The Ha-Ha

by Dave King

  When the song ends, Nat swats the old Indians cap with his finger-tips. “Come on now, buddy,” he says. “Help me set the table. You need to pitch in around here.” He peers at my batter and the lightly steaming waffle iron, then puts a hand on my shoulder. “Howard, ya grizzly bear. You hold us together, you know that?” He freezes, as though he doesn’t know where to go from there, and I drop a spoon in the batter. “Let’s see that shiner.” I turn and permit him to squint at my face, and he says, “Still hurt some?” I shrug. Not bad. “Well, you look pretty tough. Just say you fucked the other guy up worse.”

  Laurel says, “Harrison!” but whether she’s scolding him for his language or the idea of me speaking, I’m not sure.

  Nat says, “Am I right, Ry-Ry?”

  “Fucked him up lots worse,” he says. Laurel glares at all of us.

  Nat says, “Well, you’re the still water that runs deep, Howard, and you deserve a medal.” Then Nit comes in, wearing a T-shirt and boxers, and Nat steps off quickly, slapping my ass.

  At the convent, Robin and Sister Amity ask about my eye, but it’s a lot to explain. I spend the morning alone on the John Deere, and I don’t see a soul until I go to the kitchen for my lunch. Sister Margaret turns from the stove and lets out a gasp, then brings me a piece of steak for my face, which is something I thought they did only in movies. I lie there thinking of Nagy the bear, and it’s good to be treated for an ordinary injury instead of my usual extraordinary one.

  At two-thirty I drive to Ryan’s school. The yellow buses park around me, and when the bell sounds, I take the folded Radnor Little League tag from the dashboard and stow it in my overalls. Ryan glances toward the go-cart track as his class streams from the building, but he ambles over and climbs in the truck. “How’s the eye?” he asks. I nod. He turns on the radio and sings while I drive, and when we pass a yard where three dogs are frolicking and biting each other’s necks, it seems everything in the universe holds its own unique interest. Ryan says, “School gets out next week,” and I grin at him. I recall Sylvia saying she’s staying in rehab longer than expected, and I think summer! When did I stop assuming she’d be home any day?

  Ryan sits up when I turn into the Radnor neighborhood. When I was a boy, Radnor was the newer enclave of square, sturdy homes that bordered our Victorian section, but it’s been years since I visited, and everything’s different. Saplings planted in my youth now buckle the sidewalks, and the once-new houses have been renovated or refurbished or have simply grown old. I used to pal around with a boy named Timmy who lived right next to the elementary school, and one Halloween we made robot costumes from appliance boxes. That was when robots still looked like boxes, and it was my last childhood Halloween. Timmy and I stayed friends through junior high; then we went off to rival high schools, and I met Sylvia. By the time he was drafted we’d stopped running into each other, but once I knew I was headed there, too, I was sure I’d encounter him sooner or later. Of course, I got injured instead. Still, as Ryan and I draw closer to Radnor Elementary I wonder what became of old Timmy, and I think I ought to stop in—not today, but sometime—because you can’t go through life with no associates.

  Then we turn the corner, and Timmy’s house is gone. My old school has gotten so huge that it’s gobbled up everything in its realm, and where his small home once stood there’s now a windowless block. Big modern classroom wings spread out left and right, but the pedimented entrance I knew is still tucked at the center, like a little old lady flanked by linebackers.

  The mahogany doors of my childhood are padlocked, and a nearby entrance leads us to a dim atrium. I’m a little disoriented until I see something I know. Tucked in a corner is an ancient display unit, its glass shelves lined with taxidermed songbirds carefully posed on genuine twig perches. The birds are old now, their hand-inked identification tags faded and yellow, and their dust-covered plumage looks decidedly moth-eaten, but for a moment I remember a long-ago school assembly at which a white-haired ornithologist offered her life’s work to the generations of the future. Then Ryan says, “Gross,” and we proceed.

  Two women are in the school office, a skinny one behind a desk and a fat one standing by a file cabinet. I take the square Radnor Little League tag from my overalls and unfold it on the counter, and suddenly it’s easy to get out one of my cards, too, stating I’m of normal intelligence. The fat lady reads both cards, then glances at my face. She checks out my scar, blushes, and looks away, turns back with an “Oh,” and looks away again. I wait. I lay my hands flat on the counter, and when she looks a third time I raise my eyebrows. She says, “Let me see,” then turns to her skinny colleague. “Callie, who do they talk to about the Little League?”

  Ryan’s been standing by a long bulletin board, pulling staples from the cork and dropping them on the floor, but at this he turns and looks at me, his mouth open. And I get the same charge I got taking him to the boxing match. I’m onto something, so I nod. Good idea, huh? He says nothing, but comes and stands at my side, resting his forearms on the countertop. The women tête-à-tête at the desk, and at last Callie stands and approaches. “I believe those teams are pretty well filled. Registration was back in March,” she says.

  My heart sinks. Ryan’s body stiffens at my side, and I can’t look down. Instead, I run my fingers over my close-cropped hair, and at the touch of my hand I remember that along with my scar I’ve got the black eye, too. I don’t know why this is worse than ordinary disappointments, but as the day’s good spirits crash away Sylvia’s berations flood over me, and I know she’s right. I haven’t tried hard enough to be independent, and if I’d worked more at speech and writing I might not be standing here like a goon. I think of Caroline—how right she was in wanting Ryan elsewhere! What’s the point of dragging him from the sociable go-cart scene if all I can offer are missed opportunities?

  I draw my brows together and scowl at the wall. I could easily begin flailing, and I’d end by demolishing everything in sight, from the file cabinets to the glass case of little birds to the fat and thin women themselves. I’d reduce the whole universe to rubble and bone. There’s a stereotype here—the flipped-out vet—and I don’t know why I’ve resisted it so long. A frustrated, fucked-up, scarred-up crazy man is dying in this office; why pretend that’s not so? I reach out to scoop up the two little cards, and my hand hits the counter with such a thud that we all jump.

  Ryan glances at me, then says, “That’s cool.” His voice is deliberate and uninflected, and I wonder if he’s come to his mom’s aid this same way. “Sorry for taking up your-all’s time.” He rubs a shoulder into my gut. “Come on, man.”

  Callie bites her lip. “There is one possibility . . .” She turns to the fat lady. “June, what was that—”

  “Naw,” says Ryan. “We probably have a conflict with scheduling, anyway. Thanks for your—” He gives my overall bib a tug. “Come on.” The two women look severely at him.

  “Just a moment, young man.” They turn to me. “There’s some folks starting up another team,” says Callie. “Do you know Mister Luster Kleen?” She’s enunciating carefully, and I could scream with annoyance. “We’re not supposed to promote it because they’re not yet in the league, but you might call over there and inquire. Mister Luster Kleen. I believe it’s on Healy Boulevard. It’s a”—she mimes a vacuum cleaner—“a carpet cleaning service, but he’s putting a lot of effort into starting a kids’ team. Good luck to you.”

  The other woman, June, has written something on a quarter-sheet of scrap paper. “You can get the number from directory information,” she says, though as I reach for the paper she reddens again. “Or your phone book, or . . .” She looks helpless for a moment, then says, “Would you like me to place the call?” I’m still roiled, and who knows what my face looks like. “Why don’t I do that.”

  Ryan whispers, “Hey,” and tugs at my bib. “Lookit, I gotta tell you something. I ain’t got a glove.” I put a hand on his shoulder. A little air. I focus on June, punching the phon
e buttons with a pencil eraser.

  “Yes, hello,” she says. “I’m interested in baseball for youngsters? Was there a team forming? The Snakes? I’ve got a gentleman here, came in with his son . . .” She glances doubtfully at us, and I squeeze Ryan’s shoulder. June says, “What’s your age, young man?”

  “Nine and a half.”

  “He’s nine years old.” She talks some more, then says, “Why don’t I put the young man on, let him give you his data. No, no, the boy. He can speak for himself, I think that’s—” She beckons to Ryan, then gives me a giant smile. “You’re all set.” Behind her, Callie’s grinning, too, and I guess they think they’ve done their good deed.

  I use the drive home to gather my thoughts. The disintegration of my good spirits has rattled me, and as always when I lose my cool, the line between hope and hopelessness has become pretty arbitrary. Somewhere, in the middle of my head, lies a decorated theater scrim, complete with corny sun and unconvincing sky, and on it is scribbled my standing figure. And for a moment a second me—truer, uglier, threatening but seductive—crept forward from behind that veil. It’s a little like being high, when the temptations of control and out-of-control, of good news, bad news, rage, and retreat would leave me feeling profoundly unmoored. Perhaps Ryan could nudge me back with some interest in this baseball team, but he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he asks if that was my old school, and I nod. Then he asks if they have a swimming pool inside. I’m not feeling communicative, so we listen to the radio until we’re almost home. Then Ryan tells me he has a report due on Jimmy Carter. “Our class did all the presidents,” he announces suddenly. “It took like the whole year. Ms. Monetti divided them between everybody in the class, and I got to do Thomas Jefferson, Rutherford B. Hayes, Theodore Roosevelt, and Jimmy Carter. Carter’s all I have left before school gets out for summer. Then I’m done, man. Hasta la vista, grade four! Are you coming to our end-of-the-year concert? Then you could see me be all four of my presidents.”

  A concert? This is the first I’ve heard, but it does the trick. I give him a smile as I hop from the cab. You bet your life I’m coming!

  25

  THE PERFORMANCE IS MONDAY at noon, so I spend the morning weeding. Then I put my tools away. I change out of my overalls in the garden shed, and on my way to my truck I stop by the kitchen so Sister Margaret won’t make me lunch. “Why, Howard,” she says, “you’re all spiffed up.” Alain, the nun’s bus driver, asks in his French accent if I’m seeing a woo-man, and I’m glad my black eye has begun to fade. It’s now just an ochre shadow over my cheekbone.

  The elementary school parking lot is nearly full, and parents are drifting toward the entrance. I park my truck on the periphery and get out, and then, to my astonishment, Nit and Nat’s old clunker of a van comes careening out of nowhere. Nit pulls up beside me, and Nat leans across him to slap my palm. “Heyyy!” he shouts over the blaring radio. “The troops are marshaling! Von Ryan’s Express, bay-bee!” They clamber out, still in their paint-splattered white pants and tractor caps, but maybe it doesn’t matter what they have on. The guy ahead of us has a yellow hard hat under one arm and a video camera under the other.

  We go into a big gym with a curtained stage and rows of folding chairs, and ten minutes later the thing begins. I’m surprised it’s not all somehow very high-tech, but except for the whirring of a hundred video cameras, this is just like the school programs we had in my day. The principal offers a greeting, and the choir troops out and sings a welcome song. And suddenly there’s our guy, halfway up the risers! I didn’t know he sang in the choir, but when the group performs a medley from The Lion King, I realize he’s been humming these tunes for weeks.

  A couple of kids have solos, and a bespectacled boy toots on a clarinet. Ryan doesn’t do anything standoutish, but he remains tall in his spot, looking surprisingly darling in the short blue surplice the choir members wear. He’s easy to pick out because there aren’t many brown faces on the risers, and he opens his mouth very wide as he sings. Then his class performs a presidential pageant, each child appearing and speaking a few lines. Ryan comes out third, as Jefferson, with a white cotton periwig flat on his head. I wonder if he’s self-conscious, playing a slave owner—or maybe he’s just a natural performer—because he adopts the little gangsta swagger he used at the Andee Barber School. He looks hilarious, shambling along in the flat wig and long, teal basketball shorts, and when he reappears as Rutherford B. Hayes, the boys let fly with a clamor of whistles. For a moment, Ryan stares out at the audience. Then he grins and waves a big yellow cardboard circle which represents—as he announces when the cheers die down—the gold standard. After this, every kid gets his share of applause, and when our boy comes out again as Roosevelt and finally as Carter, holding a cutout peanut, we take the roof off. There’s a band performance and presentations from other classes, and I recognize Fartin’ Martin when he talks about penguins, which he pronounces ping-wins. But I don’t give a rat’s ass about any kid but ours, and I don’t pay much attention.

  The program’s almost over when I spot Laurel slipping down a side aisle. “Lunch deliveries,” she hisses. “I miss much?” In fact, she’s missed practically everything Ryan did, but at least she sees him in the finale, when the choir sings “In the Summertime,” which was popular in my army days. The tune has a trudging jauntiness even the sweet, high voices of children can’t perk up, and for a moment I’m reminded of the mixed excitement and limited prospects of a weekend pass. Then the event’s over.

  We shuffle with the other parents to the lobby. Ryan’s at the end of a hallway, tugging at some girl’s choir thingie, and she’s squealing, “Cut it out!” as she lets the robe bell out and brush his hands. Laurel nudges me with her elbow.

  Then Nit’s charging down the hall, arms pumping. He goes down on his knees and slides into Ryan, grabbing him from behind, and Ryan topples against his chest. “Got you now, rascal varmint!” he cries, and wraps his arms around Ryan’s thin body.

  The girl says, “So there!” and turns on her heel. Ryan gives Nit a push, but Nit’s so dumb he doesn’t realize he’s out of line. He rubs Ryan’s fuzzy head, free, for once, of the old Indians cap, and Ryan extricates himself and stomps down the hall. Then Laurel gives a long, low whistle, and he turns and spots us, the three presentables.

  “You made it!”

  Laurel says, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He gives her a hug and shakes hands with Nat and me. His bare legs hang out from beneath the short robe, and if I could, I’d say he looks like a flasher. Laurel says, “You were sure great!”

  Ryan nods contemplatively. “Wanna meet my teacher?”

  We follow him to a classroom filled with pint-sized desks and construction-paper projects. Other families are hanging around, but only Ryan has an entourage of four. “So this is the cheering section,” the teacher says as he drags us forward. “We give detentions for that kind of rowdiness.” She smiles dryly but makes no mention of our standing in for Sylvia. Of course she must know the score. “Logan Monetti, fourth grade,” she says, and shakes hands all around.

  I’d pictured a spinster with a pencil in her bun, and perhaps I’d be more comfortable with someone like that. But Ms. Monetti’s pretty, with a wild mass of thick, chestnut hair, and I suddenly remember Ryan’s calling her a fox. It takes only an instant for Nit and Nat to shift into dude mode, and Ms. Monetti laughs gaily at a riff about gym class. Then Nat mentions the summertime song, and she rolls her eyes. “Bob, our new music guy. Bit of a dink.” She gives him a sly look and shifts her weight, and the conversation moves to topics other than school.

  I wander out to the corridor. I was here last week, when I came looking for Ryan, but the place is different with people around. Now kids bustle about, dragging parents from room to room, carrying shoe-box dioramas to the parking lot. Two moms are packing up choir robes, and I realize that for them, today is simply the stuff of life. They’ll have other assemblies, plenty of chances for volunteering, perhaps even m
ore children. But for me this day is unlikely to repeat. At some point, Ryan will go back to Sylvia, and if I come here again, I’ll be a hanger-on. I feel a spasm of irritation at Laurel and the housemates—after all, I’m the child’s guardian—but attention from the mop-headed Ms. Monetti is not what I crave. What I’m feeling is more like panic at how soon this will end, before Ryan has even sung a solo. Only last week I rejoiced at the thought of moving through summer together; now it’s shocking to learn what’s gone in an hour. By the time school starts again, Ryan will be home for good, and I’ll have resumed a life so bland I barely remember how I spent my days. No doubt I’ll continue that life until my time runs out. I feel so rushed.

  I go looking for a drinking fountain and come across three boys roughhousing outside the john. One of them is Fartin’ Martin. The other two have him backed in a corner, and they’re poking him with wooden drumsticks and saying “Ping-wins, ping-wins” in squeaky voices, just like his. I put a heavy hand on one boy’s shoulder, and he looks up in astonishment. I point to my scar and make one of my sounds, and the boy jumps back.

  The other kid doesn’t realize the law has arrived. I snatch his drumsticks, and the first boy says, “Hey!” Then no one moves. Fartin’ Martin looks like he wonders where I come from when I do these things, but I’ve never liked bullying, and my gloomy feelings give me something to fight about. I reach for Fartin’ Martin, who shrinks back, hugging his chest—but all I want is to get him out of the corner. Then Ryan’s tripping on my heels.

  Ryan still has on his choir surplice, but he’s added the inevitable Indians cap. He looks at the kid on my right and says, “Get out of here, boner face,” then gives him a shove. The boy skitters toward the lavatory and hits the swinging door with a clunk. He’s an ugly child, with wet lips and short, dark hair and a built-in mean look, and I doubt Ryan would be taking him on if I weren’t standing here. But I am here, and with this we win the fight. The kid by the door pushes into the bathroom as the other steps toward the corridor, then they turn like chuckleheads and bump into each other, back up, and slink away. I smack one on the butt with his drumsticks as they pass, and when they’re halfway down the corridor, Ryan yells, “Yeah! We the enforcer, boy!” Fartin’ Martin raises a hand for a high five, and Ryan slaps it lackadaisically. I wonder if Fartin’ Martin will high-five me, but he looks around furtively, then he’s gone, too.