“Thank you, Mickey,” she said, only half conscious of herself as she felt his kind words and gentle touch lift her away from the unpleasant memories still vying for position. “You know, when you are away on the road, we can talk on the telephone. I mean, just to say hello and all.”
“Looks like the water in Williston’s Creek too,” he went on. “I mean not the color but the curly circles—especially the ones on the end here, by your shoulders. Mickey loves them circles. From the creek. I could pick a leaf off a tree and drop it in that water and sometimes it would spin forever. Round and round, round and round. Never change none.”
He could see the sparkling succession of watery hoops and smell the damp leaves and the musky scent of the poplars that flanked the rotting log on which he always sat. From his perch, the world always seemed to make much more sense.
“Sounds pretty,” she said, inching a little closer to him so that she could feel his breath against her face. “A lot different from the city streets of Boston. And those other cities. Which is why, if you get sort of lonely and want to talk, you can call me. We could chat, just like we are now, and I can wish you good luck and all. In your games.”
He was aware of her altered proximity and smiled. She was lit from behind by moonlight that spilled through a front window and attached itself to her, making her appear even more angelic than he had previously thought. He was wondering how her hair had managed to catch every sliver of light that had passed through the casement glass; she was thinking about how soft his face must be, especially his lips. The honesty of the moment made her feel somewhat shaky and exposed but she leaned in closer anyway.
“You know what,” he said, rushing past her suddenly, his eyes now fixated on a bronze bobcat figurine he noticed on a shelf. “We had one of these little guys running around the farm once. Made my daddy real mad on account of the chickens it were chasing all the time. I tried to catch him so I could feed him and tell him not to chase them chickens and make my daddy so mad. But he was too fast. Could never catch him none. Then daddy took out his shotgun one night and shot him. I told him not to but he did so anyway. Yup, he looked a lot like this here statue.”
The foolishness she still felt over having misread the moment gave way to a soft, gentle calm. She was still feeling it now, after Mickey had gone home and when Buddy blasted through the door, half in the bag from his postgame celebration at Otto’s Tavern.
“Jo Jo, I’m home. Where the heck are you?”
“In the kitchen,” she called back.
There was an unusual silence that followed. She could hear him banging around in the living room. Then, without warning, he stormed into the small space she occupied. His face was red and sweaty.
“What the hell is this?” he said, flipping a large Braves cap on the table.
She turned her back to him and busied herself with some dishes in the sink. Her heart was rioting and her breath erratic and labored. She had half a mind to just tell him it was none of his business and that she could keep the company of anyone whom she wished. But the longer she stood there, the more she could feel the dissolution of her resolve.
“Did you hear what I said?” he repeated. “What the hell is going on?”
“It’s just a hat,” she said, turning to face him. “That’s all.”
Buddy exploded. “Oh really now. It’s just a hat, huh? Is that what you said? What did I tell you about—”
“It’s no big deal, Buddy. It’s Mickey’s. We just walked home together and he came inside to use the phone. That’s all.”
His eyebrows shot up as if being pulled by some invisible thread. He said nothing to her initially, and she was unable to gauge what exactly was running through his brain. But then without warning, the words came. And they wouldn’t stop.
“I told you weeks ago that I don’t want you rubbing elbows with any of the guys—especially that freako, Tussler. I am responsible for you. Have you forgotten what—”
“He’s not a freak, Buddy,” she protested. “You don’t understand. If you would just sit and talk to him you would see that.”
“That boy is a retard, Jolene,” he said. “He ain’t right. Do you know what happens to girls who get mixed up with that? I told you, when Mama and Daddy passed, that I would take care of you. That I was looking out for you, remember? All you have to do is take care of the house, cooking, and cleaning, and I would handle the rest. Well I’m reminding you, again. I make the rules here, and that boy is off limits. That’s it. No more talk.”
“But, Buddy, I—”
“It’s the perfect time anyway to make the break. We’re leaving for Philly tomorrow so you don’t even have to deal with it at all. By the time we get back, it should be done.”
He walked away, leaving her heartbroken and helpless. The tears began slowly; they dripped one at a time, sliding down each side of her face, despite her best efforts to stem the tide. Before long these same tears multiplied, drowning her eyes like a swollen river rushing across a levee. They fell more steadily and with greater urgency, soaking her fingers as she tried desperately to wipe them away. All she wanted to do was to feel the way she had earlier that night. And Mickey—she wanted him too. Instead, all she felt was a hollowing of her center, as if all the air she was swallowing could never fill the empty chamber deep within. The tears kept coming and probably would have continued for some time had she not looked up and noticed—that Buddy was staring at her.
ROAD TRIP
The Braves arrived in Philadelphia with a record that had them stuck right in the middle of the division. They had been playing better of late, and Murph was feeling like they had turned the proverbial corner and were poised for a run, but he was still questioning his ability to navigate these uncharted waters.
“Okay, fellas,” he said before the opener against the Phillies. “We got Spahny on the hill tonight, Johnny tomorrow, Bickford for game three, and Mickey to finish it out. Sounds like a clean sweep to me. Let’s just get the bats going gentlemen, shall we? Some of you need to do a little less talking and a lot more hitting.”
Ten minutes later, after everyone had gone off to tend to their individual pregame rituals, Murph received a visit.
“I certainly hope you were not looking at me when you made that hitting crack. ’Cause if you were, I think we may have a problem here.”
It was quiet in the office, with the exception of some muffled exterior sounds that seeped through the walls. Murph wondered if it was worth responding—getting into it. Ozmore’s misery was always going to be there, so why bother? Still, he couldn’t help but think that his silence would be mistaken for weakness.
“You know, Ozmore, it’s a wonder you can hit anything at all, with that giant chip you carry around on your shoulder. Seems like it would get in the way, don’t you think?”
Ozmore’s face contorted into an angry mask. “You know what, Murph, you really bother me—have from the very first day. All your bullshit talk about teamwork and how special it is to be a major leaguer … nobody’s buying it, okay? What does a broken-down has been who had nothing more than a cup of coffee in the majors know about pro ball anyway? And I’ll tell you something else. If you want to pal around with some freak of nature you call a pitcher, that’s fine. It’s your funeral once the rest of the league catches up with him. But I’m telling you this, and you better hear me good. Keep him away from my sister. I mean it.”
Murph shook his head and laughed. “Is that what all this is really about? Mickey, and your sister?”
“Just keep him away from her. That’s all.”
“Mickey’s a sweet kid, Ozzy,” Murph explained. “Doesn’t have a mean bone in that huge body of his. Take it from one who knows. Your sister would be mighty lucky to have a friend like him watching out for her.”
“I’m warning you, Murphy, if I even hear—”
“Relax there, will ya, and focus on matters at hand here. You talk about being professional and a big leaguer. Please … look at you.
Get your shit together—now. We’ve got a game to play in a little while, and I’m sort of hoping that we can start this trip off on the right foot.”
Not long after, Murph’s hopes were realized. Spahn gave him seven shutout innings, and the bullpen made the four runs the boys from Boston managed to score stand up as the Braves cruised to a very convincing 4–0 victory. It wasn’t the sort of performance that had the rest of the league trembling with fear, but many of the guys who had been struggling at the plate got off the schneid, resulting in a season high of thirteen hits and smiles all around after the game. Nobody was happier than Tommy Holmes, who snapped a 0–13 drought with three knocks of his own.
“It was raining hits tonight in Philly,” Holmes boasted. “Better warn the locals round here that the forecast for tomorrow looks about the same.”
Roy Hartsfield laughed. “Yes, sir, it sure was,” he said, lifting a mug full of beer in celebratory fashion. “A regular hit parade. Cripes, even Torgy and Elliot got in on it.”
Earl Torgeson and Bobby Elliot, who were busy drinking and rabble-rousing at the piano bar, heard the call to arms and took playful offense, rolling up their sleeves and waving their fists in the direction of Hartsfield and the others who were still laughing.
“You’ll pay for that, Roy, you little shit,” Elliot shouted. “Just as soon as we finish our beers and maybe one more song.”
While most of the guys continued to drink and regale each other with tales of their baseball exploits, Mickey sat with Murph on the other side of the lobby, eating at a small table pushed up against a picture window.
“How’s your burger, Mick?”Murph asked.
Mickey had taken just two bites and was presently busy creating a railroad track pattern around the periphery of his plate with his french fries.
“Hey, Mickey, everything all right?”
The boy continued to lay both track and rails in hypnotic fashion.
“Yeah, Mr. Murphy,” he answered without looking up. “All right.”
Murph frowned. The wind had picked up outside, creating a cyclone of swirling papers and leaves that blew across the sidewalk. He followed the curious pattern with both eyes until he could no longer focus. He turned his attention to Mickey once again, cleared his throat, and spoke.
“Mick,” he began, grabbing the boy’s hand so that he had no choice but to listen. “Talk to me. I know you, son. Remember? And you know me too—well enough to also know that you can tell me anything that’s bothering you. Come on now. Talk.”
Mickey looked up at Murph, blinked a few times and frowned. He started to speak, then stopped, unable to convey accurately what was troubling him. He made several more attempts, but each time the words got stuck. So he sat there, hands folded tightly in front of him, staring across at Murph.
“Is it the guys?” Murph asked. “Are they giving you trouble, Mick? Because if they are, all you have to do is—”
“Jolene,” Mickey said, followed by a rush of breath that suggested the difficulty with which it was said.
“Jolene?” Murph repeated. “Is that what you said?” He was at once concerned. “What about her, Mick?”
Mickey looked down at his plate. He was imagining what it would be like to be hit by a train—how it would feel just before the locomotive collided with his skin. He thought of Clarence and how it felt all those times to be hit by that two-by-four or the assortment of other objects his father had turned on him. Those all hurt. A lot. So a train, he imagined, would be decidedly worse.
“Mickey called her, like she said. Let it ring eight times. Did that three more times. But Jolene was not there to answer it. She told me to telephone her. I only called her because—”
“Is that it?’ Murph asked. “Because if it is, then it’s okay, Mickey, really. I’m sure it’s okay. She’s probably just busy, that’s all. You can try again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow also brought another opportunity for the Braves to continue their winning ways. Game two of the series against the Phillies saw Johnny Sain pitch into the eighth inning, having allowed just two unearned runs while scattering nine hits. Supported by some stellar play in the field and solo shots off the bats of Lester, Ozmore, Holmes, and Jethroe, the Braves coasted again to an easy victory, disposing of the Phillies by a score of 7–3. The additional news that they had gained some valuable ground in the standings had them all feeling particularly good afterward.
“Nice job, fellas,” Murph announced while the team showered and got changed. “Good all-around effort today. It was really fun to watch.”
“That’s it, Murph?” Torgeson challenged. “Nice job? Come on now. I think you just happen to be sharing this locker room with the hottest team in the National League. I’d say that is a little more than just nice, don’t you think?”
Murph shook his head and tapped his finger against his temple.
“When you’re right, you’re right, Torgy. And are you right.” Murph didn’t want to get too high about their modest winning streak. He knew all too well how fickle the baseball gods could be. But something about Torgeson’s emotional proclamation and all the hooting and hollering in the room got to him. It was too delicious to resist.
“We are on fire, boys!” he shouted. “Fire. And you know what’s so goddamned great about fire? It spreads. And once it gets going, it’s hard to control. Spreads out of control. Wildfire they call it. That’s us, fellas. Right now. Wildfire. And I ain’t too proud to say I’m feeling mighty lucky just to be a part of it.”
He watched with satisfaction as the room erupted even further.
“Well yeehaw, look at you, Murph,” Spahn gushed, clapping his hands and smiling a toothy smile. “I have to say, I like this side of you. I sure do. Getting in right behind us like that and all. It’s good—good stuff. So maybe you’ll meet up with us at the hotel and we can continue this brotherly love at one of the taverns downtown.”
Murph was pleased by the gesture, as it marked the very first sign of progress since he had arrived, but he was content to revel in the moment in a more conservative fashion.
“No, I think I’m gonna just head back to the hotel, get some dinner, and enjoy all of this quietly,” he said. “I’m a little tired. But thank you all the same. You guys go, enjoy, but remember we still have work to do tomorrow.”
“Oh, come on, Murph,” Sain added. “I just threw eight innings and I’m good to go. Come on, one beer. What’s the harm?”
“I’ll get you guys the next time,” he said, holding three fingers up in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, okay,” Sain rumbled. “We’re gonna hold you to that. Won’t be the same without you tonight. But help us out some. How about giving us Mickey then? I’m sure he’s not too tired.”
Murph looked at Mickey, who was staring off at a point in the distance, oblivious to the revelry unfolding all around him. He knew what the boy had on his mind and what he had planned for the night. Still, Murph had to ask.
“How ’bout it, Mick?” he said, disentangling the boy from his secret weavings. “You want to go out with the fellas tonight?”
The room grew quieter as they waited for Mickey to register what Murph had asked.
“No, no, Mr. Murphy,” Mickey finally said. “Mickey wants a hamburger and fries. At the hotel. Just like last night. No beer.”
Murph shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head slightly to one side. “You heard him, guys. Maybe another time.”
The night was quiet and gray, with the city lights burning in a sleepy haze. Murph and Mickey walked back to their rooms, showered, and got dressed. They agreed to meet at Mickey’s room in an hour after they had each had some time to take care of a few things before heading downstairs for dinner.
The hotel lobby was decidedly quieter than it was the previous night after Ozmore rounded up what he called his “party posse” and turned them loose on the city. Murph and Mickey sat at the same table as before, at Mickey’s request, and chatted while they waited for their food.
“So I spoke to your mom,” Murph said.
Mickey nodded and continued to fix his silverware so that his fork, knife, and spoon were all properly aligned.
“Said she’d like you to give her a call later … or tomorrow. She misses you, Mick. I think hearing your voice may help her a little. She’s having a tough time you know.”
This time the boy wasted no time articulating his troubles.
“Jolene did not answer her phone again,” he said, staring out the window at the people rushing by. “Let it ring eight times. Then I hung it up, called again, and let it ring eight more times. Then I put it down again, picked it up, and let it ring eight more times. Nobody was there. Mickey will try again later.”
A lump settled in Murph’s throat.
“Maybe you should wait on that, Mick,” he said. “You know, sounds like she’s just busy and all. Don’t worry. Why don’t you give your mom a call instead and then try Jolene again tomorrow. I’m sure it … uh … will all work out.”
“But she said to call her—and that she had to wish Mickey good luck. I-I don’t—”
“Mick, it’s okay. Don’t worry. Everything is fine. Just call your mom. Have a nice talk with her, the way you always did, and you’ll feel a little better about everything.”
Mickey’s conversation with Molly was good for her, but it did little to quell the boy’s unfurling anxiety. He loved Molly just the same, but something had happened to him the day he met Jolene at the bar. It was as if a small part of him that had been hiding somewhere deep inside had been released and revealed itself to him with a breathless wonder and rhythm that could no longer be denied. It had changed him—or at least the way he saw things. Jolene had stirred something, and the boy was in a state of disorder. And now it was only Jolene who could make him right again.
Murph suspected as much and felt compelled to try and set things back in place. He caught Ozmore the minute he came in the next morning, before he made it to his locker.
“Hey, Ozzy, you say something to your sister?” Murph asked. “You know, about Mickey?” Ozmore’s eyes narrowed and his mouth flattened into a thin, straight line.
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