The Legend of Mickey Tussler (2 page)

He was shaking his head, thinking about the pot roast his mom used to make for him back home. God, he loved her cooking. She could bake too. Won first prize every year in the Ladies' Auxillary bake-off at the church. Nothing warmed his insides like a half hour at the dinner table. His hunger and frustration made him miss it even more. The thought of tender meat, potatoes, and gravy-soaked biscuits was comforting. He had just closed his eyes, lost in the sweet recollection, when the reminiscence was violently shattered by a sudden jolt and then the sound of breaking glass. His arms tensed as he struggled to control the car. It swerved back and forth across the road, taking out several small trees that lined the shoulder. The blue-and-white roadster careened helplessly out of control, tossing Arthur from side to side before finally coming to rest in a shallow ditch.

With tears in his eyes, a sore neck, and a faint trickle of blood coming from his nose, he stumbled out of the car. The day was new and fresh, alive with a wind full of dust and the smell of lilies. He placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the damage. He looked the car up and down.

“Goddamn son of a bitch!” he screamed, dabbing his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Then he fired his foot against the back tire. “Jesus Christ!”

The car was a mess. His eyes scraped the dusty road behind and found the cause of the mishap. It was some sort of animal, large and lifeless, lying off to the side. He ran his hands, still trembling, through his hair.

“Perfect!” he screamed. “Just perfect!”

Up ahead, just around a bend in the road, stood a modest farmhouse. Arthur's eyes found the red silo hovering just above the arching oaks blocking his vision and his feet began to shuffle in that direction. He was thinking about all he still had to do—find Marbury Lane and get a look at this kid—as he stumbled down the road. For some reason, he suddenly perceived how dissatisfied he was with the course of his career. He had been a young man once, full of hope and promise. The next Ty Cobb. He could still hear the scouts talking about him behind the cage as he took batting practice. He was so sure that his life was going to thrive under the warm glow of baseball stardom. But all he had become was the middle-aged manager of a minor league team that had struggled the past few years just to break .500. And if that weren't intolerable enough, now he was lumbering down some godforsaken road in the middle of the sticks praying that someone could help him get where he needed to be.

The mailbox outside the farmhouse was beaten and weathered, a gray wood container nailed to a crooked stake with the name
Tussler
barely visible through all of the chips and cracks. He followed a narrow, winding path that led him past a tiny field with slanted gravestones overrun with cucumber vines and crabgrass that eventually gave way to a small stable.

“Hello,” he called out. “Anyone home?”

He stepped forward and opened the door, looking curiously at the scene inside. Two horses, a couple of chickens nesting in the corner, and a few pigs eating quietly from a trough.

Not much of a farm, he thought.

The animals seemed just as unimpressed with him. They barely stirred and would probably have remained completely still had it not been for the sudden thumping from behind the far wall. He followed the sound around the stable until he found its origin. He stood, with his back and left foot flat against the side of the stable, watching in amazement at the young farm boy, standing next to a curious pattern of crab apples in the dirt—six rows across, five apples deep—firing one at a time from one hundred feet away into a wine barrel turned on its side.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Stunned, Arthur watched as the boy shifted his weight back, cocked his right arm, then exploded forward, splitting the center of the barrel every time. He didn't have much of a windup, and the mechanics were awkward, but it was the most astounding display of power and accuracy he had ever witnessed.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

He was about to walk a little closer when he stopped suddenly, taken aback by an unusual, spastic motion the boy was performing. His throwing hand, curled into a fist, was buried inside his other, and he was rolling his arms violently. Arthur watched as each elbow rose and fell rhythmically, over and over, until at last the boy stopped just long enough to reach down in front of him to resume the awesome exhibition.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Three more strikes. Then came the rolling of the arms. Arthur stared as the powerful young man repeated the process, time and again.

Arthur was captivated. Once the pristine rows of projectiles had vanished, he walked over to the boy. The kid was bigger up close. His face was youthful, round and fleshy, with sandy brown strands of hair that barely concealed a dark purplish line under his right eye. He must have been at least six foot five. His legs looked like two oak trees, and he had the biggest hands Arthur had ever seen.

“Excuse me,” Arthur said. “Hello. I had a little accident with my car. Do you live here?”

The young giant was startled and tense. He began to chew his lower lip. His eyes darted wildly.

“I live here,” he answered.

“Is there someone who can help me with my car? I mean, your parents. Is your dad around?”

The boy didn't answer. He was just standing before him, his glance shifting from Arthur's hat to his shoes and all points in between.

“I didn't mean to bother you, son.” Murph held out his hand. “I'm Arthur Murphy. My friends call me Murph.”

The boy's expression softened. He pushed away the wisps of brown hair that hung carelessly in his eyes.

“Michael James Tussler, sir,” he answered, pulling awkwardly at one of the straps of his overalls. “Folks round here just call me Mickey.”

“Mickey, huh? Say, that's quite a shiner you got there.” Murph pointed to the boy's eye.

“How's that?”

“Your eye. I was talking about your eye. How'd you get that?”

The boy fidgeted. “Aw, don't reckon Mickey remembers.”

Arthur smiled softly. “Well, that's all right now. It's nice to meet you, Mickey. You've got quite an arm there. Really. I was watching you from over there. How old are you?”

The boy was biting the inside of his cheek. “I got me some pigs, sir. Want to see my pigs?”

“Uh, sure. Maybe later.”

“I got six of 'em. My favorite one is named Oscar.” Arthur studied the boy. He was certainly in amazing shape. A fine athletic specimen. But there was something about him. A vacuity behind his eyes that seemed to overshadow everything else.

“Well, that sounds very nice, son. Say, how old did you say you are, Mickey?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ever play baseball?”

Mickey just looked at him.

Murph thought again about Dennison's ominous admonition and how desperately grave his situation with the ball club had become.

“You, know. Baseball. Three strikes. Home run. All that good stuff.”

“I don't reckon I have. I'll show you my pigs now. I got six of 'em.” Then Mickey placed his hands together and began rolling his elbows once again.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, Mickey. In a minute. But first, how's about waiting here while I run to my car. Then maybe you can show me that neat trick of yours again—you know, throwing those apples in the barrel?”

Mickey nodded blankly. Murph was gone and back in a flash, fearful that the boy might change his mind. With his breath short and erratic, Murph reached down to pick up one of the wormy specimens that had fallen outside the original makeshift grid. He tossed it in the air a couple of times. Then he reached into his pocket with his other hand and presented to Mickey a beautiful new baseball.

“What do ya say, kid?” Murph prompted, holding out both his hands. “They're almost the same exact size. Except mine is real clean and smooth. Go on. Have a feel for yourself.” Murph watched as the boy's hand swallowed the ball. “Pretty neat, huh?”

Mickey ran his fingers over the laces. “Mickey likes it, sir.”

Murph smiled. His heart beat on. “How about giving it a toss, Mickey? You know, right over in that barrel. Just for laughs.”

The boy nodded. “Can I show you my pigs now?”

“Well, sure you can, son. But first, I'd love to see you toss that baseball into that barrel.”

The monotony of the conversation sank into a vague haze through which Murph's glittering visions persisted. He placed his hand on the boy's back and nudged him gently. “What do you say, son?” he prodded. “Will you do that for me?”

“Okay, Mr. Murphy. Mickey will do it.”

Murph watched with immeasurable fascination as the boy held the ball, brought his hands together, and rolled his arms. Then, like a bolt of lightning released from the heavens, the ball took flight, a streak of white radiance that cut the air with a whizzing sound before landing directly in the center of the barrel, splintering the wood. Murph's eyes widened like saucers. His breath was gone again. Then, in the flatness that followed the euphoria, Murph knew, just knew, that he had stumbled on something special.

“How's that, Mr. Murphy?”

“That's terrific kid. Terrific. Now, what do ya say I go get that ball and you do it one more time. Then we'll check on those pigs.”

Mickey looked right past Arthur. His face twitched ever so slightly and his gaze was off in the distance, focused on the raucous noise at the side door of the barn.

“Godammit!” a man thundered, incensed by a baby chick that would not stay in its pen with the others. “Git back here.”

Arthur turned around. An elderly man in dirty overalls and a straw hat had come through the door and was sidling over to them. He had a pitchfork in one hand and a metal bucket in the other.

“What can I do for ya, stranger? I reckon ya's lost or sumpin like that.”

The appearance of the farmer altered the boy's demeanor. He became stiff and distant and rocked nervously while muttering words that Arthur could not understand.

The old farmer had a hardened look to him. He was strong too, but not like the boy. His salt-and-pepper beard was dirty and snarled and his voice strained and raspy.

“Hello,” Arthur said, extending his hand to the farmer. “I'm sorry. Arthur Murphy's the name. I was just explaining to your son here—”

“Don't bother splaining nothing to him. Wasting your time.” The old farmer smelled of tobacco. He had a wad of chew squirreled in his cheek and was working on a thin piece of straw that danced across his lip and in the gap between his stained teeth when he spoke.

“Well, my car is sort of banged up,” Arthur continued. “I was hoping to make a phone call, if it's all right.”

“Clarence Tussler. You in need of assist?” the man responded, shaking Arthur's hand.

The boy just stood nervously, cowering behind his father. “ ‘Slowly, silently, now the moon …,' ” he repeated, almost catatonic.

“Knock that off, boy, ya hear!” Clarence chided. “Sorry 'bout that, Mr. Murphy. He does that sometimes when he gets nervous. Some cockamamy poem his ma learned him.”

“That's okay,” Arthur answered. “And, yeah. Your help would be great.” He was still staring at the boy. “That would be great. I could sure use a telephone. And maybe some directions.”

The farmer was about to say something when out of the corner of his eye he observed a tiny ball of gossamer yellow feather, vocal and wayward.

“Son of a—!” He flew into a rage, raising his boot high above the chick until a cold shadow enveloped the helpless creature. Then, with an inescapable vengeance, he lowered his foot hard, grinding his heel into the ground with curious delight.

“Annoying little bastard,” he mumbled. “That'll learn ya.”

Then the irascible farmer spit out his chew, took a cigarette from his outer pocket, and lit it, his deliberate motions noticeably slower from the effort he was making to calm himself.

Murph winced. He gazed briefly at the farmer in disbelief, appearing to abandon his search for something that he suddenly felt could not possibly exist.

“Why don't ya follow me up to the house, fella,” Clarence said from behind a cloud of smoke. He scratched his beard. Then he shot his son a look.

“What ya looking so stupid about, boy. Go on. Go on now. Finish with them apples, then git yer keister over to them troughs. Pigs got to eat soon.”

Murph looked at Mickey, not knowing what to think. “Say, you've got some arm there, kid. It was sure nice meeting you, Mickey.”

The boy just hung his head.

Clarence frowned and exhaled loudly while tapping his boot on the ground. “Well, go on, boy. You heard me.”

Arthur walked alongside Clarence. Once or twice he turned back to look at Mickey, sad and defeated, his head hanging between his massive shoulders. Clarence didn't give his son a second thought. Just rambled on about his property and the Tussler family history.

“So, what brings you out this here way, Mr. Murphy?” he asked, pulling on the handle of the aluminum screen door.

“Clarence, is that you?' a voice called from inside the house.

“Yeah, Molly, it's me. Get out here. We got us company.”

The abrasive farmer tossed a sleeping cat from the chair closest to the door and motioned for Arthur to sit down.

The room was dark and oppressive. The walls were splashed with a mahogany paneling that drowned out the little light that squeezed through the heavy draperies across the windows. Papers and cartons and other random objects were strewn about the room. Clarence stood leaning against a gray stone mantel, adorned with a yellowing lace doily held in place by an old brass lantern. Next to that was a family portrait in a tarnished frame and a dusty clarinet. Arthur's eyes hurt, as if something acerbic were in the air. It smelled like cat urine or perhaps it was just mold spores. Either way, he could not stop rubbing his eyes.