by Dave King
I hear laughter, and a familiar voice says, “Stop it! Shh!” I follow the sound, and Sylvia says, “We’re not supposed to get involved for a—” She breaks off. Rounding the corner of the house, I see her on the porch, her little butt against the balustrade. She’s dressed in the merest nothing of a shift that hangs like a flag down her slim, arched back, and a bit of moonlight falls on her bare shoulders. Her arms, straight and slender pylons, support her. I picture her turning to lean toward me like Rapunzel, but I don’t want to startle her, so I approach slowly, from behind a pine, remembering the times we met in secret. Then two big hands, square as work gloves, take hold of those hips, and in a swanlike explosion, Sylvia embraces a dark head at her shoulder. The glovelike hands don’t caress her waist the way mine would, but hold her stiffly, like an urn.
Sylvia purrs, “Stop it! Seriously, Raymond. If someone caught us—” She lowers her voice suddenly, and I hear no more until she chuckles, pushing playfully at his chest. “I’m going in now.” I see that dark head bob forward again, and Sylvia’s hand catches the moonlight as she touches his cheek. I turn and run headlong into the dark, spreading branches of the pine.
Raymond’s crossing the street as I unlock my truck. He’s dressed in a red polo shirt that hugs his absurd muscles, and I remember that orange plumbing van and feel an impulse to lay him flat. Climbing into some low-slung gold Nissan, he seems not to notice me screeching toward him, headlights off. I pass so close that if he stuck his head out the window he’d be history. Then I peel out.
Inside the cab, I’m beating my fists on the steering wheel. I’m crying out “Braaaah!” and “Phnnnng!” and raging at Sylvia, at that musclebound shit in his cheeseball Nissan, at Caroline for setting so much in motion, at the arched branches of the trees and the low lights of the plazas and everything else in the whole indifferent world. I run three stop signs and don’t care who sees me, though it’s later now, and the traffic’s lightened. There’s a close call with some kid with a DOMINO’S PIZZA sign on his jalopy, and after that I ease up. I stop at red lights but go on bashing the wheel.
I come to the traffic circle and steer around it. Rounding the little temple, I think I see something, and instead of turning toward home I stay on for the full tour. Then I spot him, dressed in a greasy coat like an old-fashioned duster and shuffling slowly from the granite steps. Along the walk the white impatiens shine weirdly in the moonlight, as they always have.
I pull to the inside lane so fast that my wheel jumps the curb. Timothy looks up as I climb from the cab, and who knows if he recognizes me? Who knows what he sees? He’s muttering something and reaching to scratch himself, and then I’m on him, bending low to hit with a shoulder, as we were taught in football, then turning to jab my elbow at his chin. I get a faceful of that chemical scent—metal, filth, urine, war. It’s as if I’ve plumped a particularly nasty pillow. He falls into a shape of impatiens, and I go right after him. Suddenly, I don’t mind the stench, and I set my bulk on his thin, stinking chest. His filthy beard brushes my skull, and I give a growl. I’m Howard the bear! A knee to his rib cage, blows to the face—openhanded at first, then punches, with my clenched fist—and I wish I had a tire iron or andiron or a sharpened stick of any size. Something cracks, and there’s wetness. Timothy’s face is a slippery, sticky mess. Some of the wetness is undoubtedly blood, but some must be saliva, both his and mine, because I’m coughing and drooling and frothing, literally, at the mouth.
I could stay here all night. I could go on thrashing this guy long, long after I’ve finished him off, but suddenly Timothy lets out a terrible, plaintive shriek, and at the sound of such noise I come back to the world. I jump up, like the ruffian I am, and dash off, and from one of the surrounding houses a voice cries, “What the hell’s going on?” I’m clambering into my truck when I step on the gas, spinning a little topsoil before making a U-turn. I drive a quarter-circuit in the wrong direction, narrowly missing another pizza vehicle, then veer back to the boulevard and home.
48
I CAN’T GET OUT OF BED in the morning. When a knock comes on the bedroom door I’m certain the police have arrived, but it’s only Laurel, wondering what’s up. I turn away, gesturing that I’m not well, and she touches my forehead and says I seem feverish. Then I spend two hours running to the bathroom with loose bowels. I hear Laurel and Nit take off for work, and Ryan putters about downstairs, channel surfing, making himself lunch, talking to Ruby. He doesn’t come check on me, and for this I’m grateful; I can face no one. For hours I lie in bed, my mind shifting from despair over Sylvia to despair over what I’ve done. I rage at the whole sequence of events that brought me to this spot, and my thoughts lead me back to Timothy. Midway through the afternoon I pull on my overalls, all set to check on him at that traffic circle. But I think of the maintenance men I once saw unloading gardening equipment, and I realize someone must have found him by now. And it’s impossible for me to slip off without Ryan, and if Timothy’s dead, my appearance will raise suspicions, and I can’t be sure the sight of what I left behind won’t prompt me to turn myself in, from sheer remorse. With this, I lie down and bury my head in the bedclothes. At last, Laurel comes home and brings me some consommé, and I’m puking it all into the toilet when she calls up to say she and Nit are taking Ryan to play minigolf. Then a terrible, restless, dream-filled night, cold sweats in the wee hours and a dog that barks relentlessly several streets over, until finally I dream that it’s a man barking, not a dog, a ragged, musclebound figure who stands in the jungle and bays at nothing. Then the barking stops.
Saturday, though, I get up and make breakfast as usual. I listen to the radio news for word of Timothy, and though there’s nothing on the broadcast, I’m paralyzed by nerves. Only a fluttery, jittery feeling at the back of my stomach connects each moment to the next. It’s baseball Saturday, though, with Ryan’s game this evening, so I’m presenting my game face. The one thing I can’t accommodate is Sylvia’s homecoming, but I press forward, like a beast of burden, and manage, for the most part, to put her from my mind. I think it helps, too, that Ryan has his own preoccupations. The minute we pull in he runs to tell Ed about Harrison’s dad, and Ed takes his cap off and places it at his heart. “Well, Howard,” he says, “can’t argue with death.”
The day is gusty. Veils of dirt dance through the infield, and when Gramps shows up with doughnuts, the little wax-paper squares blow all over. During practice, several kids get grit in their eyes, and at last we move to the farther, more sheltered diamond to knock out a few innings. But the wind just expresses everyone’s edginess as the game looms.
We stop playing early, and Ed has Juliana announce the starting lineup. “This is hard, people. Every one of you’s worthy of starting.” She unfolds a piece of notebook paper and reads, “Starting pitcher: Ibrahim Williams.” Across the circle, Ibrahim looks cowed, but Shawn stomps away from the group. His mother grabs him, and when Juliana reads, “First baseman: Shawn Indig,” a moment later, he’s not much mollified. In the end, Ryan’s not chosen to start, but he bears it like a champ, merely slumping a little at my side. I touch his shoulder, and he moves gently under my hand. With all the eleven- and twelve-year-olds here, I knew a spot for a nine-year-old was iffy, but we had our hopes, so I stroke his soft neck with my thumb and feel the weight of his disappointment. I watch Jeremy, in his catcher’s gear, sidle toward Ibrahim, and the two of them discuss signs as, beside us, the old guy tells his granddaughter she’ll have other opportunities. I’d like to believe that applies to us, too, but who knows where Ryan and I will be when the Snakes play again?
Juliana’s looking pale. It’s clear she didn’t expect so much anguish, and between the wind and the dust, the dividing of the children into A lists and B lists, and my own depression, there’s a palpable sorrow under the trees. And Juliana’s just a girl herself. “The thing is,” she calls out, “hopefully you’ll all get a chance at starting. We’ll have more games. And it’s really important to have a full bench t
onight, both for like team spirit and if we wanted to put in a pinch hitter, pinch runner, or whatever, okay? Also, don’t overload on heavy food or junk food before coming to play, even if you’re not starting. Some carbs in the afternoon if you want, but like . . .” She goes on, with more announcements, speaking faster and faster until she runs out of steam. “Okay, I guess that’s it. So, um, Dad?”
Ed raises his hands. “Hey, who’s got the best team?” Snakes! “Who’s got the best team?” Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! I’m like a sleepwalker, but I pump my fists, and once we’re revved up, Ed hands out the new baseball shirts. They’re beautiful: midnight blue with the white rattler S. The team name swooshes across the buttons, and “Mister Luster Kleen” is printed discreetly on one sleeve. “Wear ’em proud tonight, okay?”
Ed’s ordered adult shirts, too, though he asks for a donation to cover expenses, and as I hand over my money I realize I’m short again. “Take one for Harrison, too,” Ed says with a wink. “My little insurance policy. Tell him he can pay me after he gets back.” In his excitement, Ed’s forgotten I can’t tell Harrison anything, but I take the shirt and toss it in the truck.
“Looks like a Snake, dressed like a Snake, must be a Snake!” Robin squeezes my arm. She’s already customized her own blue shirt by rolling the sleeves, and she steps back to consider mine. “You know, that looks damn hot on you, Howard.” She undoes my top button, then tugs at my T-shirt so it stretches at the throat. “Oughta show a little chest hair, though,” she says. “As long as you got it. Let the consumer check out the merchandise, ha, ha. Come on now: smile!” For a moment, the two of us watch the kids tidy up the diamonds, and I stand as still as a post, wondering if I deserve any kindness at all. Over by the bleachers, Ryan’s with a group of also-rans he’s never deigned to acknowledge. He’s peeling an orange, and when Ann’s little Jamie says he guesses the two of them will be warming the bench, Ryan hands him an orange section. Then he and I take off.
We don’t go to the barbecue place because I can’t risk an encounter with Sylvia. Instead, I drive west, into the countryside, and as we leave the city limits behind, I think I could keep going. I’ve no illusion of escaping forever, but we might have a week of touring Old Faithful and the Grand Canyon and everywhere else I’ve always wanted to see, and we’d spend our nights sleeping under the stars. Then, of course, we’d be spotted, a scarred white guy and black child, and Ryan would be taken away and returned to his mother, while I’d go to jail for kidnapping and what I did to Timothy. I don’t do it, but it’s not such a bad deal.
Ryan says, “Howie, are we gonna get lunch?” and he sounds so tentative that I feel like a monster. I turn on the radio, still tuned to Harrison’s funny station, and when we pass a roadside store I pull in. At the back of the store is a deli counter where a fat man is carving a big country ham, and the whole place smells richly of smokehouse and cloves. I give the man a sign for two sandwiches, then remember I’m short of cash and correct that to one. I don’t care if I eat lunch. I’m happy to find something special for him, and I grab a couple bottles of ginger ale and two beautiful, large peaches, and a box of Cracker Jack for later on, and the teenager at the cash register is pretty peachy herself, telling Ryan it’s the first time they’ve had two snakes come for takeout. The money in my wallet covers our lunch, with a dollar back. Ryan says, “Hey, Howie, you didn’t get—” then breaks off, and I tug the beloved Indians cap over his face. “You can have half of mine,” he says.
There’s a picnic table outside the store, and the wind’s died down. The sun’s out. I make Ryan remove his team shirt before unwrapping the sandwich, and then, for solidarity, I take mine off, too. Side by side, we sit in our T-shirts, looking at a yellow field that rises like a ha-ha at the center of the view. The air’s tinged pleasantly with cow manure, and Ryan’s lunch smells good, but though I nibble at a few bits of meat that fall on the paper, I decline his offer of half the sandwich. Truly, I need nothing.
Then back in the truck and down the road to the buzzards’ park. The entrance, with its Davy Crockettish gateposts, brings back that day I spent with my folks, but inside, suddenly, nothing’s familiar. Too many roads branch off from the main one, and the rustic signs, flashing from the underbrush, are hard for me to read. I drive around searching for the boathouse or a glimpse of the reservoir, but the place is a maze of dry, midsummer green. Then Ryan murmurs, “Buzzard’s View Trail,” and when I look at him he adds, “It was like a sign back there.” I back up and park.
I’m not sure my folks and I ever hiked this trail, and the route’s longer than I expect. We’re panting as we near the top, and Ryan’s torn through the Cracker Jack. But we step out onto a bare, shallow dome of rock, as smooth as a scar on the mountain’s crown, and the blue sky arches above us. An older couple is just leaving as we arrive. They smile at Ryan and speak to each other in some foreign tongue, and after that we’re by ourselves. We look around in all directions before settling at a scary ledge, where grids of farmland and residential areas stretch for miles. Right below us, that metallic reservoir. The buzzards have a fine view.
I pass Ryan his peach, and he devotes himself to peeling the skin. He does this so carefully that at last he’s created a golden sphere, and when he holds it up I nod admiringly. The real sun is starting its slow descent, lighting the reservoir until it glistens like foil, and I look for that boathouse, but I still don’t find it. I think again of how easy it would be for us to disappear, even briefly. The last place I slept in a tent was overseas, but I imagine remaining here for the sunset, then retiring to a tent by a campfire in the woods. In the morning, I’d crawl from my sleeping bag to drink cowboy coffee while the sun rose over the water, and once sleepyhead emerged I’d fry a panful of eggs and bacon, with sliced bread skewered on sharp sticks for toasting. But this is my dream, not Ryan’s, and I know he has other things he wants to be doing. We better get going or we’ll be late for that game. So I make a pact: we’ll leave as soon as he’s finished his peach. Maybe he reads my thoughts, because he eats it in the tiniest bites.
We’re back in the residential outskirts when Ryan suddenly says, “Hey, aren’t we gonna pick up Mom?” I look across the seat and shake my head, and when he says, “I thought she was coming to watch me play,” I don’t respond. “Howie!” he says. “She’s waiting for you to go get her!” But at this I just look out the windshield, and no matter how many times he asks, I keep on driving. I can’t do everything, but I’m doing the very best I can, and some things just go unexplained.
49
THE DIAMOND WHERE THE game will be played is tucked behind a new high school even glitzier than Radnor. Ryan’s been silent since I stonewalled him on his mother, but as we pull in he murmurs, “Yo, it’s my high school.” We’re in Sylvia’s district now, where in four short years he’ll be a freshman.
Robin pulls in beside me, calling out, “Welcome to Yankee Stadium” as she and Jamie and Ann pile from the green van. And, yes: we’ve arrived at some kind of baseball Shangri-la. The field is fancier than a minor-league park, with a real grandstand cheerfully roofed by a metal awning, and a bull pen area behind green outfield fencing. Looking up at the racks of stadium lights, I wonder what it would be like to watch Ryan play a night game, and I think of those few football scrimmages before I broke my arm. I remember how excited I felt tying on my shoulder pads, with all the other guys getting ready, too.
I grin at Ryan. He’s not looking at me, but he gives little Jamie a high five and says, “Know what, man? My mom might be here.” Looking around, I see that Jeremy and Ibrahim are already in the bull pen, and Elizabeth’s in the outfield, playing catch with her dad. She waves, and we wave back, though Ryan tells Jamie, “They had to get a girl in the lineup, so . . .” Then both boys race to the dugout, which really is dug out of the ground. The Mesks and some other Snakes are already gathered there, and Ryan grabs a ball and flings it high, then steps back and catches it beautifully.
The other team is in red.
The Snakes’ uniforms consist of only the blue shirts, but the opponents are in red baseball pants with dark red stirrups, red shirts with white lettering, and bright-red caps. Most of them seem to have red baseball shoes as well. On our team, only Jeremy wears baseball shoes, and I never considered them for a child Ryan’s age, but now I wonder if the red team’s got cleats. I tell myself the opponents only look forbidding because there’s a bunch of them, all identical and clustered like bees; then a very large bee emerges from the dugout and gazes at the diamond with his hands on his hips. He, too, is red from head to toe. I watch him a moment before recognizing the handsome salesman who sold us our gloves, and he looks so at ease, addressing his crimson charges, that I recall how he talked through the pivot with Ryan. I can’t help wondering, a little disloyally, if Ed and Juliana have his baseball smarts. Then Robin’s beside me. “Twins. How original,” she says, deciphering the lettering on the red shirtfronts. “Are all the players boys?”
Juliana says, “Hey, let’s use the infield while we’ve got it. Do some drills, okay?” The kids who will play third, second, and short go out and chuck the ball around, but Shawn hasn’t arrived yet, so first is empty. “Who’ll fill in?” says Juliana. “Maybe Ryan?” Ryan lets out a whoop and barrels off, calling for the ball, and when Shawn still isn’t here at game time, he stays in without question.
I’m beside myself. Parents aren’t permitted to remain in the dugout, so I take a seat in the stands, with first base right in front of me. I watch Ryan stand ready, one sneakered foot just holding the bag, and I could yelp for joy and do the bump and buy cups of beer for the crowd, if beer were available. Suddenly I realize how parents become idiots: for the present, my woes with Timothy and Sylvia are forgotten, and I want to call out Ryan’s name, blow kisses, and make boisterous jokes ’til he turns around. With just a nudge I could get very weepy. A Twin walks toward the plate wearing a hard, red batting helmet, and I see spectators gathering behind the other dugout. One lady’s in a wheelchair, and three barechested boys are waving shirts. There are parents of Snakes here, too, of course, and I know each of them holds some very deep something for one or two of the players. But it’s inconceivable anyone feels what I’m feeling. This moment is mine, and the blue sky casts a golden light.