A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  But why now?

  • • • •

  BY THE THIRD at-bat, Mickey wasn’t even trying. Just to confuse the A29, he bounded back and forth between the lefty and right-handed batter’s boxes, giggling. The three breakfast of champions he’d slugged down didn’t help.

  He dribbled a roller to short. Mickey shook his head, skipping back to the dugout.

  “I’d never miss a fastball that badly.”

  Ty gave him a dirty look and headed toward home. At least Cobb was sober. And he certainly wasn’t goofing around. Puppy’s teeth gritted as Mickey loudly sang Okie from Muskogee sprawled on the floor of the dugout.

  But Ty was as taken with his youthful persona as Mantle, like two savages seeing their reflections in the water for the first time. He’d spent the first three innings shouting himself hoarse to correct some of the HG Ty’s fielding mistakes, such as throwing off the front foot or failing to observe angles heading to the ball. And he charged onto the field when he was called out at second stretching a single into a double, yelling he wouldn’t slide like he was pouring himself a fancy glass of champagne; Ty Cobb goes into the base with spikes flashing. Sharpened spikes.

  Cobb bounced a grounder to third and chased his HG down the line, screaming for it to speed up and beat the throw. Ty puffed back, leaning over the railing.

  “Did you give me the slowest HG you got?” he snarled at the A29.

  The robot looked helplessly at Puppy.

  “It’s the program, Ty,” Puppy explained.

  “I would’ve beaten that out. I beat out shit grounders like that my whole career.” He reached for the A29, who dashed up two rows, terrified. “Fix the midget to make it realistic or I’ll turn you into a goddamn coffee pot.”

  Cobb stomped into the dugout. A few balls bounced onto the field, then a glove sailed toward first base, followed by a bat broken into three pieces.

  Their spirits improved by the end of the game. They celebrated in the clubhouse, Cobb with a three-for-four and Mickey going two-for-three and a walk in their nearly 22nd Century debuts.

  “That was a helluva catch I made.” Mickey congratulated himself, sitting on a stool naked, sipping a beer.

  “You didn’t have any wind,” Cobb said dismissively. “I had to deal with a gust.”

  “I had fucking gusts, too. At the last minute.”

  “Both of you played great,” Puppy said, pulling up a stool near their lockers.

  “I always played great,” Cobb said, ignoring his teammates silently filing out, puzzled by all the excitement.

  “Hurry up, the stadium is closing.” Puppy gestured about the empty clubhouse.

  “I ain’t finished my beer,” Mickey protested.

  “They’ll lock us in. The rules.”

  “Ain’t for cleaning up, is it?” Ty sneered.

  “Nothing can be moved, remember that,” he whispered even though they were alone.

  “Skeletons, skulls, bullets, whatever is out there has to be kept exactly where it was.”

  “Why?” Ty asked.

  They really don’t know. Ty Cobb and Mickey Mantle wouldn’t, Puppy reminded himself. He didn’t know quite how much to tell them since he wasn’t sure why they were here. Maybe he’d give them the topline schoolchild version of Bad People Do Bad Things to Good People. He reflexively touched the thick scar at the base of his neck where his father, flying high in the atmosphere on Virginia Lemon Rum, had mashed his skull with a boot after Puppy returned home from third grade chanting:

  “Hate kills

  We are more

  Feel the love

  Come through the door.”

  They’d taken his father away for a few days until his mother pleaded that he be given another chance as a parent. One child abuse outburst was all you were allowed; not a capital crime like pedophilia, but you lost all rights to your kid which pretty much meant all rights within The Family. Whatever they’d done in The Study, tucked near the Van Cortlandt Park skating rink, worked, because Alvin Nedick never went near him again, always standing back in the shadows of dim resentment.

  Puppy waited until Mantle returned after splashing water under his arms from the chipped sink.

  “There was a terrorist attack here in 2065 to protest the war. Amazon…Yankee Stadium has been kept open as a memorial to treason and you can go to jail for moving anything out of place.” Puppy tapped his watch, suddenly feeling shame. “We gotta go.”

  “That it?” Ty snarled.

  “No. But it’s enough for now.”

  They walked in moody silence along River Avenue.

  “Is that robot fixing my program?” Ty abruptly asked.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Puppy said amiably, eager to talk about anything else but World War Three. “Mick, any tweaks to your program?”

  Mantle thought a moment as they passed under the El. “I could be a little faster, too.”

  “Running the bases, fielding?”

  “Everything.” Mickey warmed to the idea. “Like before I hurt my knees.”

  “The Commerce Comet,” Puppy said in mock awe. “That’s the wonder of the HGs. Makes you anything you want.”

  Ty sized him up warily. “Not what we want, what we were.”

  “Back in the last century. When was your last game again, Ty?”

  “September 11, 1928,” he answered slowly.

  “And you, Mick?”

  He closed his eyes to think. “September 28, 1968, Fenway Park. Popped out. That was it.” He looked in pain at the abruptness of it all. Too slow on a fastball and it’s over.

  “Long time ago. You guys need these HGs to look good, so I’ll make sure…”

  “Look good?” Cobb scowled.

  “Well yeah. I mean, you’re like well over a hundred years old.”

  “Are you saying we can’t play anymore?” Cobb thundered.

  “Guys. Be realistic.” Puppy spread his hands pleadingly. “You really want to take a chance on your legacy being tarnished by reality?”

  “We don’t need that HG crap,” Ty ranted.

  “But you’re…” Puppy gestured at their old, chubby bodies.

  “What?” Cobb’s eyes bulged in fury.

  “Nothing. The HGs are just so fast,” he replied angelically.

  “So are we,” Ty shouted. “Mick and I are still Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb.”

  “That’s right,” Mickey echoed. “I’m the fucking Commerce Comet. That’s how I died and that’s how I came back.”

  Cobb’s nose nearly brushed Puppy’s chin. He calmed down just slightly. “But we’re going to need to practice a little.”

  • • • •

  ZELDA’S MIND GLAZED quickly over the monofilament lines. Or leaders. Why she should’ve been surprised that her stomach was visiting somewhere near her eardrum, well, surprised her. She’d never been on a boat before. She didn’t even swim. Floating on your belly on the East River sewage discouraged most youngsters, though Pablo and Puppy had dived underwater once; they were in the hospital for two days.

  But she put on a brave front even when she ran out of Elmer’s Ding-Dongs. They sailed straight into the Atlantic Ocean, unfamiliar sea smells filling her nostrils. So much on shore was augmented, sometimes she wondered if she were real. Weather, sunshine, clouds. That was the sun. Those were clouds. This was an ocean. There was hope. Maybe they’d all have to be fish again. Her pretended gill face turned to the sky, drawing an irritated look from Captain Lee, rushing past. He’d been pretty clear about her staying out of the way. Diego had been even clearer about doing whatever Captain Lee said; mopping the ocean might be next.

  She found a comfortable chair on the left side, port, she had to remember such things, portside of the fifty-foot ship, tucking her sketch pad under her knees and reclining for a few minutes.

  “Threadbin herrings.” Diego showed her a bucket of squirming little fish.

  “That lunch?” She deeply regretted not bringing a sandwich.

  “For the sa
lmon. Bait. You need something to catch something. Or someone. All kinds of bait.” He winked broadly, as if worried she or the swooping seagulls might miss it.

  Lee cleared his throat disapprovingly and Diego hurried to the right side. Starboard.

  “We got drinks if you’re thirsty,” the Captain said.

  “I’m fine. This is really helpful, sir.”

  Lee grunted and disappeared below, giving Zelda a clear view of Diego’s tight butt in even tighter jeans. Oh don’t do that, child, she tingled as he tossed his tank top onto the deck, adjusting the nets.

  He passed by again, sweaty and chiseled and very smelly.

  “The Atlantic Bonito are still around. The Croakers, too. They finally opened up passages. Now with the Alaskan salmon hurrying east. North, then southeast,” he corrected himself. “No one’s sure what we’ll really one hundred per cent find. Might not even be real salmon yet.”

  Zelda leaned forward. “Are you saying we’ll be selling some other fish as salmon?”

  “Already do.” He looked at her as if she was very stupid.

  “I know that, the artificial processing. But we’re going to market making a big deal about real salmon.”

  Diego shrugged carelessly. “Hopefully it’s the real salmon. I don’t make them. God does.”

  God. Not a word she often heard. God was discredited. God was Islam and the power of fanaticism, of belief gone wrong, gone deadly, gone genocidal. Religion had a bad name and it was called jihad. Sharia. If the Judeo-Christian God had been such a big bad ass, then why’d we lose? Bet on something else.

  She gave Diego a closer look. A closet religo, she decided from the way he held himself with that certain surrender of faith. Fall into the net and God will rescue you from the smelly fish. He seemed happy, singing, tying and untying ropes. Sure. God will make sure you’re not some salmon’s appetizer tonight, she grinned. Me, they fight over who gets a chubby leg.

  He caught her look and smiled back. Zelda flushed and returned to her sketches.

  They finally anchored after an hour, where she dozed, hopefully not with her mouth open and drooling. Diego sat cross-legged, watching her. She touched her blouse to make sure all the buttons were in place.

  “You snore,” he called across the deck. “But not too loudly.”

  “That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to scare the salmon away.”

  “No worries. They ain’t here.”

  Lee popped his head up the steps. “Tracking says there’s a storm due east.”

  “Shit.” Diego frowned and began pulling on the lever to pull up the anchor.

  “A real storm?” Zelda asked.

  Lee sighed. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be fine.”

  Other than annoyed winds racing across the bow, the return was smooth. They pulled in just after the 4:05 rains. Half drenched, Zelda waited for Lee and Diego to finish securing the boat for the night.

  “Thank you again, Captain Lee.”

  “You never asked a question.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Your crew took care of all my needs.”

  Embarrassed, Lee raised an eyebrow and hurried past.

  “I meant these.” She waved her sketches at his fading back.

  “Can I see?” Diego asked.

  “No. They’re just creative thought starters. Jumping points to go boom and bang. Raw mental sewage needing to be filtered.”

  Diego burst out laughing. “That is a lot of shit for pictures of a ship and the ocean.”

  She smiled sheepishly. “I guess.”

  “Do you need to get home to cook your sketches in the oven or do you have time for a drink?” he repeated his invitation, once rejected.

  Zelda shifted her weight. “How old are you, kid?”

  “Old enough,” he grinned.

  She regarded him through splayed fingers, shaking her head. “Did you really just say that?”

  “Yes.” He had such a wonderful smile.

  10

  The Metro North train rambled past the cars creeping along the Major Deegan Expressway, headlights oozing envy. Puppy looked out the grimy window at the line of stalled autos. A favorite game of DV kids was hood jumping. You gained traction on the rear bumper, then leaped spread-eagled onto the roof, clutching the sides. Sometimes the driver would notice half a body blotting out his back window and attack with a hammer; stuck in traffic, they needed a diversion.

  Now you jutted your legs back, as if diving, rising up on stiff elbows and hurtling your pelvis forward into a squat on the hood, moving your feet so they weren’t squashed by a large tool, etc. You rapped your knuckles triumphantly, once if it was the first car of the day, twice if the second, on and on. Denting or doing any damage was discouraged. Occasionally a windshield wiper made the ultimate sacrifice.

  Skilled hood-jumpers could mark seven cars before they had to kick a driver in the forehead. Drivers also had a sub-genre for how many hood-jumpers they could knock off their car.

  Puppy had jumped six; that’s where he first hurt his right shoulder. Smart move, two days before he was pitching in the borough-wide college championship game at Amazon Stadium.

  He glanced back down at the brochure.

  “At Basil Hayden’s, you put your life in our hands. Our trained staff will make sure you die without any concerns. We make death relaxing, stress-free, just another experience. Let us take you where you’re going anyway. Why travel alone?”

  The train rocked violently and screeched dead on the tracks. Passengers held onto their seats. An A10 conductor roamed up and down the aisles.

  “No worries, everyone. A deer sat on the tracks and now he’s no more. We have the finest trains in the world. No worries.”

  Puppy leaned over, blocking the A10. “How long will this be?”

  “Until they remove the head from the front of the train. I’m not an animal expert. But we have the finest trains in the world. No worries.”

  “I need to get to Brewster by twelve-thirty.”

  The conductor popped open its old-fashioned watch. “That might be a problem. But we have the finest trains in the world, so no worries, we’ll get you there eventually.”

  “I can’t be late.”

  The conductor didn’t need to be told twice. “Job interview’s at precisely twelve-thirty?” Puppy nodded. The conductor pursed its lips, annoyed at this inconvenience but eager to show its resourcefulness.

  Puppy followed the A10 outside.

  “102,” the robot called. Another A10 walked forward; the next train station, Bayview, was a quarter-mile away.

  “This one has a job interview,” the conductor said.

  “That isn’t good timing.”

  “Whether it is or it isn’t, it is now.”

  102 studied Puppy for clues. “Where?”

  “Basil Hayden Funeral Home in Brewster. Twelve-thirty.”

  102 glanced at its black leather watch. “Cutting it close.”

  “Then why are you standing here?” the conductor shouted, returning to the train as its colleague hustled Puppy into a Metro North transport van.

  Job interviews were sacrosanct. A headless deer disemboweled on a Metro North train was no excuse for being late. Other than an immediate family member dying or in critical condition, the applicant dying or in critical condition, or the birth/adoption of a child, there were no excuses. If you couldn’t demonstrate sufficient respect to meet a potential employer on time, how could they trust you?

  This was only the second job interview of his life. When he’d graduated from Bronx College, the baseball historian job just opened up. The previous occupant died. No one else had applied. Puppy was bright and had been a ballplayer and didn’t say anything offensive during the interview with the diffident A26; the job hadn’t been worthy of a human selection process.

  He made it to the funeral home with seven minutes to spare. Adona Hayden stared grimly at Puppy’s application, tapping her thin yellow fingers and finally, wearily, leaning back in the large leather
chair in her office. Miniature coffins hung gaily from the walls.

  “Here you are, Mr. Nedick. Alive and well.”

  Puppy nodded gratitude for not being in one of the miniature coffins.

  “But why are you here?” Hayden continued. “You’re alive. You could be anywhere. Yet you’re here.”

  He ran through a whole list of possible reasons why he was in Basil Hayden’s Funeral Home in Brewster, New York, while still breathing.

  “I’m losing my job in five months. My friend insisted I had to apply and show perseverance.”

  Adona smiled. “Were there other openings?”

  “None of them sounded interesting.”

  “Working with dead people does?”

  “My friend, Zelda, can be annoying. I thought if I applied for the job that was furthest from my background, it would annoy her.”

  “Yet I asked to see you.”

  “I’m a little surprised, too.”

  Hayden sat on the front edge of the desk, her feet dangling by his knees. “I don’t want someone who enjoys death. What kind of crazy person is that? Oh let me fondle a corpse. Because that’s probably what you think we do here.”

  “I, I really don’t think you do that.”

  “What do you think we do, Mr. Nedick?”

  “Bury people.”

  “Just throw them in the ground?”

  Puppy took a breath. “There’s a process.”

  “Which only involves the corpse? Because at the end of the day, it’s dead flesh. Rotting away. Soon gone, leaving only bones, Mr. Nedick.”

  He was afraid to ask for something to drink.

  “This is about living, Mr. Nedick. The living. Those who lived. This is a new world.” Hayden’s foot banged into his knee. “We’re no longer forced to cremate. The war’s long over. We have room for bodies. Grandma spoke at our national Death Care convention last year, it was so inspiring, that one of the most difficult decisions she ever made was outlawing traditional funerals. The mass produced cremations broke her heart.”