claus wasn't coming this year.
"Come on, get off,” Ronnie yelled and pulled at Art with one arm and Burl with the other. “Y'all are gonna smother him."
Jeff, off to the side had sat up, but was still on the ground with both legs splayed out.
One by one the guys got off and let Lee get some air. He was more than a little shaky as he got to his feet. It was impossible to tell which had rung his bell more, the vicious hit from Jeff or the congratulations.
Lee bent down and picked up the ball, holding it up for Jeff to see.
"Good hit,” Lee said, offering his other hand.
Jeff didn't register anything, seeming to be lost in space.
Finally, he smiled at Lee, then took the offered hand and let Lee help him up. “Payback's hell, ain't it,” he said, then picked up his cap, and used it to dust off his jeans as he walked back to the other Crabbe street boys.
CHAPTER FIVE: PHOEBE
Under the shade from one of the historic looking live oaks lining the driveway Ted had the hood of the Fairlane open and was half in with the motor, his legs sticking out in the air behind him when Lee came down the steps.
Lee walked over to the car and leaned against the fender, looking back at the house. He knew it'd be best to let his dad get done with whatever it was he was tinkering with before trying to strike up conversation.
Lee's grandfather, Morris Bonham, who had designed the house and had it built in 1920, had owned a prosperous hardware store and lumberyard, but had been hit hard during the Great Depression. The solidity of this house was a reflection of that former prosperity. This was one of those houses that if someone were to pass by, they would probably say, “They sure don't build ‘em like that anymore."
The most striking aspect to the design of the house was a rounded section on the northwest corner by the driveway, which resembled a castle turret. It featured a large bay window looking out from the living room and was complete with a pointed spire-like roof topped by a Benjamin Franklin styled lightening rod.
All along the front of the cedar and stone house ran a wide summer porch, which was covered by a broad extension of the gray, slate roof. The alternating gray and green slate shingles were shaped with scalloped edges giving the roof a gingerbread house like appearance, like something from a storybook rather than the Deep South. Four massive stone supports, each wider at the base than at the top, supported the overhang, one at each corner and the other two spaced closer together towards the middle. These supports had to be solid and strong, as a slate roof is tremendously heavy.
Inside, along the porch ceiling, to support the weight, there were massive eight-inch thick oak beams. These were spaced about every two feet, running out from slots in the tops of the wall. These were fitted to an even larger oak beam, which was supported by the stone columns. The beam was so thick it must have once been the better part of an entire tree. And hanging from it were a few dead and abandoned flower baskets and two dried up and scummed over humming bird feeders.
The porch railing was painted a dark forest green, and decorative heart shaped designs had been cut out of the vertical panels, fashioned possibly to resemble those normally seen in photographs of the balconies on Swiss Chalets. The only furniture on the porch was two chairs and a loveseat made of a thickly woven wicker material, once painted white, but now mildewed to a dusky gray with splotches of green. The porch gave the house a shadowy feel, covering the front widows, and causing the house itself to seem as if it was hiding back from the world, like a turtle pulled up in its shell.
All the stone used in the construction of the house, from the foundation all the way up to below the windows where the cedar planks began, had surely come from the Yalahalla River, and was set by an artisan who obviously had taken great pride in his skill. The sizes and colors of the stones, along with the distinctive patterning the mason had employed, gave the stonework a distinctive look not normally found around these parts. In fact, it appeared more like one of those old New England saw mills often seen in calendars or jig saw puzzles.
The upper portion of the house was built with wide planks of a rich, red cedar, sanded and varnished naturally, so that the beauty of the grain stood out if one got close enough to notice. Ornamental shutters, painted a dark green to match the railing, hung to each side of every window, and four whitewashed concrete steps led down from the porch to the gravel driveway. Completing the picture there was a small, one car garage with an attached workshop standing off by itself to the other side of the drive.
Out on the lawn, tall, spreading oaks guarded the house at each corner and others also lined the drive providing shade under which the house could hide. Thick azalea bushes, spaced meticulously, ran along under the porch railing, and along on the sides and back. And on the eastern wall of the house, the side that faced the Ballard property, was a spreading trellis between the back bedroom windows. Whatever plant had been growing there must not have done well in the shade and had long since died. The brown vestiges of the tendrils and creepers still clung between the slats of the woodwork, stubbornly refusing to let go.
Some of the smaller oak trees were obviously planted around the same time as the construction forty years ago, but a few others were much larger and must have been here decades before the foundation was ever laid. There was also a stand of tall pines, mixed in amongst the oaks, sharing the property line with the Ballard estate. The pines were relative new comers, who'd been squeezed in only ten or fifteen years ago. They helped form a wall, which made it difficult to see the grove of ruined cherry trees, which began just where the property lines changed hands.
But surely, the most impressive feature had to be the great magnolia tree. It dominated the center of the expansive front yard, which stretched in from the edge of the grassy drainage ditch running along side Seminole Road. Lee remembered Grandma Bonham had once told him that particular tree had seen three centuries pass from that exact spot, maybe even more. And at times, like now, the magnolia was so festooned with the thick, white blossoms the aroma of magnolia made the air heady and thickly sweet, overpowering all the other trees and flowers for quite a distance up and down Cherry Heights.
Lee waited, listening to his dad while he tinkered. The scent of the magnolia seemed extra syrupy sweet today. The bees must have thought so too, as there must have been thousands of them buzzing all around and going in and out of the gaping, white flowers.
Looking at the house, Lee still couldn't believe that they actually lived here now. He realized that it would probably take some time for the idea to sink in. Lee doubted though, if the house would ever feel like home. Even on the inside, where Maggie had scrubbed, dusted, and Lysoled until the house really did shine, it was like trying to paint a cave's wall so it wouldn't look like a cave. Some things and some places just can't be changed with a thorough scrubbing.
Ted heaved himself back out of the motor compartment and stood up bending his back out straight. His hands were grimy, and he had a streak of black running below his right eye and down across his cheek.
"What ya doin’ dad?” Lee asked.
He didn't look up. “Just checking out a few things."
Lee turned and leaned in over the fender to get a better look for himself. “That's a big motor, huh?"
"A 312 V-8.” his dad replied. “This baby's got eight cylinders and there's 275 horses under the hood. But I can't for the life of me figure out why your grandmother would buy a car with that much engine."
Lee pulled his head out from under th
e hood. “You gonna hot rod it, dad?"
"Not too much I can do to it Ford hasn't already done,” he came back. “Maybe I'll install some headers and dual out the exhaust system. That would help a lot. Probably add five to ten horsepower. This big old engine needs to breathe."
Lee broke in, genuinely curious. “Why's that, Dad?"
"Let me see if I can explain it.” Ted thought for just a moment and then said, “It's like when you're running. You don't run very well if you've got a butt full of gas. Do you understand?"
Lee grinned. He couldn't miss this opportunity. “The car needs to fart, huh?"
Ted laughed and nodded. “Yeah something like that. It just needs to get the spent gases out of the motor. If it does that, it purrs right along."
It was Lee's turn to nod.
"And I am seriously thinking about changing the transmission to a four on the floor and getting rid of that stupid three-on-the-tree,” his dad added. “I don't know. We'll have to see."
Lee felt proud he knew what his dad was talking about. Four on the floor was a four-speed shifter mounted on the floor in front of the console, and three-on-the-tree was the current three-speed shifter mounted on the steering column just below the wheel. Not thinking for a moment, he almost said, “I guess it depends on what'll Maggie say.” But fortunately, he caught himself and changed it at the last second to, “I guess it depends on ... how much it's gonna cost, huh?"
Ted used the back of his hand to wipe a drop of sweat from his forehead. “The cost isn't really the problem. I can do all of the work myself. And I know where I can pick up a used four-speed tranny, for hardly a thing.” He paused and looked at the house and then down at his loafers, then added, “Course, we'll have to see if I can talk Maggie into it. Legally the car is hers, like the house and everything else."
"But y'all are married,” Lee came back. “And you're the dad."
Evil Heights, Book II: Monster in the House Page 8
