Magic Time, page 15
“Now, this is where tomorrow’s project comes in. There’s a small house on Second Avenue that’s been vacant for years, sort of falling to rack and ruin, as they say. We got hold of the landlord, a widow who lives in a retirement home in Mount Vernon, and she agreed that if we did all the repairs she’d waive the rent for three years, and then maybe sell the house to the Grand Mound Booster Club.
“Felix had apprenticed as a plumber in Mexico, that’s why he was boarded at the Hurchubises’, so Hurchubise put him to work mornings restoring the plumbing, virtually every pipe in the place needed replacing. The job was finished yesterday, and tomorrow, why, the whole community is going in to paper and paint and decorate, and generally spruce up the house and yard.”
“And this has something to do with Felix and his family?”
“You’re a quick study, my young friend. Dilly Eastwick has political connections.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“First he phoned Senator Tom Harkin — got him right out of the Senate Chamber — and put the wheels in motion. Then he phoned Senator Charles Grassley and did the same thing. Now, Harkin is a Democrat, and Grassley is a Republican, and I’m sure each one thinks Dilly Eastwick is a life-long supporter, though goodness knows what his political affiliation, if any, may be.
“‘It was just like magic,’ Dilly said, the way those visas for Felix Rincon’s wife and babies arrived at the office of the Grand Mound Leader. As for the rest, Mike, you’ll just have to wait.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You will, Mike, you will,” said Emmett, leaning toward the fridge and the strawberry pie cooling there.
Next morning when Emmett and I arrived at the house on Second Avenue, there were already a dozen Boosters and players milling around. Dilapidated would be the kindest word to describe the place. It had once been a nice cottage, but the years and weather and lack of occupancy had taken their toll. The siding had only a memory of paint, the roof badly needed repair, the lawn was totally overgrown, and a lilac hedge had grown high and wild. The inside was in even worse shape: wallpaper peeling, cupboards sagging, evidence of rodents and weather everywhere.
“Everything is more or less organized,” said Dilly Eastwick, who was wearing a pair of baggy railroad coveralls, the sunlight glinting off his thick glasses. “We need to rip off the wallpaper and begin painting. Mike, you paint the east wall of the back bedroom,” and he magically produced a half-gallon of peach-colored paint, a roller, and a brush. “When that’s done, come see me and I’ll have another assignment for you.” He took a clipboard from under his arm and made a couple of check marks.
It’s amazing what can be done to a small property by forty well-organized people. As the walls were painted, new light fixtures and wall switches were installed. The floors were either tiled or carpeted. New cupboard doors made the kitchen seem larger and certainly brighter. My second assignment was to paint a section of the front of the house, and while I splashed on white paint, Crease Fowler followed with scarlet paint to do the trim around the picture window.
Then, while one crew pruned the hedge, another group cut the lawn, and several people whitewashed bowling-ball-sized rocks, which had appeared on a flat-bed truck, and placed them across the front of the house about three feet out from the foundation, while others transplanted flowers from boxes provided by Grand Mound Nursery. Next, appliances and furniture began arriving: a fridge, an electric stove, a microwave, a washer and dryer for the back porch.
“Nothing new or fancy,” Emmett said, as a deep freeze was being maneuvered in the back door. “The Booster Club members are, for the most part, a pretty prosperous lot. We’re able to afford to trade things in a little earlier than some folks. Until about an hour ago that deep freeze was in our back porch. It’s only about five years old, but there’s a bigger, newer one being set up at our house right now.”
So it went the whole afternoon. When everything was finished, Dilly Eastwick lined everyone up at the front sidewalk, and we walked single file through the front door and out the back admiring our handiwork. Then Dilly added the final touch, a mailbox at the curb that advertised the Grand Mound Leader on both sides, but had the name Rincon stencilled on the front.
The dance.
“The one thing we don’t have in Grand Mound,” Emmett confided, “is a band for all occasions. Now, a few young fellows have garage bands, make a whole neighborhood wear ear plugs, but they usually disband, no pun intended, without ever having played a gig. And there are a couple of country groups with satin shirts and songs about fellows who have lost their girl and their dog’s died and their pickup has broken down.
“There’s just no satisfying a multi-generational crowd when it comes to music. We’ve hired the Mount Vernon Legionnaires; they’re all past middle age, and they play waltzes and two-steps, and if we asked for it, why, they’d oblige with a square dance (the fiddler doubles as caller), a Virginia reel, a polka, or a schottische. I know the young people will be disappointed, but look at it this way, Mike, there’s just no easier way to get close to a girl you like than waltzing to the strains of a sweet old song.” And he winked at me.
Emmett Powell winked at me. What a strange town this is.
I have to agree with Emmett’s assessment of waltzing. There were couples on the dance floor where it was impossible to see where one person left off and the other began. I danced with Nan Hurchubise, when Stanley Wood’s back was turned. Then I approached Tracy Ellen as the band began “The Tennessee Waltz.”
“Is Shag gonna mind if I borrow you for one dance?” I asked.
Tracy Ellen took my hand and led me to the floor, placing her free hand gently on the back of my neck, and laying her head on my shoulder.
“Shag doesn’t dance,” she said. “He’ll pick me up later.”
“You did a wonderful job with the decorations,” I said. The Grand Mound High School had been transformed into a moonlit glade surrounded by fluttery-leafed aspens. The Mount Vernon Legionnaires were dressed in blue blazers and grey flannels.
“Do you like it?” Tracy Ellen smiled up at me, then pressed herself closer. I was glad Shag Wilson was out doing whatever thugs like him did while they waited for their girlfriends to finish dancing.
Glancing over Tracy Ellen’s shoulder I was surprised by how many ballplayers had local girls as partners, Stanley with Nan Hurchubise, Dan Morgenstern and Becky, myself and Tracy Ellen.
I danced another half-dozen dances with Tracy Ellen. The message from her body was positive.
About 10:30 P.M. there was a food break. Buffet tables were so loaded, it looked just like Marge Powell’s kitchen. I spotted Felix Rincon sitting with the Hurchubise family at a table near the front. Emmett took to the stage, blowing and tapping on the microphone, like people not used to speaking in public do.
“Anybody know how the rat lost his tail? Catnip. Hah! Did you folks hear about the newlyweds who were given a house by their combined families? Sort of left them home free.” Complete silence was followed by a chorus of happy groans.
“You know,” Emmett went on, “when we have an event like this there’s usually some sort of surprise involved. Well, I’d like to call our star outfielder Felix Rincon up here because we have a surprise for him — more than one actually.”
The Hurchubise family pushed Felix toward the stage; in fact, Nan accompanied him to the bottom of the stairs. He walked shyly to the center of the stage and shook hands with Emmett. He was obviously puzzled.
But Emmett prolonged the suspense by introducing Dilly Eastwick. Dilly handled the microphone like a pro. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “you all know what an outstanding job Felix has been doing for us in the outfield. Who’ll ever forget those three home runs on the final day of last season?” There was a smattering of applause. “Well, we’ve discovered something about Felix that most of you don’t know.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Felix is a papa, three times over.” More applause.
I’ve always wondered about someone receiving applause for the simple act of reproduction, like at a retirement: “Good old Gus has five children and twenty-eight grandchildren.” Reams of applause — as if Gus had invented penicillin.
“Felix has a lovely wife, Maria Esmerelda, a son, Felix Jr., a daughter, Carmelita, and another son, Juan. Now we at the Grand Mound Booster Club know that none of us would like to be away from our families from April to September, so we got together and …” Dilly gestured toward a curtain to his right, which was swept aside, and there was a dark stocky woman, two tiny children beside her, another clutched to her chest, and obviously eight months or more pregnant. She had black braids tied with red wool, and a wide, warm face.
“Papa! Papa! Papa!” the older children screamed when they saw their father, and half ran, half danced their way across the stage. The wife moved more slowly and was met by Felix, a child securely anchored to each leg. I doubt that there was a dry eye in the house as Felix and Maria Esmerelda hugged, and he kissed her and then the baby nodded sleepily on her shoulder. Tracy Ellen held tightly to my hand, a tear oozing down her cheek.
The whole auditorium stood and applauded for the Rincons, for the Grand Mound Booster Club, and for ourselves. No group of people anywhere in America could have felt better about themselves and their neighbors at that moment.
Since there is no car rental in Grand Mound, the Booster Club had improvised — one of the grey luxury cars from Beckman Funeral Parlor was waiting outside for the Rincons. Maria Esmerelda is crying as she is helped into the cavernous back seat. Felix holds a child in each arm, they are kissing him and murmuring, “Papa! Papa!”
The car glides away from the curb, but the town is not yet satisfied. A procession forms and moves away from the school, ragged, unsure, like a picture one sees in history books of religious pilgrimages. There is a little shriek of siren as Constable Andrews, a large man with sad, hound-dog eyes, every button straining against the cloth of his uniform, eases the Grand Mound police car to the head of the improvised parade. We turn on Jefferson Avenue, then a block later onto Second Avenue, moving along with controlled excitement, people chattering like magpies. As we left the school, Tracy Ellen had excused herself and disappeared. I had been so hopeful. I suppose Shag Wilson is lurking out there somewhere in his souped-up monstrosity.
At the renovated house we stand around on the street and sidewalk just staring happily at the town’s handiwork. Mrs. Thoman from the library, and Mrs. Ogilvie, the Spanish teacher from Grand Mound High School, are showing the Rincons around. Every light in the house is on. Occasionally, we can see shadows behind curtains. Emmett and Marge have found me; they are holding hands. Then the front door opens and Mrs. Ogilvie and Mrs. Thoman come out, and the crowd disperses.
“Quite a day’s work,” says Emmett, sighing.
“It is,” I reply.
“Everybody wins. We add four, and soon five, to the population of Grand Mound. Father Damien over at St. Scholastica will be beaming. Aren’t you proud to be part of something like this, Mike? There’s an old song, a hymn, the words are something like ‘I wake each morning, Lord, with fire beneath my skin.’ It’s meant to be about evangelical fervor, which isn’t our way, but it does describe how I feel. Mike, I just can’t wait for tomorrow. I’ve got such a wonderful family, I live in the greatest little town in the world, and there are so many things that still need doing.”
“I understand,” I say. And I do. I feel very close to Emmett and to Grand Mound, and if Tracy Ellen were here holding my hand, everything would be perfect, and I too, could stay in Grand Mound forever.
In the morning edition of the Grand Mound Leader, Dilly Eastwick wrote modestly of the Grand Mound Booster Club arranging to fly in the family of home-run-hitting outfielder, Felix “Papa” Rincon.
TWENTY-ONE
My dad is getting married. After three weeks, three weekends, and a trip together to the Quad Cities, Dad and Peggy McNee are engaged. Gilbert Houle, who’s seldom dated, never had a girlfriend stay the night, is getting married to a woman he’s known for three weeks.
The thought astounds me.
Are you taking her back to Chicago?” was my first question.
“Of course not,” Dad answered, as if my question was stupid. He’s lived within thirty miles of downtown Chicago all his life.
“We’ll be living here.” We were sitting on the end of the first-base bleacher after a game. The sunset sky was a mottled black and orange, a mammoth monarch butterfly.
“At Peggy’s,” he went on.
“What about your job?”
“They have a lumberyard here, Son. Emmett was kind enough to check things out for me. I went in for an interview this afternoon. They’ve got a retirement coming up. I’ll pretty well be in charge of the outdoor section of the yard. It will be a step up, though the salary will be lower. But in a small town, living’s not so expensive.”
“And the house? Our house?”
“Byron wants to stay in the Chicago area after he graduates. He can pay the mortgage just like rent, at first. Then as he becomes established I’ll let him buy it. Has he mentioned to you that he’s getting married as soon as he graduates?”
“He has. And how do you feel about that?”
‘“If his old man’s getting married before he is, there isn’t a whole lot I can say. Not that I don’t like Linda, they’re just so young. But then, your mom and I were hardly out of high school.”
“You’ve thought of everything.”
“Aren’t you happy for me?”
“I don’t like to see you rush into something.”
“Mike, your mom’s been dead for nearly twenty years. You boys have lives of your own. I don’t call that rushing.”
“Still …”
“What’s your problem, Mike. Don’t you like Peggy?”
“She’s fine.”
What was my problem? Why was I giving my dad a bad time by holding back my approval of his marriage?
“In spite of what you might think, Mike, young people aren’t the only ones who enjoy sexual attraction …”
“It’s not that, Dad.”
The thought suddenly strikes me that I may have been recruited to play baseball in Grand Mound simply to lure my father here. Peggy’s husband died of leukemia when he was only in his early thirties. Tracy Ellen said there was a huge insurance policy, something Peggy’s husband bought through dumb luck when he was first out of high school. The annual payout, which was large to begin with, was adjusted with inflation. Consequently, Peggy’s daughter — Brenda? Barbara? Bernice? — went to exclusive prep schools in the East and was accepted by Harvard — or was it Yale? — where she met and married a medical student from Iowa. He now practices in Cedar Rapids, and she’s a stockbroker.
Emmett and the Grand Mound Booster Club — perhaps their project this season was to find a husband for Peggy McNee. I could see them in one of their weekly meetings at the Doll House Café, Dilly Eastwick consulting the dog-eared black book that lives like a hamster in the pocket of his shirt, squinting from his beady little eyes, saying, “According to my calculations Peggy McNee has been a widow for thirteen years. Her daughter has set up residence in Cedar Rapids, a loss of one in population for Grand Mound.
“Now, I think it’s our duty to find Peggy McNee a husband. I move that we make our spring semester project the acquiring of a suitor for Peggy McNee. Perhaps we could call it the Suitable Suitor Project,” and Dilly would laugh his squeaky, irritating laugh, while everyone else remarked on how clever he was.
“I haven’t told you the other good news, Mike.”
I wonder how much good news I can take.
“There’s more?” I ask.
“You know how I’ve always dreamed of coaching? How as a young man I wanted to go to university and teach and coach?”
“Yeah.”
‘Well, I’m going to coach for the Greenshirts. Actually, I’ll be on your team. The White team. I had a meeting with Dilly Eastwick and all the fellows who administer the club, and they’re gonna issue me a white uniform just like yours, Mike.
“I’ll be first-base coach for the White team. It’s a start. Surely I’m capable of standing in the coach’s box and watching the pitcher for a move to first when our runner’s leading off. I can shout ‘Back!’ as loud as the next guy, when the pitcher makes a pick-off throw to first. And if the runner doesn’t read the steal sign, I can whisper in his ear, ‘Run as soon as he releases the ball you dumb son of a bitch.’”
“It sounds great, Dad. You’ll make a terrific coach. I’ll try not to get picked off first too often. So when do you start?”
“Walston says I can coach tomorrow. Then full time as soon as I can get moved down here, which shouldn’t take more than another week or so. I’ve already put in my resignation at Schiffert Box and Lumber.”
“Sounds great,” I said again.
“Look, Son, I realize I’ve got to make a new life for myself here with Peggy. But I’m also going to be able to keep my promise — if Byron takes over the house, I’ll never have to take your mom’s photos down.”
“Dad, it would be all right if you did.” But we both know I haven’t given my full approval. And I’m sure neither of us can figure out why.
TWENTY-TWO
“Dan Morgenstern is gone,” Dilly Eastwick announces. He and Mrs. Thoman from the library are at the door, and Dr. Greenspan’s Mercedes is pulling up at the curb. They are all members of the Grand Mound Booster Club. “If Grand Mound were a country, the Booster Club would be the cabinet,” Emmett has told me.
“Gone where?” asks Emmett, looking puzzled.
“Suicide Walston left mid-afternoon to drive him to Cedar Rapids to get the plane back home to New Jersey.”
Emmett nods. “Would you excuse us, Mike. This is baseball club business.”
“Lew Gainer from the Feed and Seed is on his way over,” says Dilly, as Dr. Greenspan joins them and they make their way to Emmett’s office.
