Magic Time, page 11
“‘What do you have to do in return?’
“‘You don’t want to know,’ said Manny.
“‘Probably not. You’re kidding me, right? There’s no factory in Courteguay that turns out iron-armed infielders.’
“‘Think whatever you want, man. This Dr. Noir was from Haiti: voodoo, dancing naked all night, cutting out people’s spleens and eating them raw. Someday soon, Dr. Noir will be president of Courteguay again.’
“‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to know.’
“A week later, after a short road trip, Dave Dearly was fired. We were in first place by a game, thanks mainly to Manny Embarquadero’s fielding and hitting.
“The grapevine reported that Chuck Manion had been unable to convince the parent club to get rid of Manny. Dave Dearly was another matter. Since Manion and his family put large sums of money into the stadium and the team, the top kicks decided that if keeping him happy meant jettisoning a minor-league manager, so be it. The third-base coach, a young guy named Wylie Keene, managed the club the next night.
“‘It was because The Deer went to bat for your Courteguayan friend over there,’ Keene told me. ‘Chuck Manion wanted Manny given the bum’s rush out of baseball. But The Deer stood up for him.
“‘He told the parent club that he wouldn’t have his players treated that way, and that life was too short to work for an asshole like Manion. But, we all know money is the bottom line, so The Deer is gone. He thinks the organization will find another place for him.’
“‘What do you think?’
“‘I don’t know. He’s a good man. He’ll catch on somewhere, but not likely in this organization.’
“When we got home I passed all that information to Manny.
“‘Manion’s a son-of-a-bitch,’ Manny said. ‘I’d love to get him to Courteguay for a few minutes. I’d like to leave him alone in a room with Dr. Noir. Hey, he’s got a degree in chiropractics from a school in Davenport, Iowa. Dr. Lucius Noir. I saw his diploma. According to rumors, he deals personally with political prisoners. Dislocates joints until they confess to whatever he wants them to confess to. Wouldn’t I love to hear Manion scream?’
“‘Look, you’re gonna be out of this town in just a couple of weeks. You’ll never have to see Manion again.’
“‘But there’s something I have to do. Come on,’ he said, heading for the door.
“‘It’s after midnight.’
“‘Right.’
“We walked the darkened streets for over half an hour. Manion’s house overlooked the eighteenth tee of a private golf course. It looked like a mountain in the darkness.
“‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to let you do something you’ll be sorry for, or get arrested for …’
“‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to touch him. The only way you can hurt rich people is by taking things away from them.’
“We crawled through a hedge and were creeping across Manion’s patio when Conan came sniffing around the corner of the house. He stopped abruptly and stood stiff-legged, fangs bared, a growl deep in his throat.
“‘Pretty doggy,’ said Manny Embarquadero, holding a hand out toward the hairless, red-assed mutt. They stood like that for some time, until the dog decided to relax.
“Manny struck like a cobra. The dog was dead before it could utter a sound.
“‘I should have killed Manion. But I got places to go.’
“‘Somebody’s gonna find out.’
“‘How? Are you gonna tell? In Courteguay they’d barbecue that little fucker. There, dogs are a delicacy’
“‘You’re not from Courteguay’
“Manny was going to get caught. There was no doubt in my mind. He was going to ruin a promising baseball career, which may or may not have been aided by the supernatural. Personally, I had my doubts about Manny’s stories, but I admired his chutzpah, his fearlessness.
“‘Manny Embarquadero is pure magic. They’ll never lay a hand on me,’ said Jimmy Williams from Detroit, Michigan.
“‘You forget,’ I said, ‘there isn’t anyone named Manny Embarquadero.’
“‘Oh, yes, there is,’ he said. ‘Oh, yes, there is.’
“As we crawled through the hedge, I let a branch take the creased cap off my head. A bus passed through town at 4:00 A.M., and I’d be on it.”
“So,” I asked Crease, “how did you end up in Grand Mound?”
“I’m not sure why they called me. They must have seen something in me that no one else had. Or else I got one hell of a recommendation from Chuck Manion. It was Dilly Eastwick who called Justin Birdsong and told him I would fit in perfectly in Grand Mound.”
FIFTEEN
On the third evening the game went fifteen innings, and I actually produced in the clutch. In the bottom of the fifteenth, with a runner on first, I hit to the opposite field, a solid grounder through the right side, behind the runner, sending him easily to third. He scored the winning run on a sacrifice fly.
I know it sounds odd, but playing here is like playing a pickup game when I was a kid. The only difference is two of my fantasies have been fulfilled. We have a stadium full of fans and our own uniforms.
After the extra-inning win, my family and the Greenspans were chatting when Stanley, Daniel, and I walked out to the parking lot.
“On guard, guys,” said Stanley, out of the side of his mouth, “they’re planning a double wedding.”
No one was waiting for Stanley, but he was anxious to head for the Doll House.
Tracy Ellen quickly pulled me aside.
“Walk me home, Mike. There’s something I want to talk to you about.” We eased away from the group.
“You kids have fun,” Emmett said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
It was magic time, that special few minutes before sunset when the sky is at its most spectacular, when light has such special properties that it makes the dreams of moviemakers come true. Byron and I were extras in a movie one summer. The filming was on a farm a couple of miles into the country. We rode our bikes out to the set for three consecutive days and sat around for hours waiting for the magic time so we and fifty other kids could run screaming from the woods as if something was chasing us.
As Tracy Ellen and I made our way slowly down the main street of Grand Mound, and began climbing toward the ridge where the Powell’s house stood, the sky behind the ridge was a vibrant raspberry. It looked as if it had been papered with hollyhock petals. Shadows of trees and houses were long and black, like pen-and-ink drawings.
“I thought we should straighten out a few things,” Tracy Ellen said. “To start with, I should apologize for my parents. I can’t believe how pushy they are. They are so obvious. Or at least my dad is. He has no sense of shame. When you’re around, Mom at least pretends to be horrified by the way Dad pushes us together, but she’s just as conniving as he is.”
At supper the night before, Emmett had been more lavish than usual in his praise of Tracy Ellen’s cooking, and Tracy Ellen in general.
“I understand what your parents are trying to do,” I said. “I’m certain they mean well.”
We passed Powell Real Estate and Insurance. There were a half-dozen cars parked across the street in front of the Doll House Café.
I kept glancing at Tracy Ellen as we walked along, wondering how I felt about her; I wondered how I could feel about her if given the chance. The sunset touched her pale hair, turning it red-golden. She was wearing a peach-colored blouse, faded jeans, and low cut black boots with ornamental silver buckles. I was very tempted to reach over and take her hand. Perhaps Emmett Powell knew what he was doing after all.
“I know what my folks are doing must annoy you a lot. So, if it will take some of the pressure off, you should know I have a boyfriend,” said Tracy Ellen, bringing my fantasies to a crashing halt.
I felt more than a tiny tinge of sadness at the announcement. I suppose I’d hoped …
“They’re pushing us together so hard I pretty well have to have a boyfriend.”
Was her voice tinged with sadness, too?
“But I think it would be nice if we could be friends,” she continued. “My brothers are a lot older. I was just a little kid when they went off to college. They’re both married with their own lives. Nick, he’s the oldest, even has a baby daughter.”
“I think having you for a friend would be great,” I said. “I’ve never had a sister. It’ll be fun.”
Now that Tracy Ellen was suddenly unattainable, I was more attracted to her than I had been at any time since my arrival in Grand Mound. It was crazy. My heart was thumping. I felt real sadness.
“Do you know what a slug’s favorite novel is? Slime and Punishment,” I said suddenly. Apparently stupidly, for Tracy Ellen glanced at me as if I were demented. We walked on in silence.
“Maybe if you said something to Dad about not trying so hard to marry us off, he might listen.”
“I’ll try to be tactful,” I said.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. By the time we reached the house, the sun had disappeared behind Grand Mound. Magic time was over.
When I did confront Emmett, I wasn’t very tactful.
“Tracy Ellen and I have made an agreement,” I said, as we drove to work the next morning. “We’re going to be friends, not sweethearts, so you can stop promoting a romance.” Emmett, all innocence, glanced sideways at me over the top of his glasses.
“My dad always says the best policy is to let nature take its course. Don’t try to help it along too much.”
“My theory,” said Emmett, “is that nature often needs a helping hand.”
“Besides, Tracy Ellen tells me she already has a boyfriend.”
“Oh, yes,” said Emmett, his voice full of disapproval. “A boy from up around Mechanicsville. Built like a Clydesdale. And I might be doing a disservice to the horse to compare their intelligence.”
“Sure you’re not just being an over-protective father? Tracy Ellen strikes me as a pretty sensible girl.”
“His name is Shag Wilson. He chews snuff. He drives a customized half-ton truck with tractor wheels about eight feet tall.”
“You’ve made your point,” I said.
And for the first time in my life I felt a painful twinge in my chest that I diagnosed as jealousy.
SIXTEEN
“I’m coming down for the weekend,” my dad announced, when I called him later that evening. “I hate to admit it but I’m lonesome for you, and for a well-played baseball game.”
“I told you, we’re only playing inter-squad games. Season doesn’t open for a couple of weeks.”
“I’ll take off work early Friday. See you after your game that evening. Knock in a couple of runs for me.”
The next morning, in the Grand Mound Leader Dilly Eastwick compared my throws to first from the shortstop side of second and from deep on the right-field grass to a gunboat firing across the prow of a suspect ship. I cut the column out to show to Dad on his arrival.
In the following issue he tagged me with a nickname. Mike “Gunboat” Houle, the story said, effortlessly handled six chances in the field, and turned the pivot flawlessly on three double plays.
I was beginning to like Dilly Eastwick.
In the same issue, Dilly, as he insisted the players call him, wrote about Dan Morgenstern: “He fires clotheslines to second base, so straight and true that the flight path remains marked in the air for innings. You could hang the entire family wash on one of the throws of ‘Clothesline’ Morgenstern.”
And so it went. Dilly is like an agent and press agent rolled into one. He nicknamed Stanley Wood the “Taiwanese Titan,” and I’ve discovered almost every player on the team has a nickname, some more colorful and successful and descriptive than others.
After the story appeared fans immediately began calling me Gunboat, and requesting that my autographs be signed that way. Clothesline Morgenstern’s nickname also caught on, but I’ve yet to hear anyone address Stanley Wood as the Taiwanese Titan.
“He should have named me Burnham Wood,” said Stanley, who in real life was an English major. “But then I don’t suppose Dilly Eastwick has much time to read Shakespeare. It must consume all his waking hours coming up with nicknames for thirty-eight baseball players — and amateurs at that.”
“Hey, speak for yourself,” I said. “I turned down solid job offers from AT&T, IBM, and two brokerage houses to play here this summer. For me Grand Mound is a stepping stone to professional baseball.”
“Right,” said Stanley, his voice dripping sarcasm. “On the other hand, at least you have a career in finance to fall back on. As an English major, I need two more degrees to land a part-time job teaching bonehead English in some fourth-rate community college. My father is acquiring whole tracts of land in the Coachella Valley, outside Palm Springs, California. Perhaps I’m qualified to carry my old man’s money to the bank, or maybe, if the Dodgers don’t discover me this summer, I can landscape a couple of boring housing projects he’s planning out in the desert.”
“Doesn’t your father want you by his side in the family business?”
“My father sees himself as an Asian Donald Trump. Anything I get I have to earn. Needless to say he is not thrilled that I am playing baseball instead of pursuing the Taiwanese Dream.”
“How about you, Dan? You looking to play in the Bigs?”
“This is a pivotal summer for me. If I don’t prove myself this summer, I have medical school staring me in the face come fall. I’m disappointed I wasn’t drafted, but I’m also realistic enough to know that some of the greatest players were passed over in the draft. I’m not only a good player, I’m a great one — I’ve studied hours of tapes of Johnny Bench. I can make his every move behind the plate, and while I’m not as much of a power hitter I’m good enough to play ten years in the Bigs.”
“That’s what I like — ambivalence about your future,” said Stanley.
“They’ve assured me that big-league scouts in the Midwest look in at the Cornbelt League every few weeks. I expect to be in Triple A by September,” said Dan.
“When do they start making the cuts?” I wondered.
“I asked one of the veterans just this afternoon,” said Stanley. “‘Not for a few days yet,’ he said. ‘But there are so many players,’ I said. ‘Two full squads.’
“‘Don’t fret,’ the guy said. ‘Even after league play opens, they carry a very large roster.’”
“My goodness, where will he stay?” Marge Powell said when I told her my father was coming down from Chicago for the weekend.
“Isn’t there a hotel or motel in Grand Mound?”
“There’s no hotel. There’s an older motel out on the highway, but I’m sure it isn’t the kind of place your father would want to stay.”
Does it have a roof, a floor, and a bed? I was tempted to reply. I could see my dad’s stocky body, looking like an old sofa badly in need of new upholstery. When Byron and I were kids, Dad used to take us on vacation. We’d head off for no place in particular, traveling the back roads, stopping at mom-and-pop motels where the neon sign had long been dead and the painted signs had weathered pale and almost unreadable.
“If it has a roof, a floor, and a bed, I reckon it will do fine,” Dad would say, as we stood in the tiny office of a faded motel, the cabins receding into the earth. But there was something about Dad and strangers. This big, gentle man, sad as a lost hound dog, rumpled as an unmade bed, trailing two boys, their dishevelled clothes advertising their motherless state, took only a matter of seconds to convince people of his harmlessness, his need.
Several times we ended up in the motel owner’s kitchen, Dad drinking coffee, the wife feeding Byron and me, offering to bathe us, sometimes actually doing it, sending us to our room with a plateful of cookies, inviting us to breakfast in the morning.
In one place we stopped, the motel manager had been a barber; he ended up unwrapping his barber tools and giving all three of us haircuts, just because something Dad said reminded him of how much pleasure his former trade had brought to him.
“People are basically nice, you just have to give them a chance to show it,” Dad would say.
Another time, we spent the night at a motel where a couple of the cabins were under renovation; it was somewhere in Missouri, the motel catered to parents visiting a girls college in a nearby town. Dad and the motel owner got to talking lumber, and Dad ended up pitching in on the work, while Byron and I spent our days gliding like fish in the small sun-heated swimming pool.
“We’ll have to find someplace suitable for him to stay,” Marge said, bringing me back to reality. “We’d have room if we hadn’t converted one extra bedroom into a sewing room, and the other into an office for Emmett; as you’ve seen he ends up doing at least half his business from the house.”
“Look, it’s no problem. I’m sure there’s a motel within a few miles that will be fine.”
“I’ll speak to Peggy McNee, next door,” Marge went on, ignoring me. “Her house is small, but she has an extra bedroom.”
I had only seen Mrs. McNee watering the flower beds in her yard. She was a middle-aged woman with reddish hair and a brisk walk when she headed across the lawn to her red Honda, which she kept parked at the curb. She sat on the first-base side at the ball games.
“I want you to come next door and look at the room Peggy McNee has for your father,” Marge said at breakfast the next morning. “You can decide if it will be all right.”
“Does it have a roof, a floor, and a bed?” I asked. “Those are Dad’s criteria for overnight accommodation.”
The second I finished my breakfast, Marge guided me next door. Mrs. McNee’s home was a small white bungalow with green trim and green shutters. When she answered the door I saw she was younger than I’d thought, the word widow in my mind automatically meant age, though my own father had been a widower at twenty-five.
