Painting the Black

by Carl Deuker

  The discussion never got going. Even Monica was strangely quiet. A couple of times I caught her sneaking peeks at Josh’s empty desk. For a while I wondered if somehow she’d heard what a beating he’d taken and felt sorry for him, but that made no sense.

  Just before the dismissal bell, Ms. Hurley clapped her hands to get our attention. “I almost forgot,” she said, holding up a stack of papers. “A new issue of the Viper is out. Monica and Franklin and many others worked hard on it. So please don’t take it if you’re just going to throw it away.”

  I grabbed a copy on my way out the door. I headed to the computer lab, where I finished up some end-of-the-chapter questions for history class. As I waited for the printer, I pulled out the Viper and flipped through it.

  The main story made fun of Mr. Hagstrom, a French teacher who was notorious for talking too much about his Brittany spaniel, Buddy. Then there was a sci-fi/fantasy thing about how the school’s water was tainted with some strange chemical that made everyone live their lives in reverse. Adults were sucking their thumbs and wetting their pants while babies were driving cars and reading Shakespeare. Maybe it was funny and I just wasn’t in the mood, but I was about to toss the whole thing when a short piece on the last caught my eye.

  Jocko Come Home

  PLEASE HELP! Our beloved dog, Jocko Spaniel, is missing. Jocko is a fun-loving hound who loves to roll on the ground with boys. Around girls, Jocko slobbers uncontrollably and howls. If you find him, please call 1-800-Clueless. P.S. Jocko desperately needs neutering!

  It was playing dirty, pure and simple. All afternoon I seethed. When the dismissal bell rang, I went to the front steps and looked everywhere for Monica. I was always running into her around the school, but the one time I wanted to see her she was nowhere to be found.

  Then it hit me. She’d be in the publishing center, a little room in back of the stage. That’s where the staff of the Viper met, and I’d heard Franklin say something about a party.

  I walked down the hall to the theater. The main lights were off, but I could hear laughter coming from behind the black curtain that was pulled across the stage. I strode down the center aisle, hopped onto the stage, and pulled the curtains apart. There were six of them, Monica and Franklin and Linda Marsh and some freshmen and sophomores I didn’t know, sitting at a long table eating cupcakes and drinking Coke and talking. Everyone stopped when they saw me.

  “That was a cheap shot, Monica,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Josh didn’t deserve that, not after what he’s done for this school.”

  She smiled her know-it-all smile. “‘After what he has done for the school,’” she echoed, looking at her friends. “Tell me, Ryan, what is it that he has done for this school?”

  “Maybe you didn’t notice,” I said, “but he’s given us something to be proud of, some reason to be glad we go to Crown Hill High.”

  She continued smiling sarcastically. “Oh, I am so delighted to go to a school where the jocks sit together in the center of the cafeteria hooting at girls and copping cheap feels. My heart swells with pride!”

  “I wasn’t talking about that.”

  Her smile disappeared. She picked up a Viper and waved it in front of me. “Well, that’s what I was talking about.”

  I felt the ground slipping away from me. “Other guys were louder and grosser than Josh, and you know it.”

  She glared. “What about Celeste Honor? Was that some other guy too?”

  “Come off it,” I said. “Celeste has been asking for something like that for years. He was just joking around.”

  Monica tilted her head. The smug smile returned. “Well, that’s all I was doing, Ryan. Just joking around. If you can dish it out, you’ve got to be able to take it. Isn’t that what guys always say?”

  I stood there, suddenly feeling stupid. I needed to come up with some answer, but I couldn’t think of anything. I swallowed, then I turned and walked away. The heavy curtains rustled as they closed behind me. When I walked out of the theater, I could hear the whole bunch of them laughing.

  17

  A guy is lying on his sofa, beat up and bruised. His head is aching, his face is puffy, and every muscle and bone in his body hurts. He’s just come up empty in the biggest game of his life, and you’ve got to tell him that the school magazine makes him out to be an idiot and a pervert. There’s a fun job.

  Actually I didn’t describe the article. I sat in the big chair next to him and watched the opening of the Cowboys-Raiders game on Monday Night Football. When the first set of commercials came on, I handed the Viper to him.

  “Monica Roby,” I said.

  He looked puzzled, then he read the words I’d circled. “This is stupid,” he said, throwing it back to me.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” I replied, and I started to shove it into my back pocket.

  He grabbed it back. “Let me read it again.” His jaw tightened as he read. “This is something my brother would think was funny. I know her type. She thinks she’s so clever and smart and everybody else is dumb.”

  I watched a beer commercial. A little time ticked away.

  “You know what I’d do if I were you?” I said. “I’d just forget about it. Act like it never happened. That would show her.”

  His eyes widened. “No way, Ryan. Absolutely no way. I’ll get even with her. I don’t know how, but I will.”

  We watched the game then, both of us silent. Emmitt Smith was running wild, breaking tackles and scoring touchdowns. At halftime I got us some Cokes from his refrigerator.

  “You know,” he said as he drank his off, “she cost us the game.”

  I put my Coke down. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean that if I had started, we’d have won.”

  I thought of how much bigger the O’Dea guys were, and how their offense had cut right through our defense. “The game would have been closer, but they were—”

  “They were nothing,” he interrupted, his tone vehement. “Nothing. Ruben made them look good. I’m telling you, I could have beaten them.”

  On the television Dallas was celebrating another touchdown. I got up and stretched my arms over my head. “I’ll be going home now,” I said. “You coming to school tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “My mother made me go see a doctor. He wants me to take the week off, which is okay by me. I won’t go back until after Thanksgiving.”

  It was actually good Josh stayed away. Tuesday morning in the halls I saw kids pointing to the Viper and laughing. But by Tuesday afternoon most copies were in garbage cans. Wednesday was a half day. Everyone was looking forward to the time off from school. Josh, Monica, the Viper—they were all old news.

  18

  When I was little, I used to play for hours with plastic soldiers. I’d set them up everywhere in my room—on the floor, on my chest of drawers, my nightstand. I’d have them in lines of two and three and four. Once they were all set up, I’d smash them here, there, and everywhere. I was in complete control. Every little plastic man did exactly what I wanted.

  I think that’s what I wanted from Josh those days. I wanted him to be like one of my plastic soldiers. I wanted him to do what I wanted.

  I had it all worked out. I’d give him a week to get over the battering he’d taken from O’Dea. Then he’d be ready for baseball. We’d throw at the Community Center after school and hang out together at night. It would be just like summer, only better, because I’d be better. My ankle felt good; I had more stamina; and it seemed like my foot speed was picking up, though it’s hard to know about that unless somebody times you.

  The problem was I couldn’t get him to play ball. After school he wanted to hang around in his room and talk football. O’Dea was cruising through the state tournament, and every one of their victories ate at him. “That should be us playing,” he’d say, as he looked at the newspaper. “That should be me out there.”
Even after O’Dea crushed Bellingham for the state title, he still wouldn’t do anything.

  “Forget football,” I kept telling him. “It’s time to start thinking about baseball.”

  “Pretty soon,” he’d answer. “Pretty soon.”

  Right before the Christmas break, my grades came in the mail. I’d done better than ever before, all A’s and B+’s. My parents were happy, especially with the B+ in chemistry. “We know that’s a hard class,” my mom said, and I was glad she realized it had been tougher to earn than my A in art. Those grades somehow got me even more pumped up to play baseball. I felt that I was on a roll, and I didn’t want to lose my momentum.

  That night Josh and I took the bus down to the waterfront and walked around, doing nothing. After a while we were both hungry, so we got some fish and chips at Ivar’s, sat outside under their heaters, and looked at the ferries moving across the Puget Sound.

  “How about if we start throwing the ball around once vacation starts?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Can’t do it. We’re going to L.A. to see my brother over Christmas.” He must have seen the disappointment in my face. “Don’t blame me, Ryan. It’s not my idea.”

  I bit into a piece of fish, swallowed.

  “Look,” he said, “as soon as I get back, we’ll start throwing the ball around. Absolutely the first thing.”

  “Is that a promise?” I asked.

  “It’s a promise.”

  19

  I used to love Christmas, especially all the little things that come with it. I was the one who cracked the eggs, measured the butter and flour, stirred up the batter for the cookies. I passed the strings of outdoor lights up to my father on the ladder. I hung the fancy ornaments on the tree; I lit the candles at Christmas dinner.

  But I’m seventeen years old now, and the thrill is gone from that stuff, though my parents don’t seem to realize it. As Christmas neared, I heard the same old phrases. “Ryan, you can lick the bowl if you want!” “Ryan, you can put the angel on top of the tree!” “Ryan, I’ll pass the lights up to you and you can hang them!” It’s kind of sad, the way they think that I’m still ten. But it’s irritating too, and it puts me in a foul mood.

  My grandfather Kevin always comes a couple of days before Christmas and stays until New Year’s Day. He’s my father’s father, and he’s okay. Other than his fingers, which are gnarled and arthritic, he still looks good. He stands straight and tall; his hair is white and shiny and full; he swims every day. He doesn’t go on and on about how hard things were when he grew up. In fact, the only thing I don’t like about him is that he gets my bed and I have to sleep downstairs on the sofa.

  For years Grandpa Kevin has given me a fair chunk of money for Christmas. There’s always been a note with it: “For your college education.” It’s nice of him and all, but since I’ve never been all that sure about going to college, I would have liked to have spent at least some of it right then.

  I figured on money again, but Christmas morning there was a big box under the tree marked: “For Ryan, from Grandpa Kevin.” Inside were a catcher’s mitt, chest protector, mask, shin guards.

  “Your dad says you’re trying out this year,” Grandpa Kevin said as I stared, open-mouthed, at the unexpected gifts. “You probably don’t know it, but I used to catch. I was pretty good, too. If you want, I’ll show you a few things later on.”

  I was plenty glad to get the gear. It was high quality stuff, all name brands, the best. And I let him know that I appreciated the gifts. But listening to tips from a seventy-year-old ex-ball player was not something I wanted to do. “Sure,” I said, halfheartedly. “That’d be great. Later on we’ll have to do it.”

  I hoped he wouldn’t bring it up again, but after we’d eaten breakfast, he asked again. “Maybe this afternoon, Grandpa,” I said. “I’m pretty full right now.”

  I thought I was being clever, but he smiled in a way that let me know I wasn’t fooling him. “Well, it was just an idea.”

  That was it. No lecture on how much I could learn if I’d only listen. As I said, he’s okay.

  Around two o’clock that afternoon I thought: Why not? I was bored and there was nothing else to do. Playing ball with Grandpa Kevin might be better than nothing, and it would kill the guilt. So I went upstairs and tapped on my own door. “Grandpa, you still want to show me some stuff?”

  His face lit up.

  We went to the backyard. He turned a garbage can onto its side so that the open end faced across the yard. On the other side of the yard, as far away as possible, he laid down an old doormat.

  “This is home base,” he said, “and that garbage can is second. I’ll pitch a ball to you. You pretend somebody is stealing. I want to see you throw the base runner out.”

  “It’s not nearly far enough,” I protested. “You can’t tell anything about my arm from a throw that short.”

  “I’m not interested in your arm strength. I can’t do anything about that anyway. I want to see your form.”

  I crouched down. He tossed me the ball. Actually that’s not fair. He threw it to me with more steam than I expected. I caught it, stood, and threw to the garbage can: a strike that rattled around inside the metal. I thought he’d be impressed, but when I looked at him he was shaking his head.

  “What was wrong with that?” I asked. “It was right on the money.”

  “The throw was accurate and strong, sure. But my God, Ryan, even I might have made it to second by the time you got rid of the ball. A speedster would have gone in standing up.”

  I didn’t like what he was saying. And I didn’t like the way he was saying it, either. But there are times when people talk and you just know they know what they’re talking about. That’s how it was with Grandpa Kevin. I swallowed my pride.

  “How does a catcher throw?”

  “You want me to show you?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  He reworked everything about my motion. “As soon as a base runner reaches first, you start preparing to throw him out at second. You dig your toes into the dirt a little deeper so you can come out of your crouch faster. And you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

  “If he goes, you’re starting your throw even as you’re catching the ball. You swing your mitt and your right hand up toward your right shoulder, taking the ball out as you do it. Once the ball is in your right hand, extend your left arm forward and cock your right wrist at your ear. No farther back than that, or you won’t get rid of the ball in time. As you step toward second, fire the ball right at the bag.”

  It wasn’t easy to understand what he meant, and after he walked me through it a dozen times, I discovered it wasn’t easy to do it. He kept telling me I had to be quicker, but I felt all tied up in the gear—the mask, chest protector, shin guards.

  It took three cold, drizzly afternoons before I was even okay with the throwing motion. Then he had me work on coming out of my crouch differently. “You don’t want to come straight up,” he said. “You want to come forward and up. That way you get clear of the hitter, you’ve got a better look at the bag, and you’ve got a foot or two less distance to throw. Those two feet can be the difference between nailing a runner and having him slide in under the tag.”

  When he wasn’t teaching me, we talked baseball. I’d ask him some simple question like “Did you ever see Johnny Bench?” and he’d describe games in a way I’d never heard them described before—the way a catcher would see them. As he talked, I could imagine the whole field. He told me how a good catcher positions fielders based on the stuff his pitcher has, and that proper positioning sometimes changes from inning to inning, even pitch to pitch. The more he talked, the more I wanted to hear. The cat-and-mouse game between pitcher and hitter—suddenly I could see myself controlling that, deciding when to call for the curve or the slider, when to come with the big heat or the change.

  I’d thought that being a catcher was like eating leftovers, something I was going to do because there was no other choi
ce. But Grandpa Kevin changed that.

  “Messing up your ankle might be the best thing you ever did,” he said the morning he left.

  “How did you figure?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Well, otherwise you would never have become a catcher.”

  It was a crazy thing to say. Crazier still, I believed him.

  20

  Grandpa Kevin left early New Year’s morning. I was sorry to see him go. He’d connected me with baseball again, and I’d have gladly given up my room for as long as he’d wanted it to keep that connection.

  That was a strange day. The sun was out, which doesn’t happen much in January. But instead of getting warmer, the air grew colder every hour. The sky was strange too. The clouds were high and a different, whiter color than usual.

  “It’s going to snow,” my dad said.

  My mom groaned. “Don’t say that.”

  Seattle has lots of hills and no snowplows. It doesn’t snow often here, but when it does, even if it’s only an inch or two, the whole city shuts down.

  “You wait,” he said.

  My father spent New Year’s Day watching bowl games on television. He kept asking me to join him, but I couldn’t watch for long. I’d see some quarterback get massacred and I’d think about Josh, and it just wasn’t fun. I went out to the yard and practiced throwing the way Grandpa Kevin had shown me, but even that didn’t work. You can only do so much alone.

  We ate dinner. The Fiesta Bowl game was for the national championship. “You’re going to watch that with me, aren’t you?” my dad said. He had a worried look in his eyes, like I was sick or something, so I sat down with him and watched it, or at least pretended to watch it. When the game ended, I was glad to escape to my room. I turned on my radio and flipped through magazines. It was after midnight when I flicked off the light.