Fenway Fever (6 page)

“K’chee! K’chee!” Then it flapped its wings and broke out of its wheeling sail, rising up above home plate, over the top of the announcers’ booth facade, and out of sight.

“Whoa,” said Billee, speaking in a hushed tone. “That was weird.”

Stats was actually feeling a bit strange about it, too, but upon hearing that pronouncement come from Billee, the event now took on an even grander sense of woo-hooery.

Shivers rippled his spare and bony frame.

Billee held his skyward glare. “Well, we got our wish, bud. The walls just talked.”

“They did?”

“Yep,” said Billee. “No doubt. Got just what we asked for. Alls I wish now is that I knew what they said.”

Stats had no clue, either. Statistics he could handle. Astronomy he could handle. Even global geometry. But his personal contact with the great outdoors stopped at the edges of his roof where his telescope sat. And from there he could not ever recall seeing a hawk. Or hearing one talk.

“So what do we do now?” he asked.

“Early this morning,” said Billee, still facing the ballfield, “I was so shook up, I drove out to Walden Pond, just to hike around the place, watch the sun rise, meditate. That lake and the woods out there, it always calms me down after a tough game. Anyhow, at the break of day, I remembered what Dr. John Mack, a Harvard professor, once said. ‘You have to consider everything.’ He said that’s the error our scientists make. They set limits on what they’ll explore. Because when you set limits, Dr. Mack said, you miss exploring the things that really matter.”

He looked at Stats. “So, kid, rats and mice? Might just be exactly what we need to look at. Talking hawks? Why not? I’ll tell you one thing. There is so much we don’t know. And there’s only so much we can ever know. We might as well find out everything we can.”

Billee turned and began to walk back to the bull pen. He waved his hand. “Go. Do your thing, Stat Man. I gotta crawl back inside the pen, pull a towel around my head, and meditate.”

Stats and Mark arrived at home that Sunday evening around dinnertime. As soon as he entered, Stats felt a sense of something being amiss. The curtains were pulled. The house lights dimmed. And nothing was cooking. Walking inside, they spied Pops sitting in a chair by the bay window, gazing out.

“Markangelo,” he said without bothering to look. “You and Alfredo, come to me over here.”

The very tone of his words worried Stats and started his heart thumping. He and Mark gathered together in the alcove behind their father as he continued to stare through the lace curtains facing the street.

“You know, boys, I always try to do what’s right. But sometimes …” He lowered his elbows to the table and prayerfully clutched both hands together.

“Sometimes what, Pops?” said Mark.

Pops had trouble speaking, which only increased the sense of panic washing over Stats.

Finally he said, “I sometimes—I let little details slip away from me. I knew this day was bound to come. I hate thinking how I put it off for so long. Now I got myself in a tight spot.”

Pops reached out across the table and picked up an envelope. Stats recognized it immediately as being the one he’d seen downstairs the night before. He had followed Mark’s advice not to tell Pops about it, even though he’d told his mother he would. Somehow, though, Pops had received the message. He withdrew the letter from inside.

“This,” he said, “is from a bill collector. It has to do with your mother’s store. They say we still owe them money.”

Okay, thought Stats, feeling somewhat relieved. It’s a money problem. It’s not life or death, it’s not a brain tumor. He’s not running off and joining a kung fu academy in China—something Stats had always imagined
he
might do if he were ever in big enough trouble.

“How much is it for?” asked Mark.

Good question. The sooner Stats got a number, the sooner he could start working on a solution.

“We can help,” Stats added. “We’ve got money saved up.” The tip jar at the stand was always split between them, and it garnered as much as sixty dollars a day.

“No, no, you boys—”

“Pops, let us help,” said Mark. “We’re all in this together. We’re part of the family business, too.”

Pops drew in a slow breath, scanning their faces, although the depth of his focus seemed far away.

“Alfredo, Markangelo. Back when your mother was sick …” He finger-painted a tiny cross over his heart. “I had so many things on my mind.” He held his hands out as if they were paddles, and as he spoke, he knocked each phrase between them. “The baseball season was starting up, you boys were in two different schools, we had medical bills and all of that. I could barely pay my own vendors, let alone what had piled up on the store.” He stopped to take a weary sigh. “And after she passed …”

He stopped again, dropping his chin to his chest, wrapping his thick arms around himself, and he shook.

It was a lot for Stats to take in. Pops had rarely spoken about Mama in the four years since her death. But Stats did know his mother had been the money-minder.

He watched his father, a bear of a man, now bent forward, his fingertips pressed against the gray of his temples.

“I knew we had some debts to clear up. I just never dreamed …”

“It’s okay, Pops,” said Mark, taking his father’s shoulder into his palm. “We’ll get through this. Don’t worry about anything. But, just—how much is it?”

Pops puffed out a burst of wind and shook his jowls. “Too much. More than I have.” He looked off across the street again. “I always hoped I could, someday, save up a little seed money to help produce my inventions, but now …”

The inventions Pops spoke of were culinary. He was always experimenting with new recipes for hot dogs and buns, especially during the off-season. Most importantly, he had tried for
years to perfect the skin of his veggie dogs so they would blister up and pop when he grilled them—the way the skins on regular hot dogs did. However, the idea that Pops dreamed about saving up seed money to put the recipes into production was a new concept to Stats.

“And these people,” Pops went on, “they can cause real trouble. They can hound you day and night. They can come knock on your door at any time, bring in a U.S. marshal, and take everything.” He sent another look out across Shamut Ave. “It’s just that, you boys should know.”

“Pops,” said Mark, “please tell me how much it is. How much do we owe?”

Pops handed him the letter.

Stats leaned over Mark’s shoulder to read along. The page was stamped in red:
THIRD AND FINAL NOTICE!
It showed account after account from four years ago and a grand total. It showed another amount for interest and lawyers’ fees. The final number was easy to find, typed out boldface, in both numerals and words. The agency claimed that, in total, Pops owed them
One Hundred Thirty-one Thousand Nine Hundred Fifty-five Dollars
.

Stats mouthed a soft “Ho-oh.” He looked at Mark.

Mark clamped his jaw tight and stood rigid.

Someone banged on the door.

Everyone turned and stared at the dark blue door.

Mark took a step. “I’ll get it.”

“Wait,” said Stats, casting uncertain eyes at Pops.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Pops raised his hand. “Answer the door.” He stood, seeming ready to face whatever was waiting for him on the top landing outside.

Mark walked over and grasped the handle, then cracked the door open.

“Hit me with your best shot, Marko!”

On the porch stood the one and only Billee Orbitt.

“Hey, Billee.” Mark reached out and slapped the pitcher’s flattened palm. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just heading home, so I thought I’d stop by.” He peeked in. “Hey, Stat Man. Hiya, Pops.”

Now standing at the head of the dining room table, Pops sent a big smile, as if his mood had been instantly transformed. “Good to see you, Billee. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?”

“Thanks. Iced tea, maybe? You make the best there is.”

“Coming right up.” Pops shook a finger as he answered and retreated to the kitchen.

Just seeing his father’s finger stab, that small confident gesture, sent a wave of calm through Stats.

“Look,” said Billee. “I was on my way down to Merry Mount when an idea hit me, and I wanted to talk to Stats about it.”

“Me?” Stats wandered out of the alcove to meet Billee at the table. “Sure.”

Billee gave Stats a wink, then pulled out a chair. They both sat.

“Okay, here’s what I think’s going on.”

“Going on?” asked Mark, taking a chair across the table to join them.

“Yeah,” said Stats. “With the Sox. Listen to this.” He sent a head jab toward Billee, as if coolly coordinating a top-secret disclosure.

Billee placed his muscular forearms on the table and leaned forward.

“Marko, I believe there is a brand-new curse upon us. But it’s tricky. It’s subtle. It’s not one everybody’s gonna believe in right off.”

“Well, I don’t,” said Mark. “You guys are only three games out. And the season’s only six weeks old.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Billee. “A curse doesn’t waste its time on a cellar dweller. Like Shakespeare said, ‘When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose.’ But when you lose the Wild
Card spot on the last day of a roller-coaster season or lose the clincher game of a World Series, that’s when you know you’ve been served. And I think, just like last year, we’re being set up to take a tumble.”

“Well, I’ve seen it happen way too many times,” said Pops, returning with a tall glass of tea with a slice of lime floating in it, as well as one of his “experimental” rolls. He set them in front of Billee.

“Thank you, sir.” Billee took the glass, then turned to Stats and Mark. “And there’s always a pitcher coming off a great year in the thick of it. Look up Mike Torrez or Calvin Schiraldi or Bob Stanley. Right, Pops?”

At hearing the names, Pops closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross.

Stats didn’t have to look anything up. He knew all about the pop fly home run Bucky Dent hit for the Yankees in 1978 off Torrez, after a wrenching up-and-down season, to clinch the American League pennant. And the wild pitch Stanley threw in the ’86 World Series, to set the stage for the Mets’ victory. Who didn’t? But he had never considered that curses revolved around pitchers. He then realized, when the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth in 1919, starting
The Curse
, the Babe had been, up to that point, a great pitcher.

“That’s what I like about you, Billee,” said Pops, tapping his temple. “Always thinking. Baseball’s a thinking man’s game. Talent only gets you so far. I try to tell that to my Markangelo.” He raised a palm toward the ceiling.

“What?” said Mark in protest. “I think. I’m always thinking. It’s just that sometimes I think I should stop thinking. Right, Billee?” He knuckled the pitcher’s arm.

“You ain’t wrong,” Billee answered, with a wide grin. “Thinking can go both ways.”

Mark grinned, too, looking satisfied.

“Billee,” said Pops, with a quick gesture to indicate the handcrafted hollowed-out bread roll in front of him. “Try my latest. See what you think.”

Another one of Pops’s pet projects was to settle upon a recipe and design for the perfect customized hot dog bun—mainly for Chili Billees, which always seemed to leak.

Billee took a bite. He chewed and smiled broadly.

“Mmm, Pops, I think you might have it right here. Tastes great.”

“And more filling!” said Pops. “See how wide the opening is? I can get loads of chili into this one.” He gleamed in satisfaction and took a seat.

“Sure can,” Billee agreed, still nodding. He then went on with his mission. “Okay now, Stats, tell me this. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?”

“I think so.”

Mark jumped in. “I have, for sure.”

That brought quick looks from Stats and Pops.

“But,” said Mark, drumming his fingertips, “I forget what it is. Something about butterflies …”

Stats slid his eXfyle close and began typing the words into the search window.

“Don’t bother,” said Billee. “I’ll tell you. The theory is, a butterfly can flap its wings and set off a long chain of events that will affect weather systems to such an extent that a single wing flap can eventually cause a hurricane clear across the globe.”