The Aurora County All-Stars

by Deborah Wiles

  “It’s a brilliant solution to combine the game and the pageant, yes, but it will never work unless we go all out! I have learned that when one is presented with an opportunity to become more than oneself, one always takes that opportunity gratefully—one acknowledges all offers of assistance and embraces the larger field, so to speak, of possibility! Let’s do it! Let’s plan and practice the pageant and the ball game together. We can move part of the stage to the empty lot temporarily as well! It won’t fit in the schoolhouse right now, so we’ll make good use of it on the field! Voilà! A problem turned into a possibility!”

  “Voilà!” Finesse beamed. Her uncle was the most handsome, most dashing, most capable man she had ever met. He had coffee-bean skin that glowed right along with his smile and a bushy mustache that was tinged with gray. He smelled like oranges. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  “A lot of people are going to think we are a shocking pair!” said Dr. Dan. “But baseball lends itself perfectly to pageantry! This is just what we need—a little drama, a bit of a shake-up in our routines! Is there anyone here from Smith County?”

  Several Smith County Mamas raised their hands. “Will you take this proposal back to your ballplayers and make sure we have their complete cooperation?”

  They nodded their heads, glancing sideways at one another, their smiles intact.

  “Who will step up to the plate to assist us?” asked Dr. Dan.

  Inspired, people fell all over themselves in their desire to help.

  “I’ll mow the ball field and the empty lot!” chimed Old Johnny Mercer, who dug the graves at the Snapfinger Cemetery for the Snowberger’s Funeral Home Empire.

  “We’ll move the stage!” volunteered Woodrow “Pete” Wilson and several of the Papas who were thrilled there was going to be a game.

  “I’ll starch and press the uniforms!” said Mary Wilson. She stood at the back of the crowd with Leonard Jackson. “My machine’s back in business and so am I! Sunshine Laundry! / Send us your sheets! / Under new management! / We can’t be beat! Where’s Cleebo?”

  Cleebo had not arrived with the other kids.

  “He quit!” cried Ned and Boon.

  “We’ll just see about that!” said Mary Wilson. “Make way!” She stomped out of the barbershop.

  “Where’s Honey?” asked Leonard Jackson.

  “She went home with Ruby,” said Evan Evans.

  Mary Wilson pried her way back into the barbershop leading Cleebo by the ear. “Coming through!” she said as she snaked toward Finesse and House. Steam rose from her like she was a pressing machine herself. The look on Cleebo’s face was a mixture of pain and fury.

  “This boy will play,” Mary Wilson stated in a menacing voice. “He will dance, he will sing—” She stopped herself as Dr. Dan stood tall right in front of her. Her eyes traveled up and up until they reached Dr. Dan’s eyes. Then her face softened and her voice took on an immediate sweetness. “Have you met my son, Cleebo? Cleebo H. W. Wilson?” She let go of Cleebo’s ear, dusted him off, straightened his T-shirt, and shoved him in front of Dr. Dan. Cleebo looked like a mute, deranged dog.

  Dr. Dan stuck out his enormous hand and shook Cleebo’s smaller one. “Good to meet such an upstanding, cooperative young man!”

  Cleebo blinked into Dr. Dan’s dark eyes. “Yessir,” he mumbled. He cast a sideways look at House, who looked away.

  “And you all know my niece Frances!” Dr. Dan hoisted Finesse onto a barber chair—the very same barber chair she’d collided with during her interpretive dance when House’s elbow was broken. She balanced herself daintily, standing on the seat of the chair, and gave a small bow.

  “Finesse, s’il vous plaît!” she sang. “My name is now Finesse!”

  “I believe that’s the name of a shampoo,” whispered Lamar Lackey, still holding his scissors.

  “Finesse has more talent in her little finger than I have in my entire body!” Dr. Dan orated.

  Miss Mattie appeared at the edge of the crowd. “How much talent does it take to lie in bed in a coma on television for the past month?” But she smiled when she said it. She liked Dr. Dan. She had missed him—everybody had.

  Dr. Dan gave Miss Mattie a bear hug. “It takes great talent to figure out how to get out of work long enough for a good vacation, Mattie!” he boomed. “So here I am, coma and all!”

  “Well, it’s about time,” said a voice from the door of the shop. Like the Red Sea parting, a path was opened and through it walked Pip. “James,” he said to his grown grandson, Jim-Bob, the famous soap-opera actor Dr. Dan Deavers.

  “Poppy,” said Dr. Dan, tears in his eyes at the sight of his grandfather. “I’m home.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Regular Edition, June 19

  THE AURORA COUNTY NEWS

  MURMURS FROM MABEL

  By Phoebe “Scoop” Tolbert

  As my faithful readers know, I have sworn to deliver the local news just as soon as it breaks, all over Aurora County.

  Somehow, even with my reporting skills at their prime, I was scooped! The death of Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd was reported in this paper by Comfort Snowberger of Snowberger’s Funeral Home. One can perhaps forgive the funeral home for wanting to be the first to report this major event, but I would just like to point out that the protocols and etiquettes of the newspaper business call for fair reportage to all sources as soon as a story is leaked. Please put me back in the loop, Snowberger’s.

  On to Mr. Norwood Boyd, who, as readers now know, died this past week at the ripe old age of 88. (Not that old; Mr. Tolbert is approaching that age himself! He remembers going to school with Norwood, but of course I don’t, as I am MUCH younger than Mr. Tolbert.)

  Norwood had a long and industrious career in the U.S. Merchant Marines. He started his life in Mabel, at a time when there were no telephones or toilets in every home. He was known—even as a child—for being a principled person, a man who stood for what he believed in, sometimes at great cost to himself. He was a shining example to us all.

  One thing Norwood believed in was people. He brought people together, even after his illness forced him indoors when he could no longer be active. His correspondence was the stuff of legend—Dot Land has had to order an extra mail crate to hold all the mail that has arrived for Norwood just since his death. He was in touch with people from all walks of life, from all his travels, and he championed the human spirit.

  Now, there are those who would say Norwood was a recluse. He was. There were rumors of a long-lost love. Who knows. What is true is that Norwood Boyd gave himself permission to stay home for the rest of his life. That was his right.

  He leaves behind no immediate family, although he is survived by dear friend Parting Schotz and his granddaughter, Gladys Knight Schotz, and her daughter, Frances Ballard Schotz. He was preceded in death by dear friend Joseph Jefferson Jackson of Greenville, South Carolina, and Joe’s great-great-niece, Elizabeth Jackson (maiden and married name) of Mabel, who was also Norwood’s goddaughter.

  As was reported by Snowberger’s, there will be no funeral. However, in related news, rumor has it that the Aurora County All-Stars will play on July 4! Those of you old enough to remember Norwood as a boy will understand that there could be no more appropriate memorial to Norwood Boyd than a baseball game. Play ball!

  27

  Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  “Okay, you got us here—now what?” Cleebo was agitated, and so was the rest of the team. But no one was more agitated than House, who had suggested the symphony true—what had he been thinking?

  He had fourteen days to pull together some sort of strategy for beating the Redbugs that would include girls in dresses made of crepe paper toting magic wands made from rolls of wrapping paper. There was not enough time to order uniforms and have them delivered, but there would be matching T-shirts, starched and ironed by the Sunshine Laund
ry.

  “What’s your brilliant plan, House?” Cleebo postured.

  “Your mama got you here, not me,” said House. “And you’re not playing.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Cleebo.

  “You quit, remember? Go help Frances. That’s where your mama wants you, anyway.”

  “I’m playing ball and you can’t stop me—remember what you said when you ruined it for the whole team? Anybody can play! Well, I’m anybody.”

  “You’re nobody,” said House. “Wilkie! Gather ’em up!”

  Finesse was at the far end of right field, near the Methodist cemetery, surrounded by children who were singing “Aurora of Thee I Sing,” a composition Finesse had made up that morning. They sounded like dying monkeys. Melba was waving her clipboard and trying to direct the singing while Finesse tried out a new interpretive dance.

  “What are we gonna do with these kids?” asked Wilkie.

  “I can throw!” said the shortest kid. His name was Billy. “See?” He picked up a rock, threw it overhand, and hit Cleebo in the shin.

  “Hey!” Cleebo took off running after Billy, who screamed away toward town, his short legs pumping up and down like little pistons.

  The Tolbert twins, Ned and Boon, trudged into the outfield with girls following them. “Start off playing catch with ’em,” said House.

  “They don’t have gloves!” yelled Ned.

  “I can hit!” said little Jimmy Scott at home plate. He grabbed the wooden bat and gave it a walloping once around. He hit the backstop with it and nearly knocked himself out.

  “You okay?” called House from the pitcher’s mound. So far he hadn’t thrown one pitch.

  “The bat’s cracked!” called Evan Evans from home plate.

  And that was the good part of practice.

  “Forget this!” yelled Wilkie. “Lot a good it did for you to come up with this harebrained idea, House! We’re never gonna be able to even play baseball, much less lick them Redbugs! We might as well hang it up!” Wilkie trotted to the edge of center field and stood there with his arms crossed, like a little angry island unto himself. Tutus littered the far reaches of center field.

  House wrestled with his doubts. He had insisted they do it this way, but now it made no sense; the boys were right. He’d understood it so clearly the day before. He’d seen it, he’d seen the connections, he’d seen the symphony true, but now, now that he had gotten what he’d asked for, that symphony eluded him. Listen for the symphony true, House. He’d laid across the bed the night before with Leaves of Grass. He’d inspected it—had Cleebo hurt it? No. Good. He hated that Cleebo had touched this treasure that had belonged to his mother. He hated that Cleebo would make fun of it, of him, of Mr. Norwood Boyd. He hated Cleebo, period.

  Thanks to Cleebo, the other kids were looking at him funny. They didn’t say anything—they didn’t dare, yet—but he could tell they were wondering. Today’s newspaper carried Phoebe Tolbert’s article. House had read it—every kid in Aurora County had heard about it by now, but no one said a word to him: House’s mother was Norwood Boyd’s goddaughter, and he, House, hadn’t even known it! Questions, he had questions, now, and they buzzed in his mind like a nest full of angry hornets.

  Cleebo came back kicking at the dirt as he approached the field. Billy didn’t come back with him.

  “I’m catching,” spit Cleebo. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Watch me,” said House.

  “I will!” said Cleebo. He stood by home plate, arms crossed, fuming.

  “House!” Honey came with Ruby across the field. She carried a small basket of eggs wrapped in a tea towel. She hugged her brother. “I spent the night with Ruby!”

  “I know,” said House, patting his sister twice on the head. “Honey, we’re practicing here . . .”

  Chicken feathers decorated Eudora’s tutu. She plopped herself down on top of home plate and across one of Cleebo’s shoes.

  Cleebo’s frustration leaked out like a water bucket with holes in it. He marched toward the pitcher’s mound. “You said you’d figure this out!” he shouted. He waved his arms up and down. “Look what you done!”

  The field was crowded with kids now. House threw a beanball at Cleebo and Cleebo ducked just in time. “Hey!”

  Morale was low, but no one was lower than House. He had already missed last year’s game. Now he would miss this year’s, too, because this game wouldn’t be a game.

  Honey led Eudora to the third-base line, where she squatted and showed her the eggs in the basket. “Your new brothers and sisters!” she whispered. Eudora wagged her tail and sniffed at the basket.

  Three ballerinas came to the plate. “We were sent here by Finesse for our batting practice!” they sang. Sandy Koufax never had to pitch to ten-year-old girls in tutus and glitter shoes. “You’re supposed to send three ballplayers to Finesse!”

  “What do we do now?” asked Boon. Cleebo parked himself on the All-Stars bench.

  “We play,” said Ruby. She had two gloves slung over her bat, and her own ball bulging out of her front overalls pocket. She wore her catcher kneepads. She wriggled her catcher’s mitt off her bat, pulled the baseball from her pocket, threw it to House smartly, and crouched at home plate.

  “C’mon, House,” she said. “Let’s see that fastball.”

  “Step out of the box,” House directed the ballerinas, who obeyed.

  House did a full, high-kicking Koufax windup followed by a long forward stretch toward the plate. He got good underspin on his fastball and zipped it across the plate.

  “Strike!” called Ruby. “Again.”

  House wound up to throw again. And again. It was all clangor, this mess he was in. He’d lost whatever thread he thought he’d found. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became, and the harder he threw. His cap popped off. He threw harder.

  “Watch out!” shouted Ruby. “You’re going to throw your arm out!”

  House threw a blazing fastball. And another. Kids gathered to watch. Finesse came with them.

  Over and over House threw in a kind of frenetic ballet of one fluid motion from windup to delivery. Ruby hunkered down and caught every pitch that burned into her mitt—she was that good.

  “Slow it down,” she murmured. But House wasn’t listening to anything but his disappointment. He didn’t listen to his elbow, either, as it began to burn a warning. Faster and harder he pitched. Kids murmured in awe and appreciation, but Cleebo knew better.

  “Step away!” he shouted to Ruby.

  House threw another fastball. Something in his elbow twanged like a tight guitar string. Ruby held on to the pitch instead of throwing it back. House plucked a ball from the bucket by the mound and wound up for another pitch.

  “Stop!” Cleebo yelled. He rushed the mound.

  House threw a wild pitch. It slammed against the backstop and jingled the chain link like it was broken glass. At the instant he threw, something in House’s arm gave out with a rip. House grimaced in pain as he fell to one knee. He cradled his left elbow in his gloved right hand.

  Cleebo reached the mound and grabbed his friend.

  “Back off, Cleebo!” House shoved him away with his good arm. His left arm was on fire. A sob choked him.

  “Oh no!” cried the pageant kids.

  “House!” shouted the ballplayers.

  “Oh, mon Dieu!” whispered Finesse.

  “All of you!” shouted House. “Back off!”

  28

  Any time you have an opportunity to make a difference in this world and you don’t, then you are wasting your time on earth.

  —ROBERTO CLEMENTE, RIGHT FIELDER, PITTSBURGH PIRATES

  Honey, House, Leonard Jackson, and Eudora waited in Doc MacRee’s office for the verdict. House knew what he would do, regardless of what was wrong with his arm.

  “The X-rays show nothing broken, House,” said Doc MacRee, “but you’ve sprained a ligament in your elbow. You’ll heal. And you’ll play again. But you n
eed to rest it for a week or two. That game is going to be a problem . . .”

  “The game’s no problem,” said House, tears of relief slipping down his cheeks, disappointment rising like bile in his throat. “I quit.”

  “What?” House’s father let Honey slide off his lap.

  “I quit!” said House. He couldn’t help crying now and he didn’t care. He felt like something broken, sitting there with a rag of an arm and a worn-out heart. Honey tiptoed over to her brother and massaged the roundness of his knee like it was a mound of cookie dough and she was patting it into shape.

  “It would be best to rest it, Leonard,” said Doc MacRee. Leonard Jackson nodded.

  They sat in silence on the ride home, as if they were carrying a corpse in the back of the truck. Honey’s eggs went under a heat lamp in the shed. She was wilted over like a little flower and flushed in sleep. House refused supper and sat on the front porch with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel on his elbow.

  As soon as his father had put Honey to bed, House peppered him with questions. “Why didn’t you tell me about Mama being related to Mr. Norwood Boyd?”

  “She wasn’t related, exactly,” said his father. “But I know what you mean.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know, House. It didn’t . . . come up.”

  “Why didn’t you bring it up?”

  “I suppose I could have. I didn’t know Norwood. Your mother did. After she died, I was busy with you and Honey . . . and my own sadness. And yours.”

  House adjusted his peas, removed his baseball cap, and tossed it onto the porch planks.

  “I should have known about it,” he said. “Somebody should have told me.”

  “You’re probably right,” said his father. “You’re a quiet boy. I didn’t think to tell you.” His father sat down. “I don’t always do it right, House.” His voice sounded as worn-out as old tires. “I guess what I’ve really got going for me is I work at it. What else do you want to know? I’ll tell you whatever I know.”