The ambulance sped off.
Coach Inger looked around, saw Eddie standing by the mound, and came over to him. He squinted against the sun and put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.”
Eddie felt a lump in his throat. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.
“Who said you did?”
He looked at the Surf players. “They do. And her cousin.”
The coach frowned. “The kid who went after you? I saw him. If the cop hadn’t come just then, I would have.” He looked at Eddie’s jaw. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
The base umpire came toward them. “Sam, you ready to go?”
The coach nodded. “Anytime.” He turned back to Eddie. “Don’t feel too bad about hitting her. The ball must’ve struck her head on a vulnerable spot. That’s why you wear helmets, to avoid accidents just like that one. It may never happen again in a hundred years.”
“But it did happen to her,” said Eddie thinly.
“One of those things,” said the coach. “Take a load off your feet. I’ll have Harry pitch.”
Eddie walked off the field, still half-dazed. He entered the dugout and sat down. He folded his glove, crossed his arms over his chest, and wondered whether to stay and watch the rest of the game, or go home.
He wanted desperately to go home, to put the ball game and the tragic accident far behind him. He might as well, he thought. He couldn’t get back into the game, even if the Surfs pounded Harry all over the lot. All he’d do was think about that wild pitch that had bounced off Phyllis Monahan’s head.
But something in his conscience reminded him that going home now would be cowardly. It would be like a soldier running away from the field of battle.
He stayed.
Being hit by a pitched ball had entitled Monahan to a walk, so a kid took first base in her place, forcing in a run. Eddie watched two more runs score on a line drive over second base.
The Lancers settled down finally and got the Surfs out—one, two, three.
Puffy came in and sat down beside him. Tip sat on his other side.
“You okay?” Puffy asked.
“Yeah.”
“If you want to go home you can,” said Tip. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
“I’m staying,” said Eddie.
The game remained close all the way. The Lancers finally won it, 5–4.
What difference did it make who won? All that counted was that he had hit Phyl Monahan, Eddie thought.
When he started off the field, his sister Margie came off the stands and rushed to him. She grabbed his hand and looked up into his face.
“I saw that kid hit you,” she said resentfully. “Why should he blame you for hitting that girl? You didn’t do it on purpose. I know you didn’t.”
He smiled and squeezed her hand. “He’s her cousin, and I guess he thought I did.”
Tip and Puffy joined them. They exchanged greetings with Margie.
Suddenly Eddie saw a familiar face in the crowd. Speak of the devil, he thought. The stern, angry eyes focused on him.
“There he is,” he said to Tip. “Look. He’s still sore.”
Tip looked in the direction Eddie was looking. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess he is. If looks could kill, you’d be dead.”
“Do you know him?”
“No. Never saw him before today.”
They arrived home, and Tip and Puffy split. His older sister, Roxie, was alone in the house. She was a senior in high school and, like their mother, had dark hair and was a bit on the heavy side.
“Hi, Rox,” Eddie greeted her. “You ready to leave?”
“Yes.”
Their parents worked at the gift shop from nine A.M. till five P.M. She took over from five till eight-thirty P.M.
Her forehead knitted into a tight frown as she looked from Eddie to Margie. “What’s with you two?” she asked wonderingly. “You both look as if the world’s turned upside down. Was the score that bad?”
Eddie started to fumble with the buttons on his jersey. “The way we look has nothing to do with the score.”
“Oh? What happened?”
He told her, from top to bottom, while she listened, wide-eyed and concerned. When he finished, she said, “How awful. Do you know how seriously hurt she is?”
“No.” He paused. “I think I’d like to go to the hospital and see her.”
“When?”
“After I change and eat.” He watched for her reaction. He had accepted the fact long ago that she was older, smarter, and had more mature judgment than he. Since both his mother and father were at the gift shop most of the day, he saw his sister a lot and found her dependable when he needed her opinion on important matters.
Her forehead furrowed for a moment, then smoothed out again.
“If she’s badly hurt they might not let you see her.”
He thought a moment. “You think it’s okay, though, that I go to see her?”
“Yes. I not only think it’s okay, I think it’s a good idea. I would if I were in your place.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Rox.”
He took off his uniform, washed, and put on a clean pair of pants and a shirt. Roxie fixed him and Margie a dish of fish and chips, then left, saying that she was late already in relieving their mother and father.
“See you guys later,” she said as she flew out of the door and to her car.
Later, Eddie rode his bike to the hospital, parked it in the lot, and walked on the sidewalk to the front entrance. He entered, advanced nervously to the reception desk, and stood there until the gray-haired, matronly woman turned to look at him.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Can I see Phyllis Monahan?”
The woman’s blue eyes focused on him. “Phyllis Monahan? Just a minute.”
She riffled through a stack of index cards, stopped at one, then picked up the telephone and dialed a number. After a few seconds she spoke softly into it, listened briefly, smiled at the card she was holding, said “Thank you,” and hung up.
“I’m sorry,” she told Eddie. “But no one can see Miss Monahan right now except her parents. She’s in intensive care.”
He looked worried.
“Does—does that mean she’s badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.
She shrugged her hefty shoulders. “I don’t know what her actual condition is. Even if I did, I couldn’t say.” She smiled warmly. “Why don’t you call back later?”
“Later tonight?”
She nodded. “Or tomorrow morning.”
He felt a draft of cool air sweep in from outside as the front door opened and a chattering group came in. Suddenly the babble of voices stopped.
“Hey, look!” A single voice suddenly evolved from the mixture. “Isn’t that him?”
He turned and saw four girls in blue jeans and colored blouses standing in front of the door. It remained open as long as they stood on the electrically activated walk. Four pairs of eyes focused on him accusingly.
“It is him,” one of the other girls said. “Of all the nerve.”
He sucked in his breath, let it out slowly, and looked back at the receptionist. “Thank you,” he said, and started toward the exit.
He felt glaring eyes on him. Near the door he had to wait for one of the girls to move aside to permit him to pass.
“Turkey!” she flung at him as he stepped out.
7
His mother’s and father’s car was in the garage when Eddie got home. He pulled open the door, rode his bike inside, popped out the stand, then left, closing the door behind him.
He went into the house through the back door and found his mother in the kitchen, doing the dishes. Margie was helping her.
“Sorry about the dishes, Mom,” he said. “I planned on doing them when I—”
She looked at him. “That’s okay. Margie told me. Did you see the girl?”
“N
o. She’s in intensive care.”
His mother’s face paled. Margie glanced curiously from him to her. “Intensive care? What’s that, Mom?”
“That means she must’ve been seriously hurt,” her mother explained. “Oh, dear, I hope it’s not too serious.”
She started to rinse the suds off a dish, but it slipped out of her hands and dropped back into the water. Nervously she grabbed it up again, and this time managed to hold it firmly while she rinsed it under the faucet.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“In the living room.” Her mouth twitched, and flecks of pink touched her cheeks. “Eddie?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Was she wearing a helmet?”
“Yes. We all have to when we bat. She turned and ducked when she saw the ball coming at her, and it hit her in the back of the head. It probably just missed her helmet. I don’t know.”
She put the dish in the plastic drainer. “You’ve got to be careful about pitching, Eddie. Margie told me you’re kind of wild. Maybe you should play some other position.”
“It’s too late to think about that now, Mom. I’ve got to get over this worry first.”
“I know.”
He went into the living room and heard the familiar voice of a news announcer blaring from the television set. His father was sitting in the armchair across from it, all rapt attention.
“Hi, Dad,” Eddie greeted him.
“Hi, son,” his father answered without turning away from the set. “Look at that. The market’s still dipping. Wall Street’s still worried about the oil situation. I don’t know. Maybe I ought to talk to my broker.”
Eddie watched the initials moving across the top of the TV screen in alphabetical order, the current market value per share under them. Watching the market report was one of his father’s daily rituals.
“Dad,” Eddie started to say.
“Not now, Eddie,” his father said. “Later. Okay?”
Eddie’s heart sank. “Okay,” he said.
He sat down on the couch and waited till his father was finished watching the report. When it was over, he started to say again, “Dad, can I—”
His father looked sternly at him. “Can it wait till after the news, Eddie?”
Eddie shrugged. “Yeah. Well, anyway, it’s not important.”
He got off the couch and headed for the door. He hoped his father would call to him, stop him, and ask him what he wanted. But his father didn’t, so he opened the door and walked out.
The cool air hit his face, refreshing him. He walked around the block, hoping to see Tip or Puffy or one of the other guys from his team. But he didn’t. It was dusk by the time he got back. He sat on the porch and thought about telephoning the hospital to see how Phyllis Monahan was, but he decided to postpone it till tomorrow. It was dark when he went back into the house.
Later that night he sat in his bedroom and looked dreamily at his drums. He had a set of snares and a bass that he banged away on every once in a while. Sometimes he’d play it when he was depressed. It would give him a lift; make him forget his little problems.
But he didn’t feel like playing it at all now, and he couldn’t be more depressed. Maybe if Tip came over with his trumpet he’d get out of it, but he didn’t feel like calling Tip up, either.
The next morning he telephoned the hospital at eleven o’clock to see how Phyllis Monahan was. The receptionist who answered said that she was still in the intensive-care unit.
He didn’t go to practice that afternoon. Just before supper Tip came over and said that the coach had asked about him.
“Did he hear anything about Monahan?” Eddie inquired.
“I guess not,” Tip replied. “He didn’t say anything about her.”
At suppertime Eddie didn’t ladle half as much food onto his plate as he usually did. His father noticed his apparent lack of appetite and asked him, “Hey, fella, on a diet?”
Eddie shrugged. “No. I just don’t feel like eating very much.”
His father frowned.
“Are you worried about the girl you hit while pitching yesterday?”
Eddie nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” his father demanded, fixing his eyes firmly on Eddie’s. “I didn’t know until your mother mentioned it to me last night.”
Eddie found it hard swallowing a forkful of potatoes, and tried to avoid his father’s eyes. “I tried to tell you about it while you were watching the news last night,” he said thinly.
His father nodded. “Was that when I interrupted you and told you to wait till after the news?”
“Yes.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you tell me then?”
Eddie swallowed the food and took a deep breath. His stomach felt tight.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? That’s a good answer. Since when has a girl played in your league, anyway?”
“Since the season started,” Eddie answered.
“Well, I’m sorry she got hit, but girls shouldn’t try to play in the same league with boys.”
“Yeah.” Eddie shrugged.
“Well, don’t worry about her. She’ll be all right.”
Eddie put his fork down and sat back on his chair. He wasn’t full; he just didn’t feel like eating any more.
“But I do worry about her, Dad,” he said emphatically. “I hit her, and the blow must’ve been serious because they put her in the intensive-care unit. Everybody thinks I hit her on purpose.”
“Not everybody,” said his mother.
“Well, her friends do, her teammates do, and her cousin does.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, excused himself, and left the table.
“You only ate part of your supper,” his mother said, glancing at the food he had left on his plate.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said. “I just can’t eat any more.”
He went out to the backyard and lay on the hammock. It was his father’s favorite relaxing place. Thoughts of Phyllis, of her friends, her cousin, and her parents streamed through his mind. The more he thought about them the more worried he became.
He rolled off the hammock, got his bike out of the garage, and rode over to Phyllis’s house. If he couldn’t find out how Phyllis was from anybody at the hospital, her parents should be able to tell him.
Nervous and frightened at the kind of reception he might receive from them, he rapped on the door. No one answered. He rapped again. Still no one answered. He realized then that her parents were probably visiting her at the hospital.
He got on his bike and headed there. He had a block to go when he started to pass by a florist.
Flowers, he thought, slowing down the bike. People always take flowers to someone who’s ill. It’s a good way of showing you care about them.
He rode into the parking lot, locked up his bike, and entered the shop. He looked around at the array of flowers, smelled their fragrance, and approached one of the small arrangements set inside a vase.
Twelve-fifty. He read the price label silently. Oh, wow, he thought. At that price he might as well forget about getting flowers.
A clerk came in from the greenhouse behind the shop, and for five minutes she offered suggestions about the kind of flowers to buy for a friend in the hospital. The various costs she always came up with far exceeded what he had in his pocket, so he finally thanked her and left.
He hadn’t given up on the idea of taking flowers to Phyllis, however, so he returned home, picked some of the dahlias from his mother’s garden, and rode back to the hospital. He locked the bike in the bike rack, went into the building, and faced the same receptionist he had met yesterday evening.
“Hi,” she said, recognizing him, too. “How are you this evening?”
“Fine. Is Phyllis Monahan still in the intensive-care unit?”
“Just a minute. I’ll check,” she said.
She picked up a card from the pile she had in front of her and l
ooked at it. “No. She’s out of intensive care and in a ward room now. But there are already two people visiting her. Would you care to wait?”
He thought about it a moment. He felt sure the visitors were her parents. His courage deserted him.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said nervously. He held up the flowers. “Can you get these to her?”
She smiled. “Of course.” She stood and took the bouquet from him. “I’ll put them in a vase with water and have someone take them to her.”
“Thanks.”
“Who shall I say left them?” she wanted to know.
He thought about that, too.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“How about your name?”
“No.” She might throw them into a basket if she heard the flowers came from him. “Just say that they’re from a friend,” he said.
8
At two o’clock Friday, Eddie and Tip rode their bikes to the ball field and parked them next to the first-base dugout. Coach Inger was already there, knocking flies out to the outfielders.
“Eddie, get out there,” he ordered, after the boys put on their baseball shoes.
“Oh-oh,” Tip muttered. “I guess he’s going to put you in the outfield.”
“Far out where no one can see me,” replied Eddie.
He gathered up his glove and ran to the outfield. Dale, Lynn, Tony, and Tom were already out there, bunched in a spot in center field. Tony and Tom wore sunglasses to protect their eyes against the hot, glaring sun.
“Hi, Eddie,” Dale greeted. “What’re you doing out here?”
“Yeah, man,” chimed in Lynn, squinting against the sun. “This is ball-shaggin’ country.”
“Aren’t you going to pitch anymore?” Tony inquired.
“I don’t know,” said Eddie.
“Heads up, Eddie!” yelled Coach Inger.
Eddie braced himself. He watched the coach wallop the ball, and followed it with his eyes as it soared high toward him.
“Back up, Eddie. Back up,” Dale advised.
Wild Pitch Page 4