Hank picked up a basketball and stood beneath the basket. He heaved the ball upward, where it ascended, peaked about six inches below the net, descended, bounced off the floor, then rolled to the corner of the court. A teammate picked up the ball, moved to the basket, and gave it his best shot. The coach’s whistle shrieked. Gathering the basketballs, the boys assembled in the corner against the wall near the large windows.
“Alright, there were a couple of plays last week that we need to go over. Matt, in the third quarter when the guard on the other team hurled a bomb to the forward under their basket, you weren’t looking. That guy shouldn’t have been left open like that. When our team scores a basket, and the other team takes control of the ball, you have to look behind you and make sure that no one is waiting down court. That’s the job of the Center at mid-quart. If you see someone, then drop back to intercept a long bomb pass. We gave them two easy points. We were caught with our pants down.”
Matt looked at his shoelaces.
“It’s OK. We all make mistakes but try to stay alert for a drifter on the other team,” Joe said. “We’re going to go over our drills, and then we’ll work on a new strategy called the weave. Alright, let’s practice dribbling. You older guys on the first team, I want you to practice switching hands. If you’re right-handed, dribble with your left.”
Hank picked up a basketball and pushed it to the floor with his right hand. When it bounced up, he pushed it down again while attempting to walk forward. He walked forward. The ball ricocheted off his right foot and rolled towards the corner of the court. “I don’t want anyone to look at the ball. You have to keep your eyes up. Look your opponent in the eyes,” Joe shouted, the instructions echoing off the ceiling. Hank looked up while dribbling. The ball bounced off his right foot again, then bounced again, bounced then rolled along the sideline.
The dribbling exercise was followed by the running backwards drill.
“Toe, Heel, Toe, Heel,” Joe’s voice thundered off the ceiling.
Why would anyone want to run backwards? This is stupid. Hank thought.
The next drill was the pivot. Each boy started from the sideline, ran across the court to the other side, then braked sharply on his right foot changing direction.
I hope I don’t miss the Honeymooners, Hank thought.
The claw-foot bathtub was filled with Mr. Bubble. Mounds of frothy bubbles rose above the top of the tub. Hank leaned back pitying his sorry basketball skills. He slid below the surface of the water submerging his head. He was no basketball player, not like his older cousin, Jackrabbit, the captain and star player of the varsity team. St. Mary’s had an undefeated season, and Jackrabbit’s name was always in the local sports page of the Trentonian. Jackrabbit had his picture taken with the mayor of Trenton; it was in the paper. He rose from the tub and dried himself. Moving to the toilet to pee, he noticed scraps of paper with numbers in blue ink all torn and resting in the bowl. He flushed it.
Chapter Two:
Red Hots
“Born to Be Wild!” Hank sang out loud strumming an E major followed by a D major chord on his guitar.
“Born to Be Wild!” he repeated.
With practice, Hank learned the major and minor chords on the guitar. He set the instrument aside and went to the kitchen where Jeremy was sorting his baseball cards.
“I need Roberto Clemente,” Jeremy complained, “I have twelve Carl Yastremski’s but no Clemente.”
“Maybe Scotty will trade with you,” Hank suggested.
“No, he doesn’t even like the Phillies. He’s a Pirates fan. He has three Clemente’s.”
“Why hold onto doubles?” Hank asked.
“To trade. He’s a lousy Pirates fan,” Jeremy barked.
“Well, would you trade your Phillies to anyone?”
“That’s different.”
“Why is it different?”
“The Phillies are the hometown team.”
“We live in Jersey,” Hank pointed out.
“Dad took us to Connie Mack stadium. They’re the closest team.” Jeremy snapped.
“Pittsburg is in Pennsylvania too,” Hank said.
Jeremy commanded, “Leave me alone.”
The family drove to the C.Y.O. in the early afternoon. Hank and his brother were on the second string, and the team was set to play against Sacred Heart school. The Catholic Youth Organization had acquired the old R.K.O. movie theater and converted it into a basketball arena complete with bleachers, an electronic scoreboard, and concession stand. The dozen local Catholic schools competed against each other for the season championship. Sacred Heart had a skilled team, and they were a formidable adversary.
Hank warmed the bench. No one on the team dared tease him about his lack of skill in putting the orange ball through the orange rim, except Jake. Hank knew the plays: the 3-2 zone, the full court press, the 2-1-2, and the weave. But he never spent any time practicing. Jeremy, on the other hand, practiced all the time, and he became skilled at free throws, dribbling, and lay ups. Rose joined the cheerleading squad. The girls wore knitted tops and skirts, and they carried pom-poms all in the school colors, black, and gold. The girls stomped their feet, clapped their hands, and shouted the cheers in unison:
Charlie, Charlie, he’s our man. If he can’t do it, Tommy can. Tommy, Tommy, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, Raymond can. Raymond, Raymond, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, nobody can. Clap. Clap. Stomp. Stomp. Clap, Clap, Stomp, Stomp.
Each team warmed up at one end of the court. The buzzer sounded, loud enough to raise Lazarus a second time. The teams assembled into two groups, one on each side of the scorekeeper’s table. The players huddled around their coach, and the strategy was discussed against a background of cheerleaders trying to out sound each other. The referee, dressed in a pin striped shirt and black pants, stood at center quart holding a basketball. The buzzer sounded again, and the starting team placed their hands together, lifted them, and pushed down letting out a guttural “Let’s go!”
The cheerleaders screamed and the spectators roared as the two teams took their positions on the floor. The two Centers opposed each other at mid-court with the referee between them. The referee lifted the ball high into the air, and the two Centers leaped hands held high trying to tip the ball to their teammates. They battled each other through three quarters, and St. Mary’s was leading the game by fourteen points. Four minutes into the fourth quarter, Hank heard his father call his name.
“Hank, I’m putting you in to replace Richie. Wait until I call time out.”
Hank drew a breath, slid next to his father, staring him in the eyes. His hands grew sweaty. He rose from the bench and sat beneath the scorekeeper’s table.
“I’m going in for number twelve,” Hank informed the timekeeper.
The referee’s whistle blew calling time-out. He motioned with his hands that a foul had been committed. The buzzer sounded. Hank walked onto the court pointing at Richie, “You’re out”. Hank took his place along the lane as Charlie, the captain, threw two foul shots. He sank both. The players ran to the opposite basket setting up the 3-2 zone defense. Hank took a Forward position near the basket. The guard threw the ball to the center. The center threw the ball to the other guard who threw the ball to the forward. The forward shot the ball at the basket. Hank bent at the knees under the basket. The ball bounced off the top of the rim. Hank lunged past the opposing forward, arms outstretched, and rebounded the ball. He turned and started dribbling down the court.
I can’t believe I’m dribbling. I can’t believe I’m dribbling. Oh shit. I hope I don’t lose it. Should I shoot?
Hank heard Charlie’s voice behind him shout, “Don’t shoot!!!” Hank stopped in his tracks still dribbling and passed the ball to Charlie. The cheerleaders cheered, “Hank, Hank, he’s our man. If he can’t do it, Charlie can!
Hank’s mind was not on the game: How
much time is on the clock? When will this be over? Don’t pass it to me. Don’t pass it to me. Oh Dammit, he’s passing it to me.
Hank dribbled twice and stopped. Two opposing players blocked him waving their hands high I the air. Hank was stuck. He panicked. Why do you insist? He waved the ball in the air trying to pass it. One of the players slammed into him. The whistle blew. “Foul,” the referee shouted signaling with his hand.
Oh God, I have to shoot a foul.
Hank walked to the top of the key. The referee waited for the players to line the two edges of the zone. The referee handed Hank the ball, and he bounced it on the floor then looked up at the basket. He threw. The ball fell short of the rim. Hank had enough basketball.
After school the next afternoon, Hank met his classmates, Danny and Owen, who lived across Lalor street. Danny promised to show Hank and Owen a haunted mansion. Danny was a rambunctious urchin whose outbursts in class brought the wrath of the nuns down upon his hands on several occasions. Owen was a nervous boy who had the habit of chewing on his fingers. They proceeded down Andrew street jumping a fence that led down an embankment. A wooden disc from a broken spool rested in the stagnant backwater draining from a sewer tunnel. Danny jumped on top of the round disc.
“Careful,” Danny warned, “there are snakes under here.”
“Snakes!” Hank exclaimed, “what kind of snakes?”
“Copperheads,” Danny replied.
“Are they poisonous?” Hank asked frozen in his tracks.
“You better get off,” Owen warned.
“They lay their eggs under here. They won’t come out,” Danny jumped off.
Walking through a trail in the woods, Danny told his friends the tale of the aristocrat and his lowly common lover. “The mansion is called Bow Hill,” Danny explained, “Napoleon’s brother lived there.”
“Napoleon?” Owen asked, “the guy with his hand in his jacket?”
“Yeah, him,” Danny continued.
“What was he doing here?” Hank asked.
Danny continued, “It was the seventeen-hundreds. A guy named Barnt DeKlyn bought a lot of acres because Trenton was going to be the capital of the United States. He was rich. He sold uniforms to the Revolutionary army. Joseph Bonaparte came to Philadelphia. He was the exiled King of Spain at the time. There. he met a dark-eyed girl named Annette in a dry goods shop and fell in love with her. Her name was Annette. He rented the mansion because Joseph’s royal friends shunned her.”
“Snobs.” Owen commented.
“Ass-to-crats,” Hank added.
“Anyway,” Danny continued, “Bonaparte lived there with her, and she had two children. One died in an accident at the mansion.”
“How do you know all this?” Hank asked.
“My grandfather told me,” Danny said, “They were plotting how to rescue the Napoleon, so Joseph went back to France. He gave Annette a diamond ring, and she lost it on the property. Before she lost it, she scratched ‘God is Love’ on one of the windows. It’s still there. At night, they say she wanders around, looking for her lost ring, crying over her dead daughter.” They grew silent walking on the trail through the bramble.
Hank broke in, “How far is it?”
“We’re almost there.”
The boys emerged from the woods into a large field. Down a dirt pathway, the stately brick mansion, with gabled dormers jutting out of the slate roof, loomed between a row of swaying trees.
“I didn’t believe you at first,” Owen confessed.
“You want to go in?” Danny asked.
“Go in?” Hank gasped.
“Yeah, I know how to get in through a basement window.”
“It’s empty?” Owen asked.
“It’s been abandoned a long time. You’re not afraid, are you?”
“No,” Owen said.
They walked down the pathway until they were standing in the shadow of the grand façade.
“The window is around back,” Danny prompted them forward with his hand.
One by one, they each climbed backwards through the hinged window. Danny went first. “You’ll land on a table. Don’t worry. It’s safe.” Owen climbed through next, then Hank. He squatted and jumped off the table onto the basement floor, wiping his dusty hands on the back of his jeans. He breathed in the damp musty air, glancing at the black mold covering the walls. “Stones Rock” was spray-painted in red on a wall next to the stairs.
Danny led his friends up the wooden steps and turned the glass doorknob with a little push. The boys entered the kitchen. The porcelain sink was stained brown; the fixtures were gone. Danny led them to a dining room. Owen tapped Hank on the shoulder, “Look,” he whispered. Hank turned his head. ‘God is Love.” was scrawled into the glass of the dining room window.
“He wasn’t lying,” he whispered back.
Under a cobwebbed chandelier a stack of brown boxes rested on a long oak table. The boys moved forward, and Hank lifted the lid on one of the boxes. “Tea leaves,” he said lifting a clear plastic bag out of the box. He opened the bag and sniffed. “Smells like seasoning, it must be old. It stinks,” he observed.
“Someone’s been here,” Owen said, “Someone’s been in here besides us. Look,” he pointed to empty cans in the corner of the room. “My brother comes here with his friends to drink,” Danny replied. Aloud crash hit the ceiling from the room above followed by the dragging noise of a heavy object across the ceiling. The boys listened frozen in silence. Above their heads, they heard footsteps. Hank’s heart pounded in his chest, “I’m leaving,” he spoke under his breath. Down the cellar steps in rapid footfalls they fled vaulting off the table through the cellar window. Sprinting furiously down the pathway kicking up the dry dust, they reached the entrance to the wooded trail. They panted trying to catch their breath, and a kerfuffle ensued.
“Wait!” Danny said exasperated.
“Wait! Let’s go! What was that?” Owen asked.
“A ghost,” Danny answered.
“Ghosts don’t wear shoes,” Hank said, “maybe it was a trespasser, like us.”
“It was Annette,” Danny insisted, “she wanders the house. Ghosts make all kinds of noises. Ever hear of a poltergeist?”
“Poltergeist. No. I’m telling you, someone human was upstairs,” Hank insisted.
“Still, maybe it was an ax murderer like the White City killer,” Owen added to the heated debate.
“Calm down, Owen. They fried the White City killer in the chair long ago.”
“Then maybe an escaped convict from the prison,” Owen added.
Hank shook his head, “Why does everything have to be about killers? Get a grip. There would be helicopters flying around and dogs barking, not to mention the newspapers.”
“No, I’m positive it was Annette. My brother has heard her too. He said that he even saw her once,” Danny insisted.
Hank rushed in the back door. His mother was standing at the stove stirring a pot.
“Chicken soup!” he spurted.
“With potatoes and carrots, the way you like it,” Willow said.
“Where’s Jeremy?” Hank asked.
“In the playground shooting hoops.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“No, it’s not ready yet.”
Hank moved next to her, “I got you something,” he said handing her a small white bag.
“For me? Thank you, that’s so thoughtful.”
She opened the bag of red cinnamon hearts.
“Red hots! My favorite!” she said.
“I know you like them,” Hank replied.
“You’re so thoughtful, like your father. He’ll be home late tonight. Did you have fun visiting your classmate?” He moved away from the stove, “Oh yeah, we went hiking in the woods near his house.”
Hank retreated alone to hi
s bedroom, picked up his guitar, and began playing the twelve-bar blues. Striking the bottom strings forcefully, he sang out loud to himself:
My baby does the Hanky-Panky.
My baby does the Hanky-Panky.
The hit song that he sang had this one simple lyric.
Jeremy stood in the doorway holding his basketball listening to his brother. “Hey Hanky! How’s your Panky?” he interrupted. Hank stopped playing and turned his head, “That’s Handkerchief to you,” he said with a grin. “How’s your Panky, snot rag,” Jeremy shot back. Hank rose to his feet from the mattress. “You better run. Five seconds.”
Hank spooned the golden broth with the little noodles, then grabbed a potato and a carrot and mashed them in his bowl. He added a teaspoon of horseradish and a shake of salt while wondering if anyone else enjoyed soup this way. After dinner, the boys took separate baths, watched the evening lineup on the television, snacked on chocolate chip cookies, then brushed their teeth and hit the sack. They were wakened past their bedtime.
“Boys…wake up.”
Hank felt a hand shaking his shoulder.
“Wha-a-at?”
“Come to the kitchen. We want to show you something.”
The brothers climbed out of bed and walked to the kitchen. As he walked, the thought crossed Hank’s mind that the mansion caper had been exposed. “Look on the table,” Willow said. Leaning over the round table, Hank saw that it was covered in hundred-dollar bills. “Where did all this money come from?” Hank asked picking up a crisp bill. Hank’s father was buoyant, “I hit the trifecta at the track!”
“What’s that?” Jeremy asked.
“That’s when you pick the three numbers of the horses as they cross the finish line in the race -win, place and show.”
Hank smiled holding a bill, staring at the portrait of Ben Franklin.
Pure Dirt Page 3