by Carol Gorman
“Throw a good pitch now,” he said, going to get it. “That was too low.” He threw it back.
I gritted my teeth. “It was perfect,” I murmured real soft. So ol’ Vern wanted to be my male influence? He was more like a model of a person you’d never want to be like.
I gave him an underhand pitch. He swung and connected with the ball. It flew at an angle and crashed through Mrs. Banks’s shed window.
Vern stood there with his mouth open, looking at the broken shards of glass still clinging to the window frame. He looked back at me and put a finger to his lips, then strolled with his hands in his pockets toward the shed. Mrs. Banks didn’t come out, so I figured she wasn’t home or didn’t see what happened.
Mom didn’t come out either. Maybe she didn’t hear it.
Vern stopped in front of the shed, opened the door, and disappeared inside. In ten seconds he was out again, the ball in his hand, closing the door behind him. He walked over to me.
“I have a better idea, Charlie,” he said. “Let’s me, you, and your mom go get some ice cream.”
“But aren’t you going to—”
“Why don’t we keep this our little secret,” Vern said. He put a hand on my shoulder as we walked toward the back door.
“What do you mean?” I gave him a hard stare. “You aren’t going to pay Mrs. Banks for a new window?”
“Let’s just forget about it.” He squeezed my shoulder, and I jerked away from him. “It wasn’t a good pitch, Charlie.” Vern said. “Nobody could’ve hit that ball.”
Ever since supper when I thought about Vern adopting me, I’d been holding in all my bad feelings about him. His rotten pitches had made me even madder, but now the broken window and trying to weasel out of paying for it made me feel all crazy inside.
Vern said, “I’ll have to coach you a little bit so you know a good pitch from a bad one, son.”
I opened my mouth and something in my head yelled, Don’t tell him! But the storm inside me had to have someplace to go. All I wanted to do was make Vern miserable.
I stopped at the back door and looked Vern Jardine straight in the eyes. “I already know a good pitch from a bad one, Vern. Luther’s coachin’ us in baseball. Up until a little while ago, he was a professional baseball player in Tennessee. See, he’s an expert, and he’s giving us lots of good advice. So I don’t need you tellin’ me nothin’.”
Vern tilted his head a little like he didn’t hear me right. “You’re playin’ baseball with that colored fella?”
I nodded. It felt good to see the bright red rising up in his face. “We’re real good friends,” I added.
Vern pushed me inside and through the kitchen. “Mary!” he called.
Mom hurried out of her bedroom with a hairbrush in her hand. “I’m right here,” she answered. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t care what Vern said to Mom. He could yell himself into the next county, but he wasn’t my dad and he never would be. Luther was my “male influence” since Dad’s not here, and I was going to see him whenever I wanted to.
Vern pointed at me. “Did you know Charlie’s still seein’ that colored fella?”
“Well, yes,” Mom said. I could tell she was upset, but she kept looking at me as if that helped her talk. “Luther’s a nice young man. He’s teaching the kids a lot about baseball.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“’Cause it was none of your business, Vern,” I said.
Mom gasped and turned to me, her eyes filled with surprise. “Charlie, don’t you talk that way!”
But I was too mad to stop. “You’re not my dad, Vern.” My voice was getting louder and louder. “You got no say about who I can have for a friend.”
“Go to your room, Charlie,” Mom said. Her eyes were angry and her voice was louder than I’d ever heard it.
“Ask Vern about Mrs. Banks’s shed window,” I told her. “Ask him why he won’t pay for it after he broke it.”
I stomped into my room and slammed the door behind me.
Then I flopped on my bed and put my hands under my head and glared up at the ceiling.
I could hear Mom and Vern talking in low voices in the living room.
“What’s this about Mrs. Banks—”
“Mary, I mean what I say here,” Vern interrupted. “Are the other parents allowing this?”
“Vern,” Mom said, “I can’t tell Charlie not to see Luther. They’re friends, and I—”
“I thought I was going to help you raise that boy,” Vern said.
“What?”
Yeah, what? I sat up and listened hard.
Vern said, “Don’t be so surprised, Mary. You know how I feel about you. You’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known: beautiful and smart and sweet. I want to guide the boy. He needs a man to teach to him things—and not a colored man, either.”
“Vern, I know you’re doing what you think is right, but you haven’t given Luther a chance. You’re judging him before—”
“I know you think I’m prejudiced,” Vern said. “But I’m not.”
“But Vern, you’re judging Luther without knowing him,” Mom said in a patient voice. “He’s a nice young man, and he’s been good to Charlie—”
“You’re not listening to me,” Vern said real loud.
“Let’s not talk about this now,” Mom said. She sounded tired and lowered her voice. “I don’t want to fight with you, Vern.”
I slid off the bed and walked real quiet to the door to listen more closely.
Vern said in a softer voice, “I don’t want to fight, either, Mary. But we’ve got to get this settled. I’m not having a boy of mine makin’ friends and spending time with a colored man.”
My ears pricked up at that. A boy of mine?
Mom heard it, too. “What did you say?” she asked.
“I said—well, he’s like my boy, Mary,” Vern said. “You know how much I care about both of you. And maybe you and me will get married one of these days.”
“Are you proposing, Vern?” Mom asked.
“You know I love you, Mary,” he said.
They said some stuff real low that I couldn’t hear. I put my ear to the door. There wasn’t a sound for a long time, so I twisted the doorknob and peeked out.
Vern was kissing my mom.
I felt sick to my stomach.
I closed the door and lay back down on my bed. If Mom married Vern, I didn’t know what I’d do.
And what would happen if Dad was alive over in North Korea? What if he came home to find out that Mom had gone and married somebody else? And Mom and I had different last names than he did?
It hurt too much to even think about it.
I hated Vern Jardine with a red-hot hatred. And I was ready to do anything I could to make sure Mom never married him.
* * *
A while later, Mom tapped on my door. She opened it and came in and sat on my bed. I held my breath, waiting to hear what she’d say.
“Charlie, I know how you feel about Luther,” she said. “I like Luther, too. He’s a good man.”
“You’re not gonna tell me I can’t see him, are you?”
“No,” Mom said. “That wouldn’t be right.”
“Good.” I could feel some of my stomach muscles unclenching.
“But Charlie, you shouldn’t have yelled at Vern. I’ve taught you better than that.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I want you to apologize to Vern,” Mom said.
“But he’s not my dad,” I argued. “He can’t tell me who I can be friends with.”
“That’s true, but you still don’t have the right to be disrespectful,” she said. “Vern means well.” She reached out and smoothed my hair. “Come on, honey. Vern’s going to take us to get ice cream.”
“I don’t want any,” I said.
“Since when?” Mom asked. “Ice cream’s your favorite food.”
“Mom, please don’t marry Vern! He’d make me stop seein’ Luther.
And what if Dad really isn’t dead?”
The words just came out of my mouth. Mom looked real surprised.
“Honey, I’m sorry. Your dad is … gone.”
I tried to keep the tears from coming, but they came anyway. “But what if they made a mistake?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mom said. Now her eyes filled up with tears, and she took my hand. “Dad’s body was identified by the Army. I wish it was a mistake, too, with all my heart. But it wasn’t, Charlie. It wasn’t a mistake.”
“You didn’t look yourself and see if it was Dad,” I said. “So you don’t know for sure.”
“It was your dad,” Mom said, her voice real quiet. “There was no doubt, honey.”
I didn’t believe it. I knew it was still possible there was a mistake. But I could see pretty clear that I couldn’t convince her.
Mom quickly brushed at her eyes. “You can still see Luther,” she said. “I promise you that. Now, come on.”
“Vern’s nothing like Dad,” I said in a quieter voice.
“No, he’s not,” she said. “But you will be civil to him.”
“He broke Mrs. Banks’s window—”
“He explained to me about Mrs. Banks and her window, and he’s going to pay for it. Now, come on.”
Mom nudged me and I got up and followed her into the living room. Vern was standing there puffing on a cigarette.
“Charlie has something he wants to say,” Mom told him. “Go on, Charlie.”
“Sorry I yelled,” I mumbled. It was the same kind of lie I told him when I said he wrote a good song. A lie to keep Mom happy.
“Well, Charlie,” Vern said. “I just want to steer you in the right direction. Because I care about you, son. You know that, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I walked past him and out the screen door.
I crossed the yard to the maple tree and sat down under it.
Thinking about Vern made me feel sick. I hated him for kissing my mom. I almost even hated my mom for liking him. And I hated the way he talked about Luther and all the other colored people in the world.
I leaned my head back against the tree. If only Dad would come home. I bet he and Luther would be friends.
I thought I’d gotten over the worst part of missing my dad. But today I missed him so much, my chest ached more than ever.
* * *
The next afternoon, just before five o’clock, I headed toward Landen’s to wait for Luther. He’d called me to say he found a place where he could stay. It was a room in a boardinghouse not too far from Stumptown. I said I’d help him move his stuff from the lean-to to his room.
Luther really didn’t need help, seeing as how he could stuff all the things he owned into that gunnysack of his. But it was a chance to spend some more time with him.
I was a little disappointed he was leaving his camp because it was such a great place. But when he told me it rained last night and he got soaked and cold, I was happy he’d be more comfortable with a real roof over his head.
When I got to Landen’s, the big door was standing open. I pulled open the screen door and went inside. Four ladies were lined up at the counter, waiting to sell their eggs. They were all carrying small wooden crates with handles on top.
Luther was on the other side of the counter with Mr. Landen. He was so busy he didn’t see me at first. I walked around the ladies and went to the far edge of the counter.
After a minute or so, Luther looked up and smiled. “I’ll be with you in a bit, Charlie,” he said.
I nodded and leaned against the counter to wait.
The lady who was first in line at the counter handed Luther her box.
Mr. Landen looked up from his paperwork near the cash register. “You want to watch Luther candle eggs, Charlie?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Come around the counter.”
Luther took the lady’s box, glanced over at me, and nodded toward a back room. I followed Luther into the room and we stopped at a large table at the side. Sitting on the table was a contraption that had a metal frame and two holes in the top. A strong light shone out of the holes.
Luther opened the lady’s egg box and carefully took out the top tray of eggs. He whisked the eggs by twos out of the cardboard tray, held them up to the two lit holes, then put them into different trays that sat to the side on the table.
“Why’re you doing that?” I asked him.
“Making sure they’re not rotten or don’t have chicks in ’em,” Luther said.
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“See,” he said, pausing with two eggs. “You don’t want to see shadows when you hold ’em up to the light. If they’re bad or have chicks, you’ll see shadows.”
I didn’t see any shadows.
He finished candling the eggs in no time—he only found one egg with a shadow in the whole six dozen—and went to the woman at the counter and gave her back her empty box. Mr. Landen wrote up a slip of paper for the eggs, then paid the lady from the cash register.
When Luther took the next lady’s eggs, I said, “I’ll wait outside for you.” He nodded, and I went to wait on the sidewalk.
I sat on Landen’s front stoop. It wasn’t so hot today, and the street was busy with cars. People were going home from where they worked downtown.
Four guys scuffed along the sidewalk about a half block away, yelling at cars going by, but I didn’t pay much attention to them. I was watching an ant carry a piece of bread three times its size along the sidewalk. I wished I was so strong I could lift something three times my size. Ants are like little Supermans. They do things that seem impossible when you really think about them.
I was paying so much attention to the ant, I didn’t know what was happening till four pairs of sneakers stopped in front of me.
“Hey, Stumptown. Whatcha doin’?” Lobo asked. “Watchin’ a stupid ant? Guess that makes you pretty stupid, too.”
He brought his foot down hard and squashed the ant and its load of bread. Then he laughed.
I squinted up at Lobo, my heart doing the crazy dance it does every time I see him. I was mad because he killed that innocent ant, but I was also pretty scared, if you want to know the truth.
“You shoulda seen Stumptown run away from me yesterday, he was so scared,” Lobo told his friends. “Ran right into the storm sewer!” His friends laughed.
I stood up and I could feel my legs shaking.
“We got a score to settle, Stumptown,” Lobo said, pushing his face into mine.
I guess I was still feeling pretty bad about running away the last time, because I stood my ground even though I was scared. “I’m tired of you callin’ me Stumptown,” I said. “My name is Charlie.”
Lobo laughed. “Well, too bad, ’cause Stumptown’s all I’m callin’ you.”
He gave me a hard shove, and I slammed back into Landen’s door. Lobo grabbed me by my shirt and pushed me off the step, onto the cement sidewalk. He fell down on top of me and started punching me in the ribs.
Suddenly an arm reached down and hauled Lobo off me. I scrambled to my feet.
“That’s enough,” Luther said in a big voice. He had a good hold of Lobo’s shirt. After a few seconds, he let go.
Lobo whirled around to Luther. “Who’re you?” he said. “This ain’t none of your business.”
“It is when you’re chasin’ off customers,” Luther said. “And besides, Charlie here is a friend of mine.”
A sneer worked its way over Lobo’s face. “I shoulda known. Stumptown has a colored friend.”
I wanted to punch him hard for trying to hurt Luther’s feelings. I lunged at Lobo, but Luther grabbed me. He didn’t look hurt or mad. He said in a serious voice, “You boys can settle this on the baseball diamond.”
“Huh?” I said.
I frowned at Luther and gave him signals with my eyes to tell him this was a very bad idea. But he didn’t seem to get it.
Lobo snorted. “You want the Wildcats t
o play Stumptown and his girlfriends? We’ll kill ’em!”
Yeah, Luther, I thought. They’ll kill us.
“That’s right,” Luther said calmly. “Charlie’s team plays you and your team. In three weeks at Scott Park.”
Three weeks? Was Luther crazy?
Lobo said, “Sure. You got yourself a deal, Stumptown. Three weeks.” He snorted. “We’ll beat you so bad, everybody in Holden’ll be splitting their pants laughing.”
I looked at Luther again. He had a little smile on his face.
Great, I thought. In three weeks, all us Stumptown kids will be so embarrassed, we’ll want to leave town. But maybe that’s better than getting killed.
Then again, maybe it isn’t.
Chapter Nine
Luther, we can’t beat Brad Lobo and those guys at baseball,” I said as we walked along the sidewalk toward the river. My insides were all jumpy. “They’re the best players in Holden. They’ll beat us bad.”
“Now what kind of thinkin’ is that?” Luther said.
“Honest thinking,” I said.
“Well, that’s where we’ll start, then,” Luther said. “A whole lot of baseball is played in the mind, Charlie. Remember at practice yesterday when you didn’t hit the ball? Your swing was wild. But as soon as you concentrated on watching that ball and you said out loud you could hit it, you creamed it.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll be different when we’re playin’ against Lobo and a bunch of great ballplayers.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, Charlie,” Luther said. “You should play just as good in front of Lobo as you do in front of me.”
I looked up at Luther walking along beside me. “That would take a miracle. Geesh. I’m already scared, and I got three more weeks to think about it.”
Luther smiled. “You’ll do just fine, Charlie.”
When we got to his camp at the river, we gathered up his things and put them in the gunnysack.
“It’s a good thing nobody came along and took everything,” I told him.
“Nobody’d want this stuff,” Luther said.
“What about your crystal set?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Most people would look at the oat box and the wires wrapped around it and say, ’What’s this piece of junk?’”