The Aurora County All-Stars

by Deborah Wiles

  35

  Come, said the Muse,

  Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,

  Sing me the Universal.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  House lifted his arm out of the ice. He couldn’t help the tears that slid across his cheeks.

  “I love you, House,” said Honey. She wore her most worried expression on her face.

  House tried a smile for his sister. “I’m fine, Honey.”

  “No more,” said Leonard Jackson. He looked as worried as Honey.

  “It’s the bottom of the ninth,” said House. “I bat fifth, if we get that far.”

  “You’re not getting that far,” said Doc MacRee. “Not today.”

  Fans, pageant players, and family members stood at eager attention in the midst of their picnic debris. Dregs of piecrusts and paper cups were strewn underfoot along with discarded catfish, Moon Pies, and garden vegetable costumes and more: It was the stuff of an afternoon’s vigil. The All-Stars had one last chance to win. They needed two runs to tie, three runs to win. They needed a miracle.

  The cheering started as soon as Little Mikey McBrayer came to the pitcher’s mound with a wad of gum that was as big as he was. His cheek stuck out halfway to Alabama. He had played well all day and he was cocky. His team was about to win. He warmed up with his catcher.

  More cheering greeted Wilkie as he stepped to the plate, blinking behind his thick glasses, his knees shaking.

  “Come on, Wilkie, come on!” shouted the All-Stars. “Two runs and we’re tied! Three and we win!” But Wilkie struck out.

  “I’m sorry, boys,” he sniffed.

  “Sometimes these things can’t be helped!” intoned Finesse, in a voice that imparted this information as if it were the deepest mystery of life.

  Arnold managed to drive the ball to center and get on first base.

  “Man on first!” chirped Finesse. “Very nice hit!”

  “That’s it, Arnie!” shouted Cleebo. “That’s it!” He turned to Ruby, who was in the on-deck box. “Get a hit, Ruby,” he said. “Just a hit, that’s all we need. Evan’s next and he’s a power hitter—he can hit you in, just get on base.” He spoke in earnest as if Ruby didn’t know every player’s strengths by heart by now.

  “I’ll do my best,” was all she said.

  Mikey McBrayer threw her two strikes and Ruby swung too hard at each one.

  “O and 2!” droned Finesse in a funereal voice.

  Ruby looked over at House on the bench with his elbow back in the ice. He was watching her. “Just meet the ball,” he said. “Nice and easy.”

  She nodded.

  “C’mon! Throw her out!” yelled Jerry the catcher. The pitch came across the plate and Ruby swung through and hit it—a little humpbacked liner that hopped past the Redbug first baseman and settled just inside the first-base foul line. Ruby took off for first base.

  “Slide!” screamed Cleebo, jumping up on the bench. “Sliiiiiide!”

  Ruby slid underneath the throw from right field to first and touched the bag ahead of the ball. Dust swirled like a tornado of chickens fighting at first base. “She’s safe!” yelled Dr. Dan.

  “Safe!” yelled Mary Wilson. She grabbed her husband and kissed him full on the lips.

  “Safe!” yelled Phoebe Tolbert. She grabbed Mr. Tolbert and . . . didn’t kiss him.

  When the dust settled, Ruby was standing on the first-base bag, grinning, yelling, “Come on, Evan! Bang it outta the park!”

  But Evan struck out. He hit a high fly above himself. He looked up to see if it might scoot behind the backstop. Jerry jockeyed for position, bumping Evan out of the way, and caught the ball against the backstop, then slithered like a snake down the chain link and landed with a thud in the dirt.

  Evan hung his head and tried not to cry.

  “It’s okay, Evan!” Fans clapped and cheered for him at the same time as they cheered for Jerry’s catch. Suddenly, as they got down to the wire, it didn’t even matter which team they’d come to cheer for; suddenly everything and everyone was worth cheering for and it all mattered terribly.

  “Two away!” wailed Finesse. Her voice carried a jagged edge—she was almost hysterical. “Who’s up next?”

  Every All-Star player, every Redbug player, every fan groaned. Up next was House Jackson.

  House pulled his arm out of the ice water and flinched. Fresh tears crowded his eyes. He reached for his glove.

  “No, you don’t,” said his father. “I can’t let you do it.”

  “We can’t forfeit now!” cried House. His tears gargled in his throat.

  “House, you have done enough,” said his father. “You cannot play!”

  A hush fell over the bench. The All-Stars stared at House’s grief-etched face and felt as if their best friend had just died.

  And then. There was rustling and murmuring at the back of the crowd. Dr. Dan cleared his throat. “We have a pinch hitter!” he called out in his golden voice. “A pinch hitter for the Aurora County All-Stars!”

  And as the new hitter revealed himself to shouts of recognition and ripples of appreciation, House wiped his eyes and stared. Then slowly, he stood up.

  “‘Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you,’” whispered Finesse. “It’s positively Thornton Wilder.”

  The new player stepped up to the plate—he was old and short, with a stubbly spray of silver gray hair across his head, black shiny eyes, and skin the color of the pinecones that dotted the forest floor. He was the only player wearing a uniform. aurora angels blazed in a beautiful sky-blue script across the white jersey. The uniform fit perfectly.

  Folks held their breath. Cleebo nearly choked on his gum.

  The past and the present connected. The batter and House exchanged a look. House gave one nod to the batter, Thank you. The batter gave one nod back, You’re welcome.

  Parting Schotz swung at the first pitch from little Mikey McBrayer. He swung like he’d been swinging a baseball bat all his life. He smacked the ball so hard the crack of the bat sounded like an exploding firecracker. The crowd shrieked as the ball sailed away.

  Finesse forgot her artistic decorum and screamed into the microphone, “It’s a high fly into left field! Beyond left field! Oh, doctor! It’s all the way to the chinaberry tree! It’s going, it’s going, it’s gone! Parting Schotz has dialed long-distance! Oh, Poppy! A home run!”

  It was. Around the bases flew Arnold and Ruby, waving their arms, triumphant. At home plate the All-Stars piled on top of one another. But Pip took his time. He ran the bases with the ease of an eighty-eight-year-old long-distance runner. He ran with the shouts of his teammates in his ears. He ran with his heart full of the fire of living. He ran across home plate, where he was mobbed by All-Stars, Redbugs, Dr. Dan, and fans of all ages, colors, and descriptions. And Finesse swooned through it all. “The ducks on the pond have swum to shore! The All-Stars win it, nine to eight! Give that man a contract! This game is over!”

  It was. The Aurora County All-Stars had won the game, the pageant was over, and the crowd—Redbugs and All-Stars alike—went wild.

  36

  The crowd makes the ballgame.

  —TY COBB, CENTER FIELDER, DETROIT TIGERS

  As the crowd celebrated, Miss Mattie walked purposefully to the stage, took the microphone from its stand, and cleared her throat. Every face turned to her.

  “Friends,” she said in a strong, clear voice that rang out across the ball field. “Thank you for coming today. Thanks to all of you who helped make this day possible, including our dear friend Pip, who I know you will all want to continue to thank publicly, and to our dearly departed friend, Norwood Boyd.”

  Appreciative murmurs rolled around the crowd. Miss Mattie continued. “Norwood asked for no funeral or memorial service, but I would like to take this opportunity to say a few words about his life. We all knew him in different ways, of course.”

  The All-Stars sneaked glances at House, who was standing as still as a statue
, staring at Miss Mattie. Miss Mattie took her glasses and her notes from her pocket. “I knew Norwood Boyd all my life,” she said. She rested her glasses on the end of her nose and read. “I believe he was a visionary. He saw our world as it should be. Through his travels and study, he came to believe that we are all connected, deeply and irrevocably, and that hurting one of us hurts all of us.”

  She gazed over the top of her glasses. Then she went back to her reading. “Norwood used to say, ‘It is hard to see inside someone’s heart unless you have an invitation, and, even then, you must agree to come inside.’

  “Norwood came home and he did not stay idle. He worked behind the scenes, creating change through a voluminous correspondence throughout the world. And, although most of you don’t know it and won’t see how, Norwood worked hard to make this very day happen as well. He had his reasons. And we are the beneficiaries of his goodwill.”

  Miss Mattie looked up with tears in her eyes. “We are his family,” she said in an uncharacteristic tender moment. “We are each other’s family. This is what Norwood Boyd knew.”

  She took off her glasses, folded them, shoved them into her pocket along with her notes, smartly patted at her bunned hair, and stepped quickly down the stage steps. Mamas and Papas, friends and neighbors, pulled Snow-berger’s handkerchiefs out of their picnic baskets and dried their eyes.

  House didn’t try to stop his tears. They slid slowly down his cheeks as his heart beat strong and steady in his chest.

  Pip handed him a Snowberger’s handkerchief. “Dry your eyes,” he said.

  “Yessir,” said House. He blew his nose, too.

  “I gathered up some things for you,” said Pip. “You come see me tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” repeated House.

  It was time to go. Ballplayers slapped one another on the back, congratulated each other, made plans for next year. “Good game! Good game! Next year! We’ll beat the pants off you next year! Oh yeah? Yeah! Well, come on! We’ll be ready! Good game, House! Good game, Mikey! Good game!”

  “You playin’ tomorrow, Ruby?” Ned called.

  “I’ll be there!” Ruby called back.

  As families packed up their picnics and headed for home in the slanting light of early evening, Cleebo walked away from everyone and sat on the All-Star bench, alone.

  “Cleebo?” Mary Wilson had her arms full of costumes to be laundered and starched.

  “I’ll be along directly,” said Cleebo. “Please.”

  “Take your time,” said his father. “Great game, son. Great game.”

  “Thanks,” said Cleebo. He smiled a lopsided smile.

  “Let me help you with those, Mary!” said Dr. Dan. He scooped the costumes out of Mary’s arms and handed some to Finesse. As the little group made its way to the Sunshine Laundry truck, Finesse curved her fingers in House’s direction, a little up-and-down good-bye. House lifted his good hand in reply.

  “Au revoir,” whispered Finesse.

  The dazzle of day was gone. The clangor, the chorus, the perfect band had played out on a spectacular sundrenched summer afternoon, and now the baseball field was empty. It echoed with the history that had been made there. Now, hanging in the thick summer air was the symphony true, the mingling of every living thing, every heart, every mind, every memory. Katydids sang the evening in as House stood outside his father’s truck.

  “I’ll walk home,” he said. His arm was in a sling that Doc MacRee had fashioned on the spot.

  “You come into my office tomorrow,” Doc MacRee said. “We’ll get you fixed up.”

  “Yessir,” House promised. Tomorrow was shaping up to be a busy day.

  “See you at the house,” said Leonard Jackson, casting a glance in Cleebo’s direction. “I’ve got applesauce cake left over if you’re hungry.” Honey slumped over her seat belt in the front seat of the truck, asleep. Eudora snored on the floorboard in front of her.

  House walked back to the All-Stars bench to get his glove. Cleebo picked it up and handed it to him. “We beat them Redbugs,” he muttered.

  “We sure did,” said House. He took his glove from Cleebo. His arm throbbed at a low, steady pitch.

  “I never saw anything like it,” said Cleebo, casting for conversation.

  “You never will again,” said House.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “You’ll pitch again, too.”

  “I expect I will.”

  House slumped down heavily on the opposite end of the bench. He and Cleebo sat there, as still as sleeping flies in the smothering heat. Cleebo’s betrayal filled the space between them. The air was alive and hummed with insects.

  “I’m a butt,” Cleebo said. “You’ve got a butt for a friend.”

  House thought about it. “I wonder what the French word is for butt.”

  Cleebo shook his head. “I don’t believe that Frances.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “And Ruby!” said Cleebo.

  “She’s a good ballplayer,” said House.

  Cleebo had to admit she was. “You got any pie at your house?” he asked. “I didn’t get to eat hardly nuthin’ all day! All those picnics, and all I got was some deviled eggs!”

  House examined the heavens. Cirrus clouds skimmed across the afternoon sky.

  “I’d settle for peanut butter and jelly,” offered Cleebo. He bobbed from one foot to the other.

  House smiled. He popped Cleebo on the shoulder with his glove. “Come on.”

  And they walked together toward home.

  Extra Inning

  And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

  —WALT WHITMAN

  Mr. Norwood Rhinehart Beauregard Boyd, age eighty-eight, philanthropist, philosopher, and maker of mystery, left a will. He wrote it seven years before he died. The witnesses to his signature were Parting Schotz and Elizabeth Jackson. The will called for the formation of a real Little League team in Aurora County called the Aurora County All-Stars. Anyone could play who wanted to play. Anyone. There were to be uniforms, real uniforms, for every player.

  Mr. Norwood Boyd’s home was to be razed and a baseball field was to be built on Mr. Norwood’s property; a baseball field with real dugouts and benches and bleachers for the fans, real bases, a real pitcher’s mound, even a snack stand where there would be plenty of cold drinks and hot dogs, plenty of peanuts. There would be plenty of parking as well—there would even be lights. Norwood left money for the construction.

  His will held one last bequest. “I bequeath my dog, Eudora Welty, should she still be living at the time of my death, to the Jackson family, from whence she came. As a young pup, Eudora Welty wandered to my house and liked it here, but she was my goddaughter Elizabeth’s dog first. Elizabeth allowed Eudora to visit often, and then, finally, she allowed me to adopt Eudora as my companion. It was a loss to young House, who was only two years old at the time. I’d like to return Eudora Welty to House with my thanks. The loan of his dog to me has been a joy in my life. She has been a good friend. Perhaps she will befriend House into his adult years.”

  She did. When she wasn’t befriending Honey.

  Pip gave House the seventeen books that House had read to Norwood Boyd. House kept them on a shelf in his room, all but one. He put Treasure Island on his night table. He left the ribbon in its place inside the book, where it waited for him, someday—perhaps when he was an old man himself—to open that book to where he had left off and read the rest of the story.

  Acknowledgments

  The characters in this book set up a clangor in my mind and heart a few weeks before I was invited to write a serial story for the Boston Globe, which is where this novel’s seeds were planted. To prepare for the Globe assignment, I researched the conventions of the Victorian serial novel and fell in love with cliff-hanging suspense, magical mystery, oaths of secrecy, moral dilemmas, matters of identity, coldhearted revenge, startling surprise, dollops of sentimentality . . . and dead guys. Wilkie Colli
ns, a master of the serial novel, purportedly said, “Make ’em cry, make ’em laugh, make ’em wait . . . in exactly that order.” That’s what I tried to do. Thanks to Steph Loer and everyone at the Globe, that organ majestic, for giving me the opportunity to stretch and grow as a writer.

  I had a chorus of help in writing this novel: Little League ballplayers who understood baseball, friends who championed American civil rights and baseball history, readers who revered Walt Whitman, kids who cherished tutus and the stage, grown-ups who loved dogs. They came out of the woodwork. Terry Berkeley wrote eloquent passages on what it felt like to play baseball as a kid, which reminded me of how much I loved the baseball I knew as a kid, the heroes my brother Mike emulated, the baseball cards he and Larry Joe Stoffel traded every Saturday afternoon, and the sandlot ball we all played in the back lot we had cleared with our families in Camp Springs, Maryland.

  I wrote this novel with these choruses in mind. Once I had a complete manuscript, Zach Wiles, philosopher, read it carefully and offered solid, constructive feedback. Jerry Brunner, poet, loaned me his prized volumes of Whitman and directed me to particular passages he loved. My friends and family in Maryland, Mississippi, and Georgia sounded all the right notes of encouragement as I swung and struck out with various deadlines and dinners and family plans. They were so faithful!

  Family sustained me through the dark, dark nights that novels inevitably possess. Jim Pearce showed to my eyes the stars. Hannah Wiles remained a faithful and generous correspondent. Deborah Hopkinson clapped her hand on my shoulder, my compatriot. The Mings gathered round with a cheerful fire, tea, and toast. My students—Jandy, Mary, Teresa, Cheryl, and Jonathan—inquired after me often, turned in their work on time, and forced me to be disciplined about my own process. My colleagues in Vermont—well, thank you.

  Then there is my editor, Liz Van Doren, who believed there was a full-fledged novel waiting to grow from tiny seeds. She completely dazzled me with her willingness, generosity, sensibility, tenacity, and eagle eye. I depended on her. She sent me back to the page more times than I can count, always with challenging questions and high expectations.