“Farley, what the hell are you saying? He’s all we got now. I ain’t going to Lefty. I can’t burn another pitcher.”
Matheson broke away with sudden uncharacteristic reticence before uttering his final shot.
“You’re right,” the sententious old man replied. “Be like closing the barn door after the horse already escaped.”
The muscles in Murph’s face stiffened. He couldn’t understand what was happening out there. He was so sure it would work. That Mickey would succeed. Now the entire scene resembled nothing more than a fun-house mirror in which his own reflection was cast, distorted and grotesque. The kid still wanted the ball. But Matheson was right. Mickey was fried. Murph knew it, but had no choice but to go with him. He had all but decided to turn the reins over to Matheson and head for the showers himself, unable to stomach any more failure, when a line drive off the bat of the next batter found its way to McGinty’s glove and an inning-ending sparkler turned in by Danvers stopped the bleeding.
The defensive gem kept Murph around, but his hopes were quickly dashed when the Brewers were retired one-two-three in their half of the ninth. He hung his head, kicked the watercooler, and cursed his rotten luck. Then he caught sight of McNally across the field, smirking, heading his way, wanting to hurt someone.
“Jesus Christ, Murphy,” the opposing skipper gloated. “Is that your best? What kind of freak show are you running over there?”
Murph was just about to let loose on McNally when from the top step of the dugout he saw Dennison, motioning to him with a stone countenance and an impatient finger for a postgame meeting.
After the game, the Brewers’ locker room morphed into a maelstrom of anger, disappointment, and frustration. Each player sat at his locker carping about Murph and how the old guy was getting kookier than Matheson.
“This ain’t some fucking sandlot league,” Finster bawled across the room. “Christ, how many more goddamned games are we gonna have to lose before something changes? What the hell is he thinking?”
“He’s losing it,” Llamas responded loudly. He spit nervously. “The fucking guy is desperate and he’s killing us in the process. An overgrown clodhopper? That’s his answer? Ain’t things bad enough without this bullshit?”
A smattering of garbled commentary continued as the players got undressed. Mickey sat in front of his locker, next to Pee Wee, still in full uniform. He heard the acerbic banter and his eyes grew moist. He wiped them with one hand and brought the other to his stomach, where a pain throbbed deep within. He had all but suppressed the emotional explosion when Danvers happened by.
“Nice going, hayseed,” he mocked, knocking the boy’s cap off with a sharp blow to his head. “Way to blow the game, bumpkin.”
Pee Wee retrieved the cap from the floor. An awkward silence was filled with the arrhythmic breathing of rising tempers.
“Back off, Woody,” Pee Wee fired, fearful that the entire room was going to turn violent. “Your goddamned home run still counts.”
“Yeah, defend the yokel, McGinty, you little turd,” Faber shouted. “That shitkicker there’s the best thing ever happened to you. For sure.” Faber paused. “There’s finally someone freakier than you.”
Pee Wee stood up among titters of hysterical laughter.
“Anytime you want a piece, Faber, you know where to find it.”
The entire room erupted into a frenzy of derisive hooting, stamping feet, and banging lockers. Boxcar, who had hoped to stay out of the fracas, stepped away from his locker and was just about to settle the room when Murph came in on his way to see Dennison. The ruckus ceased instantly.
“Don’t let me spoil all the fun, fellas,” Murph said, his face expressionless. He had heard the source of commotion with ears ablaze. It bothered him to be the object of their criticism and ire. It bothered him even more that he had dragged Mickey down with him. His heart constricted with a repulsion for himself so clear, so intense, that it almost took his breath away.
“Hey, Mick,” he said, walking over to the sullen boy. “Everything good here?”
Mickey was surprisingly unmoved. He wanted to scream, to tell his manager how awful he felt. He wanted to tell him he wanted to go home but did not know the way. And that he didn’t know what a hayseed was. But he didn’t. Somehow, he knew better.
“I’m okay, Mr. Murphy,” he answered mechanically. “Mickey is fine.”
Warren Dennison’s office was dimly lit by a whisper of light creeping in from behind cream-colored vinyl roller shades stretched awkwardly across varnished cherrywood window frames and the artificial glow from two bulbs burning modestly behind Victorian bowls of frosted glass. Dennison was seated behind his desk, arms folded, ankles twisted uncomfortably, while he fiddled with one of the pilot lamps on his radio.
“I just want to listen to a little Glen Miller,” he complained. “Is that too much to ask? I can’t see a goddamned thing on this dial.” He threw his hands up in frustration and turned to Murph and began probing him with small eyes buoyed helplessly behind large, hornrimmed glasses.
Murph hated these postgame debriefings. And he hated Dennison’s chamber and all of its punitive connotations. Each visit was, to him, an exercise in mind-bending torture, tantamount to the merciless wood spoon his mother used to hammer across his knuckles whenever he transgressed as a boy.
“You know, Murph,” the old man said, releasing a white, viscous cloud of cigar smoke into the stagnant air, “a lot of fellas got their eyes on this team. Cripe, you’ve got yourself a nice bunch of guys here. More than enough talent to win. Fans love ’em too. Yup, you sure are sitting in the catbird seat. Be a crying shame if, oh, I don’t know, if one or two bad decisions messed things up for you.”
“How’s that?”
Dennison was staring directly at Murph, but his mind wandered to his youth, and to some of the fantastic stories he’d heard as a child, such as the ones his dad used to tell about his boyhood chum Brody McGinn, the great “Irish Warrior,” who, as a boy of just twelve, combed the neighborhoods of south Chicago between Armour Street and Barberry Avenue with an anticipatory malevolence.
“Come on, Pop! Did he really bloody a whole group of wise guys with nothing more than an old two-by-four and a bad attitude?” Warren asked, wide-eyed and smiling. “Just because one of them stepped on his shoes?”
“Why certainly he did, Son. What’s not to believe? It’s a tough world out there. And someone’s gotta be in charge.”
Dennison grinned as he reminisced.
“Ah, sir,” Murph interrupted. “You were saying?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. About the team. Say, did I ever tell you about Brody McGinn? There was this little Irish kid who—”
“Listen, Warren. With all due respect. Let’s cut all the raba daba. Shall we? You got something to say to me? Huh? Then just say it. Cards on the table. Right now.”
Dennison smiled awkwardly and wrapped one thumb around the other. “It’s that boy of yours—Mickey. I am not running some kind of goddamned safe house or church charity, Murph. Ya hear? Now, shit, I don’t know anything about this kid, except that he doesn’t belong anywhere near a ball field.”
Murph sighed and fidgeted in his chair. The darkness seemed to flow around him like a rushing tide. A familiar heat began to smolder at the back of his neck. The tiny embers took flight, creeping around to his face, flushing his cheeks while running down both arms, igniting his skin before finally settling in the tips of his fingers.
“Again, with all due respect, sir, I have to disagree. Sure, the kid’s a little green. But I saw him, Warren. I know what he can do. He’s gonna be golden for us. Just you wait.”
“I pay you to manage the ball club, Mr. Murphy. I’m not interested in your prognostications. Let me spell it out for you—plain and simple. You are stepping on my shoes. It’s getting uncomfortable. And I do not like to be uncomfortable. If you don’t see your way to the postseason this year, I’m afraid I’ll have to—well, let’s just say I’ll be force
d to explore other options for this organization. You understand? Right? Just business. Nothing personal.”
Murph looked around at the dim interior, at the suffocation spawning from Dennison’s tomb. He was such a hump. Frustration stole his voice momentarily so that all he could expel was a mirthless laugh.
“Come on, Warren. How could I possibly think that? Personal? That just wouldn’t be like you.”
INDIANA AND BACK
The rooster’s greeting of the new day had ceased and the sun had begun to dry the morning dew. The sound of a hammer pounding an anvil and the abrasive tenor of Clarence’s voice screaming for Molly scattered the few barnyard dwellers who had been bold enough to feed near the cantankerous farmer, unleashing high-pitched squeals that reverberated throughout the countryside like an alarm.
The Tussler farm was sparse and severe and filled with harsh moments just like these. A distinct grayness attached to everything, a suffocating grimness that emanated from its proprietor and sullied everything in its wake. But for Mickey, it was home. The only thing he had ever known.
“A visit home might do you a world of good Mick,” Murph announced as they pulled up to the battered mailbox. “Besides, I did promise your folks.”
Their feet struggled on loose gravel as they moved with care and precision, careful not to announce their arrival prematurely. It was a somber morning. The only perceptible movement came from a trifling wind that bent the tall grass just to their side, exposing a beleaguered groundhog tending to his morning chores.
As they moved closer, they could hear Clarence in the barn, banging things around and cursing everything under the sun, and figured it best not to enter.
They had no sooner awakened the creaky boards on the front porch when the screen door groaned and out came Molly, washboard in hand.
“Mickey! Come here, boy. Give your mama a hug.”
Arthur smiled and watched as two massive limbs swallowed the tiny woman.
“How are you, boy?” she asked. “Is everything good?”
Mickey’s eyes were scanning the property.
“Mickey? Is everything good?”
“Yeah, Mama. Good. Mickey is good.”
His eyes continued to rove. She smiled and ran her fingers over his shirtsleeve.
“Okay, sweetheart. I get it. Why don’t you run and see if you can find that confounded pig of yours.”
Mickey bounded off the porch, leaving Arthur and Molly to themselves. She looked different, he thought. Her eyes had a warmth, something soft and vibrant struggling to find the light. Even her hair looked different, possessed a radiance and silkiness that flourished in the emerging morning shine.
“He sure loves that pig,” she said almost apologetically.
“Yup,” Arthur replied. “Talks about him a lot.”
“Would you like to come in, Mr. Murphy?”
“Arthur. Please call me Arthur.”
She blushed a little and touched the hair at the back of her neck and then at the top of her head. She smiled genuinely, girlishly.
“Okay, Arthur. Would you like to come inside?”
“Your husband’s still out back, right?”
She nodded, wishing she could stop the part of her mind where thoughts of Clarence and all of the hidden shame resided. If only it were all just outside her, a jigsaw puzzle perhaps, where she could simply reorder the pieces.
“Very well then,” Arthur said, smiling. “Lead the way.”
The house was quiet and still, but the familiar pungency remained. The inside was just as he remembered, dark and austere, although this time, the grave furnishings seemed to trouble her more than they did him.
“Please excuse the mess, Mr.—I mean, Arthur. Can’t seem to ever keep up.” She frowned at the pile of dirty clothes strewn across the floor.
“Well, this is a lot of work for a pretty lady to do all by herself,” Arthur replied. “I think it’s just fine.”
She looked at him sideways through her hair. He was strong, not so much in a physical sense, although she could see the ripples in his biceps every time he moved his arms. He had an air of confidence, of righteousness, one that seemed to elevate him above any other man she had ever known. This was most apparent in his eyes, two brown pools that possessed a depth and understanding to which she was not accustomed.
“You know Mrs. Tussler—Molly—Mickey is doing well,” he said, picking up the dusty clarinet resting on the mantel. “I don’t want you to worry or anything. I brought him here just so he could visit. I thought you might like to see him.”
“I miss him something awful. More than I thought. It’s sort of empty in the house without him. You know? But, I’m glad he’s gotten out of here. And I’m certainly happy he’s with you.”
“Well, we’re all happy to have him.”
“Has he been difficult? You know, sometimes he has these—well, episodes you can call them. Mostly when things get a little too much for him to handle.”
“Nothing that we haven’t been able to help him with. But now that you mentioned it, what can you tell me about that strange poem he recites sometimes? It is a little odd. Anything I should know?”
She laughed softly. “ ‘Silver.’ By Walter de la Mare. It’s my favorite poem. I used to whisper it in Mickey’s ear when he was small. Just when he was most upset. He’d get into my lap and I’d rock him in my chair and whisper it over and over until he calmed down. Then one day, years later, when he was maybe ten years old, Clarence upset him so. I wasn’t around, and he just started reciting the words. All of them. It was amazing. He is not stupid, like some folks say.”
“No ma’am, he is certainly not stupid.” Murph smiled at her, clarinet still in hand. “Do you play?”
“I used to. A long time ago.”
“I love music. Sure would love to hear a song.” Looking at him, she knew he was sincere. It made her smile. Yet thoughts of Clarence and his disdain for any endeavor that fell beyond the limited scope of farmwork squelched any inclination to fulfill the request.
Her mind wandered back to the last time she’d held the instrument at her lips. They had only been married a little more than a year. It was a blustery, wet day in late fall. She was outside tending to the animals, struggling most of the day under November’s gray dissolution and its dappled gloom. She had been at it for almost six straight hours. Her clothes were damp and her face cold and chaffed. Now, with night steadily approaching, she looked up at the distant trees arching spidery against the changing sky and felt a surging desire to be inside, warm by the fire.
When she reached the house, Clarence was still nowhere to be found. She breathed easily. Changing her clothes, she peeled the damp fibers from her skin, shuddering spasmodically when a cool wind caught her bare body. When she was dressed again, the chill lingered.
She wandered downstairs to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. There were potatoes to peel and carrots to chop. She rummaged through a kitchen drawer, finally pulling out a serrated paring knife. She had just begun her assault on the vegetables when a chill slipped up her back, prompting her to set the knife down and seek the warmth of the fire in the adjacent room.
In the glow of the crackling fire, she sat on a chair with her knees drawn up to her chest, pulling them tight with her arms, fashioning a shelf on which to rest her head. She appeared anesthetized by the roiling flames, lost in a conflagration of images that, to her dismay, flitted before her with powerful vibrancy.
She could see, suspended somewhere just above the iridescent blaze of the logs, an airy, miragelike picture of a little girl dressed in a white, lacy cargo dress. In one hand she holds a yellow flower. In the other, a shiny black clarinet. The girl is smiling. Molly sagged. The picture, vivid and familiar, stirred her deepest regrets. Gaunt and hollow-eyed, she gasped, driven full tilt to the mantel where the same instrument had lain for months, shrouded in dust.
With gentle breaths and delicate strokes of her fingers, she wiped clean the sooty instrument. It s
parkled in her hands, magical. She licked her lips and drew the clarinet to her mouth slowly, deliberately. It tasted sweet. Her face melted into a radiant smile.
Then she played. One song after another, she played, each more passionate than the last. Her entire body was alive, tingling with ebullience, an electricity that flowed recklessly underneath her skin and into her fingers and toes. She was intoxicated, swept away by the enchantment until she heard the door bang open and felt a cold blast of air at her back.
“What the hell are ya doin’, woman?” Clarence asked. “Why ain’t ya in the kitchen, fixin’ supper?”
She felt all at once small and exposed. “I’m sorry, Clarence. I was cold, and then I saw the clarinet, so I figured—”
“Oh, you done some figering now, did ya?” he said sarcastically. His mouth hung open and his hat crossed his forehead in a straight line, just above his half-opened eyes. He was looking around the room as if he were considering letting her go with just a stern admonition. Then, with a panting fury, he ripped a shotgun off the wall, aimed the barrel at a point just above her head, and pulled the trigger.
“There ain’t no time on this here farm for no music playing, little Miss Molly. Ya hear? Don’t let me catch you again, else my aim may not be so good next time.”
The recollection was painful and strong.
“I don’t think so, Arthur,” she finally said. “I can’t play. Not today.”
“Aw, come on now. Don’t be a party pooper. Just one song. What harm could it do? Come on. One song. What do ya say?”
“I can’t explain it. It’s just not a good idea.”
“Is it him?”
She nodded and shared a little of the sordid history. He stood motionless and listened, his head cocked slightly to one side. She had tears in her eyes. He let her struggle through each reminiscence, then held the instrument in her direction. She looked at it, with curious uncertainty, her arms stretching and retreating in conflicted desire until finally Arthur placed the black object in her soft hands.
The Legend of Mickey Tussler Page 7