The Legend of Mickey Tussler (25 page)

“It seems to me, Arthur, that there comes a time in every man's life when he is tested—really tested—when fate grabs him by the balls and forces him to look inside himself and see what he's made of. You know, to really take stock. I really believe that. And fair or not, ready or not, goddammit, this is your time.”

The room grew tight and oppressive. Arthur's mouth opened, but he didn't have any words ready. Dennison sensed his distress and took out a cigar from his top desk drawer, lit the end with a silver Dunhill lighter, and blew a perfect ring of smoke into the heavy air.

Arthur's mouth quirked in annoyance. His lips pressed tightly together to hold the anger. Who the fuck was Warren Dennison, a guy who had never played an out of professional baseball, to question him? What the hell did he know about pitching woes, defensive lapses, and hitters with trained eyes who were all of a sudden swinging wildly at 2-2 sliders in the dirt? How could he know what it was like to manage such a combination of divergent personalities, to give each the room to grow and play safely? And what about game day— game management? The X's and O's. Sacrifice or swing away? Hit-and-run or straight steal? Leave the pitcher in or go to the pen? Infield up or play for two? What the hell did Dennison know about any of it? Arthur knew the answer—it was there all along. Always was. Dennison didn't know shit. So the anger boiled. And like magma bubbling beneath the earth's crust, it sought some release.

“Do you think it's easy to manage a ball club, Warren?” he finally said. “To throw nine guys out there who will execute the plan the way it's drawn up? Do you? Do you even have a clue? Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't have the '27 Yankees out there. I work with what I'm given. And sometimes, well, to be perfectly honest, it ain't enough. You've heard it before, Warren. Matheson's famous line? You can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit. And then I bring you Mickey, this phenom sent straight from God. Someone who can improve the quality of the entire team. And you balk. Tell me I'm crazy. Question my ability to scout. But he does exactly what I knew he would. And you just admitted that yourself, but you still don't give me one ounce of fucking credit, even though that kid put us back on the map. But I still say nothing. I just suck it up and keep winning games. And life is good. Then he's taken from me, and everyone else can see the giant hole it created except you. I cannot fill that hole. We patch it now and again. But the hole is the hole. It's there and it's real. I am playing shorthanded. So don't call me in here and give me some lame bullshit about me finding myself, and don't lay this whole goddamned thing at my feet. I will not listen to you drag my name through the mud any longer.”

Two Victorian bowls of frosted glass set neatly on the wall to the left of the desk held flickering bulbs that had previously bathed the room with the soothing mimicry of candlelight; now, however, instead of that peaceful glow, the constant spattering of light hit Dennison's eyes hard, making him wince as if his retinas were somehow detaching. He glared at Murph with a red, swollen face, suffocating now that he had not only been questioned, but challenged so irreverently.

“You may be in charge of the on-field duties, Mr. Murphy, but that is only the case for as long as I say so,” Dennison fired back. “The fact that you may know a little bit more about the nuances of the game than I do does not preclude my need for you to be successful.” He spoke with a heightened purpose, his face still red and swollen. “And, at any point you demonstrate that you are incapable of doing so, and I trust you are aware of what I'm about to say, then I will have no alternative but to find someone—and I will—who can.”

Murph did not get up at once. Even after Dennison excused himself, Murph just sat there, staring at the flickering lights, his heartbeat matching the erratic cadence of the mechanical flames. He was drained, his resiliency recoiling from sheer exhaustion. He would have to get up, sooner or later; he knew that. But the thought was daunting, for sitting there, with his vitality and will to fight draining from him, he could not imagine facing a world turned suddenly to furious, unpredictable motion.

The honey tint of the early-morning sky was a mirror of the bright, awakening earth. Molly was up prematurely, having been bothered all night by the curious feeling of a current of water flowing though her body, swiftly, inexorably, into nothingness.

Arthur Murphy's visit had gotten her to thinking and had created a heightened sensitivity to everything. She was suddenly aware, for instance, of this sound, a faint rattling that she was previously incapable of understanding—a sound that she had been hearing all along but was unable to put a name to. Standing there, her hands blistering from the plunger she pushed through a threadbare butter churn, she thought that perhaps she finally knew.

Near the edge of the property, by the gray, weathered fence, she saw Clarence walking dumbly beside Oscar, who had wandered out to the road to wallow in a shallow puddle just inside the gate. She watched as this man whom she viewed more and more with an unaffected scorn teased the porker, rolling a turnip between his fingers, in sight of the pig, then pretending with a sharp, deft motion to throw the delicacy into the puddle next to him, rendering the animal confused and agitated. Clarence repeated the torture, laughing louder and louder each time, stopping only when Molly, who had seen enough, called to him.

“Hold yer horses, woman!” he bellowed. “I'm a coming.”

Clarence faked three more throws before tucking the turnip in his pocket and heading back up. With the sun having ascended, she saw him in full, reflectionless light and heard that rattling again, this time louder.

“That pig's dumber than a stump,” Clarence said as he approached. He laughed and turned his head to her in righteous declaration. “Just like the boy.”

She hated that expression, ever since the first day he'd used it. Mickey must have been five, maybe six years old, and Clarence had just shown him how to get water from the well. He was standing back, arms folded, watching as the child attempted to replicate the procedure he was just taught.

“Go on now, boy,” Clarence instructed. “Fetch us some water.”

Mickey was cautious, moving with great trepidation, fearful no doubt of drawing his father's ire should he fail to please him. His steps were measured and small, buckling under the tremendous weight of Clarence's stare. He stopped several times, his face awash with fear. It seemed the young boy was infinitely weary of just contemplating another step. His stomach burned, and behind his eyes, a throbbing pain knocked mercilessly. His feet froze. All he wanted to do was lie down, right there in the grass, and go to sleep.

“Go on, boy!” Clarence repeated impatiently. “Do as your told.”

Mickey took a few more steps. Once at the well, he placed his hand on the crank and, looking at his father, began releasing the coiled rope from its spool, lowering the metal bucket into the black hole. With each crank, the winch creaked and more rope unfurled. It was all going according to plan, until Mickey was seized by an overwhelming dread attached to the swaying of the bucket. Why was it shaking so? Surely he was doing something wrong. His face contorted and he groaned in protest. Then, in desperation, he reversed the process, cranking the bucket back to its original position. Clarence just rolled his eyes.

After hiding his face in his hands for fear of being judged insolent, Mickey made another pass. He placed his hand back on the crank and tried again. But each time the rope was lowered, the bucket swayed uncontrollably to the side. He must have started over seven or eight times before Clarence finally flipped.

“What the hell in tarnation are ya doing, boy!” he hollered.

The young boy quaked. “The bucket,” he tried to explain. “Mickey can't get the bucket to stop moving.”

Clarence opened his palm and covered his eyes. His head dropped helplessly for a moment, before his temper reared its ugliness.

“The bloomin' bucket is
supposed
to move, you imbecile!” Clarence screamed. “Holy Christ, this can't be happening. You are dumber than a stump.”

Clarence's abuse of Oscar had taken Molly right back to that day. She had never forgotten those words, or the crestfallen expression on her little boy's face.

“Let's go inside, Clarence,” she said now, blinking her eyes wildly in an attempt to erase the painful recollection. “I'll fix your breakfast.”

Molly and Clarence ate by the sun's yellow light with cool, damp winds blowing through the open windows that suggested an afternoon rain. The smell of freshly baked bread, strudel, and ham steaks belied the discomfort of the moment.

Clarence cut his food vigorously and slurped his coffee. Molly watched quietly as little scraps of food flew from his mouth and into his beard and onto his shirt and the table in front of him. Repugnancy had grabbed her by the throat and was tightening its grip. She strove terribly to speak.

“So, were you able to fix the bucket on the corn planter?”

“Sure was,” he said. “Darn thing just needed a little elbow grease, that's all.” He finished his coffee and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt. “What about you, little Miss Molly? You were up a mite early today. What's got you all bushy-tailed?”

“Nothing particular now. Just figured we could use some fresh butter, that's all.”

“What fer, woman? Today a holiday I don't know about?”

“No, no holiday, Clarence. I just thought I'd do some baking. That's all.”

Clarence shot her a look that went through her like a pin that paralyzed her momentarily. “You plan on doin' some baking, do ya? Why's that? Are we expectin' someone?”

“Uh, no, Clarence. Who would we be expecting? That's crazy. You know how I just like to bake.”

“Don't get short with me now, woman. I won't tolerate none of yer sass. I was just a wonderin', that's all.”

“Well, I suppose I
could
cut down a bit on what I've been making. I mean, with Mickey gone—I mean, not home anymore. No sense wasting food.”

“Yer darn tootin'. I tell ya what. That boy may have a brain the size of a rabbit pellet, but that's one retard who can put away the grub.”

His words wrung her heart like burly hands. “Enough!” she blurted out, unable to restrain her disgust. “Can you please stop talking about him that way? He's not a retard!”

Clarence sat back and smiled, eyebrows raised in curious amusement. “Relax, little Miss Molly,” he said condescendingly. “I was just foolin', woman.”

“Those things are not funny to me—they never have been. I'm sick and tired of it. I will not listen to it anymore. I just can't listen to it anymore.”

Some unfamiliar passion in the phrasing of her request ignited a fire deep within him, altering his visage.

“Come again? Are you talking to me?” A ravaging wildness seized him. He shoved his plate away, splashing a pitcher of milk across the table. Uttering a strained, guttural sound, something that rose up from the depths of his soul, he lunged at her. She dodged, leaning to one side, and knocked the chair out from beneath her. She tried to move beyond the table, but his large paw grabbed her at the elbow and spun her around. Disoriented, she did not at first feel the glancing blow to the side of her face.

“You just better hush your mouth, woman. Hush it now, you good-fer-nothin', stupid bitch, or you'll feel me again.”

She stood silent in her blue-and-white apron, staring as Clarence stormed outside. As she watched him stomp across the field, she set her mind to some chores in the kitchen. Now that she had finally spoken her mind, she thought that she had perhaps made a mistake; maybe it would have been better to just bury the silent desperation, the way she had for years, keep it hidden where nobody, not even Clarence, could step all over it.

As she washed out a dirty saucepan, she looked at her hands. They were old, chaffed and calloused. All the tender, pink skin she remembered was gone, buried beneath the hardened layers of her labors. What had happened? she wondered. Why had this life of hers succumbed to this suffocation? Nothing was right. Standing there, with her hands immersed in a basin of turbid water, and her right cheek still stinging from Clarence's attack, she felt as though she could not go on. Clarence made each day's existence a living misery. He was a martinet—selfish, belligerent, and unpredictable. He stalked around the farm like an army general on a mission to subdue everything and everyone in his path. It was brutal. But then the stormy skies would part, for a little while, and the meager rays of sunshine that sneaked through were welcomed and embraced with such a rapacity that all the previous torment was overlooked. It made it tolerable. But it was a wicked cycle. And now, even those rare moments had been vanquished by some dark, evil energy. The hopelessness enveloped her. She dried her hands and undid her apron strings. Then she sat back down at the messy table and cried.

She tried to forget. It had worked in the past. There had to be a way of leaving it all outside. Separation was key. But the drama, it seemed, had morphed into something insidious, a masterful force with a life all its own. She could see it all in the distance, despite her best efforts to bury it: Clarence, Mickey, her lack of fulfillment. It was all there—misery at arm's length. But the problem was worse than that. She also felt it inside; the separation was gone. It was in her heavy legs, her tight throat, and her heaving chest. It was in her pout and the grayness in her eyes. There was no denying it. She bawled at the idea that she had become one with it.

All at once the room was filled with this dreadful sense of waiting. So much of her recent awareness had come in the wake of Mickey's leaving and then Arthur's news that he had been attacked. She missed Mickey something awful. With Clarence gone for a few hours, she picked up the telephone and sought counsel in the only place she could think of.