The Aurora County All-Stars

by Deborah Wiles

  “I want to know everything.”

  “I’m glad you’re asking.”

  A long cream-colored car crunched up the driveway. Pip sat behind the wheel. The girl sitting next to him had to be Finesse. House buried his face in his hands.

  “Not her.”

  Yes, her. But she looked different. She was dressed in a pair of shorts and a plain black T-shirt. She wore black flip-flops. Her hair, usually a wild and wiry explosion, was plaited into neat rows. Her face was scrubbed clean. She looked like someone else, someone House used to know. Under her arm she carried her straw tote bag.

  Pip gave a wave toward the porch as he climbed out of his car. “I came to check on the young squire here, and to see if you were done servicing my ’lectric clippers, Leonard.”

  “Just finished them up today,” said Leonard, lifting a hand in return greeting. “They’re in the workshop.”

  “Let’s go visit ’em,” said Pip.

  Leonard patted House on the shoulder. “I’m ready to talk when you are.” He walked to the shed with Pip in the spangled light of early evening.

  Finesse leaned against the porch railing. “What did Doc MacRee say?”

  “It’s a sprain.”

  “Can you play?”

  “No.”

  “Do we have someone else who can pitch?”

  “We need Koufax if we want to win this game. Do you know who that is?”

  Finesse shook her head.

  “Sandy Koufax. He’s the greatest baseball pitcher who ever lived. He’s in that box of cards you gave me. Do you want them back?”

  “You’ll have to ask Uncle Jim-Bob,” said Finesse. “They’re his.”

  “Really?” House rubbed at his chin with the back of his hand.

  “Really. Poppy told me I could loan them to you.” She rummaged in her tote bag and pulled out a green book. “I’ve got something else to show you. I’ve got one, too.”

  House blinked twice, hard, as if to clear his vision. Of course there would be another copy of Leaves of Grass—there were probably thousands. Finesse opened the book to the front inside cover and showed it to House. Gladys Schotz was written in a careful script, the same script that was on the inside of his book. From your friend, Elizabeth.

  “We used to play together when we were little, you and I,” Finesse said. “Our mamas were friends.”

  House rocked back in his chair and let out a long breath. “Yeah.”

  “I remember the symphony song, too.”

  House rocked forward and stopped cold. “You do?”

  Finesse nodded. “My mama sang it.”

  Little birds were singing in the pecan trees; it was so perfect. House held his breath. And, right there on House’s front porch, as the sun began to dip behind the pines and shadows slanted long across the dirt yard, Finesse sang the symphony song in a soft, sweet voice and in no hurry.

  House felt every note, right down to the tingling in his toes. He didn’t know where to look, so he stared at the empty clothesline. He had no words.

  “Are you okay?” asked Finesse when she’d finished.

  “Yeah. Just thinking.”

  “The symphony true,” said Finesse. “I think it’s what’s left when all the noise stops, when you get quiet and listen for your own true heart.”

  House adjusted his peas. A rosy light lay over the front dirt yard, spilling onto the goldenrod by the woods.

  “What are you thinking about?” Finesse asked, as she tucked Leaves of Grass into her tote bag.

  “I’m thinking about Pee Wee Reese.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s a shortstop.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Real good.”

  “What does a shortstop do?”

  “He plays between second and third base. He snags most of the ground balls and he covers second base in a double play.”

  “Does this Pee Wee live near here?”

  The corners of House’s mouth turned up in a smile. “No.”

  “Too bad,” said Finesse. “We could use a good shortstop, yes?”

  “We could,” said House, and he looked at Finesse. Her face wore such an earnest look. House reached into his mind and a question suggested itself. “What’s the French word for toad?”

  “Why would you want to know that?”

  House shrugged and put his hands on the arms of the rocker. “There’s a lot of ’em around here.”

  Finesse pulled an English-French dictionary out of her straw tote bag. House watched her leaf through the pages. She ran her finger down a page and considered what she found there.

  “Crapaud,” she said. Then she giggled a real girl giggle.

  House smiled so widely his ears ran back along his scalp. “Crapaud?”

  “Oui!” said Finesse with another giggle. “Crapaud!”

  House couldn’t help himself. “Crapaud!” he hooted. And he laughed. The peas fell onto the porch planks.

  Finesse laughed, too, as the evening breeze started to push the sun down so it could cool the day. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  House shook his head. “No.”

  “Why not? You could coach . . .”

  “I’m done,” House said. “I thought I knew something, but I don’t.”

  “Well . . . I know something,” said Finesse. Her voice was shot through with surety.

  “What?”

  “We need you,” she said. “You’re part of the symphony true.”

  29

  It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  House’s father waved good-bye as Pip and Finesse disappeared down the lane. “Almost done,” he said to House as he walked back to the shed.

  House ate some cold supper, showered until there was no more hot water, and went to bed early on the sleeping porch with Leaves of Grass. His heart etched itself around every memory of his mother he could muster, every memory of Mr. Norwood Boyd he could imagine.

  Soon he sensed a presence in the shadows at his door. “I know that book,” said his father.

  House’s face colored up. “It was Mama’s. Mr. Norwood Boyd gave it to me.”

  His father nodded. “I remember it. Let me show you my favorite.” House handed him the book and his father took it with great tenderness. “Let’s see, where is it . . . It reminds me of what a symphony people make together.”

  House blinked. “What did you say?”

  “Your mother used to say it all the time,” said his father. “‘No matter what happens,’ she’d say, ‘it’s part of the symphony true.’ She even said her death would be part of the symphony.”

  House swallowed. “Do you believe that?”

  His father rifled carefully through the book, looking for his favorite poem. “I guess I do. We take the bad with the good, we take the night with the day . . . Somehow it all works out . . .” He smiled at House. “Look, here’s the one I like. I’ll read it to you.”

  House lay back against the pillows on the headboard and listened.

  I HEAR AMERICA SINGING

  I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

  Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it would be blithe and strong,

  The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

  The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

  The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-hand singing on the steamboat deck,

  The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

  The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,

  The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

  Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

  The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

&nb
sp; Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

  House sighed. Their strong, melodious songs. “It’s good.” He sat up and crossed his legs in the bed.

  “Let me see that arm,” said his father. “It’ll sleep better with a little support.” He began to wrap the arm gently in a loose bandage, carefully avoiding the bruised elbow, and House let him. A night breeze raked through the leaves on the trees while the moon hung low on the horizon. Honey snored little-girl snores from her bedroom and Eudora snuffled next to her.

  “How are you, son?” asked House’s father.

  House approached the problem.

  “Everything’s mixed up.”

  “Lots of clangor,” said his father.

  House raised his eyebrows. “Did Mama sing you the symphony song?”

  “She did.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Now you do.” His father finished the bandaging and began to massage House’s shoulder. “That feel okay?”

  House nodded. “The ball game’s a mess.”

  “I know,” said his father.

  House chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to do anything.”

  “It’s complicated,” said House.

  “I guess it is, son. But at heart, it’s real simple. It is what it is. It just . . . is.”

  “Even if I can’t ever play baseball again?”

  “Even if you can’t ever play baseball again. But you’ll play again.”

  The old clock ticked away time in the hallway. A long time ago Mr. Norwood Boyd had refused to play ball ever again—Pip should have been his teammate. Not so long ago, Jackie Robinson claimed a place on the field for Pip. For Cleebo. Not so long ago, Pee Wee claimed a place for House, so House could stand tall, reach back, and claim a place for Mr. Norwood. In turn, without even understanding what he was doing, House had made a place for Ruby. For Finesse. For the Aurora County All-Stars. And now, in his anger and frustration, he had lost his own place. He had hurt himself.

  “I don’t know what to do now.”

  “You can show up.”

  House sighed, washed in sadness.

  “Lie down,” said his father.

  And like he did when he was a little boy, House slid himself down the headboard and onto the bed. His father covered him with just the top sheet—it was too hot for blankets, although by morning he’d want one. House sank his head into his pillow. He might look like Mr. Norwood Boyd, lying there. Maybe in a hundred years.

  “What would Mr. Norwood say if he were here?” asked his father.

  House thought about it. “He’d ask me to finish Treasure Island. ”

  Leonard Jackson nodded. “So . . . he’d ask you to finish what you started.”

  “Yeah,” House whispered. He closed his eyes against the day. “Do you think we have any chance of winning?”

  His father tucked his son’s arm at his side and stroked his forehead once. “You’ve already won, House.”

  “Not like that,” House said. “I want to win for real.”

  His father put Leaves of Grass on the night table and clicked off the light. In the tenderness that darkness brought, he added one more thought: “House, we are born, we live, and we die. Along the way we learn to love, if we’re lucky. That’s what your mother taught me.”

  The night noises faded as sleep came, and House felt it again, that feeling he’d had when he’d thought to combine the ball game and the pageant. It was a symphony true, and he was part of it. That’s what his mother and Mr. Norwood Boyd had known—they were, all of them, part of the same song. Everything in the world, everything outside the world, all of it. The snakes that slithered in the grass, the crows that called from the trees, the people who lived and died, the stars that hung in the sky. House imagined the life that had been Mr. Norwood Boyd’s, the boy. He imagined the life that had been Walt Whitman’s, the poet. He imagined the life that belonged to Finesse—the artist; Pip—the barber; Ruby—the catcher; Melba—the assistant; Cleebo—the angry friend; Bunch—the undertaker; and himself, House—the what? What was he? He was many things, just as everyone—tout le monde—was many things.

  He was his mother’s son, for one thing. He had been an old man’s friend, for another. He was glad.

  Please do not remove these instructions from the telephone pole by the backstop.

  To all players on the Aurora County All-Stars July 4th Pageant Team:

  How to Hit the Ball

  by House Jackson

  It is not necessary to spit, beat the plate with your bat, chew gum, or wear a baseball cap. It is necessary to master the fundamentals of batting:

  Remove all tiaras. Wear a batting helmet, even if it messes up your hair. Your brains are more important than your hair.

  Pick a bat that isn’t too heavy for you. If you fall over when you pick up your bat, it is too heavy.

  Don’t grip the bat at the very end. This is why you look like you are golfing. Don’t grip the bat too close to the sweet spot or the ball will smash your hands.

  Keep your feet apart, but not too far apart. Save the splits for the pageant numbers. Bend your knees a little but none of that yoga stuff at the plate. And no standing on your toes, ballerinas. This is a ball game.

  Crouch over a little bit but don’t crowd the plate or the catcher can’t see. Don’t jump backward every time a pitch is thrown. You can’t hit the ball while you are jumping backward.

  Don’t close your eyes and swing as each pitch is thrown. You can’t hit the ball if you close your eyes. The ball is more likely to hit you.

  Don’t slug your guts out with each swing. Just meet the ball with your bat. That’s all you need to do. The pitcher’s job is to throw the ball over the plate. If he doesn’t (if he throws wide, too high or too low), don’t swing at it.

  If you hit the ball, run. Run to first base, not to third. Don’t try to watch the ball while you run. It’s your job to get to first base. First base is straight up and to the right of home plate.

  Take advice. Don’t stomp your foot and walk off when you don’t get your way. Also, dogs are not allowed to run with people down the baselines. This is an accident waiting to happen.

  Stay off the field when you are not at bat. And no more fainting. Wear a hat, drink water, bring a fan. It gets hot out here.

  Presented as a Primer for Participants in the Aurora County Birthday Pageant:

  How To Dance La Danse Moderne

  Or

  “You can never have too much glitter.”

  By Finesse Schotz, Artistic Director of the Pageant, Student of La Danse Moderne at the Prestigious Lanyard School in Jackson, Mississippi, and Passionate Devotee of Dance Greats Martha Graham (“Dance is just discovery, discovery, discovery!”), and The Amazing Katherine Dunham (“Go within every day and find the inner strength so that the world will not blow your candle out.”)

  Dear Pageant Participants:

  “The body is a sacred garment.” Martha said that. It is so true! And in la danse moderne, YOU are the instrument you play. There are no “right moves” except for the movement that moves you—what do you feeeeel? That is so important—im-por-tant!

  We will engage in ear-wiggling, neck-twisting, shoulder-shaking, elbow-jutting, knee-jerking, foot-stomping, and more, in an effort to loosen up the stodgy mental thinking that traps our body’s sense of freedom and lightness and inhibits us.

  Plan to learn the dances as they are created, step by stretch by twist by wiggle. Wear loose-fitting clothing to each practice. Practice dancing barefoot. Be prepared to wear appropriate costuming, which will include bark, ribbons, fur (fake, of course), beads, tights, colanders, face paint, leaves and twigs, and whatever else appears.

  Have fun! La danse moderne is nothing if not an interpretation of your spirit’s sweetness and pain, as well as an expression of the joy of life and living!

  30

  Gehrig had one advantage ov
er me. He was a better ballplayer.

  —GIL HODGES, FIRST BASE, BROOKLYN DODGERS

  The next week brought a flurry of activity to Halleluia. The stage was set up near the first-base line on the ball field. The Methodist church became the greenroom where dancers, singers, and actors could change costumes during baseball innings. The Sunday school rooms buzzed with excitement and sparkled with glitter. Mamas sewed their fingers off. To satisfy their mamas and get it over with, every single ballplayer grudgingly agreed to perform one dance together at the end of the ball game. Tights were special ordered for this special number. Flowered tights. Mary Wilson did the fittings herself. Finesse tweaked her choreography and honed her directorial skills. And House—House had his hands full.

  No one mentioned Cleebo’s accusations about Norwood Boyd. No one mentioned House’s speech about Norwood Boyd. But kids seemed to stay an extra step away from House, and eye him with a morbid curiosity.

  Nevertheless, for days he stood behind Ruby like an umpire and held pitching tryouts. Wilkie couldn’t see the strike zone. Arnold threw fifty-five-footers. Evan Evans threw lollipops—wide ones. Lincoln Latham wouldn’t give up his position at second base. Cleebo was the only All-Star, other than House, who could get enough pitches over the plate to qualify him as a pitcher. And Cleebo was uneven. He had already hit Arnold Hindman and three pageant players.

  The day before the pageant it all began to come together. Ruby covered home plate. Cleebo pitched. Boon played both left field and shortstop. They would play with one down, but they would play.

  “Throw it in here, Cleebo!” shouted Ruby. She crouched into position at the empty plate and gave Cleebo a signal. Cleebo nodded, wound himself up like a pretzel, and lunged forward with the baseball.