by Chris Fabry
The catcher smiled and showed the gap between his top front teeth, two of which seemed to be growing in opposite directions. He fit the mask on and gave the pitcher a thumbs-up. The umpire took his position and waved at John to step into the batter’s box, then pointed at the pitcher.
The first pitch was high and tight, and John tried ducking but lost his balance and sat in the dirt.
The pitcher laughed and so did a few parents from the opposing team. A couple players from his team clapped and told him to “hang in there.”
He heard the deep voice of his uncle encouraging him. “Stay in there, John. Knock it out.”
The ball hit the metal fence behind him and rolled to within a couple feet of home plate. The catcher had chased it and ambled toward him.
John picked up the ball and placed it in the kid’s mitt. “Tell Tom to watch himself.”
The catcher tried to act tough and shake off the threat, but there’s something in the eyes of prey that gives away fear and John sensed it.
“Put another one in there, Tom!” a man with stringy hair shouted. John guessed from the resemblance that it was Tom’s father. He was at the edge of the dugout sipping something jammed into a holder that said Drink Coke. “Let’s see what you got!”
Tom overthrew the next pitch outside and in the dirt, and it skipped to the backstop again. John swung a few times, staring at the pitcher with the hint of a smile. The kid walked off the mound and spit, then took the throw from his catcher. He stared in at the sign, his right arm dangling. His form was first-rate, not herky-jerky. Fluid and smooth. He grooved the 2-0 fastball down the middle, and John saw the stitches and swung, connecting with the resounding ping of the metal bat. He put his head down and ran to first, stealing a glance at the left fielder, who stood at the fence with his back to the field.
There was a smattering of applause behind him, and when he hit first base, he took an immediate left and ran toward the pitcher’s mound. Tom was staring at the still-rolling ball and some kids chasing it past the concessions stand. John put his helmet into the back of the pitcher and drove him hard into the infield dirt. The air came out of the kid’s lungs, and John drove him face-first into the hard ground. There was yelling after that and a catcher’s mask on John’s back, then a couple of coaches pulling him off and his uncle dragging him away.
John didn’t get to touch home plate and didn’t play another inning. He was kicked out of the league.
His uncle didn’t speak until they got into his truck. “You want to tell me what that was about? I paid a lot of money for you to play baseball, not big-time wrestling.”
John sat silent.
“That was a great hit. Actually two great hits. One on the ball and one on the pitcher. Unfortunately you’re not playing linebacker.” He started the truck and put it in gear, then held his foot on the brake. “Did that catcher say something to you?”
John nodded.
His uncle sat for another moment, rolling something in his mind. He opened his mouth to speak; then he must have thought better of it because he just drove off.
People said the rage was understandable. The next Monday he heard the titters and whispers of kids and the more hurtful words of teachers who cast a wary eye at him on the playground. When Miss Bailey saw his eye and the scrapes on his cheek and the deep gash on his arm, she asked what had happened.
“Baseball game,” he said.
“This needs to be looked at right away. Come with me.”
She took him to the school nurse, who wasn’t there yet. Miss Bailey swabbed hydrogen peroxide on the cuts that were turning a dark yellow. The liquid bubbled and stung, but he didn’t let on that it hurt.
“There’re still some little pebbles or something under the skin, John. Didn’t anybody look at this at the game?”
“They didn’t really have a chance to,” he said. “I got in a fight with another kid.”
She was kneeling in front of him. “What happened?”
At that moment he knew he had a choice: to open up and tell her what was going on or to keep it inside. Maybe it was the perfume. Maybe it was how warm he felt being touched by someone so beautiful who seemed to care. Maybe it was the dam in his heart that had backed up a wall of emotion that had cracked. Whatever the reason, he spilled the whole thing in a choking, gasping effort that both scared and humiliated him.
Except she was crying too.
She listened to the whole thing. The feelings the boys brought up, what they said about his mother. The fact was, he hadn’t seen his mother in more than a week, and then she was drunk. And his father had worked midnights over the weekend, which meant he slept most of the day. John had eaten alone, except for the hot dog and ice cream he ate at Dairy Queen with his uncle, and he’d waded through the dirty clothes to find something to wear to school. He had thrown his bloody uniform in the trash after the game.
The more he talked, the more she cried, and it felt good to have someone listen—really listen—as he told her about the way the ball flew off the bat and how good it felt to drive that kid into the ground and watch him get dirt and rocks in his mouth to mix with the pinch between his cheek and gum.
When John was done spewing the disconnected stories, he saw something else in her eyes. Something akin to a loving revulsion. Pity mixed with horror. He had said too much. He had let her inside to see what was really there. Though Miss Bailey had compassion, it seemed to him like she was treating a wounded snake. No matter how much she helped, he was still going to have to slither off into his hole.
At that point he stopped talking, stopped looking at Miss Bailey as someone who would listen, and began the damming process again. He learned he needed to hold on to the feelings. Though others—his uncle and a few teachers and coaches—tried to break through, John kept himself in check. He steeled himself against the pain of having an absent father and a mother who floated in and out of his life.
When high school rolled around, John became known as one of the most fierce linebackers in the state. It felt good to drag his opponents to the ground. It felt good to feel anything. But when the game was over, he went back to his template, keeping things pushed down and controlled.
Several girls had been interested. And he was certainly interested. But something kept him from commitment. Something kept him from opening up, and sooner or later, they would get tired of the strong, silent routine and move on.
After high school, when a few colleges offered scholarships, John went to his uncle. He didn’t have the grades for college, mainly because he hadn’t applied himself. His uncle encouraged him to give it a try, but John felt it a waste of time. His uncle suggested the military, which made perfect sense. It was there, in preparation for battle, that John finally found himself, his calling. Things clicked and he put his mind and body to work. His physical talents shone, and his superiors recognized his abilities. Again, he stepped into the challenge of the SEALs, going through the rigorous training, the mind-bending assaults on his body to bring it into subjection, to take him places he’d never been before and prepare him for places he hoped he would never have to go again.
Now, under the oak tree, he looked out over the mass of uniformed young boys and saw himself in right field. Saw himself rounding first and slamming the pitcher to the ground. Saw the parents in the stands and in folding lawn chairs cheering and remembered the loss of never having his mother or father watch him. Whether it was the closeness he saw there or the empty feeling of loss or the growing feeling that something drastic was about to change his life, John began to tear up. A wave of emotion hit him, and he lay back in the grass and let it come, tears flowing, eyes stinging. There was plenty in his life to weep for. Plenty in his life that would have felled a lesser man.
He lay there a few minutes, listening to the game’s end—the high fives, the squeals of younger brothers and sisters at the playground, the plastic wrappers coming off fruit snacks, and empty Gatorade bottles tossed in trash cans.
Johns
on glanced at the concessions stand beyond the left field fence and saw a young girl in an outfit just like June Bug’s. He’d bought it for her at Walmart in late spring. In fact, the way the girl moved away from the stand toward the parking lot reminded him of her, her hair bouncing when she ran. She skipped when she was in a hurry, putting her left arm out and hopping along. The girl disappeared behind a playground wall. He was really losing it if he thought he was seeing June Bug.
He checked his watch and stood, walking to the parking lot with parents and siblings of sweaty players. A kid with #14 passed him and John couldn’t hold back. “Nice swings out there, 14,” he said.
The kid looked at him, thick glasses, red lips from the Gatorade, and he flashed a smile. “I didn’t hit anything.”
“Yeah, but when you do, it’ll go for a mile. Keep swinging.”
The kid’s father put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and the two walked away.
John watched them climb into their Prius and drive off. Then he fired up the RV and found the intersection from memory. It was a rural farming region without the nice backyards and wooden fences of the suburbs. The road dipped, and there were willow trees growing on either side of the little red house with the short driveway and the porch swing.
He parked in the gravel next to the mailbox and stared at the For Rent sign in front. It was nearing dinnertime with the sun still high in the sky. He swatted at a few mosquitoes as he walked to the front door. It was muggy, and there was a creek nearby that had eaten away at the bank and standing water in a little cow pond beside the house. He knocked on the door and waited.
After a louder knock, he looked in the window by the swing, cupping his hand so he could see inside. The uneven, hardwood floors ran throughout the empty house. No furniture. No phone. Not even a kitchen table.
He walked to the side, hands on his hips, and saw movement at a farmhouse. He cut through the edge of a cornfield and up the long driveway. A man was working on the wheel of his tractor, his Razorbacks hat stained with sweat and axle grease.
“Excuse me,” John said. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the lady who lived in that house.”
The man turned, propping his arm against the huge tire, but it took him a few seconds to look John over and speak. “Mrs. Linderman?”
“That’s her. She didn’t pass, did she?”
The man stuck his tongue in his cheek and dipped his head to look over his glasses. “She passed from that place down yonder; that’s for sure. But not from this world. Who wants to know?”
“Sorry. I’m a friend of her son’s.”
“You knew Calvin?”
“We were in the service together. Fought in Afghanistan side by side.”
He wiped his hands on his coveralls and with great effort stood, sticking out a rough and rugged hand. Callouses from hard work. Lines on his face from years of life and dark veins that showed through sunburned skin. “Thank you for what you did for your country, son. You’re not John, are you?”
John let go. Surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Margaret mentioned you anytime she talked about Calvin. She hoped you’d come back around here.” He glanced at the house and a woman working in the kitchen. “You and your daughter want to come inside and have supper with us?”
“My daughter?” John said, confused. How would he know about June Bug?
The man nodded toward the road. “She looks like she’s with you. Isn’t that your daughter?”
John turned to the road. June Bug was bounding up the driveway toward him, a big smile on her face.
12
I hugged my dad, and I swear he looked like his teeth were going to fall out of his head. He just stood there, his mouth open, about a million questions in his eyes. I’d stayed as quiet as I could, singing into my pillow as we crossed bridges. The hardest part was finding something to eat. I’d brought some bread from Sheila’s kitchen and a couple of pieces of cheese, but after I ate those, my stomach started gnawing at itself.
One of the big draws of me coming with him was to find out what in the world he was doing and what was so all-fired important about the trip, and I figured I was missing something with this man. Maybe it was his daddy. Maybe the uncle he talked about from time to time who had taught Dad to fish. I wondered if this might be the man who made all the memories.
Instead of letting my dad ask me anything, I took his hand and swung it back and forth, smiling at the older man. “Are you friends with my dad?”
“I am now,” he said. “Just asked if he wanted to come have supper with us. Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving,” I said. “Can we eat supper with them, Daddy? Please? I know it’s going to be good because I can smell it.”
“I’ll go in and tell the missus to set two more places at the table.” The man walked off, leaning to one side with one of his arms held tight against him.
When he made it to the steps which were cinder blocks, Dad turned to me. “What are you doing? You were supposed to stay with Sheila. Have you been in the RV all this time?”
I nodded.
He ran a hand through his hair. “She must be going out of her gourd. She might have contacted the police, thinking you ran away.”
“She wouldn’t do that. She’ll figure it out.”
“I got to get to a phone.”
“The people in there will let you use theirs. Do you know them?”
A bunch of worry lines came on his face, and for once he didn’t seem fully with me. Most of the time when I had my dad’s attention, I had all of him. But I could tell there were things going on in his head now that took him away, took his thoughts to some other place, like he was on some deserted island but thinking about Alabama or Tennessee.
“I knew the lady who lived in the house next door. That’s who I came to see.”
“What for?”
He looked at me and gave me a stare that said, I can’t believe you are asking me questions when there are so many questions I have for you. But he also did it with a smile. “I have never spanked you in all these years, young lady, but I’m as close as I’ve ever been. What were you thinking hiding like that?”
I tried to pout and put my head down. He put his hand under my chin and lifted it up so he could see my face. I guess there were tears in my eyes because things were sort of blurry.
“I just want to know,” I said.
“You want to know what?”
“About you. About me. I knew if I asked you wouldn’t let me come. And if you found out I was in the RV anywhere close to Colorado you’d have turned around. So I stayed up there as long as I could.”
“I should put you on a bus in the morning. I should send you straight back there.”
“But I want to go with you and find out.”
“Find out what? What are you talking about?”
The screen door creaked, and the old man stuck his head out. “You two come on inside and get washed up.”
“We’ll be right there,” my dad said. He got down on one knee and put his arms on my shoulders. “What’s this about? I thought you’d be happy to stay with Sheila.”
And then the tears started to roll, and once they start there’s no way you can stop them; I don’t care how old you are. I didn’t like to cry in front of him, and most of the time when I do, I make sure it’s in my bed at night when he’s asleep or out getting food. But I couldn’t help it. “I want to go back with you to Dogwood.”
He squinted at me like I had three heads. “What do you know about Dogwood?”
“My mama is back there. I just know it. And I thought if I came with you, you’d explain things. Explain why we’re not living there and what happened. I want to know what happened to her.”
My nose was running now, and I wiped it on my shirt. Then I wiped my eyes and wasn’t able to see much, but I could see the look on his face. And that was enough to send me into more crying and snorting. I fell into his arms, and he gathered me onto his chest and held
me there as I sobbed. Getting it out felt good in a hard kind of way. It was sort of like eating way too much candy, like one time I had a whole bag of Twizzlers. I made it to the parking lot before it all came spilling out, and Daddy said he was afraid I had burst something inside because it was red. I told him it was just the Twizzlers, and then he laughed and shook his head and gave me a wet paper towel.
He kept patting me on the back and whispering in my ear. “Shh. It’s going to be okay. It’s all right,” he said about a hundred times.
Then he pushed me away so I stood on my own, and he took out a handkerchief from his back pocket. I blew my nose hard, and we both laughed because I can really make it sound like an air horn.
“How did you find out about Dogwood?” he said.
And then it all came spilling out. I told him about the poster I saw in Walmart that had my picture on it and recited exactly what it said, like I’d done about a million times in my head.
Daddy kept wringing his hands, folding them over and over like he was trying to wash something away. Again I asked about Dogwood and if we could go back, and he shook his head and muttered something about never being able to.
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.” He looked toward the road, and there were lines on his face I’d never seen before. Finally he said, “Which do you like better, June Bug or Natalie Anne?”
“I don’t think I could ever get used to anything other than June Bug.”
His chin trembled and he pulled me close.
The screen door squeaked behind us. “Food’s on the table,” the old man said.
“We were just coming,” Dad said.
He picked me up and walked into the house and took me to the bathroom down a long hallway with hardwood floors that creaked underneath our weight. I had a feeling that they’d creak under the weight of a mouse. The house smelled musty and old, and there was dust in the corners that old people must not see. The bathroom fixtures were rusted and dripped even when I turned the handle off really hard, and there were brown spots on the towels.
