Lord have mercy on us, thought Father Legg. They’ve got Lou Gehrig on first.
And yet he was not as Father Legg remembered him. This man was a shell, its passenger gone; tossed through hurricanes, through deep silences, it had washed ashore intact, luminous, dead.
Their coach strolled over to Father Legg and offered his hand; Father Legg shook it gingerly.
“My name’s Death,” he said.
“I know,” said Father Legg.
“Both of us in black today,” Death observed with a smile.
Father Legg said nothing.
“I see you’re expecting an easy three innings. You’re giving the women a chance.”
“A bus accident,” said Father Legg. His mouth felt dry. “Everyone was hurt. Nobody killed, fortunately.”
“Fortunately,” said Death. “I believe most of my players are familiar to you,” he added.
Father Legg nodded.
“I never thought I’d live to see Christy Mathewson pitch again. What did he die of?”
“TB,” said Death. “Naturally, it doesn’t bother him now.”
“Naturally,” said Father Legg.
“Those who play for me never tire. They never get hurt.”
“Very convenient,” said Father Legg.
“So many wanted to come. You can imagine. They haven’t picked up a bat and ball since the day they died. Durkee was ecstatic. Not all of you can keep your positions, I told them. And they still begged to come. The pitchers even offered to play in the outfield. Baseball was their whole life.”
“Do they need to warm up?”
“Some things you never forget,” said Death. “Baseball is one of them.”
What were the others? Father Legg wondered. Once he would have said “love.” Now it did not seem that simple.
The nurse wheeled the radio toward Ben’s bed and stopped in the middle of the room.
“I’m sorry. The plug won’t reach. We’ll push all the beds down to this end.”
By the time she found the station, the announcer was halfway through the lineup.
“Mrs. LaMont, center field.”
“Give it to ’em, Kitty!” shouted Mr. LaMont.
“And Willie Harkissian in right field. And now the lineup for the Dead Knights.”
A hush fell over the room.
“Starting pitcher is Christy Mathewson of the New York Giants. At first base, Lou Gehrig, New York Yankees. At second base, Joe McGinnity, New York Giants.”
“Lord,” said Mr. Lieberman. “Not Iron Man McGinnity.”
“At third base, Eddie Plank of the Philadelphia A’s.”
“They’re playing the wrong positions,” said Ben.
“There’s a reason for it,” said Mr. LaMont. “There’s a reason for everything.”
“At shortstop,” the announcer went on, “Hughie Jennings of the Baltimore Orioles.”
“The ee-yah man,” said Mr. Schoonmaker. “I used to think the world of him.”
“In center field, Rube Waddell of the Philadelphia A’s. In left field, Big Dan Brouthers—”
“Rube Waddell!” exclaimed Mr. Bacco. “He’s the guy who used to run off the field to chase fire engines.”
“In right field, Ross Youngs of the New York Giants. And the catcher: Moses Fleetwood Walker.”
“Who’s he?” asked Mr. Bacco.
“He played with the Chicago Lincolns,” said Stilts.
“There’s a Negro on this team?”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Stilts. “This ain’t the majors.”
They were flying over Lake Erie when Hal realized he was listening to the engine of the plane. The steady hum had shifted into a lower pitch, then a quick, polite cough. Another, and another. And then it hummed as before, but Hal kept listening, noting the smallest changes in its voice. The two pilots had stopped talking and were listening, too. As the hum steadied itself, Hal felt his muscles unclench.
Whef-a-whef-a-whef.
The pilot checked the fuel gauge.
Whef-a-whef.
“Engine trouble?” inquired Hal.
“Not really,” said the pilot.
They were all listening intently now, and each knew the others were listening too, and waiting for the cough in the motor, the rattle in the chest, blood in the urine, numbness in the leg, a dizzy spell, a lump: Doctor, will I die?
Christy Mathewson, five years dead, translucent as a leaf through which the sun scatters shadows, had not lost his pinpoint control. He hurled a fastball at Mrs. LaMont, who swung under it and missed.
“Makes ’em hit on the ground,” observed Mr. Clackett to Sol. “It’s a damned hard pitch to hit in the air.”
“God help us if he throws his knuckleball,” said Father Legg.
Dear Lord, he whispered, Dear Lord Who stopped the sun for Joshua, Thou knowest the score is three to nothing in the bottom of the first. Thou knowest the Dead Knights are winning. Stop the ball, Lord, so that Mrs. LaMont may hit it.
But the Lord did not stop the ball, and Mrs. LaMont struck out.
“It’s a bad time to need the bedpan,” said Charley. “There must be fifty people in here.”
“Do you have to—?” asked the nurse.
“No,” he answered quickly.
The nurses from the floor and the ambulatory patients from the private rooms had gathered in the ward. That nurse’s aide by the door—Ben was sure he’d met her before, in an earlier life.
“I’m Ginny,” she said. “Remember?”
Of course. How could he have forgotten?
“The kid with the St. Anthony medal—remember?” said Ginny. “He finally went home. He asked if I’d take him for a ride in my old Studebaker next time he’s in the hospital.”
“He’s probably listening to the game right now,” said Ben.
“There’s one out in the bottom of the first,” said the announcer, “and three-zip is the score. This is a big game for the Rovers. ’Course, it’s a big game for the Dead Knights, too … Mrs. Schoonmaker’s at the plate. There’s the windup—the pitch—it’s an easy grounder toward first base. Gehrig fields it, steps on the bag. That’s two out, nobody on.”
It was terribly quiet in the ward. Everyone seemed to stop breathing at once.
“Mathewson winds up. The pitch—it’s a curve ball. Mrs. Lieberman swings and misses. Strike one.”
Ben climbed off his bed and threaded his way to the door and nudged Ginny.
“Where are your car keys?”
“In my coat pocket. Why?”
“Don’t ask. Where are you parked?”
“In the first row behind the hospital, but—”
Clare stood up and walked behind the dugout. If she was going to cry, she wanted to get it over and done with, out of sight. A fly buzzed at her ear; she swatted it fiercely.
Don’t, daughter. You know me.
“Dear lady,” whispered Clare, “can’t you go into the ball and make us hit it? Or make them not hit it?”
I can’t give you anything you don’t already have, murmured the Ancestress.
“You got into the knife.”
Ben has a way with a knife. He just hadn’t discovered it.
She could still taste the dust from the field, chalky, all the way down her throat. “I don’t have a way with the ball,” said Clare.
True, said the Ancestress. Therefore, do as Ben does. Put some stuff on it. The Dead Knights can never hit a ball with some stuff on it.
“What kind of stuff?” asked Clare.
The stuff of being alive. Morning, evening, the first snow and the last snow, bells, daisies, hubcaps, silver dollars, ice cream, hummingbirds, love.
Clare drew a deep breath. “How do you put that kind of stuff on a ball?”
You say it very softly over the ball before you throw it.
She heard Father Legg calling her.
And when you pitch to Mr. Gehrig, say “Mother.” There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his mother.
Hi
s clothes—where were his clothes? The nurse’s lounge was empty. Ben darted in and opened the closet. Nothing but a blue raincoat and a pink silk scarf. He pulled them on over his hospital gown.
He had almost reached the stairs when Ginny grabbed his arm.
“My raincoat! My scarf! Where are you going in my clothes?”
“I’m going to tie up the ball game.”
“You can’t go! You haven’t been discharged.”
“That’s why I took your clothes. Ginny, please!”
“You can’t go—”
“I can’t wait to be discharged. I’m needed now,” he cried and yanked himself free of her grasp. She let him go, down the stairs and through the lobby past the receptionist and out the front door, past the patients in wheelchairs who were brought out every afternoon for fresh air and a change of scene. He did not stop running till he reached the parking lot. Ginny’s car. Ginny’s car—which was Ginny’s car?
A window opened on the sixth floor, and her voice called out, “It’s over there, to your right, the blue one.”
Thank you, Ginny. Thank you, car. Thank you, God. Ben drove out of the lot and headed toward the ballpark.
By the time Youngs and Jennings had struck out, everybody in the ward was cheering, and everybody in the bleachers who knew anything about baseball realized one thing:
They’d never seen a ball behave like this one.
“Will you look at Bishop’s unorthodox delivery!” exclaimed the announcer. “A high kick, then she bends down as if she’s talking to the ball. Good breaking pitch by Bishop. Strike two. Two quick strikes on McGinnity, two out in the top of the second. … Watch that pitch. McGinnity is swinging at her motion, not at the ball. Halfway into the swing he decides not to swing. Ball one. It’s one and two.”
Over the ball, Clare whispered: “A cold beer. Your first home run.”
The ball sped away and McGinnity started to swing, then stepped back as if he’d gotten a whiff of something it was carrying, something that took his eye off the ball, off the game, everything.
Strike three.
Clare glanced up and saw, over the bleachers, a vast, silent throng that receded as if on invisible waves, the women in white, the men in black, the lovely fabric of their presence growing faint among the far-off dead, turning in those farthest from her to feathers, wings, the faces of birds.
Willie was bending over the drinking fountain behind the bleachers when someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Willie,” said Death, “nobody appreciates you.”
“I know,” said Willie. Immediately he felt embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to say it right out.
“You’re a good, steady worker. You’re smart. What’s a girl like Marsha in the eyes of the great world? She’ll marry a doctor and live unhappily ever after. There are thousands of girls more beautiful where I come from. Don’t look so surprised. I know both the living and the dead; they all come to me eventually.”
Willie rolled the water around in his mouth thoughtfully, as if he were judging a fine wine. A cheer from the bleachers startled him.
“Matty just walked Mrs. Henrietta Bacco,” remarked Death.
“I’m up now,” said Willie.
“I give good benefits, Willie,” said Death. “Wonderful vacations. Willie, I want you. Join my club and see the world. I’ve got a job for you.”
“What kind of job?”
“I want you to keep my records, plead my cause. Snuff out hope wherever you find it. It’s what you’ve always done, Willie. And you can start right this minute.”
“No, thanks,” said Willie.
“Willie, last night Mr. Jackson was arrested. He named you.”
“He named me?”
“There will be a trial, of course. These are patriotic times. You won’t get off easily.”
The pilot broke the silence.
“The fuel gauge has been reading empty for the last hour,” he observed. “According to my instruments, we should all be dead.”
None of them was ever to know for certain exactly what happened next. The pilot said it was the clouds; they played tricks on you. Made you think you were seeing whole cities, armies. The copilot blamed it on magnetic currents: there were currents you could hit up there that made all your instruments malfunction.
Only Hal believed his eyes. The engines were silent. But under the wing he saw the ghostly shapes of children, animals, birds, bearing them up.
Willie struck out, and the crowd roared its grief: “Awwwwww.”
“You see, Willie,” murmured Death as Willie walked toward the dugout. “You have a calling.”
“What’s the pay?” asked Willie.
“Every living thing in the world shall be yours.”
“Then I’m your man,” said Willie. “But I’m not packed.”
“No need to pack,” said Death. “Everything you’ll ever need is furnished.”
From his pocket he drew a coin—a skull on one side, a man in a winged cap on the other—and slipped it into Willie’s hand. “Come.”
“The game’s not over,” said Willie. “And you’re winning.”
“We’re losing,” said Death. “Can’t you see? Do you think Gehrig and Waddell and McGinnity and Jennings couldn’t hit if they wanted to? Do you think Matty had to walk Mrs. Bacco? They want the living to win. Even the umpire wants the living to win
They remember how it was. All the pain, all the trouble—they’d choose it again—they’d go extra innings into infinity for the chance to be alive again.”
It seemed to Helen that she heard Hal singing, heard him so clearly behind the murmur of the crowd that she could even make out the words:
“When we’ve been there ten
thousand years
Bright shining as the sun—”
She looked around for Grandpa, knowing full well he was in the bleachers. It was Hal’s voice, she was sure of it now, and her heart fluttered a little. She had not heard any sound that far off since the last snowfall. All spring she’d heard the usual sounds, the chirp of crickets but not the silence of crickets; the drumming of rain on the roof but not the plotting of rain in the clouds. And now she heard Hal’s voice drawing nearer and nearer like an approaching parade.
“What does it mean?” she wondered, and Father Legg next to her said, “It’s a miracle,” as Clare swung and connected.
The next moment Helen was shouting at him. “Who is that coming out on the field?”
It was a figure to make the dead sit up and take notice: a tall woman in a blue raincoat, a pink babushka and slippers, and as she ran she threw off her clothes, one garment at a time. First the raincoat; the hospital gown she wore underneath did not even reach to her knees. When the babushka was tossed away, the players gaped in astonishment, and Clare, digging her toe into first base, gave a shout.
“It’s Ben!”
In the ward, the announcer’s voice crackled with excitement.
“Folks, that’s two on for the Rovers, only one away. A home run now would tie it up, and ladies and gentlemen, coming to bat”—his voice broke—“is Ben Harkissian!”
“Who?” exclaimed Charley.
“Listen!” hissed Ginny.
The room grew still, as still as the day before creation.
“Here’s the windup,” said the announcer, “and the pitch.”
In Paradise, the Lord of the Universe tosses a green ball which breaks into a silver ball which breaks into a gold ball, and a small plane lands safely at Willow Run and Hal Bishop climbs out, singing for joy. He is too far away to hear the crack of the bat, like a tree falling all alone in the forest. But he hears the distant cheering. Clare starts running and Ben runs after her as they round the bases, past the living and the dead, heading at top speed for home.
About the Author
Nancy Willard grew up in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She has written two novels, seven books of stories and essays, and twelve books of poetry, including The Sea at Truro (2012). A win
ner of the Devins Memorial Award, she has received NEA grants in both fiction and poetry. Her book Water Walker was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and she won the Newbery Medal for A Visit to William Blake’s Inn. Willard is an emeritus professor at Vassar College.
Eric Lindbloom
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Grateful acknowledgment is given to Times Books for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Lay Dis Body Down” from American Negro Folklore by J. Mason Brewster, Copyright © 1968 by J. Mason Brewster. Reprinted by permission of Times Books/ The New York Times Book Co., Inc., a division of Quadrangle Books.
The author is indebted to Harold F. Dixon’s “Three Men on a Raft” (Life, April 6, 1942) for background material to the chapter entitled “Birdlight.”
Copyright © 1984 by Nancy Willard
Cover design by Kathleen Lynch
978-1-4804-8150-3
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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