The Legend of Mickey Tussler (37 page)

Llamas's face was tight with anticipation. He looked a little sick. The thought came to him that this moment was his—all his—and with that thought came a vague heaviness. The glory would taste so sweet, no doubt. But what if he failed?

The pitcher took his sign as Llamas wrestled with the opposing forces. He breathed deeply, pulling in air from both his nose and mouth, licked his lips, and readied himself for the ball. What he saw first was the pitcher's foot, suspended in the air, dangling in the crosshairs. His cleat was torn and muddy. Then Llamas's eyes found the arm, followed by the hand as it moved swiftly past the pitcher's ear and into full view. He was entranced, as if he were staring into a crystal ball, in which images of his immediate future were being cast.

Next came the ball, released from the curled fingers like a caged dove. It took flight and commanded Llamas's full attention. Finster was watching too and had broken into a full sprint upon the ball's discharge.

“Squeeze!”

The admonition rang out across the field and the entire Giant infield rushed the plate, where Llamas stood, his hands and body rotating to face the pitcher in an artful attempt to catch the ball with his bat.

Llamas followed the spinning white sphere all the way in. His expression was hardened, as if etched in stone. His hips swiveled and his knees bent, and after sliding his top hand up the barrel, his bat lay at a forty-five degree angle, in perfect line with the ball.

Perfect it was. The lucky lumber deadened the pitch instantly, sending it whimpering back out toward the pitcher's mound, where a frantic race for the ball ensued as Finster dashed madly down the line. With eyes puddling and hearts aflutter, the Brewer faithful watched the drama unfold.

The Giant pitcher was the first to get to the ball. He looked like small child chasing a windblown dandelion seed. He could hear the catcher's urgent cry for the ball, and through his peripheral lens he could see Finster just steps away from the promised land. But he still had time. He still had plenty of time.

His thin, determined face was lit with hope as his bare hand tickled the laces—a hope that disappeared when, to his dismay, the perfidious ball danced out of his palm and off to the side, clearing the way for Finster and opening up the celebratory gates through which both players and fans poured.

It was pandemonium. But Murph said nothing. Did nothing. He stood there on the dugout steps, watching the celebration, as if he were viewing it through a distant lens. What had just transpired appeared to come slowly to him, as if it had to penetrate some fog in his head. Was it real? Was it really happening? To him? He did not move, for fear of disrupting the dreamlike harmony, but gradually his incredulous expression began to clear, draining off every doubtful line until nothing was left save a look of utter satisfaction. Then his eyes found Molly in the crowd, and he raised a finger in her direction. She brought her hand to her heart, tapped gently, and smiled.

The three of them—Murph, Molly, and Mickey—sat at the kitchen table that evening, a family of the most unlikely making, sharing a meal of Molly's making while discussing the details of the afternoon's excitement.

“Well, Arthur,” Molly said, dabbing the corners of her mouth delicately with a cloth napkin, “I have to tell you, honestly, that I have never seen, in all my life, something so thrilling. I had goose bumps the whole time. Honestly, I just cannot stop thinking about it.”

Murph turned to face her. She looked young, with beautiful, soft hair and so many layers of intimacy behind her soft, rosy cheeks. But her mouth still sank a little, closed after every hint of hopefulness with a stirring sense of disillusion. She had an odd look on her face, as though she had just seen something wonderful that she knew would never be hers. He beat against it with all his soul.

“You sure brought us some luck, Molly,” he said through a toothy grin. “Ain't that right, Mickey? You were like an angel today, on our shoulders. Things don't usually go that way for us. I imagine folks around here will want you to stay for a while.”

The boy was ordering the food on his plate and never looked up, but responded nonetheless. “I reckon all those people jumping on the field was the darndest thing Mickey ever saw. I stepped on a few of them. Didn't mean to though. Just sorta happened.” He used his fork as a shovel, plowing the contents of his plate back and forth before dropping the implement on the table in favor of his bare hand. “Do you reckon I can give these to Oscar?” He lifted his head and held out two boiled potatoes.

“Sure, Mick,” Murph said, grinning. “Why don't you go out back and see what he's doing.”

Later that evening, Molly and Murph were alone. It felt good to Murph, safe and familiar. They chatted about all sorts of things— where she grew up, her parents, the clarinet, and of course, Clarence. Molly, however, was not experiencing the same level of comfort as he was and altered the direction of the discourse.

“Big game in two days,” she said, shifting the emphasis away from herself. “Should be exciting.” She stood up suddenly, awkwardly. Unable to handle the emerging feelings stirring between the two of them, she began busying herself with the dishes.

He followed her to the sink and stood behind her. He wanted to slip his hands around her waist—to touch her hair, maybe kiss the back of her neck. It seemed that what little had already transpired between them had been leading to this moment. That it would be the end of one story and quite possibly the beginning of another. But he too felt the stranglehold of circumstance and opted for a much safer route.

“I never did apologize, directly that is, for what happened to Mickey,” he said, standing next to her. “I hope you're not angry with me.”

“Don't be silly, Arthur. I know it wasn't your fault. You have done so much for him. Given him opportunities that he never would have had. Really. You have been so good to him. Like a guardian angel. I can't wait to see him play.”

Later that night, despite a tangible awkwardness, he kissed her. He held her closely, so that he could feel his blood mix with hers, and kissed her softly on the lips. No one else was around, except Orion and the Seven Sisters, winking from above with silent approbation.

They had ventured outside, to gaze at the moon, and maybe walk in the cool night air. It was not supposed to happen. She was talking about how time had just slipped away from her, and how there was so much of life she had yet to experience, when their faces sort of became tangled in each other. At first, their lips and their eyes trembled as they gazed at each other, questioning but understanding. That's when it happened.

“Arthur, this has to go slow,” she said, the moon's glow reflected in her eyes.

His heart flooded with passion. Hearing her say those words was more than enough—more than he'd expected. He was leaning, warm and quivering, his back up against the top rail of a wooden fence. The night was glorious. Something electric. Standing there, he could swear he felt his life changing all around him.

“There's nothing to worry about, Molly,” he whispered. He stepped way from the fence and cleared some errant strands of hair from her eyes. “There's no rush. It's okay. Some things—the things that are most important—they tend to just happen all on their own.” He stopped momentarily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And those are the things always worth waiting for.”

An eery, dreamlike dusk fell on Lefty as he moved stealthily toward Murph's place. With his car safely ensconced in the sweeping canopy of a weeping-willow grove just a half mile up the road, he ventured out on foot, his boots dusty from the parched soil in the roadbed.

As he walked, Lefty let his eyes wander, something he often did when his mind was filled with myriad things to weigh. Life was a continuous learning curve, just like baseball. Throw an 0–2 fastball down the middle and get burned, it never happens again. Easy enough. Why then, he lamented silently, hadn't the same principle applied to his life outside the lines? In his dizzy state, he was not able to ascertain what he had gained, if anything, from his previous dealings with Quinton and McNally. If he had gained a new maturity, self-awareness, or inner strength from his past troubles, he could hardly feel it now as he walked toward the house so helplessly, childlike even, struggling with his impotence.

With Murph's house almost in sight, he became uncomfortably aware of the frenetic movements of the creatures all around him. Bees vibrated in the colorful clusters of wildflowers; frogs croaked and splashed off in the distance; hummingbirds and swallowtails worked the sweet air in search of vacant flower heads; crickets crooned to a soon-to-be-yellow moon. The accumulation of energy filled his heart with dread.

“It's not enough to just pitch for us anymore, Rogers, ya hear?” McNally had told him. “Quinton wants more. We can't take any chances here. We have to insure our path to victory. Now go over there and rattle that boy's cage.”

Lefty nodded imperceptibly, almost desperately. “How am I supposed to do that? I mean, I just got out of trouble.”

“Don't be such a pussy, Rogers. Holy shit. I don't know. Think of something. Steal his glove. Throw a rock through his window. You're no choirboy. You'll think of something. But make it good. I want him so rattled that he can't even hold a baseball.”

Lefty pressed his fingers against his face like prison bars, as if to force out between them his growing uncertainty. “Okay,” he finally said, pulling his hands away from his face. “I guess I'll think of something.”

Lefty recalled bitterly the last deal he had made with Quinton. How that rat bastard had hung him out to dry. It still burned his insides. He knew Quinton could not be trusted. Of that he was certain. The enormity of this realization rose up with fury, but did not alter his circumstances.
Remember where your bread is buttered,
he told himself. If it weren't for the opportunity he was being given—to pitch in the postseason for the favorite and possibly resurrect his career—he would have just bolted, turned right around, and told both of them to shove it up their asses.

The tip of Murph's roof emerged out from behind a cloud of blackpoll warblers that erupted out of a sycamore that had all but completely turned color. He reached down and picked up a rock, walked a few more steps, thought some more, then dropped it. He considered slipping in the house and messing with Mickey's things, but decided against that as well. In truth, he did not know what to do. All he really wanted was to pitch.

This indecision had all but paralyzed him when his eye caught sight of two figures, linked at the elbow, walking away from the house in the opposite direction. They were talking and laughing. It was Murph, and on his arm a woman. Opportunity flashed before him. Mickey would be by himself. Alone. Vulnerable. It was perfect.

Lefty was certain that he could talk circles around the dim-witted country boy, enough so that he would be too scared to step foot anywhere near the ballpark.

Before Lefty even saw his victim, he heard him, squeaking the boards on the front porch with the white rocker while feeding Oscar some partially spoiled husks of corn. Lefty smiled. He was thinking and wondering what McNally and Quinton would say when they heard. How they would congratulate him on his initiative. Maybe even leave him alone at last. In a flash he saw himself in the triumphant scene—sipping cognac and puffing away on a Cuban cigar in Quinton's office.

“Well done, Mr. Rogers. Well done.”

The sky was darkening. Lefty looked right, then left, before stealing up the worn dirt drive and onto the gravel path that lay just below the porch. The sound of the rocker grew louder under the pale light of the emerging moon.

“Hi ya, Mick,” he said cheerfully, startling him. “Remember me?”

Mickey flushed. He looked away, his attention tied up with scratching his porker behind the ears.

“Sure is a nice night, ain't it?” Lefty grinned, mounting each of the three steps one at a time, leaning up against the spindled rail, arms outstretched, once he reached the platform. Then he lit a cigar and puffed on it a few times, the smoke flowing from his mouth in a long, curling ribbon over one of his shoulders.

“Whatcha got there, Mickey?” he asked, feigning interest.

Mickey's soul was naked in his big, dark eyes. “My pig. From home.”

“He got a name?”

“Name's Oscar. Oscar.”

Lefty rolled the cigar across his bottom lip and over to the other side of his mouth. “Well, that there's a fine-looking porker. Yes, siree. Big one. Pig like that's a beautiful thing. Sure would make a whole lotta bacon.” He let go a guttural laugh, his voice grating on Mickey's nerves.

Mickey glared at Lefty, his feelings sharp and bent in the intruder's direction. He sat still now, Oscar by his side, left alone to face the wickedness of a world of which he understood so little.

“You know, Mickey, we got a pretty big game coming up. Yes, sir. Sure gonna be a lot of hoopla that day. Lots on the line. I would sure hate to see you get hurt again.” Something smug and self-satisfied was in Lefty's eyes.

“Mickey's not getting hurt, Lefty Rogers. Mickey's just playing ball.”

“Well, I'm your friend, Mickey. I feel terrible about what happened to you that night. Really. I could never live with myself if it happened again. I'm here today to warn you—to protect you from that same thing happening, all over again.”

Mickey's back was stiff as he picked at a splinter in his hand. He was remembering, with great difficulty, the weeks he'd lost at the hands of his assailants. The recollection drew him deeper inside himself.

“Are you not hearing me?” Lefty said. “I'm saying that unless you sit out the next game, someone is fixing to get you.”

“Oscar is nine years old. He's one of the oldest pigs on my farm, back home. One of the biggest too.”