Jokers Club

by Gregory Bastianelli

  She stepped away, not looking at me.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m leaving.”

  “But why, I don’t understand,” my voice pleaded. “Don’t you love me?”

  She faced me. “Not like I used to.”

  There was sadness in her eyes. But was it sadness for herself? Or sadness for me?

  “You can’t do this to us,” I implored.

  “I have to go,” she said, turning and walking down the porch steps.

  I wanted to do something, but my mind and body were frozen. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t act. Halfway down the walk, she stopped and turned.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “In time, you’ll find love again. Someday you’ll be happy.”

  “Not for me,” I cried out. “I’m dying.”

  But she didn’t hear me. She was too far away.

  “She’s gone,” a voice beside me said. I turned and saw the Joker. I looked back but could barely see Meg in the distance.

  “This wasn’t supposed to be your life,” the Joker said.

  “But I wanted it so much.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. You both have your own separate lives.”

  “We used to be a part of each other’s. Now, I have no idea what her life is like, and she has no idea about mine.” I let out a sigh. “I just wish –”

  “What do you wish?” the Joker asked.

  I looked at him. He was grinning, but this time it was a compassionate grin. I looked back to where Meg last was.

  “If I had one last wish, it would be to see Meg again, hold her, tell her how much I’ve missed her.”

  I felt the Joker’s hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s so distant now,” I said. “I can barely remember what it was like with her. It’s as if time is slowly white-washing it away. I can’t even remember the color of her eyes.” I thought hard for a moment. “I think they were –”

  I turned around. “—brown,” I said, staring into beautiful brown eyes as her hand withdrew from my shoulder.

  “Are you okay, Geoff?” she asked.

  I smiled, but then realized the eyes I was looking into belonged to Mary Torr.

  “Oh,” I said, stumbling a step back, shaking my head to clear it. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Do you feel all right?”

  “Yes,” I blurted. “I’m just, well, I guess I just got lost in my thoughts.” I sat back down on the swing. “I guess I haven’t been sleeping well.” I was more embarrassed than anything. I also realized I hadn’t cared too much about my appearance when I washed up this morning, so I imagined the way I looked, coupled with my actions, must have appeared very odd.

  “I understand,” she said. “I have difficulty sleeping too sometimes.”

  I figured she was just trying to appease me. I felt like an idiot.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, looking up at her. Was she real, I thought? Or was she someone I created? Did my mind conjure her up in Meg’s image to take her place? Is that why she seemed familiar to me?

  “Try and get some rest,” she said before excusing herself. I watched her walk away.

  I knew now that I would not find Meg here. She was gone, like so many other things in my life. I couldn’t dwell on thoughts of her. I had other tasks to concentrate on.

  When Mary left my view, I leaned back on the swing, careful not to make it rock. I wanted to relax in the quiet of the moment, but that was broken by the car that pulled up in front of the inn. It was Chief Hooper.

  The front door to the inn opened and I turned to see Oliver step onto the porch. He must have heard the car pull up.

  “Hmmm,” he almost smiled. “I wonder what Heifer wants with us now?”

  I said nothing, only watched as Hooper climbed out of his car with a struggle and approached the inn, pulling up on a belt that his stomach kept pushing down. It was as if the two were in a confrontation. The stomach won.

  He stopped a few feet from the porch. He was chewing on something and looked all around the inn, his eyes resting the longest on the parking lot. It was as if he were pretending not to notice us. I couldn’t tell if he were chomping at the bit over something or waiting to finish chewing before talking. He swallowed and rubbed his chin. His eyes fixated on me with a look of distaste, and I thought maybe he didn’t like where I was sitting. His gaze shifted to Oliver.

  “Mr. Mudge around?”

  “Haven’t seen him,” Oliver said. “Why?”

  Hooper ignored this. He looked at me.

  “I saw him last night,” I answered, “but haven’t seen him yet today.”

  “Where last night?”

  “At Loon Tavern.”

  The chief looked over at the parking lot again. He stared as if deep in thought.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, thinking about last night.

  The chief looked back at us and cleared his throat with a disgusting gurgling sound.

  “I have a warrant for his arrest.”

  I stood up. “What?”

  “A murder warrant?” Oliver asked.

  “No such luck,” the chief said, shaking his head.

  “Then what?” I was confused.

  “There’s a warrant from Maine out on him,” Hooper said. “Auto theft.” He looked to the parking lot. “That car right over there.” He indicated Lonny’s car, the one with the dealer plates.

  “But I thought that was his car? He’s a car salesman.”

  “Was,” the chief said, trying one more tug on his belt. “He got fired a few days ago. He was giving some customer a test ride when he got stopped for driving while intoxicated.” The chief shook his head and laughed, but it was more of a pitiful laugh than humorous. “The company canned him, and he was supposed to return his dealer car.” He scratched his head. “But it seems like he never did. Just took off with the car. His wife doesn’t even know where he is. They issued a warrant for his arrest.”

  My god, I thought. What has Lonny gotten himself into? That explained the lack of clothes in his room. What could he have been thinking? What did he plan to do? I thought about something he had said the other night: I’m desperate. How desperate?

  “What a pinhead,” was all Oliver said.

  “Well, I’m going to have my men come up and impound that car,” Hooper said. “If Mr. Mudge shows up, you’d be advised to have him come see me.” He nodded. “Before I find him.” He turned and walked away, trying to saunter, but his body shape didn’t allow for it.

  “Chief,” I called out after him. He stopped and turned. “Any word on Paul Woodman?”

  “We still haven’t been able to get a hold of him. I’m keeping on top of that.”

  I decided not to tell him about who, or what, I saw at the cemetery. I wasn’t even sure myself if I really saw it. When Hooper was gone I turned to Oliver.

  “What do we do?” It was as if he were still the leader.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Mudge is an idiot.” He turned to go back inside. “Let him dig his own grave.”

  I couldn’t just sit by. I had to do something, had to find Lonny. I got in my car and decided to drive around town, see if I could locate him. It was probably futile, but it was something. Besides, I had nothing else to do.

  I figured I’d check Loon Tavern first; it was as good a place as any to start, but when I pulled onto the boulevard downtown, I noticed Hooper had beaten me to it. His car was parked outside the tavern. I pulled over into a parking spot next to the boardwalk and cut the engine. I waited to see if Hooper would come out with Lonny. It was only a minute or two then the chief stepped out, alone. He got in his car and drove off. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Hands shot into the passenger side window, grabbing my arm.

  I twisted around sharply, my heart jumping in my throat. I looked in horror at the maniacal face before me.

  “HEY!” Carrothead screamed, drool running down a face
scrunched up like a clenched fist. “Tell your friend he’s too old to play games!” His hands withdrew to the edge of the window. I remained pressed up against my door, afraid he’d reach out for me again.

  “Do you hear me?” he screamed. His face was brighter than his hair. “He can’t play games no more! Tell him he doesn’t belong in the park!” He stepped back from the car, his mouth still frothing. “Tell him to stay away from the park!” he shrieked one last time, then turned and shuffled down the boardwalk.

  I had been holding my breath the whole time and now released it. My body was shaking and I gripped the steering wheel to settle it. When the shakes were gone, I tried to figure out what Carrothead was ranting about.

  The park? Games?

  Did he mean the ball park? The Little League field out past our old neighborhood near the cemetery?

  Had he been talking about Lonny or someone else? It could have meant nothing. But it was worth a look. I started the car.

  As I headed up Autumn Avenue, I decided to take a cruise through our neighborhood, just on the off chance Lonny was wandering around there. I turned onto Maple and drove slowly down the quiet street. I looked at my old house once again and the one next to it that Woody lived in, thinking about the night Woody and I talked to each other from our bedroom windows and decided to go out to the Tin Man’s house. I looked over at the blackened skeleton of a tree that stood in the Rench’s old back yard and thought of the fire that inadvertently started this whole nightmare. A nightmare that still hadn’t ended, apparently.

  When I got to the end of the street, I turned left onto Shadow Drive, looking up at the house on the corner where the Nightingales lived. I imagined Jason’s family was still haunted by the same memories we were.

  I didn’t drive all the way down Shadow Drive. I stopped at the spot where Elm Street intersected it. But I could see the end of the road. I could see the Tin Man’s house. I sat in the car and stared at the windows of the house with the drawn green shades. I watched for movement behind those shades. After all these years. He was still alive. How could Emeric Rust have lived so long? What kept him alive? He was behind those windows somewhere, I could feel it. Was he watching me? What was he living for? What driving force kept him going?

  I shook my head, as if to rid myself of the somnambulant trance I seemed to be yielding to and turned the car down Elm Street. I scanned the ravine behind the houses, not really expecting to find Lonny lurking there. I glanced at the house Hooper lived in and wondered if he still did. Probably.

  I looked to my right, up the hill to the Pines and saw somebody.

  I pulled over to the side of the street and stopped. I looked through the windshield and could see a figure standing amidst the trees on top of the hill. I got out of the car to get a better view.

  The figure moved. A man.

  He moved quickly along behind a row of trees creating a strobe effect on my vision. The man looked dirty and disheveled. He glanced down at me.

  It looked like Woody.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Woody! Wait!”

  He disappeared over the crest of the hill.

  I thought of running up the hill after him but didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me again.

  I stood there for a minute, pondering, and then got back in the car. As I pulled out onto Autumn Avenue once again and got around to where I could see the other side of the hill, I looked over. There was no one there.

  I dismissed it and pulled my car up by the Little League field. I surveyed the field as I stepped out of the vehicle. It looked much smaller than I remembered as a kid. Back then the outfield fence seemed impossibly far away, but now it looked like I could throw a ball over it from home plate.

  There was no one around. The ballpark was in a state of rest for the upcoming winter ahead. The grass had grown thick and was turning brown. The concession stand was boarded up. The green paint on the wooden dugouts on either side of the field was cracked and peeling.

  I walked toward the middle of the field, out to the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher’s rubber had been removed, but I stood where it had been. The mound seemed low. I looked at the infield and outfield around me.

  At the players around me. My teammates.

  It was the city Little League championship. I stood on the mound rubbing the ball into my glove. It was the bottom of the last inning and I was tired. My arm ached. I had pitched the whole game, but I didn’t want to stop now. We were up by only a run with one out and no one on. I couldn’t let the coach see I was tired. I wanted to get these two outs, wanted to finish the game, wanted to be the hero. If the coach saw I was tired, if he knew how sore my arm was, he would give me the hook.

  A quick peek into the bleachers and I could see my dad’s smiling face. I wanted to impress him, needed to make him proud of me. That’s why I had to finish this game.

  I stepped onto the rubber and looked at the batter. Glancing into the on-deck circle, Oliver Rench waited, swinging a weighted bat. I had to get these next two outs because I knew what awaited me after Oliver’s turn: Chuckwagon.

  I stared in at Woody behind the plate. He was setting his catcher’s mitt up low and inside. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to work too much to this guy. My arm couldn’t take it. Nothing fancy. Just put it down the middle and let him hit it. Then hope for an out.

  I wound up and threw as hard as I could right down the pipe.

  The bat cracked and the ball lined way over my head. I spun around and watched as the center fielder ran in and caught the ball.

  One more, I thought, removing my hat to wipe my forehead. I replaced my cap and caught the ball after it went around the horn.

  Oliver stepped into the batter’s box, and Chuckwagon stepped into the on-deck circle. He was built like a block of granite. Even his head looked square. He held three bats together and swung them back and forth.

  “Keep it alive for me, Oliver,” he hollered.

  Oliver grinned at me, then at the plate.

  I released a sigh and looked in at Woody. I had to get Oliver out. I didn’t want to face Chuckwagon. He had hit more home runs than anybody in the league. If I could just get Oliver out, we’d be the champs. The pressure was sickening.

  I wound up and threw the ball right down the middle of the plate. He took the ball for a strike.

  I shook my head. I wanted him to swing. I was putting every bit of energy I could into my pitches. I didn’t want to waste time throwing. I wanted him to just hit the ball and get it over with. My arm felt like lead.

  I wound up and threw again. This pitch was high for a ball.

  Come on, I said to myself. Just swing at the damn thing.

  My arm gave out in the middle of the next pitch. It was accurate, right down the heart of the plate, but there was no power to it. It just floated to the bat.

  Oliver swung and lined the ball into left field. A roar went up from the crowd and the opponent’s dugout. I felt my heart slip a notch inside me.

  Chuckwagon tossed two bats aside and strode up to the batter’s box. The coach called time out and walked to the mound. Woody joined us.

  “I’m all right,” I said to the coach, before he even had a chance to speak.

  “How’s the arm?”

  I was staring into the stands at my dad. “It feels great,” I lied. “Really, I can get this guy.”

  The coach shook his head, as if not convinced by my plea, but then surprised me. “Okay,” he said. “Do it.”

  Woody spoke up. “Maybe we should put this guy on, Coach?”

  “No way,” I said, emphatically. “That’s the coward’s way out.”

  “If we want this championship,” coach said, “we’re going to earn it.”

  Coach walked back to the dugout.

  “Don’t give him a treat like you’ve been feeding these other guys,” Woody said.

  “Don’t worry,” I nodded. Woody went back to the plate. He was right. I couldn’t fool around with Chuckw
agon. Anything down the middle of the plate would be out of here for sure. He already put one out on me earlier in the game that wound up in the cemetery. I would have to be a bit craftier.

  “Take him out coach!” one of the parents yelled from the bleachers. It didn’t sound like my dad.

  I glanced over at the opposing dugout. The whole team was standing up at the chain link fence that covered the face of the dugout, hands gripping the metal fibers, eyes bugging out at the field. No one had even bothered to step into the on-deck circle. It was as if they were all certain Chuckwagon was going to end the game.

  There was no doubt in my mind he was thinking home run all the way. He wouldn’t settle for anything less.

  I went into my windup and threw to the plate. I threw the ball low, hoping he’d be over anxious and bounce a grounder to the infield, but he just watched it and Woody bobbled the pitch and dropped it.

  Out of my peripheral vision I saw Oliver take off for second. Woody was barely able to pick the ball up and his throw down to second was nowhere near in time. Oliver stood up from his slide laughing, brushing the dirt off his pants.

  “Oliver!” Chuckwagon hollered. The whole park was jolted into silence. “Don’t you dare take a chance like that again! This game is mine.”

  I looked at Oliver and his smile was gone. I had never seen a look of fright on Oliver like that before.

  My next pitch was high and outside, but Chuckwagon’s long arms and huge bat reached for it and connected.

  I held my breath at the sound of that crack. He had gotten solid wood on it. I spun around and watched the ball sail out toward right field. I leaned way to the right, mentally trying to force the ball foul. I don’t know if it helped, but the ball started to hook. My pitch must have been just outside enough. The ball went foul, well beyond the homerun fence.

  There were oohs and ahhs from the crowd and I released my breath. My teammates cheered behind me.

  Hmmmm babe. Hmmmm babe.

  My arm was throbbing, so I thought I’d try a curve. I just didn’t have the strength to have much faith in my fastball. As I released the ball, my arm spasmed. The ball was heading for his head and I didn’t think it was going to break. At the last possible second before it met his helmet, he threw himself to the ground. The crowd gasped. I don’t think anyone had ever seen Chuckwagon go down from a pitch. I think maybe the only reason he did was because he didn’t want to get on base by being hit. He wanted that home run, could taste it.