The Aurora County All-Stars

by Deborah Wiles

  “You’ve got Honey’s lunch?”

  “In my backpack.”

  “See you soon—”

  “Git!” yelled Mary Wilson. Leonard Jackson shrugged at the boys. Some of them shrugged back. The truck rolled on toward Jackson’s Mowing and Small Engine Repair.

  Cleebo scratched at his forehead. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he said in a defeated voice. “Too much starch or too many Mamas.”

  “Your mama is the Queen Poo-bah of the Mamas,” said Boon. “We can’t ignore her.” The boys looked across the field at the little band of kids gathered under the china-berry tree like little bobbing corks on a dusty brown lake. They were moving together, doing some sort of dance, or play, or . . . something.

  “We’re on death row,” said Wilkie. “There’s no getting out of this.”

  “Heads up!” called Ruby. She threw her baseball hard to House, who stretched his arm out and caught it almost automatically. Nobody said a word.

  And slowly, walking like they were heading to their own hangings, the boys and Ruby made their way to the chinaberry tree. A happy Honey led the way, as if she was a drum majorette, high-stepping her way to her destiny, with Eudora Welty panting and trotting at her side.

  House picked up his backpack by the backstop and brought up the rear, walking across the weedy field by himself. There would be no rescue, not from Norwood Boyd, not from his mother, not from anybody. There was no magic, there was no mystery, there was no symphony. There were just these facts: There would be no game. He would not pitch. His career was over before it began. He struggled not to cry.

  20

  If you come to a fork in the road, take it.

  —YOGI BERRA, CATCHER, NEW YORK YANKEES

  “The show must go on, mes amis!” Finesse dabbed her eyes with a Snowberger’s handkerchief—a huge handkerchief embroidered with a giant S that Snowberger’s Funeral Home had been giving out to the bereaved for years. Now Finesse owned one, and she used it to good effect. The handkerchief was white. Everything else about Finesse was black. All black. Even her lipstick was black. She spoke through the mesh of a black veil. She wore no jewelry—she was in mourning, after all—but three enormous black feathers protruded from her hat. She’s a big, black horned toad, thought House.

  “She looks like a black widow spider!” said Ruby.

  “. . . who caught a vulture!” said George.

  Melba stood next to Finesse, clutching her clipboard and hissing like a death-row warden. “Shhhh!”

  Finesse held up a black-gloved hand as if she were signaling leniency for the doomed. “I am glad to see you all this morning, even though many of you are late—very late! I had every confidence you would join us, however. We have already divined some dances and skits—rest assured, we will fit you in. But let me begin at the beginning, now that I have you all assembled!”

  Finesse cleared her throat. “As you all know,” she said, “I was forced to leave you abruptly yesterday. One of our eldest citizens, Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd, has . . .” Finesse put her handkerchief to her mouth for a long moment and then sputtered melodramatically, “. . . died! He’s dead, mes amis, dead as a doornail, I saw it with my own two eyes, my great-granddaddy’s greatest boyhood friend, laying out at Snowberger’s, still as . . . death!” She sobbed one great sob into her handkerchief.

  House and Cleebo exchanged a look.

  Ruby blinked in amazement. “Pip was Mr. Norwood’s boyhood friend?”

  “I didn’t know he had any friends, ever!” said Wilkie Collins.

  “Of course he had friends!” said Finesse.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” asked Cleebo.

  “He’s as dead as beautiful, young Emily Webb in Our Town by Thornton Wilder!” choked Finesse. She blew her nose in a ladylike manner. “Mr. Norwood Boyd asked for no funeral, no memorial service,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “But . . . but . . .” Finesse struggled to compose herself. She took a deep breath. “I think we are meant somehow to honor him with our pageant.”

  House blinked.

  “Mean-Man Boyd?” said Evan Evans. “What are we supposed to do—kidnap kids around the county?”

  “Cook ’em?” said Arnold Hindman. Hesitant laughter rolled around the ballplayers. House kept silent. Finesse looked stricken.

  “None of these exaggerations is true, mes amis,” she said, fresh tears in her eyes. “These are rumors, lies! Mr. Norwood Boyd was a great man! My great-granddaddy can tell you the truth—doesn’t anyone here know the truth about Mr. Norwood Boyd?”

  House felt a prick at the back of his conscience. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  “Ghosts!” cried Honey. She hugged Eudora Welty.

  “I know somethin’ about him!” shouted Cleebo. He caught himself as House sucked in his breath and glared at Cleebo.

  “What do you know?” Finesse was suddenly delighted. “Do tell!”

  Cleebo glanced at House and changed his mind. “I know you ain’t even related to the man, that’s what I know!”

  Finesse straightened her shoulders. “Related is a relative term, mon ami. And I know something, too, Cleebo Wilson.” She pulled a piece of paper from her straw tote bag and opened it carefully. “My great-granddaddy was left a note by Mr. Norwood Boyd.”

  The blood evaporated from House’s face. A tingle spread across his shoulders.

  “I wanted to keep it private,” Finesse said, “but Poppy told me I must share it with you all because . . . because it has meaning for our town on its birthday, and because our most famous citizen, Dr. Dan Deavers, who ordered this pageant in the first place, would certainly approve . . . so I shall read it.”

  Finesse took a deep breath. So did House.

  “This note is shrouded in mystery, mes amis,” said Finesse, “enveloppe de mystère!” Finesse pointed a black-gloved finger at House. “One must not read too much into such mystery . . .”

  “Read the dang note!” growled Cleebo. Finesse cleared her throat, snapped the note in front of her flamboyantly, and read:

  “I see great things in baseball. It will take our people out-of-doors, fill them with oxygen, give them a larger physical stoicism, tend to relieve us from being a nervous, dyspeptic set, repair those losses and be a blessing to us.”

  —Walt Whitman

  Whitman! Baseball! House rocketed upright. He was dizzy with the thought.

  Cleebo scrambled to his feet. “That’s what I say! Dispepper and all! A blessing! Baseball!” He sliced his glove back and forth in Finesse’s direction, as if he might decapitate her with it. “Look. Me and some of the team were discussing it on the way over here and we decided we ain’t gonna participate in no pageant! We need to play our game!”

  “I’m playing!” shouted Ruby.

  “No, you ain’t,” said Cleebo. “House!”

  But House’s mind was somewhere else. In the midst of the clangor, he began to ask questions. Why would Frances have a note from Mr. Norwood Boyd? A note about baseball?

  Kids were talking all at once, like . . . like an organ majestic. A perfect band.

  And baseball. What about baseball? House began pacing. Mr. Norwood Boyd was trying to tell him something, he was sure of it.

  Melba Jane stomped a sandaled foot and shouted, “Come to order! Hush right this minute!”

  “Oh, go stuff it, Melba Jane!” hollered Cleebo. “We don’t have to pay attention to you!”

  Honey tiptoed Eudora away from the crowd and plopped down with her by the hose. She put her hands over Eudora’s ears and watched.

  “Cleebo!” cried Melba with indignation. “Dr. Dan Deavers is coming to this pageant and your mama . . .”

  “My mama nuthin’!” said Cleebo. “This is stupid! I’m gonna get my dad out here . . .”

  “Lots of luck!” said Boon.

  Finesse put her hands in front of her in a praying pose, bent her head, and stood silently until the group calmed. She looked up when all was quiet and said, “It seem
s we have a revolt.”

  Before anyone could agree with her, House said in a clear voice, “No, we don’t.” He gestured to the ball team. “We’ll be in the pageant.” He had no idea what it meant—just that it was true.

  “You will?” said Finesse.

  “We will?” said the ballplayers.

  “No we won’t!” said Cleebo.

  But House had figured out something—moves the symphony true. He knew what it meant. “We can do what we want, right?” he asked Finesse. “You said it’s our pageant. . .”

  “Yes . . . ,” said Finesse in an uncertain voice.

  “Then, we’ll play baseball,” said House. “And we’ll have a pageant.”

  “How do we do that?” Finesse had her handkerchief at her throat.

  “I don’t know,” said House. “You’re the artistic genius, you figure it out.”

  His face was hot with embarrassment, but there was a rightness to the words, so he kept on going in spite of himself. He tried not to think about the fact that he was talking more than he’d ever talked in front of people in his entire life, and that he was actually suggesting cooperating with his toad, Frances Schotz, making a spectacle out of himself and everyone else.

  He let his soul speak. Or maybe it was the voice of Mr. Norwood Boyd’s ghostly spirit, or the influence of Pip’s sad story. Maybe it was those words from Walt Whitman, written so long ago, the same words his mother had loved and sung. Suddenly it was all connected. Suddenly it made sense. Suddenly he had words to say:

  “Anybody who wants to play ball can play.”

  Kids scrambled to their feet, excited.

  Ruby hugged herself. “Yes!”

  “No!” shouted Finesse and Melba and Cleebo all at the same time.

  “Yes!” said House and Ruby together.

  House entreated his ballplayers—“Your mamas want you in this pageant,” he said. “And you want to play ball— we can do both! Everybody wins. We’ll beat them Redbugs—you’ll see.”

  “I don’t want to play ball!” shouted Honey. “I want to tap-dance!”

  House scooped his sister into his arms. “You can be a dancer, Honey.”

  It came together for House, the mystery, the symphony, and he knew what he had to do. It involved dazzle and clangor, chorus majestic and perfect band. It included Frances Schotz and Ruby and Melba and Cleebo and Honey and Miss Mattie, his father, the ballplayers, the Mamas, all of Aurora County, Mississippi, even Eudora Welty. It involved baseball. A pageant. Several tutus, most likely. And one beautiful treasure.

  The one thing House didn’t bargain on was the betrayal.

  21

  Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  Finesse grabbed control as best she could. “You left us with half a pageant this morning when you didn’t show up on time.” She tugged on each gloved finger, removed her black gloves, and continued. “We did the best we could without you. We had to assign parts as we had a need for them. Some of you won’t be happy with your assignments, but that’s life—C’est la vie! We will need everyone’s sizes—pants, shirts, leotards—as Miss Mary Wilson”—she pointed at Cleebo—“your mama! is going to help us with costumes and we want them to fit.”

  “They’ll crackle when you move in ’em!” said Wilkie.

  “Shut up, Blind Boy!” said Cleebo.

  A gaggle of crows argued in the top of the chinaberry tree. House tried to think fast. “Who’s got paper and pen? Melba?”

  Melba looked at Finesse for permission. Finesse gave a tiny shrug of approval. Melba handed House her clipboard and pencil.

  House scribbled furiously. “Me and the team need some things.”

  “We need good sense,” said Cleebo, “and a new captain.”

  “You’re gonna play, Cleebo,” said House.

  “Yeah. Me and every fruitcake in the county! No way are we gonna win this game—you’ll have so many kids turn out for this you won’t know where to put them! You’ll end up with Blind Boy Wilkie at umpire—”

  “I ain’t blind!” cried Wilkie. “I just got thick glasses!”

  “—you’ll let Ruby catch and you’ll put that sorry excuse for a dog out there fielding foul balls!”

  “I’m a better catcher than you’ll ever be, Cleebo Wilson!” said Ruby.

  “YouDoggie is not sorry!” Honey kissed the dog’s wrinkled head. “Would you like some sandwich, YouDoggie? Let Mama see . . .” She opened House’s backpack.

  “Here’s our list.” House handed the clipboard to Finesse. “This is for all of us.”

  “Really, House . . .” Finesse perused the list. “Your penmanship, honestly!” But she read out loud the baseball team’s requests:

  baseball uniforms and caps

  real bases and a real pitcher’s mound

  new bats

  new baseballs

  a catcher’s mask and kneepads

  a cooler with lots of ice water

  one pair of tap shoes, size small

  Honey clapped at the mention of tap shoes. “Want some more, YouDoggie?” Eudora Welty, wearing her white tutu, snorted next to Honey and snuffled at the last sandwich piece Honey had given her. “Good girl,” said Honey. “In a minute I’ll pour you some water.” Eudora wagged her tail.

  “These things cost money,” said Finesse.

  “I thought your uncle was giving us money.”

  “That’s right,” said Finesse, “for the pageant! Surely you don’t expect us—all of us!—to actually play a game of baseball?” Finesse had lost her French. She was quickly losing her temper.

  “It’s the American game!” said House. “For an American town! On the American holiday—Fourth of July!” House opened his arms wide to include every kid. “We’ll beat the pants off those Redbugs with all this talent.”

  Cleebo hooted. “Talent! You’re blind, too!”

  “We can certainly honor baseball,” said Finesse, “we intend to. In fact, ever since I read that note from Mr. Norwood Boyd, I was thinking about a baseball dance number for you boys . . .”

  “We don’t dance,” said Cleebo flatly.

  “Yes, we do,” said House.

  “You’re crazy,” said Cleebo.

  “I dance!” said Honey in a bright voice. She rummaged in House’s backpack for a water bottle.

  “We all dance,” said House. He thought he must be feverish—even his eyes were hot. He couldn’t stop talking. “It’s a symphony. A symphony true. We’ll do it all at the same time.” Kids looked at House as if he had turned green right before their eyes.

  “And how do you propose we do that?” Finesse crossed her arms in front of her. Melba followed suit.

  “House!” chirped Honey. “There’s a book in your lunch!” She held up Leaves of Grass. She used both hands.

  “Hey!” said Cleebo. “I know that book! Give it here!”

  “Honey, put that back!” House lunged for the book.

  “Aha!” Cleebo grabbed the book as if it were a wild throw, a fifty-five-footer bouncing up from home plate and into his mitt.

  “You gonna read to us, House? You gonna read us some po-et-ry?”

  “Give it back, Cleebo!”

  “I know this book!” he crowed. “And I know where it come from!”

  22

  I became a good pitcher when I stopped trying to make them miss the ball and started trying to make them hit it.

  —SANDY KOUFAX, PITCHER, LOS ANGELES DODGERS

  Cleebo held the book up like it was a Bible and he was a revival preacher. He hollered at the top of his voice.

  “You gonna read us a book, House?” Several ballplayers guffawed along with Cleebo. Honey cowered against Eudora. Ruby crossed her arms in front of her overalls and watched.

  Cleebo opened the book and turned in a slow circle, showing the open pages to the group. “It’s a bunch of po-et-ry!” His voic
e was hoarse. “A book of po-et-ry from a dead man’s house!” Cleebo froze like he was a freeze-tag statue, making his point.

  Finesse was shocked into silence, as was everyone else under the chinaberry tree. A scrap of paper fluttered from the open pages and settled, like a feather, into the shade under the tree.

  House’s knees wobbled. A wind rose up and a hoot owl called, such an unusual sound in the bright of day. The sun baked the earth and House made himself breathe. “It’s a book by Walt Whitman,” he said quietly. “The same guy who wrote about baseball in your note from Mr. Norwood, Frances.”

  Finesse bit her lip.

  “This book explains what I’m talking about,” House said. He picked up the scrap of paper and licked his lips.

  “Here’s a piece of it.” He called on his mother and he called on Mr. Norwood Boyd, he straightened his shoulders, and he took the plunge. And he read them the poem.

  “After the dazzle of day is gone,

  Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars.

  After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band,

  Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.”

  Finesse took a step backward, as if her knees had given out on her. Melba rushed to her side. “Are you all right?” Finesse waved her off.

  “There ain’t nothin’ about no baseball game in there,” said Cleebo, “nor no pageant. And we ain’t got us a organ or a chorus or a band. We just got a crazy ball team captain. I vote for a new captain. Who’s with me?”

  “Don’t you see?” said House. He understood the connection. Mr. Norwood Boyd’s time was over. House’s time was now. He stepped into that moment where the past and the present meet and became more than he had been.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if we have a game or a pageant or both, it really doesn’t matter. And you know why? Because we’re all gonna be as dead as doornails one day, as dead as Mr. Norwood Boyd, and then what?”