by ANDREA SMITH
Thora was pouring the last of the wine between them when a black Lincoln pulled through the gate.
“Damn it to hell,” Thora mumbled. “Ain’t finished our wine.”
Horace Dean got out of the car and walked to the porch. He removed his cap and the top of his balding head was as dark and shiny as an eight ball. Always so neatly groomed, his thin mustache looked like it was drawn above his top lip.
“Hey there, Bonnie.” He bent in to kiss her. She detected a hint of Old Spice.
“Welcome back, stranger,” Bonnie replied.
“Where that husband of your’n?”
“Went out hunting early this mo’nin’. Him, Coates, Scooter, Little…”
“No wonder the club empty,” Horace said. He set his cap on Thora’s head and she flipped it off quickly.
“Man, you gon’ muss my hair,” she snapped.
“Come on, woman,” he said, picking up his hat. “Let’s us get a move-on.”
“I need to finish my tea first,” Thora said, taking another swallow.
“Tea?” Horace laughed. “I’m gon’ tell Naz how the Sistren of the Blackberry Wine been at it again.”
“What do you mean to suggest, Horace Dean?” Bonnie was trying to appear sober.
“Y’all ain’t doin’ all that cacklin’ ’cause of no sassafras…that I know.” He pulled his wife from the rocker and swatted her on the behind. Thora giggled. “That’s alright wit’ me, though,” Horace said. “’Cause Thora come home all ready fo’ her man. Ain’t that right, baby?”
“Will you hush yo’self?” Thora whispered. But despite her protest, Bonnie noticed that she headed for the car as quickly as he did. “See you tomorrow, honey-bunny,” she called to Bonnie as she slipped into the front seat. “I’ll call you befo’ we go to the Big Buy.”
“Okay, sugar,” Bonnie replied. She could hear Horace murmur something and then Thora’s laughter as they drove away.
It was past three A.M. when Naz’s truck pulled into the yard. Bonnie heard Godfrey’s bark and woke instantly. She looked from the bedroom window as Naz pulled around to the back of the house. With the truck lights on, he untied a lifeless deer from the bed of his pickup and dragged it toward the shed. Godfrey rushed out of the dog door, panting excitedly and zigzagged around Naz’s large boots as he struggled to haul the dead weight.
“Get on, Godfrey!” he ordered.
Bonnie thought about going out to the shed, but she hated to see the gutted carcass strung up over the center beam and left to bleed into a trough below. She slipped on her robe and went into the kitchen, where she poured a tall glass of ice water, always the first thing Naz wanted when he got home. Bonnie enjoyed tending to her husband after one of his trips. Though she fussed and complained about how bad he smelled, she secretly loved waking early on the morning of his return, helping him bathe and listening to him talk about his trip.
She sat in the kitchen window waiting. After a while he’d appear in the door of the shed, his wide shoulders filling the entire frame. Naz’s strength, his stature, had always been exciting to Bonnie. Thirteen years ago, it was this same strong cut of a man that so struck her when he ran out onto the baseball field in Ponce de Leon Park.
Bonnie’s father, Wilbur Grayson, had traveled as far west as Texas and had even gone east of Virginia to see teams play in the Southern Negro League. Bonnie never thought much about baseball when her mother, Eleanor, was alive. Wilbur had taken his weekend junkets, while Bonnie and Eleanor spent the days baking, sewing or just talking. As a child Bonnie could talk to Ellie Grayson about most anything. At age ten surely it was nothing more than about school or maybe a boy or two that might’ve caught her fancy. And her mother always listened with patience and a tiny smile. A smile that Bonnie knew revealed how proud she was of her daughter. But Bonnie’s world was suddenly devastated when Ellie Grayson died of influenza. Bonnie was only twelve. Over the years, she struggled to hold on to all that she could remember about her mother. But most of her recollections became like out-of-focus snapshots. Except that Bonnie recalled her mother’s laughter, high-pitched and unbridled, the way Ellie smelled, like warm yellow cake, and the way she gently plaited Bonnie’s hair in two flat, shiny braids.
After Eleanor’s death, Wilbur insisted on taking Bonnie to the ball games when baseball season arrived. Several ladies from the Piney Grove church knew that a ballpark was hardly the place for a young girl, but only occasionally did Wilbur agree to leave his daughter behind to play dolls with Jersa Clayton’s girl, Thora, or Minnie Maybry’s daughter, Diane. Wilbur wanted to share his passion with his only child. So, Bonnie sat in the ballparks, watching the people watching the game. For her, this was more interesting than baseball itself. She ate peanuts, drank pop and measured the inches between the edge of the bleacher and the tip of one Mary Jane shoe. Every once in a while when her father rose to cheer, she’d pay attention to the game, but all Bonnie saw were men running around the field or sliding toward a burlap sack in a cloud of red dust. On those exciting plays, the thrill of baseball began to get to her. After a while, Bonnie started to understand how the game worked. By the time she was seventeen, she knew the players and their stats as well as any boy her age. But it wasn’t until an afternoon at Ponce de Leon Park in Georgia that her real love for the game began.
The Atlanta Black Crackers, one of Wilbur’s favorite teams, were being slaughtered by the Birmingham Black Barons. Then the Atlanta team sent out a pitcher that most hadn’t seen before.
“That’s him, Bonnie,” Wilbur said excitedly. “That boy grew up in the next county over from us. Raised right there in the Three Sisters, sho’ nuff!”
Bonnie had heard about this Nazareth Wilder, born in Pertwell, though he had only pitched for the Black Crackers for a season. Bonnie had seen grainy pictures of the young man in the paper more than once, but this was the first time she’d actually get to see him play.
“Strike ’im out, Naz,” someone screamed.
“Come on wit’ it, boy,” her father called.
Six foot and four, Naz Wilder was tall enough to command the blue sky as his backdrop. His chest was like a wall and his shoulders like two strong shelves, but what impressed Bonnie most was that he played an amazing game. Naz Wilder had dominated that season. Sadly, that was the last time. On the first game of his third season, Avery Romell of the Nashville Elite Giants hit a line drive straight at the pitcher’s mound. It had all happened so fast. Avery snapped the ball and took off running. It wasn’t until he got to second base that Bonnie realized Naz had toppled over and hit the ground. The ball had caught him in the left leg, shattering his kneecap.
Naz finally came out of the shed. He turned off the truck lights and met Bonnie on the back porch.
“What you get?” she asked, handing him the glass of ice water.
“Small buck. Old, though,” he said after taking a drink. “Meat prob’ly be tough.” Red mud that was crusted around his fingers mixed with the sweat from the glass. Naz offered her a swallow.
“Oh, no,” she laughed.
“Why?”
“’Cause you smell like a polecat.” Bonnie grinned.
“You know you love me like this.” Naz planted a wet kiss on her lips. Bonnie shrank from the gaminess and the spots of blood on his clothes.
“Now I got to bathe too,” she accused.
“We’ll do it together.”
“I’d rather bathe with that buck in the shed,” she laughed.
Naz sat in the porch rocker and Godfrey rushed to sit at his feet. Bonnie moved behind his chair and gently kneaded his shoulders. He welcomed her hands as she smoothed the soft wave that swirled in the crown of his close-cut hair.
“Ain’t made no mo’ discoveries, I hope,” she asked.
“Thank the Lord, no,” he said. “And Jimmy-Earl, he come along with us on the hunt.”
“Anything new on the chile?”
Naz shook his head no. “Ain’t found nothin’, ain’t found nobody.”
“Dear Father,” she whispered.
Naz finished the water and held out the glass for Bonnie to refill. “Pine say it’s most prob’ly some young gal that left that chile,” he called as she went into the kitchen. “And he don’t think it was nobody from ’round here.”
“Why?”
“Somebody woulda knowed something by now. Sheriff’s office think maybe a gal come from another county. Mississippi, Georgia, even.”
Bonnie quickly rinsed the glass and refilled it. When she came back out, Naz handed her a tiny brown bag. Whenever he returned from his trip, he always brought Bonnie a gift. Usually something small, but enough to say that he’d been thinking about her. She opened the sack and pulled out a kitchen magnet shaped like a daisy.
“I’m gon’ have a whole set of these befo’ the year is out,” she said, kissing the top of his head. Bonnie was happy to continue rubbing his shoulders, when Naz stood up.
“I know you ain’t ’bout to walk into my house with them filthy clothes,” she scolded.
“Damn it, Bonnie.”
“And you need to take them boots off.”
Naz muttered the whole time, but like an obedient child he sat down and unlaced the muddy shoes. She lifted each one like a dead skunk and heaved it over the railing. Then Bonnie went in and ran a hot bath. She threw in eucalyptus soap with a scent so strong it made her eyes water.
He walked into the bathroom buck naked and slowly lowered himself into the sudsy water. His body barely fit into the tub until he propped his feet on either side. Time was, the sight of Naz naked made Bonnie stop and take a breath. Now she could only regard his privates (which used to make her blush) as exactly what God had intended them for: procreation. She sighed in frustration. Why was Thora always right? Bonnie’s fixation on having a child had cooled her love life. Twelve years ago when she finally met Naz Wilder, face-to-face, Bonnie thought that he was the most beautiful man that she had ever laid eyes on. But so did every other single woman in the Three Sisters. She recalled when Archie McCoy, pastor from the New Hope Baptist Church in Pertwell, had visited Piney Grove. The congregation looked forward to his arrival, and not just because of Reverend McCoy’s enigmatic presence, but because Naz Wilder, a deacon in his church, would surely be one of the entourage accompanying the reverend on his visit.
That morning ladies in the congregation, married or no, were decked out in finery usually reserved for weddings or Easter Sundays. Bonnie, herself, wore her favorite green linen dress with a scoop neck and two ties that gathered on her shoulders. Her hair, modest and short, was swept from her face and flipped in the back. At eighteen, Bonnie liked the way she looked. Surely she wasn’t the prettiest girl at Piney Grove—that distinction went to Edris Collins, who everyone claimed looked like Lena Horne. Certainly Bonnie wasn’t the most glamorous—hands down that award went to Thora Dean (then Thora Clayton). But Bonnie had confidence in what her father had called a “quiet beauty.” When she looked in the mirror, Bonnie saw her mother’s dark eyes and fleshy lips. But she also saw her daddy’s slightly wide nose and strong square chin. Bonnie had no hopes of actually talking to Naz Wilder…she would be too shy…but perhaps she’d get to see him up close and maybe even shake his hand.
The seats were so packed that Bonnie and her father couldn’t sit in their normal pew, second from the front. They inched their way down the aisle as the church quickly filled in the middle and back.
“Ain’t seen half these people at service befo’,” Wilbur had complained. “Now they show up and take God-fearin’ folks’ place. Cryin’ damn shame.”
“Don’t cuss in the church, Daddy,” Bonnie whispered as she straightened the collar over his tie.
Wilbur’s brow remained creased for most of Reverend McCoy’s service. She knew that her father was excited at having Naz Wilder at Piney Grove, but he hated sitting so far in the back. Bonnie understood his frustration. Two of the Bell sisters, who only attended church on Christmas, sat right up front. Larney Hayes, who usually made her husband come to church by himself, was sitting right beside him today. Mrs. Simpkins, who complained that her arthritis made her too crippled to walk, looked as strong as ever. And more surprising was that Thora, who always arrived late, got there early and sat all puffed and powdered in the pew right behind Reverend McCoy’s contingent.
Bonnie could only glimpse Naz Wilder in the first pew. He set his cane in the aisle and his leg, obviously braced under his pants, remained extended straight out in front of him. Though he looked reserved, Bonnie could feel his power even from the back of the church. Funny that with all the hubbub of his presence, the man appeared calm, almost shy. He didn’t seem flamboyant and certainly didn’t flaunt his good looks or his stature.
When the service ended, Wilbur was the first to hurry down to the church basement, where the Ladies’ Welcoming Committee had set up four long picnic tables with white cloths and paper plates. The scent of buttermilk biscuits and fried chicken would usually make Bonnie ravenous after so long a service, but the thought that Naz Wilder might soon be sitting at her same table gave her a jittery stomach. She could see Wilbur trying to figure at where Naz might sit. The answer was easy: this table had most of the good food on it, including the side of roast beef and Mary Hartland’s sought-after potato salad.
Wilbur sat down near the middle of the table and pulled Bonnie over. Moments later, heavy feet rumbled down the basement stairs. Bonnie felt her heartbeat quicken but relaxed a bit when Reverends Duncan and McCoy, their wives, and several deacons flooded the room. Then Naz appeared, flanked by two of the Peterson boys and more than a few ladies from their congregation. Bonnie had to take a breath at the sight of the man this close. His shoulders were wide and he was so tall that he had to bow his head to keep it from brushing the low ceiling.
Thora gestured for Bonnie to save the seat beside her as Naz and the reverend sat at Bonnie’s table. But by the time Thora got there, it was already full. Thora simply took a chair from another table and squeezed in beside her friend. After several blessings by every holy man in the room, the meal finally began. And as expected, the men talked baseball while the women listened. Most seemed content just sitting in Naz’s presence.
“That boy Edgar Buyers hit 369,” Deacon Jenkins said.
“Three seventy-nine,” Reverend McCoy declared.
“They’re both wrong,” Bonnie whispered to Thora. “It was 389.”
“Lordy, gal,” Thora giggled. “How yo’ mind hold all that mess?”
Deacon Jenkins went on, “I know it was 369, ’cause that year…”
“Three seventy-nine,” Reverend McCoy cut in.
Deacon Jenkins said, “I might not know Scriptures like I should, but I know me some baseball. And that there was 369, sho’ nuff.”
“It was 389,” Thora put in.
Reverend Sunday stopped chewing. “What you say, woman?” he asked.
“Bonnie here say it was 389,” Thora said.
Naz looked at Thora. She seemed thrilled by the attention.
“Bonnie?” Naz asked.
Thora grabbed Bonnie’s arm and raised it up. Bonnie felt so shy with Naz’s eyes on her that she wanted to crawl under the table.
“Ain’t too many people know it like that,” Naz said. “’Specially ladies.”
“I guess that’s my fault,” Wilbur admitted. “I raised Bonnie on my own after her mama passed.”
“And you did a fine job,” Mrs. Reverend Sunday added.
Wilbur’s dark face softened. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. Bonnie nodded at the reverend’s wife. “But I have to admit,” Wilbur went on, “that I dragged this gal from pillar to post to see all kinds of games.”
“Daddy,” Bonnie whispered, trying to stop him from talking. She was already as embarrassed as she could be.
“And sometimes,” Wilbur went on, “she learn things what only mens should know.”
“Sho’ly don’t look like a man,” Naz said respectfully. He must have sensed ho
w embarrassed Bonnie was, for he felt the need to explain. “Jes’ that…well, most ladies that can recite baseball stats…”—he stuttered a bit—“well…they got mo’ hair on they arms than me.”
The room laughed.
“You a mess, Naz,” Thora said, batting her lashes.
“May I ask yo’ daughter a question, sir?” Naz said to Wilbur.
“Ask Bonnie whatever you want.”
Bonnie felt her heart would burst. She was mortified at the attention, but at the same time, exhilarated.
“Befo’ I ask,” Naz said to Bonnie, “you got to promise me one thing.”
“Sir?” Bonnie said.
“Aw, now, gal,” Naz moaned, “please don’t call me sir. Yo’ daddy…he’s a sir…I’m jes plain old Naz.”
All at once it hit Bonnie that Naz Wilder was actually talking to her. He was looking at her, smiling that amazing smile that she had seen more than once in the local papers.
“What I got to promise?” she asked softly.
A few men laughed.
“You got to promise to tell me the truth,” Naz said.
“Bonnie is honest as the day is long,” Wilbur insisted.
“The truth about what?” Bonnie asked.
Naz shifted his body to look directly at her. “I want you to tell me,” he started, “who you think was the best pitcher in the league ’tween…say, 1938 and…1956. But you cain’t say me,” he put in.
Bonnie held her head down as she thought. When she looked up, every eye in the room was on her. She felt nervous, not only that she had Naz Wilder’s attention, but also the interest of the reverends, deacons, wives and ushers. “Well…” she started.