Stealing home, p.17
Stealing Home, page 17
Before leaving for church he took one last look in the shaving mirror above the washstand. The five days' stubble was gone, leaving his face smooth and tan from a week of working outside. Earlier in the morning he'd allowed the blade to hover just above his lip as he contemplated allowing the moustache to grow, but he'd never been one to follow fashion, and there seemed little point in starting now.
Ned straightened his tie, buttoned his vest, and shrugged into his best suit jacket. A series of hooks hung on the wall, from which he took a gray bowler hat and placed it on his head. Looking in the mirror again, he positioned the hat to angle over his left eye, then his right eye, then moved it back, as if knocked there by surprise. In the end, he put it back on the hook. He ran his fingers through his hair to comb it, ignoring the jar of pomade on the shelf. The last time he used it, the results were disastrous. Declaring himself handsome enough, he picked up his Bible and walked downstairs.
He'd come back for the rolls after church.
The streets surrounding the town's Center Park were empty this early on a Sunday morning. There was still an hour before any of Picksville's three churches would open their doors, but Ned always liked to arrive early. In the winter he would start the furnace, shovel the snow off the walkway, and salt the steps leading to the door. In warmer months he set up circles of chairs outside for the various Sunday schools that met on the lawn. He placed songbooks and bulletins in the pews, moving along quietly as if Reverend Porter were at the pulpit, praying or practicing, and when Mrs. Porter began warming up the organ, Ned relished the vibrations that came from the floor, ricocheting around the empty room, giving him his own private concert.
This morning, try as he might to keep his mind on the tasks at hand, he could think of nothing but yesterday's game. The exhilaration of standing at the plate while two players scrambled for position. The puff of dust when the ball collided with the catcher's mitt.
And always, just over his shoulder, Ellie Jane—watching him for a change—every time he turned around.
What would have happened if the game hadn't come to such an abrupt end? Would he have had the courage to walk her home, leaving Duke to chum it up with his admiring teammates and fans? It wasn't exactly a Saturday Promenade, but something close to it, and they'd been talking with each other in one way or another for most of the evening. The insurmountable obstacle of the past silent six years had been conquered, and Ned was a new man, standing at the top of a new inning, ready to bring his dreams home.
And he was going to start this morning.
While the First Congregational Church of Picksville didn't have officially assigned seats, its members were not known to stray from their pew of choice. Visitors were rare, and there seemed to be direct, divine intervention to make room for new members only after old ones left vacancies due to death or disfavor.
Ned's own Bible was waiting for him at the far end of the fifth pew—right on the aisle—where he'd been sitting ever since he was a little boy squeezed between his parents. The space was waiting for him when he came back from school, and it seemed enormous the first Sunday he sat there alone. Since then, he'd learned to share his space with a family from Ohio who seemed intent on edging him out by having one child after another. But he didn't intend to budge. From here he could see Ellie Jane Voyant, just across the aisle and two pews up, sitting primly alongside her father.
But after yesterday, two pews and an aisle seemed so far away.
Mrs. Porter stepped away from her organ, joining Reverend Porter on the front steps to greet the congregants trickling in. There wasn't much time. He scooped up his Bible and eyed the pew across the aisle, then the one in front of it—just behind the Voyants'. That's where Mr. Poplin and his wife usually sat, but Ned was sure they would understand his ousting from the Ohio pew.
He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to see Floyd Voyant standing with his hand outstretched in greeting. Morning, Ned.
Ned shook Floyd's hand, giving it a purposeful grip. He wanted to start up a conversation, maybe ask about that man from last night. Maybe he could keep Floyd talking until the two men just naturally migrated to the Voyant pew and sat down together. But something caught his eye over Floyd's shoulder. Ellie Jane, her cinnamon hair tucked beneath a broad-rimmed hat with a long pale blue feather spilling from its brim. Her lemon-yellow dress, trimmed with blue lace, was one he'd never seen before.
Whatever words he planned to say to Floyd were lost as he watched her walk up the aisle. The minute their eyes met, her cheeks flushed—more than just the touch of yesterday's sun. It intensified the closer she came, and she pulled her eyes away. Whatever hopes he'd allowed himself to build clotted when he saw the man just half-a-step behind her.
Duke.
He was wearing an impeccable pale blue linen suit with a crisp blue-and-white striped shirt. He carried a brand-new boater in one hand and smoothed his hair into place with the other. His sharp brown eyes scanned the room until they landed on Ned, at which point they narrowed briefly before taking on a friendly glint. His free hand lingered at Ellie Jane's elbow, as if on the verge of giving her a proprietary steer, but she flinched away at his touch and the flush on her cheeks turned to fire.
What had Duke done?
Ned somehow summoned a smile and said, “Good morning,” offering a nod to Ellie Jane. Although he couldn't hear her voice when she returned the greeting, it was clear the distance and discomfort that had hovered for so many years had returned. There'd been an intrusion between the easy camaraderie of yesterday and the awkwardness of this morning. Despite his misgivings, the gurgling mass of distrust deep in his gut, Ned held his hand out to Duke, whose crushing grip did nothing to disguise the sweatiness of his palm.
Hello, Ned.
Years of being locked away from voices made Ned adept at reading faces, and Duke's face said plenty. Tension marked everything about this moment as a lie. Duke didn't want to talk to Ned, and he didn't want to be at church. This was a man who wanted an escape, but Ned gripped his hand harder, offering none.
As more and more congregants entered the sanctuary, Ned moved out of the aisle and backed into his accustomed seat, clearing the way for the Voyant family to take theirs. And the three of them seemed like a family indeed as Duke slid in first, then Ellie Jane, and Floyd on the end. Meanwhile, the Ohio family filed in from the opposite end of the pew, and Ned found himself wedged in a hand's width away from the youngest boy.
Reverend Porter positioned himself behind the pulpit and raised his hands in greeting the congregation. Ned mouthed a response, not wanting to give little Ohio a reason to nudge his brother in the ribs and giggle like he did every other time Ned spoke out loud. He followed the church leader's words as closely as he could—this was the time for church announcements—and Ned surmised much of this was about today's picnic lunch. He thought about the two dozen, minus two, rolls sitting in his kitchen and wondered how many one bachelor could eat before growing sick of them because suddenly it seemed the Voyants' blanket would be mighty crowded.
His eyes bored into the back of Duke Dennison's neck. He'd seen a magician once—one of the many diversions an adventurous boy in a big city could find—who had made his beautiful, scantily clad assistant disappear in a puff of smoke. If Ned's eyes held half the power of that magician's wand, Duke would be nothing more than a pinkie ring left spinning on a pew.
Suddenly there was a shift all around him, and everybody's eyes were focused on Duke. Those in the front were turned in their seats, and from the back there was a rippling effect as worshipers craned their necks to get a better look as Duke stood, hat in hand, putting on what he must have thought was a humble expression. Ned looked hard, focusing on Duke's face, knowing the words coming out of it were as smooth as the man's shave.
He was talking about the baseball field, and the crowd followed his hand as he generously gestured toward Ned. Then about yesterday's game…and today's. Apparently inviting everybody to come after the picnic. To play, to watch. A few men in the congregation had been there—some watching, some playing—and they nodded enthusiastically in one collective promise for an afternoon game. Any thoughts of spending an afternoon sulking in the apartment above the feed store disappeared. He would go to the picnic, sit with Ellie Jane, and see to it that, barring an indisputable home run, Duke Dennison never made it across the plate.
With that thought, Ned, smiling his biggest grin, stood to make a grand summoning gesture and—without a single thought to the Ohio brothers'teasing—said, “We'll choose teams at three.”
With the announcements over, Reverend Porter called the congregation to prayer, and Ned dutifully bowed his head. He kept his eyes open ever since the one Sunday when, caught up in an earnest conversation with God, he was nudged back to church by the Ohio boy's pointy elbow in his lower ribs. Now, staring at the floor between his shoes, he entered into his prayer acknowledging his agreement with whatever Reverend Porter was entreating from the pulpit.
After that he unleashed his own heart.
Six years, Lord. Six years in silence. And then yesterday…
He ventured a look up and saw Ellie Jane's head dutifully bowed, as was her father's. But Duke sat straight up, staring forward.
Something tugged his sleeve and he looked over to see the Ohio boy wagging a chastising finger. Ned wrinkled his nose, stuck out his tongue and, once the boy had his own freckled nose pressed against his clasped hands, returned to his shoes.
…and then yesterday it all seemed possible. I don't know what happened. He angled his head, peered over again, and saw Ellie Jane's lips moving in silent agreement with Reverend Porter's petitions. I don't want to lose any of it, Lord. Not her and not—him? The game? Rubbing elbows with a hero?
I'm a man, Lord. And I haven't felt—
He hunched forward in his seat and planted his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling in front of him. Then he closed his eyes and allowed his hands to speak for him in loose, abbreviated signs.
I haven't felt like a man in such a long time. Not since I came home. Don't let Ellie Jane—his finger made a spiral at her name—fall in love with him. I know I can't dictate Your will, Lord. But let me try again.
There was a commotion all around him and he opened his eyes to see the whole congregation on their feet, songbooks open. Ned grabbed a book and, after a quick glance down the pew to Mrs. Ohio, turned to the correct page. He smiled as he scanned the lyrics.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
He remembered the tune from childhood—somber and ponderous. Floyd Voyant was going to his toes on the higher notes; he'd always had a strong, clear tenor. From the approving looks Ellie Jane gave him, Duke Dennison had a pleasing voice too, though Ned couldn't imagine the man was familiar with the song.
Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own Interpreter,
And He will make it plain.
Surrounded by a silent “Amen,” Ned sat down and took his Bible in his hands. He'd never been able to follow all of Reverend Porter's sermons, but he picked up what he could and waited until the congregation was brought to the key passage. At that time, Reverend Porter made it a point to catch Ned's eye, articulate, and wait for confirmation before going on. Today it was the fourth chapter of Philippians. One of the church elders was asked to stand and read the chapter aloud, and Ned followed along. His heart lingered, though, on the eighth verse:
…whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever
things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report;
if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on
these things.
Not knowing what Reverend Porter had in mind for this passage, Ned sat back and decided to simply obey. To think on those noble things. For the rest of the hour, he thought about the beauty of a perfect pitch, the excitement of a play at home, and Ellie Jane at sunset.
MORRIS
Sunday, May 21
I know the good Lord says if you hate a man you've committed murder in your heart and if that's true I killed that fool Darnell at least a dozen times. But not last night. For a while my heart was so far and above anything he could do to me but he wasn't worth my hate. Or my pity. Or even another thought.
Until he come stumblin onto that field stinkin of Cousin Eddie's home brew. It was like lookin at somethin in that history book Mr. Ned gave me. George Washington or someone like that. Like I know who he is but he don't have nothin to do with me.
Then it just all turned to shame. Because everybody there knows he's mine. All them guys that struck out swingin, all them who lost their chance to show this is a white man's game—all of them know. Once I walk off that mound I ain't nothin but that boy Morris hustlin for their nickels and dimes. And given time I'll be just like him. Shiftless. Drunk. I can throw strikes enough to sit them down but I'll never throw good enough to make me white.
I'll always lose the big game.
But I wasn't thinkin about none of this before he showed up. There's no room for any such bitterness when your mind can only range twenty paces straight ahead. And that's all I saw down the line. Mr. Duke's glove. Seems the whole world came down to my eyes, my arm, and that mitt. Standin up on that hill with that ball in my hand —that's the biggest taste of power I ever felt. Like the whole world's sittin on my shoulders but pullin me up. Standin me straighter. So it took me a while to hate that Darnell for takin it all away.
Lookin back now I should have taken him out. Whole time he's screamin at me about how my mama's worried sick, that he's gonna rip my hide when he gets me home. Like he has a right. Tellin me I ought to be ashamed duckin out'a church like that. Whole congregation turnin the church out lookin for me. Man ain't been inside a church since I known him. Outside, yeah. Waitin at the door to beg a dollar off my mama. Cashin in on that Holy Spirit love.
I could of shut him up. Fastball right between the eyes. I can see that face all round and brown just like what I been hittin all night. A few more seconds and I probably would have. Then Sheriff Voyant took him off. The thought of that fool in jail just set me free.
Until I got home. And had to face Mama.
Now Mr. Duke tells me I got to get some ice, put it on a pillow, and prop up my arm when I get home. He tells me that in the middle of all that noise and I say, Sure. In my head I'm thinkin I got as much a chance of findin a chunk of ice in Satan's kitchen as in my house. And if I got any pain in my arm I don't know it. I'm just thinkin about what I got to say. Tryin to remember everythin I told Mama about school and wonderin what all Darnell told her about the game. Makes me see why God don't want us to tell lies—it's like crossin a stream on slippery rocks.
It's a long walk home and it's full dark when I finally reach my door. My head's swimmin with so many words, such stories that might fill a book. But when I walk inside I see my mama on her knees. Her head bent low over our sofa where I'll lay my own at night. Now I've seen Mama prayin before. Leadin it at church—out of her seat, in the aisle, hands raised up and eyes fixed on that bit of heaven she thinks she sees. And I heard things comin out of her mouth that I just don't know what they mean. But I ain't never seen her prayin like this. Her face and body all tucked in together. I haven't made a sound openin the door so she don't know I'm here. The only sound in the house is her whisperin, Sweet Jesus bring my baby home.
Every lie I had in my head gets swept away. Here I am God's answer and I'm not about to tarnish that with anything that ain't the whole truth. I'd tell her everything. About the money I made and how I made it. About Mr. Duke and the baseball field. How I can throw and what that can mean for me. And her. For a minute I think I don't want to go to California alone. I'll take my mama with me and we'll start off new together, someplace where it won't matter so much what color we are. Someplace where the world is still a little new and needin just about anybody it can get.
So I whisper real quiet, Mama?
And she stops prayin. She turns her head just the littlest bit and looks at me then lifts her face clean up and says, Thank You Jesus. Praise You Lord!
She gets up off her knees and I can tell it's not an easy thing for her to do so I walk on over and offer her my arm. The same one I been pitchin the ball with all night. By now I know why Mr. Duke wants me to put ice on it because it's throbbin. But Idon't show none of that when Mama takes a hold and I pull her up to her feet. She's got tears streamin down her face and her eyes look up—just a little—at mine.
Mama says, Morris baby, I was so worried about you.
I tell her I know and I'm sorry and I got so much to tell her but I don't know where to start.
I look down where her hand's clutchin at my shirt. I can feel her rough skin snaggin the new cotton. I'm so busy lookin at that hand I don't see the other one raised up—don't even know it's been raised up until I feel it on my face slappin me so hard it sends me reelin back. But not too far because she never lets go of my arm. She hauls me back to her and hits me again, this time right up the side of my head, her palm landin right against my eye.
She says, Do you know what it does to a mother not knowin where her son is?
I just shake my head but not too hard.
She tells me she bout lost her mind when she turned around, lookin for me when church was done and wasn't nobody who knew where I was.
When I tell her I'm sorry she lifts her hand to me again but I bring my hands up protectin my face and beg her, Please, don't.
Then she asks me real quiet, Where'd you go?
I say, I just slipped out. When you all were singin and praisin wasn't nobody lookin at me. Didn't call no attention to myself. I just walked out the door.
