“Why is the field so brown?”
“We can’t water it, sir,” Frecklie said defensively. “But we do trim the grass, sir.”
“Which is allowed,” Boccicelli said.
“Not really,” Frecklie said.
Kenuda patted his arm. “It’s all right, son.”
The Third Cousin walked to the edge of the field, pausing to frown at bullet shells, tattered orange Miners wigs and an occasional bone.
“This is the shittiest athletic stadium I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly. “An absolute disgrace. It shames the very notion of athletics and excellence and men and women striving for their best.”
Fisher and Boccicelli bowed their heads, pleased by the praise. Kenuda’s eyes nearly jumped out of his head.
“How can I possibly lend the office of American sports to this?” he asked Hazel.
“Like Puppy said, it’s supposed to be this way…”
“I know, damnit. But you can’t let people walk around. Is that a rat? A rat in one of my athletic forums?”
“There are lots more in the bullpen,” Puppy said.
Kenuda folded his arms moodily. “It’s far far worse than I thought.”
“You could rope it off, Third Cousin, and add explanations,” Frecklie said quietly.
“What?” Kenuda turned.
Puppy nodded for Frecklie to continue; the kid was going to anyway.
“Like a museum.”
Elias moved closer to Frecklie who kept his steady stare. “Explain.”
“We keep all the craters, but rope off the areas and put up signs saying what happened. We could do the same all over the ballpark, pointing out the various treacheries.”
Kenuda smiled faintly.
“But we’d need to spruce it up a little. Like the field.”
“That’s against the law,” muttered Fisher.
“Shut up, you idiot,” Kenuda growled. “It is against the law, son.”
Frecklie shook his head stubbornly. “According to the Treason Act of 2066, Amazon Stadium was to be maintained as it was on 10/12.” The teen summoned his last bit of courage. “The field was not brown that day.”
Elias thought about this. “The Little Extended Family could probably handle all this.”
Puppy gestured at Frecklie to keep quiet.
“’Bots, sir?”
“Well yes. Oh, of course, we’ll keep on some of the DVs.”
“No, it’s got to be all DVs,” Puppy insisted.
Kenuda scowled. “If I’m making this baseball restoration official, then I’ve got to maintain the same percentage between robots and human workers as there are in football and basketball.”
“Why?”
Kenuda stammered and looked at Hazel for guidance; the journalist looked away. Elias continued, “Because it’s the law.”
“No it’s not, sir,” Frecklie chimed in.
“Are you telling me how to conduct business of the Sport Commission?”
Puppy stepped between them; Frecklie was young and stupid enough to throw a punch.
“If you want the stadium to really resonate as a museum to treason, what better way than to use all DVs since so many of the Miners were?”
Kenuda liked and disliked that argument.
“Besides, this gives them training. Remember Grandma’s Twenty-Second Insight?”
Elias looked at Hazel again, who shrugged. “Not at the tip of my fingers.”
“The goal is to have no disappointments in the Family,” Puppy said with an even smile. “Having the DV kids take this on will help them get into Reg schools and out of the Village. It’ll make them learn more of their history and become better siblings. It’s a win up and down the line.”
“They cost more,” Boccicelli blurted, thinking of all that toilet paper.
Kenuda didn’t even look at him. “That’s your profit, not mine.” He stared at Puppy. “No ‘bots?”
Puppy made a zero with his thumb and forefinger. The owners nearly fainted.
“That would cause a great deal of problems with the Little Extended Family,” Elias said very softly.
Puppy grinned. “Probably would, sir.”
Kenuda slowly smiled, thinking sweet vindictive thoughts.
• • • •
PUPPY WAITED ON a concrete bench outside Zelda’s office building. He handed her a sandwich. She sniffed, surprised.
“This smells almost edible.” Zelda shook the sandwich suspiciously, catching a tomato before it hit the ground. “What’d you do to get this?”
“It’s from Mooshie. I woke up this morning and found real coffee, too.
Zelda laughed. “That sounds like song lyrics.”
“Could be. She’s always singing, writing.” Puppy nervously played with the crust of his sandwich.
Zelda grunted vaguely, wallowing in the glory of the lunch. She finished with a dreamy smile, peering at him.
“What’s up, Pup? Usually you’d have scarfed down your sandwich and been halfway through mine by now. Wait, that’s me.”
He shrugged uneasily. “I have a small favor to ask.”
“There are no small favors between friends, just large expectations.”
Puppy sighed. “I saw Annette the other day.”
“How’s the Queen of Bitches?”
“Lovely as always.”
“Castrated and insulted you?”
“What else is new?”
Zelda had almost stopped their wedding, knowing in her heart that it would be wrong, that Puppy deserved better. Annette was a cold, haughty asshole masquerading as a human being long enough to corral Puppy, never appreciating him, trying to remake him, clenching her groin at her superior Reg parents by marrying a DV. All of this Zelda had seen, dropping subtle hints like “she really doesn’t love you, she’s mean, you’ll regret marrying her, do you really want her to breed,” and other light-hearted remarks.
By the wedding, when it was real, when Puppy stood in the Family Entrance room before the large mural of Grandma, Zelda about blew. Pablo had dragged her away, pouring champagne funnel-like down her throat until she could reluctantly fulfill her role as best person, quietly and respectfully and dead drunk at Puppy’s side.
“I only have a forty-five minute lunch hour.” Zelda wiped the mustard onto her sleeve. “Someone came up with the idea of chopping celery into salmon salad. Folks are dancing in the hallways.”
“Annette’s about to be engaged to Elias Kenuda, the Sport Commissioner…”
“I know who he is, Pup. You don’t have to say more.” Zelda frowned. “She’s using that against you somehow.”
He nodded glumly.
“Let me guess. She’ll say shitty things about you to Kenuda.”
“She already has a little. Nothing too untrue.”
“Like what?” Zelda grew angry. “You were the perfect husband.”
“Not really, Zel.”
“You were always loving. You didn’t drink, hit her, cheat, be an asshole.”
Puppy accepted the compliments. “Obviously that wasn’t enough and let’s please please not relive my marriage. This is now. She’s threatened to sabotage baseball unless I get engaged super quick.”
“What’s super quick?”
Puppy held up a finger. “As in a week.”
“Bitch bitch bitch.” She finished Puppy’s sandwich.
“So I thought, temporarily, maybe, you know.”
She stared into Puppy’s eyes and felt sick. “You and me?”
“Yes,” he said enthusiastically. “Just so she can get officially engaged and off my back. Soon as they’re married, boom, we’re history. I’ll take the blame, incontinence, impotence, it’ll go on my record. I don’t care.”
“We have to show a line of courtship or they’ll think we’re faking to break the rules.”
“Lifelong friends turn into lovers.”
“Great story.”
“I know, right? Who wouldn’t believe that?”
�
��We’d fool Grandma herself.”
“Exactly.” He clasped her shoulder.
“Exactly,” she repeated dully. “And what do I tell Diego?”
“The boy?”
Her voice hardened. “Yeah, the boy, Puppy.”
“I thought that was just another ride.”
“On Zelda’s slut-a-rama?” She shoved him.
“No. But he’s a…” Puppy ran a steady hand past his chin. Only so high.
Zelda inhaled so deeply her mouth went dry. “He’s no Puppy Nedick.”
“All right, that sucked, I’m sorry…”
“Just go away, Puppy.”
He frowned. “You really like that kid?”
“Go away.”
He smiled. “Shit. Shit. You’re in love.”
Zelda pushed him off the bench. “Maybe I am.”
“That’s great.”
“Who knows, Puppy? Probably end up like you, divorced, breaking the law, alone, bitter.”
“Forget I asked about…”
“Pathetic, sad…”
“Okay, Zelda.”
“I probably should accept your generous offer because no relationship I’ve ever had worked anyway so why should this.”
“I really think we need to talk.”
“Get the hell out of here or I’ll kick your ass and you know I can.”
He tried one more time. “Zel.”
Zelda pointed a trembling finger at the subway entrance.
“Will you at least accept my apology?”
“No.” She brushed away tears. “And leave the fucking potato chips.”
• • • •
BETH GOT LOST the first time she’d visited, wandering along Bruckner Boulevard, her heart pounding as if she’d lost him; the priest had died years ago and there couldn’t be any records. She hadn’t paid attention to the original drive in the dark, the many turns north and south, east and west, in case someone were following the Chevy with her dead husband in the trunk. Finally after running up and down the streets for two hours, sheer hysteria waxed a little memory and she found the courtyard of the broken building on East 156nd Street.
She brushed aside the weeds, kneeling before the slight bump of dirt. Light rain splattered, but she stubbornly wouldn’t pull up her scarf. She didn’t need to measure off steps anymore. The first few times, she had counted carefully, foot in front of foot, tipping unsteadily through eighteen steps until she landed at the proper grave. It was possible she was off and praying to someone else beneath her knees.
Father DiNado had rushed through the original ceremony, but Beth insisted he go through the rites again.
My husband deserves this, she’d hissed.
DiNado had been apologetic, mumbling about the danger. Best to pray quickly and quietly. God will hear anyway.
Even the prayers of cowards? she’d sneered.
Beth smoothed out the grave. No headstone. No marking of any kind, rocks, pebbles. Flowers? A joke. She’d left roses at the original Sacred Mary Church graveyard. They’d been burned. Graves had been trampled, dug up, surrounded by vicious signs: Look What God Did to America. To avoid such desecrations, all religious burial grounds had been moved to anonymous locations. Cremation was encouraged. Do what you need in the privacy of your own home. Nothing officially stopped anyone from praying, but the churches were finally torn down by mobs. See? Religion breeds anger.
Some brave folks said let us have our churches out of sight; we won’t bother anyone. Unfortunately, the new rural locations bred cults. Old ideas and beliefs flourished. Black Tops razed the grounds of at least a dozen religious retreats, thousands dying. Public practice of religion was officially outlawed under the Anti-God Act of 2080.
Perhaps God really did only listen to Allahs.
Beth kissed her husband’s grave and drew the sign of the cross in the dirt, then made it a little bigger. She crossed herself and laid down a single rose. Eduardo had brought her one rose every Tuesday even when they had no money; he’d never disappoint her. At the end, despite his pretty brown eyes sunken with diseased despair, his breaths short and labored, the single red rose would still appear in the narrow blue vase on the kitchen windowsill overlooking their garden.
Close your eyes, Eduardo would say. Turn around because I know you cheat. Here. Red rose. You can’t even tell it’s dyed.
I thought it was real. Beth would giggle playfully, sniffing the flower.
Beth finished praying and headed home along the desolate streets, remembering so intently she didn’t notice the Brown Hat until he was by her side.
“Evening, ma’am. Need help?”
Beth lowered her eyes and kept walking. “No, thank you, Detective.”
Detective Buca kept pace. “You’re out late.”
“Exercise.”
“Where do you live?’
It was safer to hand over her Lifecard, which he studied on his connector device. He flipped open a notebook from the pocket of his bulky brown overcoat and made a couple notes.
“May I go now? My son will be home and I have to make sure he’s done his homework.”
“Is that what you were praying for?”
Beth stared hard and said nothing.
“Must be forty, fifty graves.”
Beth trembled from rage.
“Husband? Wife? I had one, too.” Buca returned the Lifecard with a final nod. “Vets camp, huh? You must’ve been an athletic teenager.”
“Nothing illegal about that, either.”
“Actually, Mrs. Rivera, crossing yourself in public is illegal. But it’s dark and I doubt any judge would believe I saw it. I’m not entirely sure I saw anything. Did I?”
“No, Detective.”
In one motion, he flipped the notebook closed and back into his pocket. “The last subway leaves in less than fifteen minutes.”
“Then you shouldn’t detain me any longer.”
Buca stepped aside. “I was just out walking, like you. Have a good evening.”
Instead of being angry Ruben was still at his girlfriend Dale’s, Beth was relieved. She poured a tiny shot of Vermont Vodka, scooped out the rest of the peach pie down to the crumbs and went into his room.
The blue bed skirt was slightly awry, which meant he was hiding something under the mattress. Fortunately Ruben was a plodding idiot when he tried deceiving her. She easily lifted the bed and pulled out a wide book wrapped in brown paper.
Beth sat on the floor and opened Great Baseball Stadiums across her muscular thighs. Three or so pages were devoted to each of the old ballparks. She sighed. Just like him to plunge into this totally. Take tickets but you have to learn everything. Good trait for persistence, bad to allow emotions to consume you. Another dreamer.
Beth absently flipped another few pages before finding a couple folded sheets of paper tucked inside. There were sketches of a ballpark, notes dotting three levels, and circled numbers up to twenty pinpointing the field. In his tight, neat handwriting, Ruben had scribbled: “Here is where the first Miners treasonous assault began.”
Beth’s hands trembled.
“…more than seven thousand siblings were slaughtered…attempted assassination of Grandma…almost plunging the world into nuclear holocaust…”
She was still on the floor, book back under the mattress, when he came in. Frecklie warily looked around.
“Homework done?” she asked dully.
He nodded with scholarly assurance, slowly grinning under her doubtful stare. “Dale helped.”
“Good.” Beth brushed past. “It helps to have a smart girlfriend.”
He soon heard her chopping vegetables as if cutting down a tree. She exhaled loudly between chops. It was a scary sound, even for his insane mother. Frecklie locked the door and taped Puppy’s baseball book to the back of his dresser, just in case.
• • • •
FRECKLIE RAISED A questioning eyebrow down the line of the fifteen well-dressed DV teens until one flat-faced girl in a jacket and tie to
uched her temple.
“She says…”
“I understand.” Puppy smiled. He motioned the girl over. “How long to clean up the Three Amigos mural?”
She glanced at Frecklie for guidance, who was irritated by her hesitation. She quickly gestured a hammer hitting the nail, the universal DV sign for work, then flashed three fingers. She hesitated again and wiped a forefinger on her palm. Costs.
Puppy waved that off and climbed up the five-foot high ladder. The DVs closed ranks, almost protectively. He started explaining, then stopped; the kids grew concerned.
“My shorthand’s rusty.”
An acne-faced boy called out, “We speak Reg, too.” But not happily, their tight smiles said.
Puppy nodded gratefully. “We need the pavilion cleaned up, but without fixing it. Does that make sense?”
No more explanation was needed; they all knew their history.
“But some of this is simple wear and tear and neglect, and some inflicted by 10/12. We have to be really careful to walk that line. Like here.”
He tapped a necklace-like string of bullet holes just over Singh’s left shoulder. “We can’t fill that in.”
“But we can paint around?” Pigtails asked.
“Yes.”
The color was navy blue. Set us off like Gods, back when you could be, Mooshie had explained at breakfast as he gathered the ex-players’ ideas. The white was important. Stark. Make it sing, she insisted.
“Just there?’ Acne asked.
Puppy hopped off the ladder and walked the group to the Gate Six entrance. “From here to there,” he pointed halfway down the long hallway, leading them to the shuttered Gate Five.
“There?” A pale girl with deep blue eyes gestured across to the broken store.
“Not yet. Just the walls and wash the floors.” They all looked sadly at the cracked concrete.
“My father and I make plaques,” piped up a chubby boy in a flowered dress.
“I got the ropes,” added a girl with squinting, suspicious eyes.
“Great,” Puppy said.
“Food.” Frecklie flicked his hand at the three small silver carts near the entrance to the Amazon Clubhouse store. “The eating stations aren’t appetizing here in the hallway.”
“We can’t open up the stands inside. That’s too much,” Puppy said. “One area at a time.”
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