by David Arnold
“Matthew?”
Ambrosia nods. “His son.”
I stand there gripping the manila envelope, letting the words of Miss Ambrosia wash over me. “Earlier, when you said Mr. Elam was in a mood. You said it was par for the course this time of year.”
“I’m afraid George doesn’t feel he has much to be thankful for,” says Ambrosia. And even though she’s still smiling, she’s also crying, the springs of the great deep bursting forth. “Do me a favor,” she says. “Check in with him next week? Let’s see if we can prove him wrong.”
Alan and I walk back to the car in silence, my thoughts stretching to many places: the cold air in my lungs, the pavement beneath my shoes, the wind in my hair; they stretch to the sky, where the winter-gray clouds shift, break apart; they stretch to a room of fragile things, wholly insulated from the tempest outside.
“You gonna open it?”
“What?” I ask, only now realizing we’re back inside my car, sitting in its chilly quiet. Alan nods toward the manila envelope in my hands; I look down at my name scrawled the way Mr. Elam walks: methodical, determined, fixed.
This, it seemed to say. I really mean this.
I unwind the string, open the flap, and pull out a boxing ticket signed by Muhammad Ali, a basketball card signed by Michael Jordan, and the ancient baseball card of a kid named Merkle.
“Holy shit,” says Alan, leaning across the console.
Outside snow is falling, heavy now, coming down in those white winter sheets, and I say, “Good thing it’s not rain,” but Alan isn’t listening, he’s too busy googling images of Ali’s autograph to check if it matches.
It will. And so will Jordan’s.
I’m not sure Alan even sees the baseball card.
63 → a concise history of me, part thirty-seven
Generally speaking, people are remembered for one of two reasons: a string of successes or a singular failure. After some digging, I’m confident Fred Merkle belongs in neither category, which might explain his relative anonymity.
October 14, 2003. Cubs vs. Marlins, Game 6 of the National League Championship Series (NLCS). The Cubs take a 3–0 lead into the bottom of the eighth inning—five outs away from their first trip to the World Series since 1945—when a fan named Steve Bartman interferes with a possible foul ball catch. The Marlins go on to score eight runs in the inning, winning that game and the next one, and eventually, the World Series. Bartman’s interference is widely considered the first domino in the Cubs’ 2003 postseason demise, and if you listen closely, lingering echoes of his name can still be heard in the darker corners of Wrigley Field, an edifice haunted by apparitions as thick as the ivy lining its outfield walls.
In the 2015 NLCS, the Mets, led by second baseman Daniel Murphy, sweep the Cubs four games to none. Murphy sets a postseason record for consecutive games with a home run (six), and goes on to be named MVP of the series. Shockingly, he is not the most hated Murphy in Cubs’ lore.
Game 4 of the 1945 World Series against the Tigers; local Chicago tavern owner Billy Sianis is asked to leave the stadium due to the stench of his pet goat. As Sianis walks out, he reportedly states, “Them Cubs, they ain’t gonna win no more.” The Cubs lost that series, and would not play in another one for seventy-one years.
His goat’s name was Murphy.
Many Cubs fans attribute the unprecedented misfortune of their club, including the Steve Bartman Incident as it came to be known, to the Curse of the Billy Goat. But I don’t think the Cubs’ misfortune begins with names like Bartman and Murphy. I think it begins with a lesser-known name.
1908. Final game of the regular season, it’s Cubs versus Giants, when a controversial late-inning baserunning error by a nineteen-year-old newcomer named Fred Merkle costs the Giants the game. Cubs fans are ecstatic, hailing the error (dubbed the unfortunate Merkle’s Boner) a godsend. The Cubs head into the 1908 World Series with momentum and win the whole thing. Many deem this the dawning of an age in which the Cubs will reign supreme. Words like dynasty and destiny and domination are not uncommon when talk of their future arises. Merkle’s Boner? say Cubs fans. More like Merkle’s Miracle, amarite? Slap that MERKLES HAPPEN bumper sticker on your shiny new Model T and praise the Lord some dumb nineteen-year-old rookie misran the bases.
False.
In many ways Fred Merkle’s baseball career mimicked that of the Cubs. After 1908 his teams reached the World Series in 1911, 1912, 1913, 1916, and 1918, and, just like the Cubbies (and even once as a Cubbie), he lost them all.
But here’s where things get interesting. Take a look at what happens to those teams that beat a Fred Merkle team:
After winning against Merkle in the 1911 and 1913 World Series, the Philadelphia Athletics lose the 1914 Series in highly suspicious fashion, dismantle the core of their team, and in two years’ time, attain the worst winning percentage in modern baseball history.
After winning against Merkle in the 1918 World Series, the Boston Red Sox do not win another World Series for eighty-five years, a losing streak only outmatched by . . .
The Chicago Cubs, coming off a remarkable regular season win over the New York Giants in which a nineteen-year-old newcomer may or may not have committed an error, beat the Detroit Tigers on October 14, 1908, to win their second consecutive World Series championship.
They would not win another for one hundred and eight years.
Generally speaking, people are remembered for one of two reasons: a string of successes or a singular failure. And while some might point to the controversial baserunning error of a nineteen-year-old kid and call it a singular failure, I don’t buy it. I don’t think Fred Merkle was a failure, and I don’t think it was a simple case of one man’s shit luck. Call it a curse, call it what you want, I think Merkle figured out a way to pass on that luck to whichever teams were unfortunate enough to beat him.
Fred Merkle died on March 2, 1956, at sixty-seven years of age.
He is buried in an unmarked grave.
64 → give thought, receive advice, take action
In Chapter 17 of Year of Me, Cletus says to Nathan, “Sometimes I don’t know what I’m writing until it’s written. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m thinking until I read it. And sometimes I don’t know where I’m going until I’m there.”
I knew Mr. Elam’s gift scared me, but until now I had no idea how much.
I shift the laptop so it lines up evenly with the LED lamp. Across the desk, stacked nice and neat in the opposing corner, printed drafts; my work, my books, my bed, my chair, my room, my body in it, everything in its right place. But whatever comfort I normally glean from the simple order of things escapes me now.
I am thinking: of a man who keeps no pictures of people in his living space, ignores a friendly landlady, and shuns a new kid for getting too close; of a man whose only company is a collection of old memorabilia, his cat’s ashes, and his bourbon; of a man whose most frequent motto is when it’s my time, it’s my time, who is fast approaching the anniversary of the day he lost everything, and who is giving away prized possessions. And I am thinking of an unmarked grave.
My phone buzzes. And buzzes again before I can get it out of my pocket. Then again before I can open my texts, and again while I’m reading them.
Alan: Ali autographed ticket JUST LIKE YOURS going for $2200 on ebay
Alan: MJ AUTO GOING BETWEEN $800–1200
Alan: YOU ARE ROLLIN, YO
Alan: totes check out that rando baseball card, I bet it’s worth bank too
Drop the phone on my desk, google the number for Ambrosia’s, and when Ambrosia herself picks up, I tell her what was in the envelope, how I’m concerned for Mr. Elam.
“He’s napping at the moment,” she says. “Instructed me not to disturb him.”
I tell her I’ll try again, end the call, stare at the screen—and a thought occurs to me. Across the room I pull m
y hamper out of the closet, dig through pockets until I find what I’m looking for: the wrinkled-up paper Sara gave me last night.
This Can Only Get Better
Moby Dick Sucks
Alone or Lonely
I consider calling her, but the subject matter seems too sensitive. Hey, so, about your dad . . . No, this needs to happen in person.
I spend the next three minutes drafting a text, eventually landing on: Hey, it’s Noah. The period, I think, is what really seals the deal with this one. The period says, So I’m not hyper-anal or anything, but I care enough about you to punctuate this as an official sentence.
A few seconds after sending, I get the panic-inducing “. . .”
. . .
. . .
Just “. . .” for days.
Finally, a response.
Sara: Noah, Noah, Noah.
I can’t help but smile. She used a period.
* * *
Sara removes her coat (which is caked in snow) and drops it onto the floor.
“Did you walk over here?” I resist the urge to pick it up, hang it neatly in the closet.
“Oh yeah,” she says. “I love snow.”
“You love snow.”
“I adore snow. My love of snow runneth deep.” Her eyes land on the bare mattress. “Laundry day?”
“Something like that.”
Sara plops down on my bed, while I sit at my desk and try not to let my imagination run wild.
“You know those movies where the guy shows up on the girl’s front porch in some grand romantic gesture?” she says.
“Sure. Say Anything.”
“See, that’s a good one. I was thinking Love Actually, that bullshit scene where the dude shows up on her front porch with all those giant note cards confessing his love.”
“Why is it a bullshit scene?”
“For starters, the girl he’s there to woo is married to his best friend. Plus, in like the biggest plot hole ever, how does he even know she’s answering the door? What’s he gonna do if his friend answers?”
“Good point.”
Sara nods. “Thing is—and don’t think less of me—I could forgive everything if it had been snowing in that scene.”
“Wow.”
“Well, the way I see it, a guy shows up with note cards and a boom box means he’s got some time on his hands. But a guy shows up with snow, that’s either destiny or wizardry.”
“Or damn fine meteorology.”
“Exactly,” says Sara. “All of which is hella sexy.”
There’s always a moment with the girls I’ve talked to where I see them assess the situation that is Noah Oakman. The extent of cleanliness and organization, the white and pastel, the right angles with which I’ve aligned my room: I know it’s not the usual. And I’m okay with that, because it’s how I like things.
But it’s not for everyone.
Sara’s eyes travel across those angles and colors now. “It’s like your bedroom was directed by Wes Anderson,” she says.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I bet he’s super-anal too.”
“Too?”
“Noah. Dude. You are clinically anal.”
“I prefer lovably particular.”
Her phone chimes from her bag, but she ignores it. “Your text said you needed some advice?”
I immediately second-guess my idea. I like Sara, but I don’t know her well enough to know how she’ll respond to this, and the thing is, I’d really like to get to know her that well, which may or may not happen depending on the outcome of the next few minutes.
I start with Mr. Elam and our walks, and the conversation we’d had earlier this week, and then the conversation Alan and I had with Ambrosia earlier today, and then I get to the contents of the envelope. “He’s giving me all this stuff, things that are important to him, or used to be, anyway. And that anniversary is coming up, and Ambrosia said he doesn’t think he has anything to be thankful for.”
“Yeah.”
“You should see his place, Sara. The only thing that even slightly resembles companionship is a jar with his dead cat’s ashes. Anyway, I didn’t know if . . .”
“My dad, you mean?”
A beat. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”
“It’s okay. He never really . . . There were no specific warning signs with Dad. He never gave stuff away, not that I know of. He was always just . . . sad. As far back as I can remember, he was sad. Sometimes it just happens like that.”
It’s quiet now, and while part of me is relieved Sara didn’t get up and walk out, the other part of me wishes she would so I could go ask Dad if he needs help making carrot butter or something, I mean shit. And this isn’t schadenfreude; I feel no joy at Sara’s misfortune. This is some other German word we haven’t stolen yet, something that expresses a sense of appreciation for what you have when confronted with another person’s have-not.
“We should do something, though,” Sara says.
“I called over there. Ambrosia says he’s napping, asked not to be disturbed.”
“Wait.” Sara sits up, scoots to the edge of the bed. “You said he had a cat?”
“Yeah. Herman. And judging from the gold-plated plaque, I’d say he loved that thing.”
And now Sara is off the bed, slipping on her coat. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
She smiles, says nothing, and she’s gone, leaving me to sit alone in my room going over all the ways I scared her off. I reread my history on Merkle, make a few adjustments, and at some point it occurs to me . . . she’ll be right back.
Her house isn’t far.
Shit.
I’m through the door of my bedroom, into the hallway, almost downstairs when I hear, “I’m telling you, Sara, there’s nothing quite like jumping out of an airplane.”
“No, I’m sure you’re right, mister. It’s just, we’re in kind of a hurry.”
“Please, call me Orville.”
I take the steps two at a time, join Sara and Uncle Orville in the foyer.
“Well,” says Orville, crossing his arms across his very tan, very bare chest. “I’ll leave you kids to it, then.” He winks at me, all, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, slugger,” and saunters off into the kitchen.
Only now, in the absence of Orville, do I see the cat in Sara’s arms.
“Noah, this is Nike,” she says. “Nike, Noah.”
“We’ve met, actually.” I grab my coat out of the closet. “Let’s go.”
HERE IS → PART SIX
—Excerpt from Chapter 17 of Mila Henry’s Year of Me
‘Nowhere to go,’ said Nathan.
When they’d first entered the diner, Nathan spoke as if the world was at his feet; now he spoke as someone bearing its weight on his back.
Cletus knew the feeling.
‘Look,’ Cletus said. ‘You are a great artist.’
‘Ha.’
‘Don’t ha me. You are. The lofty morons of the world may not see it. You probably won’t live to see them see it, but believe me, generations from now they’ll know.’ Cletus held up the small canvas. ‘They will see this painting hanging in an art gallery’—
‘If galleries are still around by then.’
—‘in Paris’—
‘If Paris is still around by then.’
—’& they will stand in awe, shaking their heads at the miraculous oeuvre of Nathan . . . uh . . . what’s your last name?’
‘Brumbleberry.’
Oh boy, thought Cletus. He took a sip of water, cleared his throat, & tried to pick up the pieces of his little motivational speech. ‘They’ll, um, whisper the name—uh, well. They’ll whisper your name in, you know, awe & what have you.’
A different waitress stopped by the table to drop off their check. Cletus studied it for a moment. ‘How many pancakes did you eat, for crissake?’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ said Nathan. ‘I have no one in my life & I have no idea what’s next.’
Cletus set down the check, leaned across the table. ‘OK, listen. I’ve had it with the brooding, so I’m going to let you in on two secrets. First, you have no one in your life because you’re a miserable git & when you’re not a miserable git, you’re a completely insufferable git. I know because I’m one too. Guys like us will always be alone, that’s fine—the trick is knowing the difference between being alone & being lonely. As for not knowing what’s next . . . sometimes I don’t know what I’m writing until it’s written. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m thinking until I read it. And sometimes I don’t know where I’m going until I’m there. So I’ll tell you what you do. Paint. Forget the lofty morons. Just paint, Nathan.’ Cletus glanced at the check on the table. ‘Now let’s get out of this shithole.’
Together, Cletus & Nathan left the diner without paying.
65 → this can only get better
Covered in snow, standing in front of Mr. Elam’s door, I cradle a cat named Nike and consider the wise words of Cletus.
“Mr. Elam! Mr. Elam, open up!”
That Boston brownstone from my childhood vacation lingers, the scent of bookstores and herbal teas, and downstairs I hear the tender reprimands of Ambrosia, “Honey, you can’t be up there right now,” but I just knock and knock. “Mr. Elam!”
By any practical measure this idea is a long shot—I know that. “Nike likes people that like her,” Sara said in the car on the way over. And I recalled a night from months ago, after following her brother home from the Longmire party, how Circuit had called the cat a “little pissant” and then roared in its face like a lion.
“Mr. Elam!”
The loud, satisfying clunk of the door unlocking; it opens a few inches, and Mr. Elam says nothing, just peers into the hallway with dusty red eyes, the eyes of someone with no one, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
