“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Ozmore said. “I get it. And I guess that’s fair. But listen. The kid is loyal. He’s got my back and everyone else’s on this team. And most important to me is that he does right by Jolene. He does. I see it now—totally. So I feel like I sorta owe him. You know?”
Ozmore was thinking about his sister. And not just the way Mickey defended her name when that reporter tried to sully it. His vision was of a girl who was once nothing more than a shadow—a tiny boat with feather oars, trying to pass through currents that always pushed her back to the place from where she started. He had seen it her whole life and had always been equally helpless to initiate any change of direction for her.
Then Mickey came along, and somehow it had changed. It was slow, but he recognized that now. All at once he could see how her heart leaped at the mere mention of Mickey’s name or at the sight of him. Ozmore understood that the cloud of anger and suspicion and uncertainty had lifted, that her hand was much steadier since it had found Mickey’s—and that her voice, all too often small and fading, was now full of song. He was never more thankful to anyone for anything in his life.
“Are you for real, Ozzy?” he asked. “You sure there’s not some other reason why you’re saying this?”
“Come on, Murph, this ain’t easy for me,” Ozmore said. “I told you. I want to make things right. Why else would I be here?”
Murph glanced up at the clock on the wall.
“Not sure I guess,” he answered. “And I don’t have a helluva lot of time to figure it out either. I’m just hoping that it’s not because you finally realize we need Mick if we are going to make a run at this. Or worse yet, something sneaky or underhanded. That would be a serious mistake.”
Ozmore’s face flushed.“Look, I’m just saying the kid ain’t been right since he left, that’s all. And I’m asking if you know what’s wrong and if I can help. That’s all, Murph. Really.”
Murph shook his head. He didn’t want to think about any of it. It was complicated and full of entanglements. All he wanted to do was sit there and do his lineup card—and focus on baseball.
“I think I know what’s wrong. I’m pretty sure anyway. But I also know that there ain’t nothing for us to do. No way to help.”
“What about Jolene?” Ozmore asked. “I can have her here by tomorrow, or at least on the phone. I’ll take care of that right now.”
“No, don’t do that,” Murph said, sighing. “Won’t do no good.”
“How do you figure, Murph? The two of them are as thick as thieves. She’s gotta be able to do something.”
Murph looked around the tiny office through a fog of doubt. He was thinking of the phone call he’d have to make and the conversation that would perhaps ignite a brushfire of other issues he had no desire to tackle. But he was out of options.
“There’s only one person who can help the kid now,” Murph said. “Our only hope. And what’s worse is that while there is a chance it will do something, I’m afraid to say that there are no guarantees there either.”
TUSSLER FARM
The ghosts of pain, loss, hardship, and regret rattled in every corner of the old farmhouse. Molly knew it would be difficult being back there, but never anticipated—even as she conquered her impulse to run as she stood in the doorway—that the quiet inside could be so loud and unnerving. She thought initially that it was the cool breeze and the sound of the leaves that had already begun to fall that had whispered in her ear and brought her back in time to a place she reviled so deeply. But she was wrong. It was the house and its slumbering contents that had her struggling for air.
Clarence was everywhere. And it wasn’t just the beer bottles, papers, and empty cartons strewn all over the floor. Every object that embodied his grizzly, unrestrained presence had risen up to greet her the second she opened the front door. His rifle, propped up against one of the chairs in the living room, was the first thing she saw. It was never too far from his reach—neither was his pipe, which she noticed still had a fair amount of tobacco stuffed inside. She wondered if he had been planning on smoking it before he collapsed to the floor. Or if the pie crust he left on the kitchen table was all that remained of the last thing he ate. Everything she saw held its own question, and the insidious power to transport her back in time to a life marked by silent subjugation, fear, and longing.
There were still some of her things there as well, abandoned in various parts of the house. She made her way through each room, as if touring a museum. Only traces of her remained—just those things she could not grab the day she had finally packed and left. She remembered looking at her sewing machine that day, just as she was now, and thinking how big and clumsy it was. She had wanted to take it but knew that there’d be no room for it in Arthur’s house. There were other things that remained, simply because she had missed them in her haste to leave. She ran her finger over the ceramic pie plate that had somehow acquired a series of chips during her absence. Her music stand also bore the signs of ill treatment, as did the hand carved wall clock her mother had given them as a wedding gift. She could barely look at it.
But it wasn’t just the objects. The whole idea of being back again haunted her. So many years of her life were entangled in all the debris. It was like some twisted patchwork of crime and punishment. And all of it came with tears—plenty of tears. So when she had had enough, she found a broom and a big old empty barrel and began erasing the memories. She had only been at it a short time when the phone rang.
“Now how did you know that I was needing to talk to you?” she said the second she heard his voice. He just laughed.
“Just lucky, I suppose,” he said. “Turns out I could really use your ears too.”
“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good, Arthur. Is everything all right?”
“Well, things here are a little out of sorts, that’s for sure. But you first. What’s going on with you? You think you might be coming home soon?”
She surveyed the mess in front of her, and in some distant unknown, imagined herself one day free from all of it.
“I’ve got some things here to tie up,” she said. “There’s more here than I thought. And it’s been harder than I expected. A lot of ghosts here, you know? That’s why I was so happy to hear your voice.”
“It doesn’t have to be this way, Molly,” he reminded her. “You could be here, with me.”
“Don’t, Arthur, please. We’ve been through this. And where is here anyway? You’re not even in Boston. And from the sounds of things you’ve got your hands full anyway.”
“Molly, I just don’t know why you would—”
“Tell me what’s going on. Why did you call?”
He held the receiver in his sweaty hand, listening to her while trying to shake off the weight of disappointment. He felt as though he was no longer equipped to handle the sting of almost where his baseball life was concerned. There was only so much satisfaction to be derived from pats on the back and the deluge of gratuitous “good season, get ’em next year” sentiments that followed each of the previous seasons. They stuck in his craw the entire winter. He was tired of almost winning, of almost making it all the way. It was the one thing that burned in his mind most as he considered how Molly was his only hope in saving Mickey—and ultimately him as well.
“I was hoping that maybe you could talk to Mickey,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Did someone do something to him, Arthur? Tell me—please.”
“No, it’s not that, Molly. He’s fine. There’s no trouble like that.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I think he’s having some difficulty dealing with the whole Clarence thing,” Murph explained.
She sighed. Murph sensed that she wanted to drop the whole subject but at the same time had to know more.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What has he said?”
“Well, he hasn’t said anything to me,” Murph replied. “But I know he’s talking to Jolene. And Le
ster too. But it’s not helping much. I mean he’s still real distracted and all, and he’s just not himself.”
“So what can I do? The wounds are deep and the scars don’t go away. Trust me, I know.” The silence that followed verged on a kind of helplessness.
“Look, Molly, there’s no magic potion here. I know that. But I think if you talk to him, you might be able to find a way to get him to put it all behind him. Sorta what you’re trying to do now for yourself.”
“Well, of course I’ll try,” she said. “But I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Murph sat by himself during the entire bus ride, thinking about Molly and Mickey and how it would all turn out, until the demands of the first game against the Phillies took over his mind. The fever of game preparation spiked all through the night and into the next day, right up until the first pitch. It was only then that Murph could breathe a little easier as he watched his methodical maneuverings roll out.
The results came immediately. His decision to move Jethroe into the leadoff spot and bat Hartsfield second paid instant dividends. After working the count full, Jethroe drew a walk to begin the game. Murph’s wheels were turning. He knew the Phillies were expecting him to run and that Hartsfield would be seeing a steady diet of fastballs from Phillies hurler Curt Simmons in order to give them a fair shot of gunning Jethroe down at second. He also knew how adept Hartsfield had become at hitting behind the runner and exposing the hole on the right side of the infield. So on the second pitch of the at bat, Murph flashed a hit-and-run. Jethroe took off the minute the ball left Simmons’s hand, and Hartsfield slapped a single through the vacated spot at second base, giving the Braves first and third with nobody out to begin the game.
Things continued to go swimmingly for Murph when Earl Torgeson lined a sharp single to left field, plating Jethroe with the first run of the game. The Braves were off and running.
“Atta boy, Torgy,” Murph yelled from the bench. “Looking good today, boys. I like what I see.”
“Seems like the boys came to play today, huh, skipper,” Ozmore yelled from the on-deck circle. “Now you watch the brotherly love old Buddy’s about to share.”
Ozmore slipped into the batter’s box like a cheetah stalking its prey. He was smiling, the sort of toothy expression that children sport after having gotten away with something. Once inside, he puffed his chest—as if the appearance of more of him would make him more dangerous—and cut the air a few times with his bat before settling in.
Simmons did not appreciate Ozmore’s display; he felt a spasm in his gut, as if he had just been kicked. He was already smarting from the damage done by the first three Braves batters. He did not need any of Ozmore’s bullshit besides. So he began the confrontation with an inside fastball that rode up just under Ozmore’s chin, sending the most brazen of the Boston club crashing to the dirt. The Braves’ bench erupted in a maelstrom of obscenities directed at both Simmons and the entire Phillies team. But Ozmore was cool. He stood back up, dusted himself off, and got right back in the box. His face was blank, but his eyes burned with a wild determination. Simmons was equally upset; he was still seething over Ozmore’s disrespectful antics and would have loved to actually stick one in his ear, but he had a game to pitch. And a real jam to navigate.
Confident now that he had sufficiently rattled Ozmore and placed enough doubt in his mind as to what was coming next, Simmons came set and fired again. The intended destination of the pitch was the outside corner, about knee-high. The ball, however, got away from the Phillies hurler and drifted out across the plate unexpectedly, where it slammed into the eager barrel of Ozmore’s Louisville slugger. The collision was violent and produced a crack so thunderous that the reverberation could be felt throughout the entire ballpark for the duration of the ball’s flight. Only when the ball touched down in the second deck just beyond the center field fence did the noise abate, replaced by an eerie silence that suggested to the Philadelphia faithful that something ominous had just transpired. Connie Mack Stadium was suddenly a morgue, all except the visitors dugout, which continued to erupt with smiles and laughter and gloating.
Ozmore’s three-run blast powered the Braves’ Johnny Sain, who went out to the hill in the bottom of the first inning and set down the Phillies in order with no issue. The same pattern followed throughout the entire game. The Braves kept putting up runs on the board, and Sain went about his business of dismantling the Phillies attack with an assortment of fastballs and off-speed stuff that had the home team bats baffled. And when Sain recorded the final out of the game by way of a weak comebacker that he scooped up and fired to first, the papers in Boston were already printing the headline for the next day: BRAVES SCALP PHILS TO CLIMB CLOSER. Every barbershop, diner, and watering hole in Boston was bristling with talk of the surging Braves and what looked to be a certain date with postseason glory.
Murph was pleased. But more remarkable than the victory over the first-place Phils and the sudden bump in the standings was Mickey. The young man had been noticeably more at ease, much more like himself. He had spent the entire game watching from the top step of the dugout while chatting up anyone who would listen. He discussed with Sid Gordon the number of pecan nuts that typically appear on the top of a pecan pie, rambled on with Bucky Walters about the shape of the leaves of the red oaks that lined Somerset Street, and analyzed with Vern Bickford, who was trying to prepare himself for the next game’s start, how much steel it took to lay the train tracks that ran through the city. He even spent as much time as Warren Spahn would allow prattling on about the difference between spiders and bugs.
“Spiders ain’t bugs, Warren Spahn,” Mickey explained to the Boston ace. “Spiders are arachnids. They have eight legs and maybe sometimes fangs and also many eyes. Bugs have six legs and antennae. And spiders can’t be bugs ’cause spiders eat bugs, Warren. One time, I saw this spider in our barn, and he was just about to—”
“Hey, cut the gas, kid. Cool it. All I asked was how you feel about bugs and that big old spider in the corner there. Geez.”
Murph also noticed that Mickey called Jolene after the game and was chattering away with no visible sign of distress. Murph wasn’t sure what it was that Molly had said to him, but whatever it was, it sure looked as though it had done the trick. The boy had come back to himself just the way Murph had hoped.
“Yes, Jolene, we beat the Phillies today,” Mickey said to her. “It was a lot of fun.”
“So you’re feeling better?’ she asked. “You know, from the other day?”
He had not really thought about the way he was feeling at all. But now, in his slow, ruminating way, he was instantly aware of a change.
“Mickey feels better,” he said. “Yes. Yes. Happy. And not worried no more.”
“That’s great. Really great.” She paused a minute to weigh her next thought. “Do you know why?” she asked. “You know, why you’re so happy again?”
He huffed a little into the telephone receiver.
“Because we won, Jolene,” he said. “Mickey likes it when we win.”
“I know that, silly. Of course you do. I just thought that maybe there was something else. You know, like maybe you talked to someone. Or someone helped you. Something like that.”
“Mickey talks to a lot of people. I talked to Gus today. He is the security guard at the stadium here. Mickey met him before. He helps me when we are here. And I talked to Vern, and Warren, and Murph, and then—”
“Wow, that sure is a lot of people,” she said. “How about on the telephone. Did you talk to anyone on the phone?”
He had to think a moment.
“Not today I didn’t, Jolene,” he explained. “I am talking to you now, but that don’t count none. Oh and I talked to my mama, too, but that wasn’t today neither. So I guess—”
“How is your mama?”
“Mama is good. Real good. She’s at the farm still. It’s messy there. Very messy.”
“I bet it is, Mickey,” Jolene said. “So, u
h, what did you guys talk about?”
“Oh my mama told me lots of things,” Mickey said. “Like how Bumper and Juno still love sugar cubes. Bumper and Juno are the only two horses left on the farm. Where I used to live. They sure love sugar cubes. Carrots, too.”
“That’s good, Mick, but what about—”
“There are a bunch of new chicks, too, running all around the ground,” Mickey continued. “Mama says she ain’t never seen a brood run around so fast. She can hardly keep up with them.”
Mickey went on to tell Jolene all about the overgrown cornfield and the birds’ nest Molly found ten feet above the ground, built right into the ceiling of the front porch. He also laughed about the family of field mice that had taken up residence in the barn and began telling her all about the dozens of crab apples that needed to be collected before she interrupted his fevered flow of thoughts.
“What about your daddy, Mick?” she asked. “Did your mama talk about that?”
He had one eye on the door of his room as he listened to her, as if he expected at any minute some troubling interruption. He did not answer her at first. He felt disoriented, like he used to as a kid trying to walk immediately after Molly had playfully swung him around in the open field next to the barn. The room spun for a moment. He held on to the arm of the chair to steady himself. Then he took one loud, desperate breath and stumbled clumsily through the next few words.
“My pa, he passed away, Jolene,” he said. “On the farm. He passed.”
“I know, I know, Mickey. I know that it was upsetting for you. Remember how we talked?”
He did not answer.
“That’s why I was wondering if your mama also talked to you about it. You know, how you are feeling and all? About everything?”
“Mama said Mickey doesn’t have to worry no more. Or be sad.”
“That’s good.”
“On account of my pa saying he loves me. And that he weren’t mad no more about all those things I done to make him holler and scream.”
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