The Aurora County All-Stars

by Deborah Wiles

  “What about Pee Wee?”

  “Oh. In the middle of all that screaming, Pee Wee Reese walked across the infield and clapped his white hand on Jackie Robinson’s black shoulder. Pee Wee said, This man is my teammate. And everybody got quiet. And then they played ball.”

  House blinked. “How’d you know that?”

  “You know my daddy—I’ve heard that story around my dinner table for years. Jackie stood tall, and Pee Wee stood with him. You don’t know that story?”

  House shook his head. “I know Sandy Koufax made 382 strikeouts in 1965. That’s one less than Nolan Ryan’s 383, and he did it when Nolan Ryan was still pitching in high school. Did you know that story?”

  “You only told me a million times.” Cleebo’s eyes traveled the wall of photographs. “I wish I coulda seen Jackie Robinson steal home plate,” he said in a faraway voice. He took the flashlight from House and leaned in close to Pip’s picture. “Who woulda guessed Pip played ball?” His voice had a new respect in it. “And just look at that uniform. Aurora Angels . . .”

  “Yeah,” said House. “And Little League, like the kids in Jones County.”

  “Little League,” sighed Cleebo. “You know, we’d have enough boys if we could pull ’em from all these little crossroads around here.”

  For a moment, both boys gazed at the photograph in silence. Then Cleebo shook his head. “We just got to play our game on July Fourth, House. Can’t you figure somethin’ out? The Mamas have all gone crazy. My mama tells me I’m going to be the next Sidney Poitier—who the heck is that? It ain’t so, House. Ain’t none of us boys gonna go to Hollywood.”

  “I know,” said House. “I know.” His mind ticked around the problem. “I want to play, too. I want to play real bad. But I don’t know what to do about it.” He gave a short whistle for Eudora, who snuffled out to the hallway, her tongue drooping out of her mouth. “Let’s go, girl.”

  “We got to figure out somethin’,” said Cleebo.

  As they shut the big front door behind them, House said, “Don’t tell me I don’t approach stuff.”

  “Well, you sure got a whopper to tell now,” said Cleebo.

  “You promised you wouldn’t tell.”

  “I won’t. You don’t tell on me, neither.”

  “You can count on me,” said House.

  The trio—House, Cleebo, and Eudora Welty—walked through the woodsy night to House’s house. They walked through the same woods House had come through the morning that Norwood Boyd had died. A hundred years had passed since then. A chickadee called up the sun. It wouldn’t be long before dawn.

  “I can’t believe Frances is related to Pip,” said Cleebo. “Pip’s amazing.”

  “You didn’t think he was amazing before.”

  “That’s before I knew he was like Jackie Robinson!”

  “Pip says Mr. Norwood was amazing.”

  “Hmph!” said Cleebo. Overhead, an owl hooted his good night. “What’s that book?”

  House clutched his treasure closer to himself. “Just an old book.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s it about?”

  “Nuthin’ much.”

  Cleebo raised an eyebrow. “We got practice in the mornin’, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “We gotta work on your knuckleball.”

  “We gotta sleep.”

  Leonard Jackson’s light was off, but the back porch light shone into the morning dew. House had not turned it on when he left. Quietly the boys and Eudora tiptoed to bed on the sleeping porch. House tucked his note from Mr. Norwood Boyd inside his treasure and put it under his pillow.

  Cleebo slept on the far side of the same big bed. He snored louder than Eudora. Together they made a snoring symphony. A symphony true, thought House. As he fell asleep it came to him that maybe things happened, maybe people came into your life and went out again in their own way, in their own time, in concert with everything else. Maybe his mother would tell him about Mr. Norwood Boyd if he could find her again, in his dreams.

  The night became day once again. It would be another hot one. It would be hotter than House ever could have imagined.

  WBAC

  IN BEAUTIFUL AURORA COUNTY

  YOUR STATION FOR LOCAL NEWS AND WEATHER!

  * * *

  RADIO FLASH NEWS!

  Composed and Read by Phoebe “Scoop” Tolbert

  June 18, 6am

  The Sunshine Laundry in Halleluia has become the community gathering place in Our Fair County! The enormous plate-glass windows in front invite customers in to sit at the red-checkered tables and watch Each Life Daily Turns on the big television set mounted on the wall while they wait for their sheets and shirts to be ironed by Lurleen Wallace, who has almost mastered the pressing machine.

  I took my microphone to the street yesterday and became your on-the-scene reporter in the front room of the Sunshine Laundry at lunchtime. Here is just some of what I recorded:

  Mary Wilson: I hope to be the official laundry of the Aurora County Birthday Pageant!

  Woodrow “Pete” Wilson: I protest this pageant—what about the ball game? My boy Cleebo needs to play in his game!

  Mary Wilson: Shush, Pete! We’ve discussed this! His Hollywood career is more important!

  Every Mama Present: That’s right! This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

  Betty Ramsey: Shhhh! The commercial’s over! There he is, Dr. Dan! Coming to our town soon!

  Pip Schotz: Can’t be soon enough—that boy hasn’t been home in five years. Are my shaving towels ready, Mary?

  Evelyn Lavender: Are you starching everything, Mary?

  Mattie Perkins: Phoebe, will you turn that thing off!

  Oops! Strike that last one!

  As you can see, excitement is building for the Aurora County Birthday Pageant, in spite of some dissension in the ranks, which is always the case when one is creating art! This reporter can’t wait to find out how the matter is resolved, as my grandsons still will not eat their vegetables, and soon we are going to have to break out the castor oil. Please, let us resolve this issue. We need to address my grandsons’ digestion if nothing else!

  * * *

  18

  Trying to throw a fastball by Hank Aaron is like trying to sneak the sun past a rooster.

  —CURT SIMMONS, PITCHER, PHILADELPHIA PHILLIES

  Cleebo snored through the night, but House slept fitfully. When he got out of bed he was starving—he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. He slipped Leaves of Grass out from under his pillow and padded into the kitchen while Cleebo and Honey were still sleeping. His father was already at work in the shed. He’d left a plate of fried bacon on a plate by the stove. House ate three bowls of cereal and pored over his treasure in the early morning sunlight.

  Poetry. Leaves of Grass was poetry. The stories he’d read to Mr. Norwood Boyd—he’d understood them. He’d even admit that he liked them! But these poems . . . he wasn’t sure what he was reading. He stared at his mother’s handwriting again—Elizabeth Jackson—and at Mr. Norwood’s note about the symphony song: Your mother gave these words to me; Now I give them to you as treasure for the days ahead. Look for me in every atom that you see.

  The All-Stars needed rescuing in the days ahead. He stared at his note as if it held some magical answer. Finding a way to pitch in this ball game was his dilemma. The pageant was his cross to bear. And the symphony true . . . well, that was his mystery. Perhaps Mr. Norwood meant for the treasure to be used on this day—this very day. Their chance of playing was coming down to the wire and House was willing to grasp at any straw.

  Cleebo jazzed into the kitchen searching for breakfast.

  “Out of all the books you could get from Mean-Man, you got a book of poems!” he marveled. “What about adventure stories? Pirates? Killers? Rocket ships? Instead you got the-cat-sat-on-the-mat!”

  “It’s not like that,” said House.

  “Read me one.” Cleebo reached for the mashed potato bowl.


  “They’re too long.”

  “Well, read a snippet, then.” Cleebo emptied the cereal into the mashed potato bowl and poured on the milk.

  House opened the book at random and found some lines underlined in blue ink:

  “I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,

  And what I assume you shall assume,

  For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

  “That don’t make sense,” said Cleebo, crumbs spilling from his mouth, milk dribbling down his chin.

  House closed the book. Look for me in every atom that you see. Was it too far-fetched to think that Mr. Norwood Boyd knew about House’s dilemma, that he meant to help, even from beyond the grave? Nah. House was sunk and he knew it. He wouldn’t get to pitch against the Redbugs at all. Just in case, though, he shoved the book into his backpack with his water and lunch and brought it with him to practice.

  “Slide! Slide! Slide!” Ned Tolbert screamed.

  Cleebo streaked from home to first. He hurled himself forward and reached for the bag. His body scraped the dirt and raised a tornado of dust as he slammed into first base, where Wilkie Collins caught the throw from Evan Evans and tagged Cleebo squarely on the bean.

  “Safe!” hollered Ned’s twin brother, Boon, who was playing catcher.

  “He’s out!” screamed Wilkie. He hoisted the ball heavenward and crow-hopped around the base like he was on fire.

  “You’re blind, Wilkie!” yelled Cleebo, dusting himself off and swelling with pride. “I was safe by a country mile!”

  “Good play at first, and good catch, Wilkie!” shouted House from the pitcher’s mound. “But Cleebo got there first—he’s safe.”

  “Now watch me steal second!” gloated Cleebo. “I’m on a roll! Just like Jackie Robinson!” His clothes were coated with grit.

  House shook his head. “You don’t slide into first, how many times do I have to tell you?”

  “He likes to slide,” said Ned. “It gives his mama more laundry to do.”

  Cleebo swiped at Ned, but Ned bobbed out of the way.

  “You gotta catch now, Cleebo,” said House. “We don’t have enough players to let you run the bases, and I need Boon in the outfield—Ned’s a power hitter.”

  “Aw, House!”

  “I need a catcher!”

  “Come on, Cleebo!” shouted Ned, on deck, swinging his Wonderboy! bat at the air. “I’m up!”

  “I’m always the one to sacrifice!” yelled Cleebo. “I want a run at the bases before we’re through!”

  “Deal,” said House. “But we only got a little while before—”

  “Don’t remind me!” shouted Cleebo. His voice gurgled with frustration. “I know what’s comin’.”

  They all did. Pageant practice was scheduled for 9:00 A.M. Desperation had brought the ballplayers to the field at 8:00. House’s head had been full of clangor and questions at the kitchen table, but now that he was standing on the pitcher’s mound, his focus was crystal clear.

  He shook out both arms to get ready for his windup. When Koufax pitched, his back leg was tethered to the mound, but the rest of him was flying, every muscle moving in a kind of lightning-fast ballet. Cleebo hunkered down behind the plate. He smacked his fist into his glove. “Just lob it over to start with, House, don’t try no pyrotechnics.”

  House leaned back into the stance, came forward in one long, fluid motion like Koufax, and brought his arm completely overhand and stretched forward with a fastball throw.

  “Wide!” said Cleebo. He threw the ball back to House.

  House reared back and zinged a hard fastball to Cleebo, inside and high. Cleebo stretched and snagged it.

  “Try again,” he said. “Not so hard!”

  “Let’s have a batter!” shouted House.

  Ned stepped into the batter’s box and swung through. “Shoot me that knuckleball, House! I’m ready!”

  “Step out of the box, Ned,” ordered Cleebo. He got down to business. “House! Don’t pull so far back in your windup. I don’t care what Koufax did, you can’t see the strike zone when you’re that far back—your arm’s in the way, and that’s why the ball is going wild.”

  House nodded. Not so far back. Still, a high-kicking windup, long forward movement toward the plate. A curveball, spun with the middle finger, curved vertically from the overhand throw. Just like Koufax.

  “Better,” said Cleebo, catching it handily and tossing it back to House. “Try your fastball.”

  House gripped the ball with his fingers across the wide part of the seam, wound up, and threw again. And again. And one more time.

  “C’mon,” cried the outfield. “Let’s see some action!”

  His arm was fine. Better than fine. He was sure he could feel twinges of pain from his shoulder to his elbow. But if Koufax could do it, so could he.

  He struck out Ned. Cleebo threw the ball to third base and the infielders threw around the horn. “You gotta let ’em hit the ball, House,” said Cleebo, “or we won’t none of us get any practice! You don’t have to throw so hard.”

  House obliged. Everybody hit. Lincoln Latham picked up a bad hop at second. Ned caught every pop fly. Boon got some lumber on the ball and hit a long line drive toward third. Evan Evans caught it at his gut, stumbled backward, and still gathered enough forward motion to toss the ball to House, who had run to second base. House and Evan began a pickle play with Arnold Hindman, the runner, between them. Shouts played all around the field as Arnold ran back and forth between second and third, with House and Evan closing the gap and tossing the ball from one to the other in the rundown, until Evan finally tagged Arnold out.

  “You gotta learn to slide, Arnie!” yelled Cleebo, who had run to cover third.

  Boon had tagged first, where he stood on the bag, next to Wilkie, and shouted, “You coulda thrown it to first and got me out!”

  “The play was at third,” said House. “Besides, Wilkie can’t catch from that far away.”

  “I should be playing first base,” said Cleebo.

  “Well, I can’t play catcher!” said Wilkie.

  “That’s for sure!” said Cleebo.

  “I can!” Striding toward the mound with her catcher’s mitt on her left hand came Ruby Lavender.

  19

  We convince by our presence.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  “Not you!” said Cleebo. He sprinted back to home plate and almost splayed himself over it. “This is my plate! I say who catches here!”

  “Really?” Ruby looked at House, who adjusted his baseball cap and sighed.

  “She’s a girl!” yelled Ned.

  “You’re brilliant, Ned!” hollered Boon from left field.

  “Don’t forget our bylaws!” cried Evan Evans from third.

  “That’s right!” said Cleebo with great satisfaction. “No girls. And especially since you-know-what!”

  Ruby pulled up her left overalls strap. “Cleebo, you’ve played ball with me ever since I can remember!” She pointed at Boon and Ned. “And so have you! Right in my back meadow! With my grandma! And your daddy, too, Cleebo. And now you’re going to tell me that I’m not good enough because you’re all mad at Frances for breaking House’s arm, so now no girls can play? That’s just plain stupid.”

  “How so?” Cleebo stuck out his chin.

  “If you’d let girls play you’d have enough players for a full team. You want to play so much, you should be happy you’ve got another player, Cleebo—I’m just as good a catcher as you are, and you know it!”

  “She is pretty good,” said Boon.

  “Do girls play on Little League teams in Jones County?” asked Ned.

  “I don’t know,” said House.

  “You’d better believe they do!” said Ruby. “You boys aren’t thinking straight.”

  “Well, we never had to think about it before you showed up wanting to play,” said Ned.

  House’s mind bubbled back to the thoughts he’d had in the kitchen. Maybe a rescue was possi
ble after all. He pointed at Cleebo. “You want to have a run at the bases?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Grab a bat,” said House. “Ruby, you catch.”

  Ruby grabbed a ball from the bucket by the backstop.

  “Hey!” yelled Evan and Lincoln and Arnold.

  “Wait a minute!” Cleebo stood his ground over home plate. “You tricked me! I ain’t playing ball with no girl! Next thing you know, we’ll all have our arms broken!”

  Before the arguing could escalate, Leonard Jackson’s truck came dusting down the dirt road near the ball field. In the back was a giant silver pressing machine from the Sunshine Laundry. Waving both arms from the open window at the passenger seat and hollering herself blue in the face was Mary Wilson.

  “Cleebo Wilson, you git yourself over to pageant practice this instant! I’ve got to get this machine repaired and I can’t be worrying about your whereabouts! I got laundry piled to the skies waiting for pressing! Git now! Git!”

  “Ha, Cleebo! You gotta git!” said Boon.

  “And the rest of you! Git!” said Mary Wilson. She pointed to the chinaberry tree behind Halleluia School. “They’re over there waiting on you! Shame on you boys! Get over there this minute!”

  Each boy ducked his head in order to look suitably shamed. “Yes’m,” they all said, including Ruby.

  The truck came to a complete stop and dust swirled all around it in a little brown cloud. Leonard Jackson opened the back door of the cab and Honey slipped out of the truck with Eudora Welty, whom she had on a rope leash threaded through a white tutu. The sun washed the ball field in a brilliant, buttery glow that spread across home plate. Even the dust looked golden.

  Leonard Jackson kissed his daughter good-bye, waved at House and the boys, and called, “I’ll be back later—we’ve got a big breakdown here to tend to.”

  “Yessir,” said House.