Stealing home, p.11
Stealing Home, page 11
I admit I'm scared a little because I ain't never seen Mr. Duke's face lookin so serious as it did this mornin. Like he was about to tell me that Miss Teacher got to him and wrangled out the truth and our baseball days was over.
But he just asks me if I like playin baseball which seems a dumb question because here I am riskin the wrath of my mama just so I can keep on.
And when I say, Yessir, he looks downright sad when he tells me that we can't meet at Miss Ellie Jane's anymore.
He must of thought I was gonna take that hard—I guess he ain't as used to disappointment as I am. But I already figured that couldn't last much longer. White people are fine to let you work in their world but they sure don't want you to play there.
I tell him we can meet at the empty field by the tracks and he seems happy. I got to go take care of my business or else I'm not goin to be doin nothin but sit in Miss Teacher's room and feel myself get stupid. I can tell by the people on the street that this side of town is startin to jump and pretty soon I won't be able to get my face time with the mayor. So as soon as Mr. Duke gives me my leave I'm off like a shot again.
This is the first time I ever walked into the city hall kitchen without first bein called there so I don't know what they'll make of me. But Miss Cherine is the same woman in the mornin what she is in the afternoon. I had a good supper last night cause Mama was feelin proud and Darnell was off roamin but all I ate was long gone by now and the smell of bacon makes me feel like I been starvin for a week. Even if I ain't supposed to eat it.
Miss Cherine says I'm a welcome sight this mornin as she had fried up Mayor Birdiff's eggs too hard and didn't know what she was goin to do with them. She says I could eat them if I didn't mind that the yolks wasn't runny enough. Says she could slip them into a biscuit and I could eat it like a sandwich.
I told her, Thank you that sounds fine, and Is there any way I can get upstairs to the mayor's office before he starts his business for the day?
She asks, Can you carry a tray? And I say I can, so she shoos me into the washroom to fix my shirt and wash my hands, tellin me I can have my breakfast when I get back.
On the tray there's a plate covered with a silver dome, a little coffeepot, a folded-up newspaper, and a pretty blue napkin with a knife and fork sittin on it. I never took stairs so careful in my life, imaginin what it would sound like if I dropped this tray and myself with it all the way down. When I get to the second floor landin I lift one knee to balance the tray while I open the door to the stairwell. I'm hopin there won't be a lot of people on the other side because they'd all know I don't belong here. At least not deliverin breakfast.
When I'm outside the office door I knock four times just like Miss Cherine told me to before walkin straight in. To say Mayor Birdiff looks surprised is like sayin the world looks wide. His eyes bulge out a little bit and he jumps up from behind his desk to run behind me and close the door. The whole time he's askin does anybody know I'm here and has anybody seen me?
I tell him, Just Miss Cherine and the kitchen help but they probably don't care much.
He laughs a little and says, True—the woman can't remember how to cook eggs so she'd never remember who came upstairs.
I hate him just a little for sayin that but then I check it. The only thing that fool Darnell ever said that took in my head was that it was a dangerous thing for a Negro to hate a white man.
Pretty soon the mayor settles himself behind his desk and I set the tray down in front of him. He takes the silver dome off the plate and there's a mess of bacon, three eggs, biscuits, and a little bowl of gravy. Steam comes up from the food while he takes a big ol whiff of it before pokin the egg yolks with his fork and sayin, Better when they run out yellow. He picks up his knife and makes a show of cuttin all the food together until you can't really tell what was what. Then he pours gravy over the bunch of it. Then he asks me what I'm doin here.
I tell him I need him to write me a letter sayin I have his permission not to go to school anymore. I tell him a little about Miss Teacher's visit and the state and my mama. (He smiles at that part.) I didn't tell him what I said about him bein my new teacher just that I didn't think I was learnin much and I'd rather spend my time workin here in town.
He's halfway through his plate of food by the time I finish talkin.
And just what do you want from me, he says, like he hasn't heard a word.
I tell him all I want is a letter signed by him that says I have the mayor of Picksville's permission to leave the Negro school every day in order to follow other pursuits of my better interest.
And just what pursuits might that be? he says.
Of course he knows that I'm always runnin somethin around for him but then I tell him that sometimes I like to just go off by myself and think or write. Or even play some baseball with Mr. Duke Dennison.
His eyes get round as corncakes when I mention that. He says, What does Mr. Dennison want with a boy like you? Though I like to think of myself as a modest sort I tell him that Mr. Duke says I can pitch a ball real good and he might even be teachin me to bat someday. But I need the letter to take to Miss Teacher so the state doesn't come and make me spend all day at the Negro school or in jail. Which of the two is worse I couldn't say.
Fascinatin, he says, and for half a tick I think he forgot I was in the room because he was shovelin food in his face and tellin his plate that he, the mayor himself, had sent Mr. Dennison a letter invitin him to luncheon in the office and hadn't heard a word. But this boy can straggle around the streets and become a bosom buddy?
Since I don't know if he's talkin to me or not I don't say anything until he puts his fork down and then I ask, So will you write the letter?
Darnell told me once if I ever wanted a white man to do me a favor I had to be sure not to look him in the eye. That I should keep my head down just enough to see his mouth. But if I looked him in the eye, well, they wasn't much better than dogs and would see it as a challenge and there wouldn't be any way to get nothin out of them. So I focus on Mayor Birdiff's little triangle of a moustache and beard and see that blue napkin come up to wipe away a few drops of eggs and gravy.
And I hear him say, No.
Then he shoves his tray across his desk and tells me I can have whatever mess is left on the plate.
I can't remember a time this man ever talked to me so harsh. His words hit me somewhere at the base of my throat because there is a swellin burn there makin it so I couldn't swallow none of those scraps even if I have a heart to. I figure I'd asked for somethin far and away from what I've earned so I just pick up the tray and say, Yessir. Will there be anything else? Because there's always somethin else.
Then like he hasn't just talked to me so mean he's back to what he always is and tells me that his wife was complainin of a headache last night and could I pick up some powders for her from the doctor.
I feel that burnin move from the bottom of my throat to all up and down my back, the whole time drawin my body up until I'm lookin straight into that man's eyes. I want to say I'd be careful if I was him, careful I don't take the wrong powders to the wrong woman. Be a shame if Miss LuAnn DeSalvo got his wife's headache powder by mistake. Even worse if Mrs. Birdiff ever got wind of some of those other brown paper packages that sometimes showed up in the mayor's mail.
But that seems cruel and I just got a glimpse of what this man could be if he takes it upon himself to get ugly. I'd be a fool to think that any power I have would come close to comparin to his so I just say, No.
He says, What did you say boy?
I tell him I can't run for him if I'm sittin in school all day and if I don't go back with a letter from him I'll be sittin in jail all day. So I best get back to that schoolhouse and settle in for my new routine. I give him a little smile and remind him that Tuesdays is the day Miss DeSalvo takes the newspaper because she likes that town gossip and he better find someone to take it out to her. Them women do love their gossip.
I'm standin there with the tray not makin a move to leave when Mayor Birdiff asks me do I know what position Duke Dennison plays for the Chicago Cubs?
I say, Catcher, and he makes this snortin sound. Says when he was a kid he played out in left field and he never did get a fair shot at playin infield even though he'd of been the best shortstop any team ever saw.
By the time he finishes talkin he's not lookin at me anymore and I'll bet my life I see a little quiver underneath that beard of his.
I tell him I don't know for sure what a shortstop is and if I didn't have to spend all day in school it might be nice if he would stop by some afternoon.
Even though it don't weigh nothin I hold that tray like a burden and pretty soon the man opens the top drawer of his desk and takes out a piece of paper.
Looks like I'm gonna be able to play some baseball after all.
NED
Once, when Ned was at the Hartford school, his teacher wrote a Bible verse on the blackboard: “Delight thyself also in the LORD: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart” (Psalm 37:4). Each student was to write an essay explaining his or her heart's desire. Later, they were to present their essays in the language of signs.
The first student to present was a pretty girl, a year behind Ned in class, whose cheeks and throat were flushed before she even made it to the front of the room. Over the next few minutes, with trembling hands and a soft pink mouth rounding out the words, she told of her heart's desire to hear. To hear her mother's voice singing a favorite lullaby, to hear her father's laughter, and finally, with arms linked to form an imaginary cradle, to hear the sound of her own baby's sweet cry someday.
Despite being fifteen years old and nearly a man, Ned had felt himself dangerously close to tears, especially when he noticed those pooled in the younger girl's big blue eyes as she returned to her seat. He looked around, noticing that everybody in class seemed to be equally affected. But the mood quickly changed when the instructor, normally a gentle woman, strode to the front of the room.
That will never happen. Her signs were sharp, and her otherwise placid face was set to a firmness that spoke of her frustration. There is more to the world than hearing. It is possible to live without noise.
As the teacher continued her diatribe, Ned noticed a classwide shift in posture as students slumped in their seats and turned their papers over on their desks. When the teacher called for the second presentation, no one moved until Ned stood, walked to the front of the room, handed over the written essay, and turned to face the class.
“The desire of my heart,” he said before bringing his fists together, as if gripping a bat, “is to play baseball. Every day.”
Immediately the boys in class sat up a little straighter and, if he wasn't mistaken, the girls did too.
“I want to take the field with Cy Young and Cap Anson.” He gave a little punch to each signed letter, his fingers moving deftly with each transition. “I want my face on a card in a package of Old Judge cigarettes.” For added effect, he assumed the slouch he'd seen the older boys take on when they stood outside the dormitory and smoked under the gaslight. “And finally,” he said, allowing a dramatic pause, “I want dozens of beautiful girls lined up to give me kisses after the game.”
At that all the boys nearly burst out of their chairs and the girls simultaneously brought their hands to their mouths to stifle shocked giggles. The teacher herself seemed to be fighting back a smile. As Ned made his way back to his seat, he steeled himself for a reprimand, knowing that his heart's desire was just as unattainable as that of the girl before him, but when the teacher got up to face the class, she simply said, I don't know if God would approve of kissing dozens of girls.
From his desk Ned replied, “One would be fine.”
Then the teacher did laugh.
The next three years at school were the fulfillment of that desire. He played first base for the school's team, even had a modest following of girls lined up at the fence to watch him play. More than one afternoon ended with a kiss after the match.
But that was years ago. What was meant to be a sojourn at home helping his father get the family store's accounts in order had turned into a life sentence when the old man died. Meanwhile, his heart's desire sat on the shelf along with the birdseed.
Then, that Tuesday morning, Duke Dennison came in to bust him out. He strode through the store's front door, bypassed old Mr. Shiner and the feed store regulars, and landed elbow-first at the counter where Ned stood, entering the last order in the ledger.
The look in Duke's eye took Ned back to the days when he was a boy—before the illness stole his hearing—when pals from school would show up to badger him to finish his chores so he could go out and play. Maybe it was the grass stain on the man's cream-colored suit or the straw boater that bore a distinct footprint, but the cigar-smoking athlete with the moustache was wearing the smile of a schoolboy when he leaned over the counter.
Let's go.
Ned shook his head, touched the top of his cheek just under his eye, and moved his hand in a sweeping motion encompassing the room.
Duke looked around and back at Ned.
What is there to watch?
“I have to stay here.” At the sound of Ned's voice, the men gathered around the barrel of seed corn turned their grizzled faces toward him before resuming their own conversation.
Give me that. Duke snatched the ledger out from under Ned's hands and tore a blank page from the back. He picked up a pencil stub and, leaning over his work like the earnest schoolboy he'd become, made a series of broad, sweeping lines.
Intrigued, Ned leaned in for a closer look. A shape emerged on the columned paper. A diamond, precisely, with messy squares drawn for each base and a feathery arc marking the outfield boundary. A little oval mound rose up in its center, and numbers were written along the baselines in careful, cramped script.
When Duke paused to stand back and look at the finished product, Ned took the pencil and wrote “Polo Grounds?” at the top of the page.
Duke took the pencil back, drew an X through Ned's writing, and wrote “RR” beneath it.
Suddenly Ned could see it. Anyone who stood on the train station platform and looked to the west would see nothing but an expanse of open land flanking both sides of the railroad tracks. In fact, with the rest of the world shut away behind him, he'd watched many a train chug its way into oblivion and felt quite alone when the last puff of smoke disappeared on the horizon.
His attention returned to Duke when he felt the paper slide up against his fingers. He looked down and saw a list—shovel, spade, rope, saks, mower—all in painfully fashioned letters. Ned fought the urge to take the pencil and correct Duke's spelling.
“When?” Ned asked.
Duke pounded his finger on the counter. Now.
Ned eyed the men gathered in the corner. They would loiter there at least until lunchtime; any one of them could easily step behind the counter and stand for the rest of the day, ready to wait on the two or three other customers who might come in. Or Ned could do something he hadn't done since the day after his father's funeral.
He wrapped his knuckles on the counter and signaled to the little crowd to head out the door.
He was closing the store.
ELLIE JANE
She watched the plan unfold from behind the dome-shaped window of her platform ticket booth. At first just Ned Clovis and Duke Dennison were out there in the open field, mowing down the weeds. Then they were pacing back and forth, counting steps, driving stakes into the ground, and stringing rope between them.
It wasn't until young Morris Bennett showed up and broke the first ground that Ellie Jane thought this might be something Mr. Coleman might want to know about. She propped the little Will Return in 15 Minutes sign in her window and popped out of the booth. She faintly heard Mr. Dennison calling her name as she took the few short steps to the depot office.
Mr. Coleman was, as usual, sitting at his desk, with five open books laid out in front of him, each page displaying a complicated table of columns and numbers. But these were apparently not as important as whatever Mr. Coleman was reading in the day's newspaper. So absorbed was he that he didn't hear Ellie Jane's footsteps, didn't hear her soft knock on the open door.
Ellie Jane cleared her throat and said, “Mr. Coleman?” causing the man's surprised droopy face to jump out from behind the paper.
“Ah yes, Miss Voyant.” He made a show of folding the paper into a sloppy triangle and slamming it inside one of the books. “It seems we have something of great importance to discuss.”
“Yes, we do.” She looked past his head and out the window behind him where Mr. Dennison and Ned seemed to be squabbling.
“I believe I voiced my concerns about your situation not three days ago.”
“My situation?”
“And if you'll recall, my worry was not only for the reputation of the railroad—of which you are a representative—but your own reputation as a young lady in the town.”
“Oh, that situation.” Ellie Jane allowed her eyes to linger on the two men, now openly engaged in a silent argument. “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Coleman, but there's something else—”
“I assume you've read this morning's paper?”
“No, I haven't but—”
“I warned you of precisely this kind of thing, and now it seems to have come about. Miss Voyant if you are going to continue to associate yourself with this railroad, then I must insist that you curtail any opportunities for such scandalous reports.”
As he spoke, Ellie Jane tore her eyes away from the scene outside and looked at the corner of newspaper sticking out from within the closed book. She instantly recognized the intricate drawing of a little mouse with an enormous feathered hat perched between two round ears. She could only imagine what it said. A stinging sensation tickled at the tip of her throat, and she swallowed hard, fighting to maintain her composure.
