Muckers (18 page)

Tony’s putting on a sombrero the color of holy wine. That thing’s the size of a Chevy tire and nearly grazes the banner stretching from Penney’s to Lee Fong’s Chinese Kitchen. You’d think Tony would be feeling foolish wearing a thing like that. He’s got to know there’s about a thousand sequins sewn onto it, glinting green and red in the sun. But he taps on the brim whenever a woman walks by, not feeling like a horse’s ass one bit.

I’m the one who’s feeling foolish sitting here, nodding at the folks congratulating me on winning the game last night when I didn’t do much. And I’m sure glad Marty held on to keep us undefeated. But how am I gonna laugh at Cruz on my own when he goes by? That would just feel hollow. And I wonder what Cruz’ll do come Saint Patrick’s Day if Rabbit still isn’t back and it’s just him watching me out there marching in that parade.

I spot a maroon letterman’s jacket with
SOUTHWEST MISSOURI STATE
on the back, so I know Coach Hansen’s here. And I guess I’m not surprised. Wallinger, yes, if he showed up. Which he won’t.

“I was looking for you,” Coach says, walking over. Little Homer, his boy, is hoisted on his shoulders and keeps looking down at me with a great big tamale-sauce grin. I’m thinking maybe I’m not in for the next game after all, despite what Coach said in the paper, if he’s out looking for me in the middle of Mexican Independence Day.

“If you help me with this, you’d be doing me a big favor.” Coach smiles, pointing to the tamale stuffed in the paper cone he’s holding. “Eleanor’s got a roast in the oven, and if I don’t eat half of it she’ll think there’s something wrong.”

I unwrap the tamale and try not to shovel it in my mouth all at once.

“Ever toss a beanbag?” Coach asks.

“Not since third grade when the circus came to town and I guessed the number of marbles in a jar. I’m pretty good with numbers. Pop said I was his lucky charm.”

Coach grins and takes Homer off his shoulders. “This’ll be the little guy’s first try.” He hands Homer a squishy green bag filled with rice and starts showing him how to aim it so it’ll go in the monkey’s mouth painted red on the board. Homer misses, but Coach keeps saying “Great try,” even when the second bag lands on Coach’s foot.

Homer throws his last bag. It lands in the dirt but he claps, he’s so happy, and runs into my legs, looking up at me so I can tell him his throw was good, too.

“Nice try, buddy,” I tell Homer, rubbing the top of his curly head. Then I remember how Quesada did last night—good enough to hang on to a win. I’m not sure where that leaves me.

“Quesada did real well last night,” I tell Coach.

“Yes, he did,” Coach says. “But Quesada’s even stronger at halfback. That’s where he ought to be and he knows it. Look, I know benching was a tough thing to have to endure, but you had a great week of practice, and you’re our starter. From here on in we’ll be challenged and we need you to lead this team. So let’s quit talking about football and get to the shooting gallery. Homer could use a prize.”

I keep grinning all the way to the gallery, where Baldo Gallegos is manning the counter. He hands Coach a rifle, but Coach won’t take it and points at me instead.

“Don’t you want to go first?” I ask.

“No. That wouldn’t do,” Coach says. “I see double most days lately. And right now looks to be one of those times.”

But I threw him a pass as hard as I could and he caught it an inch from his head
. “How’d you do it?” I ask him. “Catching that football I threw you last time?”

“Careful now. Homer’s got his eye on that straw donkey, so you’ve got to make all three shots count.”

The metal ducks go by and I aim for the tail of the first one so I can hit the second mallard square on the jaw. It clinks and Homer jumps up and down while I wait for Coach to answer.

“Whatever’s furthest to my left is a wash,” he says. “They’re just phantoms. Things like goalposts at night or moving targets are tougher. Come on now, Red. You’ve got two more.”

“Hit ’em good, Red,” Baldo says.

I take the gun and wait for a pair of ducks to pass, then fire at the next two, knocking them flat.

Homer squeals with laughter.

“Is that the donkey you want?” I ask him, pointing to the pink sombrero sewn in between a donkey’s ears. Homer nods and says, “Oh boy!” when Baldo hands it to him, then he jumps into Coach’s arms.

Coach winces, keeping his eyes closed longer than he should. “You mind taking Homer for a while?” he asks.

I’ve never held a kid before, but Homer wraps his arms around my neck anyhow and tucks his head under my chin.

“Where’s your girl?” Coach asks. “And don’t tell me there isn’t one.”

“She should be in the Square about now,” I say, thinking about Angie and that contest in the gazebo.

“Then let’s go,” he says. “What sort of things does she like?”

“Pearls,” I say.

“Uh-oh. I built Eleanor a flower garden and her carnations have a tough time of it, but pearls take more than
digging. They need the sweat of working for pay. That’ll take you some time.”

“She has to go out with me first.”

“She will,” Coach says, like he’s sure about that, and I’m grinning again.

We pass the food stands and see Mrs. Featherhoff collecting money from a bunch of little kids who want a crack at that piñata with Father Pierre’s cane. Father’s showing the kids how to use it and laughing along with them. I remember when we used to do that, too.

When we get to the gazebo, Mr. Casillas is in front of the microphone. Rudy Kovacs is standing pretty near it on the curb, though I don’t know why. Rudy’s carrying a bottle and wearing his Muckers jacket, but he didn’t earn it. He starts laughing at Tony’s father. Holding the bottle lower, he tosses it at the gazebo. The bottle hits the lattice that’s hemming the platform, and Mr. Casillas stops talking and blinks.

“You dropped something,” I tell Rudy, standing close behind him. Homer’s got his face buried in the straw donkey under my chin. I can hear him whimpering.

Rudy turns around and smirks, looking up at the sky and acting all innocent. Coach grabs him by the shoulder. “A bottle can get slippery in the heat of the sun,” Coach says. “But it’s time to pick it up and leave.”

Rudy keeps looking at Coach sideways, tapping the bottle with the tip of his boot.

“If you want to set foot on the field again, you’ll do it,” Coach warns him.

Rudy finally snatches up the bottle and tosses it from hand to hand like he’s juggling. Then he throws it in the trash.

Tony’s father waits until Rudy’s in front of him, then hollers,
“¡Viva Mexico!”
flailing the bell high above his head and
ringing it like crazy until Rudy’s halfway up the hill. The mariachis start strumming those fat guitars they’re holding, and Mr. Casillas calls the girls up onstage.

They’re all aiming to be Queen of the Fiesta, though I don’t know why the others even bother. Mrs. Rodriguez shows the girls where to stand—half of them are the phone operators she’s in charge of. But no one comes close to the kind of pretty that Angie is. When her name gets called and she comes up on that podium, I can hardly even breathe.

“Uh-oh. You’re done for, aren’t you?” Coach whistles. “Just like when I first saw Eleanor. She was already engaged, but married me instead. Left that big ranch her folks had planned on us living on to come up here.” He’s taking Homer from me, but I can barely feel it. “She’s afraid of driving around these crazy turns,” he says, “but even more terrified of the burros. She’s so happy that I pulled through, she might even let Homer have one.”

I’m not listening to what Coach is saying anymore. I can’t stop looking at Angie. Her hair blowing soft against those bare shoulders. The red-and-green paper flowers tucked behind her ear. And I think I’m a fool for thinking that she’d want me. Only there she is, up on the podium in a shiny white dress, smiling and waving at me like I’m Robert Mitchum, or someone just as famous who walked off the screen at the picture show.

She’s still smiling when Mrs. Rodriguez takes hold of her arm and looks where Angie’s been looking; then that smile disappears with the wind.

I look at Mrs. Rodriguez, then back at Angie, where my gaze finally stays. I don’t care if Mrs. Rodriguez is in charge of all the girls at the phone company—I can’t stop looking at Angie.

“I’ve got a good feeling about this season,” Coach says. “There’s a whole lot of people in this town not wanting you to be with her, but I can see in your eyes that won’t stop you. Remember that when the papers keep saying you’ve got no business winning on the field.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Think how badly you want to. How badly you want her. And that you’ve got every right to both.”

* * *

I’m halfway into the Barrio; most of the neighborhood’s still in the Square celebrating, including Mr. V and Cruz, who hopped on that float with Tony after ditching his horn. Hoisted a few of his brothers and sisters up there, too.

Me, I’m aiming for the bottom of the Gulch. I saw Angie walking home with that crown. Not the big sparkly one they put on the Fiesta Queen, but the smaller one—they called it a tiara when they gave it to her. She’s the queen’s assistant, though I don’t know if that’s just a way of saying if the queen drops dead or gets polio, the princess moves up to take her place.

I step onto the Villanuevas’ porch and it creaks, so that’s taking another risk since I don’t know who else is home. But I’ll say I came to see Cruz if she doesn’t answer. There’s no reason for them to believe any different.

I knock on the door and Angie opens it, but I get so nervous I ask for Cruz anyway. “You know darn well he isn’t here,” she says, letting me come in. She’s still wearing that crown but with a different dress now. They keep changing them on special days like this.

“Who did you
really
come to see, Red?” she asks coyly.

“I’m looking at her.”

Angie smiles.

“You should’ve won Fiesta Queen,” I tell her. “Not princess.”

“You think so?” She blushes. “Sure, it would have been
nice, but it doesn’t matter. And it wouldn’t change things. I’m still who I am.” Angie shrugs, then she slips her hand in mine. “I’m sorry they benched you,” she whispers.

“That’s behind me now. Over and done with,” I tell her. “I’m playing Cottonville on Friday.”

“So you’re different now?”

“Not different, just confident.”

Angie squeezes my hand and the little kids behind her start giggling.

“Good thing they don’t know my name yet.”

“Red!” the one without the diaper blurts out.

Angie pretends like she’s gonna paddle him but purposely misses. “If you stay much longer,” she says, “Mrs. Esperanza from next door will tell Papá. She’s such a snoop. I know why she doesn’t fix her shutters—so she can see into other people’s business.”

“In a week I’ll be all business,” I say as she gently ushers me outside.

“Sounds like Cottonville doesn’t have a chance,” Angie tells me before closing the door.

MID-WEEK EDITION

Rival Teams Set for Final Clash

The Cottonville Wolves and Hatley Muckers battle in their annual matchup on Friday, with Hatley winning the draw for home field. Both teams are bitter rivals and undefeated this season.

Roy “Runt” Studdard, Cottonville coach, says he’d be worried the confrontation
could become a bloodbath, but says the Hatley players are too small. “My quarterback got his jaw wired a few years ago, but that was when their team had weight. I’m guessing they’ll have to play nice when you look at their size.”

The game will be the last time the teams face off. Hatley High will close its doors at the end of the school year and is expected to merge with Cottonville next year.

“What they don’t have in weight my boys make up for in toughness, speed and finesse,” Muckers coach Ben Hansen said. “Besides, it’s not a weight contest. It’s a test of grit and skill.”

“It’ll be nice to play more teams with grass fields,” Coach Studdard said, on playing Hatley for the last time. “I know we got a slag field, too, but it doesn’t have 60 years of tailings. I don’t know what they put in the smelter back in those days, but razor blades wouldn’t be any different.”

One Blast Too Many: Ernie’s All-Car Garage Slides into Gulch, p.2
.

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PIANO FOR SALE
—To reliable person living in the Valley. Nearly new, high-grade spinet piano. Must be removed from sidewalk at once. See Mrs. Featherhoff, Upper Main. Day or evening.

INTRODUCING
: LEE FONG’S AMERICAN GRILL. Serving Real American Food. Today’s Special Calf Liver & Scrambled Egg 65¢. Jell-O. Apricot Pie. Coca-Cola 5¢.

REASONABLE
— ’45 Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Good condition. First $65 gets. Ernie’s All-Car Garage & Wrecking Yard.

“
FELIX O
’
SULLIVAN, I
’
VE BROUGHT SOMETHING
to fatten you up,” Mrs. Hollingworth says, knocking on the wood framing of the screen three hours before the game. The last time I saw her anywhere near our house was a few months after they took Maw up the hill, so I don’t know what to say.