“Catching on quick.”
The sun burst overhead, warming them. Mickey suddenly smiled.
“See?” Puppy couldn’t resist a grin.
Mickey sighed. “Queers, monsters and fake rain.”
“We don’t call each other names in Grandma’s Home,” Puppy said softly. Unless you’re an Allah, he almost added.
They dragged their bags, now including take away from Chester’s Fried Chicken, up the steps of the building and into the apartment.
An old tanned man in a straw hat, white linen suit and tie rose politely from the couch. He took off his jacket and easily tossed it onto Puppy’s head.
“Get this pressed, boy.”
6
It took Zelda only a few minutes to pack up her few personal belongings: pencils, a couple photographs of her and Puppy, and Pablo, scarf and mittens, extra woolen socks and a paint brush. She was careful not to take anything remotely characterized as school property. They could claim the brush belonged to PS 75 since she’d used it in class, but this brush was hers. Bought and paid for. High quality, thin fibers, delicate wooden handle, perfect for quick strokes.
She hid the brush into the bottom of the carton and slipped on her bright red coat, tugging tightly around the waist. You have to lay off the Amblin’s Chocolates, girl, she chided herself. Zelda wrapped a blue scarf around her neck.
N’ariti stood in the doorway, smiling shyly. Zelda stared back cautiously. Children were like walking traps. Big sweet smiles and suddenly metal cleaved off your foot.
The girl took a brave breath and marched up to Zelda’s desk. “I’m sorry.”
Zelda tilted her head carefully. “About?”
N’ariti pointed at the box.
“I have a new job,” Zelda explained.
“Another school?” the girl asked sadly.
“No. Something better. Salmon.”
“What’s that?”
“Fish. You know. Fish.” She puffed out her cheeks like gills.
N’ariti took the pad off Zelda’s desk and scribbled quickly, using a charcoal pencil jutting out of her back pocket. “Like that?”
Zelda glanced down at the ugliest fish ever seen. Really looked more like a cat. “Sort of.”
“I don’t think I like fish,” N’ariti said.
“Most people don’t.”
“Then why do they eat it?”
“Because they think it’s good for them.”
“Is that why you’re working there?”
Zelda tore off the drawing from the pad and dropped it into the carton. She paused by the door. “Salmon don’t have tails.”
N’ariti puffed out her cheeks. “How can you be a window? I didn’t understand.”
Zelda’s hand rested impatiently on the knob. “You really can’t. It’s about people looking through you.”
“Why would you want to do that? They could see your intestines and veins.”
“Exactly,” Zelda said brusquely. “There’s another class coming in. Go back to where you belong before you get your new teacher in trouble.”
“What if I see in my brain my salmon with tails? Isn’t that what you meant?” N’ariti called out.
Zelda saw tails on everyone all the way home on the Number 6 train, and then back downtown later that day to Saul’s Salmons on East 174th Street. Children just didn’t know when to shut up; another reason she hated the little brats.
Her new office was tiny and narrow; Zelda could barely take off her coat without elbowing a wall. The chunky department manager Mr. Pietro stopped by, standing behind the glass enclosure rather than the doorway as if afraid she’d touch him.
“Welcome, Ms. Jones.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“This is a good place to work.” He nodded at the Saul’s Salmon poster behind him, featuring an ancient, smiling Saul Ribe sitting on a placid fish below the tagline, “Saul Knows Fish.”
“I’m anxious to pitch in and make it even better.”
Pietro wasn’t convinced. “Marketing’s important. Creativity is good. You’re creative.”
“I was a performance artist.”
Pietro’s eyebrows shot up, lifting his entire face. “I don’t want singing salmon. It’s not dignified.”
“How about dancing?”
“Would you eat a salmon all sweaty from dancing across the stage?”
“No, sir.” It was a good point, she had to admit.
“We want salmon serene. You don’t want an issue with your food. Take a bite and suddenly they start talking? The food’s to eat, not debate. Dignity in your artwork, Ms. Jones. And knowledge.” He left behind slightly steamed glass.
Zelda finished putting out her possessions, tossing N’ariti’s drawing in a small bin. She wound her way down a couple hallways, nodding at intense and determined colleagues clutching very important folders that would decide the fate of humanity. As close as she’d ever gotten to a business job was selling art supplies; that had lasted all of two months because she kept talking customers out of inferior products.
She passed a conference room; her name was on the list of attendees for a meeting in two minutes called “Is Tuna Salad Doomed? Our Opportunity.” Zelda continued to Pietro’s office, which was smaller than hers, mirroring the way the Cousins hierarchy was set up. The higher you went, the less perks. Success was not superiority, Grandma’s Fifth Insight said. Success was serving.
“Excuse me, sir.” She knocked lightly. He pulled his feet off the desk, surprised. “I had a question.”
“Usually that’s the prelude for scheduling an appointment, Ms. Jones,” Pietro said sternly.
She inched around his glass enclosure. “Sorry. First day excitement.”
Pietro softened slightly.
“You talked about knowledge,” she continued.
“When?”
“When you were in my office a few minutes ago.”
“Yes.” He grudgingly conceded.
“Since I’ve never been on a fishing boat,” she said and Pietro gasped slightly, “I wondered if I could go out one day to see what it’s all about. That would give me a real feel for real fish.”
Pietro peered at her. “That’s an excellent idea, Ms. Jones. Let me see what I can arrange.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He quickly frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the tuna salad meeting?” He handed her a folder. “Salmon salad. Consider the possibilities.”
• • • •
THE NEW OLD guy walked around the living room, sniffing disdainfully at the furniture. Puppy flipped the suit jacket on the chair, which agitated the man.
“I said I want that cleaned.” He glared at Mickey, deep in thought. “Sir, would you talk to your boy here?’
“Who the hell are you?” Puppy scowled.
The man clenched his fists. “How dare you take that tone with me, boy.”
“Ty?” Mickey stepped between them.
“Yes.” The man seemed offended that this was even a question.
“It’s Mickey Mantle.”
Ty Cobb peered in disbelief. “What happened to you?”
“I got old and died.” Mickey tugged on Puppy’s sleeve. “It’s Ty Cobb.”
Puppy just blinked.
“The greatest hitter who ever lived,” Cobb said arrogantly. “This your place, Mick?”
“No, his.”
Cobb sneered. “You live with a nigra?”
Puppy dragged Mickey into the bedroom and slammed the door. “Okay. Who is he?”
“Ty Cobb. But he ain’t the greatest hitter. Pete Rose broke his record. Don’t tell him. He got a temper.”
Puppy rubbed his forehead. “And you let him in why?”
“How could I let him in? I was with you.”
“Yes, you were.” Puppy was annoyed over that little fact. “Be honest.”
“I am,” Mickey snarled.
“You gave him my address.”
“No.”
“Then
spoke to the super and slipped him a few dollars…”
“I spent all my money on booze. Which I could use…”
Puppy held onto Mantle’s elbow. “Ty’s a friend of yours?”
“We posed for photos once. Hall of Famers and future Hall of Famers. It was for a magazine I can’t remember.”
“Mickey. Listen to me. I’m happy to help you.”
“No, you ain’t.” He stared hard.
Puppy flushed with shame. “I am. Somewhere inside, very happy. But I can’t have your buddies moving in.”
“The Sporting News.”
“What?”
“For the photos. It was a big baseball magazine. And Cobb can pay his way. The guy’s loaded. Made money off General Motors and Coca-Cola.” Mickey went back into the living room. Puppy sat on the edge of the bed, listening to them toast, thinking empty, bewildered thoughts. He returned during the second round.
“Ty…”
“Mr. Cobb.”
Mickey patted Ty’s arm to be nice.
“Ty,” he said grudgingly.
“Puppy Nedick.” He poured himself a stiff one. “Sorry if I was a little rude.” Cobb scowled. “But as Mick has explained, this is my apartment.”
Ty raised a disdainful eyebrow.
“You can appreciate, I’m sure, coming home and finding a stranger is a little disturbing.”
Mickey nudged Ty, who finally responded. “Your apology is accepted.”
“Well thank you kindly, sir.” Puppy forced out the sarcasm. “Any friend of Mickey’s is welcome.”
“I told you he wasn’t a bad kid.” Mick poured another round, tearing open the bag of Paul’s Pretzels and spraying salt over the coffee table.
“We have lots of food for dinner,” Puppy said.
“Fried chicken,” Mickey added.
“Of course.” Ty rolled his eyes.
“So please join us.”
“Much better,” Ty said, stretching. “I’d like to make some phone calls before supper.”
Mick elbowed Ty. “He ain’t got a phone. Not exactly a high flier.”
“No one has phones.” Puppy tried polishing his image.
“Those people usually have some common phone at a barbershop or bar,” Ty told Mick.
“No one except the police and the government has phones,” Puppy repeated louder.
Cobb grunted dubiously and waited for Puppy to pour him another drink.
Mantle frowned suddenly. “Ain’t you dead, Ty?”
“How? I’m here,” Ty snapped.
“Me, too. But look.” He modeled his torso. “Think.”
Cobb pursed his lips. “I have heart problems.” He tapped his chest. “Diabetes. Cancer. I had cancer.”
“Me, too,” Mick said happily. “Liver.”
“Prostate.” Ty thought for a moment, loosening his tie. “I was in Atlanta. 1961. Then I wasn’t.”
“And here you are. Like me.”
Ty considered Puppy and didn’t come away pleased. “In this Negro’s house.”
“Ain’t the Plaza.”
“I’ll find a phone tomorrow and call my bank. Get us some money.”
“At least enough for a cab. We gotta walk everywhere.”
“I’ll get a car.” Cobb paused, studying Puppy. “ Can you drive?”
• • • •
FORTUNATELY TY AND Mickey drank themselves into oblivion and passed out early, Ty in the chair, Mick on the couch. Puppy regretted the demise of Greta because it took about half an hour for the boys to stagger awake and another half hour once they sat up, blearily staring off into space. The pseudo-coffee followed by powdered eggs roused Cobb into a state of culinary rage; he wouldn’t get ready until Mickey swore to Jesus that their first stop would be a bank.
Puppy was pretty sure the last bank had been closed under the Anti-Parasite Laws of 2068.
Cobb clucked his tongue so much walking down Morris Avenue he sounded like Ringo Starr trapped in a tonsil. He half-shrank into his suit, avoiding contact with siblings hurrying to work, especially since he and Mick were the only Caucs for blocks at a time. He looked like he wanted a very long shower with a pound of soap.
When they got to River Avenue, Mickey let out a happy cry and ran forward. Just before the first pile of rocks, he froze in disbelief.
“What is that?” Cobb asked.
“Amazon Stadium,” Puppy said, bewildered. “The baseball stadium. You haven’t heard of it?”
“Amawhat?” Mickey shouted, pointing at the ground, the clouds, the El, at a pole, anything for an emotional anchor. “This was Yankee Stadium.”
Not since Amazon bought it in 2051. Grandma’s thong.
“Let’s go inside,” Puppy said gently. “There’s a game today.”
“In that?” Ty sneered.
Puppy tensed as they walked past the A30 at Gate Six. Fortunately Mick was too angry to react to yet another monster while Ty stared dumbfounded at the robot, muttering about the danger of mixing the races.
The old guys looked around the long hallway, wide eyes taking in the decay, unable to talk for a few minutes and embarrassing Puppy as if he had something to do with the broken floors, gouged out walls, shattered glass, and defaced murals.
“I hope Tiger Stadium’s in better shape,” Cobb grunted.
Puppy couldn’t tell him there was no Tiger Stadium, that this was all that was left of the ballparks and it was coming down in five months. He led them through the runway and into the stadium. Mickey and Ty stood in the entrance, horrified.
“My seat’s down there.”
Mickey and Ty sat carefully, tucking their ankles together, shoulders tight, hands in their laps. They couldn’t bear to touch anything.
“Game’s about to start,” Puppy said cheerfully.
“No one’s here,” Ty said.
Puppy passed on acknowledging the seven people scattered in the lower field boxes. At least no one was having sex. The men sadly took in the rubble and debris.
“I would not let my chickens piss here,” Ty finally said.
Mick wiped away tears and Ty handed him a starched handkerchief. Men didn’t cry, but this was an abomination worthy of grief for which he accused Puppy with a vicious glare.
“We just sit in this shithole until one in the afternoon?”
“Game’s going to start in a few minutes.”
Mick glanced at Puppy’s watch. “It ain’t even nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes.” Puppy opened his notebook. “Now I’m the baseball historian. I keep a record of every game. This is the second one of the season. The Hawks won opening day, 6-3, a terrific contest. ”
The HG Hawks dashed onto the field. Puppy stood and applauded.
“You like that?” The A29 turned. “I figured the fielders could come out together.”
“Great work,” Puppy shouted back, nodding toward the ‘bot. “I’ve been after him to juice things up.”
Mystified, Mickey and Ty leaned forward as the HGs threw the holographic ball around the infield and the outfield. The pitcher warmed up.
“What the hell is all that?” Ty whispered.
“He had one in his house but I killed it,” Mickey answered. “I’ll take care of them.”
Puppy pulled Mantle back into the chair. “These are HGs.” He waited, hoping for some response other than puzzled anger. “Holograms.” He pointed at the A29 in the front row. “He projects them onto the field.”
“Why?” Ty didn’t seem to want to really know.
“They’re the fielders,” Puppy said patiently.
“The midgets play?” Mick asked.
“Sure. It’s a lot of fun. Okay, here’s the leadoff batter for the Falcons.”
Campanis lazily swung a bat, yawning. The A28 umpire yelled “play ball.”
“Is he human?” Ty asked.
“Of course. The batters are all people.”
Campanis swung and missed at the first pitch.
“Where’s the bal
l?” Ty squinted.
“It was there. Speed gets up to 100, 105 mph.”
“But it ain’t real,” Mickey asked.
“Campanis is real,” Puppy said, annoyed. The batter swung and the ball bounced toward the second baseman. The HG runner scampered down the line, easily thrown out.
“What was that?” Mickey pointed somewhere on the field.
“The HG runner,” Puppy said.
“The batter doesn’t run?”
“No, they just hit.”
“But did he hit the ball?” Ty asked shrewdly.
“Sort of. The program’s set up for each batter’s skills.”
“Like a video game?” Mickey frowned. “My kids had one.”
“Kind of.”
“And this is baseball?” he asked.
Puppy let loose. “It’s the best we have. Maybe not perfect, but it’s still baseball.”
“No, it ain’t,” Mick growled.
“If you don’t like it, don’t stay. But be quiet. I have a job to do. Look, you made me miss the next play. I oversee official government records, damnit.”
After that first batter, they sat in stoic disgust. By the second inning, they moved back a few rows, whispering; Puppy couldn’t concentrate. At the end of the sixth and last inning, he stood and slipped his notebook into his backpack. Ty was asleep on Mantle’s shoulder.
“That’s it,” Puppy said. “If you care, the Hawks won 4-1.”
Mantle slid away from Ty, who woke up, irritated. “I want to look around.”
“It’s dangerous. There are holes everywhere, Mick. Rotting floors. Let’s just go home.”
Mickey hopped over the fence and onto the field. Ty followed, angrily brushing past Puppy, who doggedly followed.
Mickey walked around reverently, scooping up an occasional rock and putting it in his pocket. Ty knelt, touching home plate. Now Mickey walked quickly down the first base line, breaking into a trot, Ty on his heels. The two heavy-set old men arced around second, gaining speed towards third. He thought they were racing, but if they were, it was not against each other. Shoulder to shoulder, they crossed home plate simultaneously.
They headed into the dugout. Puppy went to stop them, but in a few moments, Mick came back with a battered bat while Ty disgustedly toted a handful of lumpy balls.
Ty took the mound. From the right side, Mickey swung the bat slowly. Ty’s first pitch bounced three times before rolling across home. Mick tossed it back. Ty threw another bounder.
A Mound Over Hell Page 7