Never Blame the Umpire

by Gene Fehler

  Allison reads one of her silly poems next. And it has nothing to do with religion.

  A Cuddly Pet

  Mom asked what I wanted for Christmas. She said,

  “I’ll try as hard as I can to get it.

  I told her that pandas are furry and cuddly

  And I’d like to have one so I can pet it.

  There were none to be found, so Mom brought me home

  A substitute pet, and she warned, “Don’t upset it.”

  The pet that she brought me, a fat porcupine,

  Was all right, I guess. But cuddle? Forget it.

  “My last poem,” Allison says, “is one titled ‘A Child Knows God.’” She smiles out at the audience. She doesn’t seem nervous or self-conscious at all. She says, “I thought back to when I was real little and first discovered how good God is. I didn’t know anything about poetry then, but I think this is what I would have written if I had. It’s exactly how I felt. It’s how I still feel.”

  She starts to read.

  God made the grass; God made each tree.

  God gave me eyes so I can see

  The grass he made and see the shade

  That comforts me.

  The way her face glows lets everyone know how much she loves God. She’s not pretending, the way some people do. I wish I could feel the way she does. I want to. I really do.

  God made the night; God made the day.

  At night I sleep so I can play

  At morning’s light and do what’s right

  In every way.

  God gave us life; he made us all.

  And even though he made me small,

  His love for me will help me be

  So big and tall.

  I know that God will help me grow

  And learn all that I need to know

  Of his kind deeds. He’ll fill my needs.

  I love him so!

  When she finishes everybody claps hard. She hadn’t seemed self-conscious before, but now she looks likes she’s embarrassed. I think it’s because of all the clapping.

  She looks over at me. I wait for the clapping to stop. Then I walk out to the microphone and stand beside her. We’re going to read a poem we wrote together, and that will end our class’s part of the program. By together I mean we’ll read alternate stanzas. The poem is the one we wrote in class about the months. We ended up spending a lot of time on it. It went through a ton of revisions, but I think it turned out pretty good. Allison wrote most of the best lines.

  We wrote it in a series of couplets. A couplet is a two-line stanza. We’ve practiced reading it a lot. We decided that Allison will read the first couplet and I’ll read the second one. We’ll just keep alternating.

  “This last poem,” Allison says, “is one Kate Adams and I wrote together. It’s called ‘Parade of Months.’”

  January skimmed on skates and did a figure eight.

  February sloshed on boots; he didn’t hesitate.

  I’m nervous, but as soon as Allison finishes reading “hesitate,” I read:

  Arm and arm with Abe and George he rushed a Valentine

  To March, who gave him in return a ray of spring sunshine.

  We read the rest of the poem and don’t mess up once:

  Sweet April walked ahead of them, white blossoms in her hair.

  She carried baseball bats and gloves through breezes oh so fair.

  A long way in the distance she saw May, who was no fool.

  For May was sprinting far ahead to reach the end of school.

  Perhaps the most distracted in the parade was June.

  Her thoughts were full of weddings and of summer, coming soon.

  July’s straw hat, wide-brimmed and orange, received its share of smirks

  Before it got knocked off amidst a blast of fireworks.

  Poor August was so hot he sat and rested in the shade.

  If somehow he could change with March he’d surely make the trade.

  September marched triumphantly to school bells loud and clear.

  She wore the lovely, fragrant smell of autumn growing near.

  Some golden leaves blew on the path where crisp October strode.

  With black cats, ghosts, and skeletons he headed up the road.

  November had to wear a coat because of cooling weather

  As it and friends and family all gathered close together.

  December led the big parade with robust Christmas cheer,

  And saw ahead a new parade of still another year.

  As soon as we finish, everybody cheers. We even get a couple of loud whistles. I’m sure one of the whistlers is Ken.

  Our class goes to a room offstage until the program is over, so we don’t get to see the other two classes perform, instrumental music and drama. I don’t really mind, though, because we got to see them all in rehearsals yesterday and today.

  Ginny’s class isn’t doing anything from Romeo and Juliet. Instead they’re acting out scenes from three different plays. The scenes were chosen so that each of the students has about the same amount of time on stage to act their part. In Ginny’s scene she plays an old lady. She’s made up to look old, and she does a great job with her voice. She sounds like she’s about ninety. She’s not the only good one, though. Just about everybody on stage does a great job. It makes me glad I was chosen for creative writing. I could never in a million years be an actress.

  We have a final curtain call, when everybody goes on stage. As soon as the curtain call is over, I run down to find Mama and Dad and Ken.

  Dad hugs me first, but Mama’s not far behind. “I’m so proud of you, Kate,” she says. “Your poems were wonderful.”

  “I didn’t know you could write that well,” Dad says. “You never cease to amaze me.”

  Ken taps my shoulder and says, “My favorite poem was the one Allison read about the owl. I loved that line about brothers not being wrong.”

  “If she knew you better,” I say, “she never would have written it.”

  “Ha ha,” Ken says.

  I’d been ready to quit the school after I found out about Mama’s cancer. I’m really glad I stuck it out. The last week especially was fun. And I know if I hadn’t been coming to school I would have spent every minute worrying about Mama.

  But there’s one good thing about school being over. Mama quit her job this week. Now I’ll be able to be with her all the time.

  Eighteen

  tennis match

  Last week’s Fourth of July fireworks displaywas spectacular. It must have lasted for half an hour with one exploding shower of color after another. I didn’t enjoy it much, though. Every explosion and every stream of colors sprinkling from the sky to the ground made me think of things dying. I’d never thought about it before, not in all the years I’d been watching fireworks and feeling all tingly at how pretty I thought they were.

  Mama was right beside me and oohing and aahing like she does every Fourth of July. I keep looking for signs that she’s getting better. Mostly, though, I keep hoping I don’t see signs she’s getting worse. If I don’t see them that might mean the doctors are wrong and she’ll be all right after all.

  In the two weeks since Valley Lakes School ended, I haven’t left home much. There’s no place I want to go. I just want to spend time with Mama. She seems the same as always, always busy doing something. She doesn’t seem sick, not really. I notice that she takes more breaks from whatever she’s doing than she usually does. Like when she works in her garden. She would spend hours without stopping except to get a drink of water or something like that. Now she’s starting to get tired sooner. She’ll go and sit down, or maybe go inside and not go back to the garden at all for the rest of the day.

  Today’s been a good day, though. The way Mama is playing tennis today makes me think that she’s not sick after all. The two of us are beating Dad and Ken. It’s not like they’re letting us win. I can tell. We’re just hitting better shots than they are.

  There’ve been a few ball
s that Mama usually returns for winners that have caught the top of the net, but I’m thinking that’s only because she’s rusty. She hasn’t played much the last few weeks. Even so, we won the first set 6 – 4 and we lead in the second set 4 games to 2. Mom is serving at 40 – 15.

  I have to admit, I’m playing as good as I ever have. I’m not going to let us lose today, no matter what.

  Just beyond the end line on the other side of the net, Ken is bouncing on the balls of his feet, balanced, waiting for Mama’s serve.

  “We need this point, partner,” Dad calls over his shoulder to Ken.

  “No way,” I shout.

  The ball whizzes past my right ear and lands well in service court. Ken lunges across his body, and the ball pings off the center of his racket. He doesn’t hit it deep. It’ll come down in the middle of our court, perfect for a winning return.

  I move back toward the ball just as Mama moves forward. We’ve been partners long enough that I know she’ll back off and let me take it. The overhead smash is my best shot. I win a lot of points with it.

  I race to where the ball will bounce so I’ll be ready. I see Mama still coming toward the ball as if she plans to hit it.

  “Mine!” I call out and Mama backs away.

  I swing.

  I can’t believe it. Either there’s a gust of wind or else I take my eye off the ball for an instant. But instead of hitting a sure winner, the ball hits the top edge of my racquet and goes straight up about twenty feet, then almost hits me on the way down.

  Ken drops his racquet and falls to the court, laughing. He lies on his back and kicks his legs in the air. He bounces up and imitates my overhead swing. He holds his sides and laughs harder.

  “Son,” Dad says. He sees I’m laughing too and just shakes his head.

  “No problem,” I say. “We’re still up 40 – 30. Sorry, Mama.”

  Suddenly Dad is running toward our side of the court. I look back and see Mama sitting down. I know I didn’t hit her with my racquet, I would have felt it.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Dad asks.

  “Just feeling a little dizzy,” Mama says. “I’ll be okay in a minute.”

  “I think we’ve had enough for today,” Dad says. “Sixteen games, and it’s pretty hot this afternoon.”

  “Just give me a minute,” Mama says. “We’ll be able to finish the set.”

  She walks to the bench and takes a drink of water. She sits down and towels herself off.

  “We don’t have to finish,” Dad says.

  “We’ll finish this set,” Mama says firmly.

  Mama serves at 40 – 30, a good serve, and Dad’s return goes wide. We lead 5 games to 2.

  As we switch sides of the court, I see Dad talking softly to Ken.

  It’s Dad’s serve. It’s not his best serve, and I hit a hard baseline winner. “Love-fifteen,” he calls out. “Okay, Ken, let’s get this point.”

  Serving toward Mama’s court, he double faults. He hardly ever double faults.

  Mama glares at him, her hands on her hips. “Just play the game,” she calls out.

  He serves to me, and Ken hits my return into the net. It’s Love – 40. Match point.

  I think I know what will happen next, but I hope it doesn’t.

  It does. Another double fault. The match is over.

  Mama doesn’t even look at Dad. She just grabs her drink and towel and tennis bag and heads for the car. Mama and Dad hardly ever argue or even get mad at each other, but there’s sure plenty of anger in her eyes right now.

  Nineteen

  dad knew

  After the tennis match last week, Mama and Dad both kept trying to out-apologize the other.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said.

  “No,” Mama said. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. I know you were just worried about me.”

  “I was,” Dad said. “But I should have known you were strong enough to finish the set.”

  “I should have known I wasn’t,” Mama said.

  And so on and so forth.

  I know now it was an important day. I have to write about it. I have to try, anyway. The blank page of my notebook stares back at me. If it could talk it would probably say, “I dare you to write a poem. I bet you can’t.”

  The trouble is, it’s right.

  I try to remember some of the things that Mr. Gallagher taught us. One thing I remember him saying is, “A poem, whether it’s a story poem or picture poem, is simply an accumulation of details. You just start writing about the things you see, the things that happen, the way you feel. Just let one thought lead into another, just the way you think them.” So I take my pen and just let the thoughts come.

  Dad was right.

  Mama was wrong. I’m sorry, Mama, but you were.

  I wish with all my heart you weren’t.

  The cancer is making you sicker. Weaker.

  When you think no one is looking

  I see you bite your lip to try to hide your pain.

  I watch you sit to rest, more often than you ever have.

  I hear your laughter, treasure your every smile.

  I know yours are real; I have to force mine.

  I have to pretend I’m happy.

  I know you’re not giving up.

  You’ve seen other doctors, gotten other opinions.

  They all agree.

  Chemo won’t help.

  Radiation treatments won’t help.

  Surgery isn’t an option.

  Nothing is left except time. Time and hope.

  It seems as if time has wings and is carrying

  you away, Mama, far away,

  and so fast I can’t keep up.

  I don’t want you to leave my sight

  but no matter how hard I try

  I can’t figure out how to stop time.

  I can only hope it’s flying toward a miracle.

  I read over what I wrote. I don’t tear the page out and throw it away like I have some other things I’ve tried to write.

  I know, though, that I’m not going to show it to Mama.

  Twenty

  friday night tradition

  So much has changed this summer. At least our Friday nights have stayed the same. Mostly. Except on those nights when we go to a football game or a play or visit friends or something, we keep to our Friday night tradition: the four of us in the TV/game room, playing games or watching DVDs and eating popcorn and other snacks, our normal Friday night.

  Normal is a strange word. I don’t even know what normal is anymore.

  That first Friday, right after I found out about Mama’s cancer, I couldn’t be with Mama and Dad. I just couldn’t. But that was the only time I haven’t been part of our tradition.

  Mama and Dad must be picking out funny movies to watch on purpose. I’m glad. It helps me forget for a little while about the bad thing that’s taking over our lives.

  Last Friday something different happened. Just a few minutes before the end of the movie, Ken got up and started to leave the room. He didn’t say anything.

  Dad picked up the remote. He said, “I’ll pause it until you come back.” We all just figured he was going to the bathroom or something.

  “That’s okay,” Ken said. “Keep it running. I have to go to my room. I’m not going to watch the rest.”

  “But it’s almost over,” Mama said.

  Ken didn’t answer. He just left. The three of us watched the rest of the movie without him.

  The movie had a really cool ending. I wished Ken had stayed to see it. He would have liked it. I know he would have. I think Mama and Dad felt bad, too, that he didn’t see it.

  Tonight, same time as always, Mama gets out the popcorn popper. I’m not talking about those air poppers that throw out dry, tasteless popcorn, or even microwave popcorn which is sometimes tasteless but sometimes even pretty good if you buy the kind with gobs of butter melted into it. I’m talking about the old dented popcorn pan Mama always uses, with popcorn popped in just the right amount
of vegetable oil and doused with just the right amount of melted butter with just the right amount of the special seasoned salt Mama sprinkles on it.

  That’s the kind of popcorn I get to look forward to almost every Friday night. That’s the only night we have it. “We don’t want to every get tired of it,” Mama says every time I beg for it on any other night. “If we pop it more often we’ll get tired of it. It won’t be special anymore.”

  I always start pouting when she says that, but deep down I know she’s right. That popcorn—not just the taste but the tradition—is one thing that makes our Friday night family time so special.

  “It’s almost time for the movie,” Dad calls out while he gets the DVD ready. “Tell Ken.”

  “Ken. Hurry up!” I yell from the hallway. I wait a few seconds for him to come out of his room. He doesn’t even answer.

  “Ken!” I shout again.

  Nothing.

  I finally give up and go to the door of his room. His door is shut, so I knock. I’ve learned not to go in his room without knocking. Even last year I could go in without knocking, but now he gets really mad, like his privacy is the most precious thing in the whole world. Heaven forbid I should open his door and see him in his underwear or something. Like I’ve never seen his underwear before.

  And I know he’s not going to be in his room smoking or taking drugs or looking at naked girls on the Internet. Ken’s my little brother. I know him. You can’t be as close as we have for all that time to not know the things he does and doesn’t do.

  I knock louder.

  “Come on in,” he calls out. “It’s not locked.”

  He’s lying on his bed with his earphones on. I’m surprised he heard me at all, as loud as his music is playing. I can even hear it through his earphones, and I’m way across the room.