A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  “What’s this made of?”

  “Wood,” Puppy said.

  Ty flipped it aside. “This the good stuff?”

  “Best we got.”

  Cobb held a glove away with his fingertips. “Supposed to be real leather?”

  “It was once.” Puppy sighed. “There are no more baseball equipment companies, Ty. They were outlawed. This is it.” He grew frustrated. Holding the gloves and bats in the warehouse was magic. Now he was ashamed. Memories have no shelf life when you re-live them. “This is from the World Series. The last World Series in 2065.”

  Cobb spit on the ground. He grabbed a bat and swung it in a menacing arc. The players backed away, murmuring like natives witnessing a god walking into the jungle.

  “You slobs, take a bat and a glove,” he snarled. They didn’t move.

  “Ty, I think we should just hand them out,” Puppy suggested.

  “How are they gonna know which feels right?”

  “I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

  Ty glared at the players, who inched away again. He suddenly grinned. “That means our team gets the best. Mick.”

  Mantle woke up, propped against the fence. He waved merrily and then went back to sleep. Cobb sighed unhappily. “Hawks slobs. Line up.”

  Puppy encouraged the Hawks to obey. They formed a line. He clustered the Falcons team in its own line. He and Ty handed out the gloves and bats. The players walked away, wonderingly swinging the bats and shoving their fingers inside the gloves. Ty peered into the opposing dugout.

  “Who’s the Falcons manager so we can exchange lineup cards?”

  “Manager?”

  “Yeah. The guy in charge.”

  “I know what a manager is, Ty.”

  “I keep forgetting. You’re a baseball historian. So who’s in charge?”

  Puppy really didn’t want to answer. “No one.”

  Cobb squeezed the bat handle. “No manager. No coaches, either?’

  “We’re lucky to get soap for the shower.”

  Ty stomped around angrily. “I’ll be my own coach.”

  “And manager?”

  Cobb slapped him on the cheek. “Bright boy.”

  “Isn’t that too much work? I think it’s more important to focus on playing.”

  “You saying I can’t do it?” Ty scowled. “I was player-manager for six years with the Detroit Tigers and would’ve won a few pennants if I had anyone as good as me. Now get those assholes off the field so my team can practice. What the hell are they called again?”

  Ty clapped his hands to gather the Bronx Hawks for the first batting practice in America in thirty-three years. The players shuffled forward tentatively.

  “Jackson,” Cobb barked. Vern stepped out from the semi-circle. “You’re the catcher.”

  Jackson nodded unsurely.

  “That a goddamn yes or a no?”

  “Goddamn yes.”

  “Godamn yes, skipper. That’s what you all call me. Skipper. I’m the manager. The boss. You don’t listen, you get fined. After I’ve reamed your asses. Jackson,” he snapped as Vernon tried rejoining the team, thinking this was a brief interrogation. “You understand the importance of a catcher?”

  Jackson shook his head.

  “You’re like the field leader,” Puppy said.

  Cobb flared scarlet and beckoned Puppy over with a gnarly middle finger. He wrapped his arm around Puppy’s neck like a comfy noose. “Never say anything when I’m addressing my team. I don’t care if the stadium’s on fire. I don’t care if three whores with big tits are lying on second base, calling my name. Never open your mouth again.”

  “Yes, skipper.” Puppy smiled and Cobb slapped his cheek again, this time with some authority. Puppy rubbed his jaw and sat by Mick, who managed to stumble sitting down.

  “Can you play?” Puppy whispered.

  “Course.” Mickey belched. “Ain’t the first time I was a little relaxed before a game.” He squinted around the empty stadium. “There is a game, right?”

  Puppy patted his shoulder. Mickey tipped over. Puppy straightened him up before going into the Falcons clubhouse.

  Boccicelli paced angrily, wheeling on Puppy. “What is all this?”

  For a moment Puppy wasn’t sure if he meant the equipment or the sullen Falcons players. “The team.”

  “I know it’s the team. I’ve lost enough money.” He glowered at the players so there’d be no doubt who was responsible. “The gloves and things. I’m not paying for them.”

  Wiping his suit of any airborne germs especially transmitted by baseball, the owner rolled out of the clubhouse which, Puppy figured, might’ve been his first visit in years. Maybe ever.

  “Mr. Boccicelli,” Puppy said as they walked down the dusty hallway. “All this is free.”

  Boccicelli hadn’t expected that. He removed the handkerchief from his mouth. “How?”

  “Commissioner Kenuda is loaning us the equipment used in 10/12.”

  Boccicelli went white. “The very same equipment?”

  “Yes, yes. Game Seven and everything.”

  Boccicelli shuddered. “I’m not sure I like that, Nedick.”

  “Why not? It’s free,” he repeated slowly.

  Boccicelli pressed the elevator button. “What happens if the equipment is damaged?”

  Puppy thought a second. “Like how?”

  “A broken bat. That occurred a few years ago, remember? Or if one of the balls goes missing.”

  Puppy tried imagining someone hitting the ball into the bleachers. “I don’t think that’ll happen.”

  “Get it in writing. We are not responsible for breakage.” Boccicelli stepped into the elevator. “You made this arrangement. You’re responsible. You’ve already gotten us in trouble with the Little Extended Family. I had three ‘bots in my office yesterday complaining about you, Nedick.”

  • • • •

  TWO BICYCLES THUMPED down the chipped front steps in a race they were both destined to lose. The red bike flipped over, sending the little girl smashing against the metal fence, while the blue bike overturned and pinned the little boy. Lots of howling and screaming.

  Maybe next time don’t ride down concrete steps, Zelda thought, watching the parents tend to their brats, wiping blood, scolding over torn clothes and dented equipment. The rest of their brood played their own stupid games. Seven of them, Zelda counted distastefully, finally able to get into the building sometime before her sixtieth birthday.

  DVs were like incubators, parents scrambling to produce as many children as possible before their organs gave out. Anything to increase the odds. The more kids, the better chance some will make it out. And the more kids, the more the population was replenished. They cannot defeat our will to live on. Love, love, Grandma had urged. About four million children had died in the Allah War. That required a lot of love.

  The apartment was up five flights at the end of a narrow staircase. Food smells changed on each floor, as if entering a different restaurant zone.

  Zelda slowed down, wheezing on the fourth floor landing.

  “Hi,” Diego called down from the top floor. “Need help?”

  Zelda waved the bottle of wine with a brave smile.

  His apartment was tiny, especially by the standards of these old buildings, which dated back to the mid-twentieth century. Anthemic rock posters, Van Halen, Rolling Stones, U2, circled the rectangular living room, also doubling as a bedroom; a sheet peeked out of the pull-out couch.

  But the floors gleamed and the windows sparkled onto the courtyard.

  “That’s about it.” Diego grinned as she soaked in the room. “Unless you need to inspect the bathroom.”

  “Maybe later.” She smiled back. They stood awkwardly for a moment. Diego ushered her toward the couch. She swallowed a deep mouthful of wine.

  “Yes, cheers.” He clinked his glass.

  “Sorry. Thirsty.”

  “Steps are a bitch. But you’re getting better. A couple da
ys ago you only made it to the fourth floor.”

  Zelda flushed.

  “My neighbor Mr. Genado saw you. Strangers stand out in the DV.”

  “I remember.”

  “That why you never came up?”

  Direct, blunt. Zelda filled her mouth with cheese and crackers, buying time. His steady look gave her no room for calm.

  “I grew up in a place like this.”

  “You said.”

  “Just like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if this was the same couch. My parents lived in a large closet off that way.” She gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “I mean, really a large closet, but they rented it as a one bedroom.”

  Diego absently rubbed the stem of the wine glass. “Pleasant memories.”

  “Not here.” Zelda took a quick sip; she didn’t want to get loaded. “Memories with friends. Funny how for all the emphasis on the family, the DV is the worst place for that. All that stress and pressure and fear. Who can ever relax when you look at your parents and hate them for putting you there, and they look at you, wondering if you’re just the same. How about you?”

  He shrugged. “Four sisters.”

  “Regs now?”

  Diego held up a couple fingers. “One fell off a bridge. The other under a truck.”

  “Shit…”

  He waved her off. “Didn’t make it.”

  “You will.” She squeezed his wrist.

  Diego leaned away, surprising her. “No guarantees. I could flunk the Navy test.”

  “You’re going into the Navy?”

  “Just covering myself in case the private boats don’t work. I’m studying for the ocean fishing license now.”

  She crossed her knees. “I just don’t see you as a sailor.”

  “How do you see me?”

  Zelda didn’t answer quickly enough and he darkened.

  “As just a DV?”

  “No guarantees. As you just said.” Zelda took a longer sip. “You invited me here.”

  “If you didn’t want to be here, then you shouldn’t have come.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be here. Big difference.”

  Diego’s eyes narrowed. “I want you here.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “But not if you don’t want to.” He hoped that was the balance Puppy had mentioned.

  “I just said I don’t know. You live here, I don’t. You might get out. What if you don’t?”

  “The Navy’s a lock. They’ll take almost anyone.”

  “And what does the Navy do anymore?”

  “Patrol.”

  “What? Connecticut?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t taken the test yet.”

  They sipped their wine, exchanging sour glances.

  “I’m making spaghetti,” he finally said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “We can eat out.”

  “If I’m not hungry for spaghetti here, why would I be hungry for spaghetti outside?”

  “Because it’s not a fucking DV apartment,” he exploded.

  Zelda stood up, stopping by the door. “You’re a nice kid, Diego. Stay with someone your own age. Similar life cycle, both starting out. I’m past all that. Thirty-seven isn’t young.”

  “That’s not old.”

  “It can be.” Zelda smiled shakily.

  She took a ‘bot cab to Daffy’s up on 210th Street; she was too embarrassed to go to Monroe’s after she’d told Jimmy the bartender she finally met someone.

  16

  Clary hobbled forward, landing hard on her knee. Pain ran from toe to hip, distracting her from the perro from the orphanage chasing her.

  “Puta, puta, puta.” The vile stinking breath wafted forward. The perro laughed. “Puta, puta, puta.”

  She shimmied up the tree, tearing her black lingerie. A thin strand hooked onto the branch. She slid up a little higher. Now her thighs were bleeding.

  “Madre de dios,” she whispered, crossing herself. “Save me.”

  The Allah stood beneath the tree, sniffing like the perro he was. He had tried her before. Three times.

  “Come, puta,” Hazma cupped his hands on the sides of his matted beard and called out in Spanish in all directions. “No one will hurt you.”

  They’d chased her for miles. She didn’t know where she was. North, south, east, west. Her home was in the east. Tierre del Bueno. She’d had a nice home with lots of dolls and a good father and a good mother. Then a bridge was blown up outside town, killing many Allah soldiers. They blamed the Crusaders. The Allahs came and made her watch as her parents were beheaded. All the children had watched, sitting in the stands at the gymnasium, the mats laid out along the wood floor. Mats where she had practiced. Where she had won awards for gymnastics.

  She was glad her father was blindfolded so she didn’t have to see his eyes. She had seen her mother’s before they dragged her away. Shaking her bruised cheeks, lips swollen, Clary’s mother lifted her neck up almost out of her body, pleading with her daughter.

  Pleading what? Live. That was Clary’s belief.

  “Come on, puta. Little Clary.” Hazma looked up, but it was too dark. He wandered away.

  Go. Go. Please, go.

  He sniffed and suddenly stopped, turning back to the tree. Even in the blackness, she could see the yellow rotting teeth flash in a smile. Clary held her breath.

  “Little Clary,” he said, holding up his hands. “Come down, little darling. Otherwise I will burn the tree. And then that pretty little skin will be all blistered and scarred. Even the slavers won’t want you. Maybe just the wolves.”

  She held still. He flicked his lighter and a flame danced on a branch. He suddenly shoved the smoking ember into the bottom of her bare foot. She screamed.

  “Yes, little Clary. Think how much it will hurt all over your body.” His voice hardened. “Now get your puta ass down. I am fucking tired. Doin’t worry. I’m not too tired.”

  Her vision was good from hiding so often in the attic. She saw him spreading out a blanket of grass.

  “Na’am,” she said softly.

  Licking his lips, Hazma reached up to help her down. Clary pulled her knees into her chest and jumped. Her heels drove into his nose, breaking bone and spraying blood. He fell back, groaning. Clary somersaulted over his head, landing and running through the dark forest, panting like a perro for hours until she limped along the beach road. The ocean air salted her drooping eyes.

  The sun reared its dim light threateningly. She had to hide. She wanted to dig a hole in the sand, dig a deep deep hole and maybe she could turn it into a tunnel which would take her where? Nowhere. She had nowhere to go except back to the orphanage and she would rather die but she remembered her mother’s stare.

  She wished she remembered how to cry.

  Clary dragged her bleeding feet across the road, kneeling by the grey van in the driveway. She fainted for a moment and then crawled into the back seat, pulling a thin blanket over her head.

  • • • •

  PUPPY CARRIED THREE beers to the rear table. They had to celebrate something. Maybe just surviving was enough.

  They’d only made it to the third inning when the alarm went off in the dugouts, signaling that it was time to haul butt off the field after the allotted hour of play. By then, the Hawks had rolled to a 10-1 lead.

  How runs were scored, who scored, who hit, who even threw the ball was a blur and Puppy would be up half the night trying to sort it all out for his report. He wasn’t entirely sure if the Hawks Dante Tifaldo or Vernon Jackson had collapsed at second base.

  “Wasn’t bad for the first game with real balls, right?” Puppy asked hesitantly.

  “Except for the skulls,” Mick muttered.

  “I’d take skeletons over what we got,” Ty snarled. “Embarrassing. Worse than I could imagine.”

  Behind the bar, Jimmy suspiciously monitored their table. Puppy hoisted the glass reassuringly.

  “You have to lower expectations a little.”
r />   “A little?” Ty snapped. “They didn’t even know where their positions were.”

  “Now they do,” Puppy said. “Shortstop isn’t really self-defining. It’s short compared to what and how is it stopping anything? And left field, is that left field from the perspective of home plate or left field from the perspective of the outfielder? Like stage right, stage left…”

  Cobb shook his head. “We got reputations.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’re used to playing at a certain level of competition,” Mick said.

  “You were drunk today. You struck out four times.”

  Mantle reddened. “I always get off to slow starts.”

  Puppy calmed himself. “If we’re patient with you, then you have to be patient with them.”

  “And I had to pitch,” Ty jumped in. “I ain’t a pitcher. Least when the alarm clock went off we could all go home.”

  Puppy angrily pushed through the dancing crowd to the bar. He picked up a bowl of nuts.

  Jimmy wiped the counter. “You watching them? I don’t want Blue Shirts here.”

  “You know, this is supposed to be a happy day. An historic day.”

  “It was. You made the sportsvid.”

  Puppy paused. “We did? What’d they say?” The bartender wiped a glass like he was about to serve Grandma. “Just tell me, Jimmy.”

  “It was on the funny spot in sports.”

  “Where they show clips of people running their skis into trees?”

  Jimmy attended to a couple of customers. “Guess it’s the same thing.”

  As if cued, the vidnews rolled into the sportsvid. The charming presenter with the dimples introduced a repeat of the “Funny Side of Sports.” Jimmy yanked the music plug out of the wall, generating disappointed protests. He turned up the sound of the vidnews.

  “Shut up,” he yelled. “One of our own is on.”

  That quieted the bar.

  “John Hazel has a charming report about a sport that’s about to finally die. John.”

  Hazel stood in front of Amazon Stadium at night. Asshole must’ve gone there right from the warehouse, Puppy thought.

  “Thanks, Chip. Some of you probably think baseball’s already gone. Don’t worry. The cesspool of treachery has about five months to go. But a baseball historian, Puppy Nedick…”