The Legend of Mickey Tussler (11 page)

Murph just rolled his eyes. He was definitely shot. They had gotten lost twice, spent way too many hours at roadside diners and had nearly suffered an unfortunate encounter with poison ivy on the previous two bathroom jaunts.

“Okay Mick,” he warned. “That's it now. I wanted to be home hours ago. No more stopping. It'll be dark soon. But if we drive straight through, we'll be home in time for bed.”

He drove with nervous urgency, Mickey seated quietly by his side, as if the falling of night might come down around on all sides, locking him in. Foolishly, he tried to outrun it, as if his efforts could stem the tide of nature's unyielding choreography. He fixed his gaze on the landscape ahead, wedded to the irrational quest, with all sorts of calculations lighting in his head. He knew, however, when the winding asphalt before him began to melt into the horizon's purplish yawn, that he was losing. His head drooped. And when the dark blanket had finally been lain across the countryside, and all he could see was the phantom outlines of cornstalks and fruit trees mocking his restlessness, he felt this profound sense of defeat.

The next night he was home, but the feeling continued. At the onset of evening, Arthur sat alone in his room, wrestling with the collection of discordant voices in his head. The restive dance of thought drove him from his chair to his bed, back to the chair, then finally to the window, where he stood momentarily, arms folded, before leaning out the tiny casement to close the shutters on a magnificent picture where white and salmon pear blossoms shimmered in the glowing twilight. The splendor of the scene struck him oddly and threw a spotlight on his misery. He sweated nervously and bemoaned with unexpected ferocity the misfortune that had dotted the last thirty-six hours. Dennison was an asshole—a first-class scumbag whose manipulation and cold, calculating manner scraped the delicate fabric of Arthur's sound but sensitive core. All he wanted to do was give this kid a shot. And now his job was on the line. It hardly seemed fair.

Then there was Clarence Tussler, the most loathsome, repugnant excuse for a human being he had ever met. He recalled with an alarming vividness the harsh words expelled from the farmer's lips and the foul breath on which they floated. Mickey didn't stand a chance with him. And poor Molly. How could such a gentle creature survive under that viscous cloud of gloom? He spent the better part of the evening with Mickey, mostly chatting and getting things ready for the next day.

“Your dad's quite a guy, Mickey,” Arthur said. “I had a chance to really talk to him.”

“Uh-huh,” Mickey answered, spilling the colored candy contents from a cardboard tube.

“It makes me wonder how you get along. You know, with each other?”

“I reckon I do okay.” The boy sat engrossed in the curious ritual, separating the candies into rows by color. “Mickey does okay. But Oscar doesn't like all the noise.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure. Pa's always screaming and all. It really bothers Oscar. Mickey can tell.”

Murph watched with fascination as Mickey began placing the colored chocolates in his mouth.

“Those are real good, eh?” Murph asked, laughing. “Guy at the general store just got 'em in. Calls 'em M&M's.”

Mickey never looked up. He just kept sliding the M&M's, one by one, row by row, across the table and into his mouth.

“What about your mom?”

“Mama's a nice woman.”

“No, I mean, does your dad yell at your mom?”

A dead silence greeted Arthur's words. Then Mickey's gaze fixed on the fireflies that had gathered outside by the window. All of a sudden, Arthur could no longer see the value in going further with his inquisition, or in trying to figure out why things fell against each other the way they did. He knew that—especially regarding Molly. She was so lovely yet so fragile, so sad—a hummingbird feather beating nervously against a stiff, frigid squall. He tried to quantify her energy, the resiliency she needed to continue the struggle. At first he marveled at the chimerical nature of such an endeavor. Perhaps he could learn something from this timid, careworn creature. But ultimately, it just made him sad. Poor Molly. She was his last thought when his head hit the pillow.

He dozed, but it was a fitful sleep, punctuated by his whirling and turning in the tumult of fragmented images and restless thought. He hated nights like these, when all around him hung these menacing abstractions, waving to him wildly. He could feel his body, weak and skittish, turning away from the formlessness, but was always powerless to wake himself during these moments.

Mercifully, dawn ultimately swallowed the moon and stars and a yellow sun ushered in the smells and sounds of a new day. Everything seemed better to Arthur. The sky was a deep, royal blue, and the tender shoots of grass emerging timidly from the barren lawn he'd seeded last fall were a vibrant green. He heard the sounds of springtime in the air, as if for the first time—screen doors banging behind eager children, bicycle tires rolling on gravelly thoroughfares, and from high in the thickest boughs of the sycamores, twittering from the indigo buntings, a melodious serenade announcing their arrival. It all smelled better too. Floating tenderly on the warming puffs of air was the bouquet of lilac, wisteria, and honeysuckle, tickling his nose with an intoxicating redolence. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs. What a day.

He drove to the ballpark with the windows open, although this made conversation with Mickey a near impossibility. He rolled his window halfway up, then back down again, then up almost all the way, trying to find just the right formula that would allow him to enjoy the warm, fragrant air and still be able to hear his soft-spoken passenger.

Mickey was hunched close to the windshield, as if his propinquity to the front of the car would somehow expedite the voyage. He seemed uncomfortable, although he pointed now and again excitedly and made a glib comment or two when they passed some stray dogs and wayward children wandering alongside the road. The observations almost ignited some conversation, but Mickey remained, for the most part, distant and meditative. He was feeling a little uncomfortable in his own skin. Baseball was overwhelming. It had trapped him. Forced him to retreat into a labyrinth, and he was too young, too inexperienced, too awestruck by all the eye-opening happenings, on and off the field, to find his way out.

“What's the matter with you this morning, Mick?” Arthur probed. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Cat, Mr. Murphy? No, no cats. Oscar's a pig. I don't got no—”

Arthur steadied himself with a long, purposeful breath. “It's just an expression Mick. That's all.”

They rode the rest of the way in relative silence. Arthur was ruminating over everything that was just plain wrong. His anxiety became indissoluble. He lamented that he always seemed to submit to the feckless desires of others, especially of those for whom he held unmitigated disdain. He was always dancing around Dennison, fearful of castigation.

Be a crying shame if one or two bad decisions messed things up for you,
he recalled bitterly. Dennison's words echoed in his ears. Christ, he was such a smug, pompous asshole.

“Go fuck yourself, Warren,” he always wanted to say. Just once, so Dennison would know that he was aware of what a shithead he was. Those words, however, could never pass his lips. They always got stuck, it seemed, somewhere in his throat, where they struggled and burned and festered for a while before he chewed the inside of his cheek, hung his head, and simply swallowed them until the next time. He fantasized wildly that his message would be delivered through some other medium—so that these elusive words would never have to meet the air. He considered this as he looked to his right and saw Mickey.

They arrived at the ballpark in plenty of time. It was a beautiful day for baseball; temperate breezes pushed a smattering of cottonlike clouds across a pale blue canvas. The sun was playing hide-and-seek for most of the early day, splashing the field at intervals with warm wrinkles of happiness. All around the tiny stadium were the sounds of the pregame euphoria—tractors grinding, coaches hollering, reporters snooping, and turnstiles clicking. This frenzy of anticipation would build to the crescendo that came only by way of that magical incantation “Play ball!” Once those words punctuated the air, the place went still, as if placed beneath a glass bowl, and all that could be heard was the traditional hymn to America, played on a C melody saxophone, and the erratic breathing of eager worshippers.

Lefty took the ball for the Brewers. He had been sparkling in his last three outings—won all three contests, allowing just nine hits and four earned runs while fanning a mind-boggling thirty-two batters. His run of good stuff continued against the Tulsa Beavers, as he set down the first nine men to step to the plate, five on punch-outs. “I'm rolling, fellas,” he boasted. “Everyone hitch your wagons.” His bluster continued to soar after he fanned the next three Beavers, and in the Brewers' half of the fourth, Woody Danvers launched a threerun rocket over the left-field wall, giving the Brewers and Lefty what figured to be all they would need.

The weather, however, turned unexpectedly, and out of the frowning face of the sky, a light rain began to fall. Initially it made a whisper and then a soft murmur, like voices conversing in a closed room. It seemed to be a passing shower. But soon after, it began pounding the earth with thunderous blows, like a herd of self-indulgent colts charging through a clay pan canyon.

Arthur and the others watched from the dugout steps as the water hammered the infield dirt, creating syrupy, glasslike puddles that swelled and bubbled before sprawling across the entire diamond.

“Great Caesar's ghost!” Matheson lamented while scratching his head. “You better get comfortable, boys. Looks like we're gonna be here awhile.”

During the rain delay, the players busied themselves with a variety of activities. The scene was like some sort of vaudeville spectacular gone wrong.

“Hey, guys,” Jimmy Llamas announced proudly to his outfield cohorts, Buck Faber and Amos Ruffings. “Check this out.” The quirky Llamas, known for his uproarious histrionics, produced from behind his back three rolled-up pairs of stirrups, which he held out ceremoniously, kissed, and then, with much fanfare and self-promotion, juggled to the delight of the others.

“Hot damn!” Faber roared. “He's a regular freak show.”

On the other side of the clubhouse, Woody Danvers was dealing blackjack to lanky first baseman Clem Finster, Butch Sanders, and Larry, the equipment boy. It was just for fun, but tempers were high nonetheless.

“Hey, Danvers, that's the third blackjack you dealt yourself in the last five hands,” Finster complained. “Lemme see that deck.”

“Eat shit, Finny,” Danvers fired back. “It's all good. Ain't my fault the gods are smiling on me and crapping on the rest of you losers.”

“Enough bullshit. Let's play. But just make sure, Danvers, that those cards of yours ain't something you pulled from Pee Wee's bag of tricks,” Sanders added. “I ain't no patsy, Woody.”

Danvers just smiled.

Pee Wee McGinty had his own thing going. He was the team magician, always ready to entertain on a moment's notice. He loved these delays more than anyone. With a trainer's table doubling as his stage, he set up shop, littering the tabletop with all kinds of gadgets, bells, and whistles. Mickey and Arky Fries stopped banging out their cleats and pulled up to watch.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the tiny, self-proclaimed wizard announced happily. “The Great McGinty will now amaze you by making this baseball glove disappear, right before your eyes.” Mickey and Fries both smiled.

Boxcar looked up from his crossword puzzle just long enough to catch the bewildered look on Mickey's face. He made a face of his own, annoyed by McGinty's outburst, and exchanged a quick glance with Lefty, who was by himself in the far corner, working the callus on his pitching hand with a thin slab of brick that had broken free from the dugout wall. Eager to complete what he had started, Boxcar looked back at the paper on his lap but winced and sighed as the hard laughter from Faber and Ruffings slid into a dizzying coughing fit.

“Hey, shut up over there!” the ornery backstop thundered, frustrated by the eight-letter word he had yet to decipher. “I can't hear myself think.” His mouth twitched a little. It slid to the left, then back over to the right. His stare narrowed, revealing with more detail the deep lines around his eyes. Then, tapping a pencil softly against his chin, he continued his assault on the puzzle, only to be thwarted once again.

“Hey, Box, got a minute?” Murph asked. “I think I have an idea.”

Murph put his hand to his head and felt his hair, wet and sparse. He frowned, then pulled his cap over the damp mess, mumbling something about the way things used to be. He laughed at himself sometimes, a senseless mocking that vacillated between whimsy and self-loathing. What was he still doing in this game? Hadn't it all just passed him right by? He thought about farming, about all the opportunities he had passed up just to remain close to it all. For what? Corn and chickens were a tangible, hands-on validation of effort. At the end of the day, you could trace your steps and lie down easily, having tasted the fruits of your labor. After all, what exactly did he have? The rain, strong and steady against the clubhouse roof, shook him from the contemplation.

“Let me see your glove a minute,” he finally asked.

With the passing of the final shower, and under a blazing sun that seemed to lift the deluge with impatient hands, the players, one by one, began filtering out of the clubhouse and onto the field like ants intoxicated with the expectation of picnic remnants. The ground sank beneath their eager feet, and a few of them groaned when some of the runoff found its way into their shoes.

“Holy shit!” Lefty complained. “You guys actually gonna play in this crap?” Then he spit tobacco juice from the space between his front teeth and shook his head. “Won't catch me out there. You know how many careers were ruined on days like today?”