Goodbye, Mr. Spalding

by Jennifer Robin Barr

  “Why in the world are you having Jimmie Foxx play catcher?” I say, almost forgetting who I’m talking to.

  Connie Mack chuckles. “I suppose every sports writer from here to New York is asking that same question.” He sighs. “Just trying to shake things up, kid. Just trying to shake things up.”

  “I guess I’m out as batboy next year?”

  “You certainly have done some things that will put that in jeopardy. But most of this stuff is juvenile, Jimmy. It sounds to me like your friend Lola kept you from doing anything more serious. I’d say she saved you tonight.”

  Connie Mack climbs out of the boat and smiles down at me.

  “I just want everything to be the way it was, sir,” I say in almost a whisper.

  “Are we still talking about the wall? Or your friend?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “I can’t tell you what to do next, but you’ve got to start taking responsibility for every area of your life.”

  Rule #1, I think to myself.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Frances,” he continues. “Not everyone is honest with me, I must say. They usually just tell me what they think I want to hear. I’ll let you stay here and think about what you want to do. Just promise me that once you get out of this boat, you’ll head straight home. No breaking into office safes or taking blueprints. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He holds out his hand, and I place the key in his palm.

  “I trust that you know how to make your way out?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Jimmy,” he pauses and puts on his hat, “come see me in a couple of months. I’d like to hear how this all turned out. Remember, if we are going to work together, we need to establish a level of trust.” He smiles.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m not giving up on you yet.”

  “Two months, sir,” I reply. He gives me a two-finger salute and walks away.

  I sit there a while longer, leaning back and staring at the underside of the left-field bleachers. After months of hopeful ideas and grand schemes, that wall is still going up. Why did it take me this long to realize that? Lola knew all along.

  We’ll lose the view, and my bedroom window will now look out to a big green wall. No more sitting on the rooftop, feeling the sun on my face, or watching pitchers and catchers chat on the mound. I can’t fix it anymore. I wonder if I can fix anything. My hand brushes over Lola’s journal in my lap. I unwind the fishing line and open it to read her last headline:

  Juvenile Delinquents Get Jail Time for Stealing Blueprints

  I slam the journal closed. Reading this will betray her again, and the guilt of the night returns. Suddenly baseball and the Spite Fence feel miles away. All I can think about is Lola. I can’t lose her. Rule #10: Count your blessings.

  I’ve got to make a new plan. I’ve got to make this right.

  30

  Bing Miller is definitely dead. I can tell by the way his glassy eyes are staring at me through the fishbowl. I stand there frozen in my room and watch him, belly up and floating in the water. I’ve had so many fish die throughout the years, and for the first time, I want to cry.

  There is no way to bury him in the ballpark, and even worse, there’s no Lola to join me. I automatically look to the Bingle—I want to run over and give it a tug, stick my head out the window, and wait for Lola. I want her face to pop out at the other end, red and frustrated that I woke her up. But my feet feel glued to the floor, and the string lies lifeless at the window.

  “Jimmy?” Ma says from her room. “Is that you?”

  All it takes is her voice for me to know the right thing to do at that moment. I walk down the short hall and look into my parents’ room, each in their own small bed. Ma sits up, her eyes alarmed as I come into focus. Pop is sleeping soundly.

  “Ma, can I talk to you? And Pop?”

  “My goodness, Jimmy!” She quickly pulls the lamp cord. The room glows with a soft yellow light, enough to highlight the bruising and dried blood on my face. I sit on her bed, looking over to Pop.

  “Something bad happened tonight.” My voice shakes with each word, and my lower lip quivers uncontrollably. I stop talking and try to get myself under control.

  “Jimmy,” Pop rubs his eyes and sits up. “You look a mess.”

  “I know.”

  “The Polinskis?” He leans over and places his hand on my knee, taking a closer look.

  “Yes. But it’s a lot more than that,” I say, looking down.

  “Whatever it is, Jimmy, be honest,” Ma says.

  I guess that was something I needed to hear. My lip stops shaking, and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.

  “Lola and I had a run-in with the Polinski brothers down by St. Columba. They went after Lola, and I got so mad that I threw an ice ball at them.” I pause. “Only, I slipped, and it went right through the stained-glass window.”

  “Oh my goodness!” and “Ah, nuts!” Ma and Pop say at the same time.

  “Is Lola hurt? Where is she now?” Ma says, standing quickly.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Probably home. We all ran, and when I looked back, I saw her talking to Father Ryan. I think she took the blame.”

  “And you just left her?” she says in a sharper tone.

  “Yes, but I knew it was wrong and went back, and I couldn’t find her anywhere. And then I heard the Polinskis coming after me, so I hid in Shibe Park.”

  “Okay,” Pop says, his elbows on his knees and his hands rubbing his face. “I’ll go put on a pot of coffee. Sounds like this will be a long night.”

  “Pop?” I say, my eyes begging for some sort of reaction. He looks at me and tussles my hair.

  “We taught you better than this,” he says flatly, and my eyes well up again. “Is there anything else we should know?”

  “I have a lot to tell you,” I say, ready to confess. I unhook their robes from the back of the door, and hand them to each of them. “I’ll go put on the coffee and meet you downstairs.”

  “And clean up your face,” Ma says. I nod, close the door, and start down the hallway, pausing to listen for their reaction through the wall.

  “They sure did a number on him,” Pop whispers.

  “We need to find Lola,” Ma says. “If they hurt her …”

  “I’ll go next door and check on her.”

  “That beautiful church window.”

  “It’s going to cost a fortune.”

  31

  No matter what I talk about, I always get back to baseball.

  —Connie Mack

  If you listen closely, you can hear the whispers in the outfield. That’s what Pop always says. Ghosts of players past, asking for the ball.

  I don’t hear anything right now. The stadium is silent as a photograph. I’m all alone, hopping over the fence and walking to right field. I’ve got a shovel in my right hand, and a dead fish dangling in my left.

  That’s when I hear the voice.

  “Jimmy,” it says softly in the distance. I swing around and search the infield.

  “Jimmy,” it whispers again.

  “JIMMY!”

  I jerk awake to Ma standing over me, clean and folded clothes in her arms. “Time to get up, dear.”

  “Yes, Ma.” I sit up and scan the room, remembering all the events of the night before. Bing Miller is still floating belly-up in the fishbowl, and a things-to-do list is on my bedside table. Ma places the clothes on the end of the bed, and I spring to life.

  “Ooooooooouch!” I yell. Every muscle screams at my movement, and I force myself to slow down and try to stretch out the soreness. I carefully inspect fresh bruising on my arms and legs. I don’t even want to look in the mirror.

  Uncontrolled grunts come from my mouth as I slowly put on my clothing. I pick up the list and head down to breakfast. Pop is talking to Nina as I enter the kitchen.

  “Morning,” he says in a deep, sleepy voice, and turns his attention back to her. “Open the store a
nd just sit tight until we are done.”

  “Okay. I got it covered.” She stands up and turns to me. “Nice face. Makes you look tough.”

  I realize she’s trying to be nice. I smile weakly, and I slowly take her seat across from Pop.

  “Breakfast?” he says.

  “No, thank you.” I look down at my list. He studies me a bit.

  “Let’s go over it again,” he says and takes the paper from me.

  “I know it by heart,” I say.

  I rattle off the list in order. Of course, he doesn’t know that the first thing I have to do is bury Bing Miller for luck.

  To Do

  1. Confess to Father Ryan.

  2. Confess to the police.

  3. Apologize to Lola.

  “A short list. That doesn’t mean this is going to be easy,” he says, handing it back to me and looking at his watch.

  “Not easy.” I take a deep breath. “Also, I forgot to show this to you yesterday.” I pull the baseball card out of the journal. “Mrs. Carson gave it to me. It was her son’s card. It’s worth something, right?”

  “This must be twenty years old.” He closely examines both sides.

  “I don’t deserve it. Not after last night,” I say. Ma and Pop exchange looks.

  “It is very special,” she says, looking it over. “You can learn a lot from Mrs. Carson’s goodwill. Be sure to thank her properly. But right now, we have even more important things to do.”

  “And I don’t want to hear the words baseball or Spite Fence one time today. Not once,” Pop says. “We leave in thirty minutes.”

  Despite pain with every motion, I hurry to the basement and reach in the back corner for the dark bag of tulip bulbs lying dormant for the winter. I collect one bulb and a small orange clay flowerpot and fill it with potting soil. I find an empty matchbox on the floor and run back to my room.

  Time to bury Bing Miller. I should say something.

  Something, I think to myself, and I picture Lola’s scowl.

  “You were named after our old right fielder, Bing Miller. Lola was there when I won you at the fair.” I pause as I hear Nina walking down the hall. I whisper the rest. “See, there are these boys. And there is this church window. But mostly, there’s Lola. Please bring me luck. Amen.”

  I carefully place the fish into the cardboard matchbox and slide it closed, dig a small hole, and place the tiny fish coffin on the bottom of the flowerpot. I add the tulip bulb and top it off with rich soil. I’ll have to fix Rule #13 to include burying fish in flowerpots.

  “Put it on the roof,” Ma says. I look back and see her leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. “The cold will keep the flower from waking up too early.”

  I push the skylight up and slide the flowerpot onto the roof. A little snow falls inside, and I use my towel to clean it up before it melts. I look at the wall clock. It’s time to go.

  “I’m ready!” I yell from the front door.

  “You know what you have to do, son.”

  “Yes, Pop. I know,” I say. He stands before me, waiting for more.

  “Confess to Father Ryan. Confess to the police. Apologize to Lola.” My stomach flips a couple of times.

  “Confess and apologize,” Pop says.

  “Confess and apologize,” Ma says, putting on her coat. She kisses me on my forehead and takes Pop’s hand.

  “Confess and apologize,” I repeat. “Let’s go.”

  32

  “And where is Loughrea Sheridan now?” Officer Sherman asks.

  “Home,” Pop says, clearing his throat.

  “Yes. I walked her home last night, after the window shattered,” Father Ryan adds. “I planned to report it all this morning but was held up when the Frances family showed up at my doorstep. So, we came together.”

  The four of us sit around a small wooden desk in the front room of the police station. Officer Sherman has a pot belly and a uniform with bulging buttons up to his neck. His police hat and badge are on the desk, sitting on top of a stack of cut-out newspaper articles. The one on top is a headline about the rioting at the Eastern State Penitentiary last year.

  There is a framed photo of him and some other officers and horses, holding a trophy, and another of him out of uniform, dressed in suspenders and a fat tie, with his arm around a lady. Ma sees me studying his desk.

  “See? He’s just a regular person,” she whispers in my ear. “Take a deep breath.”

  I nod.

  “We saw the church window. That was just one of many broken windows last night.” The officer motions to the back room.

  “What’s back there?” Pop asks, and I straighten up a bit.

  “The Polinski boys. They broke three car windows and slashed two tires, shattered the streetlamp over on 22nd, and broke into Kilroy’s Tap Room. And that’s only what we know so far.”

  “Now why would they do all that?” Pop asks out loud, but to nobody in particular.

  “They’ve been pushing our limits for a while. I usually go soft when their Pa’s in jail, but he’s out now, so no more free passes. Waitin’ for him now. Don’t expect him to rush over, dirty bootlegger.”

  “Maybe their recklessness is a cry for help?” Father Ryan says. None of the adults nods in agreement. Neither do I.

  “We found them over on 24th Street trying to pick the lock of the library. The library, of all places. I guess they was lookin’ for a warm place to hide.” He shakes his head, and looks to Father Ryan. “Okay, so take me through it.”

  I look at the doorway to the back room and feel panicked that the Polinski brothers are only a few feet away. When I do, I notice the trophy from the photo behind Officer Sherman on a table; it reads Best Mounted Policeman. Next to it is a 1929 A’s World Series program, tilted up on display, and on the wall above that is a framed certificate from the Police School on Criminal Law. Something about all of this puts me at ease.

  “I was asleep when I heard the window,” Father Ryan explains. “Miss Sheridan was outside, picking up the glass. She told me the Polinski boys beat up Jimmy, and the window broke during the fight.” He looks at me. “She didn’t say it was you who broke it. And she didn’t mention that she was hit in the stomach.”

  “She’s too tough and proud to tell you she was hit,” I reply.

  “Has anyone talked to her parents?” the officer asks.

  “Yes,” both Father Ryan and Pop say. “She’s at home and just shaken up. She needs some time,” Pop adds.

  “Okay,” the officer says, scribbling something in his book.

  “That’s when I broke the window,” I interject. “It was when she got hit in the stomach. I went to throw an ice ball at them but slipped. It went straight through. It’s all my fault, and I can take the blame.”

  The officer sits back and studies me a bit and then turns to Father Ryan.

  “Is that what you think, too?” he asks.

  “What do I think?” Father Ryan asks himself. He rests his forehead on his hands. “What do I think?”

  We wait while he gathers his thoughts, and I start to wonder if we’ll be here all day.

  “I think Mr. Frances is being honest. I think he is admirable for coming forward this morning. And in the end, I don’t think it was his fault.”

  That’s when he stands up and starts pacing the room, just like in one of his lectures.

  “But he left the scene. And for all he knew, Lola was taking the blame,” he adds.

  But I went back! I think to myself.

  “Although if I were twelve years old, maybe I would have run, too.”

  But I looked for her! I think to myself.

  “Mr. Frances. Remember that lesson on the Seven Deadly Sins?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, clearing my throat.

  “And how about the opposite?”

  “The Seven Heavenly Virtues?” I reply. Do we have to do this now?

  “Exactly. I’m thinking of Temperance,” he says. “It means to have appropriate actions, or in your case,
reactions. At least that’s one meaning. What do you think?”

  “Well, I’ve talked to my parents. I’m on my way to see Lola. I’d like to figure out a way to pay for the window. I hope that’s a good reaction? Even if it’s a little late.”

  “A proper gesture, indeed. Officer Sherman?” Father Ryan asks, looking to the police officer, who in turn looks at me.

  “Jimmy, I think we can come to an understanding if you pay for the window. And I’m not going to charge you for leaving the scene.”

  “Thanks!” I say. Pop pats my back.

  “But do you have any idea just how much that might cost?”

  “I need to check on that,” Father Ryan interjects. “I’d guess about a thousand.”

  “Dollars?” I accidentally say out loud.

  “Jimmy, hush,” Ma says.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Father Ryan says, looking at all of us.

  “Well that settles it then,” the police officer says. “I don’t mean to throw you out, but I have the Polinskis.” He rubs his temples. “I think it’s going to be a long day.”

  “Officer Sherman?” I say. “Are all the Polinksis back there?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it wasn’t all four of them last night. The youngest one didn’t hurt us.”

  “You mean Tommy,” Father Ryan says. “I found him sleeping on a church pew this morning. I don’t know how he got there, but I’m glad he found a safe place away from his brothers.”

  “He was trying to help us. Will he be okay?” I ask.

  “The Rosato family said they’ll take him in for a few days until all of this is straightened out.”

  “Thank you, Officer Sherman.” I stand up and shake his hand.

  “Keep me posted about that window.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ma and Pop shake the officer’s hand as well, and we leave the station, heading for the church.