Mammoth

by Douglas Perry

  Billy figured his father would be dead within two years of getting his gold watch. What was he going to do, watch the soaps? The man didn’t have any hobbies. He’d never play golf, the rich man’s sport. And anything else—softball, tennis, basketball—would give him a heart attack. He didn’t want to travel to the other side of town let alone Paris or London. He hated his job, but it was his life. Without it, and without the union and the bitching and the physical exhaustion, he’d go crazy. Mom left twenty years ago—God only knew where she was. The woman had coasters on her heels, Big Bill told him once. She’s probably skated all the way to Hell by now. Nice, Dad. Gwen, Billy’s stepmother, could roll with Big Bill’s moods better than Mom, but that only went so far. She would walk out as well, once she had to deal with her husband for whole days and weeks at a time.

  His father might just end up moving to Bakersfield, Billy thought. A lot of parents did that in retirement, started making their kids miserable all over again. Big Bill knew his son was a career criminal, so Billy wouldn’t really have to hide what he did with his days. His father had silently accepted it. Billy was his only son. It wasn’t as if he’d become something unforgivable, like a fag or a Republican. Still, they never talked about it. How’s business? Bill Senior would ask, and Billy would say, I’m getting by, and that would be the extent of it. Billy wasn’t sure why. He wanted to talk about it with his father. Every business was a con—Big Bill understood that. Why else did unions need to exist? There was no such thing as both sides in a deal winning. Billy believed he was more honest with himself than so-called legit businessmen, than the CEO of U.S. Steel. He wanted his father to know he wasn’t ashamed of what he did.

  On the brink of sleep, Billy struggled to set Becky in motion. Becky at twenty, not forty. He wanted to see her walking, that was all, just walking down the sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard, stepping over and around the stars of her favorite actors and directors, looking like she might bust loose like the love interest in a Gene Kelly movie. That loose, cheerful, Girl Friday stride, her shoes clicking on the pavement. That was it. He could still remember.

  He zoomed in for further proof: her hair in a teasing knot at her neck, bouncing against the pink flesh; the abnormally long, beautiful neck itself with the string of moles along the clavicle; the fragile slope of her shoulder, intersected by a thin white bra strap. She began to run. She loved to run, just like her daughter. Not fast like Tori, but joyously. That was what she had. Joy. Billy didn’t have that. Tori didn’t either. Becky ran for the same reason a dog ran—to feel herself being alive—and now, his eyes closed, Billy watched her do a loping jog to the end of the block and head back toward him. “Let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus,” she said to him once, laughing.

  She had laughed high and loud, often at the strangest things, but he couldn’t hear it anymore, couldn’t quite make out the sound. What did her laugh sound like? She raised a hand to reach for him. She stumbled then and had to pull her arm back to catch herself, but it was too late. Her knees grazed the ground, her hands slapped against the pavement. All of a sudden she was a heap on the sidewalk, unmoving, her dress settling softly around the curves of her buttocks. The gaping wound in her back burbled like a water fountain. Watching it all over again, Billy screamed. He screamed bloody murder.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Melvin snapped the radio on and flipped through the channels in search of Vin Scully’s euphonious voice. Baseball was still Melvin’s game, and Scully’s Dodgers were still his team. Carl Erskine had been Melvin’s favorite player when he was growing up. Ersk pitched as if he were double-parked, Scully said about him, and wasn’t that the truth? Melvin had fantasized about stepping into the batter’s box and seeing Erskine on the mound cannonballing into his windup. Time and again he’d seen himself crunching one of Erskine’s slingshot fastballs out of the park. Melvin was a power hitter. A four-bag man.

  He was sixteen years old when Maris and Mantle took out after the Babe’s home-run record; it was the same year Melvin almost broke Mammoth High’s all-time dingers tally. Many old-timers hadn’t wanted to see Ruth’s record fall. Melvin couldn’t understand that attitude. If you loved baseball, why would you want that fat clown to be the face of the game? Maris was a much better baseball icon than Babe Ruth. Better looking, better manners. Mantle, with that cheese-eater’s grin, looked like an American, too, but he tried to be Hollywood. Roger Maris was a working-class guy. He was a man who earned his place and didn’t brag about it. Maris, Mantle, Killibrew—they were a dying breed.

  The blacks had taken over the league. That was the main reason Melvin never got his shot. Willie Mays and Willie McCovey and Willie Stargell—those boys all gave him the willies. Gordon had laughed at that line when Melvin came up with it. “Yeah, why’re they all named Willie?” Gordon cackled. “Their mamas can’t think of any other names?”

  Melvin slowed into a turn. Gordon, zoning out in the passenger seat, hit his head against the side window. Gordon grabbed at the dashboard and righted himself. He had been Melvin’s biggest fan during his brother’s baseball career. For years he went to every practice to watch. Homer didn’t give him a choice—there was no one else to look after him—but Gordon was happy to be there. Melvin couldn’t say who wanted it more for him, Gordon or Homer. Homer drove Melvin to Bakersfield and San Luis Obispo for tournaments. He made sure Melvin had a bat that perfectly fit his hands and a jock strap that snugly secured his balls. “That boy’s going to be the next Ted Williams,” he liked to announce during games. The others parents would smile grimly. No one liked it when Homer started crowing, and they liked it even less when he might be right.

  Melvin looked out the windshield at the twisting road in front of him, trying to follow the asphalt after it disappeared into the forest. He had a plan. Simple but smart. He and Gordon would hide out for a couple of days in the hunting shack, until everyone figured they were gone, then they’d sneak down the mountain and head south. Straight on to the border. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it years ago, when no one was chasing them. After all, the Mexicans were serious about baseball. Melvin figured he could become a scout for the Dodgers, tour around the Mexican League looking for the next Bert Campaneris. He flipped the Eldorado’s headlights on; the sun was falling behind Mount Dana at the edge of the western horizon. He’d have to learn to speak Mexican, of course. Gordon wouldn’t be able to do it, but Melvin would translate for him. Gordon would be fine with only talking to him.

  Melvin wondered what he’d miss about Mammoth View. He liked the house, even though it was too big and smelled like piss and linoleum. He liked sitting on the roof and watching the tiny skiers blip into view on the corner of the mountain and disappear just as quickly, like spiders falling off their webs. He went into town more often during the winter because of the ski bunnies in their tight pants. He enjoyed sitting on the public bench across from Benny’s and watching the girls climb the steps to the diner. He whistled when the best-looking ones came out, and sometimes they’d come over and bum a cigarette. Thinking about it now, he banged a stick out of the pack, jammed it in his mouth, and dropped the pack back into the cup holder. He punched the lighter button. There’d be ski bunnies in Mexico. Senorita bunnies. There were bunnies everywhere.

  He thought about the last time he traveled south, after dropping out of school. There were bunnies in San Diego, that was for sure. Melvin had walked into Westgate Park for tryouts feeling certain he’d never go back to Mammoth View. He was eighteen years old and had figured out his entire future. He’d spend a season or two with the Padres for seasoning, then move up to the big club in Cincinnati. After another couple of years proving himself as a Major Leaguer, he’d demand a trade to the Dodgers. That was as close as he’d come to returning to Mammoth; back in California, but three hundred miles from Homer.

  He remembered the three schoolgirls who stood behind the backstop fence on that first
day. They hooted and laughed at him when he came up to bat. The girls grabbed the fence and pressed themselves against it like prisoners on visiting day. Their bodies were so ripe their flesh must’ve hurt. Digging in at the plate, Melvin had to force himself not to turn around to see what they were doing.

  The Padres had an old guy throwing from the mound—he had to be fifty if he were a day, with white hair and a pot belly—and Melvin missed three straight pitches before he got ahold of one. Fouled it into the seats behind first base. He was sure the old man was throwing spitters, just to screw with him. They always hazed the new guys. Everybody knew that.

  Later, when the coaches thanked him for coming in and wished him luck, Melvin didn’t say a word. Two days before he’d been sure of his success. But after being out on that field, with all those empty seats staring down at him, he convinced himself he’d known all along how it would go. He accepted the rejection as complete and final. He wasn’t good enough for the Pacific Coast League or any other professional league. He wasn’t good enough to make money playing ball. He got up and walked out of the room. The others who’d been cashiered were milling about, kicking at the floor, hoping for a reprieve, but Melvin picked up his bat, walked straight out of the stadium, and headed for the Greyhound station.

  He walked down Friars Road, his head down, bat on shoulder. He carried his duffel bag in the other hand. Off to his right, the blue of the ocean melded with the blue of the sky. He thought that if he veered from the road he might disappear into that blueness and come out in another dimension. He began to remember how far it was to the Greyhound station: about a twenty-minute drive, which meant a couple of hours on foot. He swore to himself. Sometimes he just stopped thinking and found himself in these situations. He pivoted and started walking backward, eyeing the vehicles as they overtook him. He stuck his thumb out. He probably looked kind of funny to people driving along the road. He’d changed into a T-shirt and jeans, but he was still wearing his cleats and, of course, carrying the bat. Yet it only took a minute before a pickup pulled over.

  The driver waved for him to get in the truck bed—Melvin couldn’t even see the man’s face—and Melvin climbed in and banged the side to let the guy know he was ready to go. He closed his eyes and let the rumbling of the truck lull him. For some reason, the decision to get into the pickup felt momentous. He wondered if this unknown driver saw something special in him, if the man was going to drive him to some secret hideaway where big plans were being hatched, like in a James Bond movie.

  When he opened his eyes, Melvin saw warehouses and rundown storefronts. An old orange dog stretched out on the shoulder of the road, dead or sleeping. Melvin recognized the neighborhood; the Greyhound station was right around here. He felt paralyzed with indecision, but he forced himself to act. He jumped out at a red light and strode away from the truck. He didn’t bother to wave at the driver. Turning the corner, the traffic noise dropped away. He walked along the curve of old streetcar tracks that died in the middle of the street. He crossed an abandoned lot with thigh-high weeds that pushed themselves at him like street vendors. A warehouse rose up beside him and he feared he’d miscalculated, but he continued on and soon came right up to the station. His sense of direction never failed him.

  The next bus wasn’t for four hours, so he decided to get some sleep. He was exhausted from the stress and the disappointment and the walking. He claimed an open bench in the middle of the bus terminal and stretched out. Not long after he had settled in, a smudged, scrawny girl tapped him on the shoulder. She was wearing an Army field jacket over a soiled summer dress. “You want a go?” she asked. Melvin sat up and leered at her, wondering if it was a joke. She smiled back, her mouth a shaky brushstroke on a blank canvas. She asked for five dollars.

  Melvin only had two bucks after buying the bus ticket, but she nodded, led him out of the station, and around the corner. The southern side of the building pressed up against an empty lot; beyond that was an onramp to the highway. The girl faced him, her back to the station’s outside wall. He’d brought his duffel bag and bat with him. He dropped the bag and propped the bat on his shoulder as she undid the clasp on his belt. The girl was pretty, he decided. He liked them petite like this one. He pushed at the stringy strands of blond hair that had congealed on her forehead. Her eyes were small and strangely fixed, like two Phillips-head screws. She leaned back against the building and hiked up her skirt.

  Melvin pulled his hand away from her face. Anger seized him. It was clear she didn’t really like him, that she didn’t want to do this. She just wanted the money. He punched her in the face. The back of her head banged and momentarily stuck in place. She dropped into a sitting position, a smear of blood trailing her down the wall. He stepped away, surprised at what he’d done. The girl turned over with a whimper, her hand brushing the top of his right foot. Startled, he kicked her in the stomach. He felt the shoe go in, meet resistance against the spine, and spring back. He was still holding the bat, and he had to stop himself from using it. He didn’t want to kill her.

  He fixed his belt and returned to the waiting area. When his bus arrived, he stretched, picked up his duffel bag and bat. He followed his fellow passengers, but instead of joining the queue, he stepped around the side of the building. The girl was gone, but the splat of blood was there, proof that he hadn’t dreamed the encounter. He gripped the bat, turned, and climbed onto the bus, glad to be putting the big city behind him.

  When he arrived home that evening—the home he’d planned on never returning to—he announced right off that the Padres didn’t want him and that was that. Homer didn’t say anything. He was too busy sitting on the porch with his lemonade and gazing off at nothing. Finally he looked at Melvin without looking at him and told him they’d eat in half an hour. Sure enough, Homer got around to the subject during the meal. “If I told you once, I told you a thousand times, boy. You’ve got to be a hustler to make it in this world. Talent will only take you so far. Coaches, employers, what-have-you, they’re all looking for a man with hustle.”

  “That wasn’t it,” Melvin told him. “I hustled plenty, let me tell you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He hadn’t called Homer Sir, probably for the first time since he was five years old. He was through with that.

  Homer pushed his plate away and glared across the table. Melvin knew exactly what was coming. “Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” Homer hissed, his voice as sharp and bloody as razor wire. “Thou art not so unkind as a son’s ingratitude.” Melvin refused to look at his father. It was downright creepy when he spoke in tongues like that. Melvin stared out the window. It wasn’t winter and it wasn’t windy out, but there was no point in saying so.

  Melvin couldn’t find the Dodgers or any other game on the radio. Not much reception way out here. He switched the radio off and wiped away the memory of the San Diego trip. He rode the brake as the car rolled into another steep curve. He let go of the pedal on the straightaway, and it felt like they’d been set loose in space, halfway between the moon and Mars.

  “You don’t want to listen to music?” Gordon asked.

  Melvin shook his head. He grew up on Elvis and Eddie Cochran, but music had never been central to his life. It was something for the background, for when you were putting it to a girl. But Gordon loved music. It carried him away, into himself. What was the saying? Music soothes the savage beast? Especially the new crap Gordon liked. David Bowie and Gary Wright. Dr. Hook and Electric Light Orchestra. All those gays. Their music soothed and soothed until you were drooling. Good thing Homer was dead. He wouldn’t have put up with that stuff for a minute.

  Melvin clicked the radio back on. “You go ahead,” he told his brother. “You can choose any station you like.”

  ______

  Hicks was halfway down the path when he saw the man. The Bronco’s tailgate was open, and the man was standing there at the back, all but the side of his head and an ankle obscured by the truck.
A shoulder, too, moving up and down. Part of an arm. A flapping pant leg. Blood rushed to Hicks’s head. He pulled the rifle off his shoulder and hunched low. He eased into the trees. He put a finger on the trigger, tested the gun’s weight with his other hand. Step by step the man’s profile came into view. Hicks relaxed. It was Lloyd. He was hugging Winnie, who sat on the end of the truck, her arms around her husband’s waist, face pressed into his shirt. Hicks thought of Sarah. He thought of begging her to come back to him.

  Lloyd spotted him and turned, wrenching his wife’s neck with his hip. Winnie looked up, eyes lit with trepidation. Seeing the chief, the irises settled, and she smiled.

  “We must have just missed each other coming and going,” Lloyd said.

  Hicks placed the rifle in the back of the truck. “Must’ve.”

  “I was going out of my mind. I turned that place inside out. It was quite a shock—a relief—when I opened up the car door to get the rifle and found Winnie hiding under the blanket in the back.”

  Hicks caught Winnie’s eye. He hadn’t actually expected her to stay out of sight as he’d instructed. “Good girl, Winnie,” he said.

  “Thank you for going back for him, Chief.” Winnie looked ready to cry, but her smile seemed genuine.

  “They’re gone, obviously,” Lloyd said. “But the good news is I got the radio to work. I guess being up higher helps. Marco’s talked to the sheriff, who didn’t know what the heck was going on. Sheriff’s contacting the state police and Bakersfield PD, then coming up to help out.”