The sister spilled out this whole tearful tale to Mother on the porch. Mother patted her hand and told her not to fret, to pray for the man, that prayer is the real lifeline, but the sister said, no, she felt that this man’s soul was on her conscience and that she must—she must—go to Hayward and find him. The sister was very dramatic, sniffling and holding her head in her hands and flouncing around and striding across the room and so forth. When Mother went to get a Bible to read a comforting passage from, I stepped onto the porch. The sister turned a bleary tear-streaked face to me, and I said, “Don’t imagine that you’re all that important, because you’re not, you know.”
She tore after me and I dashed across the living room and into the kitchen and out the back door as Mother came trotting down the stairs with the Bible and the sister grabbed the sugar bowl off the table and hurled it at me as I lunged out the back door and she yelled, “God damn you to hell!” and the bowl smashed on the kitchen wall.
I immediately went to work in the garden, laboring quietly over the tomato plants, snitching out the little weeds, and hoeing, and when Mother came out a few minutes later, I was the picture of diligence.
She told me she wished I could be more understanding toward my sister. She couldn’t understand why there was so much bad feeling between us. It broke her heart to see family members so angry at each other.
“I’m not angry whatsoever,” I said. I smiled at her. “I have no idea why she is. I’ve stopped trying to figure her out.”
Mother sighed. “It’s beyond me what to do with you. It’s absolutely beyond me.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”
It was clear from the sister’s syrupy disposition the next evening that she had gone and done an evil deed. Gone was her sour mug and her anguish about the unsaved Hayward man. She was all smiley, as if she’d won first prize in a cuteness contest, and she got lovey-dovey with Daddy after work and poured him iced tea and squeezed the lemon and perched on the arm of his chair beaming at him like a child in a Sunday-school magazine and asking charming questions about banking and what was the best car to buy and why is there a lunar eclipse and got him to tell stories about boyhood on the farm and how hard he worked and how contented he and his brothers and sisters were, playing in the dirt with blocks of wood and stones, wearing hand-me-down clothes, never demanding more. Poor Daddy melted like a pat of butter. At supper he asked if she cared to say table grace. Oh boy, would she! She folded her fat little hands and clamped her beady eyes shut and went to town, thanking God for sending Jesus to die on the cross and also for this macaroni and cheese for the nourishment of our bodies, praying for those who might not have accepted Christ as Personal Saviour, may their hearts be exercised and so forth, and praying for the sick and suffering, and distant loved ones, and classmates, and young people everywhere, the orphans especially, and missionaries in foreign climes, and teachers, and Scout leaders, and also Camp Fire, and then she turned to President Eisenhower and prayed for him, and for those in the Armed Forces, and Those Who Are Lonely and in Distress—it’s too bad you can’t interrupt someone who’s praying and say, “Oh, knock it off, would you?”—and she prayed for farmers, that their labors might be richly blessed, and fishermen, and foresters also, and now she was running out of gas, but she tossed in the Bereft and Bereaved, and the Backsliders, and those on Beds of Pain, and in Prison, and came back to Those Who Had Not Accepted Christ, and finally she said, “We ask it all in Jesus’s Precious Name. Amen.” And we all took a breath. The macaroni was cold, the cheese congealed.
And the very next morning Miss Lewis called while I was mowing the grass and asked me to come to her house. I said I was busy and she said it was important and if I couldn’t come to her she’d come to me, so I went. She was sitting on her front step, in her slacks and green blouse and sun hat, and she had my story about the Del Ray Ballroom on her lap.
—I hear you have a nice new typewriter, she said. I nodded.
—Is this yours? she said.
I looked at it and saw the part about my manhood being large.
I shook my head.—No, ma’am. I never saw this before in my life.
—It sounds like something you might’ve written, Gary.
I shook my head. Not my style at all.
—Then who do you suppose wrote this?
—I wouldn’t have any idea. A lot of people could have. It’s really not that good.
—What do you suggest I do with it?
I said she should burn it probably and then be sure to speak to the person who stole it and explain to her the meaning of private property.
I walked home, heart pounding to think of Mother reading about me and my manhood, and the small friendly animals, and in front of the Lutheran church I heard my name called and turned and there was Leonard striding across the church parking lot. He said he wanted his magazine back.
“What magazine?” I said. I wanted him to say High School Orgies out loud.
—You know what magazine. The one I gave you a month ago.
—Oh. I forgot all about that.
He said that he didn’t like the way I was acting these days, like I thought I was better than anybody else. He didn’t think we were friends anymore. He just had that feeling. In fact, he said, I was on his stink list.
—Yeah, well, I’ve been busy writing for the Herald Star. I have a job now. I have no idea where your magazine is. I have better things to do than look at titties.
—Then you better buy me another.
—I wouldn’t know where to go to buy garbage like that.
—Then give me the money.
—I’ll think about it.
—How much they pay you to write those dumb stories? Fifty cents?
—Fifteen bucks apiece, I said coolly, giving myself a nice raise. That shut him up for a second. Finally, he said, “I hear Roger Guppy is nailing your cousin.” I didn’t stop to think, I just grabbed him around his scrawny neck and flailed on him as hard as I could right there in the parking lot of the Lutherans, got him in the gut, in the chops, across the throat, whaled on him with one hand and held on with the other, until he slithered away, and then I cracked him one in the back and let him go. He ran a hundred feet or so across the asphalt and turned and cursed me in a harmless, amateurish way and yelled, “You want to know something? You’re nuts. Your whole family is nuts. And you can’t write for beans! Anybody could write better than you!” He gave me the finger, waving it high in the air as if that should put the fear of God into me, and turned and slunk toward home. What a pitiful person. To think that I had wasted time on being friends with him. I resolved never to make that sort of mistake in the future.
I went home and retrieved High School Orgies from its hiding place and took it out to the incinerator along with the trash and lit the fire. I had snagged an empty Cloud O’Cheese aerosol can and I tossed it in when the fire was going good, the pages of the magazine curling one by one and blackening in the flames. I saw the librarian go by and the tennis instructor and the English teacher and all their gleaming orbs and lovesticks, and then the Cloud O’Cheese blew up, whump, and the orgies were over.
When Aunt Flo came over that afternoon, I was sure Miss Lewis had passed my story on to her. Aunt Flo was no dummy. She could look at that page and see it was Sugar’s old typewriter. She sat on the porch with Mother and I said hello and Mother asked me to please leave them alone and I was glad to.
From inside, I heard Flo say, “She is driving them to a nervous breakdown, going around with this Roger. Those two can never be happy together. Sugar and Ruth are sick about it. Ruth said to her, ‘I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.’ And Kate went through the roof. She said, ‘I love him and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.’ ”
Mother says she thinks Kate is someone who will do the right thing. There is a calmness in Mother’s voice that astonishes me.
23
My Girl
The Whippets beat the Melrose Hu
bs twice the next Sunday (The Whippet squad crossed bats with the Hubs in a double-decker Sunday last on the home pasture, and after a slugging bee in which backstopper Milkman Boreen cleared the fences twice, notching six RBIs, lifting the locals to a 12-7 triumph, the Dogs swept the nightcapper 4-2 as sternwheeler Roger Guppy bamboozled the Hub sticksmiths with his multifarious pitching) on a steaming bug-infested night when Roger poured ice water over his head and steam rose from his hair, the Whippets’ winning runs coming in the ninth, when Ronnie punched the second pitch into center field and the Hub fielder dove for it and the ball skipped over his glove and rolled merrily to the wall, and by the time the right-fielder dug it out, Ronnie had a double, whereupon the Perfesser sliced one down the right-field line, the Hubs’ first-baseman waving a glove at it, and the right-fielder chased it into the corner and snatched at it, threw the ball before he had a grip on it, dropped it, and the Perfesser had himself a double and Ronnie was in like Flynn. Then Milkman banged one straight at the right-fielder, who must’ve thought the bogeyman was after him, because he stepped back a few paces and let the ball drop, and it bounced over his head, and the Perfesser strolled home with the capper.
Afterward the fans streamed out into the mosquito night, dumbfounded at the turn of the events. Nobody could remember when the boys last swept a twin bill and exerted such dominance. The fans were waiting for Lady Defeat to come and sing her sad song, and instead, there was Mr. Jubilation looking them in the eye. They didn’t know what to do.
The ballplayers were in the habit of parking their cars up close to the dugout so as to discourage teenagers from letting air out of the tires or sticking a potato up the tailpipe. Some of the fans gathered there, and when two players finally came out, Milkman Boreen, the black hornrims perched on his big beak, and Ronnie Piggott, jaunty and loose-limbed, there were murmurs of “Good game” and “Way to go,” like cricket whispers, and when Roger emerged, the fans could not help themselves, they clapped for him. He tossed his equipment bag into the trunk and turned and nodded to them and said thank you. “You’re great, kid,” a man said from the dark, and there were murmurs of agreement, and he added, “You’re making this town real proud right now. I hope you know how much that means, young fella.” It was almost more emotion than you could bear. Roger tipped his cap and got in the Pontiac and drove away. It wasn’t until he did that I noticed Kate sitting in the front seat.
Then they met Albany on a Tuesday night, to make up a rained-out game, and I climbed up to the press box to find Roger conferring with his brother Jim Dandy, who was saying how much money he’d won gambling on that sweep of the Hubs. “Just had an inkling that you guys were going to have you a big night. And, boy, those dairy farmers were glad to take me up on it. O ye of little faith! I was getting five-to-one odds. Raking them in. Lots of sporting money out there.”
I stood by the open door and heard everything.
“If you ever have a feeling that it ain’t your night and that you might be serving up cheese to the batters, I hope you’ll let me know about it,” said Jim Dandy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just give me a sign. Stick your cap in your back pocket or something. Hang your warm-up jacket on the fence.”
“I’m not gonna throw a game, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
“Not talking about throwing anything. People suffer mental lapses, that’s all I mean, and if you feel it coming on, you could let me know. Happens to the best of them.” Then Jim Dandy noticed me at the door.
“Anyway, I’ve seen those Yankee scouts taking a look at you. Next February you’ll be in St. Petersburg, son, impressing the pants off them, and next April, wham, you’ll be walking out to the mound in Yankee Stadium, sixty thousand people clapping for you. You’ll be scared, sure, but you pitch good scared, you’ll win that game, and next morning, you’re written up big in all the papers. Just remember, you heard it here first.
“Next year is your year, and meanwhile I got this great song and it’s in the can and I need a couple thou to press enough copies to get people’s attention. This could be my last ride on the merry-go-round, kid. If it were me, I’d do it for you.”
“Where are these major-league scouts?” said Roger. “I haven’t seen any.”
“They’re there. I saw one in Holdingford last week. They come to Avon sometimes. They’re there. They’re taking notes on you. I seen em.”
“Let me think about it,” said Roger.
“Don’t think too hard, it’ll give you a headache.”
That was the night I got up the nerve to ask Jim Dandy about writing poetry. It was around the second inning, he was enjoying his fortified tomato juice, and he asked me how everything was going, so I said, “Fine. When you write a poem, do you have the idea in mind first, or do you just start writing and let the idea come to you? I’ve heard of people doing it both ways.”
He said he always had the idea in mind first and usually it was the same idea. “Half of all poetry is about I love you more than anything and the rest is about I love you so much, how come you treat me so bad. Those are the classics that make good songs that people want to hear.”
I asked him what meter he preferred. He said, “This one,” And he sang—Love me, baby, love me night and day.
Take me in your arms and never take your love away.
Please, baby,
You know that I love you.
If I ever lost your lovin, I don’t know what I’d do.
“That’s your basic verse. You can’t go wrong with it.”
I asked him what he thought of free verse.
“Free verse,” he said, “is what nobody’s ever going to pay you to write, so why do it? Get some cash for your trash.”
He promised he’d look at my poems if I wanted to bring them around sometime.
That was the night the Perfesser sidled up to Ding before the game and said, “Skipper, I’d like your permission to lead a prayer in the dugout. I think some of the fellows would appreciate it.”
Ding rolled his eyes. “Go out and get a hit and you can pray all you want to. Sing hymns too.”
That same night, Ding got hit in the head by a foul ball, a screamer, that caromed off the dugout roof and cracked him above the ear as he stood pondering his next move. He fell pole-axed to the ground as the Albany fans jeered and hooted. “Show us your crack again!” they hollered. He struggled to his feet, dazed, and turned to face them and felt the warmth where he had wet his pants. A guy yelled, “Someone spilled warm piss in your lap!”
Roger yelled, “Aw, shut your piehole!” as he helped the crestfallen manager into the dugout. The fan challenged him to duke it out and Roger ran to the railing and threw a punch and poked him in the snoot before other Whippets reeled him back in. The fan’s nose bled all down his shirt and he and his friends were all bent out of shape and hopping around, waving their fists and yelling about how they’d be laying for Roger afterward and punch his lights out.
This was in the sixth inning, the Whippets up by two runs, and after that Roger had no breaking pitch to speak of, nothing but a medium fastball. The Miners feasted on it in the seventh and eighth and jumped ahead. “Get the crank!” yelled the crowd. The Whippets came up in the bottom of the eighth and Roger stroked a lovely triple and stood on third, pleased with himself, and a minute later he trotted toward the dugout, thinking the umpire had called the batter out on strikes for the third out, but in fact there were no outs, Roger had been the lead-off hitter. And it was only the second strike, not the third. The Albany fans sang, “Do it again, do it again, over, over,” and one cried out, “Hey, fish head, you been eating Dumb Flakes for breakfast??” All the air went out of the Whippets then, and they collapsed into the arms of defeat. You would not think a player could make such a mistake. “I never saw him lose his concentration like that,” said Jim Dandy. Ding sat, nursing a killer headache, moaning. “Guess I was dreaming,” Roger said. Dreaming of what? We soon learned wha
t. That was the day he found out Kate was pregnant.
Monday night I called up Jim Dandy and his mother, Mrs. Guppy, answered. “He is over at the Sidetrack Tap most likely,” she said. “If you see him, tell him I ain’t holding dinner.”
“I would also like to express my sympathies to you and the Guppy family and I want you to know your son Ricky is certainly in our prayers,” I said.
She sighed. “Well, it’s always something, isn’t it. A person just never knows. You think you’re doing the right thing and then something like that happens. And what can you do? Nothing.”
Lake Wobegon Summer 1956 Page 19