The Boy from Left Field

by Tom Henighan

  “I know — and that’s exactly the second thing I wanted to talk about. I’ve got some news today. It may change the way we live. Son, would you believe it? I think we might be able to get out of this taxi and have a real apartment soon.”

  Hawk squirmed in his seat with excitement. “When? When?”

  Storm Cloud smiled. “Oh, pretty soon. I heard from a friend in Ottawa today. She’s a Native wife, just like me. The band up there is getting pretty active, doing protests and things, and they need volunteers. I mean, there’s a bit of money in it, too, but the best thing is that if I go up there to help, they’ll fix us up with an apartment. We won’t have to live in this taxi anymore. And it could happen very, very soon.”

  Hawk felt a sinking in his stomach. His hands started shaking, and every fibre of his body moved to resistance. “Move to Ottawa? But Mum, I’m going to school here! I’ve got friends here. Mr. Rizzuto is helping me. I can make the Little League! We’re kind of partners, too, Mr. Rizzuto and I are. We’re looking for Babe Ruth’s baseball. I might be a millionaire! I don’t want to move to Ottawa. It’s freezing, and there’s nothing up there but politicians!”

  His mother, disconcerted, swallowed the dregs of her coffee, squeezed the cup out of shape with her fingers, and gave him a very severe look. “Now, don’t talk nonsense, Hawk! You’ll go where your mother goes, and that’s the end of it! I haven’t quite decided on the move yet, but settling in Ottawa might be the best thing I could do for both of us. It’s a dead end here, and we have to live in this stupid taxi and I have to sell crafts on the streets. If I can do something else in Ottawa, I’ll love it there. You’ll love it there, too. Don’t go having a fit about nothing!”

  “About nothing?” Hawk yelled.

  “Now, that’s enough! Let’s not discuss it anymore. I just wanted to let you know what was happening — what might happen. Oh, wipe that sour look off your face — you look just like your dad when you make a face like that! We’ll talk about this again when you’re not so tired. Anyway, I brought you this comic I picked up on the Danforth. It should cheer you up. It looks like it’s about a Native hero, too. Just enjoy it and don’t worry about anything right now.”

  Hawk took a deep breath, reached out for the comic book, and slipped away into the front seat, hiding his swelling eyes from his mother. He didn’t want to be a stupid crybaby, and he wouldn’t! All the same, he felt miserable and had to fight off the tears until he got caught up in the story.

  Didn’t she know that everything was fine here and maybe getting better? Didn’t she see that it wasn’t worth moving to Ottawa even to get away from their miserable taxi?

  He buried his head in the comic and tried to shut out the world. But even hours later, when darkness had settled down on the taxicab, the rough yard, and the blank buildings around, even as he fought to get to sleep, the terrible idea of moving away from his dad and his friends stuck with him. A blankness, a weight, seemed to hold him where he lay on the hard seat, and he squirmed restlessly to get comfortable.

  Then, in the middle of his discomfort, something completely unexpected happened. There was a crash, a shattering of glass, a noise so close and so threatening that he jumped awake, shouting and swinging his arms in the darkness, as if to ward off the threat. He sat bolt upright. Something had showered on his clenched fists, something tangible and very real, like dust or small pebbles.

  Seconds later his mother stood by the car. She yanked open his door, calling “Hawk! Hawk!” and pulling him out of the vehicle. She hugged him and he shook himself awake. Though he was shivering, he managed to reassure her.

  “Mum, I’m okay. But look! Somebody threw a rock!”

  His mother had managed to fetch her flashlight and together they examined the windshield, which had been shattered by something — an object, it seemed, hurled out of the darkness.

  Sure enough, with the help of the flashlight they found a stone the size of a man’s fist amid a shower of glass on the rough earth a few feet from the front of the car.

  “This is terrible,” his mother cried. “Who would do such a thing? Those damned street kids! If I ever catch them …”

  Hawk stood shivering. Street kids? His mother might have hit on something without knowing it. Hawk thought of the Ripper gang, of the sinister figure of Ringo with his tattoos, his ugly face, and his sneering manner.

  He crossed his fingers then, and wished and hoped with all his heart that the gang hadn’t caught Martin — that they hadn’t figured out who was spying on them, and come in the night to take their revenge.

  “If we had an apartment in Ottawa, or anywhere,” his mother said, “something like this would never happen. Nothing will make me stay here after this!”

  She kicked at the broken glass and seemed on the verge of tears. Hawk reached out and patted her hand.

  Then there was nothing for them to do but crawl back into the shelter of the car and try to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Father and Son

  In the bright morning sunlight, Storm Cloud finished disposing of the broken windshield glass, and made sure that Hawk was properly washed and dressed to go and see his father.

  “I’m not reporting this attack,” she told her son. “It was probably just some stupid kids. If the police come to investigate, they’ll probably kick us out of here, or at the very least send a report to the Children’s Aid. You didn’t mention it to Selim, did you?”

  Hawk shook his head, then turned away, feeling guilty. After washing up and spending some time making faces at himself in the restroom mirror, he had run into Selim, the restaurant owner, and immediately told him about the stone-throwing. Noticing Selim’s concern, he’d begged him not to let his mother know he’d told him.

  “You’re not going to call the police, are you, Mr. Selim?” he had asked.

  Selim — a thin, neatly dressed man with large, dark eyes — shook his head, and said, “No, kid, but when you see your father, you tell him to get you out of here very soon. This is no place for a boy like you, or for your mother either. I won’t tell anyone about last night, but if either of you get hurt, I’ll be in big trouble.”

  Hawk felt things closing in. He knew his father would probably do nothing to help them, but still pinned his hopes on Mr. Rizzuto. Unlike his father, Mr. Rizzuto seemed very free and easy. His father seemed to be carrying some big burden, something that distracted him from dealing with Hawk or his mother directly. He didn’t look forward to this morning’s meeting, but he needed to get a promise from his father that he wouldn’t be dragged up to Ottawa, even if it meant a better place to live. That and the school transfer were things his father might be able to help him with.

  When Hawk was ready to leave, his mother said, “I won’t go with you. I have to get over to my Danforth spot right away. We’re running short of money again. You might drop a hint about that to your father. And remember what I told you about custody. You’re staying with me — no matter what happens!”

  Hawk gave his mother a parting hug, and began the trek up to the area where his father lived, a section of Riverdale called The Pocket. It was an area of solid old houses, quite expensive, but his father got the use of his house from the Native Centre, and paid no rent.

  The closer he came to his dad’s place, though, the more agitated Hawk felt. He remembered his dad — it seemed long ago — as a slim, strong man who spoke softly and wisely and seemed to know everything. Even then Hawk felt a little distant from him and was sometimes afraid of the man others called “Jim,” or sometimes “Wolf.” His father seemed very gloomy and moody at times, though when he laughed it was wonderful. Hawk found himself waiting for that laughter. Then, too, he had loved the baseball they played together, but as time passed his father seemed more and more distant and Hawk began to fear the moments when that calmness gave way, as it did once or twice, to fierce anger, rejection, or a sneering silence.

  Hawk’s mother was more predictable — always nervous, dissatisfied, quick an
d impulsive — and when she and his father started to disagree a few years before, Hawk had watched in despair as the two of them quarrelled, always louder, and without settling anything. As these quarrels continued, his father would disappear and stay away for days at a time. Then, one sad morning, Storm Cloud told Hawk that they were moving out. “Don’t worry,” she had told him, “you’ll see your father quite often. It’s all agreed.”

  Hawk had no idea what she was talking about and had burst into tears. After that, he stayed with his mother, and they moved from place to place, everything getting worse, until they finally had nowhere to stay but in the taxi. Hawk couldn’t understand why his father didn’t help them.

  “He doesn’t have much money,” Storm Cloud had explained, “and he doesn’t want me anywhere near him. He loves you, though, don’t worry about that. If anything happens to me, he’ll take care of you.”

  From time to time Hawk visited his father. They would eat hot dogs or hamburgers on the Danforth, go over to Riverdale Farm, or play baseball. “If you want to be a baseball player, you can make it,” his father once told him. “Some Native people make it. Just look at Joba Chamberlain, one of the world champions.”

  Hawk was horrified when his glove was stolen, and was much too scared to tell his father about it. As he approached the old brick house on Condor Avenue, he wondered what he could say to his father — so many things had happened in the last few days. Life was scary, but exciting. He didn’t want his father to shut down his adventures with Panny and Martin or his search with Mr. Rizzuto for Babe Ruth’s lost baseball. And he didn’t want his mother to haul him off to Ottawa either. When he climbed up the stairs and stood on the rickety porch of his father’s house, he was trembling all over with excitement and trepidation.

  He pressed the doorbell and almost immediately the door opened. His father came out, a big smile on his face. He grabbed Hawk, lifted him up, and gave him a fierce hug. “You made it okay — that’s good!” he said, setting his son down and gazing at him with his penetrating dark eyes.

  “Good to see you, kid. You look okay, terrific, in fact, although maybe a little tired.” His father hesitated for a moment, glancing up and down the empty street. “Your mother didn’t bring you over?”

  Hawk stepped confidently into the house. “Nah, I walked over myself.”

  His father followed him in, shutting the door gently behind him. “I don’t like you walking all over the city. It’s not that safe for kids your age.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad, I have friends, And Mum keeps track of where I am.”

  “All right. Well, you’re here. I guess you’re hungry, so let’s eat before we talk.”

  His father led the way into the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, a little dark and in need of a paint job, but neat and tidy. Hawk enjoyed sitting in that kitchen. To him it seemed enormous, yet cozy, and he always felt happy there.

  His father hauled out some plates and heated up a few hamburgers and chips in the microwave. They sat at the table, and when the food came, Hawk helped himself to the mustard and ketchup. He drank the orange soda his father poured, but after a few gulps he couldn’t wait any longer to get to what was bothering him.

  “Dad, Mum’s thinking of moving to Ottawa. I don’t want to go there.”

  His father looked at him across the table, but went right on eating. Hawk started getting nervous — his father’s silent moods always scared him. In his khaki shirt and jeans, his dad looked like a cool cowboy from some western movie; but of course he wasn’t a cowboy, he was an “Indian.” He was on the other team, one of the bad guys, the dangerous ones. That’s how the white folks told it, long ago. But now it was different. He saw the familiar poster on the grey-white wall behind his father: JIM EAGLESON SPEAKS ON NATIVE RIGHTS. His father, a proud Native, told the real story — a better story.

  If only he would say something now.

  But his father went on, methodically finishing his lunch. “Another burger?” he asked at last, but Hawk was impatient. “Maybe before I go.”

  Jim smiled. “Eager to have a talk, are you? All right then, let’s go sit in the living room.”

  Hawk nodded and stepped into the next room. He settled himself on the old sofa underneath the window and swallowed the last of his drink. While his father cleaned up a bit in the kitchen, Hawk got up and wandered around the room, taking in the familiar objects and pictures. There was an old tribal drum and some headdresses and shawls, his grandfather’s Colt revolver and riding gear, photographs of his father in tribal dress and, half-naked, coming out of a sweat lodge. There were plants and a small aquarium, a jar with a pipe and some tobacco, and on the wall a couple of Chevy hubcaps that a clever artist had turned into crazy sculptures.

  “There’s good news about the school,” his father said, coming through the doorway. “You can go over there tomorrow. Your mother made a good case for you. You’re lucky she’s so relentless … but what’s this about moving to Ottawa?”

  “She thinks we can get an apartment there. Somebody promised her a job, sort of a job, and a place to live. Dad, almost anything would be better than that taxi, but I don’t want to move to Ottawa!”

  Hawk felt his voice cracking, and swallowed hard. He didn’t want to break down in front of his father.

  Jim sat down, bent his head, and pressed the palm of his right hand to his forehead — a familiar, weary gesture. Without looking at Hawk, he said in a low, flat voice, “No, no … you won’t go to Ottawa, even if your mum moves up there. And it might be a good thing for her, unless she’s dreaming again. But if she does go, you can come here. Anyway, we’ve got to get you out of that taxi. That’s not a good neighbourhood you’re in either, what with those gangs and tough guys. I’m sorry I’ve had to leave you there, but your mum isn’t easy to deal with.”

  Hawk hardly knew what to say. Now his father had mentioned gangs and street kids … but he just couldn’t tell him about the lost glove. He couldn’t say anything about yesterday’s tracking of Elroy either, even though he was proud of what he, Panny, and Martin were doing to get his glove back. But if he mentioned their spying activities, his father would crack down. He was already worried about him walking around alone in Riverdale. He sure wouldn’t like him trying to outsmart street gangs and thugs!

  Hawk sat there confused. He started to speak and then cut himself off. Jim watched him with his strong, focused glance, and Hawk thought he could see a flicker of amusement in his dad’s eyes.

  “Listen, son,” his father said, “I don’t think you know it, but your mother’s already told me about the glove and the way those kids pushed you around. Damned bullies, that’s what they are! I didn’t want to mention it until you did, but probably this is a good time. I know you’re upset about it, but don’t worry, I’m going to get you another glove. But first I want to see you in school, a good school, with good teachers. And out of that taxi as soon as possible. But everything’s a little tricky. If I try to do too much, your mum will scream. She wants the best for you, but she’s a difficult woman. I bet right now she’s up on the Danforth, selling her ‘Native artifacts.’ It’s nothing but a joke. It works against everything I’m trying to achieve. I wish I could —”

  “She’s almost out of money, too, Dad,” Hawk interrupted. “That’s why she sells that stuff. Of course she likes to make things, too. She’d never ask you for money, but maybe you could help her a little.”

  His father bristled. “Damn it, son, now she’s got you begging money for her! Why can’t she just ask me if she needs something?”

  Hawk gulped and stiffened. He couldn’t bear his father’s anger, and sat there, hardly daring to breathe or move, silently praying that his dad wouldn’t explode.

  But Jim didn’t blow up; he merely growled, muttered, and shook his head, then gradually seemed to settle down. He looked up sheepishly at Hawk. “So, how’s the baseball going?” he asked. “Mr. Rizzuto teaching you some good tricks? You’re going to make the Little Lea
gue team this time, right?”

  “Sure, Dad. You bet I will!” Hawk basked in his father’s half-smile, and was relieved that he was trying to keep things cool. That made him happier, but a small amount of guilt lingered. He badly wanted to tell his dad about Mr. Rizzuto’s plan to search for Babe Ruth’s baseball, how exciting it was, and how it might make them all rich, but he just couldn’t bring it up. His father would see it all as crazy stuff, and would turn against it. “Let’s keep things down-to-earth,” his dad used to say, whenever Hawk did a mental spacewalk. “No pipe dreams.” And Storm Cloud would contradict him: “Leave the boy alone! There’s no hope at all without dreams, even pipe dreams, and that’s a fact a Cree warrior ought to recognize.”

  Hawk remembered this, but was anxious to steer the conversation to more comfortable subjects, and wasn’t sure he was succeeding. “Could I see Grandpa’s Colt again, and could we play catch in the backyard for a while?”

  His father nodded. “Okay, why not? Now that we’ve had our talk … and you seem to understand where we’re at, let’s do that.”

  Jim crossed the room, reached down, and pulled a baseball bat, a glove, and a ball out from behind the couch. As he blew the dust off the objects, he made a face. “Guess it’s been too long since we had these out,” he said.

  “How about Grandpa’s gun?” Hawk asked. “Can I look at it?

  “Can I look at it first?” His father smiled, hesitated, put down the bat, ball, and glove, and lifted the glass top of the display case that sat on the table under the sculptures.

  He picked up the gun, checked it over, and handed it to his son. It was an impressive thing, with its carved wooden handle and long metal barrel. To Hawk it seemed very heavy, and also powerful, almost a magic object, very different from the guns he saw occasionally in his comic books. He cradled it in his hands, which suddenly looked smaller, then pretended to fire it, choosing an imaginary enemy hiding somewhere behind the bushes in the driveway.