“See, everyone is just waiting for Laura to ring or to write and say that everything is okay. Or they’re expecting her to suddenly return home, but …” Eliza just shakes her head and shuts her eyes tight. Her lips turn down even further and she begins to sob quietly again.
I admit, I’m close myself. I feel the sting in my eyes.
It hurts me that I can’t say the things that seem right, because to do so would be an unforgivable lie. I can’t give her assurances or comfort, because I know that Laura Wishart is dead. I know exactly where she is. Because after she died I drowned her to save Jasper Jones. I did that. We bound a stone to her feet and watched her sink to the bottom of a still pond.
I suppose that if Eliza ever finds out what I’ve done, she will hate me for the rest of her days. And I don’t blame her. But would she understand about Jasper Jones? If I told her that Laura loved him, that he loved her back, that they were planning to flee to the city together? That if we’d left Laura where we found her, she would have been discovered and Jasper wouldn’t have stood a chance? That I’d tried to do the right thing?
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” Eliza says, sniffing. She dabs at her face again.
“Please don’t be,” I respond, swallowing heavily.
She sighs and closes her eyes. I steal an opportunity to look at her closely. I want to tuck her hair behind her ears, wipe her cheek with the back of my hand. She looks so slight, so small.
“I know things, Charlie,” she says after a time, and opens her eyes. “I know I’m not a good person. I don’t even know why you talk to me.”
I frown at her. Ready to defend her virtue. But she waves me away before I get the chance.
“Forget it,” she says. “We’re all doing okay, Charlie. Really. Don’t worry. Let’s talk about something else. Anything. Say something funny. Make me laugh.”
Laughter? Now I have to induce laughter, after I’ve just brought her to tears? Of course, I panic.
My brain is a vast, barren, jokeless plain where wolves howl at the moon over rocky overhangs and the wind kicks up twists of sand and tumbleweed. And funny words huddle in clusters at the bottom of shallow burrows. Without thinking, I kneel and reach into the closest one and quickly pull something out. Without thinking, I am quoting Jeffrey Lu.
“Okay. Here’s one. Would you rather wear a hat made of spiders, or have penises for fingers?”
As soon as I realize what I’ve said, I want to crawl out of my own body and thump myself to death. Mark Twain was right: I’ve just removed all doubt. I want to quickly stuff those words back down into their black little hole and rummage about for something, anything else. Idiot.
But to my surprise, she does laugh. She really does. She giggles and rocks back. Her nostrils flare and fall. When she settles, I’m curiously pleased to find her addressing the quandary.
“That’s a good question. Hmm. Believe it or not, this is quite a hard one for me, Charlie. I’m absolutely terrified of insects.”
“Really?” I ask, almost leaping at her.
“Oh, terribly. I am useless when confronted by them. In fact, most of the time there doesn’t even need to be a confrontation. Sometimes I look for excuses to stay inside if I know there is a bee nearby. And I hate wasps. Even thinking about them makes me all queasy.” She shudders.
“Really? You know, I’m exactly the …,” I start, then instantly nip it in the bud. A fear of insects is admissible for girls. Not so for me. I urge her for an answer.
“Am I allowed to ask questions?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Okay. Well. Are the spiders still alive?”
“I’m afraid so. Yes.”
“And are they …”
“Poisonous? Absolutely. They are practically oozing with poison. Neon-green poison. Like acid.”
“Oh God. Charlie, that sounds like a nightmare!” Eliza strokes her chin comically, then holds up her hands. “Okay. I know you’re going to think less of me, but I’m afraid my fingers are going to have to become penises.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say with a grin.
“I know. I’m so ashamed. I’m going to miss my fingers. I love my fingers.” She fans them out in front of her.
“It’s okay. To be honest, it’s what I ended up choosing.”
“Really?” she laughs. “Well, I guess it’s a little better for you. At least you’re a boy.”
“I’m still a boy with penises for fingers.”
“It’s true. You’re a freak, Charlie. We’re both freaks. We’re outcasts. But at least we have each other for company. We’ll have to move to the mountains together, live in seclusion for the rest of our lives.”
“We could join the circus,” I say.
She clicks her fingers and lights up.
“Charlie, that’s perfect! Yes! We will join the circus. Right away. The next circus that comes to Corrigan, we’re stowing away inside their carriages. We’ll travel the world as carnival people. Carnies! Maybe I can grow a beard too. And you’ll wear a cream shirt with navy-blue suspenders, and I’ll wear a peach-colored pinafore and have a yellow ribbon in my hair. Oh, and sensible black boots.”
“And maybe we can live in New York during the winter, and we’ll just wear gloves or mittens to hide our hideous penis-fingers,” I say with my eyebrows high.
“Perfect!” Eliza says, and laughs out loud. She has a sweet laugh. A high warble. I feel chuffed; I’ve been able to make her happier on request. She leans the top of her head against my shoulder. Volts of electricity pulse up my body. My stomach wrenches. I’ve never felt more pleasantly nauseous in all my life.
All the while, the score ticks along. The ball is a little older, and the field spreads out to accommodate the bigger shots. There is a tightening of the atmosphere, a palpable feeling that we’re headed for a close finish. An even bigger crowd has developed in the late afternoon. A row of men spectate from the boundary with their arms folded, cans in hand, reaching out to point at field placements or to offer their expert comment on technique.
I can smell the woodfire starting for the post-match barbecue. Children roll their bodies down the steep hill by the clubhouse; others show off their Christmas presents. Jeffrey stays sitting where he’s been all innings.
I pepper Eliza with more hypotheticals. I ask her if she’d rather wear the same underwear every day for the rest of her life or have to bite the head off a frog once a week. Astonishingly, she selects the frog. She says I wouldn’t understand, because I’m a filthy boy. I ask if she’d prefer to have no arms or no legs. Cleverly, she chooses to have no arms so as to nullify her obligation to have penises for fingers. She seems happy with this, until I remind her that she no longer has hands with which to pick up the little frog she’s agreed to decapitate with her teeth. I tell her it will be just like bobbing for apples, except there’s only one apple, and it can jump. She asks if I would hold it for her so she could chomp it properly. I reply by saying that ordinarily I would, but in this case the rules forbid it. Eliza laughs and says she hates me.
Then disaster strikes the Corrigan team. We lose four wickets in two overs to a crafty spin bowler. I can barely believe it. The crowd is in shock. And I become intolerably nervous as Jeffrey Lu hurriedly buckles up his pads and briskly canters onto the field for his debut knock. This is his chance. He looks so tiny out there, marching to the crease. Jeffrey Lu, the last man in. Fortune or failure resting on his shoulders. I can barely watch.
The Corrigan side are carrying on as though the game is already lost. Most are sitting with their heads between their knees; some have walked away to the changerooms. The coach is on his haunches, packing up the team gear bag. He’s not even watching.
I lean forward as Jeffrey squares his shoulders, asks for middle stump, marks his guard, and stands ready. My heart is pounding.
Blackburn’s captain, thinking little of the diminutive player at the crease, has brought his fielders into attacking positions. There are four slips, a close
gully, and two catchers close to the bat.
The Veteran runs in. Jeffrey looks poised.
He is bowled. First ball. His off stump cartwheels out of the ground and my heart breaks. Eliza brings her hand to her mouth and lets out a disappointed groan. Blackburn erupt. The Corrigan team begins shuffling onto the field to shake hands with their opposition. But then they stop. Everyone stares in the direction of the umpire, whose right arm is fully extended to the side, like he’s reaching for a peach. It’s a no ball! The Veteran has overstepped! Jeffrey stays in! In fact, he waddles over to where his off stump has rested, picks it up and resets it in the ground himself. The Corrigan side creeps back. The Blackburn team is furious. They resume their positions, riled and robbed. The game is still alive, by a thread.
Jeffrey’s first ball in cricket has ratcheted up the tension. Players from both teams are now standing at attention. The Veteran steams in again. His next ball is short and sharp and it hits Jeffrey flush on the shoulder. I spring to my feet instinctively, full of indignation, but Jeffrey doesn’t flinch or go down. He barely even looks hurt. I can hear the Corrigan team laughing from the boundary.
The Veteran wanders down the pitch, his finger a dagger, upbraiding Jeffrey loudly. He spits, just missing his bat, and turns. Jeffrey looks unconcerned.
The next ball is short and fast again, and this time Jeffrey rocks back and swats it smartly behind square with a loud crack. It’s four runs. The crowd is stunned. There is no applause, just silence. I can barely believe it. But the next ball too is short of a length and wide enough for Jeffrey to glide through the slight gap in gully for another four runs. The Veteran is livid. Jeffrey is serene. He’s out there to win this game. He really thinks he can do it.
Eliza clutches my arm.
“Jeffrey is amazing! I didn’t know he was so good!”
“Oh, he can play,” I say, feeling simultaneously proud and jealous.
Jeffrey plays the spinner with some caution. He’s surrounded by close fielders; they form a tight ring around him. The first two balls he defends ably. The third ball drops short, or short enough for a certified midget like Jeffrey to get underneath it and pull it onto the on side. And the ball sails. He’s hit it well. One bounce and it’s over the line.
The Blackburn captain has his hands on his head, looking baffled and irritated. The next ball Jeffrey belts hard. The crack of it echoes around this little amphitheater, and all eyes watch as the ball fizzes through the infield. The sideline experts begin to nod and tilt their heads. The Corrigan side cluster around the coach. And Jeffrey Lu, for the first time in his life, might be garnering grudging respect.
At the end of the over, a runner skips out with a drink and a message. The game must be close. I see Jeffrey accept the cup and nod his head. I can scarcely believe it. Not only have they furnished Jeffrey Lu with a refreshing drink, but they’re conveying information like he’s a real teammate.
Jeffrey jogs back to the crease. He looks like he’s been playing the game for twenty years.
The field is slightly less generous. Another small sign of respect. Even so, Jeffrey slots in a boundary with a cheeky glide past backward point, and manages to keep the strike.
I am not sure of the score, or how many balls there are left to play, which keeps my nerves at boiling point. But Jeffrey elicits no signs of panic or pressure. He’s playing it smart and sure. He bats patiently, waiting for a half-chance to strike. And when it presents, he executes expertly. Toward the end of the next over, he neatly lofts a full ball straight, which scutters over the line. He plays the same stroke for the last ball, but doesn’t hit it cleanly. Fortunately, they run three and Jeffrey holds strike again.
The bowler replacing the Veteran seems just as angry, but a little less consistent. Frustrated, he sprays the ball wide, trying to bowl too fast, and Jeffrey capitalizes.
The next over is the spinner’s last, and Jeffrey lays in. He swash-buckles him, picking the gaps with amazing precision. It’s risky batting, but it is paying off. I really can’t believe this is happening. Eliza and I are smiling at each other, shaking our heads. My spine is tingling. It stuns me to think he is even out there. Jeffrey Lu has taken this game by the nuts. In this frightened town, Jeffrey Lu, its shortest, slightest occupant, is fearless.
It must be getting close. Even tired and bored children are drawn to the sidelines. Even wives who care little for the game sense that something significant is happening. It’s the last ball of the over. The spinner stands at his mark, tossing the ball to himself while the Blackburn captain screams and marshals his fielders. Jeffrey, resting the bat on his shoulders, takes in the field, nodding at each one as he counts them.
Jeffrey drives well, but an acrobatic piece of fielding denies him a chance to take the strike for the next over. The crowd gasp and mill about. And I realize the next over must be the very last. I have no idea how many runs we need. I watch the coach, the ruddy self-important bastard, as he skirts the boundary with a cigarette between his fat fingers. I look back to Jeffrey, who is chatting mid-pitch with his teammate, pointing and gesturing. I can’t sit still. Eliza grips my arm again, but this time I barely notice. All attention is fixed on the game.
There are six balls left.
The Blackburn captain makes his final arrangements. The bowler takes his mark. He pushes off. Eliza Wishart has taken my hand in hers. This isn’t real. It is too much.
Jeffrey’s plan is to run on the first ball of the over, regardless of where it is hit. He starts sprinting just before the ball is bowled; it goes on to hit the other tailender high on the leg. The Blackburn bowler, sensing Jeffrey’s movement, steps to his right to stand in his path, almost skittling him over and slowing him down significantly. Jeffrey scampers and dives at the crease, but the underarm throw is miraculously wide of the stumps. Jeffrey is safe. Just.
The Corrigan crowd is livid with injustice. They holler and remonstrate from the boundary after the unfair bump. I smile. Not the for the first time this summer, the world has turned on its head. They’re screaming on Jeffrey’s behalf. They’ve got his back, they’re on his side.
As it happens, the umpire issues a stern warning to the bowler, who shrugs him off and petulantly strides back to his mark. The crowd jeers at him.
The next ball Jeffrey punches through cover, zipping through for two runs. And it is with complete disbelief that I hear real encouragement from the sidelines. His teammates. In unison. Those belligerent bastards, yelling “Shot, Cong!” across the field, at once turning an insult into a nickname. Jeffrey’s chest is heaving. For the first time, he turns his head toward the pavilion.
The next ball is flipped easily down wide of fine leg. Jeffrey has placed this well, and he flies through for another two. There are more applause, more visible tension and frustration from the Blackburn team. Jeffrey smears away his sweat with his wrist. The crowd are urging him on. It must be close now. They’re pressing in from the sidelines. I am squeezing Eliza’s hand unbearably tight.
The next ball is short and fast. Jeffrey gets inside it and swings hard, but he fails to connect under the steep bounce. The wicket-keeper takes the ball above his head. The crowd gasps. No score. The Blackburn side applaud and yell their support, walking in like a slow ambush of wolves. The captain runs to his bowler, gives him what appears to be a very clear instruction, then pats his arse and runs back to his place.
The next ball is an even higher bouncer, almost impossible for Jeffrey to lay any timber on. I wince and protest, as do the rest of the crowd. It doesn’t seem fair. It should be called wide. Some folks begin booing. The Blackburn team clap and yell louder, sensing victory. It’s another ball without score.
There is one ball remaining in the innings. I’m not sure how many runs we need, but the way the crowd are huddling and yelling and clapping suggests there is still a conceivable chance we can win. Jeffrey stands at the crease, surveying the field. The boundary is completely protected now, which suggests that a four will be enough to t
ake the game. Warwick Trent stands motionless beside the coach, his arms folded. The rest of the side hollers advice and support. There’s no malice or scorn. They’re really barracking.
And for some reason, this makes it harder for me to spectate. There’s so much more than the game riding on this next ball. I don’t want to think of him failing. I don’t want to think of these people being let down.
“I can’t watch!” Eliza says, and claps her hand over her eyes.
“Come on, Jeffrey,” I say through my teeth, willing him on, over and over.
It’s happening.
Everything hushes as the bowler streaks in. All eyes are on his path, his heavy tread, his smooth tangle; then on the ball; then on Jeffrey Lu, for the most important split second of his life.
The ball, like the last two, is short and sharp and straight. Jeffrey must have known this. Must have anticipated the tactic. Because before the ball was delivered, I noticed him shuffle slightly, stepping back. Holding his bat high and ready. Giving himself room. And as the ball sharply rose, just above the level of his head, he was ready to play the shot he’d premeditated.
Not even a shot, really. Jeffrey doesn’t swing at it. He simply lifts the bat, angles the blade so that the ball is deflected higher without losing much speed. He taps and glides the ball directly over the wicket-keeper’s head, just inches away from his outstretched glove, and the ball holds its line, skipping across the only part of the oval left unprotected, piercing the two fielders behind the bat, who chase the ball with a sense of futility.
He’s done it.
Corrigan erupts. Jeffrey Lu is a hero. Eliza and I jump up and down on the hill, screaming and holding each other. It’s amazing. My spine sparks and arcs electric, my lips quiver. And Jeffrey Lu, after calmly watching the ball, turns and thrusts both arms into the air, hoisting his bat high. He grins like a madman. He has done the unthinkable. Blackburn slump in disbelief. The Corrigan side ruffle each other’s hair and laugh and mess about. The other tailender walks up to Jeffrey, slaps his back, and wraps his arm roughly around him. Jeffrey is barely as tall as his waist, adding to the awkwardness of this display of congratulation.
Jasper Jones Page 20