The Legend of Mickey Tussler (26 page)

“Arthur, it's Molly. Molly Tussler. Can we talk?”

He was home, getting ready for the much anticipated showdown with the Rangers. He had spent all night, and the better part of the early morning, shuffling his lineup and figuring out who was going to get the ball. With Mickey out, and Lefty having suddenly announced that his arm was sore, he was struggling to find the right combination. He had penciled in four different starters and had still not come up with something that looked good to him.

“Is everything okay?” he asked her. “You don't sound so good.”

“How is Mickey? Do they know anything more about how it happened?”

“He's right here, Molly, with me. He's sitting at the table, doing some kind of number puzzle. You want to speak to him?”

“No, no, that's okay. If he's happy, that's fine. I really wanted to talk to you. I was hoping you had some more news for me.”

“God, Molly, I wish I had something more to tell you. You know I do. But it's like I said. Mickey's good. He's fine. The sheriff's department is still investigating, and I check in with them every day. But I'm afraid that there's nothing new to report.”

She fell silent. All he could hear on the other end was the sound of her erratic breathing. He thought about her desperate questions and put aside his own struggles for the moment, recognizing the torment that eddied in her voice.

“Did something happen there? It's not like you to call.”

“I'm just having one of those days,” she said brokenly. “Some moments just seem to be harder than others.”

He wasn't sure what she meant exactly, but he was startled by his own unconscious thoughts. “Is it Clarence? You haven't told him what happened, have you?”

“No, he still has no idea.”

“How have you managed to keep it from him?”

“Are you kidding? He hasn't even asked.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said,” she lamented, tears brimming in her eyes. “This is what I live with, Arthur. Not just now, but always. I don't know. I'm not sure I can do it anymore.”

Arthur struggled with the storm about to burst inside him, his head resonating with the voices of Dennison and Molly and, on some subconscious plane, McNally as well. He knew it was futile and counterproductive, but he couldn't help but think, as Molly continued to express her utter disconsolation, that all of his own problems would be nil if only he hadn't let Mickey go out that night.

“Listen, Molly, you have to hang in there,” he said, half trying to convince himself of what he was saying. “Don't talk with such gloom. Mickey is going to be all right. He's great. So are you. I know it. You have to believe, Molly. Believe in something.”

“Thank you, Arthur, really. I know what you are trying to do. And talking to you helps. It does. But I've been through a lot. Seen a lot. And after all that, I don't really believe in anything anymore.”

Before hanging up, Arthur promised he would call her soon. He did not know what else to say, how he could possibly extricate her from this eternal night that she was passing through. He wanted to offer so much more, out of both a deep affection for her and a profound sense of responsibility. But he was tired and had his own shit to deal with.

His words did help her. She felt better just having spoken to him. She exhaled a deep, cleansing breath and looked out the window at the world before her. The sunset was mesmerizing, the most beautiful part of a long and lifeless day. Just as the fiery ball touched the rim of the horizon, it all at once exploded in colorful display, filling the air with brilliant flecks of violet, orange, and red jewels set in the crown of the early-evening sky. It made her smile, but at the same time question how such beauty could coexist in her world of longing and misery.

Some minutes passed, and all the color faded to black. Clarence lumbered through the door, sat down at the kitchen table, removed his boots, and pulled over a plate of warm biscuits and gravy. The room was warm and filled with the redolence of an entire day's cooking.

“Sure smells good, Molly.” He slammed a biscuit into his mouth, licked his fingers, and swallowed. “I guess it'll make up fer your lip this morning.”

She frowned, her eyes full of pain and fire. It was more than she could stand. She returned a frying pan hard to the countertop and disappeared up the stairs.

Outside her window, the moon had risen above a bank of clouds, taking the place of the tired sun. She watched silently as a dark shadow, fast and birdlike, flashed across the face of the shining wafer. It was followed by another, then several more, until all had completed their passage. Brimming with envy, she wondered where they were going.

Before she could get too far in her ruminations, Clarence stomped up the stairs. He stood behind her, voiceless. She did not turn around, but knew he was there; she could hear his uneven breathing and smell his stale, sharp breath.

“I don't remember hearing you say you was sorry fer gitting me all upset this mornin',” he finally said.

She jumped a little. His words were spoken in such a measured way that she knew he was going somewhere. But she could not bear to look at him. She remained facing the window, swaying slightly.

“I didn't,” she answered blankly. She stood, her arms dangling straight down, fingers limp, shoulders slumped. She couldn't move, just stood there swaying from side to side, waiting for Clarence to make his next move.

“You know, little Miss Molly,” he said, his clumsy feet moving loudly across the oak floor. “That's all right. I understand. There's more than one way you can say yer sorry.”

With that, he stole up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. She cringed, her entire body protesting his touch and his lurid reflection cast in the glass before her face. She wanted to run, or to fly like those migratory birds outside her window. She froze instead, as she always did.

Clarence was oblivious to her repugnance. He put his chapped lips on her neck and reached around her back to fondle her breasts. She closed her eyes, dizzy and breathless from the constant sickness gnawing at her heart. She could feel his hardness against her back and braced herself for the inevitable ugliness that was about to follow.

“Come on over here, woman,” he instructed, grabbing her hand and leading her to the bed. “Show me how sorry you are.”

As she had so many times before, she acquiesced. Just shut her eyes tightly and tried with unwavering desperation to leave her body as Clarence climbed on top of her. She knew she could not stop him from invading her, but her mind, her mind was all hers. Even Clarence, with his brutish, hulking strength, could not penetrate the impregnable walls of her imagination.

The next few minutes passed in a dream. She was somewhere else, where lush green lawns rolled away from beautiful country villas under a sky as resplendent as the one she had just seen an hour before—and where men, despite their rural upbringing, grew from their dull, feckless state to become attentive, engaging creatures, mindful of a lady's tenderness and appreciative of such frivolities as music and poetry. It was a picture of life as she often imagined it should be, and it lasted for the duration of the sexual incarceration, bursting suddenly like a cloud of rain once Clarence had finished.

When he finally released her, buckled his pants, and went downstairs, she breathed again. She balanced her head and came back slowly, her thoughts returning with a practical approach to her daily grind. She thought about the laundry, and fixing Clarence's pipe for him. But somehow, it was different this time. It felt as if the dream state had suddenly, accidentally spilled into the conscious world and had, without warning, erased the line of demarcation, capturing her and demanding in no uncertain terms to be heard.

The Brewer locker room was enveloped in somber distress, an anxious silence punctuated by an air of intense listening, as if the reticence would somehow, any minute, break apart and bring forth a voice of reassurance and hope. Their recent slide had all of them miserable and searching for answers. Even Boxcar, the last bastion of unbridled optimism, was stoic. When Murph came in and taped the lineup card on the wall, he stopped, scrunched up his nose, and barked loudly and plaintively about the eerie hush that had stifled his team.

“This ain't some fucking funeral, ya know! The season's not over, ladies. We're on in less than two hours. Don't even think about dragging your emotional bullshit or whatever it is on that field. You hear? If it's too much for you, and any of you pansies want to skip today and maybe go get your hair done, or pick out a prom dress, I'm paying.”

His admonitory oration now complete, Murph exited quietly. They all just sat for a while, staring blankly at each other, with barely a word passing between them. Danvers was the first to stir. He got up off the bench, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked over to check out Murph's plan for the day. He wasn't in front of the card more than a second or two when he exploded.

“Is he fucking kidding me?” he roared. “Seventh? He dropped me to seventh?” With pride pulsing through his head, he screamed in violent protest, “How can he do this? Today, of all days, with Whitey Buzzo in the stands. It just figures. Two, maybe three times a year, the most notable scout for the big club comes down, and where am I? I'm in the goddamned seven hole. It's bullshit!”

Danvers's tirade diverted Lefty's attention from his work on his glove. The words
Whitey Buzzo
seemed to linger in a curious and uncanny manner, for the minute Danvers was out of sight, Lefty slipped away from his locker in search of Murph.

Thoughts of finally making it to the show filled the pitcher's head, leaving little room for anything else, including the agreement he had struck with McNally. This was no day for a “sore arm.” Lefty found Murph in his office, at his desk slumped over behind a pile of equipment catalogs and old newspapers. His head rested neatly in his palms, with each of his fingers buried somewhere in the graying strands atop his head.

“What the hell is it, Rogers?” he said, barely looking up. “I'm real busy here.”

“I, Murph,” Lefty replied eagerly. “Actually, I think I may be able to help. Uh, my arm. I was just stretching it out—did some practice tosses. It feels pretty good. I think I can go.”

Murph lifted his head and stopped what he was doing. “Listen, Rogers, if you're shittin' me—”

“No, I mean it, Murph. I know the team is down. Hooper isn't ready to go against the Rangers. They'll chew him up and spit him out. Same with Winkler. But I got them. I can win today. Really, I'd like to help pick us up.”

Murph looked at his watch. It was almost noon, one hour before game time. Not a season had passed where he had not fallen short of expectations, unable to pull something out of his bag of tricks. It always seemed he was a dollar short and a day late when it came to miracles on the diamond. Lefty's announcement lifted his spirits considerably. It was a bolt from the blue. The game wasn't do or die, but they needed a win badly. And Lefty Rogers gave them the best chance at that.

“Okay, Rogers. If you're sure you're up to it, I'll make the change. Now go get ready.”

Lefty bristled with optimism. The situation could not have been any better. With Mickey injured, and the Brewers struggling for their postseason lives, the stage was set for fairy-tale heroics. The only hitch was McNally, who would probably shit himself once he saw him on the hill. But Lefty was certain that he could convince McNally that the one game was meaningless, particularly since the Brewers were spiraling out of control anyway. There was no way they could catch the Rangers—not the way things were going. What did it really matter? And with another good outing, he could very well be on the next train to Boston, sharing a locker room with good old number 21, and all of the minor league drama would become just a fading memory.

The day was perfect. Warm sunlight; temperate breezes; a stadium filled with growing expectation. And of course, there was the thought of Whitey Buzzo, sitting somewhere in the ballpark with a pen and clipboard. Yes, it was surely perfect. But Lefty was right about McNally. The minute Rogers came out of the dugout and stepped across the chalk line onto the grass to begin his warm-up tosses, the opposing manger lost it. “What the hell is that stupid ass doing out there?” he whispered to one of his coaches. “He's supposed to be on the shelf.”

McNally paced nervously. His concern was not the actual game as much as it was Quinton, who would certainly chastise him and make him responsible once he discovered the transgression. Just the thought of it burned his stomach.

McNally stepped out of the dugout like a frightened child and turned his head furtively in the direction of the stands, where Quinton usually sat. He had yet to arrive. McNally breathed a little easier, thankful for the momentary reprieve, but knew he didn't have much time to minimize the damage.

Once or twice he caught Lefty's eyes wandering from Boxcar's glove over to the Ranger dugout, and at least one of those times their eyes locked and McNally glared at him, grabbing his left arm and grimacing, only to be rebuked by the subtle shrugging of the pitcher's shoulders and the mouthed words
Sorry
—
game on
.

Lefty inhaled the blue sky and the carnival of expectation swirling in the stands. He scanned the crowd quickly, examining each man he thought could be Buzzo—someone middle-aged, with a gray suit, fedora, and of course that clipboard. But there were so many faces, and not nearly enough time to dissect each one.

Once on the rubber, Lefty narrowed his focus. It was all about the batter. In and out. Change speeds. Mix in the breaking ball. Location, location, location. He had all of it, right there, fresh in his mind. He went over the plan in his head one last time. Then he took a deep breath, licked his lips, and waited for the umpire's right arm to fall to his side, listening ever so carefully for the traditional call to arms, the familiar cry of “Play ball!”