by John Keenan
It was a hot and muggy June evening, I felt the first few droplets of sweat running down from my armpits as I pedaled my bike down the street. I was sure that I knew where the bat was.
I didn’t ride home from Saturday’s game, the Henrys gave me a ride; they threw my bike in their station wagon. When they dropped me off, I unloaded my bike and must have forgot the bat. God, I hope they’re home!
I rode up the Henry’s driveway and jumped off my bike; it crashed to the ground. Leaping up all three stairs at once to the porch, I pounded on the door. Nobody answered, but I heard noises inside.
“Anybody home?” I yelled and knocked again.
Through the door I heard, “Hold on a sec, ok?” When the door opened, I saw her long blond hair first, then her pretty face; it was Monica, Doug’s older sister.
“I need my bat!” I blurted out.
“Oh, it’s you!” She said with disgust. “Doug’s not here.”
“I left my bat in your dad’s car and I need it.” I said.
She shut the door in my face.
“Please, Monica,” I pounded on the door again. “It’s an emergency!”
She opened it a crack. I could see the phone now cradled in her crooked neck – pinned between her ear and shoulder.
“Hold on.” She said into the phone and then looked at me like I was a cockroach. “Do you see my dad’s car in the driveway?”
I looked at the empty driveway; there was an oil slick where the car should be. I got a sick feeling in my stomach.
“That’s cuz he’s not home,” She said, with maximum condescension. “Now get lost!” She slammed the door shut for the last time.
“Maybe Doug brought it inside.” I yelled. “Can you at least look?”
“No! Go away!”
“Please Monica!” I yelled, but the futility began to sink in. I half-collapsed; with my back against the door, I slid down slowly until my butt hit the ground; It must have looked like the door was holding me up. “I need my bat! I said softly to no one.
“Sorry, that was just my brother’s bratty friend…” I heard her say to whomever she was talking to on the phone. Her voice grew faint and then I couldn’t hear anything but the television – I couldn’t tell what show was on; it was just noise. I realized she wasn’t coming back. I looked through the gap in the living room curtains, I could see their grandfather clock; it was 5:25.
I felt the presence of the Jinx.
Moping back to my bike, I got an idea. I’d been inside their house dozens of times. I knew they kept a bunch of sports junk by the back door, just like we did. Maybe, just maybe they brought the bat in from the car and left it by the back door. It was worth a look anyway. I pushed my bike to the side of their house and leaned it against the aluminum siding.
The backyard grass was knee-high in spots and starting to turn brown in the June heat; walking through it, I felt like I was wading through a wheat-field. The place looked like a junkyard, stuff was scattered everywhere and I knew why; Doug’s dad was a tinkerer.
A beat up old car on cinder blocks was inside a detached garage – door wide open. A handlebar-less lawnmower, the engine torn apart, was barely visible in the overgrowth. A trampoline was by the back fence. It looked like a deathtrap – rusty broken springs hanging every which way. I navigated through a maze of crap, a go-cart with only one wheel, a ten-speed Schwinn bicycle that had seen better days, and a weather-beaten set of golf clubs laying flat across the path to the porch stairs. The deck was brand-new though; a shiny coat of red paint made it gleam like a diamond in a dog turd.
I carefully scaled the steps; relieved they didn’t creak under the pressure of my feet. I scanned the deck for my bat, but it was completely empty. They must have just finished painting. I saw the wet paint sign. Shoot! I checked the underside of my sneakers – Oh thank God. No red paint!
I put my eye up to the window next to the door and peeked inside. The kitchen was empty. I put my ear up to the pane and listened – nothing.
I was running out of time, so I decided to take a chance. I pushed the button on the screen door handle, slowly, to minimize the noise. It clicked. I opened the screen slowly; it made a slight metallic whine as I pulled. I turned the nob of the inside door. Bingo! It was also unlocked. I quietly eased it open, stuck my head inside and listened. I heard the TV, the evening news I think; it sounded like CBS anchorman Rolland Smith. I stepped inside carefully guiding the screen door to a gentle close behind me.
I saw it immediately. My precious bat was propped up in the crack between the washer and dryer about eight feet away. I could see it, but the path was fraught with peril; various gloves, bats and balls littered the floor; there were so many potential noisemakers it was almost as good as a burglar alarm. Thank goodness I wore sneakers and carried my cleats in my bag!
One step in I heard Monica’s voice – I froze. My heart beat so fast I thought I was having a heart attack. I now expected to be caught. What would I say? Sweat poured down my sides. The pits of my uniform were soaking wet. I stayed perfectly still and listened. She was talking on the phone in the next room. (She must be walking and talking) I could hear her part of the conversation loud and clear. She was blabbing away about some guy named Carl. Apparently, they had done some smooching at a party over the weekend and now she was regretting it.
I noticed I was holding my breath and suddenly I felt a desperate need for oxygen; I wouldn’t last much longer without it. I exhaled as slowly and silently as I could. My heartbeat was so violent it felt like it could shake the whole house. As I drew in some musty air, polluted by shoe-stink and dirty laundry, Monica’s voice suddenly faded.
Whew! I had to act fast. I stepped very carefully, mindful to avoid anything round on the floor. I didn’t want to send a ball rolling or bat bouncing across the linoleum tile floor. I stepped on a glove and then a jacket; two more steps on open floor and I grabbed it. I went out the door the same careful way I came in. A few moments later, I was on my bike and down the driveway.
Pedaling out on the street, I felt both proud and ashamed. I avoided the jinx and got my bat, but it left a sour taste in my mouth because I had to break into a friend’s house to do it. It would have been a lot easier had Monica helped me, but I understood why she didn’t.
There was bad blood between us. Last year, as a high school junior, she chaperoned one of our sixth-grade class field trips. A few of us made it miserable for her, relentlessly teasing without mercy.
(I would share the details, but now as an adult, I wince at the memory of what we had done to her. Twelve-year olds can be cruel and suffice it to say, we were.)