Odditorium: A Novel (5 page)

“Of course you work hard, I don’t question that. You have a lot to put up with, fair enough. Don’t let’s overreact.” He sighed heavily and circled to his right, in the general direction of the corner where Flora and M.J. loitered impassively. “You’ve misunderstood my point. Or maybe I failed to put it in quite the right words.”

“We heard you,” Heidi said, heartened by the physical closeness of the others and by Tildy’s cool palm behind her neck. “Plain as the teats on a sow.”

Ignoring her, Sparn kept edging away. He pressed his fingertips together, trying to appear casual but deliberate. “What I’m trying to get across to you, it’s not a physical thing. It’s an emotional thing. It’s not about moving from first to third on a single. It’s about moving your audience, getting them excited and getting them involved. Moving them. Making them care.”

Several sets of eyes rolled toward the ceiling. With leering ceremony, That’s-Mary rolled two wads of a half-eaten chocolate cupcake and used them to plug her ears.

“Drama. Suspense. That’s what’s missing. Because … because we think we’re unbeatable. Yes, that’s it! Enterprise. Imagination. Emotions. Theatrics. Just as tangible as that welt on Tildy’s leg. Let me tell you something. I review the statistics every day and you know what I see? I see dullness. That’s right. I see scores like four, zero; five, zero; six, one. Now where the hell is the drama in that? Dull. Cut and dried.”

Sparn entered Flora’s corner as his speech reached its crescendo. He took her arm, the million-dollar arm, light and whippy, that could fire a fat, rubber-covered sphere at close to ninety miles an hour, and lifted it over his head.

“The greatest,” he said solemnly. “Maybe the greatest ever. A young woman who has perfected her craft to such a fine degree that you and I, we can’t even understand it. Another realm altogether.” He let the arm drop and it bounced on Flora’s hip as though she were asleep. “But how do people, ordinary people, feel about that kind of excellence? Think about it. If I announced that tomorrow afternoon at the Knights of Columbus Hall there would be an exhibition by the world’s best diamond cutter, how many tickets do you suppose I would sell? Excellence has its drawbacks. It can really put people off.” He laid his hand on Flora’s cheek. “What you’ve got to do, honey, is let up just a little bit. Let those bozos on the other side score some runs once in a while.”

She flicked away Sparn’s damp saurian claw and gazed at him with contempt, as though he had asked her to prepare and consume a melted goat turd sandwich before a gathering of cub scouts. This arrogant, yammering little troll wanted her to intentionally and bloodlessly betray her talent, her sense of professionalism and her love for Molly Joan—because for Flora all these things were bound inextricably together. If it came down to that, she would much rather eat the sandwich.

There followed a long, uncomfortable pause, embroidered by the sound of M.J. chomping french fries. Finally, when Flora had it all worked out in her mind, she tightened the belt of her robe, walked halfway to the door, turned.

“See you at tomorrow’s game, Mr. Sparn. Be there.”

Carrying a large root beer in which the ice had melted, M.J. followed. Then, without a word or glance to one another, the Cougarettes stood and trooped out of the room past a thunderstruck Peter Sparn with the metered gait of a half-time band.

Sparn’s face grew pink, as though he’d been slapped. When he had found his voice, he moved with such speed that Vinnie cringed as he came toward him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, boy. When are you going to learn how to control these girls?”

While his father raved on, Vinnie turned little by little to wax.

Tildy was summoned the next morning to a private breakfast with Sparn at the Magnolia Diner. They sat at a sun-soaked booth next to a window box of plastic ivy. It was after nine o’clock and they were the only customers in the place.

“What’ll you have?”

“A large glass of water. Plenty of ice.” Tildy adjusted her dark glasses.

“You can do better than that. Have a little something with me, I hate to eat alone.”

“I don’t like breakfast, I never have.”

“You gotta eat to live. Were you always this scrawny?”

“More or less.”

Sparn ordered pork chops, eggs and grits. He did tricks with the flatware, flirted with the waitress and generally comported himself like a jolly Uncle Ned. Tildy had known the man for some years and had found little in him to admire. But he had a certain resilience.

“So you girls partied pretty late last night, huh? You all gonna turn into zombies?”

“Coffeyville, two o’clock. We’ll be ready.”

Counting under his breath, Sparn dumped four spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “You sure you won’t have something with me? I suppose you’re sick to here with this diner food.”

“It’s not so bad. I just always ask for extra gravy.”

Sparn slid abruptly forward and pressed her hand. “Where is your life now, Tildy? Are you happy with it?”

Tildy was so surprised she gave a straight answer. “I don’t know.”

Sparn was making her nervous. Definitely. He has this way of ambushing people, she thought; and recalled an afternoon they’d spent together a few years ago, the day he’d asked her to become a Cougarette.

She was working for Sparn on the topless go-go circuit at the time, and making a fair piece of change. Bare tits were still a big item back then and a bar owner could get five or six bucks for a pitcher of beer from anyone who wanted to see them in action. Tildy was a small, lean, woman, in marked contrast to most of the pneumatic dollies she worked with, but she moved like a snake and the rubes would line up to stuff tips in her G-string. Older men in particular seemed to dig her girl-child body. She was billed as the Ragin’ Cajun, Sparn’s idea. Tildy was one of his favorites.

He called her one Sunday and invited her to a cruise party on the Saint John’s River. They were already out in the channel by the time Tildy discovered they were the only two people aboard the
Big Peter
.

“Look, Pete, if this is one of those fuck-or-swim deals, I’m not doing either one.”

Sparn was deeply offended. A soft breeze, sun on the water and two friends sitting down for some pleasant conversation. Where was the harm in that?

“I’m not sure I can buy that.”

“But I like talking to you, kid. You got smarts. I’m still trying to figure you out.” He poured her a pineapple daiquiri. “Yeah, Tildy Soileau is a very strange item, you know that.”

“I’ve heard it before, if that’s what you mean.”

“You know, you’re the only girl I ever sent out didn’t try a little hooking on the side. Hell, you’re the only one still using pasties.”

“What can I tell you, Pete. It’s the way I was brought up.”

“No kidding? How’d you get in this business anyway?”

“Just luck.”

They anchored in calm water off of Fort Caroline and Sparn went swimming. He did the breaststroke and kept his hat on. Then, with fresh daiquiris, they perched astern on swivel chairs and discussed boating safety, the best places to eat crab and the case of a local attorney on trial for murdering his wife with a nine-iron. Tildy began to relax after Sparn applied suntan oil to himself without asking for help. It was after turkey salad sandwiches and another daiquiri that Pete sprang the ambush.

“You ever play baseball when you were a kid?”

“Who remembers?”

Sparn then ran down the entire Cougarettes scheme to her, talking so fast and excitedly that he spilled his drink. He scurried inside, returned with a sketch pad and showed her the green and gold uniforms he’d designed.

“You’re all fired up over this, aren’t you, Pete?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not really.”

“Did I forget to mention that you’re going to be my shortstop?”

“Get out of here. I can’t play baseball. I don’t even know who won the World Series last year.”

“Softball. It’s softball. And you’ll pick it up real fast, I know you will. First practice is next week.”

“Sorry. I’ve got a gig in Daytona Beach next week. Jerry’s Gondola, remember?”

“I canceled it.”

There was an argument about that. Tildy threw half a dozen cocktail glasses overboard. But eventually her energy was exhausted and she stood by the mahogany railing, spitting into the water.

“Come on, it’s crazy to fight. What a beautiful day this is. Let’s fish a little.”

Sparn handed her a rod fitted with a large saltwater reel. She looked at it for a moment, then handed it back to him.

“You fish, Pete. I’ll cut bait.”

Tildy chewed ice and looked out the window to avoid watching Sparn eat. A little boy in the parking lot was writing on the side of someone’s car with a piece of charcoal. The car had two flat tires and a blotch of body putty near the door. She knocked on the glass and waved to him, but he went on writing.

When Sparn had picked over the bones, sopped up the last of the grits and egg yolk, he loosened his belt and reached for a toothpick.

“More water?”

“I’m fine.”

“Not much to say for yourself this morning. Something bothering you?”

Tildy rolled the icy glass across her forehead. “Just a little drumming behind the eyes.”

“I don’t know. Seems to me like everybody’s cranky and depressed. What is it—all you girls on the rag at once?”

“We’re tired, wasted. That’s all.”

“I don’t know. The team is flat as hell. They’re bitching, they’re dragging their feet. I thought you might know something that’s going on. Sometimes—this is going to sound strange, but sometimes I wake up at night with a feeling like the whole operation is coming apart and I don’t even know who to blame. You’ve been around since the start, Tildy. What do you think I should do?”

“You want my advice?”

Sparn nodded earnestly.

“Go home.”

On the evidence, Coffeyville was a town with either tremendous civic pride or nothing else to do. An SRO mob had assembled to cheer and stomp for their team, eight members of the Rotary Club and someone’s teenage son. The town supervisor was on hand distributing free ball-point pens advertising his aluminum siding business and his sister had brought her kindergarten class, complete with construction paper name tags. A man in a derby and sleeve garters blew cavalry charges on a dented bugle. A squad of young housewives paraded with homemade signs.

Vinnie was selling an awful lot of beer. Every few minutes a roving Sparn, too worked up to sit still, stopped to pound him on the back or tousle his hair. It was starting to look as though they would be able to clear the entire week’s nut off this one show; he was once again Big Pete, the jaunty sportsman, and could dismiss as illusory the image that had possessed him only a few hours earlier, of his Cougarettes sinking into chaos and eventual bankruptcy. On his head at a debonair angle was the gold cap with the big green C.

Although the Cougarettes, powered by two doubles from M.J. in the cleanup spot, were leading 3-0, and the Rotarians had managed but two harmless singles, the Coffeyville crowd maintained its feverish noise level. They were not too partisan, however, to applaud the outrageous play Tildy made to end the sixth inning, a diving stab behind the bag and a snap throw from one knee that beat the runner by a step and a half. But the Coffeyville folks refused to cave in. When they went down in the eighth on two strikeouts and an infield pop-up and the bugle man started to play taps, a fat lady sitting behind him knocked off his derby. Tildy got on on an error in the top of the ninth, stole second and then third on successive pitches. Sparn lit up a victory cigar and Heidi hit a line drive right at the third baseman to end it.

They were all on their feet for the home ninth, clapping rhythmically and whistling. They stayed there when Flora walked the leadoff man on four pitches, then came inside on the next batter and plunked him in the ribs. M.J. called time and went to the mound for a conference. Tildy saw Flora slowly shake her head and point to herself. Flora’s next delivery sailed over everyone’s heads and the runners advanced.

Ben Salem peeled off his mask and looked at the stands for guidance, but Sparn was dreamily blowing smoke rings and stroking the bill of his cap. The next two weren’t even close and there was no way he could call them strikes. The crowd noise remained at a roar as Flora cut the heart of the plate twice for a three-two count. Then she bounced one in the dirt to load the bases. And suddenly Tildy realized what was going to happen.

Coming up next was the kid, who had not had so much as a loud foul off Flora all day long. The other girls slapped their gloves and yelled encouragement, barely audible against the swelling clamor of Coffeyville.

“On the money, baby, on the money.”

“Forget it, batter. School’s out.”

“You git him, big F. Way to shoot, way to chuck.”

But Tildy stood with arms loose at her sides, watching, waiting.

The kid was scared, knew he was going to hit into a double play. He plucked at his uniform, spat on his hands, anything to buy a little time. Finally he stepped in. Flora served him a big, juicy lollipop and he slammed it over the fence to end the game.

With a thin smile on her lips and a knot in her chest like a cold hunk of quartz, Flora jogged over and found Sparn pallid and wide-eyed among the jubilant yokels.

“I tried to let up for you, Mr. Sparn,” she said. “Was it dramatic enough?”

Fighting his way out of the crush, Sparn stumbled dizzily to the shelter of an oak tree and deposited his breakfast all over its roots.

One hour later he installed Ben Salem as the Cougarettes’ new manager.

Then he went home.

F
OR THE FIRST TIME
in several days, sunlight came blaring through the open blinds, turning everything a rancid yellow, heating a broth of bad smells. Inmates were scattered about the dayroom, some on folding chairs, some on the floor, trying to digest their breakfast of creamed hamburger on toast. They were for the most part too heavily medicated to focus on the television. An interview show was on; a woman was discussing her book on healing through self-hypnosis.