Boom.
And then he'd leave...
And maybe he'd escape...
But probably he'd be caught.
But it would still be worth it.
To kill the ump who had destroyed his life.
Evelyn's voice, coming closer, “Tom, there's someone here to see you . . . a man named Randy Jarvis."
And he looked up, and there was Tom Grissom.
Right in front of him.
All these years later.
Finally!
Tom Grissom, just feet away...
And in a wheelchair.
He tightened his hands on the bag's handles.
* * * *
Tom's head was at an angle, loose, like the ligaments and muscle had softened some time ago. An oxygen system was draped about his ears, the little plugs going into his nostrils, and his face had three or four days’ worth of gray and white whiskers on the saggy skin. He had slippers on his feet, loose black slacks, and a buttoned red flannel shirt. A tube ran out of his side and into a urine bag at the side of the wheelchair.
Evelyn managed a smile and said, “It's nice of you to come by. Tom doesn't get too many visitors, ever since the accident."
"I'm . . . I'm sorry, what accident would that be?"
Evelyn kept her hands on the wheelchair handles. “About twenty years ago. A drunk driver ran into him, outside of Manchester. He's been in and out of rehab ever since . . . slowly . . . well, slowly getting worse. Nowadays—” and it seemed she was forcing the words out—"nowadays, I'm not sure how conscious he is . . . but still, I'd like to think he knows what's going on. Even though he can't talk, I'm sure he can hear us."
He couldn't think of what to say.
Her voice grew a bit chipper. “Tell you what, I'll make some fresh iced tea, and you go ahead, talk to him. He . . . I think he'll like a fresh voice. I know he will."
And then she left him alone, alone with the ump.
* * * *
There was a whistling sound, from the oxygen system. He looked at the sagging body, at that face, at that collection of muscles and memories that had hurt him so much, back there in 1958.
So long ago.
And now...
Now Randy sat, seventy-one years old, but still...
He could get around.
Could think for himself.
Could . . . be a living, breathing, thinking man.
And before him was his enemy, of such a long time ago.
"Hello, Tom,” he finally said.
The man's eyes blinked.
"Remember me? Randy Jarvis. Back on the Palmer Mill team. Back in ‘fifty-eight, you . . . you called a bad game against me. Destroyed any chance I had of playing for the majors. Just a few minutes and a couple of innings . . . and you did it, because I wanted to leave Palmer, and leave Palmer with your sister."
The eyes blinked again.
He opened the bag, reached down, pulled out his glove. Held it up. Put it back into the bag, and then did the same with his uniform.
"Remember now, Tom? Palmer Mill? That game against the American Legion? You . . . you destroyed it all. Took away my dreams. It was all in your hands and you took it away."
He put his hand back in the bag, rested it against the revolver. Heart thumping again. Waiting. He said, “Took that away, and with it my love for baseball. Do you understand what you did? You took that love of baseball away from me . . . and I can't forgive that. Not ever. Not ever, Tom."
Hand still on the revolver.
Looking at that sagging, blank face. The thin arms and legs. The urine collection bag. The smell of age, of sickness, the smell of all your dreams crumbling away.
Randy sighed.
Took his hand out of the bag and snapped it shut.
Evelyn came in, carrying two glasses of iced tea. “Ready for some refreshments?"
"Yes,” Randy said. “Quite ready."
* * * *
An hour later, he had wandered away from the quiet home, walking near the Palmer River—where he had dumped the useless revolver into the water—until he was near a park, kids playing in the distance, just sitting on a park bench, athletic bag at his feet. His head was throbbing and his hands shook every now and then, as if he had just missed being involved in a terrible traffic accident. So close, so very close, and in the end . . . fate had gotten here before him, two decades ago. As for what he had planned...
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He rubbed at his face. Years and years of thinking of revenge, and he finally gets here . . . and the object of his revenge turns out to be an object of pity. That's all. Someone to be pitied, not hated.
He pulled his hand away. All right then, now what? Catch a bus back to New York? End the rest of his days still brooding, still dreaming, day after long day until—
"Hey! Randy Jarvis!"
He looked up and saw someone standing by the edge of the field, someone who threw something at him. Automatically he raised his left hand and winced as something struck, but he held on, held on tight, until he brought his hand down and looked to see what he had caught.
A baseball.
That's all.
A baseball.
Randy looked up. Steve Daly approached him, grinning. “What a character you are . . . I mean, really, pretending you didn't know much about the Granite League."
He looked down at the baseball in his hand. “It's been a long time."
"I'm sure it has,” Steve said, sitting down next to him. “But I trotted over to the library, looked through some of the old records. Randy Jarvis. Best pitcher ever in the Granite League. Hell, some sportswriters did a survey a couple of years back, named you one of the all-time best pitchers the state ever produced in amateur-league ball. Did you know that?"
He felt his face flush, as if he'd turned up ten years late for a birthday party thrown in his honor. “I . . . I didn't know that."
Steve held out his hand and he shook it, automatically. “I guess it's just an honor to meet you, Randy. I mean, meet you for real. It's like . . . well, like shaking the hand of a living legend, you know?"
For some reason his eyes had teared up, but it didn't seem that Steve noticed. The young man went on, “I'd love a chance to talk to you some more, Randy, really I would, but I have . . . well, I have an odd request for you. And if you say no, I completely understand. Okay?"
Randy cleared his throat, still holding the ball in his hand. “Go . . . go ahead."
"I mean . . . well, it's like this. I told you about my Little League team. . . . They're struggling this year.” He motioned to the fields nearby. “They're having practice right now and where we really need help is in the pitching. Any . . . any chance you could come over and give my guys some pitching tips?"
His voice was hoarse. “It's . . . it's been a very long time."
"Sure, but you know what? The game remains the same, right? No matter what, the game remains the same."
He examined the ball, felt the leather, felt the stitching, finally realizing how damn good it felt having it in his hand, after all those lost years.
"Yes, the game remains the same,” he said, not quite believing what was happening.
Steve asked, his voice bright, “So you'll do it?"
He suddenly stood up, ball in one hand, Granite League bag in the other, and said, his voice strong, “Yes, I'd love to."
Copyright © 2010 Brendan DuBois
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Fiction: LEON AND SQUEAK by Ronald Levitsky
Ronald Levitsky is a teacher as well as a writer. In 1989, he received a Kohl International Teaching Award and has taught in both the Chicago area, where he currently lives, and in the Dominican Republic. The author of four mystery novels, Mr. Levitsky has recently been concentrating on short stories, one of which was anthologized in 2007's Chicago Blues (Bleak House). His latest EQMM tale is, he says, “a modern take, in mysterious fashion, on an old Aesop's fable."
Love sure is a sweet poison.
Whether eaten quick like candy or drunk slow like a smooth shot of whiskey, it's so good you don't even know it's killing you. And sometimes it gets so bad, you don't even care. I saw it happen that way once, but not the way you think. Not the way nobody thinks.
It started the way most evenings started at Mickey's, the neighborhood bar where we hung out between jobs. Leon, Eddie, and me. We'd been together since we was kids pitching pennies against a wall in the alley, playing football in the street, and, later, rolling drunks when they come out from the bar late at night so bad-off they didn't know where they was going. It was always the three of us and sometimes Kevin, Mickey's son, who stopped hanging around with us when he was old enough to work the bar for his old man.
About that time we started working for Sweet Phil, who ran all the bookmaking in the ward. Phil would talk real nice to some deadbeat, then send us over to do his dirty work. Usually we didn't have to do no rough stuff; the guy always seemed able to come up with the money. But once in a while—well, you gotta do what you gotta do. We did most of our work during the day, which gave us our nights off. It was a nice little business while it lasted.
So, like I was saying, it was your usual Friday night at Mickey's. It had been a drippy, dark October day, and it felt especially good and warm to be inside. Kevin was serving drinks behind the bar, under a bunch of flickering beer signs. The jukebox, full of songs by Elvis, hadn't worked since the King was sucking on jelly donuts. Dark wood paneling, chipped and scratched, held together by all the cigarette smoke it'd absorbed over the past fifty years. No, the bar wasn't much of anything, but it was more home than anywhere else. If bombs started dropping all over the city, that would've been okay with us as long as Mickey's was left alone.
I was playing poker with a couple of neighborhood guys. Leon and Eddie were shooting pool at one of the two tables in back. Eddie was tall and skinny, and his body jackknifed over the table so that his cowboy boots showed from under his frayed jeans. His lips were so thin, they looked like a cut that wouldn't heal, and he never stopped talking. He might've been a bubble gumball machine filled with words spilling out and clattering all over the floor. Like they was now as he chattered about why this was the year the Bears would be back in the playoffs.
Leon stood watching, holding the pool cue easy in his hands. He always wore nice clothes, like the green Polo shirt, khakis, and loafers he had on. He was short but good-looking, with his wavy blond hair combed straight back. His broad forehead and high cheekbones made his eyes intense. Like blue ice they stared at you, until you started to melt. The way Leon was looking at the pool table, if it'd been a dog, it would've slunk away.
He was slim but strong, as if nothing was wasted on his body. He didn't go for letting his feelings out, either. When we was twelve, he had this wind-up top that he'd turn and turn until you thought he stripped the spring, then he'd press the button and the top would spin crazy, out of control. One day Eddie and me was at his house, the three of us standing over his mom's glass-top table in the living room. Leon pressed the button, and the top spun right onto the tabletop, cracking it into a million pieces. When his folks came into the room and saw what had happened, his old man took off his belt, as me and Eddie backed against a wall. Leon just stood there and let his old man start in on him. He beat him real bad, even with Leon's mom begging him to stop. Leon didn't cry or try to twist away, but I could see his eyes get cold and hard.
Finally, his old man stopped and turned away to put his belt back on. Leon took a lamp with a marble base and hit his old man over the head—busted him up real bad. His old man never touched him or his mom again. Leon was just like that top—always wound up tight. You never wanted to push that button.
Charlene, Leon's girl, was sitting at the bar with a couple of other women. She was a curvy blond wrapped in a red dress like a Christmas present about to bust out of its box. She was sipping a drink with a little umbrella, in between doing her nails. She was crazy about Leon even though he didn't much take her anywhere. So long as he was in eyeshot, she seemed happy.
About ten-thirty this broad comes running into the bar. She was a small, skinny number, but classy—with a black leather jacket over a pink turtleneck, designer jeans, and high-heeled boots. Her dark hair curled around her face, which was made up real pretty. Long eyelashes over green eyes and full pink lips, like a little doll. Her eyes went big when she saw where she was, and she swayed back and forth like she was standing on a cliff.
Then Charlene said, “It's all right, honey. Nobody here's gonna bite you."
Swallowing hard, the woman tried to smile, but it got all washed out by the tears that started sliding down her face.
"What is it, honey?"
Before the woman could answer, three guys walked into the bar. College age, big football-player types wearing letterman jackets. One ahead of the others. When she saw them, the woman skittered along the bar, stopping beside Charlene, who put an arm around her shoulder.
"There,” the first guy said to his friends as he nodded toward her. He balled his hands into fists. “I get first dibs."
"Hold on,” Kevin said from behind the bar. “I don't want no trouble."
The guy's face twisted into a smile. “Oh, you're all gonna enjoy this as much as we will."
The woman started crying louder. Charlene got off her stool and stood in front of her. “Get the hell outta here!"
"Outta my way, lady."
I was about to say something, when Leon, followed by Eddie, walked in front of the offensive line. Leon held the pool cue in his hands. He just stood there, staring up at them. I could tell they was getting jittery, but the first one smirked and said, “Out of the way, Shorty."
"Oh, jeez,” Kevin said.
But Leon just stood there, winding up tighter and tighter, and said softly—the way he always talked, “You boys better leave."
Maybe they were thrown by Leon being so polite, but the big college boy put his hand on Leon to push him aside.
It was over so fast the other two guys looked at each other for some kind of explanation. Their friend lay on the floor moaning, blood spilling from his nose. Leon stood over him with a busted pool cue. They was all like that for what seemed a long time—like a painting. Finally, Leon nodded, and the two big boys lifted their buddy, half walking, half dragging him toward the door.
Just as they got there, he shook himself loose and, one hand pressed against his nose, shouted, “That's a guy! That . . . thing over by the bar who looks like a woman . . . that's a guy! Came on to me on the street and when I felt her up, I . . . “ He swallowed hard then spit on the floor. “But maybe you bunch of fags like that! Go on, it's all yours! Fags!"
He was about to say more, but his buddies pulled him out the door. Once again, everything got real quiet. We was all watching Leon, who was watching the woman—if that's what she was—curled up all shaking next to Charlene. Leon's eyes narrowed, and he kept staring the way you look at a bug that's crawled on your table and you're wondering if it's worth drowning it with a spill of beer foam from the bottle. He was still holding the broken pool cue; a little blood dripped down the handle.
"Gee, honey,” Charlene said, “you're scaring her to death. Tell her it's okay."
Eddie said, “You heard the punk. That's not a woman. It's some kind of he-she."
Charlene wagged a finger at him. “Well, ain't we all got something wrong with us? Besides, she's got awful nice clothes. C'mon, Leon, tell her it's okay."
Leon kept staring, trying to figure it all out, while the woman, or whatever, kept shaking but not taking her eyes off Leon. Then Kevin slapped a beer bottle on the counter, and the he-she jumped and squeaked like a mouse torn into by a cat.
That got us all laughing. Even Leon cracked a smile. Then he said: “Bring me the beer, Squeak."
Glancing at Charlene, who nodded, Squeak took the bottle from the counter and, holding it with both hands like some kind of offering, slowly walked over to Leon. As he took the beer, they l
ooked at each other. Squeak's eyes fluttered, and with a sad kind of smile, she stared down at the floor and walked back to Charlene.
Leon took a long swallow, then said to Eddie, “Let's finish the game."
So that's how Squeak—that's what everybody in the bar called her—got to hanging around most nights. Even now I ain't sure why that happened. It's not like we blamed those college punks for trying to beat her up. (I say “her,” because after a while we all got used to thinking about Squeak that way.) If some he-she had tried picking up one of us, we'd have chased down and beaten the hell out of the phony just like those college guys had wanted to. Maybe we let Squeak hang out because those punks had come into our place and tried telling us what to do. Maybe because Charlene felt so bad about the whole thing or because Squeak never got outta line—trying to come on to any of the guys. But I think mostly because, for some reason, it was okay with Leon, and maybe we wanted to see what would happen when it stopped being okay with him.
Squeak usually sat on a stool next to Charlene, with the other women. They'd do their nails and talk about clothes. They'd huddle together all night long looking at some fashion magazine, like dogs chewing on a meaty bone. Every once in a while I'd catch Squeak stealing a glance at Leon, but she'd look away quick and, like I said, never made no move. She probably knew that Leon would break her like he done that pool cue.
She never said nothing to any of the guys, so we didn't know much about her, only what Charlene told us. Squeak had a real tough life. Her parents kicked her out of the house in the middle of high school, and she had to take care of herself. Had lots of jobs, got kicked around, but she didn't squawk any, just did what she had to do to survive, like the rest of us. That made even Eddie feel a little different toward her. Like Charlene said, everybody's got problems. Whatever job Squeak was working during the day—she wouldn't tell anybody where—she put most of the money away to save up for some operation that was real expensive. The kind that can turn a guy into a woman. Charlene said Squeak still had to dress like a guy at work, because if they found out, they'd probably fire her, and that she'd just begun taking some kind of pills to get ready for the operation. Charlene had more to say about it, but I wasn't really interested. For some reason, it made me think of the bearded lady in this circus book I read as a kid.
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 23