The Pitcher

by William Hazelgrove

  Scary shit, man.

  We see this Indian doctor with her hair pinned back and a loose dress thing on. It might be Mom’s doctor. I’m not sure. I haven’t been sure of anything since they took Mom away on a gurney. I watch other people come into the emergency room. People slump in the corners on the red couches; a few people doze. I think of myself in flip flops and shorts and my red pajama shirt. The Pitcher tries to smooth down his hair, then gives up and stares at his hands. At least he has on his old crappy loafers and I wonder when he realized he didn’t have shoes. I think of the way he looked when he picked Mom up and ran for his car.

  It was like he was running for his life.

  Grandma sits in the corner of the emergency room with her rosary. She’s like chanting to herself and nobody bothers the little old Mexican lady muttering away. Nobody cares about anything when you are in a hospital, man. The only thing people care about is getting the hell out of there. The Indian doctor pushes through the double doors in her white coat.

  “Are you Ricky?” she asks, looking at me.

  Now, I’m freaking.

  “Yeah … Yeah … I’m Ricky,” I answer.

  The Indian doctor smiles, but it’s one of those smiles teachers give you right before they tell you the bad news. Not good, man.

  “We talked on the phone.”

  “Yeah … right,” I mumble.

  She holds out her hand to the Pitcher.

  “And you are Mr. Langford?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I never heard that before. Dr. Aziz sits down on the couch and we huddle close like she has a big secret. Grandma stays in the corner. I guess she figures she could do more talking to the Big Man.

  “Maria wanted me to talk to you and asked that you bring some things for her,” she begins, looking at the Pitcher.

  “I can do that,” he says.

  The doctor has dark circles under her eyes and she pauses.

  “Maria is resting and we have stopped the hemorrhaging for now,” she says slowly, looking at both of us. “But she is very sick.”

  My heart does not like this and I feel like bolting out the door. The Pitcher sits with his eyes focused like he’s on the mound.

  “We have to run a lot of tests, but her kidneys are failing. The lupus has attacked her internal organs, but we just don’t know to what extent,” she continues looking at the Pitcher, then me. “The first thing we have to do is get her blood levels straight and ...”

  To tell you the truth, man, I start to space out. I hear the medical speak and try to pay attention except my mind keeps jumping ahead. So she is going to die. So she is going to die. But I nod and say uh huh I see, yes, ok, uh huh and try to look like you’re supposed to look. When people tell me bad things I sort of go somewhere else. So I look like I am listening, but I don’t hear a word the doctor is saying.

  Her eyes flatten out into large brown circles.

  “I won’t lie to you. Maria might have waited too long for us to—”

  “You mean too long to get well?” I interrupt, feeling like I have just been prodded awake. Because that has to be what she means. I’m not even going to the other place. Dr. Aziz looks at me and her eyes soften.

  “Well, let’s just see how the next twenty-four hours go,” she says, looking at the Pitcher again.

  “She is on a dialysis machine and we have moved her upstairs for now.”

  I see. Yes. Alright. Hmm, Uh huh. I think I said that. At least that’s what I think. I mean on the television shows everyone gets bad news and looks real calm. Except the ladies who throw themselves on the floor going NO, NO, NO. But I’m not going to do that. The Pitcher, he just keeps nodding with the hawk eyes. I figure if he can be cool, then I can too.

  “She keeps talking about a baseball game, but of course she can’t participate,” the doctor continues, looking at the Pitcher and me. “I don’t understand her preoccupation with this game when she is very ill.” Dr. Aziz shakes her head. “She knew how sick she was but didn’t tell anyone.”

  I nod like a puppet, keeping my hands clasped in the right position. What I want to do is tell that doctor all about Mom. She just doesn’t know the way Mom worked with me every day in the street. The way she read from books to try and teach me how to pitch. Or how she got me Hooked on Phonics when I couldn’t read. She doesn’t know about the way she would hold up these flash cards because I just couldn’t remember eight times seven is fifty-six or nine times eight is seventy-two. Like how we sat on our porch every day with those cards, man. She didn’t know anything about her being my coach on every team I joined.

  All she sees is the questions, you know.

  I want to say to her: Did I tell you she got a World Series pitcher to coach me? I’m not so good at school and we are working on that too. But she told me I could do whatever I wanted because I have this dream of being a major league pitcher. That’s why she got me the dude sitting right here; World Series pitcher man! 1978 against the Cardinals. Bet you never had that in here before! But first I have to make the high school team and Mom is all about that. She said I’m going to make it and I will. So that’s the plan and we are all on board. So don’t let her slip away. I need her, man, don’t let her slip away.”

  “Ricky?”

  Dr. Aziz is staring at me. I’m doing a great job, man, of keeping it together. She is probably like, damn, this little dude is tough! And I am, man. I can take a lot, you know. I mean, I feel like being one of those ladies on TV, but like men don’t cry, you know, in front of people. And it is time to be a man now, right?

  So I look at her real steady-eyed.

  “Yeah…what up,” I say calmly.

  The doctor’s eyes get real sad and she takes my hand, which is kind of weird, but that’s when I see this red table, man. It’s like got People magazine and Good Housekeeping and these women’s magazines all over it. But the thing I’m staring at is the rain. Something must be leaking from the ceiling, because there’s a lot of rain on that table. And Dr. Aziz is just staring at me like I’m bawling or something. But I’m keeping it together. I’m telling you straight.

  Even though the rain, man, it just keeps coming down.

  36

  MOM AND I ARE IN a space shuttle except it’s more like a fighter jet. We are going past planets and shooting across the universe with a million stars around us. That one looks good, Ricky, she says, squeezing my shoulder. Oh, that’s Jupiter, Mom, let’s keep going. So we go by like Mars and Uranus and Neptune and I’m guiding this rocket ship and Mom is saying, You find us a good planet to live on, Ricky. I know you can do it. The music is like Kanye West’s long synthesizer rip at the end of that one song Runaway. Then I see this green-and-blue planet. Hey, Mom, that looks like a good one. I think it’s Earth. And then I don’t feel her hand anymore. I turn around and her seat is empty.

  Mom!

  I look around.

  Mom!

  I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling in my bedroom. You know how it is after a big bang? Like a firecracker or one of those cherry bombs Joey’s dad buys from some guy in Mexico that make all the windows rattle. After those things blow up you can’t hear a thing, man, and it sounds like the whole world is taking a breath. That’s the way it is in the house. I figure I’ll get up and Mom will be there eating her toast with her coffee and reading the Jacksonville Chronicle. She’ll look up and smile in her Hawaiian robe.

  “How did you sleep, Ricky?”

  “Good,” I’ll answer, yawning.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No. Not really,” I’ll mumble, slumping down at our breakfast bar.

  “Get yourself some cereal,” she’ll say, nodding to the cabinets.

  Or she’ll get up and make pancakes like she does every weekend. And maybe we will eat on the patio, which is cool because you feel rich eating outside. I don’t know why, but you can just imagine rich people doing that. Then we will talk around the patio table and I will rip on Dr. Freedom and make Mom laugh or imi
tate Coach Devin and Mrs. Payne. Then we’ll go throw the ball in the street and work on my pitching.

  So I figure Mom will be there in her robe and our day will pass just like any other. But then I hear the snoring. Mom snores like an animal, which is almost like a small motor. This snoring shakes the house. And then it breaks into this snorting like some kind of wild beast. I get up and walk out of my bedroom and see the Pitcher on our couch with his feet hanging off. His mouth is open with his cigarettes and a can of Good Times on the floor.

  But now I don’t see him.

  I see Mom.

  The machines are breathing and there’s one showing her heartbeat like PAC-MAN that Mom likes to play where the yellow dot eats white dots before they turn into blue monsters and eat you. And that’s what I’m seeing now, man—lots of blue monsters that are going to eat Mom through all these tubes. I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there with the Pitcher. He looks freaked too and then Mom opens her eyes a little.

  “Hey, Ricky,” she says real softly.

  She holds out her hand and it feels rough from playing ball. She doesn’t really close her hand, just leaves it there. I close mine, because I don’t care how many tubes they have going into her, I’m going to hang on. She has her eyes closed again and then she speaks with her mouth barely moving.

  “You have your big game tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going.”

  She opens her eyes.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. You are going, Ricky,” she says in a stronger voice. “It’s what we have been working toward …”

  “But who’s going to coach us?”

  “I’ll coach the team,” the Pitcher says then. “Until your mom gets better.”

  I stare at the Pitcher and he nods. But to my way of thinking, man, I’m done with baseball. This all happened because of me playing baseball. I shake my head, looking down.

  “I’m not playing, Mom.”

  Her eyes get fierce.

  “You have to play, Ricky! The freshman coaches will be watching.” Mom pauses and I can tell just talking is taking her strength. “It’s your moment to shine.”

  Moment to shine, man, I have heard that before. And now I am seeing all the way back to when my kindergarten teacher said I couldn’t remember my lines for the Christmas play. Mom just stood there and said she would make sure I knew them. The teacher shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Hernandez, but I think we might have to use someone else.” Mom stared at her, her eyes moving, her chin bobbing. “No. He has to have his moment to shine.”

  And that was that.

  Mom’s hand gets real loose and she’s breathing heavily. She falls sleep again and I hate to say it, but I cry all over her bed. I cry with my head down on the mattress until the Pitcher drives me home. Grandma helps me to bed. But now I’m staring at the Pitcher on the couch. An ESPN announcer drones on about Michael Vick’s return to football. I walk over and turn off the television and that’s when he wakes up. Actually, I lied. I go and look in Mom’s room and see the dark stain on her bed and then run back out and punch his arm.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  The Pitcher sits up and coughs.

  “Argh …” I think he says at first. “She’s at the hospital,” he answers hoarsely.

  “Where’s my mom?” I repeat.

  The Pitcher picks up his cigarettes.

  “Your mom is still at the hospital. We took her … remember?”

  He then hocks these really gross things into his Good Times. The dude must travel with spares. I wait and don’t say anything about him coming back to pick up some things for Mom. When people take a suitcase to the hospital, it’s a bad sign. I know this because the Pitcher talked to somebody on the phone and said the same thing happened with his wife. He had taken her a suitcase of clothes and makeup and books and toiletries and she never left.

  “She’s doing fine,” he says, standing up with pillow marks in his cheek. He groans and holds his back, wincing. “Shit … that couch is full of rocks.”

  “She’s not coming back, is she?”

  He winces again, rubbing his back.

  “Don’t be a rockhead; of course she’s coming back.” The Pitcher stretches. “Don’t ever get old,” he mutters, walking like a cripple toward the kitchen. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  There is no way I can eat with all the butterflies in my stomach. That’s what Mom called them. She said it was normal to have butterflies before a game or a big test or having to stand up and give a speech in class. But these are butterflies of dread, man. This is not the good kind of nervousness that Mom said made you better. Right now it’s making me feel like I am going to throw up.

  “I don’t want to eat anything.”

  The Pitcher turns around with bloodshot eyes.

  “Don’t be stupid. This is the championship, right?”

  “I’m not playing,”

  I decide right then I’m not playing. Not with Mom in the hospital about to float off anytime. No way. Baseball did this to her so screw baseball. I just want to go back to the hospital and make sure she is still there. I face the Pitcher and cross my arms.

  “I want to go see my Mom!”

  “You can’t. She’s sleeping,” he replies, staring into the refrigerator.

  I’m suspicious. Maybe he is just holding out with the bad news. Don’t tell the kid, you know. I stare at him closely and my heart is really acting weird.

  “Why can’t I see her?”

  “We won’t make the game then.” He holds up his hand. “After the game we’ll go see her.”

  “NO!” I shake my head. “I want to see her now!”

  I am acting like a little kid and kind of yelled the last word. The Pitcher looks pretty miserable. He’s thinking he could be watching a ballgame, but instead he’s stuck with this asshole Mexican kid.

  “Look,” he begins again. The phone rings and I jump up and grab it.

  “Mom … Mom!”

  “Hi, honey …,” she says weakly.

  “Mom.” I breathe in relief and say it again. “Mom.”

  I had no idea if it was going to be her, but in a way it had to be. She hadn’t died while I was asleep. She is still here.

  “How are you?”

  I start to speak and my throat tightens up. So I start hitting the couch with my fist. I have to do something to keep from blubbering.

  “Good … Mr. Langford is making me some breakfast,” I tell her, watching him take out some milk.

  “That’s good … he’s going to coach you today … I’ll be home soon,” she continues in a voice that doesn’t sound at all like her.

  “I don’t want to play, Mom,” I say, hitting the couch again. “I want to come see you.”

  “Do not come to see me! You have a game to play. I want you to play that game, Ricky. I want those coaches to see you. That is the best thing you can do for me. I will get well … don’t worry,” she finishes, starting to sound faint again.

  “I can’t stop worrying, Mom.”

  “Concentrate on the game. You have a gift, Ricky. Now I want you to show it to the world.”

  And then she gets real faint again like she is all tired out. I try to stop crying, because I know it is hard on her to hear it. So I keep punching the couch and take a real deep breath.

  “Are you going to get well, Mom?”

  “Yes … don’t worry … I just want you to concentrate on the game. Just listen to Mr. Langford.”

  I’m hitting the couch with my fist.

  “Just remember you can do anything you want.”

  “Yeah, I know, Mom.”

  “I love you, Ricky.”

  “I love you too, Mom,” I whisper, pushing my mouth against the phone.

  Then she is gone. I hold the phone, feeling close to her even with the dial tone. I hang up and stare at the couch. I wipe my eyes and breathe deeply. The Pitcher puts a cigarette in his mouth and talks around it.

  “How is she?”

&nb
sp; “She didn’t sound right,” I mutter.

  “Nobody sounds right in a goddamn hospital.”

  I watch him turn and break eggs into a frying pan.

  “I’m not hungry,” I repeat.

  The Pitcher holds the cigarette by his waist and frowns.

  “Don’t be a rockhead. Rule number one: You eat breakfast. How the hell can you pitch without a breakfast? I always ate two eggs, two pieces of toast, two pieces of bacon and coffee on game days. Some days I ate a goddamn steak and pitched even better. You gotta eat.”

  I wipe my eyes again. All I want to do is go to the hospital and make sure Mom is still in her bed. I don’t want to pitch. I don’t want to play baseball. But I also know she wants me to play and that I have to play. She has given everything to get me to this point, so I will play this one game and then beat it to the hospital.

  “Alright, I’ll eat some cereal,” I mumble.

  “Cereal!” The Pitcher scowls. “Cereal ain’t no food for a pitcher! You gotta eat some goddamn eggs!”

  I stare him down.

  “I don’t like eggs!”

  He snorts.

  “That’s why you’re having trouble; you don’t eat any eggs. You need protein. You can’t go out and pitch on goddamn cereal!”

  “I always eat cereal before I pitch.”

  The Pitcher leans on the counter and points his cigarette at me.

  “Yeah … what did you eat before the last game?”

  “Cereal!”

  “I rest my case,” he says, holding up his hands.

  I scowl and glare at him. The Pitcher really pisses me off when he wants to. But I’m not thinking about Mom anymore and maybe that was his play. He starts heating the pan, then breaks two eggs into a bowl.

  “Oh like food is going to make me pitch better.”

  “It might,” he murmurs, opening the refrigerator. “You can’t pitch any worse.”

  Man, this dude. I open my mouth to tell him what I really think about his breakfast. He looks at me with his head in the fridge.

  “You like bacon and toast, rockhead?”

  “No!”

  “Good,” he says. “We’ll have bacon and toast too.”