The Complete Sookie Stackhouse Stories (Sookie Stackhouse/True Blood)

by Charlaine Harris

  All around the small complex, uniformed high school girls were dragging or toting bags of equipment to their assigned fields, and coaches and assistant coaches were converging on the officials’ table. There were clipboards aplenty, there were baseball caps of many colors, and the concession stand had opened to a brisk business. The stand was the hub in the wheel, and each quarter of the wheel was a different softball field. Each field, of course, had its own set of bleachers, dugouts, and a rudimentary press box. Huge plastic garbage cans were dotted around the venue.

  The softball complex was incredibly noisy. Everyone was yelling. A strange green vehicle labeled Gator was leaving Field One, driven by two grinning teenage boys who’d been drawing the chalk lines and raking the pitcher’s mound. (Why was it called a “mound” when it was flat? Manfred didn’t know, but he’d seen the term on the program.) The wheels on the equipment bags rumbled across the concrete, adding another level of noise, and the loudspeaker at Field One was playing a mixture of music that Manfred could only assume had been selected by the girls of the home team; in this case, the Bon Temps Lady Falcons.

  This was the most unlikely place in America for Manfred to be. For the past three nights in a row, he had dreamed of his grandmother, Xylda Bernardo. She had insisted he come here on this day, at this hour, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. He didn’t have any idea why she’d wanted him to be here. They’d played games like this as soon as Manfred had become old enough to recognize his own talent and to appreciate Xylda’s. Before that, she hadn’t been too interested in her only grandson, but when Xylda had discovered Manfred was a psychic, too, she’d done her best to take him over from his mother. His mother, struggling as a single parent, had followed the path of least resistance, figuring Manfred was safer with his grandmother after school was out than he would be at their house on his own.

  What do you and Gran do all afternoon? his mother asked.

  We play games, he said.

  Like Go Fish? Monopoly?

  Like . . . Guess why I asked you to do that, or Tell me what this vision means. You have three tries.

  After that conversation, his mother had driven over to Xylda’s by herself and returned flushed and furious. He hadn’t been allowed to go to his grandmother’s for two days, during which time he’d looked up some porn on his computer, guessing correctly that his mom would check. He’d also made sure his mom would find “evidence” that he’d had someone in the house before she got home from work. Suddenly, his mom and Xylda reached an accord.

  The purpose of most conventional games was winning or losing. The purpose of Grandmother’s games was to teach Manfred how to make a regular living with a very erratic talent, and how to recognize when he should heed the true compulsions of his gift.

  In her disorganized and colorful life, Xylda had experienced moments of true clarity and brilliance as a psychic. She had found lost things and lost people. She had talked to the dead. But those moments had been interspersed with long stretches of making her living by sheer quackery, made credible by her quick and accurate analysis of her clients’ desires and needs. After years of this, Xylda’s gift degraded. She still had the occasional genuine vision, but it had become almost impossible to distinguish such an event from the flood of canned chatter and vague predictions that made up the bulk of her repertoire.

  Manfred’s psychic gift was larger, deeper, and truer, but Xylda had taught him how to resort to a certain amount of chicanery to pay his bills. Luckily for Manfred, he had no moral qualms about this expedience.

  As Manfred watched the girls warming up out on the field, he realized he was not much older than some of them, yet he felt a decade older in life experience. He tried not to be angry at his grandmother as he calculated how much he’d spent to get to northern Louisiana, both in loss of earning time and in travel expenses. The total wasn’t insignificant, especially since he was still paying off Xylda’s credit cards. But she had to challenge him in his dreams. “Go down there to see what you can find out,” she’d said. “There’s a reason you’re going. Next time you see me, you tell me what that reason was.” In his dream, he’d said, “What’s the prize if I’m right?” Xylda had smiled enigmatically, one of her favorite expressions, and she’d said, “You’ll know it when you find it.” He grimaced at the memory.

  “You all right?” asked the woman sitting next to him. The stands had been steadily filling up. He’d vaguely known there was someone next to him because she smelled good. Now Manfred turned to look at her. She was very pretty; of course, he noticed that first. Blond hair, caught back in a ponytail, at least five years older than him, maybe more, which didn’t faze Manfred at all. She had remarkable blue eyes and some bodacious boobs, too. But then Manfred spotted a little diamond ring on Blondie’s left hand, which (Manfred was fairly sure) meant she was engaged or even married. Too bad. He would have enjoyed flirting with her . . . until he met her eyes the second time.

  Those blue eyes were incredibly knowing.

  Suddenly, Manfred felt uneasy. There was something weird and different about this woman, and he couldn’t relax until he knew what it was.

  “I’m fine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Just thinking about a dream I had.”

  “You a fan of softball?” she said, her expression one of gentle inquiry.

  Again, he had that uneasy feeling. Though her face and posture were inviting, even benign, Manfred had a strong conviction that she knew what his reply would be . . . if he spoke the truth.

  Strong feelings are what psychics are all about.

  “I’ve never watched a whole softball game, or a baseball game, for that matter,” he said. “I was never into sports at school.”

  “Hung out with the Goth kids?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “I never fit in too well, either,” she said, though she didn’t seem particularly upset by the recollection. “But I was able to play softball, thank God. I was pretty good.”

  “So you come to reminisce?” He would have sworn she wasn’t the kind of person who’d live in the past.

  “I come to watch the home games when my work schedule at the bar permits.” That wasn’t a direct answer, but as if in recompense, Blondie smiled. The effect was so dazzling it made part of Manfred’s body jump in a pleasant way. “Also, I help out the coach from time to time if the assistant’s out. . . . She’s pregnant. Today she’s fine, but the Softball Moms asked me to help with the tournament.”

  Was this why his grandmother had urged him to come to Bon Temps, to meet this woman? For some kind of love connection? Whoever she was, she was not an ordinary human. Manfred was absolutely sure of that, and his conviction didn’t have anything to do with her sunny good looks. In fact, he was sure that she was not for him, that she had already formed a bond elsewhere. But he was curious. This woman had to be significant. Xylda, a little clue here? Send me something from the blue hereafter?

  That was how Xylda had described her location, when he’d dared to ask.

  “Did you have a special reason to come today?” he asked. Maybe if he dug a little, he’d find gold. Then he could go back to his life and livelihood.

  “Special reason? Like, is a niece of mine on the team? Nope,” she said, trying not to sound like that was a dumb question. “When the Moms called, I volunteered to help set up the concession stand, which I came in two hours ago to do. And I’m going to work a shift or two later. You have a special reason to be here, yourself?”

  “Yes,” he said, making up his mind. “My grandmother Xylda sent me here, on a kind of treasure hunt.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, her head cocked a little to one side. “And she’s passed on, Miss Xylda?”

  He nodded.

  She considered that for a moment. “I haven’t had much experience dealing with the human dead,” she said.

  That was a strange way to put it. “You don’t beli
eve that’s possible.” Manfred was resigned to disbelief and scorn, both of which had come his way since he was a little guy and his talent had manifested.

  “Course I believe it’s possible,” she said, surprised. “That’s just not where my talents lie. And if you had a tough upbringing, mine was tough, too, buddy.”

  Feeling ridiculously gratified, Manfred grinned at her. She gave him a decided nod, as if she’d confirmed something in her own mind. She turned to look at the field, unhooking her dark glasses from her T-shirt and slipping them on. A few fluffy clouds scudded across the blue, blue sky. Despite the radiance of the sunlight, the wind made him shiver in his black shirt. Some of the teams had opted to wear their baseball pants and the long socks with their team jerseys, while some had chosen their shorts instead. The ones who’d chosen the pants were far more comfortable.

  The Lady Falcons and their opponents, the Lady Mudbugs, had both chosen long pants. The two teams had finished warming up. Each team now huddled before its dugout in a tight cluster. The girls were holding hands. Their heads were bowed.

  “What are they doing?” Manfred asked.

  The blonde whipped off her dark glasses and looked at him as if he’d asked her why gravity held them to the earth. “They’re praying,” she said, in a gently pitying tone. After a moment, all the Falcons flung their heads up in unison, gave a yell (“Win!”), and retreated into their dugout. The Mudbugs repeated the process.

  “Good afternoon,” the announcer said, her voice distorted by the crackling sound system. “Welcome to the tenth annual Louisiana Slam Softball Tournament! The first game will be our own Lady Falcons versus the Lady Mudbugs from Toussaint.” There was a lot of cheering.

  Manfred leaned forward and looked to his left so he could see into the little hut that passed for a press booth. Sitting behind the microphone was a woman who was surely a former beauty queen. She was perhaps in her late thirties, with honey-colored hair and a smile like an orthodontist’s dream. She wore a Softball Mom! T-shirt, and she looked as excited as the players. There were a few sheets of paper on the wooden plank in front of her, and she referred to one before leaning in to the microphone. “Coaching for the Lady Mudbugs, Head Coach Tom Hardesty, Assistant Coach Deke Fleming.” There was polite applause. “Here’s the starting lineup for the Lady Mudbugs,” the announcer said. “Heather Parfit, pitcher!” Heather, a thin girl with a formidable mouth guard protecting her braces, dashed out of the visiting team’s dugout. She took her place on the third-base-to-home line.

  Eventually, the Mudbug and Falcon players had been celebrated and the seniors recognized.

  The girls were all colors and all builds, but Manfred saw they had one thing in common. Their faces were intent, excited, and ready.

  “And that’s our starting lineup for today!” concluded the announcer. “Let’s hear it for the home team and their coaches, Bethany Zanelli and her assistant, Martha Clevely.” There was a lot more cheering as the Lady Falcon starters dashed to their places on the field. The announcer continued, “At this time the flag will be presented by the Bon Temps High School JROTC. All rise for the national anthem.”

  Everyone rose, and kids in uniforms marched out with the Louisiana flag and the U.S. flag. Hands went to chests, hats were removed, and for a moment all Manfred could hear was the snap of the flags in the breeze and the distant shrieks of two children playing tag (“You’re it!”). After a little crackling from the loudspeaker, a country-and-western star’s recording of “The Star-Spangled Banner” floated through the air and up into the vast blue sky. People all over the softball park froze in their tracks. Many of them in the stands sang along. The blonde next to Manfred did not. He wondered why.

  “Can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” she murmured, her eyes fixed on the rippling Stars and Stripes. Manfred had an eerie prickling on his arms. He was now absolutely sure that the blonde could read his mind.

  “. . . laaaaand of the freeeee . . . and the home of—the brave!” There was hooting and hollering and clapping at the anthem’s end. Manfred felt a thrill of patriotism, something that had never made his hair stand on end before. The announcer yelled, “Play ball!”

  All psychics learn to be sharp observers, because observation helps to fill in when the gift fails. Manfred could see that his companion reacted physically, viscerally, to the announcer’s cue. Her eyes widened, her muscles tensed, her eyes went from player to player. . . . He could see the ghost of her former commitment to the game hovering over her head. She wanted to play, even now.

  She still looked plenty fit and strong for a woman her age, which he revised upward. He was sure she was in her late twenties.

  “Well,” she said absently, “I stand up all day, most days, and I do a hell of a lot of gardening . . . but I can see thirty coming up in my headlights.” She didn’t even bother to look at him; she was scoping out the Mudbugs’ first batter, a lanky girl with her hair pulled back in a long braid. The batter put on her batting glove and helmet with a look of determination. She began to swing the bat back and forth to ensure that her muscles were loose. She looked confident and trim in her gold and green.

  “You might at least try to pretend you can’t hear me,” Manfred whispered.

  “Oh, sorry.” She sighed. “I don’t often meet someone who won’t have an issue with it. It’s a real pleasure to say what I’m thinking.”

  He considered how difficult it would be to disguise the fact that you knew the private thoughts of everyone around you, every hour of every day. “Hard times,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I’m used to it. Did you come here to meet me? You think that’s why Miss Xylda told you to come? What are we supposed to do?”

  She was so guileless that she made Manfred feel old beyond his years.

  “I think we’re supposed to see what happens,” he said, almost at random.

  “Easy enough,” she said. The top of the inning was clearly a time spent feeling out the other team. The Falcons’ pitcher (“She’s our number two pitcher,” Blondie whispered) got two outs, after a lot of work, and though the third batter hit the ball, the right fielder got it to first in time.

  The bottom of the first was nerve-racking, if Blondie’s reactions were anything to go by. The Mudbugs’ pitcher had gotten one out. The next Lady Falcon had made first base, then made second by the sacrifice of the third batter in the lineup. The Falcon runner turned to look around the field, and Manfred saw that her jersey read Allen. She was a skinny girl with curly dark hair, but she was fast and she was alert.

  “Georgia Allen, junior,” the blonde said.

  The next Falcon batter at the plate (Washington) was a broad-shouldered girl with her hair gathered at the nape of her neck.

  “Hit it out of the park, Candice!” screamed her teammate from the dugout. Three rows down from Manfred and the blonde, a very broad woman said, “You hit that ball, Candice!” in a firm voice that implied this was a reasonable command.

  Candice Washington’s dark face was set in adamant lines. She stood with her feet planted in the batter’s box like a statue. The lanky Mudbug pitcher looked nervous for a moment, but then she pinched her lips together, began her windup, and threw a good pitch right at Candice. Because he was intent on the ball, Manfred spotted the moment when it jinked sideways just a little, just a fraction, so Candice’s mighty swing smacked it on the bottom instead of squarely in the middle.

  “Heads up!” screamed several voices simultaneously. People looked up to spot the ball, and a few covered their heads with their hands. The foul went flying into the visitor stands, to be caught by a boy who seemed to have brought a mitt just for such an event.

  “A foul can crack your skull, it hits you just right,” Blondie told him. “Did you see that?” She didn’t mean the boy’s catch.

  “Foul ball,” called the umpire, a thin woman with brittle auburn-dyed hair. “Ah . . . foul ball,” she add
ed in a puzzled voice. She was clearly reviewing the pitch in her head. The ump looked as startled as Manfred felt.

  “There’s foul play afoot,” Manfred’s companion said, so darkly that Manfred had to stifle a laugh.

  “You must read a lot of mysteries,” he said. “And by the way, good play on words.”

  “I do read mysteries, and thanks. Now let’s hush, here’s the next pitch.” This time, the blonde wasn’t looking at the batter, but at the crowd. Manfred watched the opposing team’s players; in fact, he tried to watch everyone in that dugout.

  Candice watched the ball with her eyes squinted almost shut in grim resolve. Whether by calculation or intuition, she caught the ball square on the bat. The fluorescent yellow orb soared into the outfield. Georgia Allen took off from second like a scalded cheetah, while Candice Washington made it to first before the ball was retrieved by the left fielder. Allen scored, and made a great effort to look nonchalant as she took off her batting helmet. The Lady Falcon fans did a lot of yelling and stomping, and there was a lot of hugging in the dugout.

  The next Bon Temps batter in the lineup, a sophomore named Vivian Vavasour, was not as aggressive. Vavasour struck out; whether that was achieved by fair means or foul, Manfred couldn’t discern.

  “Do you have any ideas?” he said, as quietly as he could and still be heard in the noisy crowd, while the Lady Falcons took the field.

  “Well, I doubt it’s anyone from Bon Temps,” she said dryly. “I was looking at the moms from Toussaint, but I didn’t spot any of them doing something witchy.”

  “What about the assistant coach, Fleming?” Manfred said. “The man in the purple polo shirt, right inside the dugout.”