by Carl Deuker
"Life can sometimes deal out some bad hands."
I nodded.
His eyes narrowed. "But other people have tough times too. Your mother, for example. I don't suppose you'd say that these last months have been easy for her, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"I wouldn't either," he said. "I wouldn't either." I expected him to go into a long lecture, but all he did was lean back in his big chair and stare at me. Finally he spoke. "Shane, I'm putting you on probation for a year. That means a probation officer will be watching you closely. He'll make house calls, check with your teachers and principal, that sort of thing. You'll also have to make restitution to the minimart, of course." He looked to my mom. "Does your son have his own savings account?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Mom answered. "He has a couple of hundred dollars of his own."
The judge looked back to me. "You now have a hundred dollars less."
I nodded, then turned to leave.
"I'm not done with you quite yet, young man." The judge's voice wasn't loud, but somehow it filled the room. I turned back. "I'll tell you when I'm finished."
I stood motionless as he read through a paper, the glasses back on the end of his nose. "I see you're a baseball player."
"I used to be," I said.
"Good enough. Besides the probation and the restitution to the minimart, you'll perform twenty hours of community service. There's a Boys' and Girls' Club down in Ballard, which isn't too far from Whitman High. Mr. Cornelius Grandison runs the program there, and he needs somebody to get the baseball diamond in shape for the upcoming season. That somebody will be you. Every day you will report to him after school until your twenty hours are complete. I, on the other hand, will never see you again. Is that correct?"
For a moment I didn't understand. Then I got it. "Yes, sir," I said.
"Good." He took off his glasses. "Now you can leave."
CHAPTER 4
After school the next Monday, I caught a city bus to the Boys' and Girls' Club to start my community service. A girl about my age was at the front counter. She was nice looking, with brown eyes and long brown hair. Before everything had happened, I'd have been interested, but I just didn't care enough anymore. "I'm supposed to meet Cornelius Grandison," I muttered.
She looked down at a clipboard. "Are you Shane?"
"Yeah," I said, embarrassed that she knew why I was there.
"Mr. Grandison is working on the baseball diamond." She motioned toward a door leading out.
"What's he look like?" I asked.
She smiled. "Don't worry. You won't miss him."
I pushed the door open and stepped outside, wondering what she meant. I looked around the baseball diamond, then did a double take. Standing on the pitcher's mound was a huge black man. He had to be at least six feet five and close to three hundred pounds.
He spotted me. "You the kid from Shorelake?" he called out.
"I don't go there anymore," I said, annoyed that he knew things about me when I didn't know anything about him.
"What's your name again?"
"Shane."
"Well, get over here, Shane."
I walked toward him. Not fast, but if a guy is six five, you don't crawl. When I reached him, he held out his hand. I thought he'd squeeze my hand hard, showing me how tough he was, but it was a normal handshake.
"How many hours you going to work each day, Shane?"
"Two," I said.
He nodded. "You owe twenty hours of time, so I've got you Monday to Friday for two weeks. Right?"
"Looks that way."
He stared at me. "It is that way." He paused. "I read your file. You're a ballplayer."
"Used to be."
"What do you mean used to be? Aren't you playing anymore?"
"I don't have a team."
"What about your new school? You go to Whitman, don't you?"
I nodded. "Yeah, but there's no way I'm playing for them."
"Why not? You too good for them or something?"
"Look, I have to work for you, and I know it. But I don't have to answer a bunch of questions."
He snorted. "A tough guy. I should have known—stealing beer from a little Asian lady. That's real tough. I'm just surprised that a tough guy like you would be a quitter."
The word quitter made my spine stiffen. My dad had always said that that was the worst thing anyone could call you. But I knew Grandison's game. He was baiting me. Then, once I got talking, he'd prove to me how stupid I was and tell me everything I should do with my life. Instead of answering, I looked off to the side. For a while neither of us said anything.
Finally he picked up a shovel and thrust it into my hand. "See that pile of dirt by third base? This infield has about a thousand holes in it. You use that dirt to fill them. Then tamp it down, and fill it again. When you've done that, come inside and get me. Okay?"
It was November, not exactly the warmest month of the year. As I worked, a light rain started to fall, and the wind picked up. I'd fill a wheelbarrow with dirt, then work my way around the infield filling in holes. The biggest hole was right at home plate, but there were smaller ones everywhere.
That first day all I did was fill holes. On day two Grandison had me water the field, refill the new holes that appeared, then rake the infield. After that I rolled a big, drumlike thing over the whole infield to make it level.
When I finished the infield, Grandison put me to work in the outfield. That didn't have to be perfect, but there were lots of holes, and it was hard work pushing the wheelbarrow back and forth. I got blisters on my hands, and my back ached every night, but still I kept at it until I got it done. If anybody sprained an ankle on that field, it wasn't going to be my fault. When the infield and outfield were in good shape, I worked on the foul territory and the screened-off pitching area. I spent the last two days painting the backstop and the benches green. Every time I finished something, I expected him to start in with the questions again, but he never did.
On my last day, Grandison came out and checked my work. "This field looks good," he said, nodding his head up and down. "Better than it's looked in a long time."
"Thanks," I said. It did look good, and I was proud of it.
"No, I'm the one who owes the thanks. You're a good worker, Shane. On that first day I didn't think you would be, but you are."
We walked back into the main building. Grandison opened a door and had me sit down in his office, which was about the size of a closet. He filled out some forms and made me sign in a couple of places. Then he looked at me.
"You love baseball, don't you?"
"It's okay."
He smiled. "You can't fool me. Juvenile Court has sent me lots of kids. I always put them to work on that field, and they mostly dog it." He chuckled. "Sometimes when they finish, the field is in worse shape than when they started. I don't know how they manage that." He pointed his long finger at me. "But you ... you're different. You see the game even when there's nobody on the field."
"What?" I said.
"You heard me. You see the game even when the field is empty of players. I know you do, because I see it too."
He was right. As I'd worked, I had seen infielders scooping up grounders, outfielders tracking down fly balls. I squirmed in my chair, not knowing what to say.
He laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in his chair. "So tell me why you aren't going to play baseball for Whitman."
"I don't know. I'm just not."
"You're just not," he repeated. "What are you going to do instead?"
I shrugged. "Nothing."
He snorted. "There's a solid use of time."
"Can I go now?" I said.
He looked up at the clock. "No, you can't. I've got you for five more minutes." He paused. "I've read your file, Shane. Read all the newspaper articles about your dad. You've come down a peg or two in the world. But I'm here to tell you that all the stuff you lost—that fancy house and that fancy school—none of it wa
s ever really yours. Your daddy got all of that with dirty money. He got it by bringing drugs into our city, ruining other people's lives, lots of them kids who live in my neighborhood. You're better off without all that. You get what I'm saying?"
The whole time that he was talking about my dad, I wanted to yell at him to stop. When he'd finally finished, I wanted to scream that he was a nothing, a nobody, and that he had no right to say those things, no right at all.
"Are you done?" I said, my voice like ice water.
He glared at me, then waved his hand toward the door. "I'm done. Go on, get out of here."
My heart was pounding like crazy as I headed for home. Why had I worked so hard for him? I should have left his field full of holes.
I took the bus up to Holman Road, and then transferred to the Greenwood bus that would take me home. For the first time in two weeks, all the connections worked; I didn't have to wait for more than five minutes for either bus. As I crossed Greenwood to head home, I heard my name being called. I turned and saw Lonnie Gibson waving at me.
I hadn't seen him since the night the cops had caught us. He asked me a bunch of questions, and I answered them. "How about you?" I said. "What are they making you do?"
Lonnie shrugged. "They kicked me out of Whitman. I go to Hay Alternative School now. It's a total joke. We don't even have books. We just sit around and talk in every class. About what we're feeling, what our needs are, that sort of garbage. And I got forty hours of community service at the Foss House, every single one of them with Mrs. Newby watching my every move. I empty the trash, mop the floors, clean up all sorts of gross stuff. Yesterday I found an old lady's teeth behind a toilet. I'm telling you, Shane, some of those people are old. I hope somebody shoots me before I get like that."
A bus came into view. "I got to go," he said. "Every time I miss an hour, I have to serve five to make up for it." He started walking toward the bus stop, then turned back to me. "Why don't you come around tonight? We can hang out like we used to, only not get ourselves arrested. What do you say?"
"Maybe."
"Do it. Those were good times."
CHAPTER 5
School ... home ... school ... home. That was my life. The only time I saw my mother was at dinner, and then she pumped me with questions: "What's happening with your classes these days? ... Anything important coming up?...How are you feeling?" She was trying to connect with me, but I didn't know what was going on inside me, so how could I tell her? Anyway, she had enough worries without my adding to them. She was working constantly, always taking overtime. And every couple of nights, I'd hear Marian cry out, then listen to her sob while Mom soothed her.
One Thursday evening, right before Christmas break, Mom had to take a night off from work because Mr. Kraybill, the social worker assigned to supervise me, was making his first house visit. I hated the idea of being checked on, but he could visit whenever he wanted—judge's order. When Kraybill showed up at our front door, he looked the opposite of what I'd expected. I thought he'd be flabby and old, but he was a skinny man with a narrow face, brown curly hair, and a wispy beard. He looked like he ran about ten miles every day.
After he settled himself on our sofa, he pulled out a file and flipped through it. I sat in the chair across from him and watched. Mom was bouncing up and down, bringing him coffee and little cakes, plumping his pillow. I think she was afraid he could cart me off to jail if he wanted to. "I'm fine," he said over and over. "Really, you don't have to bother."
He flipped through a thick stack of papers. "You got a good report from Mr. Grandison, Shane. You finished the community service right on time, didn't miss a day, worked hard. Grandison's a good man, isn't he?"
"He was okay," I said.
He tilted his head. "You didn't like him?"
"Not particularly."
"Really?" Kraybill's eyes sought out mine. "Most people do."
"He was okay."
"So you said."
Kraybill stared at me, then his eyes went back down to his papers. When he spoke again, his voice was clipped. "Your grades aren't as good as when you were at Shorelake. Any ideas why?"
"I guess Whitman's harder," I said.
A pained smile came to his face. "That's an interesting statement. Given the reputations of the two schools, I doubt there are five people in this city who'd agree with you."
Ten seconds went by. Then ten more. Finally my mom hopped up. "Can I get you more coffee?"
"Yes, thank you," Kraybill said, handing his coffee cup to her. He ran his fingers through his beard. "What are you interested in, Shane?"
"What do you mean?"
"A young man has to have interests. Yours clearly isn't school these days. So what is it? You got a girlfriend? You play a musical instrument? Do any sports?"
I shook my head. "I'm not interested in anything."
"Nothing?"
"Not really."
He picked up a picture from the coffee table. It was of me in my Shorelake baseball uniform. "You used to play baseball. You were pretty good, too, weren't you?"
"I was okay," I said.
"Are you going to play for Whitman this year?"
"Did you talk to Grandison about me?"
"No. Why?"
"Because he was after me to play baseball, too."
"And what did you tell him?"
"That I wasn't interested."
Kraybill closed his tile folder and turned to my mother. "I'm going to arrange for Shane to see a psychologist. The county provides vouchers so that—"
My body went rigid. "I won't go," I said.
"Pardon me?"
"I won't go."
He smiled. "You don't seem to understand something here, Shane. You are under court supervision. Which means you are under my supervision. You follow my directions, or I'll bring you back before the judge with the recommendation that you spend a month under lock and key. And when that month is over, you'll still have to do what I say."
I remembered the kids I'd seen that night at the Youth Detention Center, their orange jump suits and angry eyes. I swallowed. "But I don't need to see a psychologist," I said.
"Is that so?" He paused. "Very well. I'll tell you why I disagree, and then you tell me where I'm wrong. If you convince me, then I'll drop my recommendation. But if you don't convince me, then you're going to do what I want you to do. You follow me?"
I nodded.
"Here's how I see it. You're sixteen years old. Before your father killed himself, you were a student athlete with friends. Now you're doing nothing at school, you're doing nothing after school, you're doing nothing on weekends. The only friend you've made is Donny or Lonnie or whatever his name is, and he's a sad case, if ever there was one. You've stayed out of trouble for a few weeks, but it won't last. It can't last. A good psychologist might be able to jump-start you again, get you back among the living. Otherwise you're going to fall in with a bunch of losers."
I thought for a long time. "What if I jump-start myself?"
"How?"
"Baseball. If I play on the Whitman High team, then I'd have an interest, wouldn't I? I'd have a reason to keep my grades up; I'd have something to do after school and on weekends. That's what you want, right?"
"You said you weren't trying out."
"I wasn't going to. But I will if it means I don't have to see a psychologist."
He stared at me for a long time, so long I wanted to look away. But I somehow felt if I did, he'd say no. So I made myself look right back at him. "Fair enough," he said at last. "Baseball it is. But let me be crystal clear about this. I'll be in touch with your coach to make sure you attend every practice and every game, and that you give one hundred percent effort. So don't try to scam me."
"I won't."
With that, he stood up and made his way to the front door. When he opened it, he looked back at me. "You don't know who the baseball coach at Whitman is, do you?"
"No," I said, "I don't."
A funny smile came to his
face. "He's a good man. I think you'll like him."
Once Kraybill was gone, Mom turned on me. "Shane, what is wrong with you? You were rude. Plain rude. The man was here to help you. To help us. Can't you see that?"
"I don't need his help," I said.
She laughed. "Is that right? You're doing so well on your own."
I was going to say something back, but instead I went to my room, lay down on my bed, and stared at the ceiling. I didn't know why I'd acted the way I did with Kraybill. Just like I didn't know why I couldn't concentrate at school, why I muttered only one-word answers whenever my mother asked me anything, why I was tired all the time. Everybody acted as if I wanted to be this way.
My baseball glove was sitting on top of my dresser, a baseball in the pocket. I got up, slipped the glove onto my left hand. Then I tossed the ball into the pocket. My dad had said that doing that over and over would make me a better pitcher. I don't know if that's true, but hearing the ball smack into the pocket used to send a charge of electricity through my body. There was no electricity that night. After about ten tosses, I put the glove back on the dresser.
We didn't get a tree until Christmas Eve. It was a scrawny thing, one side of it nearly bare. We turned that side to the wall, stuck on some ornaments, lights, and tinsel, and stepped back and looked at it. I don't know about Mom or Marian, but what I saw wasn't the ornaments on the tree but all the lights, ornaments, and decorations that were either sold at the yard sale or boxed up in the basement.
"It's small," Marian said, "but it's pretty."
"It is," Mom said. "It's very pretty. Don't you think so, Shane?"
"Yeah. It's great."
We looked at each other, not sure what to do next. For as far back as I can remember, Dad had taken us out on Christmas Eve for a long ride in a brand-new Lexus, which he'd brought home from the dealership especially for that night. He'd drive us through Olympic Manor and then over to Candy Cane Lane. He'd have Christmas music going on the CD player, and he'd turn the heat up so we could keep the windows down for a better look at the brightly decorated houses. "Everybody happy?" he'd ask, and we'd all say we were. At around ten o'clock we'd go to Pike Place Market for gelato. If it wasn't too cold, we'd walk down to the waterfront and look at the lights on the boats out on Puget Sound. Every year he'd make the same joke: "You two had better enjoy your ice cream, because tomorrow all that's going to be under the tree are lumps of coal." And every year Marian and I would laugh as if we'd never heard the joke before.