The Legend of Mickey Tussler (10 page)

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 sparkled 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.

“That was a long time ago, Molly. Besides, he's outside and I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you. Go on. Take it. Please. It's okay. Just one song.”

Molly cradled the instrument with maternal affection, as though she had been reunited with one born from her own being. The carved wood under her fingertips was electrifying and summoned a world long past, one replete with laughter, harmony, and artful deliberations. She smiled a brilliant smile, a smile so radiant, so lustrous, that it illuminated the dreary shadows that hung in every corner of the room—a smile so powerful, so dazzling, that it only ceased to shine when she brought the magic shoot to her lips.

With eyes closed and heart aflutter, she began to play. It was painful at first, as she struggled with the compulsion to yield to the calamity that had stripped her of something she loved so dearly. But Arthur prodded gently, and before long, there was music. Beautiful music.

The notes were soft and weightless. Her spirit took flight and her radiance seemed to wash across the homely little house, bathing the dust and dirt and dark-paneled walls in brilliant fire-lit hues.

Arthur began to sing softly. “ ‘Here I slide again; about to take that ride again; starry eyed again—taking a chance on love.'”

She opened her eyes, and pulled the instrument from her lips. She stood silent, looking at him with childish amazement. “You know Benny Goodman?”

“Are you kidding? I love him.”

The two shared a laugh and continued to play and sing. He marveled at the transformation as Molly's breath resurrected the exanimate instrument. It was magical—so magical that he even forgot, for the moment, those things that weighed heavily on
his
mind. Com pelled by the unremitting melodiousness, he stood with eyes closed in joyful silence, swooning in the exactitude of the measured notes. It was all so beautiful.

But, the respite from the outside world was shattered when Clarence, roused by the unfamiliar sounds from his house, came roaring inside.

“What in tarnation are ya doing, woman?” he bellowed. “I thought I was clear about messing with such foolishness. And with a guest in the house?”

Molly withered, shoved back into grim wordlessness. Her head fell, and Arthur could see the light in her eyes surrender to the farmer's dominion.

“That's okay, Mr. Tussler,” Arthur interjected. “It's no big deal. I don't mind.”

“Well, I sure do!” Clarence roared back. “Listen, Molly, put that stupid thing away and go fetch Mickey and have him meet me by the shed out back in a short while. I got a job for him but I want to talk with Mr. Murphy a spell.”

The two men walked uneasily toward the back of the property. Arthur lamented quietly having to spend even a second with Clarence. A peripheral glance showed the ornery simpleton picking his teeth with a screwdriver he had pulled from the front pouch of his soiled overalls.

Up ahead, just past two overgrown cornfields split by a narrow dirt path, was a fishing hole. The water, still and murky, was steaming in the morning sun. Arthur cringed from the smell.

“Look, maybe we should be getting back to the house,” he suggested. “It's a might hot out here.”

“Poppycock,” Clarence snorted. “It's purty as a picture out here.” He scratched his backside, belched loudly, and came to rest with a thunderous sigh on a rotting log. “Best damn fishin' spot in the county,” he boasted, casting his line into the water. “Have a seat.”

The worm at the end of the line landed gently on the water's surface, not too far from an old tire that was partially immersed. A perfect circle of ripples unfurled from the spot where the lure landed, forming a halo that framed the favored spot momentarily until both worm and frame vanished beneath the surface.

“You fish, Mr. Murphy?” Clarence pulled ever so slightly on the line.

“No, Mr. Tussler. Can't say that I do.”

“Well now. That's a darn shame. Gotta respect a man who fishes. Fishin' is a real test of smarts.”

Arthur's eyes rolled, then watched with mild interest as Clarence pulled in his line. “That may be the case, Mr. Tussler, but I'd like to think that despite my lack of fishing experience, I'm still a pretty shrewd fella.”

Clarence cast the line again, this time with greater force. “You seem to have taken a real liking to my family, Mr. Murphy,” he said, squaring his shoulders to the water. “That's a mighty curious nicety.”

“You're lucky, Mr. Tussler. You have very special people in your life. It's easy to like 'em.”

“Yeah, well, you don't live with 'em, now do ya?” Clarence turned to face Arthur.

Arthur was more than willing to hold Clarence's gaze and saw no
real
indication that he was looking to intimidate him.

“Look, exactly what is it that you want to talk to me about, Mr. Tussler? I really need to be heading back.”

Bright, orange reflections of light spattered the water between long, spiking shadows. A faint redolence of manure and wet grass floated on a tired breeze, burning the inside of Arthur's nose.

“I was thinking, seeing you got my boy down there with you— and I miss him so—that maybe you could see to it that the little woman and I can git a little more money—you know, just to make up fer all the pain and suffering.”

The smell of wet earth drying rose between them.

“Look, Mr. Tussler, Mickey is being looked after first-rate. There's nothing to worry about. I've gone out of my way to see he's okay—and will continue to do so. But you have to understand this is minor league baseball we're talking about. And not everyone's sold on him the way I am. I'm in no position at this point to give you any more money.”

“That's crap! I know how you city boys work. I ain't just some big, stupid country bumpkin. I know about things too, like penicillin and that there Marshall Plan they's always talking about on the radio. So don't treat me like some yokel from the sticks. You can't come in here and throw around yer fancy words and ideas about music and whatnot and the way you reckon people should be living out here and expect all of us to jest sit up and holler.” The farmer was bent over his boots, tugging on an errant piece of fishing line tangled in his laces. “It just don't work that way.”

“Well, if that's the way you feel, I'm afraid I'll have to leave Mickey here—with you—and that the contract you signed will become void—uh, no good anymore. Of course, this means you'll have to give back the money you already received.” With his announcement, Arthur stood up, stretched his arms, and made as if to leave.

“Now just hold yer horses there,” Clarence cried. “Hold on. Nobody said nothing about leaving the boy here. He wants to play baseball. I'm a good father. I understand now. We both want what's best fer the boy, right? Well, then I'll make the sacrifice. Fer the boy.”

“Now, that's more like it. Oh, and if you'd like, I
can
arrange for you and your wife to come down and see Mickey play. If it would help with all the suffering, I mean.”

“Us? Come down there? To watch a retard play baseball? Are you off yer rocker?”

“Just something to consider. And if
you
don't want to come, maybe you could send your wife. I know she'd enjoy it.”

Arthur walked with swift purpose back to the house, eager to rid himself of any more interminable exchanges with Clarence. His course was guided by the sound of rotten apples splattering against wood.

“Hey there, Mick. Ready to head back?”

“I reckon so, Mr. Murphy. Sure. Head back.” Mickey looked down at the ground. “I just have to finish this last row.”

Arthur watched, just as he had only weeks before, as Mickey fired, with alarming precision, each of the remaining apples into the turned barrel some one hundred feet away.

Thud. Thud. Thud, thud, thud
.

Arthur's eyes, wide with wonder, battled against the improbability of such a spectacle. One hundred feet? And so accurate? Shit, the rubber was only sixty and change. It made him think. His thoughts bounced off each other like honeybees at work in a field of spotted jewelweed. In time, they ascended to the most fertile patch, and they buzzed feverishly until one broke free from the others. It flashed across Arthur, at that instant, that something could be done to help the boy. That all the disorder and Mickey's uneasiness on the field could be righted. Murph's face grew brilliant with pleasure. With eyebrows raised, and a boyish smile that could not be contained, he tucked away the revelation, said his good-byes, and walked to his car.

The ride back to Diamond Drive was cloying. Arthur was haunted by the memorable scent of anxiety, by all the things he should have said to the ignorant farmer. This was always his problem—the web of regret, and how to extricate himself from its sticky spirals before more damage was done. He had gotten better with time. Managed to muster the strength and resiliency most times to convey his feelings about things that rubbed him wrong. Yet he still found himself ill equipped to drop the hammer—to deliver the whole truth with a swift, punishing wallop.

The trip home was long. Mickey talked about everything from Oscar's feet to road signs to how many breaths he could take in a minute. Murph just locked his hands on the wheel and listened as Mickey continued to pepper him with all sorts of minutia.

“Mickey thinks tomato soup is my favorite,” the boy said. “What about you Murph?”

“I don't know Mick. I'm not much of a soup guy.”

“I just don't like it when there is anything floating on the top,” Mickey continued. “Like crackers, or a piece of the tomato.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you think a tomato is rounder than an orange, Murph?”

“I don't know, Mick. I never really thought about it.” He sighed helplessly. “And I have to tell you. It's been a long day already. I'm sorry Mick. But I really do not want to talk about tomatoes and oranges.”

“Okay, Murph. But I think it is. Round.” The boy paused, his eyes scanning the trees that rolled away just outside his window.

“Potatoes aren't round,” Mickey continued in much softer tones. “They look sort of like—”

“Mickey, please! Enough!”

They rode on for several minutes in silence, the only audible sound a faint hum coming from deep within Mickey's throat that only ceased when he swallowed a piece of the licorice laces he had stuffed in one of his pockets.

“How much of that stuff do you have in there?” Murph asked.

Mickey frowned.

“I got's no more,” he replied. “And Mickey is still hungry.”

They stopped at a diner just up the road. Then they pulled the car onto the shoulder not long after so that Mickey could pee. Shortly thereafter, he was hungry again. They stopped repeatedly, each time to tend to either Mickey's insatiable hunger or to make use of the dense undergrowth along the road's shoulder in order to relieve themselves. Arthur was beginning to flip. This was the fourth stop in the last hour. He could feel the muscles in his neck tightening and his stomach beginning to churn violently, as if his whole body were trying to turn itself inside out. He thought he just might lose it right there. Start screaming at the kid about all the work he had ahead of him and how many hours they had lost farting around. But he burst into a nervous laugh instead as he watched Mickey surveying the cluster of gooseberry bushes for the perfect location to unzip his trousers. “Great thing about being a guy, eh Mick?” he laughed. “Don't really matter where you are. The possibilities are endless. Yup. When you're a guy, the whole world's your toilet.” Mickey stopped what he was doing, stared at Murph blankly, and placed a handful of berries in his pocket with great care before proceeding to take care of his business.