In Dark Corners (42 page)

"In midweek, I took the fifty-mile ride over to Dry Creek, and the same sense of community pride was clearly evident. There, too, all the townsfolk would be travelling to L.A. on Friday, a six-hour trip by train, the common form of long travel back then.

"But I learned in Dry Creek that a wealthy contractor in Calexico had chartered a bus to take
both
teams to L.A. on Thursday, a day early, so they could practice on the strange court and have fresh legs for the game on Friday.

"Well, you can probably guess what happened."

Firestone shook his head and shrugged.

Dante sighed deeply before he continued. "Well, come Thursday morning the bus took off, headed for the big city, but somewhere in the Coastal Mountains it hit a slick spot, went off the road, and crashed into a deep canyon. Everybody on board was killed.

"Dry Creek was stunned, nearly everyone devastated by the loss of a relative…

"When I arrived back in Three Springs I found a kind of pall had settled over the little border town. Oh, on the following Monday people went back to work, businesses opened up, and school resumed; but there just wasn't the same spirit in the air. For me, just a youngster, new in town, and on my first job, it was a pretty miserable period. I spent a lot of time walking around town with my hands jammed into my pockets.

"Then, about a week after the accident, the mayor of Three Springs sent an invitation to Dry Creek for a commemoration to be held at the Three Springs High School gym. Since I was the only reporter on the weekly, I drew the assignment to cover the event. And I was relieved to have something to do.

" I arrived early at the gym and watched the little crackerbox quickly fill up.

"At 7:30 the lights dimmed and a spot lit up the face of a courtside announcer, Robby Sanchez, a bilingual D. J. from the Calexico radio station, whom I'd met shortly after arriving in Three Springs. I recall at the time it struck me odd that a D.J. would be master of ceremonies, but I soon forgot my feelings with what followed.

"'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Southern California Class A Championship game between the Falcons of Three Springs and the Dry Creek Horned Toads. And, now, the starting lineups, first for the visiting Horned Toads…'

"I still remember the strange feeling—a kind of low key anticipation—as I sat in that darkened gym, the crowd hushed, Robby making those introductions under the spotlight. I'd never seen either team play in the regular season, so I assumed the teams being announced were junior varsities or something. Despite my sense of excitement at being a witness to an unusual event, I didn't expect to see much of a game.

"Boy, was I ever wrong.

"It was an excellent basketball game, perhaps the
finest
high school game I've ever seen. The score shifted back and forth, neither team ever leading by more than five points. I recall thinking it peculiar that Robby kept narrating the action, as if he were doing a radio broadcast for an absentee audience; but I dismissed it at the time as local custom.

"Anyhow, the Falcons lost their ace, who fouled out in the last minute, and the Horned Toads won the game, 63-61. The two communities had had their Class A Championship, and it'd been a dandy. Both teams should've been proud of the simulated championship.

"After the last basket, the lights dimmed again, and when they came back on, the announcer's table and the court were empty. I took a deep breath, stood, and joined the departing crowd, eavesdropping on reactions:

"'Yes, Ed, it was a beautiful ceremony.'

"'Three Springs did itself proud.'

"'Didn't the junior varsities look nice, standing up there in their uniforms for all the speeches, prayers, and songs?'

"'Ma, it was a touching service.'

"…Touching service? Confused by the nature of the comments, I stopped a student wearing the Falcons' blue and white and asked her what she thought of the game.

"'Game?' she repeated, looking at me as if I were crazy, before hurrying off to catch her friends.

***

"Well, it didn't really register on me until the next morning when my editor, the publisher of the weekly, brought in my copy of the game.

"'Dante,' he said, barely controlling himself, 'is this your idea of a joke?'

"I shook my head stupidly…

"'Well let me clarify things for you, young man. First, Robby Sanchez died on that bus with both teams up there in the mountains. And second, there was no simulated game at the gym last night, only a commemoration which you don't mention.' He flung my copy onto my desk, then asked, 'You a drinker, Dante?'"

***

On the T.V. screen, Frank Dante was again staring into the camera, looking kind of resigned to a sad fate. "Oh, sure, I checked some back copies of the weekly, photos and scores of games of both teams during the regular season. And as I suspected, the photos and names matched perfectly the players on the teams that played in that game on commemoration night."

The camera shifted to Firestone, whose expression was a mix of disbelief and a half grin. Of course he suspected Dante was putting him on, except the old man wasn't laughing.

So Firestone faced the camera and gave one of his boyish grins, saying, "There you have it, folks, the strangest basketball game that Frank Dante ever saw." Then he turned back to Dante, and as the credits rolled across the screen, you could just hear him ask, "You a drinker, Dante?"

***

I turned off the TV, dumbfounded, because Dante wasn't the
only
person to witness that game.

I had seen it, too!

***

Back in '46 my family had lived in Three Springs, my dad running the hardware store. I must've been six-years-old at the time. Anyhow, that night, though I'd been in bed with the flu and a hundred degree temperature all day, I badgered my parents into letting me go to the commemoration.

Later, of course, I was all excited by the thrilling game, even though my team, the Falcons, had lost 63-61. But my parents patiently convinced me that the game had been played
only
in my head—the result of getting up too early from bed with a fever and a strong desire to see the Falcons play the Horned Toads for the championship.

Shortly thereafter we moved a few miles north to El Centro, and I forgot the incident….

***

How do I explain the fact that Frank Dante and I both witnessed a game that couldn't have been played, a game announced by a dead man? I can't explain it. But I'll bet there were others that saw that game, too.
Real
basketball lovers. Only no one talked about it. I just don't know.

But it doesn't end there…

***

Just after my family moved to El Centro, the State came out with earthquake standards, which small schools like Dry Creek and Three Springs couldn't meet financially. Both schools were eventually condemned. Dry Creek razed their high school, including the gym. But Three Springs didn't demolish their school; it was cheaper to board up the buildings, including the little gym—which remained a scruffy monument to the town's finest moment.

***

Last weekend, my wife and I returned to El Centro for a high school reunion. We stayed on through Monday to visit with relatives, planning on heading back to L.A. Tuesday morning. But Monday night, I felt kind of restless, Dante's revelation on
Up Close
still fresh in my mind. On impulse I decided to drive down to Three Springs by myself for a quick look around.

***

The nearly deserted town had almost dried up and blown away, but the school was still there.

I parked the car and walked across the grounds to the old gym. The windows were all boarded up, the doors chained and locked, paint peeling everywhere, the whole thing looking even smaller than I remembered. I stood there, thinking about that game played almost fifty years ago, until the dry desert wind whining across the abandoned campus drew me back to the present.

Suddenly, I heard something from inside the old gym.

It sounded like a team practicing—you know, the
thumping
sound of basketballs being dribbled, and the
splatting
of balls up against wooden backboards, even the faint sound of balls
swishing
through nets. Or was it my imagination, the wind in the trees around the tiny campus playing tricks with my state of mind? After all,
who
would want to break in and practice in an old, condemned, crackerbox gym in a deserted little town?

Still listening, I gazed up at the stars, looking so close and clear in the unpolluted desert sky; and after a few moments the grand magnificence of the spectacular night sky kind of settled me. Looking back at the boarded up building, I had no difficulty separating the sound of the wind overhead from the sounds
inside
the gym.

Who indeed?

Feeling refreshed by the visit, I walked back to my parked Topaz. But before I climbed into the car, I paused for a last look back at the old gym, and I chuckled to myself. Guess 'them boys' found a good spot to play.

***

Do you believe in ghosts?

I do.

2 Peter 2:4

Prologue

The boy lay at the foot of his bed, almost dropping off to sleep, but determined to stay awake. Every few minutes he roused himself and peeked at the door adjoining the bedrooms, making sure it was ajar just a crack. He'd been fighting sleep for two hours, waiting for the girl to return from work. He still couldn't believe what he'd seen last night, when he'd accidently awakened after she'd come home from her part-time job at Burger King.

So, early this evening after the three other boys were asleep, he tiptoed to the adjoining door to the two foster sisters' bedroom and quietly cracked it open, just a quarter of an inch. Then he returned to his lower bunk, turned around with his head at the foot of the bed, so he could easily peer through the crack into the dresser mirror across the girls' bedroom.

But his enthusiasm was beginning to wane as the hour grew later, his eyelids drooping, and he actually dozed off soundly for a few minutes, awakening with a start as he dreamed he was falling off a cliff—

A footstep in the hall.

It was her!

A nightlight blinked on in the room. In the mirror the boy saw his older foster sister move into view, glance around, then smile at her apparently still sleeping roommate, just out of the boy's sight. He froze, holding his breath when she looked directly at him, hoping she wouldn't see the cracked door.

His pulse beat rapidly.

No, please don't close it…

Then, after an eternity, she moved out of view, obviously not noticing the opened door.

The boy sighed deeply.

The girl returned to view, wearing only her underwear. Standing squarely in front of the mirror, she reached up and combed her shoulder-length reddish-blonde hair, her lips mouthing the number of strokes. But the boy wasn't watching her hand; he was staring wide-eyed at her underarm, the little tuft of golden-red hair in her armpit.

Staring transfixed.

After completing the prescribed number of strokes, she was finished and dropped the comb onto the dresser.

Then, the girl unhooked her bra and placed it beside the comb, exposing her smallish breasts; and the boy shifted carefully on the foot of his bed, pulling himself a few inches closer, anticipating what he'd seen last night.

Hoping, hoping.

She bent over and stepped out of her panties, placing them on the dresser beside the abandoned bra; and at that moment she was squared-up perfectly in front of the mirror.

The boy saw it, again!

The tiny patch of hair at her crotch. Tonight she touched herself there, her fingers covering the patch for just a moment. Then the hand was gone.

He clutched his mouth, stifling a groan of delight. Beautiful reddish-golden hair.

Who would've thought? None of the boys had hair down there. Only a naked dangle. Even though the girl had no dangle, she possessed a marvelous hidden secret.

Secret hair.

Suddenly the light was out, the show over; and the boy reluctantly slipped back to the other end of his bed, frowning, one of the Voices echoing in his head:
Bad boy, bad boy
!

Samson

It is still unusually hot and muggy outside, especially for eleven o'clock at night, almost as oppressive as the laundry room back at the hospital, your T-shirt stuck to your sweaty underarms, your shorts bunching uncomfortably, and your crotch feeling gritty. Despite the heat, you keep your stocking cap on, rolled down to your ears, and you don't even consider pulling up the sleeves on your khaki work shirt. No indeed.

You pause outside The Red Impala Diner on your way home, peer in the front window, scanning the bright emptiness; and, as you first suspect, there appears to be no one in there to hassle you. An iced tea would be good, help cool off.

You take a seat at the counter and the cook, a clean white apron around his waist, steps out of the kitchen. "What'll it be, pal?"

Sucking in a deep breath to stave off the 'funny talk,' you ask almost perfectly, "G-got ice' tea?"

He nods, turns, and draws a big glass full from an urn near the order window into the kitchen. "Lemon?" he asks, a bored, tired expression on his face.

You shake your head. The iced tea is good. You stare at the tall glass, remembering…