Goodbye, Mr. Spalding

by Jennifer Robin Barr

  As I’m examining the quantity of metal sheets, green paint, cement, and hours of labor that it will take to install the wall, I remember the small piece of paper that was taped underneath the desk.

  Where did that go? I search through all my pockets and find a tiny note crumpled up in a little ball in my winter coat. At first glance, it seems just like a piece of scrap paper with random numbers. But when I look closer, there are little dashes in between five sets of double-digit numbers. It looks like a combination. The combination to a safe.

  I tug on the Bingle and stick my head out the window. No response. There is too much snow for the roof, so I run down the steps, burst onto the porch, lean over the rail, and knock loudly on the door. I stand there staring at the paper, tapping my foot. Where is she? Dinner should’ve been over a while ago. I hop over the small rail and tap again.

  “Lola,” I knock on the door. “Lola!”

  She opens the door and looks at me with that sideways glance. I can see our breath in the cold, and there is an awkward silence as I try to figure out how to start.

  “Here,” I decide to just give her the invoice.

  “You stole this!”

  “Well yes, but I didn’t mean to. It all happened so fast. You saw that. I was holding it and I must’ve shoved it in my pocket.” This is not untrue, but my voice is high and squeaky as I try to explain.

  “So you stole it.”

  “No! I also have this.” I proudly show her the small piece of paper with the numbers on it. My feet shuffle in the cold.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “I found it under the desk.”

  “Oh, like you found the invoice?”

  “Yes.” I choose my next words carefully. She’s concentrating on all of the wrong things. “Another thing I didn’t mean to take, but like I said, it all happened so fast, so quit nagging.” None of this is untrue, and she seems to believe me.

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t you see the dashes in between?” I wait for her to look more closely, but quickly lose patience. “I think it’s the lock combination to the safe we saw in the closet. If we can open it, maybe we’ll find those blueprints, or something even better that will stop them. We are so close, Lola, I can feel it!”

  “Jimmy Frank, you stop this right now!” Lola throws both papers at my feet, and I scramble to pick them up. “We made a pinky promise! No more. All I could think about under that desk was how my parents were going to lose the only steady business they have. We can barely afford anything anymore! Neither can you! Just stop this—it’s too dangerous!” Her face is bright red.

  “I’ll put the invoice back. I’ll put the numbers back under the desk. But we didn’t actually move the blueprints, so the thing I promised is not actually finished. I’ll just take a peek into the safe. It’ll be harmless.”

  “Do you hear yourself? All of your ideas have been great. Right? Just ask Jimmie Foxx or Mr. Dilworth or Mr. Pott. Now you want to break into somebody’s safe? Why can’t you see how you are putting all of us at risk? We’ll all lose more than a view if you keep going!”

  “Fine!” I stomp down the steps, hurt and unable to control my anger. “Fine! You’ll be sorry, Lola, when you’re walking around without any friends, because I was your only friend. Fine!”

  “Why are you yelling at me?” she cries. “And what about the rules? Rule #2: Things always happen for a reason! What about Rule #10!”

  “Count your blessings? Please! And what about Rule #12?” I yell back. “A best friend would stick with me!”

  “This isn’t burying a dead fish at first base,” Lola says more softly, tears starting to stream down her face. Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “I am your best friend.”

  “You were my best friend,”

  I snap. I grab my bag and start to run.

  27

  My run turns into a slow jog, and after a few blocks, I immediately want to turn back and beg forgiveness. How could I have said that? How will I face her?

  I find myself in front of St. Columba. I sit on the stoop and bury my head in my hands, thinking about the last ten minutes. What have I done?

  “Frank,” I hear from the side and recognize the voice immediately. It echoes in my head as I try to find the courage to look up. I see the eldest Polinski brother standing there with his arms crossed. With all of today’s events, I almost forgot all about them. It’s like they’ve been standing here for weeks, waiting for me to be alone.

  “Hey, Jimmy.”

  I look to my left and see the two middle brothers coming closer. The youngest one is stopped a few feet behind them. I stand up, my knees shaking. I’m surrounded, and the only way out is a locked church door behind me.

  Be brave. Create your own destiny. Always look people in the eye.

  “Heya, guys.” Boy, do I sound stupid.

  “You know, Billy here got called in by the cops.” The oldest Polinski is pointing to one of the other three brothers. Nobody has ever called them by their first names, so I have no idea which one he is pointing to. I sure hope it wasn’t my friend.

  “You don’t say.” I try to sound calm.

  “We were able to dodge that cop your little friend sent, but Billy got pulled in the next day. They couldn’t prove nothin’, but you ran away like a scared little baby. We couldn’t even take the stuff. You’re gonna be in a world of hurt, Jimmy Frank. You’re gonna have to pay.”

  “Oh, wow. Sorry, Billy. I didn’t realize that. Look, I was all set to do it. I was being pulled away. And it wasn’t Lola’s fault. She didn’t …”

  “Lola!” I hear them start to laugh. “Your ugly-faced girlfriend.”

  “Leave her out of this.”

  “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, Frank?” They start toward me, and I try to run when I feel a thump on my back and an icy stinging on my face. I can’t catch myself before I fall to the ground. I look up and see another snow-ball flying through the air, hitting me squarely in the nose. I put my head down as blood drips onto the white snow.

  I try to gather some snow myself and toss it in the air, but it breaks up in little pieces. The three Polinskis start to laugh. They pelt me with a constant stream of icy snowballs. I cover my neck with my hands, bury my head, and curl into a ball.

  “Stop!” screeches through the air from my left. It’s the youngest Polinski, who is pulling at the arm of one of his brothers. The brother pushes him down and tells him to scram.

  Little shards of ice are breaking any uncovered skin, and freezing cold water begins to drip under the neck of my coat. Every time I try to stand up, the packed balls of snow force me to collapse to my knees.

  “Jimmy!” I hear Lola’s voice and look up to see her hands over her mouth.

  “Saved by your girlfriend again?” A middle Polinski starts toward her. They all laugh.

  “Get out of here, Lola,” I spew. The words sound harsh and ungrateful. They are closing in on her, and I say anything I can to keep her safe. “Just go back home. I can handle myself.”

  “I got this,” Lola says, loud and strong.

  “GO AWAY!” I scream.

  Lola stares at me before turning to the oldest brother. I can’t make out what she says to him, but it gives me just enough time to reach down and grab some snow. I roll it in between my palms, making a smooth ball of ice the size of a baseball.

  The brothers start for me again, and this time the snowballs are coming faster. They are mumbling under their breath, and I hear a jumble of curse words, my name, and Lola’s name in the mix.

  “Take this, Jimmy Frank!”

  One of the brothers winds up like a baseball pitcher, but at the last moment turns just enough to aim for Lola. The block of ice hits her squarely in the stomach, pushing her to the ground with a grunt.

  “Lola!” I scream. I feel a sudden shot of energy, swing around, and hurl my own ball of ice into the air. But my feet give out from under me, and the snowball changes direction just enough to whiz past the
brothers and straight toward the stained-glass church window.

  I look up and see the colorful crystal Jesus—finally—looking at me square in the eye, a split second before my snowball smashes straight through the center. Shards of color rain down as glass shatters onto the ground, dotting the white blanket with shiny yellow, green, blue, and red gems.

  For just a moment, I stop and stare before chaos erupts. I dash toward Lola and pull her up, and we run in the opposite direction from the Polinskis, who are making their way down 24th Street. Their cackling laughter becomes fainter and fainter as we sprint, not looking back.

  I hear one of them yell “GOODBYE, MR. SPALDING!” followed by another round of laughter, some angry yelling, and a duck-sounding car horn. The noise and commotion fades in the distance as we continue to run.

  A few feet behind me, Lola says something that I can’t make out.

  “What? Keep going to the park,” I yell back to her.

  She doesn’t reply.

  “Lola?”

  Silence. I turn and stop in my tracks—she is not following me.

  I look down a couple of streets before slowly sneaking back toward the church, keeping in the shadows and avoiding streetlamps. There is no sign of her, until I turn the corner and see St. Columba in front of me.

  I hide and watch Lola. She has taken off her hat and is gathering the pieces of glass in it. The church door opens, and Father Ryan stands at the top of the steps, hands on his hips, assessing the damage before making his way down. Lola stands there waiting.

  He points his finger at her, then at the window, then back at her. Lola is staring at his shoes. I realize she’s going to take the blame for me. I feel like I just got punched in the stomach again.

  Why is she doing that?

  I turn and run, going two blocks before it all settles in.

  I can’t let her do that.

  By the time I make it back, there is no sign of Father Ryan or Lola. The church doors are locked. I head toward 20th Street, sure that they are heading for our houses, but again, there’s no sign of them.

  I wait under the porch, readying myself to come out the moment Lola shows up, but she never does. The street is still and eerily quiet.

  Where have they gone?

  “Come out, come out, Jimmy Frank.” Three Polinskis suddenly break the silence, strolling down the street like a gang on the prowl. The sound of glass shattering on a car window breaks their chatter, and a chorus of wicked laughter follows.

  “There they are!” says a deep voice from the end of the street, and more voices follow. The three Polinskis turn and run in the direction of Reyburn Park, with police officers close behind.

  I peel out from under the porch and sneak in the other direction, around the front of the ballpark and onto Lehigh Avenue. Lola’s got to be around here somewhere.

  “This way,” I hear an officer grunt, out of breath. They’ve changed direction, and their quick footsteps sound like they’re only a few feet away. I spy the Shibe Park employee door to my right, quickly fumble for the key in my pocket, and slide in.

  My back to the door, I hold my breath as the officers run by. I look to my left and make sure the coast is clear. I look to my right and realize that I’m all alone.

  28

  I wander along the closed concessions and rummage through my bag for my flashlight. When I turn it on, I see a rat scurry into hiding. That’s just perfect.

  The guilt weighs so heavily on my chest, and I sit on a ballpark step to catch my breath. I can taste the blood dripping from my nose. What has happened to me? How did I get here? I’ve betrayed my best friend in every way possible.

  My thoughts jolt from one thing to another: spewing mean words at Lola, the broken church window, hiding under that desk. Then I see Pop and Ma at the store, and I picture us on the roof watching a Jimmie Foxx home run. I can’t keep my head organized—it’s almost too much to handle. But it all comes back to Lola. What have I done?

  I find the white and red first aid station and try the key in the lock. It works, and I gather some tissues to stuff in my nose. I relock the door behind me and walk down toward the left-field stands, wandering without a destination. That’s when I spot it.

  There, under the stands, is the boat I saw at the end of last season—the same day that I brought Jimmie Foxx his pie. It looks like someone is working on it. It’s only halfway painted, a deep red-brown color, and there is a hatch open that looks like an engine. The name “Ethyl-Ruth IV” is painted on its side. This must be the reason those left-field lights are always on.

  I make my way down, crawl in, and slink back in the cushioned driver’s seat. I pull my bag off and throw it onto the passenger seat, when Lola’s journal slides out. She’ll never forgive me. I take the journal and hold it to my chest, close my eyes, and try to forget the events of the last few hours.

  “May I sit down?”

  My eyes pop open. I have no idea how much time has passed. I look up and see a tall, skinny man standing to the right of the boat. I feel a sudden panic as Connie Mack comes into focus.

  I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.”

  Connie Mack smiles. Not an I-got-you-now kind of smile, more of an amused-grandpa kind of smile. He’s holding some mail and a few newspapers and places them in the boat, then pops himself over the side and eases into the passenger seat. He acts more like one of the young players instead of a seventy-two-year-old man.

  “Jimmy, right? Frances Hardware?” he says.

  “Yes, sir. I’m James Frances.” He looks at me like that doesn’t sound right. “Jimmy Frank,” I explain.

  “Yes, yes. That’s right. Our batboy next year, no?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve just returned home from a trip to the other side of the world, and you were the last thing I expected to find when I came down to see if Mr. Shibe had moved this yet.” He taps the boat and continues, “I almost didn’t recognize you. Looks like you’ve been roughed up a bit.” He motions to his nose, and I can just imagine how my face looks.

  “Yes, sir.” We sit for a while, looking forward as if there is a vast ocean in front of us.

  “Well then, Mr. Frances. Is there anything you want to share?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, that’s fair. But I have to warn you—the more you tell me, the less my mind will wander.”

  I look up at him, trying to figure out what he means. But I don’t know what to say.

  “You’ve broken into my ballpark and are stowed away in Mr. Shibe’s latest project. There has to be a level of trust between us, especially if you are going to work for me next year.”

  “I haven’t stolen anything, sir—honest.”

  “Yes, it looks like you were taking a nap.” I look up and know that I can’t hide my guilty face.

  “All right then, let me escort you out,” he says, disappointed.

  He starts to leave when I grab his arm.

  “I did do something bad tonight.” My voice is shaky, and my eyes urge him to stay. It’s my turn to talk.

  I explain about the fight and the church window, trying to find Lola, and hiding from the Polinskis. He nods slowly as I finish, hands me a handkerchief, and motions to my forehead. I blot some blood and realize there is a cut above my eye.

  “That is quite a story. And you are hiding from them here? How is it that you have a key to the side door?”

  I might as well come right out and tell him everything. Father Ryan echoes in my head—create your own destiny.

  “Mr. Mack, why are you doing it anyway? What will you get out of building a big green wall?”

  Connie Mack lets out a deep breath and sits back into his seat.

  “You know, you aren’t the only ones upset. The news is spreading across the country. Say, how do you know the wall will be green? That hasn’t been written anywhere so far,” he asks in a calm tone. “And the key?”

  “I—I borrowed it from Mr. Pott. It wasn’t his fault. I bumped int
o him on the street. Then Lola and I …” I stop. “Do you know Loughrea Sheridan? She’s the one who took the fall for me tonight. My best friend. The tailor’s daughter?”

  He smiles. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  Ten minutes later and Connie Mack knew it all.

  Foxx. Dilworth. Blueprints. Safe.

  And Lola.

  29

  “Well, Jimmy. You certainly have been busy this winter. And frankly, in another time and another place, I might have been angrier. But you love baseball, and I can certainly understand that. Sometimes, it’s nice to be reminded why I got into this in the first place.” He pauses. “You know, Jimmie Foxx brought you up a few times.”

  “What?” I sit straight up, and my mouth drops open.

  “We had a lot of time to talk in our travels. Mostly about how Babe Ruth wanted my job,” he rolls his eyes. “But Jimmie told me all about your visit to the clubhouse. Tried to convince us to stop the wall. He made a good argument too—it almost worked. But Shibe? He’s the money side of all of this, and he is harder to convince. You may not know this, but one of our star players rented a room with your neighbor a few years back. Al Simmons. Shibe was all ready to order the supplies for the wall until Simmons stepped in. He really went to bat for the neighborhood.”

  “So why aren’t you on our side now?”

  “I’ve always been on your side. I’ll never forget gazing out to right field in our first World Series back in 1910 and feeling overwhelmed by the number of fans on the rooftops and balconies. It was quite a sight. But the truth is that I don’t have majority control. Yet.” He smirks. “I’ve held off the idea for about as long as I can. Between us, I’d never have it built. I love that short fence, with all of you beyond the outfield wall, sitting on the rooftops with your feet dangling over the edges. That’s a sight Mr. Frances. That is a sight.”

  “That’s what I mean! So, what can we do about it?”

  “Nothing anymore. It was time for me to give in. I’m a business partner and a team manager. There will be other things to fight for—eventually we’ll need lights for night games, alcohol for spectators, and a lot of money for player contracts. I ask for a lot, and every so often I have to give something in return. This is one of those things. And with Foxx playing catcher for us next year, he’ll probably hit fewer home runs anyway. That position is tough on the body.”