The Essential W. P. Kinsella

by W. P. Kinsella

  Another week passes. There is something weird going on here. I wish I knew what it was, and if I should be worried enough about it to tell Etta or somebody else. I sure would hate for something to happen to that little girl.

  Frank Fencepost come by to visit one evening. He take a shine to Jennifer right away.

  “Guess who gives the orders in a cornfield?” says Frank. “The Kernel,” he answer before Jennifer had a chance to think about the question. She smile showing the big gaps between her teeth.

  “I have a photogenic memory,” Frank says, showing Jennifer how he can read something once, even upside down and then repeat it all back. The joke goes over her head, but I laugh and explain it to her.

  “The bank’s looking for teller,” Frank says.

  “I thought they just hired one last month,” I say, playing along.

  “That’s the one,” says Frank, slap his thigh. Jennifer giggle and bounce around the kitchen like she was on a pogo stick. Wilf sit at the kitchen table, glare into a three-month-old copy of the Western Producer.

  Jennifer is a city girl all the way. She at first can’t believe we don’t have indoor plumbing. She never even guessed there were outhouses. Or wood stoves. Or houses without electric light. I’m guessing she don’t even know her mother was Indian, or that she have maybe a dozen relatives with the same name as her mother, Born With Long Hair, on the reserve, and I bet hundreds of cousins in Southern Alberta on the Blood Reserve, where her mother’s family come from originally. Etta says Sylvia Born With Long Hair was light skinned and had gray eyes. I’m afraid if I tell Jennifer she has relatives on the reserve Wilf will fire me and I won’t be able to keep an eye on Jennifer.

  A few days ago Wilf started talking. First he ask Jennifer if she’d like to ride on the cultivator with him, and she act like he’s taking her to Disneyland. She spend all day with Wilf, while I’m mending fences. She come in sunburned and covered in black dust. She lines up behind Wilf to wash her hands in the white enamel washbasin sit on a upturned apple box over by the cream separator.

  “Uncle Wilf told me stories all day,” she says later on while we’re sitting on the front steps. “But he says they’re secret stories, and I can’t even tell them to you, Silas.”

  I don’t figure Wilf for the kind of guy to know any stories.

  There is a weeping birch sit about a hundred yards south of the house, on a knoll in the pasture, alone like it been abandoned. One morning early I see Jennifer in front of the kitchen window, hands on hips, studying the tree, a scowl on her face.

  “What?” I say.

  “Uncle Wilf says that tree is where the lightning birds live. I’ve never seen any, have you?”

  The tree is broken in several spots where it been struck by lightning before. If the tree were a man it would be walking on crutches.

  I don’t answer Jennifer’s question. I’ve never heard of a lightning bird.

  The next day Wilf and Jennifer go into town for a couple of hours. They come back with plain groceries—I’d been hoping for some gingersnaps, or Oreos, maybe a carton of ice cream we could sit right down and eat before it melted. What Wilf has sprung for is a yellow slicker and rainhat for Jennifer. She can’t wait to try them on.

  “Boy, I wish it would rain,” she says, staring at the high, blue sky. She look like a giant cowslip running in circles around the weeping birch in the pasture. Wilf also bought her a child-sized broom which she wave like a weapon.

  “Soon as it rains I’m gonna put a scare into those lightning birds,” Jennifer says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “You ever heard of lightning birds?” I say to Etta soon as I get back to the reserve that Saturday evening.

  “Uh-oh,” says Etta. By her tone I know something is wrong. “That son of a bitch,” says Etta. This from a big lady who hardly says anything stronger than oops!

  “Tell me,” I say. “Should I be worried? Jennifer’s full of secrets these days,” I say.

  “Hard to know what he’s up to. But I don’t figure it for good. There’s a legend, more a story. I don’t know where it come from. Might even be a white man’s story. There’s these birds with silver and gold tails the color of lightning. When they set in a tree, or roost on the roof of a building the lightning finds them. I think the story is they got to be shooed away so the tree or house or building won’t get struck.

  “It’s clouding up,” Etta says to me, pointing out her window to where a thunderhead is peeking above the western horizon like a mountain.

  “I seen something this morning,” I say. “I can’t believe I saw it, is why I wait so long to tell you. Just as the sun was coming up, I seen Wilf walk out to the weeping birch, stab a crowbar into the ground at the base of the tree. I can’t believe Wilf would do something like that, send a little kid out in a lightning storm?”

  “If he was mad enough at her father. If he didn’t know what I know. I think you better run over to Louis Coyote’s and see if you can borrow the truck.”

  “What is it you know?” I ask Etta, as we struggling to make a ramp with a couple of planks so Etta can make it up into the truck box.

  The wind is picking up, the leaves are silverbacked, rustling dangerously. A dust demon whirls around my boots.

  “I made a few inquiries,” Etta say mysteriously. Etta makes these inquiries without ever leaving her cabin where she don’t have a phone or a FAX or a computer. “Al Lindman’s dying. Maybe he knows, maybe he don’t, but he senses it, that’s why he’s sent his girl to Wilf. The old saying’s right, blood is thicker than anything else.”

  “I can’t find the tarp,” I say, as Etta and I try to wrestle her tree-trunk chair into the truck box. Etta is too big to fit in the cab.

  “I been wet before,” says Etta, ease herself down into the tree-trunk chair, both her and the truck sighing heavily.

  “If Al Lindman senses trouble how come Wilf don’t? Blood don’t seem to mean much to Wilf.”

  Etta motion for me to drive.

  The first big drops are plopping on the hood and I start the truck down the hill from Etta’s cabin toward the highway. I drive like mad over the greasy country roads, the truck fishtailing in spite of Etta’s weight in the back. It begins to storm in earnest, the wipers only partially clearing the windshield. The thunder is loud enough I can hear it over the roar of the truck, lightning zap across the sky in silver and yellow streaks.

  The ditches are rivers. About a mile from Wilf ’s I have to slow down to pass the mail delivery truck which stopped on a piece of high ground, I guess waiting for the worst of the storm to subside. I catch a glance of Etta in the rearview mirror. She look like a muskrat just poke its head above water.

  There is more trouble when I try to turn into Wilf Blindman’s driveway. He have a sort of cattleguard made of poles, and the rushing water moved the poles apart enough for the front wheels to drop through. We come to a sudden stop. Etta’s chair crash against the back window, teeter as it bounce back, look for minute like it might tip over.

  The road for about half the distance of the driveway is under water. Up by the house on higher ground, I can see the old weeping birch, and through the wind and driving rain I can see Jennifer in her yellow slicker and hat, broom in hand, moving in among the tall grasses, standing guard against the lightning birds.

  I open the door and step out into the deluge.

  Etta is standing in the truck box.

  “Run!” she hollers. “Get that little girl away from the tree.”

  I start out, take about ten strides when I hit a slippery spot, my feet shoot out from under me and I land right on my back in about a foot of running water. It take a few seconds for me to cough out the water, decide that nothing is broken, get to my feet and slither on. I slip to my knees one other time. I try hollering but sheets of rain and wind absorb the sound of my voice.

  Jennifer is turned toward the tree so there’s no chance of her seeing me.

  I’m about halfway there when
Wilf Blindman burst from the door of the house come down the steps in one leap, a sheaf of papers flying from his hand and blowing away in the wind as he do. Wilf don’t see me either. He scramble up the side of the ditch into the field, covering himself in mud in the process. He take a dozen long steps, sweep Jennifer up in his arms and turn away from the crippled tree. He cross to the ditch, Jennifer’s little yellow hat falling and disappearing into the windblown grasses, and leap right into the flowing water making a big splash just as the lightning shrill across the sky again, kind of scream as it strike the base of the weeping birch, splitting it even worse than it was before.

  The air is full of the stink of lightning. Thunder rattles the earth and the house seems to vibrate.

  I get there in time to brace my feet extend a hand and help Wilf and his armful out of the ditch.

  Jennifer is the only one of us laughing. She’s got her arms locked around Wilf ’s neck. He is nuzzling her cheek, and both of them is so wet it hard to tell if the water on Wilf ’s cheek is rain or tears. He holds Jennifer tight and strokes her wet hair. He looks at her like he finally realizes what it is she’s stolen from him. I’d guess it is something he can get along without.

  Punchlines

  Pascoe and Martinez came to visit me at Vancouver General Hospital the day after I picked up forty-one stitches from running through the glass wall next to the front door of my girlfriend’s apartment building.

  Pascoe is black, but beside Martinez he looks gray. Martinez is new to the team; his home is in the Dominican Republic; he comes from that famous town where they have a factory that turns out iron-armed shortstops who gobble up ground balls like they were Pac-Man. Martinez speaks only about ten words of English, so he’s happy to have anybody pay any attention to him. He has worried brown eyes and is so black his round cheeks and wide forehead give off a glare in bright sunlight. Martinez doesn’t know he’s getting himself in the manager’s bad books, making himself an outcast by hanging around with me. Pascoe does.

  My name is Barry McMartin. Reporters describe me as the Vancouver Canadians’ designated flake. The team bad boy. A troublemaker. Most of my teammates don’t like me very much, in fact most are a little afraid of me. Some of them think I’m on drugs. There’s more than the usual hassle about athletes and drugs in these post–Len Bias days. But I’ve never done drugs. I have some common sense, even if most people tend to think the amount I have is minimal.

  At the hospital, Pascoe stuck his head around the doorjamb and when he saw me he said, “How the hell did you get all the way to Triple A on one fucking brain cell?”

  I smiled, though it hurt like hell. Nine of those stitches were in my hairline. Martinez grinned his greeting, showing off his white eyes and teeth. He said something in Spanish, ending by clapping his hands once and doing a little dance step. I assume he was wishing me well.

  “How long will you be out of action this time?” Pascoe asked. He is our first baseman. This is his third year in Triple A, and he’s not likely to go any higher. He is six foot seven and shaves his head to resemble Otis Sistrunk, the football player; he looks mean as a boil, but one of the reasons he’s never had a shot at the Bigs is that he lacks the killer instinct. He plays an average first base, but for such a big man he has only warning-track power as a hitter.

  “Management put me on the fifteen-day disabled list. I’ll be ready to go in less than that. The doctors said I was real lucky. ‘You are very lucky you’re not dead,’ is what the doctor in emergency said to me as he was sewing up my cuts. ‘A couple of guys get killed every month by doing what you did tonight. You must have a guardian angel; it’s a miracle you didn’t permanently disable yourself. You’ll be back playing baseball inside of two weeks.’”

  I pulled up my hospital gown and showed the guys the rest of my stitches. The cuts made a primitive mark of Zorro on my chest. None were deep, not even close to a tendon or a vital artery. What did scare me almost to death at the time was that a shard of glass clipped off the tip of my right earlobe and I bled like a stuck pig. When I recovered my senses, I was lying in a pool of blood and broken glass in the entranceway to Judy’s apartment building. I thought I was a goner for sure.

  “Well, what are we gonna do to cheer our friend up, Marty?” Pascoe says, with a smile that goes halfway to his ears.

  “Si,” says Martinez.

  “Tell me a joke,” I say.

  “We know he can’t play baseball, lady. We want to use him for second base,” says Pascoe, and we both break up, while Martinez watches us, mystified. My laughter lasts only a few seconds before pain from my stitches brings me up short.

  One night last season, soon after I became Pascoe’s roommate, we stayed up all night telling jokes. We were sitting in a twenty-four-hour café called the Knight & Day, and we just kept drinking coffee and telling stories until the sun came up. We both agreed that we’d told every joke, clean or dirty, that we both knew. And as we got to know each other better we decided that instead of retelling a whole story we’d just shout out the punchline. We both knew the joke so we could both laugh. To give an example, there’s a long shaggy-dog story about a white man trying to prove himself to the Indian tribe he’s living with. The Indians give him a list of acts to perform that will establish his courage. When he comes back to camp looking happy but torn to rat shit, one of the Indians says to him, “You were supposed to kill the bear and make love to the woman.” So now instead of retelling that story we just shout out the punchline and both of us, and anyone else who knows the story, have a good laugh. But it stymies some of the other players and doesn’t go over well when we’re out on dates.

  “The trouble was the pilot was gay,” I say, and this time Martinez laughs along.

  Martinez is so congenial we are genuinely trying to teach him English. Not like some of the Spanish-speaking players. We’ve been known to take them to restaurants and have them say to the waitress, thinking that they’re ordering a hamburger, “I’d like to eat your pussy, please.”

  “What did management have to say?” Pascoe asks, changing the subject. There is genuine concern on his face.

  “When you get to my balls try to act as if nothing unusual is happening,” I reply. That’s a punchline from a joke about Sonny Crockett going undercover, dressed as a woman. “Hey, the nurses here are terrific, there was this one last night pulled the screen close around my bed . . .”

  “I’m serious,” says Pascoe.

  “So am I.”

  “Goddamnit, Barr. How much trouble are you in?”

  “Well, Skip didn’t come down. As you know, Skip hates my guts. Skip wanted to fire my ass. Or so says Osterman. But I’m too valuable for them to do that. Milwaukee’s going to call me up inside of a month—see if they don’t. So it was Old Springs came down himself.”

  Springs is what we call Osterman, the general manager of the baseball team. He is one of these dynamic guys who walks like he’s got springs in his shoes, and he’s read all these inspirational books like How to Fuck Your Friends, Rip Off Your Neighbors, and Make a Million by Age 30. He’s always talking to us ballplayers about long-term investments, five-year plans, and networking.

  “You’re an asshole, McMartin,” he said to me. “You’re a fuck-up, you’re an asshole, you’re a jerk. You’re also a criminal. If it wasn’t for baseball, your ass would be in jail in some town out in the Oklahoma desert, or you’d be in a psych hospital, which is where I think you belong. Skip said he’d personally kill you if he visited you himself. So he sent me. For some reason he figures I have more self-control. Skip says to tell you he wishes you’d cut your troublemaking throat when you fell through that window, or whatever you did.”

  “Yeah, well, you tell Skip his wife’s not bad in bed. But she’s not nearly as good as your wife.”

  I was sorry as soon as the words were out. I knew I’d gone too far, again. I don’t really want these guys to hate me. I just want to make it clear that I don’t take shit from anybody.

>   “You really are pure filth, McMartin,” Springs growls. “The front office personnel voted unanimously not to send you flowers or wish you a speedy recovery. Unfortunately, in Milwaukee they don’t know what an asshole you are; they think you might be able to hit thirty home runs for them next year. They’d let fucking Charles Manson bat cleanup if they thought he’d hit thirty homers. But just let me remind you, the minimum wage in Oklahoma is about three-fifty an hour, and out of a baseball uniform you’re not even worth that.”

  “Try to imagine how little I care,” I said.

  “We’re going to tell the press you were being chased out of the apartment by an angry husband,” said Springs. “It will fit your image and make you look less like a fool. But let me tell you, Milwaukee is fed up with your antics, too. This is absolutely the last time.”

  “Did management suspend you, or what?” asks Pascoe.

  “Naw, I told you, I’m their fair-haired boy. I’m on the D.L. for fifteen days. I’ll be out of this hospital tomorrow morning. So while you guys fuck off to Portland and Phoenix and get your asses whipped eight out of nine without your favorite cleanup hitter, I’ll be sitting in Champagne Charlie’s pounding a Bud and drooling over the strippers.”

  “I should have that kind of luck,” says Pascoe. “I don’t know, Barry, you got to stop acting so . . . so external, man,” he added, shaking his head sadly.

  I should treat Pascoe better. He’s a decent guy. I don’t know why he hangs around with me. Lately everything I touch seems to turn to shit. Pascoe’s really a good friend. When I first arrived he showed me around Vancouver, which bars and clubs to visit, which to stay away from.

  “Stay away from the King’s Castle,” he said to me as we walked down Granville Street one evening, heading toward Champagne Charlie’s strip joint. “It’s the biggest gay bar in Vancouver. Stay away from the Royal Bar, too. Bikers and Indians; half the people in the bar have shivs in their boots—and those are the women.” There were flamingo neon bars above the entrance to the King’s Castle and a dozen young men were standing in groups or lounging individually against the walls near the entrance, all caught in the pinkish glow of the neon.