Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

  “Chester Grove was the one who called me, after they found him and all of that was taken care of. He’s the attorney up in town. Apparently, Clarence had a last will and testament. I sure didn’t know nothing about it. But he did, and I am named.”

  “So you need to go to Indiana. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, I do,” she said. “The funeral is in two days, and there are some things that I need to sign and some other things that need looking into.”

  “Funeral?” he asked. “Look, Molly, I’m not one to tell you what to do, but after everything that has happened, everything that he did to you, is it really a good idea to haul yourself down there and pay respects to him? Really? I just don’t see why.”

  All of her memories of Clarence and her time in Indiana held a nightmarish edge, and most were downright terrifying, but that feeling paled now in comparison to her need to conclude this part of her life in a way that she could be comfortable with. It bothered her some that Arthur was not recognizing that need.

  “This is not about respecting Clarence or his memory, Arthur,” she explained. “This is about me. Me, Arthur. I need to do this so that I can finally close the book on all of what I have lived through, and so that I can continue to move on now. I need you to understand.”

  “I understand, Molly,” he said. “I do. “I just think it’s asking a lot. It’s not like Indiana is around the corner.”

  “I know that, but it’s what I have to do.” She paused just long enough to steady her nerves. “And it’s what Mickey has to do too.”

  “Mickey? Molly. No way. You cannot be serious. We are gearing up for the home stretch here. And you heard me. I finally got everyone on board. I can’t lose him now. No way.”

  “He’s not even scheduled to pitch for three days,” she said. “You forget that I’ve learned a few things since we’ve been together. He’ll be back in plenty of time. Won’t miss a thing. The only issue you may have is seeing if Bob Keely is okay managing the team while you’re gone.”

  He felt another ripple of irritation rolling up inside of him. “Huh? Come again?”

  “I need you, Arthur. You’re coming with Mickey—to help the both of us through all this. Don’t even tell me that you weren’t planning on being with me for this. Not every important moment in life occurs on a baseball field. What has happened to you?”

  The weight of the conversation started weakening his knees. “Don’t do that, Molly, okay? I’m getting tired of having to apologize for taking this job. We talked about this. All of it. We knew what it meant from the beginning. But all I have done, it seems, is defend myself for being lucky enough to have this chance. How is that fair?”

  “Fair?” she asked. “You said fair? I don’t think that’s something you want to say, Arthur.”

  “It sure is. I know this is hard on you, Molly. I have said that. I do. But you have no idea how many other stressful issues I’ve had to deal with here. It’s not easy. So fighting with you about it all the time just makes it worse.”

  The sting of his words worked against her attempt to maintain her composure. She tried to respond to him, to reclaim her footing in this push and pull she was in, but her tears were already falling, and what she wanted to say was now stuck in her throat. She formulated a different approach in her head, then another. But she could not seem to push any words past her lips. All Murph could hear now was the low, steady hum in the phone interrupted now and again by sniffling and short, erratic breaths.

  “Molly, are you okay?” he asked. “Come on. I don’t want to do this with you.”

  “I just wanted you to be with me,” she muttered brokenly. “I’m scared, and I need you, Arthur—to lean on. That’s all.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him that this was not about baseball or him being in Boston. He had been so blinded by their previous exchanges that he never even considered that all Molly really wanted was a little love, understanding, and support. The sudden realization made all the muscles in Murph’s face tense up so that his eyes were now just two thin slits.

  “I’m sorry, Molly,” he said. “Come on now. No more crying. I know what you’re saying. Look, no promises, okay? This could be tricky, but I understand. Really. I’m not sure exactly how this is going to work, but I will see what I can do.”

  Once Murph hung up the phone, his thoughts zigzagged all over the place. He was in and out, here and there—a living testament to the truly conflicted. He did not want to leave Boston, not even for a minute, but he knew that Molly would never forgive him if he did not stand beside her while she exorcised her demons once and for all. So with the weight of his helplessness rounding his shoulders, he found Keely and passed the torch for the next two days.

  The Indiana morning sky was cloudless and wide, like a giant canvas awaiting the brushstrokes that would determine its direction. Molly stood in between Murph and Mickey, her head bowed, as the preacher delivered his graveside benediction. It was just the three of them and Reverend Larson, standing alongside a yawning hole in the earth.

  I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.

  Molly listened, eyes closed and heart oddly heavy, as the most difficult part of her life was about to be buried. She had a wild mixture of thoughts traipsing through her mind. So much had happened to her, all at the hands of this man whom nobody else thought worthy to say good-bye.

  Remember not the sins and offences of my youth, but according to thy mercy think thou upon me.

  Much of what ran through her mind’s eye involved Mickey—with that eye she observed the painful memories. Mickey was staring blankly at the hole in the ground, wondering how deep it was, and why one side seemed flatter than the other, all the while marveling at the way the sun slanting through the tree limbs had created a curious pattern at the very bottom. He imagined Clarence opening the lid of the casket, rising from the wooden box in a fiery rage, demanding to know why the hole was not even on all sides, and insisting that the pattern on which he would ultimately rest was not uniform. The words numbskull and water head were clear in the boy’s mind. For a moment, he felt a little sick in his stomach. Then he heard the priest ask each of them to close their eyes and bow their heads, and his focus shifted.

  Mickey squinted but did not shut his eyes. Through the thin space between his lids he watched the final scene unfold. A dandelion seed that the wind had picked up blew across the proceedings. A gray squirrel darted back and forth between two giant oak trees. The reverend’s massive hands dwarfed the Bible he was holding. And Molly—she had one hand in his, the other in Murph’s, and he could see her cheeks, streaked by a steady progression of tears.

  Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  He watched the tears fall, one after the other, increasing in frequency and speed as the reverend commanded the lowering of the casket into the grave. The holy man spoke about resurrection and life, redemption and faith, while emptying a handful of dirt on the wooden box. Unforeseen sadness seized Mickey’s soul. All at once he was sick with it. His body stiffened and his mouth went dry. There was also a steady hammering at the base of his skull. He felt like he wanted to say something, like something very important was inside of him and needed to come out. He wanted to tell Clarence how sorry he was for failing to understand so much of what he had asked of him. And how bad he felt for making him so angry all the time. He wanted to tell him a lot of things. But he was bereft of words, infirm of purpose. So he simply watched, with great attention, as the attendants made quick work with their shovels. Little by little, the wooden box disappeared. Then the hole vanished too, so that all that was left was a rectangle of fresh earth sporting the same pattern of light he had seen before. He stared at it longer than he should have.

  “Come on, baby,” Molly said, grabbing his hand. “It’s okay.” Murph placed his hand on her back, steadying her as she gave one last look herself. Then through a late-summer breeze that had turned decidedly cooler, the three of them walked, eyes cloudy with memori
es, up the gravel path that led back to Murph’s car.

  LATE SEPTEMBER

  With just ten days left in September, the Braves found themselves sitting in third place with only fifteen games left to play. They would need to climb over the Dodgers first, who they trailed by three, in order to have a shot at making up the six games that separated them from the surging Phillies and the National League pennant.

  Despite the seemingly insurmountable odds, Murph felt okay about where they sat. Keely had guided them to two straight wins in his absence, and the schedule was favorable in that it had his Braves going head-to-head with both teams eight out of the final fifteen contests. Fate was in their own hands. He was sure they could get it done and wanted nothing more than to begin formulating his plan, but much to his anger and frustration, all he could think about was the exchange he and Molly had at the farm before he left with Mickey for Boston.

  “So you’ll finish things up here and be back in Milwaukee in a day or two?’ he asked. “Maybe even Boston?”

  They were both staring at the outside of the place, which had fallen into an alarming state of disrepair.

  “I can’t leave the place like this, Arthur,” she said. “Not like this. You see what’s happened here. Fences need fixing, the silo looks like it’s seeping. And the animals don’t take care of themselves. Plus you saw what the inside looks like, with all the bottles and papers everywhere. There’s a lot of work to do here.”

  “But you are leaving, right? I mean the plan is to sell the place and get on with your life. Isn’t that what we said?”

  A rush of wind brought with it the smell of wildflowers and feelings of longing and uncertainty.

  “Yes, Arthur, that was the plan,” she said softly. “But I need some time to think through some things.”

  He frowned. He had heard those words before and was afraid what they meant. “Look, Molly, I didn’t want to have to bring this up, but you know, I really think that Mickey could use some help. You know, now that he has this girl Jolene he’s been seeing. I mean … I am talking to him and watching out, but I know how you feel about this sort of thing.” The second the words left his mouth he was hating himself. He knew he shouldn’t have done it. It was low and manipulative, but he was desperate and just wanted all the angst and uncertainty to go away.

  “Now why should that matter any, Arthur?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “It wasn’t so long ago that you insisted that there was nothing to worry about, that this girl and Mickey were just friends. Remember?”

  He frowned and turned his head away. “Yeah, well, I just think that it would be good if you were around, that’s all.”

  “Good for who, Arthur, huh? Good for who?”

  Despite a myriad of misgivings about Molly and that last exchange, Murph trudged forward with his game plan for the stretch run. They had two more games with the Giants in order to complete the series, then it was on to back-to-back, head-to-head showdowns with the Dodgers and Phillies. It was Mickey’s turn in the rotation, but the boy seemed a little tired from the trip and out of sorts, so Murph gave the ball to Bickford and penciled Mickey in for the final contest of the four-game set.

  Bickford was really good for the first five innings, scattering just four hits over that span. And the six runs that the Braves managed to plate in the same time had everyone on the Bean Town side feeling pretty good. The swell of optimism ballooned even further when they all caught a glimpse of the scoreboard and saw that both the Dodgers and Phillies were trailing in their respective games.

  “Well would you look at that,” Keely said to Murph, patting him on the back and smiling from ear to ear. “Seems like everything’s going our way these days.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve still got a lot of work to do,” Murph said, unwilling to allow himself to be swept away in the hope of the moment. “As a good friend of mine used to say, hasty climbers have sudden falls. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t go popping any champagne corks yet.”

  Murph’s point was proven only moments later when Hartsfield booted an easy ground ball and the next two Giants singled sharply. Murph glared at Keely, who was cowering in the corner of the dugout, as though his assistant had somehow jinxed their good fortune.

  The Giants went on to plate three runs in their half on the inning and seemed poised to parlay the momentum they had just generated into something far greater than just cutting the Braves’ lead in half. But some of Boston’s big sticks had something to say about that. It began with Lester, who launched a 1-1 fastball over the center field fence. Ozmore followed with a solo blast of his own, an opposite field shot that left the yard on a line. Sid Gordon was next. He doubled on a 3-0 pitch after being given the green light by Murph and scored in front of a towering home run off the bat of Tommy Holmes. Murph’s crew was hitting everything, and when it was all said and done, they had batted around twice, and in doing so they chased two pitchers from the game en route to an eleven-run barrage. They coasted the rest of the way.

  After the game, Murph spent a little time with some of the guys, including Mickey, just feeling good about what had transpired. Just about all of the guys were feeling confident and loose, but Mickey seemed a little off, even for him. Murph had tried to talk to him on three different occasions, but the boy was unresponsive. Murph figured Mickey was still fatigued from the trip, so he decided to leave well enough alone but not before reminding Mickey of what was expected of him in less than twenty-four hours.

  “The ball is yours tomorrow, Mick,” he said. “I want you ready, understand? Not too late talking to Jolene. Can’t be burning up the phone lines tonight, kid. We’ve got to keep this thing rolling in the right direction.”

  Mickey heard what Murph said, but his attention was elsewhere. And after everyone had finished changing and headed back to the hotel for the night, he sat on the end of his bed, staring blankly out the window at the blazing lights of the New York City skyline as they burned like a raging forest fire. He marveled at the way the orange and red and blue and green all seemed to swirl together—a brilliant burst of sky-glow that resembled paint splashes against a black satin sheet. He spent a little time trying to figure out where each color began and met the next, and thought on several occasions that he had discovered the answer, but his eyes began to hurt and he grew tired quickly. So when he could no longer entertain the colorful riot unfolding outside his window, he leaned over to the nightstand, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “Jolene?” he said with impatience when the ringing gave way to a click and pause.

  “Hi, Mickey,” she said, laughing like a little girl. “Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?”

  He thought about her playful query more than he should have.

  “I reckon it could have been Ozzy, only he’s here, with us, in New York. Maybe it could have been someone visiting the house and all, like your aunt or someone like that. My aunt Lucy loves to talk on the phone. My mama’s always saying that—”

  “Mickey, hello there? Come on, it’s me. Just talk to me.”

  “Could have been a stranger, too, on account of Mickey phoning the wrong house and all. Happens a lot ’cause of my fingers being so big. Sometimes get stuck in the wrong number hole and all.

  “Well, it’s not my aunt or some stranger, silly,” she said. “It’s me. Just me. So talk to me, Mickey. I’m all yours.”

  He continued to stare out at the wild swirl of colors just outside his window, a relentless glittering that burned with such wild vitality that it glazed his eyes a bit. He noticed that when he squinted, every color in the electric rainbow seemed to thin and run together, morphing into a myriad of shapes and objects, most of which he had seen before. Each time he altered how close his eyelids were together, the image changed. First, all he could see were a cluster of triangles and circles, interlocked and floating from side to side.

  A slight adjustment of the space through which he looked turned those shapes into more recognizable images. He could make out a horse
and Pee Wee’s cabin down at Baker’s Woods. Not too far from those he saw a pirate ship, a church steeple, and what appeared to be a lumberjack holding a candy cane. That made him smile a little and prompted him to try and hold the unusual picture in place as long as he could—something he did successfully until an unexpected sneeze wiped the makeshift screen clean once again. He narrowed his lids once again, trying to retrieve the comical image, but all that remained were shapes again—triangles, circles, squares, and one rectangle that at first looked like the pig trough from which Oscar would eat but then, to his horror, revealed itself to be a colorful casket—Clarence’s casket. He felt something knocking inside his chest, and his limbs grew weak, as if the blood that sustained each was now leaking from some unknown place. His voice was absent too.

  “Mickey, are you still there?” Jolene asked. “Come on now. I said I’m all yours. Tell me how you’re doing and what’s happening there.”

  The panic grew worse—and grew to include thoughts of Clarence and the steady stream of invectives that he constantly hurled at Mickey. He could hear once again the merciless mocking that stripped him to the bone—words like nitwit, bonehead, and retard. Each had the effect of a fist slamming into his face, and he winced as each recollection presented itself. It was only another voice, one warm and inviting, that was able to arrest the fitful flight and extricate him from the momentary fit.

  “Mickey, uh … is, well, okay,” he answered.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “You don’t sound like it. Whatcha doing?”

  “Talking to you, Jolene,” he said. “On the telephone.”

  She laughed out loud. “I know that, silly. I mean what is happening there? How was today’s game?”

  “It was okay,” he said. “We won. We scored seventeen runs. That’s thirteen more than we usually score.”

  “Wow, that’s really—”

  “Not exactly though,” he rambled on. “We usually score 4.62 runs per game. So today we were able to score 12.38 more runs. Not thirteen.”