“Hello, Mrs. Durbin. Just a minute. I’ll get him. He’s in the den.”
“ALEX! WAIT! I want to talk to you!”
“Me? You want to talk to me?”
“Yes. You know, I heard about your pom-pom idea.”
“So Josh told me,” he said dejectedly.
“At first I didn’t think it was a good idea, but now I do. Where were you planning on getting pom-poms?” Alex couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d been blindsided by a flying lizard.
“I’ll probably be able to borrow them from a few of my cheerleader friends.” Josh came around the corner just then, and Alex cupped his hand over the handset and laughed. He mouthed to Josh that it was his mom. “My mom?” Josh mouthed back. Alex nodded his head up and down, then continued. “Since I can’t get a date with them, the least they can do is lend me their pom-poms. And, hey! I figured if Josh was making a fool out of himself, Shelby would for sure notice him then!”
Right after he hung up, Alex began hurling himself around the room, whooping and hollering, telling Josh what had just transpired. Josh’s mouth stayed agape so long that Alex finally chided him for looking like the world’s biggest geek. “The only thing I can think of to make you possibly look geekier, my man, is pom-poms, and they’re all but on their way!”
Even though nine people had worked all afternoon sorting and pricing, it seemed that they had barely made a dent in the mounds of sale items. Since Dorothy had moved off the farm and the ads seeking donations were still running in the newspapers, people seemed to feel free to drop off truckloads—such was the price of growth in the surrounding area, they figured. Gladys decided she didn’t want to give the sale a bad name by putting out all that “junk mixed in with solid resale items.” No matter how Dorothy and Nellie Ruth argued that there was a buyer for everything, Gladys replied, “I cannot believe anyone would stoop this low!” while twirling a metal bedpan filled with plastic poinsettias over her head. Before Dorothy or May Belle could open their mouths, Gladys had tossed the bedpan to the floor with a clank and departed to procure a Dumpster.
Gladys phoned the four garbage and refuse hauling companies in the county and harshly explained to each of them why, if they cared anything about Partonville, its beautification or its sanitary conditions, they would surely donate the use of a Dumpster. They, however, either didn’t care, or didn’t care for the way she talked to them. In the end, the best she could negotiate was a fifteen percent “charitable discount” (to which Gladys responded, “Well, not very!”) for a seven-day rental.
When Gladys returned to the barn looking frazzled, disappointed, angry and more determined than ever to have them all work two more hours, the committee decided the Dumpster shouldn’t arrive until four days before the sale; they would just pile rejects up until then. Then they would have the day of the sale to keep garbage containers from the food service area emptied and a couple of days afterward for easy cleanup. They all ended up agreeing a Dumpster was, indeed, a very good idea. Gladys gloated throughout their next hour of labor, at which time everyone quit, whether she liked it or not.
The moment Gladys was gone, Dorothy and May Belle made sure that Aunt Tess’s old bedpan and its poinsettias were appropriately hidden in the “keeper pile.” Had it not been for the Absolutely No Presales law of the committee, Dorothy would have paid good money right on the spot the moment Gladys began twirling it, just to save it from the rubbish. It had, without reason, become a comforting symbol of something, although she wasn’t sure exactly what.
Delbert Carol, pastor of United Methodist Church, walked from behind the pulpit, his forefinger and thumb rubbing his chin. Everyone knew that when Pastor moved from behind the pulpit, something either personal or not in the bulletin was about to spring from his mouth.
“I know I ran a little long with my sermon today, but nevertheless I’d like to take an extra moment for announcements before we dismiss. What with the sale out at Dorothy’s place, I mean Crooked Creek…um, Katie Durbin’s farm. Oh, heck, you know what I’m talking about. What with that sale just around the corner and it being our biggest fund-raiser of the year, I do believe it’s worth a special moment of notation, prayer and blessing.”
He rubbed his hands together, then ran one through his reddish-brown, thinning hair, which most in the congregation thought would look much better were his wife to stop cutting it. Although he always looked slightly disheveled when he spoke, nobody noticed since his heartfelt care for his flock simply erased anyone’s thoughts about appearances.
“I know many of you have already worked long and hard hours, with many more to come. Everyone from grandmothers to the Boy Scouts have already put in days of planning, sorting, pricing, not to mention a few hours of quarreling about logistics—and word always has a way of getting back to pastors about disgruntlement.” He paused long enough for everyone to “get” his joke. Finally a few chuckles wafted through the pews—although none from Gladys, who responded with her usual nasal grunt.
“I’d like to take this moment to thank each and every one of you before the sale. It’s nothing short of a God-given spirit of servanthood that moves busy people like yourselves to take on such a grand endeavor.” Gladys poked her brother, the Scoutmaster in charge of parking, and whispered, in her condemning voice, “or the bribe of a badge!” Pastor tilted his head toward her, smiled and raised a friendly eyebrow, as he was wont to do when Gladys sat in the front pew and felt a need to interrupt, which was nearly every week.
“As I’m sure you’ve seen by all the posters around church and town, a majority of this year’s funds are earmarked for the new county rape prevention and crisis center and the tri-city shelter for the abused. As people of faith, we can feel very good about our hand in helping those who are suppressed in any way since the Good Book encourages that time and again. I know it’s difficult for some of you to believe that even right here in Partonville, abuse leaves its mark, but believe me, as a pastor I’ve heard the unspeakable uttered on more than one occasion.” He noticed eyes suddenly flicking this way and that, some wondering if they really knew their neighbors.
“Let’s just bow our heads a moment and say a prayer not only for those who suffer from abuses and hard times, but for all the people who are helping them with the proceeds from this sale and through other forms of volunteerism.” The rustle of people shifting in their seats could be heard as parishioners brought their minds, hearts and bodies to attention for prayer.
“God, we come before You as a humbled people, desiring to please You—knowing You still love us, even when we don’t behave very kindly toward one another. May all our efforts come from our true hearts, and may the funds we raise lift Your children from their desperation and despair, as well as keep some from having to deal with it.
“Lord God Almighty, we ask Your protection for everyone attending the sale and the auction, that none might stumble. We ask for safety, and if we might be so bold, good weather to boot.
“I also ask a special blessing for all the fine people who have given of their time and talents and who will continue to do so until the sale is over and packed up. May our labors please You, Lord, and may we be good stewards of all the gifts You supply.
“And Lord, if it’s Your will, how about a win for the Musketeers! Amen.”
He lifted his bowed head, then looked up and dismissed them. “Go in peace. SERVE THE LORD!” A spontaneous and thunderous applause erupted that could undoubtedly be heard throughout the entire square block.
“Arthur,” Dorothy said into the mouthpiece of her telephone, “I’d like for you to stop by tomorrow morning on your way home from Harry’s. Any time will be fine—I’ll be here. After all, I can’t go too far away now anyway, can I?”
“Nope. I don’t reckon ya can! But are ya needin’ something, Dorothy? I can surely pick it up for ya and drop it off.”
“What I am needing is to talk to you in private, Arthur.”
“I won’t tell Jessie!”
&n
bsp; “Oh, Arthur, you know better than that. It’s about The Tank.”
“I don’t imagine there’s much to say about her, Dorothy, other than may she rest in peace. Maybe you’re really just wantin’ to show off that red ceiling I’ve been a-hearin’ ’bout. Why, I heard I could probably shave myself in the reflections and believe I cut myself to pieces with all that red paint.”
“Well, folks say lots of things, don’t they, Arthur? Some of them are true and some of them aren’t, wouldn’t you say now?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d say ya’ve got that right. But I’ll see ya in the morning so as I can make up my own mind as to what folks is sayin’ ’bout this one.”
20
“Scoot down!” Arthur had tried to settle his backside into a space at the end of the third row that was too small but that appeared to be the only one available in the entire bleachers. No amount of wiggling and prying would allow his posterior to fit unless people scrunched together. “SCOOT DOWN, I TELL YOU!” The bleachers were mobbed, and there were still ten minutes left before the first pitch.
The only other option was a lawn chair, if he only had remembered to bring his along. Dozens of them lined both baselines nearly clear to the stakes, three deep in some places, and people were still coming. May Belle and Earl had sold out of sweets within their first five minutes. There had been so much hype about this game in the papers and on local radio and at fish fries—not to mention beauty shops, barbershops, street corners, phone lines, bars and grills—that the otherwise calm rivalry had percolated into a full-blown brouhaha. Some even heard there’d been bad blood spreading here and there, although most didn’t believe it was for real. The opening pitch would now be thrown at 6:00 P.M. Lester, for the first time that anyone could remember, had closed Harry’s fifteen minutes early. It was unheard of.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said over the loudspeaker, which was a battery-operated karaoke machine, “will those of you in the bleachers please all move toward the middle? Let’s see if we can’t make room for a couple more fans, okay? I know it’s a hotter-than-tar day, but get to know your neighbor. Go ahead, don’t be shy. Snuggle right up to one another. Who knows, maybe you’ll like it—or them!” People laughed, but not many made very serious attempts to move, aside from those who would either have to make way for Arthur or have him sitting in their laps.
The announcer—first ever at a Musketeers game—was none other than Harold Crabb. As the hype had grown, Harold had decided to run a small feature in Wednesday’s edition of the Partonville Press. He interviewed the pitchers of each team, a few fans and the sponsoring fish fry establishments. Jessie talked with the confidence of someone who knew she’d win, but Reggie McDermott, pitcher for the Palmer Pirates, had been on a hot streak, and the Pirates’ bats had suddenly come alive. Jokes about illegal doses of Geritol started running their course, and pundits took note that the rumors regarding such matters were never denied—by either team. Harold reported the jolly suspicions, allegations and accusations in his lively and humorous story. It was the first chance in quite a spell he’d had to resurrect his journalism skills and his long-lost dream to be a sportswriter. He pulled out all the stops and let the words fly.
He dug up clips from Jessie’s heyday as a catcher in the semi-pro, fast-pitch softball leagues and published some of her record-breaking stats. No doubt about it, Mugsy Landers, as everyone called her back then, was a champion among champions with a “bullet-force pickoff arm and nerves of steel.” But now she was the pitcher, putting that pickoff arm to a different use. Of course, in his story, Harold couldn’t help but stir up the pitching duel between the sexes. “No matter how wicked a hot streak Reggie’s been on lately, Mugsy Landers doesn’t fear the heat. Town against town, woman against man, men and women on the same team. It should prove to be a game worth much more than the price of admission,” which surely got people to talking, since there wasn’t any. But then getting them talking about his story and the event was his goal.
After reading Harold’s story, the Thursday morning regulars at the grill cast a vote and decided that Harold ought to announce the game, since his color commentating would obviously liven things up. “By golly,” he said at the suggestion, “I just believe I will. All I need is a microphone.” Although he’d been joking, within an hour the karaoke machine showed up at his office.
The city slickers were right in the thick of things. Having arrived early, they had plopped themselves down in the center of the bleachers, the bag of pom-poms clutched between Alex’s feet. They hadn’t told Dorothy about them, figuring they would wait until she started waving hers, then they’d quickly pass them out and do their thing.
As usual, Musketeer and Pirate fans—or about any fans in the area, for that matter—were mingled with one another. Harold Crabb announced the lineups for each team. Although a few friendly jeers could be heard now and again, for the most part, everyone clapped for everyone as each player waved at the reading of his or her name.
As soon as he was done with introductions, Dorothy realized the Musketeers were taking the field. She rose from her lawn chair, which was parked dead center right behind the backstop, turned to face the crowd and held her pompoms high over her head, which was the usual signal for everyone to stand up for the Welcome Cheer. Alex rifled the pom-poms to everyone. “Go!” he shouted while Dorothy’s arms were still uplifted.
Up in the air their arms flew as their pom-poms thrashed this way and that. “Woohoooo!” they yelled. They made such a commotion that Shelby actually turned around to take a look-see, as did everyone at the ballpark. Dorothy’s mouth flew open, and for a moment she was speechless. Then she broke out in the biggest grin Katie had ever seen on her face. As Dorothy had promised to everyone who cared about her, she then quickly sat down in her chair to lead her cheer. “And if you don’t, I’ll come and personally hog-tie you, hear me? And don’t think I won’t!” Doc had warned.
It was the most raucous Welcome Cheer that anyone had ever heard, proving it’s not how high you can jump, but how much enthusiasm you can muster! When it was over, Harold Crabb, who was laughing into the microphone, said, “Let’s hear it for our head cheerleader, Dorothy Jean Wetstra, and her band of merry pom-pomers!” The cheering began all over again. By the time everyone got settled down, play was about to begin and the anticipation peaked. But suddenly, unannounced, the national anthem came blasting out of the karaoke box and everyone had to stand back up again.
At long last, the umpire called, “Play ball!”
Jessie left the mound where she’d been warming up and began walking toward Shelby, who immediately stood and flipped up her catcher’s mask. They met halfway between the pitcher’s mound and home plate.
“Looking into your young eyes reminds me of my youth,” Jessie said. “Sometimes if I didn’t look into the mirror, I could forget I’m old. This is one of those times. It’s you and me today, kiddo. You and me. Show me the target, and I’ll give you the pitch, right into the old breadbasket.”
“You got it, Jessie!” Shelby nodded. Jessie whirled on her heels and headed back toward the mound, but not before Shelby patted her on the behind, just like in the big leagues.
Arthur couldn’t believe what he saw next. He hadn’t seen his wife spit on the mound since probably 1945, but sure enough, spit she did, and right over her left shoulder. “By golly if it ain’t just like the old days, woman!” he said to no one in particular. “This is gonna be good!”
“Well, folks, we’re already heading into the top of the final inning and the score is tied, zero to zero. If I can trust my statistician here”—he looked toward Lester and his chaotic statistician’s sheet, which Lester was keeping on the back of a sandwich wrapper they’d found in the garbage can, since no one had thought to bring paper—“and I do believe I can trust him, it looks like…hold on a minute…” He put his hand over the microphone and conferred with Lester as they both tried to decipher the somewhat confusing scrawl. “It looks like al
though somewhere between seven and nine men and women have made it on base, none has been able to cross the plate—which is the only stat we’re really sure about.” A chuckle rippled over the loudspeaker and spread amongst the crowd. “It’s been a pitching duel all the way!”
Arthur had long ago abandoned his seat in the bleachers, unable to sit still. Gol’ darn if his cantankerous wife wasn’t pitching one of the finest games he’d ever seen! Although he hadn’t given the rivalry much consideration, he had now determined that he didn’t want his wife to lose, no matter whose team she was on. He paced up and down the first-base line behind the people on folding chairs as if he had ants in his pants. As Jessie took the mound and began tossing warm-up pitches, out of nervous habit Arthur retrieved his ever-present harmonica from his top middle coveralls pocket and began to play “You Are My Sunshine.” The moment Jessie heard the music, she knew from whence it came.
“ARTHUR LANDERS,” she yelled, looking his way, “SHUT THAT THING UP!” Nearly everyone in the ballpark heard her; but Arthur, whose hearing unadmittedly wasn’t what it used to be, was playing faster and faster. “ARTHUR! ARTHUR LANDERS!” She stood on the mound, ball in her right hand, which was settled on her hip, posing in a stance exhibiting her disgust. Everyone was now staring at Arthur, a few actually beginning to sing along to his playing. After one last ignored yelp, Jessie brought the ball to her waist in her pitcher’s stance, then gave it a swift counterclockwise whirl around and lobbed it high into the air in Arthur’s direction. Like a homing pigeon, the ball arched its way toward Arthur, the crowd’s heads moving in the same arc. Just as a sharpshooter of old would zing the cigarette out of his lovely assistant’s mouth, so the ball came down on Arthur’s hands, flipping the harmonica right out of his mouth, stopping the tune between “skies” and “are gray.”
Dearest Dorothy, Slow Down, You're Wearing Us Out! Page 17