The two words were a croak, barely audible.
Nathan looked around not sure if he was hearing things. He looked down at the boy. Two eyes peered back at him.
The boy croaked again, “Go back.”
“Kid, we can’t go back. If we stay here, we’ll both die.”
“It’s not over.” The boy’s eyes turned red with suppressed emotion. “He’s just going to follow us. Where ever we go. He’ll hurt the people we love.” Jar was thinking of his mother. He was thinking of Junction. He’d gone all this way. He couldn’t just bring this hell back home. He couldn’t let Suzy die for nothing.
Unfolding from his curled position in the seat, Jar looked at Nathan and said the words that had been repeating in his head since the beginning of this journey. He said, “I don’t like to lose but I’m proud to have played in this game.”
Nathan pulled the cruiser to the side of the road. Staring out the windshield he said, “That was a hell of a game.”
Jar responded. “It sure was.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Nathan said, “How in the hell does a kid from Junction, Texas know anything about the Red Sox?”
Narrow shoulders shrugged up. “I dunno, me and Barry we’re big fans, always have been.”
“Those words Pete Rose said, what do you think he meant?”
This time there was a moment of silence as Jar gave the question some thought. Finally he said, “I think he was saying it’s okay to lose—that just being there was an honor. Every player on that field became a part of baseball history. For one game they were all a part of something bigger than themselves.”
“That’s a hell of an answer.” Nathan reached into his pocket and removed the baseball. “A special lady told me to return this to you when the time was right. If what you’re saying is we’re turning around to be a part of what’s playing out in town. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Then I have a feeling I’m not going to get another chance.”
Jar accepted the ball. It was warm to the touch. A light energy tingled in his fingertips and for a brief moment he saw the woman coming through the smoke, her hips swaying gently to and fro. He got the sense she had come to tell him something important. Concentrating he squeezed the ball and closed his eyes. The image disappeared.
Nathan turned the squad car around.
They drove for a bit, rolled over the broken chain and continued down the dirt lane. The return ride was slower. Nathan was in no hurry to rejoin the skirmish they had so recently escaped. Agador whined in the back seat.
They were passing by the baseball fields when the boy raised his voice in agitation. “Stop.” He pointed at the baseball diamond.
Perplexed, Nathan gave the boy an odd look. “Let me get this right, all hell’s breaking loose and you want to stop and play ball.”
“It’s not me, I just.” Groaning in frustration he held out the ball as if it might speak for itself. “I think we ended up here for a reason.” He looked at Nathan with pleading eyes. Eyes that begged, don’t laugh, don’t think I’ve gone crazy.
Nathan recalled his earlier feeling, the feeling they were being led through town, blocked and rerouted like rats in a maze. Was it possible they had been routed to the baseball field? He thought of the words Narried had spoken earlier in the evening. “Dis baseball is intertwined wid de boy.” “What the hell.” He barked out a sharp laugh. “Why not.” He nosed the squad car up toward the baseball diamond and put it in park.
Struggling out of the car, Nathan dragged his injured leg through the door opening. The shredded pant leg fluttered open revealing the bandage Narried had wrapped nice and snug with her own hands, but fresh blood seeped through. A small trickle ran down his leg.
Still holding the baseball, Jar opened his door and climbed out of the car. He peered into the darkness sensing the presence of Griffin Tanner. It was like the two shared a homing beacon.
Agador scratched at the back window until Jar opened the door. The dog bounded out but instead of streaking into the night in pursuit of an elusive scent he came around, nudged the boy and stayed close.
Jar eyed the sheriff. He was in no condition to be walking around. Scanning the ground he spied a long, sturdy stick. He grabbed the stick. “Here use this.”
Nathan accepted the stick and leaned on it. Pain radiated out from his hamstring but the stick helped take the weight off the injured leg.
Jar pointed at a small square shed. “What’s that?”
“Equipment shed.”
“Okay.”
Jar helped Nathan into the dugout area and down onto the bench. He said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
A few seconds later the field lights came on one by one, lighting up the night. The boy returned carrying equipment. He moved around the diamond, dropping each base into position.
Nathan pointed at the lights in dismay. “Kid, do you really want to put out a welcome mat for this thing?”
Jar came over, dropped home plate and eyed the sheriff. “We’re going to need an outfielder.”
“Maybe I’ve lost too much blood. I don’t think I’m following the new game plan.”
This time Jar leaned in with earnest. “You ever see the game?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it.”
“Okay, remember when Pudge hits the ball? He stands there waving it to stay fair as it sails down the line. What goes through your mind right at that moment?”
Nathan’s mouth went dry. He whispered. “It should have gone foul.”
Jar’s voice cracked in excitement, “That’s right! Calming himself he finished in a lower voice. “It stayed fair.” He looked out at left field, mesmerized by the impossible. “Somehow the ball stayed fair.” His mind lost in the past he wondered out loud. “Do you think it’s possible that something was out there in the field that night? He looked down at Nathan. “If you could rewind time, take it all back to a single moment. What if the ball had gone foul? Do you think we would be standing here right now?”
Nathan was speechless. The boy’s words matched his own earlier thoughts. The next question wasn’t necessary but he asked anyway. “What exactly do you have in mind?”
Eyes still on left field, Jar replied. “I think we should play ball.”
*
The advancing fire flickered in the distance. It’s presence a fine glow outlining the tall oaks just beyond the field. More frightening than the ravenous flames was the knowledge that another presence moved stealthily through the burning town, getting to know the lay of the land. After the fire had satiated itself and gone, the people would return. They would bring home their families unaware a different threat waited in the burnt out ruins, a menace with its own insatiable appetite, not for wood or kindling, but for young children.
The air tightened, sending out traces of electricity and expectation. Standing on the pitcher’s mound Nathan felt the change. He looked at Jar. The boy held up the ball, like a catholic holding up the cross to ward off evil. Nathan encompassed both the ball and the boy’s hands with his own. At their union, a jolt of electricity traveled through the ball and raced up their arms. Fenway Park shimmered in the boy’s eyes.
The sound of static filled Nathan’s ears. Holding the ball tight, Nathan and Jar stood together, their lips moving in unison; the words of game six broadcasting through them like a radio wave caught in a time continuum. As their words floated out into the thick night air, the field around them rippled and started to transform. The green monster flickered like a mirage in the outfield and a low roar rolled out from the 35,000 fans seated in the stands above.
Ghost players appeared on the field. Drago on the pitcher’s mound, Morgan at bat and Griffey on first. Dwight Evans appears in right field. He pedals frantically backward, makes a one handed catch and crashes into the wall. He comes off the wall, throws to first for a double play. Nathan recognized the plays and he could tell by the look on Jared Riley’s face he did too. They were in the 11th inning of game 6.
The
air around Jar and Nathan became still, the night quiet. The two of them, boy and man, joined at the hands by a small spherical shape, didn’t miss a play as the game continued.
Pat Darcy pitches to Miller, Doyle and Yastrzemski and retires them all—the 11th inning ends with the score still tied at 6 to 6.
Wise takes the mound for the Sox. Bench comes up to bat, he pops a fly to the catcher and he’s out. Perez and Foster hit singles but Wise retires Concepcion and strikes out Geronimo
It’s the Red Sox turn to bat.
Darcy takes the mound and Fisk comes up to bat.
Maintaining eye contact with Nathan, Jar let go of the ball. He moved backwards away from the pitcher’s mound toward home plate. Once there he picked up the baseball bat and waited. Dry electricity crackled through the air, connecting the man on the pitcher’s mound to the boy standing at home plate.
Drawn by the lights, Griffin Tanner emerged from the woods. He lingered in the shadows and watched the odd scene unfolding, his eyes lit on the boy standing at home plate and a deep seated hunger rolled through him. Brunache surfaced—whispering his dark desires until Griffin’s blood surged with anticipation, saliva pooled in his mouth and he could no longer differentiate between his needs and Brunache’s.
The machete radiated heat. Closing his eyes he imagined what it would feel like to toy with the boy, to caress his skin, taste the salty fear sweating from his pores—he had to linger, savor every moment. Little cuts first. Taste the blood. Enjoy his misery, his suffering and then when he was through playing he would plunge the machete inside him and pull out his intestines while he still breathed. At the thought of the coming carnage, his eyes rolled back, showing the whites. He jumped the chain-link fence and stepped onto the baseball field.
From the mound, Nathan watched Jared Riley pick up the bat, swipe his feet across home plate, shrug his shoulders and stretch the bat over his head. He tugged at his shirt sleeves, shook his head as if trying to clear his thoughts and gave the home plate a little tap with the bat.
Nathan wound up for the pitch and let the ball go.
Looking as if it were moving in slow motion, the ball crossed the distance between the pitcher’s mound and home plate. Waiting on the other side, his poise in perfect imitation of Carlton Fisk’s swinging stance, Jar pulled his arms back and brought the bat around in a low, perfect arc.
The bat connected with the ball and a loud crack ripped through the night. The ball went flying across the field. Jar, still imitating Carlton Fisk, hopped toward first base, waving the ball to stay fair. The ball sailed down the left-field line.
As Nathan watched the ball arc toward left field he swore he heard Ned Martin’s voice yell, He swings. Long drive, left field...if it stays fair, it's gone. HOME RUN! The Red Sox win! And the series is tied, three games apiece.”
In the woods bordering the baseball field a giant pine tree fell beneath the onslaught of flames and another thunderous crack echoed in the night. Fire raced out in every direction, consuming the dry wood.
The baseball crossed the field, gaining speed as it went. When Nathan saw the silhouetted figure standing in the field, the hellish inferno behind him, he heard Narried whispering in his ear. “You never ask me how it is three women could kill Brunache when an army of men failed.” He looked down at his filthy hand and saw the thin line where Nute’s blade cut him earlier that night. Was it possible?
*
Jar saw the figure too. He remembered that day at the drainage pipe—Luke winding his arm back, “You want your ball Barry? Catch.” Barry was the most athletic of them all—if anyone could have caught that ball it should have been him. He leapt into the air and the ball brushed past his fingertips.
Jar watched the figure run across the field—whatever was left of Griffin Tanner, recognized the ball sailing toward him and just like Barry had that day so long ago, the figure in the outfield leapt into the air. Jar knew it wasn’t going to brush past his fingertips. It had always been his ball, his catch.
*
The urge to reclaim what was his was visceral. Griffin Tanner’s nostrils flared, his lips curled back into a snarl. He dropped the machete, raced across the field like an animal about to strike and launched himself into the air, his hands positioned in front of his body, centered to the oncoming ball in perfect position for a perfect catch.
It should have been a perfect catch.
If it had been any other ball it would have landed snug inside the palm of Griffin Tanner’s hand, and if it had been an ordinary ball it would have gone foul in 1975, and at the beginning of June it wouldn’t have brushed past the tips of Barry Tanner’s desperate fingers.
That ball had been traveling, picking up momentum for over thirty years. When it hit the inside of Griffin Tanner’s hands it was an explosive force of energy. The layer of soot covering it, ashes mixed with the blood of a Sansericq, Durins and a Villendrouin became the incendiary—a match held to the end of a fast burning wick.
The ball burst through Griffin’s waiting hands—exploded through his chest, disintegrating bones, soft tissue and his heart. Still aflame the ball exited, leaving a smoldering hole in his back. It clanked off the left field pole, and stayed fair.
A brilliant light poured from the hole in Griffin’s chest. Hotter than the fire burning through Reserve, the light raced across his body. The dark figure of Bruanche lunged upward trying to escape his burning host but the ti-bon-ange and gros-bon-ange would not give up their link. Like elastic the dark figure snapped back toward Griffin Tanner’s burning body. Finally, the smoldering husk collapsed in left field.
From his position on the mound, Nathan watched Jared come around second base and hesitate when he saw the burning figure in left field. He glanced toward the pitcher’s mound and Nathan waved for him to keep going. Jared tapped second, and came around third with a look of determination etched across his tired face. As he crossed home plate, the air changed. The electrical charge dissipated and Fenway Park faded away.
*
Narried would have said the Loa were with Nathan Singer as he drove through the burning town of Reserve to retrieve the Govi. The clay box was near his truck along with the mutilated bodies of Narried and Nute. There was no time for mourning. The two that were dead would have been the first to understand and urge him away to finish the task at hand.
Driving toward the oil refineries, Nathan could almost hear Narried’s sassy voice admonishing him to hurry up about it before the whole town burned with him still in it. The Shell refinery was the first among a row on the east bank. He knew once it exploded the rest would go like a chain reaction. He stashed the Govi filled with Griffin Tanner’s ashes in one of the utility buildings. The fire would have gotten there eventually but he helped it along with some crumbled newspapers and a flare.
As he limped away he whispered the only Haitain phrase Narried had taught him. “Odu Legba, Papa Legba, open the door your children are waiting.”
He did not need the voice of a spirit to urge him on. He fled as hastily as his injured leg would allow. In the car the boy gave him a worried look and his eyes slid down to his bandaged leg. Blood seeped through the tight bandage in an ever widening stain. He didn’t have time to worry. He sped away from the refineries, raced along River Road and took a sharp turn onto the Veterans Memorial Bridge.
When they were at the apex of the bridge he stopped the car, got out and removed Brunache’s wrapped machete from the trunk of the squad. The boy helped him to the rail. Nathan unfurled the blanket and the machete sailed through the air and disappeared into the darkness below. If there was a splash they didn’t hear it. The Shell refinery exploded. It lit up the night. Three more explosions followed.
Driving west toward San Antonio, Nathan asked the Loa for a sign. It came when they crossed into Texas. A soft rain began to fall. He pulled the squad to the shoulder and watched the rain glide down the windshield. Fearing the rain would stop if they acknowledged its presence they sat in silence until neither
one could resist the need to feel moisture on their skin. They got out of the squad.
Nathan leaned against the car for support. Jared stood beside him. They stood in the rain, their faces lifted toward the heavens while Agador bounded joyfully through the wet field.
Epilogue
Junction, Texas
Nathan Singer sat in the shade of a pecan tree, his injured leg propped up on a crate. The Texas sky stretched out above him in a wide blue canvas. Beth Riley came towards him carrying two glasses of iced tea. The glass glistened with sweat. She had the hollowed out look of a survivor, but one that was healing. With enough time he could tell she would be beautiful.
He’d been there three weeks—a delinquent sheriff to a town that had been destroyed. News reports kept coming in about the destruction of Reserve, Louisiana. Many people were missing, many more dead. The world thought he was dead, too. He was content to remain that way for now.
Barry and Jar came around from the back of the trailer. Agador trailed behind them, sniffing the sand covered ground, determined to find every new scent in his new surroundings. Nathan looked at the boys and shook his head. They had different coloring but it was clear to him they were brothers. They had the same jaw line, the same lanky posture. He wondered if Beth had known all these years and simply suppressed the truth.
She handed him his glass of iced tea. Her skin brushed against his. He felt a tingle of warmth race up his arm. Their eyes met. She smiled. She sat down in the lawn chair beside him, tucked a stray hair behind her ear and looked at her boys. A content smile lingered on her lips.
Nathan sipped his tea. Narried had been wrong about one thing. Nathan’s destiny wasn’t Reserve, Louisiana.
It was right here in Junction, Texas.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Patricia Fulton lives with her husband and two kids in Roswell, Georgia. She lived in Texas during the 1998 drought and witnessed Lake Arlington evaporate. The heat left a lasting impression. Her creative nonfiction has won three awards and her story, 612 West Maitland was selected for publication in O’ Georgia! A Collection of Georgia’s Newest and Most Promising Writers. The Drought is her first novel.
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