Suder (2 page)

“The water is
not
too hot!” she screamed and then she stood up. “The water is
not
too hot.” She walked out.

Chapter 2

At noon the next day I'm up and just out of the shower and buttoning my shirt when Lou Tyler comes in.

“Don't you ever knock?” I ask him.

“Never,” he says, looking around the room. “Where's Nicks?”

“Shower.”

“How's the leg?”

I look at him, puzzled, and sit on the bed and start pulling on my socks. “Ain't nothing wrong with my leg.”

“But Tuck said … Never mind. How'd you sleep?”

“Fine,” I tell him.

“Feel okay?”

“I feel fine.”

“Big game today,” he says and pushes a stogie into his face. “We've got to get back on the right track. You hear me? The right track.”

David comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around him and says hello to Lou. Lou pulls his cigar out and nods a hello and then he turns back to me. “Get your mind on the game.” He turns to David. “Nicks, you keep an eye on him. Don't let him think about nothing but baseball.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” David asks and pulls on his pants.

“I don't give a shit, just do it.” Lou walks to the door and as he's leaving he says, “The bus leaves at five.”

I watch the door close behind him.

“Hey, don't worry,” says David, “you'll break out of it.”

We have breakfast, watch some TV, and head for the stadium. We're in the clubhouse and Butch Backman, the catcher, walks over to me.

“I hope you play good today,” he says in that dumb voice of his.

“I hope I play good, too,” I says, mocking the sound of his voice.

Butch stares at me for a long second and then walks away.

“Lighten up,” David says to me.

I look at David and I know he's right, so I walk over to Butch and apologize. Butch tilts his head and looks at me through those slits he calls eyes. “I'm just a little uptight,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” he says, putting his finger in my face. “I might not be as smart as you, and maybe I didn't go to college, but I know enough to give a hundred percent on the field.” He slams his locker and leaves the room.

It's not a real hot night, but I'm sweating before the game starts. As I'm standing by the dugout, some kid leans out over the railing and hands me a program and a pen. He wants me to pass it to David Nicks.

The first inning ends scoreless and hitless and our cleanup man, Pete Turner, flies out in the second. So, I'm up and I look at the board and there's my batting average staring me in the face, .198, first time ever under .200. Before I know it, I've got two strikes on me. The third pitch comes blowing in and I swing and hit nothing, but the catcher muffs the ball. He can't find the handle, so I'm on base.

David's at the plate and I'm taking a short lead toward second and I'm thinking about my slump and like something out of a dark room the pitcher makes a move to first and I dive for the bag. I'm out.

I brush the dirt off my clothes and walk back to the dugout shaking my head. I sit down beside old Tuck McShane.

“So, you gonna let me wrap that leg for you?”

Now I'm beginning to think that maybe something is wrong with my leg and I nod.

Tuck pulls up my pant leg and wraps my right leg. He wraps it pretty tight and I can't bend my leg or straighten it out completely.

“It's a little tight.”

“Naw, it's fine,” he says.

We're taking the field again and I'm limping. I was not limping before.

In the tail end of the seventh, Baltimore has men on first and third, with two out, and the score tied. I'm playing shallow when the ball is hit hard and low to the gap between me and the shortstop. I dive and knock the ball down and pick it up. I pivot around on my right leg, which has no feeling in it, and off-balance I throw the ball way over the first baseman's head.

So, I'm at the plate in the eighth and the first pitch comes whistling in and tags me on the helmet. I go down and things get blurry. Old Tuck waves some smelling salts under my nose.

“How's the leg?”

I just close my eyes. I'm loaded into an ambulance and taken to the hospital. The doctor comes in.

“How's your leg feel?”

“The ball hit me in the head.”

“But Mr. McShane said—”

“The ball hit me in the head.”

He pulls up my pant leg and starts feeling around the wrapping. “Here's your problem. This thing is cutting off your circulation.”

“Doc, honest to God, the ball hit me in the head.”

He grabs my head and pulls my eyelids up. “What day is it?”

“Friday. Today is Friday, July ninth.”

“How many fingers?”

“Three.”

“Good. I think you're fine, but we'll take some X rays just to be sure.” He starts to unwrap my leg.

I get X-rayed and then I go back to the hotel. I sit out the next two games and without me the team wins, three-one and one-zip. In the clubhouse after Sunday's game, spirits are a little better.

It was Sunday, right after church, and Martin and I were out by the pond, still dressed in our powder-blue suits. Martin was trying to pick birds off the telephone line and I was watching tadpoles.

“You know,” I said, “Ma didn't seem so crazy this morning.”

Martin looked away from his target and at me. “Asking everybody to move out of the first three rows was pretty crazy.”

I looked at my reflection in the pond and thought about Ma.

“Got him,” said Martin. He started off toward his kill and I followed him. We stood over the sparrow and looked at the little red spot on his head. “Got him in the head.”

I looked at Martin's face. We didn't say anything else. We just walked back to the house. We walked through the back door into the kitchen. All of Martin's dirty magazines were on the table and open to the fold-out pictures.

“Not again.” Martin sighed.

“You filthy boy.” Ma pulled her hair, wet from perspiration, out of her face. “You pull on yourself.”

Martin turned and walked out.

“Don't you leave this house!”

Martin stopped and turned around.

Ma walked to me and put her arm around me. “Why can't you be a good boy like Craig?”

Martin sighed again.

“Oh, Martin, you're just like your father. He's out now, up to no good. The mighty Dr. Suder. He says he's gotta go see if Sara Harris is about to have her baby, but I know better. He's with that Lou Ann Narramore from down at the drugstore.”

“That's not true,” Martin said.

“Why can't you be a good boy like Craig, here?”

Martin looked at me real hard-like. His lower lip was pushed out slightly and his cheeks were puffed. He turned and walked out.

“You are a good boy, Craigie,” Ma said and hugged me tight. “You're not like your father. You're like me. You're just like your mother, just like your mother.”

She hugged me tighter and I tried to pull away. I fell back and to the floor. I pulled myself up by grabbing the table and I knocked some magazines to the floor. Ma got down on her knees and started pulling them together.

As I stood over her, looking at the bald spot on top of her head where she'd tried to shave, I thought about what Martin had said about knocking sense into her. I picked up a china bowl from the dish rack and broke it over her head. She fell on her face. I let out a scream.

Martin came running in and saw Ma stretched out on the floor. “What happened?”

“I broke a bowl over her head.”

Martin kneeled down and picked up Ma's head and let it drop. He closed his eyes for a second. “You can't tell anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can't tell anyone you hit her.”

“I have to tell Daddy.”

“No. We'll just say she passed out. Just like that. Do you hear me?”

“I don't know, Martin.”

“Look here.” He pointed at Ma. “She's out cold, maybe dead. Do you want to go to jail?”

“No!”

“Then what are you going to tell Daddy?”

“She passed out. Just like that.” I paused. “She's not dead, is she?”

Chapter 3

Martin and I were standing at the foot of the bed looking at Ma and Daddy was standing on her right, holding her hand. The curtains were open and the hospital room was flooded with light and it kinda made Ma look like she had a halo. The old lady in the bed on the other side of the room divider was moaning something awful.

“Oh, shut up, you old hag!” my mother yelled.

“Okay, dear, settle down,” Daddy said.

Ma looked down along her body and over her feet at me. “Come here, Craigie.” She held up her left hand.

I walked over to her left side and took her hand. The sun was hot on my back through the window. I looked closely at the wrapping on her head.

“Craigie.”

“Yeah, Ma?”

She looked at Martin and then at Daddy. “I'd like to be alone with Craig.” Her eyes moved again to me.

Daddy and Martin left the room and I watched the big door swing slowly closed.

“Craigie,” Ma said, “you're a good boy. You've got to be careful in life. Don't trust anyone. Trust not a living soul and walk cautiously amongst the dead.”

“Yes, Ma.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits and I got scared. “You know, your daddy's been a bad boy. He's been running around with that Lou Ann Narramore down at the drugstore.”

“No, Ma.”

She sat up and leaned toward me. The sun had made me hot and sticky, so I was scared and uncomfortable. “He is and I don't want to hear another word out of you about it. Your daddy is running around and we're going to catch him. You and me. You hear me?”

I nodded.

Daddy pushed his head into the room. “Craig, we're about ready to go.”

“Get out!” Ma screamed.

Daddy's head disappeared.

“Okay, Craigie.” She pulled me down and kissed my forehead. “Go on, but remember what we talked about.” She stroked my face.

I nodded and turned and started out.

“Craigie.” She called me back. “I love you the most. You were a breech baby. You were difficult. I almost died having you. That's why I love you the most. You and me. We're going to catch the two of them in the act, your father and that Lou Ann Narramore.” She fell back into her pillow. “From down at the drugstore.”

I started out again.

“Hey, psssst,” called the old lady in the other bed. I stopped and looked at her.

She summoned me with her finger. “Come here, little boy.”

I walked slowly toward her and looked into her face, which was contorted with pain.

“Look around,” she said, “and see if you can find my pills. They're yellow. They're for the pain. Please, little boy.”

“Huh?”

“Your mother took my pills and hid them. I don't know why, but she did. And now the nurse won't give me any more. Please, the pain is real bad.”

Ma snatched the divider back and yelled, “Go home, Craig!”

I ran out. In the hallway, Daddy looked at me and said, “She is still your mother.”

Ma spent one night in the hospital and Martin and I waited in the living room for Daddy to bring her home the next day.

“Daddy thinks it might be the heat,” Martin said, “that's got Ma acting this way.”

“Martin, I'm scared.”

“Why should you be scared? She likes you. I'm the one who should be scared.”

“Do you think Daddy is running around with Lou Ann Narramore?”

Martin thought. “I don't know. I don't think so.”

The front screen door pushed open and Ma and Daddy walked in. Ma didn't say anything. She just walked past us and into her bedroom. She came out wearing her coat.

“Dinner,” she said. “Dinner, dinner, dinner …” She walked into the kitchen.

My wife, Thelma, is waiting on me when we land in Seattle, but the kid ain't with her. I walk to Thelma and give her a big hug and pull back to take a look at her. I put my arm around her and we're walking out of the terminal and I ask where little Peter is.

“He's at my mother's house,” she says.

“How come?”

“It's late. He's got camp tomorrow.”

I nod and pull her closer.

“Besides, I thought it would be nice if we were all alone tonight.”

We drive home and enter the house. I throw my bag down and turn to Thelma and grab her and give her a big kiss. She takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.

Turns out I can't perform. It's a problem I've been having and I don't know what to say.

“Still,” Thelma says and glares at me for a second. “That's just terrific.”

“Please—”

“I'm tired of being patient, Craig.” She rolls over and sighs.

I fall asleep and wake up to all this noise and I turn on the light to find Thelma pedaling on her exercise bicycle. I look at the clock.

“It's three-thirty in the morning,” I complain.

She doesn't pay me any mind. She just pedals faster and her head is moving back and forth and perspiration is streaming down the sides of her face.

“Come to bed.”

She stops pedaling. “Is it your leg? Does it hurt?”

I shake my head.

She starts pedaling again.

I wrap my head up in the pillows, trying to block out the sound, but it ain't no use. And now she's singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I've seen, nobody knows but …” I get out of bed and go to the kitchen to look for something to eat.

I find some ham in the refrigerator and make a sandwich. When I finish my sandwich and down a glass of milk, my eyes become hard to keep open. I put my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands and that's the way I wake up four hours later.