“Don’t see much of Pee Wee no more,” Mickey said, his face still pressed up against the wire mesh grid. “Nope I don’t. Don’t see Farley neither. Murph I see a lot. But he’s like a pa, so he don’t count none.”
“Well, you can always still see those guys,” Lester explained. “And besides, you’ve met some new people this year. Just like I have. What about Torgy, and Jethroe, and Crandall? They nice guys. What about them, Mick?”
Mickey pulled his face away from the cage so that he could grab another celery stalk. “Those guys ain’t Mickey’s friends. They just laugh. And say things. Duncan and Daphney don’t say nothing.”
“Ah, those guys ain’t so bad,” Lester said. “That’s just how major leaguers are. They rode me something fierce when I got here. All of us. Only stopped once I started hitting.”
Mickey said nothing. His focus remained on the rabbit cages.
“And Ozzy and even Spahny,” Lester continued. “They were downright brutal to me. But now, I got nine home runs; they know who I am, and all is forgiven. It’s time Mick. Sometimes, all you need to do is give people some time.”
After some hesitation, which saw Mickey open one cage door and adjust the bed of hay inside before doing the same with the other, he spoke purposefully. “Mickey’s got time,” the boy said. “Lots of time.”
“There you go, Mick, see? That’s what I’m saying. Things change with time. Look at you and Ozzy’s sister for instance. Just a few months ago, you didn’t even know her. And now you have yourself a real friend. That’s how it works. In fact, maybe you should give her a call while we are away. You know, just to say hi. That might make you feel better.”
Mickey face grew severe. “Mickey can’t talk to Jolene until we get back,” he explained. “That’s what Murph said. Said I would see her at the ballpark, when I pitch, and then everything would be just the way it was before. Three days. That’s all. Three days. Mickey’s got time.”
The rest of the day went fast, with the weather changing in dramatic fashion. The skies turned dark early, followed by winds that bent the tall grass and treetops and a flurry of drops that fell with unrelenting vigor, all of which put an end to the outdoor activities until finally, after having finished dinner, Murph and Molly retired to the porch to watch the storm. They sat in silence for a while, both marveling at the flashes of lightning that illuminated the distant tree line and rooftops with intermittent splashes of brilliant purple and blue. Then, above the claps of thunder and steady drumming of rain against the roof, Murph finally spoke.
“Some storm, huh?” he said, placing his hand on hers. “Sure glad it held out until we got here.”
“Yeah, it’s really coming down. I hope we don’t lose power. Mickey and Lester just started listening to The Green Hornet. I’d hate to have them miss out.”
“Yup, that would not be good,” Murph chuckled. “Mickey’s been talking about it all day.”
“Oh, I know. Believe me. He’s a funny kid.” She stopped herself and shook her head. “Listen to me,” she continued. “I guess I should stop saying that word. Kid. He’s a man. I just think I will always see him as a little boy. And not because of who he is or anything. It’s just all the things that make him happy are so simple and pure—childlike, you know? But childlike or not, as long as those things continue to make him happy, how can I complain, right?”
Her eyes, which had been following the distant flashes of light to the sparkle of a couple of fireflies willing to brave the storm, lowered under the gravity of her last statement.
“And what about you, Molly?” he asked. “Talk to me now. What are you thinking about?”
“What about me?”
“Come on now. You know what I mean. What’s going to make you happy again?”
That was a good question, one that she had been wrestling with for months. She had spent a lot of time tracing the path of her life and how she had arrived at the place she now occupied. It began with a petulant, cold father who had little interest in her desires and dreams and even less patience for those times when she expressed them.
“That there’s yer problem, little lady,” he had always said. “You think yer better than everyone else. Always fooling around with that clarinet and reading all the time. Poetry? What’s the use in that? Nobody, nobody worth a damn, wants to talk about that.”
She learned at an early age to bury her soul, and that to show it would almost certainly cause her shame and disappointment.
“You ain’t getting no younger, and you ain’t exactly turning too many heads neither,” her father had told her when Clarence had expressed interest. “Now I know that there boy ain’t no movie star, but by cracky he’s got his own farm. His own farm, Molly. I reckon you best think twice, missy.”
But truth be told, she did not think at all. She never really stopped and considered what her life would be like living beside a man who was a brutish, cantankerous simpleton who viewed both her and Mickey with nothing but unadulterated scorn. That was a realization that took many years to cultivate. She really had Arthur Murphy to thank for making her finally see her situation for what it was.
It was Arthur Murphy who awakened her and gave her the resolve to start her life anew. And it was Arthur Murphy who held her future in his hands once again. She didn’t want to tarnish his happiness regarding his promotion to the big leagues or his success in his new position, and she loved him dearly and appreciated all he had done for both her and Mickey, but her voice had taken many years to come out of hiding, and she found, even to her own amazement, that it would not be silenced ever again.
“You want to know what’s going to make me happy?” she asked.
“Yes, Molly. Yes. I can’t stand to see you this way. It’s not like you.”
“I don’t know, Arthur,” she said. “It’s not that easy. I have a lot on my mind lately.”
Her thoughts zigzagged all over the place. Outside, it was dark and silent now, the storm clouds having given way to a partial moon whose light was infirm but strong enough to offer some shape to the shadowy, noiseless forms that moved through the night.
“Well, this is where we always used to talk,” he said, rubbing her leg gently. “Now’s as good a time as any to share what’s troubling you.”
“That’s sort of my point, Arthur.”
His entire face wrinkled with confusion. “Did I miss something?’ he asked. “What’s your point?”
“All that used to be, Arthur,” she answered. “It’s Boston. I told you. And I have been trying to tell you. It’s just not me.”
The smell of fresh rain dripping from the tree boughs was strong in his nose. It should have been invigorating, life-affirming, but instead all he could feel was exaustion.
“Is it really that bad, Molly?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.
“How can you ask me that, Arthur? Have you not been listening to me—paying attention to me?”
“I have. I mean, I’ve heard what you’ve said. I just don’t know why you can’t—”
“When I left Clarence, you promised me that my life would be different. And it was. But now, it all seems like—”
“Hold on here,” he said, his temples throbbing. “Don’t you dare compare me to Clarence. Are you kidding me, Molly? Is that what you really think?”
She closed her eyes and cringed. She had been waiting so long to broach this subject with him, and despite all of her careful planning, somehow she had still said the wrong thing.
“Wait a minute, Arthur, wait. Let’s start over here. I’m sorry. I am not suggesting that you are anything like him. I’m not. I’m just upset and I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”
He exhaled loudly and let his head fall into his hands. He remained that way for some time before finally directing his frustration back to her. “I just don’t understand why it’s so bad. I mean, I’m there, so is Mickey. Things with him are going well. Is it really so awful?”
A nervous chill ran up her back. She couldn’t
speak at first for fear of saying the wrong thing yet again. So she sat silent, picking nervously at the skin around her fingernails. Her reticence irked him even more than the thoughts she had previously shared—bothered him in some vague, gnawing way that had him balancing on the edge of his chair.
“Why is it so bad?” he asked her. “Can you please explain that to me?”
“Yes, you are with me there, and so is Mickey. But not really, Arthur. I’m by myself a lot. Like when you guys are at the ballpark or with the team. So I only get what little time is left over. And when you’re on the road—well, then I am really on my own. It gets lonely, Arthur. And I am not the sort of girl who can just take off into a city I neither know nor like. So then I ask you … Where does that leave me? Where does that leave me?”
“Look, Molly, we’ve been through this before. Boston isn’t Milwaukee. It’s not. I know that. But just because it’s different doesn’t mean it’s bad. I just think you need to give it—”
“More time? Is that what you were going to say? Because I have to tell you, Arthur—I love you, I really do, and I am happy for you that this dream of yours is finally coming true. But I made a promise to myself that I would matter from now on—that what I wanted would matter. And I just cannot break that promise.”
“It does matter,” he said desperately. “It does. It totally does. Why would you say it doesn’t?”
“Because you obviously are in Boston, Arthur, at least for now. That’s not going to change. And I do not want to be in Boston. You know that. So I have no real choice here. Either I stay and suffer like I have been—or I live without you and Mickey for the next three or four months. So I don’t really see how what I want matters.”
Murph sighed and shook his head without taking his eyes from hers. “How about making friends with the other wives?” he asked. “You know, just to give you a way of passing the time.”
“Really? Are you serious, Arthur? Those women don’t want any more to do with me than I do with them. Be serious now. Besides, I keep telling you, fast city life is not for me. It’s just not. It’s not who I am.”
Murph’s face flushed and his eyes grew large and gray, revolting against the implications of her protests. “So what are you saying, Molly? What’s the bottom line here? Are you asking me to leave Boston? Am I quitting?”
“No, no, of course not. I would never ask you to do that.”
He looked away, his breath heavy as though he’d just run a race. “So are you … you know, quitting?”
An involuntary rush of air escaped her lips. Quitting?” she repeated incredulously. “You? Us? Of course not. Don’t be silly.”
“Well, then what are we supposed to do now, Molly? I don’t know what you want.”
There was no easy way that Molly could think to say what she really wanted—the life they shared before Boston—she could not have, and could never ask for, anyway. So she steeled herself like one about to leap from a great height and said the one thing that finally came to her lips.
“I want to stay here, in Milwaukee.”
“I don’t understand,” Arthur replied. “You mean all of us?”
“No, Arthur. I told you that wouldn’t be fair.”
“So you’re telling me that you’re not coming back with us when we leave in two days?”
A trace of anger stole across his face as she quietly nodded.
“You can’t stay here in Milwaukee all by yourself,” he protested. “It’s not safe. Or right. Come on, Molly. That is crazy talk. We are your family. And Boston—Boston is your home.”
She took a deep breath. “No, Arthur, Milwaukee is my home. It’s really the only one I have ever had. Being back here, especially now that you are here, too, has made me realize just how much I’ve missed it.”
He braced himself.
“So we are splitting up?” he asked, his face awash with despair. “That’s it?”
“No, no,” she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her cheek. “Listen to me. I know Boston and this job mean the world to you. So go; do your job. It’s only another few months. It will go fast. And when it’s all over, I will be here, waiting for you.”
They both stopped talking. A long silence settled between them. She was out of things to say. He wondered what he would do without her, how he would get by knowing she was so far away. He also worried for Mickey, and how yet another emotional issue would affect him. The gravity of both uncertainties rendered him desperate.
“And maybe you will realize that you miss Boston—and me and Mickey—and decide to come back? Maybe?”
She lowered her head for a moment, looked into his eyes, and nodded. “Sure, that’s possible. But I have an idea of my own, Arthur.”
“You mean there’s more?”
She put her arms around his neck and placed her lips gently against his ear. “Maybe, just maybe, you will discover that you miss it here—and that after all of this talk about Boston and the major leagues, you might see that this place you have been running from for so long is where you truly belong.”
SECOND HALF
Murph and the Braves began the second half of the season at the Bee Hive with a three-game set against the Pittsburgh Pirates. Murph’s decision to forgo the usual pitching rotation and start with Mickey had him wondering about all the second-guessing that he’d probably be doing, but that concern paled in comparison to the tearful good-bye he had shared with Molly the night before. He was having more trouble than he had thought he would at shaking the emptiness.
“So you promise to call me if you change your mind?” he asked her. She was clutching him with both hands, and her face was buried in his shoulder.
“Yes,” she replied, her voice barely audible through her gentle crying.
Now he was back in the saddle, facing another half of the season that would be even more challenging than the first. And he was beginning with Mickey, a decision that he knew was the right one but fraught with potential disaster should things not go the way he envisioned. Spahn was the first one to voice the collective trepidation.
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Murph,” he said when he saw Mickey’s name penciled in as the starter for game one. “Ain’t where the smart money is.”
Spahn’s commentary proved to be more of a prophetic declaration than a malicious jab when Mickey trotted out to the mound to take his warm-up tosses. The young man appeared skittish, just as he was in his prior start, and his first few throws to Lester were forced and erratic.
“Uh, Murph, you watching this?” Keely said. “Look, I’m just the bullpen guy, but looks to me like—”
Murph felt his insides burning. “Yeah, yeah, I see it, Bobby,” Murph snapped back. “Let’s just let it play out, okay? I got it.”
“I mean, he’s not even looking at home plate,” Keely continued. “Seems like he’s looking clear past Lester, into the stands. Not sure how that’s gonna do us any good.”
Murph considered going back at Keely but thought better of it. He knew exactly what was going on with Mickey and could have run right out onto the field and wrapped his hands around Ozmore’s neck. He resisted the urge, opting for a conversation once the bottom half of the opening inning was complete—but would have had a much more difficult time doing so had he known about the conversation that took place just prior to the game.
“So do we understand each other, Jolene?” Ozmore had asked, his finger waving wildly in the girl’s face. “Do we?”
“He’s just a nice guy,” she replied. “And all we did was talk—until you said no more. And now you’re telling me that I can’t even go to the games? Or wave to him?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And if anyone asks you about it, remember what I said—it was your idea. I had nothing to do with it. Ya hear?”
She lowered her head so that he wouldn’t see her crying. Then he left for the ballpark.
Murph’s insides mirrored the advance of twilight and the riotous swirls of pink and orange
that were staining a darkening sky. He was only now beginning to realize just how much more onerous Ozmore had made his decision to start Mickey. Mickey remembered what Murph had said about everything being just like it was before they went on the road. That included Jolene being at the ballpark—in the stands—where she always sat.
Now Mickey was about to deliver the first pitch of the game, but his eyes, like his thoughts, were fixed on the empty seat behind home plate. He stood on the mound, waiting for the umpire’s call to begin play, distracted. Oscar’s gone. Cleats are broken. Doctors can’t fix Boxcar. Where is Jolene? Duncan doesn’t like the new lettuce Mama’s giving him. Curveball spins from your hand. Where is Jolene? Head hurts. Lefty still doesn’t like Mickey. He could not free himself from the juggernaut of worry. Miss Mama. Gotta throw strikes, like I can. Can’t miss. Papa’s screaming and hitting me. Lefty is too. Jolene, where’s Jolene? The progression was swift and crippling and would have completely destroyed him had the call of “play ball” not torn him from his mania.
Leadoff hitter Pete Castiglione stepped in, tapped each of his cleats two times with the barrel of his bat, and dug in with his back foot. He exhaled briskly, blinked three times, and stared at Mickey. At first the look was nothing more than just the final part of the methodical routine Castiglione followed each time he got ready to hit. But the longer he stared, windmilling his bat, waiting for Mickey’s first delivery, the more disturbed he became by the wildly vacant eyes looking back at him. Then the first pitch came, and the concern for everyone grew exponentially.
It was a high fastball that exploded out of Mickey’s hand and shot through the air, off course like a heat-seeking missile that buzzed by the batter’s chin, sending him to the dirt in a crumpled heap. The errant toss had the entire Pirates bench on the top step of the dugout, screaming at Mickey and pointing fingers at the handful of Braves players who were also watching the events unfold from a similar vantage point on their side.
“Tell your boys to have a seat and dummy up,” Murph yelled over to his counterpart, Billy Meyer. “If we wanted to hit him, we would have.”
Welcome to the Show Page 13