A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  Zelda cautioned herself against too much hope. Reprieves didn’t happen to her. Only really happy and hopeful people are rewarded with miracles. She was right; Paula nearly stuck her chubby hand so far up Zelda could lick her fingertips, pulling out with a merry laugh.

  “Confirmed.”

  “Yay.”

  Paula tossed the gloves and patted Zelda on the knee. “Is your partner joining us?”

  Zelda cleared her throat. “I don’t have one.”

  “Oh.” Paula seemed genuinely disappointed. “So you’re not married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?”

  Zelda shook her head.

  “Oh. Well. Single.” It was like someone invisible twisted off Paula’s head and replaced it with a different colder person. “Planning on bonding with the child’s father?”

  “Um, no.”

  Stobbs darkened. “Know who he is?”

  “I could guess, but that wouldn’t be right.”

  “No. It would be illegal.” Paula sadly sat behind her desk. “Do you understand your responsibilities, Ms. Jones?”

  From Zelda to Ms. Jones. Soon it’ll be Naughty Single Slut. “Not totally.”

  “Your baby now belongs to someone else.” Paula forced a smile to reduce the sting. “It’s still possible you can keep the child if, of course, you find someone suitable to marry. That happens, this is life, and a father will initially balk or the mother can’t consider marrying them until they finally come to their senses. That’s also strictly monitored. We don’t tolerate just any parents, even the biological ones. Either they truly want the baby or someone who does will adopt the child. That’s your situation at the moment. If a partner comes forth and we can sort out if that’s the right one, we’d confirm that with a DNA test.”

  Zelda’s mind wandered; this was too surreal, there had to be a safer place where brats didn’t grow inside you.

  Paula sensed her drifting. “Honestly, Ms. Jones, do you envision someone coming forward who would make a good partner? Or finding someone else who you would genuinely love and who would genuinely make a good parent?”

  A real relationship. That doesn’t happen to people like her, either. She shook her head.

  “That answer is not really official, by the way.” Paula scribbled something in Zelda’s chart, forcing out another smile. “Things change.”

  “I don’t like children,” Zelda suddenly said.

  “What?” Paula nearly leaped out of her seat.

  “I was a teacher. I liked teaching them, but I think they’re really annoying. I would’ve hated me as a kid. Course I’ll do whatever for the law. I’m here, right? Tested two days ago, made my appointment. But I never wanted to be a mother.”

  Paula wrote for a few minutes, ignoring Zelda’s sobs. “You have to begin Parent Training within two weeks. Normally it’s a month, but in your case…” She didn’t need to say more. “Your employer will be notified in the next two weeks, which gives you the option of telling them first. I recommend that. It’s more personal and defuses the shock. I know this sucks, Zelda. The next eight months will be painful. But you’ve added a soldier in the fight against the Allahs. That counts for something.”

  Zelda hated everyone on Earth.

  • • • •

  FRECKLIE HAD FALLEN asleep again by home plate, curled up in two frayed towels tied together. The smell of the freshly trimmed grass tickled his nostrils; the sun danced overhead. He rose onto his hands and knees; his crazy mother would be sticking squared notes all over Dale’s house any second to check up on him.

  To regain as much clarity as he could on a couple hours sleep, Frecklie walked to the mound. Now pitching, Ruben Rivera, he bowed. The smell of new paint blotted out the smell of grass. From foul pole to foul pole, the shining blue seats said good morning.

  About eight of his staff were asleep in the aisles, careful not to smear their jobs. Another few slept on the dugout floor. Frecklie clapped his hands, the echo jolting them up; they rubbed their eyes childishly. He trotted past second, slowing down. Even after skull-picking, he was still squeamish. He carefully monitored the level of the grass, which in the short outfield was about two inches, rising up to his ankles as he neared the track warning, no, the warning track, get the names right, he scolded himself, making a note in his pad; he already had twenty or so confusing shorthands like bullpen to around the horn; he never heard any music.

  Frecklie frowned at the uncut grass. How much clearer could he have been? Bo-Dan, burly with long dreads, explained the problem, holding out a sad looking lawnmower. Bo-Dan pressed the button and the engine coughed and died. He turned up his palms. Frecklie turned up his.

  Fix?

  Bo-Dan sadly shook his head. This was his father’s lawn mower that’d broken. He’d have to work off the expense; one less crew grounder, no, ground crew, Frecklie made another note as Bo-Dan waited. Frecklie gestured with both forefingers and Bo-Dan hurried off to find or borrow another machine.

  Hopefully no one would hit long drives today. Frecklie smiled, proud of himself. He was learning.

  T’Dina met him by home plate. She looked frustrated. He raised his shoulders questioningly. The lanky girl took his hand and led him back inside the stadium to the murmur of breaths beyond the shuttered Gate Six. For a second, Frecklie thought a dragon had decided to attend today’s game.

  T’Dina spread her arms so wide her shoulder blades nearly touched.

  Frecklie unlocked the gate. As the metal rolled up, thousands of silent eyes stared back. Fans snaked back past River Avenue, under the El and up the 161st Street hill.

  T’Dina and the rest of the staff gathered in a semi-circle. How many were out there, Frecklie asked.

  T’Dina cleared her throat and held up five fingers, then three fingers, made a zero and a one. Her forefinger slashed the air. I counted, she said proudly.

  They’re here to see the museum, Frecklie realized. Where were Sh’anda and Aito? He hurried past the purple roped squares and circles and took the broken escalator two steps at a time. Tucked in a corner were the sleeping Aito and Sh’anda, arms around each other. Frecklie kicked the wall over their heads and they shot up, wiping dust out of their long hair.

  They switched on Dale’s system; somber music and grim-faced HGs rose around the roped areas, beginning their lectures about 10/12. Frecklie ran from exhibit to exhibit, making sure everything was working; Dale would kill him if she knew he doubted her brilliance even for a moment.

  Frecklie ordered Gates Five and Four opened. Bo-Dan and three burly friends struggled with the rusted locks, considering the piles of rubble on the ground. If no one missed skulls, they wouldn’t miss rocks. Frecklie encouraged them to have fun and they happily bashed the gates open.

  T’Dina dashed out and began guiding fans to the different gates. The DVs politely reformed lines; Bo-Dan, Tyrius and Angel handled ticket-taking.

  Bo-Dan tapped his watch and raised an eyebrow. Six-thirty. Too early.

  We’re not keeping them standing outside, Frecklie snapped.

  The fans started filing in. The three concession owners stiffened as if Allahs were right around the corner.

  “We’ll need more food,” Frecklie told Mrs. Bilinski.

  “I cooked up my whole fridge.” She gestured helplessly at the suddenly meager steaming trays of stuffed cabbage.

  “Me, too,” said Sam the Hot Dog Man.

  “They’re not sitting here hungry,” Frecklie said as the fans quietly passed, milling about since there was no one to direct them to the right sections. His head nearly exploded until a couple of the sleepy workers stumbled down the steps.

  Calm down. You’re acting like your mother.

  The grim little girl behind the taco stand raised her hand politely. “I have lots of cousins.”

  Frecklie finally got the HG system all set up. He hit the button.

  “Mooshie Lopez, Derek Singh and Easy Sun Yen were three of baseball’s greatest players,” said
the pert HG, walking around the wide-eyed fans clustered beneath the Three Amigos mural. “Right where you’re standing, treasonous Miners shot at this beautiful mural, which Grandma had personally commissioned from the famous artist Latsha Di. Black Tops gunned them down all over the hall.”

  The HG somberly gestured toward the bold purple Grandma lettering: “Remember those who died on October 12, 2065 because the Miners wanted war, not peace, and baseball let that be.”

  On the walls, meticulously spaced every ten feet were photographs of victims of 10/12, smiling back sadly. D’Neese Sh’Piro, eleven, died behind home plate. Alex Manci, forty-three, died outside Gate Five.

  Surrounding each of the gaping holes were thick purple ropes, twisted like pretzels. Photographs of children at the game dangled over the craters: “Miners set explosives…Miners launched mortars into the left field grandstand…Black Tops protected civilians, but Miners fired into the crowds…”

  Siblings murmured wonderingly as the HG pointed out bullet shells along the path to the first of twelve roped areas, where it told them about the more than four hundred children taken hostage by the Miners and used as human shields, plaques at each stop reiterating the message, while the Taco Girl’s cousins unloaded four trucks brimming with Pan Asian-Latino delicacies, joined by another relative, a fat woman with a blue-tressed wig who rolled in a handcart of boiling pastries.

  Between the history and the new food, the pavilion was clogged with fans eating quietly, peering at the HG bodies of the victims silently floating overhead, falling to the ground in mute spasms of death and rising up again to form a mass of sad faces outlined against the huge copper plaque above the entrance to the former Amazon Clubhouse, where the names of all the murdered were listed.

  HGs trailed with polite somberness throughout the crowd, answering questions:

  How many people died on 10/12? —Seven thousand, six hundred and forty-two dead and ten thousand, two hundred and two injured.

  How many were children? —Three thousand and three children died and six thousand and forty-two were injured.

  Is that the worst terrorist attack in American history? —No, but it is the worst attack ever committed by Americans on Americans.

  What happened to the criminals? —All eight hundred and fifteen of the captured Miners were executed by lethal injection.

  What about the Allahs attacks? —The Allahs killed two million, five hundred and ten thousand siblings in the Los Angeles nuclear terrorist attack; one million, eight hundred thousand and eleven siblings in the Manhattan poison gas terrorist attack, and four hundred and thirty-nine thousand in the Washington, DC nuclear attack.

  The crew finally guided the crowd into the ballpark, which caused another human traffic jam because everyone stopped in wonderment at the shiny seats and the neatly trimmed grass as if, by sheer positive blinders, they could block out the rest of the shabby stadium.

  Where the fans eventually sat, hands folded, faces smeared with various delicacies.

  Dale touched Frecklie’s back and he nearly rolled down the steps. The pretty fifteen-year-old boy in the sparkling red dress with the biggest blue eyes in the world kissed him gently. You okay?

  He had five thousand, three hundred and one, nope, Dale made five thousand, three hundred and two siblings inside a stadium with nothing to do.

  Terrific.

  Now what? Dale asked. This was her first baseball game.

  Wait, he gestured a batter.

  She yawned; Dale was easily bored.

  BP wasn’t for another hour. He ran into the Hawks clubhouse, empty except for Ty grumbling over the lineup card in the manager’s office.

  Cobb scowled. “Are you on my team?”

  Frecklie shook his head.

  “Can you read?”

  He hesitated warily.

  “’Cause if you can, the sign on the clubhouse door says players only. Now get your scrawny chink ass out of here.”

  Frecklie raised his chin. “I need your help, Mr. Cobb. Your fans are here waiting to meet you.”

  Ty quickly shaved.

  At home plate, Cobb tipped his cap back off his forehead, squinting at the crowd as if he’d found them in his bathtub. “Are these the mute retards?”

  The boy wasn’t sure what retards meant, only that it was similar to chink and spic and nigra and queer and all those other words Ty was fond of.

  “Yes, sir. They’d like a real Hall of Famer to tell them about baseball.”

  Ty smiled approvingly and cupped his hands on either side of his mouth. “Listen up, everyone.” Frecklie handed him a microphone. Cobb grunted. “Thank you for coming out so early. We’ll start making the signs bigger about when the game officially starts for any of you who can read English.”

  Frecklie moved a couple steps behind and gestured, He means well.

  “Now how many of you know anything about baseball?”

  No hands rose. As Cobb growled, Frecklie gestured, Please someone.

  Dale stood up and Frecklie fell in love with her even more. “How do you hit the ball, sir?”

  “Well that’s a goddamn smart question, little girl. Hitting a baseball’s the hardest thing in all sports.”

  Frecklie tossed him a bat.

  “You got a little white sphere coming at you like ninety plus miles per hour…”

  Frecklie gestured, Sometimes one hundred plus. The crowd oohed slightly. Ty grinned.

  “Damn straight. It’s curving, dropping, rising, falling and you got less than a second to react. That’s right, less than a second. You got to decide to swing and then where you want to place the ball. Any of you want to take a shot?

  When Dale leaped over the fence, Frecklie decided he’d propose the moment he graduated high school next year. She curtsied.

  Ty looked past her pleadingly. “Any boys?”

  Some of the DVs chuckled knowingly.

  “Just me,” Dale said sweetly.

  “Figures. What’s your name, honey?”

  “Dale.”

  “Like Dale Evans, the singing cowgirl.”

  “Yes,” she curtsied again.

  “You’re even prettier.” Ty winked. “Ever swung a bat?”

  “No, sir.” Dale smiled.

  From behind, Ty wrapped his arms around Dale and adjusted her grip.

  “That’s good for a lady.”

  “I try to do what a girl can do.”

  “Ain’t much.”

  “You’d be surprised, sir. Girls will be girls and boys will be boys and sometimes they get all mixed together.” Dale wiggled her butt into Ty’s groin and the crowd burst into applause.

  They never stopped applauding. Sometimes they got it a little wrong, like when a foul ball bounced into the stands and back onto the field. But there was noise. Not just clapping. Dale, unleashed, started barking after Puppy struck out the first two batters and the crowd shyly, then exuberantly, picked up on the sound. No matter what Puppy did after that, good or bad, they barked. He surrendered a long home run in the second and they barked. He caught a swift one-hopper back to the mound and they barked. He struck out so pathetically he nearly toppled over and they barked.

  And when Ty took Puppy out after five innings with a 5-2 lead and eight Ks, Frecklie loved how that abbreviation rolled off the tongue, Dale, never to be outdone, began howling. Soon the lower field boxes were a forest of wolfish dogs.

  After the game, Frecklie flapped his legs over the gaping hole and balanced the sketch pad on his lap, sitting high up in the far upper deck under the white wooden trim in left field, the “brocade.” He loved the word brocade. K brocades. Brocade Ks. Around the horn with brocades and Ks.

  He turned the page of Puppy’s Great Baseball Stadiums book to Fenway Park. That was a ballpark, he marveled, sketching more ideas on his pad. That wall. The Green Monster. His stadium would have a monster. Somehow, a dragon. He loved dragons. Maybe fire could come out of the scoreboard. Yes, he enthusiastically scribbled quicker, nearly losing his balan
ce for a moment.

  Frecklie wished his mother could see him near the top of the deserted stadium, afternoon rain coming, no rows below him, just a huge gaping hole where a rocket or missile or something had hit. She’d flip out.

  He rocked a little and laughed.

  • • • •

  MOOSHIE SWUNG BY his table twice during Be My Baby. The first time, Kenuda hoisted up his glass; the second, he leaped to his feet and toward the stage, cheering and nearly drowning out the bridge until she quieted him down.

  After the first set, she glad-handed through the crowd, cheeks peppered with well-wishing kisses, while Jimmy laid out a tray of food by Kenuda’s table. With mocking flair, Jimmy unfurled a white table cloth and laid down two candles. Elias waved him off as if he were a fly and pulled out her chair.

  “I’ve done the best I can under the circumstances,” he apologized, glaring at the bottle of South Texas champagne. She boomed out a laugh when the cork popped without any spritzing foam. Kenuda smiled sheepishly.

  “To astonishing music,” he toasted.

  “Thank you, Third Cousin.”

  “Elias. Please. Elias.” He took a small bite of the cheese and nearly gagged. “How did you get this assignment?”

  “I came here a long time ago. I knew the previous owner.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  But your lines sure are. “It was a good crowd tonight.”

  Kenuda took in the youngish patrons, heartily and noisily drinking. “Must be the neighborhood.”

  “I take it you don’t get down here often. I’m flattered.”

  “After we met, I had to make sure you were who I thought you were.”

  Mooshie tensed. “Who’s that?”

  “An enchanting talent. What were those songs?”

  “Middish 20th Century African American music. Motown.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said enthusiastically.

  “Never heard of it?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about.” Kenuda smiled. “I prefer smarter music. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart. When the world had civilization.”

  “I prefer fun.”

  “Delighted to hear that.” Elias pushed aside the suspicious looking SC cold cuts. “You must do better than this, Dara.”