He followed her to the sink and stood behind her. He wanted to slip his hands around her waist—to touch her hair, maybe kiss the back of her neck. It seemed that what little had already transpired between them had been leading to this moment. That it would be the end of one story and quite possibly the beginning of another. But he too felt the stranglehold of circumstance and opted for a much safer route.
“I never did apologize, directly that is, for what happened to Mickey,” he said, standing next to her. “I hope you’re not angry with me.”
“Don’t be silly, Arthur. I know it wasn’t your fault. You have done so much for him. Given him opportunities that he never would have had. Really. You have been so good to him. Like a guardian angel. I can’t wait to see him play.”
Later that night, despite a tangible awkwardness, he kissed her. He held her closely, so that he could feel his blood mix with hers, and kissed her softly on the lips. No one else was around, except Orion and the Seven Sisters, winking from above with silent approbation.
They had ventured outside, to gaze at the moon, and maybe walk in the cool night air. It was not supposed to happen. She was talking about how time had just slipped away from her, and how there was so much of life she had yet to experience, when their faces sort of became tangled in each other. At first, their lips and their eyes trembled as they gazed at each other, questioning but understanding. That’s when it happened.
“Arthur, this has to go slow,” she said, the moon’s glow reflected in her eyes.
His heart flooded with passion. Hearing her say those words was more than enough—more than he’d expected. He was leaning, warm and quivering, his back up against the top rail of a wooden fence. The night was glorious. Something electric. Standing there, he could swear he felt his life changing all around him.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Molly,” he whispered. He stepped way from the fence and cleared some errant strands of hair from her eyes. “There’s no rush. It’s okay. Some things—the things that are most important—they tend to just happen all on their own.” He stopped momentarily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And those are the things always worth waiting for.”
LAST STAND
An eery, dreamlike dusk fell on Lefty as he moved stealthily toward Murph’s place. With his car safely ensconced in the sweeping canopy of a weeping-willow grove just a half mile up the road, he ventured out on foot, his boots dusty from the parched soil in the roadbed.
As he walked, Lefty let his eyes wander, something he often did when his mind was filled with myriad things to weigh. Life was a continuous learning curve, just like baseball. Throw an 0–2 fastball down the middle and get burned, it never happens again. Easy enough. Why then, he lamented silently, hadn’t the same principle applied to his life outside the lines? In his dizzy state, he was not able to ascertain what he had gained, if anything, from his previous dealings with Quinton and McNally. If he had gained a new maturity, self-awareness, or inner strength from his past troubles, he could hardly feel it now as he walked toward the house so helplessly, childlike even, struggling with his impotence.
With Murph’s house almost in sight, he became uncomfortably aware of the frenetic movements of the creatures all around him. Bees vibrated in the colorful clusters of wildflowers; frogs croaked and splashed off in the distance; hummingbirds and swallowtails worked the sweet air in search of vacant flower heads; crickets crooned to a soon-to-be-yellow moon. The accumulation of energy filled his heart with dread.
“It’s not enough to just pitch for us anymore, Rogers, ya hear?” McNally had told him. “Quinton wants more. We can’t take any chances here. We have to insure our path to victory. Now go over there and rattle that boy’s cage.”
Lefty nodded imperceptibly, almost desperately. “How am I supposed to do that? I mean, I just got out of trouble.”
“Don’t be such a pussy, Rogers. Holy shit. I don’t know. Think of something. Steal his glove. Throw a rock through his window. You’re no choirboy. You’ll think of something. But make it good. I want him so rattled that he can’t even hold a baseball.”
Lefty pressed his fingers against his face like prison bars, as if to force out between them his growing uncertainty. “Okay,” he finally said, pulling his hands away from his face. “I guess I’ll think of something.”
Lefty recalled bitterly the last deal he had made with Quinton. How that rat bastard had hung him out to dry. It still burned his insides. He knew Quinton could not be trusted. Of that he was certain. The enormity of this realization rose up with fury, but did not alter his circumstances. Remember where your bread is buttered, he told himself. If it weren’t for the opportunity he was being given—to pitch in the postseason for the favorite and possibly resurrect his career—he would have just bolted, turned right around, and told both of them to shove it up their asses.
The tip of Murph’s roof emerged out from behind a cloud of blackpoll warblers that erupted out of a sycamore that had all but completely turned color. He reached down and picked up a rock, walked a few more steps, thought some more, then dropped it. He considered slipping in the house and messing with Mickey’s things, but decided against that as well. In truth, he did not know what to do. All he really wanted was to pitch.
This indecision had all but paralyzed him when his eye caught sight of two figures, linked at the elbow, walking away from the house in the opposite direction. They were talking and laughing. It was Murph, and on his arm a woman. Opportunity flashed before him. Mickey would be by himself. Alone. Vulnerable. It was perfect.
Lefty was certain that he could talk circles around the dim-witted country boy, enough so that he would be too scared to step foot anywhere near the ballpark.
Before Lefty even saw his victim, he heard him, squeaking the boards on the front porch with the white rocker while feeding Oscar some partially spoiled husks of corn. Lefty smiled. He was thinking and wondering what McNally and Quinton would say when they heard. How they would congratulate him on his initiative. Maybe even leave him alone at last. In a flash he saw himself in the triumphant scene—sipping cognac and puffing away on a Cuban cigar in Quinton’s office.
“Well done, Mr. Rogers. Well done.”
The sky was darkening. Lefty looked right, then left, before stealing up the worn dirt drive and onto the gravel path that lay just below the porch. The sound of the rocker grew louder under the pale light of the emerging moon.
“Hi ya, Mick,” he said cheerfully, startling him. “Remember me?”
Mickey flushed. He looked away, his attention tied up with scratching his porker behind the ears.
“Sure is a nice night, ain’t it?” Lefty grinned, mounting each of the three steps one at a time, leaning up against the spindled rail, arms outstretched, once he reached the platform. Then he lit a cigar and puffed on it a few times, the smoke flowing from his mouth in a long, curling ribbon over one of his shoulders.
“Whatcha got there, Mickey?” he asked, feigning interest.
Mickey’s soul was naked in his big, dark eyes. “My pig. From home.”
“He got a name?”
“Name’s Oscar. Oscar.”
Lefty rolled the cigar across his bottom lip and over to the other side of his mouth. “Well, that there’s a fine-looking porker. Yes, siree. Big one. Pig like that’s a beautiful thing. Sure would make a whole lotta bacon.” He let go a guttural laugh, his voice grating on Mickey’s nerves.
Mickey glared at Lefty, his feelings sharp and bent in the intruder’s direction. He sat still now, Oscar by his side, left alone to face the wickedness of a world of which he understood so little.
“You know, Mickey, we got a pretty big game coming up. Yes, sir. Sure gonna be a lot of hoopla that day. Lots on the line. I would sure hate to see you get hurt again.” Something smug and self-satisfied was in Lefty’s eyes.
“Mickey’s not getting hurt, Lefty Rogers. Mickey’s just playing ball.”
“Well, I’m your friend, Mickey.
I feel terrible about what happened to you that night. Really. I could never live with myself if it happened again. I’m here today to warn you—to protect you from that same thing happening, all over again.”
Mickey’s back was stiff as he picked at a splinter in his hand. He was remembering, with great difficulty, the weeks he’d lost at the hands of his assailants. The recollection drew him deeper inside himself.
“Are you not hearing me?” Lefty said. “I’m saying that unless you sit out the next game, someone is fixing to get you.”
“Oscar is nine years old. He’s one of the oldest pigs on my farm, back home. One of the biggest too.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn about your lousy pig, shit for brains. I am talking to you.” Lefty moved closer, continuing to bulldoze the uncertain boy until the blood at his temples drummed feverishly. “Look at me, ya goddamned water head. Are you listening to me? Answer me!”
Mickey’s cheeks, soft and fleshy, crumpled. His pupils were large and strained, his thoughts stinging him at every turn.
“Oscar’s smart too,” Mickey mumbled. “He can count and play fetch.”
“Hobble your lip, you fucking retard!” Lefty hollered. “I am talking to you. But all you care about is that stupid, mangy bag of fat.”
Lefty paused, and then like a tiny ledge of ice that suddenly breaks free from its glacial host, his senses left him. His eyes, now fixed firmly on Oscar, burned a fiery red. With his gaze narrowed and his lips wet with bubbling saliva, he swung his foot back and launched his boot into Oscar’s ribs, sending the stunned beast, wailing plaintively, hurtling across the floorboards and into the rail with a thunderous crash.
“There you go, moron!” Lefty ranted. “Now ya have something to worry about.”
A momentary stillness filled the air. Then Mickey shot out of the chair. All the chords of past oppression sounded simultaneously. He heard the booming shouts of his father, and the soft whimpers of his mother. He felt the weight of bootheels in his gut and dirty hands around his neck. He saw the face of the monster who had orchestrated his abduction—and who had just maimed his dearest friend. Mickey was pure instinct now, a machine devoid of reason and feeling. His body lunged forward and crashed against Lefty’s, his hands like an iron vise around Lefty’s neck.
With his blood surging to every muscle, he lifted Lefty off the ground and shook him. Lefty’s legs flailed. So did his arms—weak, flaccid hammers striking wildly, ineffectually, at a brick wall. Mickey was undaunted. He squeezed tighter and tighter, like a screw being turned slowly, steadily. The protest began to wane. The breath was fainter and the muscles listless. Mickey saw none of it. He was still gone, his eyes glazed with fear and terror and loathing. He had all but completely surrendered to the demon that had seized him when his outburst was arrested by a voice, distant, but soft and soothing.
“ ‘Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon.’ “It’s ‘Silver,’ Mickey,” Molly called to him. “Walter de la Mare. You remember. I know you do.”
The tiny group that had gathered outside the house stood and watched in helpless horror as Mickey released Lefty to the ground in a crumpled heap. They watched as Mickey’s eyes slowly returned to him, his lips moving in unison with Molly’s.
Sheriff Rosco, who had come shortly after the disturbance was called in, raced to the porch, silver cuffs clanking in his eager hands, only to be thwarted by Murph’s body, rigid and strong.
“Let her handle it, Sheriff,” he said to him. “She’s got him.”
Molly climbed the steps of the porch, continuing to recite the magical words. She could see the tears straining in Mickey’s eyes.
“ ‘Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog.’ ”
Mickey’s lips continued to form the same words. He looked quizzically at the body lying before him. It no longer seemed this menacing, wicked force but rather just a lifeless, inert mass for which he felt nothing more than indifference.
Molly reached the boy just as the two of them completed their recitation. Rosco was right behind her.
“Mickey, sweetheart, it’s all right now,” she said, running her hand over the damp skin at the back of his neck. Mama’s here. It’s all right.”
Mickey’s mouth fell open, and tears slid swiftly down his cheeks. His face flushed with a sudden calm, and he embraced Molly with a quiet, desperate longing.
“It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s over now. I’m here,” she whispered in his ear. Mickey’s massive body melted in her arms. She rubbed his back lovingly for some minutes, then pulled away ever so slightly, so that he could see her face.
“Now you’ll do something for Mama, right?”
Mickey wiped his eyes crudely with the back of his wrist and nodded.
“Be a good boy for Mama and just tell the sheriff here what happened.”
Sheriff Rosco no longer had any use for Molly. He thanked her but pushed her aside and sent her back down the porch steps, instructing her to wait with the others while he conducted his investigation.
“What happened here, son?” Rosco asked. “Did you hurt this man?”
Mickey could not answer. His eyes raced back and forth between the lifeless carcass of his fallen friend and Lefty.
“Boy, I’ll ask you again, one more time, and one more time only, because I’m losing my patience. Did you hurt this man? Yes or no?”
Mickey’s mouth moved spastically, but nothing came out. Rosco stood, shoulders square and stiff, his face frozen with frustrated rage. Mickey’s heart beat frenetically. His eyes were fixed beyond the sheriff, on Molly, as she continued to mouth the words It’s all right.
“He killed Oscar,” Mickey finally cried. “Killed him. Right there. Killed him. That wasn’t nice.”
“So you wanted to kill him? Is that right?” Rosco persisted. “Oscar was my friend.”
“Did you want to kill him? Just answer the question.”
“He were my favorite porker. Biggest one too.”
“What’s the matter with you, boy? You stupid or something? I’m talking to you here. And you could be in a heap of trouble. Answer the question. Now.”
All at once there was a drumming in Mickey’s head. There were too many thoughts, and no place to put them. He placed his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tightly.
“Answer me, boy. Answer me now,” Rosco demanded.
A low mutter of thunder moved along the sultry sky, and a moment later some cold drops began to fall to the earth. Then in a voice high and abject, almost inhuman, Mickey began the haunting recitation.
“ ‘Slowly, silently, now the moon …’ ”
Rosco was out of patience. He removed the billy club from his waist and pressed the end up against Mickey’s throat. Molly gasped and buried her face in Arthur’s shoulder. The boy’s eyes exploded open, followed by words, desperate and emotive.
“Mickey did not mean to hurt Lefty,” he cried loudly. “Oscar’s my friend. My friend. I did not know. Mickey does not lie. I just wanted him to stop. To stop hurting us. I did not know. Lefty will get up. Then I can take Oscar. Mickey did not know.”
Rosco shook his head. He had a nasty impulse to just cuff the boy and throw him into the back of his car, but the ambulance had arrived and Lefty was coming to.
“Don’t let him go nowheres,” the sheriff said to Murph before turning his attention to the victim. “He’s far from free. I’m gonna have plenty more questions for him.”
Molly sobbed out loud before collapsing into Murph’s arms. He squeezed her tightly. His wet face, lit now by the flickering glow of the sheriff’s car lights, melted into clay, his dream of play-off glory all but gone, once and for all, carted away in the ambulance with the battered body of Lefty Rogers.
The clouds the next morning were thick and restless, a suffocating shroud of steel gray that threatened to burst open at any moment. Murph and the entire team sat in the locker room expressionless, numb from the previous day’s deb
acle. Nobody wanted to talk about it—even think about it—but Murph had Mickey with him, per the request of Sheriff Rosco, who would be by later that day to bring the boy in for more questioning.
“Look, fellas,” Murph began. “This ain’t easy. For any of us. But we are a family here. Have been all season. And something bad has happened to one of us. We need to stand together here and help Mickey as best we can.”
Mickey looked uneasily up at the ceiling and lost himself in the symmetrical pattern of the tiles.
“ ‘Something bad has happened to one of us?’ ” Danvers repeated scornfully. One of us? Like hell! Something bad has happened to the rest of us, because of one of us.”
“Now listen, Woody, there ain’t no use in—”
“What the hell was you thinking, Mickey, for Christ sake? One day before the big game. Jesus, how stupid. How fucking stupid. And over a mangy pig no less. That’s what we get for putting all our faith in a fucking retard.”
“Stand down, Woody,” Boxcar warned. “That ain’t gonna do us any good now. The kid is sorry.”
“Sorry? He’s sorry?” Danvers barked. “Oh, well, isn’t that just great. He’s sorry. That makes it all better now.”
Murph put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. The boy moved around uncomfortably in his clothes and seemed to be buckling beneath the oppressive weight in the room. He looked as though he would just lie down, right there, and shrivel up before them. None of them could watch. They simply hung their heads in quiet desperation, a sort of catatonic state that lasted until an unexpected voice shattered the silence.
“Mickey is sorry,” the boy burst out suddenly. “I didn’t mean to hurt no one. Honest. I don’t know why Mickey did it.”
“It’s okay, Mick,” Murph assured him. “Nobody blames you.”
“It felt like a train,” the boy continued. “Roaring by Mickey’s face. It was loud, and rumbly. My head was shaking. I couldn’t hear nothin’ in my ears, except that sound. Honest. It would not stop.”
The Legend of Mickey Tussler Page 29