by Carol Gorman
I’d been to this place more than a hundred times. The storm sewer was down there. Its huge round opening looked like a giant hippo’s yawn, frozen in cement.
Me and Luther got to the bottom of the slope. The ground was mushy under our feet and sucked us down so we couldn’t run good.
I’d made a mistake. I should’ve kept us on higher ground.
I looked up to see Ruckus in the woods at the top of the slope. He spotted us and came—slipping and sliding in the mud—down the hill. He had the knife in his hand, and I saw the blade pop out.
Luther saw it too. “We gotta split up here,” he said, giving me a little push. “You go that way. Do it, Charlie.”
“No.” I wouldn’t leave him for anything.
Luther’s eyes were pleading. “Charlie, you have to go.”
The opening of the storm sewer—the tunnel under the streets of Holden—stood there like it was inviting us in.
Water swirled out, but it wasn’t deep. We could disappear into it, come out a half block away, and run back to the sheriff’s office.
“Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you the way.”
Luther hesitated for half a second, then followed me into the storm sewer. The water was cold and rushed around us at our ankles. It pushed against our feet, making it hard to walk.
“We got to hurry to the first manhole,” I said to Luther, over my shoulder. “The water’ll be rising with all this rain.”
We went about ten yards into the tunnel to the place where it first gets smaller. The top of the sewer was now only a couple of feet above Luther’s head.
The easiest way to move was by pulling my knees up high so my feet came out of the water. It was the fastest way, too.
Luther grabbed my wrist with his good hand.
“I’ll go first,” he said. “Hold my wrist, and don’t let go.”
I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and held on. We splashed farther into the blackness, linked together, with Luther staying just ahead of me.
Then I heard splashing and huffing behind us. Sure enough, it was Ruckus. All I could make out was his silhouette and the gray light behind him. He was moving fast, hopping through the water as it surged toward the river.
The tunnel suddenly got smaller again, and the rounded part above us just brushed the top of Luther’s head. That squeezed the water higher on us. It was up to my waist now, pushing us back toward Ruckus. Luther pulled me closer and grabbed me around my waist.
We were about halfway to the manhole, I figured, and the water was rising fast. It hit me then that there was no turning back. We didn’t have a weapon against Ruckus. We had to make it to the manhole. The water was so cold, I started shivering. The tunnel smelled of rain and the dust and dirt that gets washed along the street before it dumps into the storm sewer.
“How far?” Luther yelled over the noise of the pounding water. We passed a side tunnel where the water gushed into the main tunnel. If Luther didn’t have a tight hold on me, it would’ve knocked me over.
“Quarter of a block,” I yelled. My voice didn’t sound like me. It was gaspy and scared. “There’ll be a light above us. The manhole’s at that light.”
Why did I take us here? I thought. We’ll never make it. The water was rising too fast. Going this way, we’d drown. Going back the other way, we’d be killed by Ruckus.
Luther pushed on. He still held his right arm close, his good arm wrapped around me. That bad arm—and me—slowed us down.
Suddenly the water rose again. It swirled around my chest. I tried to help by dog-paddling, but it didn’t do much.
I was scareder than I’d ever been in my life, and I was shaking all over. I was sure we were going to die.
I squinted into the blackness ahead of us. A tiny light flashed up ahead. Then I knew. It was lightning, blinking a pinpoint of brightness into the dark world underground.
And it came through the manhole cover!
“There it is!” I yelled. “Up ahead.” We must’ve gone farther than I’d thought.
“Sweet Jesus, thank you,” Luther whispered.
The water swirled around his neck, and he held me up to keep my head above water. He could hardly move now, and Ruckus was only a few yards behind us. We were all like snails, moving in slow motion.
The manhole was just a foot away now.
“Grab the iron bar,” I hollered. “Overhead.”
He boosted me high. “You grab it,” he yelled.
I got hold of it and turned to Luther. The water was over his mouth. His head was tilted back to keep his nose out of the water.
“Come on!” I yelled. “There’s room for us both.” I pulled myself up onto the second iron bar and pushed against the manhole cover. It didn’t budge.
I didn’t know if it was stuck or if I was just too tired to push it up.
“I can’t!” I screamed. “It’s stuck!”
Luther pulled himself up with his good arm and hooked that elbow over the iron bar. Then he pushed his shoulder against the manhole cover and shoved it out.
Beautiful gray light and rain and fresh air poured over us.
A hand suddenly grabbed my leg. Ruckus was just under me, holding on, his head tipped back trying to keep his face above water. He yanked on me hard, and I slipped off the top iron bar.
“Luther!”
Luther was still holding tight to the bar with his good hand. So he reached down with the other hand—the weak one—grabbed me, and yanked me up.
I kicked at Ruckus as hard as I could, and he let go. With Luther still holding me, we climbed out of the manhole together. Hayes School stood in the fog across the field. I was so tired, I collapsed on the grass.
Luther turned and leaned back into the storm sewer. He reached down for Ruckus, who was struggling in the water.
“Take my hand!” Luther hollered.
My kick had thrown Ruckus back a step. He was a foot away now from the iron bar and Luther’s hand. Ruckus reached up for the iron bar, but a sudden rush of water surged over his head.
He disappeared.
“Ruckus!” Luther shouted. “Ruckus!”
All we could hear was the swoosh of water storming through the tunnel. It filled all the space, leaving no air for him to breathe. It swept everything in its path back toward the river.
Ruckus was gone.
Chapter Twenty
They found Ruckus Brody’s body two days later. A fisherman spotted him more than a half mile downriver from the entrance to the storm sewer. We got the news just before supper when Sheriff Engle called Mom.
Me and Luther were sitting on the davenport in the living room while the potatoes cooked. Mom came back from the telephone, sat down in the rocker, and told us that Ruckus had been found. Luther hung his head.
“You tried to save him, Luther,” I said. “You told him to grab your hand.”
“But I didn’t save him.”
“Luther,” Mom said, leaning forward, “he was a bad man. He died trying to kill you and Charlie, and you tried to save his life. You’re not responsible for Ruckus’s death. You’re a hero.”
She got up from the rocking chair and went over to him. “I’m so glad you came into our lives, Luther,” she said. She put her arms around him and gave him a hug.
Luther looked surprised but pleased. He patted Mom’s shoulder in an awkward way.
She pulled back and sat down next to him. “I’m so embarrassed and furious about Vern and those men bailing Ruckus out of jail. Luther, I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Nebraska,” Luther said. “You didn’t know they were gonna do that.”
“The phone’s been ringing off the wall,” Mom said. “Everyone wants to know how you two are. The whole town has heard what happened by now. Luther, a few of them called to say they want you to know they’re sorry about how you’ve been treated here in Holden.”
Luther nodded, looking serious.
“Mom, you aren’t gonna see
Vern again, are you?” I asked.
“No, absolutely not,” Mom said. “I told that man never to come over here, never to call me, ever again. Anyone who’d do the horrible thing he did—well, we’ll never have to see him again, Charlie.”
“Good,” I said.
It took a load off my mind to know that Vern was out of our lives for good. Now Mom and I could go back to living the way we did before she met him.
Not exactly, though. Knowing Luther had changed me in ways that weren’t real clear in my mind. But for sure the Will and baseball and Brad Lobo parts of my life were different now.
In some ways, it seemed like I met Luther a year ago instead of just a few weeks.
During the last couple of days, I’d thought a lot about Dad. He wasn’t coming home. It had surprised me when that thought floated in and settled in my mind. But I didn’t panic.
I’d turned it around and looked at it from all sides.
He wasn’t going to come walking through that front door again, calling my name. And all the wishing and hoping in the world wouldn’t make that happen.
Luther told me that day down by the river that Dad could live on forever if I keep him alive inside of me. So I’ll think about him every day and talk to him whenever I feel like it. Maybe he’ll be listening.
“Luther, how’s your arm feeling?” Mom asked.
Luther shook his head. “I don’t understand it, Mrs. Nebraska. That arm didn’t work for months, till Charlie needed help. The doctor told me that can happen sometimes. He had a name for it, but I don’t recall it. He said I must have been feelin’ so bad about killing a person with my pitching arm it just stopped working for a while. But when Charlie was in trouble, I guess I forgot about it. I didn’t even know what happened till Charlie told me later. It’s weak, but I can build up the strength. I hope I’ll even be able to pitch again someday.”
“That would be wonderful,” Mom said. She sighed. “Life sure has a way of changing fast.” She looked at me. “Charlie, I’ve been thinking. I want to go back to school.”
My mouth dropped open, I was so surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. Maybe I’ll learn how to be a beautician. I could make more money cutting ladies’ hair than working the cash register at Woolworth’s. We’ll have to tighten our belts a bit, but we’ve still got your dad’s pension. You think we could live on less money for a while?”
“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t need nothin’.”
“Anything.”
I rolled my eyes. “Anything.”
Mom smiled. “Thanks, honey.” She looked back and forth between me and Luther. “Well, I better check those potatoes.” She got up and walked into the kitchen.
“So,” Luther said, “I hear Coach Hennessey wants you to play with the Wildcats. You musta really impressed him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Will called me, too. He said he was sorry for telling why you came up here to Iowa. But I’m the one who blabbed to Will in the first place. You wouldn’t have had all that trouble if I hadn’t—”
“Charlie,” Luther interrupted. “Stop right there. You weren’t to blame for anything.”
Luther was just being nice. I knew I was to blame for a lot of what happened. But I was glad Will called to say he was sorry for his part. I don’t know what’ll happen between him and me. Maybe we’ll be friends again someday. Maybe not.
“So you gonna play with the Wildcats now?” Luther asked.
“No,” I said. “It made me feel pretty good that Coach Hennessey wants me on the team, but I told him I was playin’ with the Stumptown Stormers. He’s an okay coach, I guess, but you’re miles better at teaching us.”
Luther looked at the floor a second, then back up at me.
“Charlie,” he said, kind of slow. “Remember what I said about goin’ back home? I don’t have to worry about Ruckus no more, you know.”
Something pressed on my chest. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“I called Mr. Landen and gave him my notice this morning.”
“But, Luther …” A knot appeared in my throat. “What about our team? What about—about me and you and—”
“Charlie,” he said, leaning toward me. “I’m sure grateful I got you for a friend. If I was to have a boy of my own one day, I hope he’ll be just like you. But I want to be near my family—”
“But we’re like a family,” I said. “Me and you—and Mom.”
“That’s right, we are,” he said. “But I got another family who misses me, and I got to get home. Besides, I’m gonna get this arm back in shape. I want to play ball again, and I think I got a good chance with the minors. Maybe even the majors. The Negro League’s disappearing now. Ever since Jackie got into the National League, more colored men are playin’ major league ball.”
“Hey, yeah,” I said, starting to feel a little better. “You could be a baseball star. You got that powerful pitch. Maybe I could listen to your games on the radio.”
Luther smiled. “We’ll see. It’d be good to get back to playin’ again.” He looked at me steady for a second or two. “I’ll miss you, Charlie Nebraska. Maybe you could come visit me one day, you and your mama. I could meet you at the train.”
“That’d be great, Luther.”
“We had a good time, didn’t we?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We sure did.”
“And you’re right, Charlie. We are like a family.”
“Yeah.”
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, “I love you, son.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. So I pitched myself into him and held on for a real long time.
About the Authors
CAROL GORMAN is the author of many books for young readers, including books about Jerry Flack, who first appeared in Dork in Disguise. That title was chosen for children’s choice lists in nine states and was named the winner in Missouri, Oklahoma, South Carolina, Washington, and West Virginia. Her novels have been published in seven countries and translated into four languages. She is frequently invited to make author appearances and in the past few years has spoken to more than 10,000 teachers, librarians, and students across the country. She and her husband Ed, a mystery writer, live in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where Carol also teaches at Coe College. Readers may visit her website at www.carolgorman.com.
RON J. FINDLEY has been involved in baseball since he was a boy growing up in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. As a child, he says, he was always looking for a sandlot baseball game, and many of the ideas for Stumptown Kid are based on his memories of that time. In his teens he was the starting centerfielder for Jefferson High School. In 1961, his undefeated team became the Iowa High School State Baseball Champions. Ron played at the highest level in Men’s Major Fastpitch Softball, and he founded the Iowa Fastpitch Softball Hall of Fame. He coached youth football, baseball, and softball teams for many years. Ron has two grown children and five grandchildren.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Carol Gorman and Ron J. Findley
Cover design by Loraine M. Joyner
Background baseball player photo courtesy of the Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, George Grantham Bain Collection.
ISBN 978-1-4976-9440-8
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