Saving Thomas

by A. L. Moore

  Chapter 3

  (Four years prior)

  The summer heat was visible on the paved drive in front of Katy’s house, and the sun was doing a number on my vanilla ice-cream cone. It was a race to get it eaten before it turned to a dripping shake, down my arm. Her mama made it from scratch every Sunday afternoon and like every Sunday afternoon since I was able to walk, I sat on the front steps with Katy and her brothers licking up the melting treat. The foster kids from across the road were here, too. I knew Rusty and his shaggy topped brown hair. He’d lived in front of me for as long as I could remember, and besides shooting up three inches this year, his tanned, dimpled face hadn't changed much. He was also in my homeroom at school, but I didn’t know the new boy he walked over with. The new boy was quiet, appearing almost shy, though he looked older than the rest of us, reaching Mr. Johnson's, Katy's daddy's, shoulders. He was tan like Rusty, from what I could see from his face and arms. Despite the heat, his long legs were covered in a pair of blue jeans that had seen better days. Though, I couldn't help but notice he wore them well as he passed by to get a bowl of ice cream. Not that I spent my days checking out boys' rear-ends, mind you, but most around here were lacking in that department, so when the seat of a pair of Levi's wasn't as flat as a fritter, a girl couldn't help but take note. He wore his light brown hair short like most of the boys around here during the summer. He'd had it hidden beneath a straw-colored cowboy hat until he'd swapped it for a ballcap from his back pocket.

  When we finished our ice cream, Mr. Johnson appeared at the door with his trusty baseball bat, tossing a worn glove to Daniel. Danny was Katy's oldest brother. He had orange-red hair like his daddy, and he'd been talking my ear off about having the same fourth grade teacher Katy and I'd had a few years ago. She was a mean woman from what I remembered, but I didn’t know who I felt worse for, Mrs. Grant or Danny. All of Katy’s brothers were vicious little hellions.

  We all took our spots on the makeshift bases in the field that connected Katy’s yard to my own.

  “You playin', Thomas?” Rusty Tyner called, addressing the new boy who followed close behind us.

  “Guess so,” Thomas shrugged. His voice was deeper than I'd expected, causing me to steal another glance at him over my shoulder. “I used to pitch at my old school.”

  “The high school could use a good pitcher,” Mr. Johnson said, tossing the ball behind me.

  I'd never met a boy in high school before. I glanced behind me again to get a better look at him now that the porch wasn’t casting shadows on his face. He looked at me at the same time, and I quickly turned away feeling my cheeks flush.

  The air smelled like summer, a mixture of honeysuckle and fresh cut grass, and when the wind shifted just right, the smell of the Bon fire I knew Daddy was tending in the yard. Of course, if the wind took a different direction, the rich smell of cow manure would about knock you down. The dry grass tickled my ankles as I started to first base. I always took first because I could catch better than the younger boys. Katy headed to the outfield, so her chances of seeing any action would be slim to none. She wouldn’t be joining the Major Leagues anytime soon.

  Thomas adjusted the bill of his worn ballcap, taking a stiff stance like the men I'd seen on TV and then he did something that made me shoot Katy an I'm-going-to-puke look. He hocked a loogie in the grass!

  “Gross,” I said, fisting my gloved hand. Spitting was such a nasty thing to do. I’d never understood why people thought it was okay to just do it in front of people. It’s like blowing your nose and then opening the tissue up for everyone to see what came out.

  Thomas glanced at me from under his hat and smirked at my scowl.

  “Knock it out of the park, Daddy,” Danny yelled.

  Mr. Johnson usually pitched for us kids and threw the ball in the air to get his own batting practice. I’d never seen him hit from an actual pitcher before. He bragged a lot about how good he'd been in school. I was excited to see him hit.

  The ball came out fast. If I’d blinked, I would’ve missed it. It slammed into the bat with a pop and sent Katy running back toward the trees. Danny was in awe. Even John Tyler stopped picking his nose and started jumping up and down. Mr. Johnson grinned a boyish grin and rounded the bases.

  We didn’t have enough people for a real game, so we just alternated one at a time from the outfield to hit. Danny and John Tyler went next. Danny was getting better, knocking it to the edge of the field on his second swing. When John Tyler came up to bat, Thomas knelt down and slowed his pitch. John Tyler was ecstatic when he hit the ball. He didn’t even care that it went backwards. He rounded the bases and slapped his daddy a high-five. Katy insisted that I go next. She'd found a comfy spot away from the ant hills and sat down. I usually couldn’t wait for my turn. My hitting was getting a lot better, too. Today, I was nervous. I wanted Mr. Johnson to pitch. I was comfortable around him. He was like my uncle or something close to it. He didn’t laugh when I struck out. Of course, he didn’t strike me out. He'd let me swing until I hit the ball. Something about this new boy made my stomach feel strange.

  The sun was low in the sky now, hidden behind the trees. I kept my eyes in front of me, searching the ground for the bat. John Tyler had lugged it around the bases with him, and I hadn’t paid attention to where he’d left it.

  “Hey, girl,” the new boy called with the bat in his hand, walking toward me. I quickly closed the space and grabbed it without sparing him a second look. When I got back to home plate, I looked up to see him squatted down like he'd been when he'd pitched to John Tyler. The funny feeling in my gut was swallowed up by fire. I stared him down as he exchanged a loaded look with Rusty, who was snickering rather loudly.

  “She’s pretty good,” Mr. Johnson warned, suppressing a grim of his own.

  With a quick look toward Mr. Johnson, Thomas straightened up, but the skeptical look in his eyes still made me want to punch his pretty-boy face.

  I was ready when he threw the first ball, gripping the bat tightly, determined to hit it. Who did this boy think he was? High school or no high school, no one came onto my land and made a fool out of me. The ball shot by me like a bullet. I didn’t even have time to swing. Someone threw the ball back to him as I readied the bat again. This time I kept my eyes on the ball as I swung with all my might, hitting nothing but the night air.

  “Loosen your grip, Breelynn,” Mr. Johnson called out.

  My face burned. I gritted my teeth and used the bat to make an indention in the ground before swinging it back over my shoulder. Thomas stared at me, narrowing his eyes in concentration, but still clearly amused. He was having fun at my expense! This time, I didn’t take my eyes off of him. The ball was just a flash of white in my peripheral vision as it connected loudly with the bat. He turned to watch it disappear. No one laughed now. I rounded the bases, giving him a hard stare when I made it back to home plate. The smirk was gone. Mission accomplished. He was already preparing to toss the ball to Rusty. Just as I took my place guarding first base, he glanced in my direction and winked.

  The sky had darkened over, lit by a crescent moon when Mr. Johnson called his rowdy bunch together. I waved to Katy, and she promised to call me later. Rusty was staying over with Danny. They already had a tent set up in the Johnson’s backyard. I wanted to walk over and check it out, but it wouldn’t be long before Daddy was calling me to come in, too.

  “Hey, girl,” I heard from behind me. I spun around just in time to catch the baseball the new boy threw in my direction.

  “What do you want?” I asked irritated. He was clearly one of those boys who thought girls needed an extra appendage to properly function. Mama had told me all about boys like him the first time I'd gone to basketball camp at the church.

  “I thought, maybe, you could pitch me a few.” He didn’t sound as cocky without an audience.

  “And why would I want to do that?” I asked sourly, throwing the ball back to him with more force than necessary.

  He shook his hand
out to the side after catching the ball. “Ouch! Hey look, I’m sorry about before. I was just messing with you.”

  “Whatever,” I said, turning back toward my house.

  “Real neighborly of you,” he said disgruntled. “I knew moving here was going to suck rocks.”

  “Neighborly of me?” I said astounded. “You come over to my house—”

  “Funny, I was told this was my yard,” he interrupted.

  There’d been a dispute about the back ten acres since the Tyner’s first moved across the street. They were renting the property from us anyway, so it really didn't matter one way or the other.

  “My daddy has a map of the property line, but that’s not the point,” I continued. “You made me look like an idiot.”

  “And I should be grateful that you guys included me in your game at all,” he added, finishing my sentence. “After all, you were just being nice to me. Is that it?”

  “Yes.” It sounded mean when he said it. “Well, no,” I deliberated, crossing my arms.

  He stepped close enough that I could see his crooked grin. “No? You weren’t trying to be nice to me?”

  I stomped my foot, frustrated. I'd never had trouble staying mad at anyone before, let alone a boy, but this one was breaking through my armor. I pressed my lips firmly together, silently wishing Daddy would call me.

  “Come on, friendly neighbor girl,” he kidded, flashing the same smile he'd given me earlier. “Hang out with me for a while. Unless you’re afraid I’ll show you up.”

  “Oh, dream on, high school boy,” I said, holding my hand out for the ball. "And the name's Breelynn."

  He chuckled and jogged to catch up with me. I was already in position on the pitcher’s mound. The mound was just grass that had grown over an old tree stump Daddy'd burned some time back.

  “You aren’t going to hit me with the ball, are you?” he asked, getting into his stance and shielding his man parts with his hands.

  “Don’t worry,” I said evenly, “I’m a girl. It probably wouldn’t hurt even if I did.”

  I wanted to wind-up to throw the ball like he'd done, but I couldn’t remember exactly how, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot, again. I planted my feet, reared my arm back and threw the ball so hard that if he hadn’t jumped out of the way, it would've knocked him senseless.

  “Are you okay?” I said, shocked at my own strength. “I really wasn’t trying to hit you,” I apologized. “I was just trying to get it by you, is all.”

  He grabbed the ball and, arching of his brow as if I'd suddenly grown horns, hesitantly handed it back to me. “Are we even now?” he asked, dusting his worn blue jeans and edging backwards.

  “Really, I wasn’t trying to hit you.”

  He wasn’t buying it.

  My next pitch was much slower, too slow. He reached into the air and caught the ball before it ever reached the bat.

  “No, stay there,” he said, studying me as he scratched the back of his head before jogging over to join me.

  “Hold the ball like this," he said, his long, tanned fingers wrapping my hand like a too large glove. He stood closely behind me, causing my back to turn rigid as he brought my hand back with his. “You’re releasing it too late. Even if you hadn’t thrown it slower than molasses," he smirked as he brought my hand forward, "it never would’ve made it to the plate.”

  I'd never been so close to a boy in my entire life. My stomach stirred in a strange way, and I realized I'd been holding my breath. Dropping my hand as if he gave these lessons every day, he jogged back to home plate. With sweaty palms, my next pitch was even worse. To his credit, he didn't roll his eyes. He patiently threw the ball back and after several failed attempts, I finally got one close enough for him to hit. Only the tip of the bat connected, but it was still enough to send it out into the dark wood. I never even heard it hit the ground.

  “There are more balls in the bag,” he said, bringing my eyes from the tree line where the ball disappeared to the army-green duffle bag at my feet. “Do you go to the high school, too?” he asked as I rummaged through the old bag.

  “I’ll be a freshman,” I said proudly, holding the bag upside down and allowing the balls to spill out and roll in all directions. I loved saying that. Freshman. It had a nice ring to it.

  “I thought you were older,” he said, taking the air out of my proverbial balloon.

  “Technically, I should be a sophomore,” I grudgingly admitted, staring at my feet. I always hated telling this story. It made me feel like a baby. “My mama didn’t make me start school until I was six. She said five was too young to be sending kids off into the world and no government agency was going to convince her otherwise.”

  “Sounds like a cool mom,” Thomas smiled. “Wish I could’ve delayed it forever.”

  I laughed, “Yeah, you and me both. So, what grade are you in?” I asked, fisting a ball on my hip.

  “Going into the eleventh,” he said, bringing the bat around and imitating a grand slam.

  “So, you’re what like sixteen?” Daddy was not going to like me being out here with an eleventh grader.

  “Was until last week,” he said, turning his ball cap backwards and waiting for my pitch. The ball sailed smoothly to his right, and with a heavy thud, he sent it flying over my head toward my house. “I turned seventeen Thursday,” he concluded. Sucks you’re a freshman. I was sort of hoping you could show me the ropes.

  “If I’m still here in August,” he added almost too low for me to hear.

  “Planning on moving already?"

  “Who gets to plan?” he said mockingly, the bat swinging by his side as he kicked at the dirt.

  I wanted to ask what he meant, but the sour look on his face kept my mouth shut. His next swing was different, harder. His arms tight and forceful, he sent the ball way up into the night sky. He was quiet after that, not missing the ball once. As hard as he swung, I was sure our new crop would be baseball guts.

  “You’re good,” I reluctantly admitted, releasing the last ball and watching as it sailed into the oblivion.

  “So are you," he said with a half-smile that made my heart flutter as he bent down and grabbed the empty bag from my feet, “for a girl.”

  I was ready with a comeback, but before I could utter a word he winked, and I lost my ammunition.

  Chapter 4

  (Present)

  The sound of car tires had long since disappeared before I started back to my house. I wouldn’t have gone home then, but my stomach was growling painfully. I’d skipped breakfast with thoughts of birthday cake, and then skipped out on the party altogether. I doubted anyone had noticed with the house filled with people, but it would surely be more obvious now that they’d gone.

  Leaving the muddied field, I could see the spotlight shining across the wooden gate, which meant Daddy was working on the fence again. The latch had broken last week, and we’d found two chickens dead in the yard. I’d worried him to death about it since the chicks had hatched. I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to those poor, defenseless babies. Pushing through the rickety coop gate, I tracked through the mud to be sure no tragedies had struck since I’d checked this morning.

  “Did you hear them howling again?” I called out, combing my fingers through my wind-swept hair as I rounded the fence.

  Thomas's eyes flashed up from where he stooped with a hammer in one hand and a fence post in the other. I froze on the spot. “I thought you were Daddy,” I said, hugging my chest against the sudden chill that rocked me.

  “He’s back at the house,” he said around the nail he held between his teeth. Before I could utter another word, the loud thump of the hammer echoed through the air. I watched him for a moment, trying to think of something else to say. Waiting for him to say something. Anything that would get us past the awkwardness that radiated between us like an invisible force field. Words had never been our problem before, but I was at a loss and, except for a raised brow, probably because I'd been staring a
t him so long, so was he.

  I lay awake for hours trying to quiet my restless mind. So many unanswered questions swirled about and of course, my mind had to playout each possible scenario until I felt the need for a psychiatrist. When I finally found sleep, I also found Thomas, which was nothing unusual. I dreamt of Thomas more often than not, which was why I hadn’t dated since he’d left. It was hard to see anyone else with his face fresh in my mind each morning. It was pathetic, and what was even more pathetic was trying to go back to sleep this morning to be with the dream version of him, when he was right down the hall. Loving him all these years had been like running after a fly away balloon. No matter how clearly I could see him, he was always just out of reach.

  I took longer than necessary to get dressed the next morning, finally pulling on a pair of denim cutoffs, my favorite red button-up tank, and my trusty boots. My chores were waiting, and I hoped my breakfast was too. My stomach growled noisily as I made my way down the creaky wooden stairs. I’d smelled the rich aroma of coffee and bacon over an hour ago. Mama was a saint, pulling a dish towel off the plate on the stove as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Saved you some toast and what I could of the bacon,” she said, eyeing me curiously. I was never late for breakfast. “Your daddy and Thomas finished the eggs, and these grits,” she said, hitting a caked spoon on the side of the pot in her hand, “could fix the crack in the walkway.”

  I wrapped the toast around the bacon, too hungry to care. I would’ve eaten bran flakes at this point, and I hated bran flakes.

  “Is there coffee left?” She was one step ahead of me, pushing the bowl of sugar over to a stemming mug.