Stealing home, p.25
Stealing Home, page 25
To spare him from hearing this woman's scream.
She fell straight into Ned's arms, and he went to his knees beneath her slight weight. He'd never felt anything like the ravaging sobs that convulsed through her body. It was like some force was attempting to tear her apart, rip her right out of his arms, and all he could do was hold tighter. Because he knew if he relinquished even a bit, if he moved his fingers just a hair away from where they formed little furrows in her dark skin, she'd be gone. Shredded right in front of him. And who knew? Maybe that's what she'd want, to be dealt the same cruel blow as the child beside her. To open her eyes again and see him, whole, waiting.
But Ned wasn't going to let her go. So he held her. Rocked her the way he imagined she'd rocked Morris a thousand nights before. In his head he spoke softly, whispering promises until she was taking deep, restorative breaths, and her body barely quivered.
But the real hurt —the thing that killed just a little bit of his own soul —was standing just behind the chicken wire backstop. Ned looked over the top of the weeping woman's head and saw Duke, frozen and small.
Oh, Lord. Not yet.
He needed more time. Time to cover the body, or even reposition the boy to something other than the lifeless sprawl left in the weeds. Instead, he watched, helpless, as his friend stepped onto the field, home plate, straight across the mound, over second, slicing through center field, getting smaller with each step. Floyd followed right behind, eyes downcast, hat in hand, preparing himself for something he'd probably seen far too many times.
As soon as they were close enough, Ned uncradled the grieving woman and passed her gently to Floyd, who offered his strong body to her weak one and guided her away from this nightmare.
Then Ned stood between Duke and the boy, hoping to block the worst of the scene, but he couldn't stand there forever. He locked eyes with his friend before taking one sidestep to the left, revealing the worst.
That's when the battles began.
He saw the man struggle to maintain his steel-jawed composure — a fight he would lose as his body gave over to a series of shudders. Ned fought his own war, one between the desire to reach out to his friend and masculine reserve. That, too, would meet defeat as compassion won over.
The mother of this child had crumpled into Ned's embrace, but Duke would put up a fight, standing rigid when Ned first clamped a hand on his shoulder before collapsing, breath by ragged breath.
After a while, when he sensed Duke's strength returning, Ned released him. The two men stepped away from each other, keeping their eyes trained to neutral ground. When they met again, each told the other the same silent story about the aftermath of a close-scoring baseball game, and the celebration of a town when the form below them had been lifted high.
They saw the round, flat face of a dead-eyed stranger promising them that the game wasn't over even as the Duke Dennison, baseball royalty, told them to get out of town. His town. Their town, where they'd stood, shoulder to shoulder, watching them drive away in the dusk.
They must have had a change of heart.
A third figure joined them and, setting all past skirmishes aside, Ned and Duke shuffled their positions to welcome Darnell into their little fold. It was one of the few times Ned didn't regret not having clear speech. There was nothing to say.
Duke and Darnell, however, seemed to find another way to communicate. His face now eerily stoic, Darnell reached inside the pocket of his oversized pants and produced a small metal flask, which he touched to his lips. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, taking long, thirsty gulps.
Ned watched Duke become a man possessed of a new hunger. Darnell must have seen it too, because when he was finished with his drink, he solemnly handed the flask over to Duke, who took it and held it before offering it up as a toast and taking his own generous swallow. When he was finished, he stood absolutely still, his eyes tightly closed until Darnell pried Duke's fingers off the flask and offered it to Ned.
Never having been prone to drink, Ned's first instinct was to wave it away, but this was one of those moments when instinct just didn't ring true. He took the flask, repeated the offering, and touched the warm metal opening to his lips. The drink was bitter and awful; he fought to close his throat around a single sip.
When he finished, Ned wiped off the mouth of the flask with his sleeve and handed it back to Darnell, who swirled it a bit, as if gauging just how much was left. Duke pulled out his ever-present money. He opened the clip, pulled off two bills, and handed them over to Darnell.
This should cover it.
Darnell nodded, pocketed the money, and made his way back across the tracks. After a moment's hesitation, and one long last look at the boy, Duke followed.
Ned sank to his knees and closed his eyes, shutting out every bit of this world, and wept. Until he felt a softness at his side, and small arms wrapped around him. He felt his head drawn to a soft cotton breast, and lips warm against his hair.
The only reason he ever wanted to open his eyes again was to see her face.
DUKE
Just one drink. That's what Dr. Keeley had told him. One drink, and he'd be back where he was.
Well, he was there. Not drunk, but wanting to be.
There'd been a moment when he hoped the booze would do its magic. That he'd take a drink and pull a curtain down on everything around him. That he'd forget about the boy who pitched like fire, and he wouldn't care about the boy on the ground.
A lot to ask from one drink.
So he followed Darnell to the source. The same man who was ready to kill him an hour ago. Some people might say that death has a way of bringing people together. Settling differences. But Duke knew better. If there's anyone a drunk loves, it's another drunk. He and Darnell had a bond stronger than any dead kid.
Most of it was a blur. Something about a guy named Eddie who hated white men more than most. So when they got to the house— if such a pile of wood and tin could be called a house—Duke waited outside. Hands in his pockets. Wondering why that boy's mother would want him to stay here.
When Darnell came back outside, he handed Duke a plain glass bottle full of amber liquid. A fine layer of dirt on the glass. A tiny divot in the cork.
“Now you take that and go on back to yo' people.”
“I don't have any people.”
“Then you just go on wherever you wanna go.”
Just as Duke started to walk away, Darnell called him back.
“You keep that bottle hid. Can't have it in town and don't want no trouble comin' back to Eddie. Or me. You done enough here.”
Duke dropped the bottle inside the inner pocket of his jacket. Just the weight of it made him feel better.
He walked back to town, thinking that this was the path the boy took every day. One shack after another. Unorganized, puddled roads. Filth and waste, all of it washed gray, even in this morning light. Had Duke ever walked the kid home—even once—and seen all this, he'd never let him come back.
The path he'd taken in brought him right back to the tracks. But he couldn't cross them just yet because a long train was just pulling out. Picking up steam. That was the eight o'clock. He was supposed to be on it. Him and the kid. Looked like they were both left behind.
He crossed over once the train was gone. A small crowd had gathered at the field—people from town. Most of them standing around helpless. The boy's ma sat on the sideline bench, a few women fawning over her. Out in the field, the two Vick brothers carried a long, blanket-draped bundle on a stretcher to their wagon behind the bleachers. Mayor Birdiff himself was in the middle of it all, looking like he'd pulled a pair of pants on over his nightshirt. Marlene and Gustav Geist circulated, pouring coffee into tin cups.
One thing to be said about this town. News traveled fast. He tried to picture his place among the townspeople, but they were milling all over the field, giving no regard to the carefully designated baselines and boundaries. There was nothing for him there.
He kept walking.
Voices called out to him, but their words flew by. He had nothing to say and even less to hear. Not from Ellie Jane. Not from Ned. He wanted to be alone.
Floyd Voyant stepped in the middle of his path. Full of questions. Where'd those men come from? Where were they headed? What were their names? Each question more useless than the one before. Still, Duke looked at Floyd and saw him as a man he'd never seen before. Taller, if possible. Star blazing on his jacket. Authority and power and hope. Floyd placed his hands on Duke's shoulders and leaned in close.
“I'm getting some men together. We're going to take care of this.”
“It's all my fault.” Duke hated the weakness in his voice. The catch and the helpless closing of his throat. “They came here for me.”
“Well, they didn't get you, did they? And there's got to be a reason for that.”
“What reason?”
“God only knows, son. But He does.”
Floyd engulfed him in a hug and walked away, joining old Mr. Shiner and his son. The three bent their heads together, then left, moving with a common purpose.
Duke had a purpose too. In his pocket. Just waiting for him.
But not yet.
He found himself at the corner of Park and Green. Turn left, and he'd be on his way to Ned's place. Straight ahead, home. The Voyants'. He couldn't go there. All that velvet and carpet and that constant ticking clock. Instead, he cut straight from the corner. First to third; second to home. Through the park with constant green grass under his feet. Trees over his head. Until he found the bench. His bench—sitting here just as it had been that day. The day he decided to change the kid's life.
It was empty now, as it had been then, and he sat down, the bottle in his pocket making a reassuring thud against the slats. At that time he hadn't noticed the church. Right in front of him. Five little steps leading to two wooden doors. Inside, those words.
True. Honest. Just. Pure.
And he was none of those. No matter what Ellie Jane said. Maybe, for a time, he'd been a good man. But that was because of the boy.
Alone, he was worthless, no matter how much gold flowed through his blood.
ELLIE JANE
She touched her ear to the door and knocked. “Mr. Dennison? Duke? Are you awake?”
It was a scene reminiscent of his first days in their home; nothing but silence coming from the other side.
“Duke!” She knocked louder. “The service starts at ten o'clock.” Pause, nothing. “There's coffee made.”
She pressed her ear closer and managed to pull away just as she heard the amplified sound of the turning knob. She had to grab the doorframe to keep from falling through.
“I'm not going.”
She was grateful to have something to hold on to once he appeared in the doorway. His hair hung lank over the side of his pallid face. His mouth was slack; his eyes, empty. He wore the same clothes he'd worn the day before, and they had the appearance of damp rags that had been left to dry on his sagging frame. Never —not after an afternoon of working to build the field or at the end of an eleven-inning game —had she seen him looking like this. He looked like someone had crumpled him up and dropped him in the room.
“Not like that, you're not,” Ellie Jane said, once she absorbed the shock of his appearance. “We still have an hour before we need to leave, so wash up and shave. Do you need anything pressed?”
“Stop that. You can't just get all chipper and chatty with me and send me on my way.”
“I just thought—”
“Well, don't—” He balled his hand into a fist and pressed his knuckles right between his eyes. He filled himself with one deep breath, exhaled it, and took his hand away. He raked his fingers through his hair, restoring some semblance of his slick style. He flashed a smile that almost reached his eyes, and even his skin seemed to lose the edge of its pallor.
“I'm sorry,” he said, a new calm to his voice. “I didn't sleep well last night.”
“None of us did,” Ellie Jane said, relieved at his transformation. “But I'm sure if you'll take a bath and have some breakfast, you'll feel much better. I'd be happy to fix something for you.”
His vest hung open over his stained, rumpled shirt, and he produced his gold watch from its pocket. He snapped it open with a flourish, making Ellie Jane wonder if he knew what a parody of dap-perness he presented.
“Don't bother.” He dropped the watch back in the pocket. “I still have time to get something at Marlene's.”
That slight movement sent something wafting between the two of them. She couldn't tell if the sourness came from his skin or his clothes or his breath, but she tried not to wrinkle her nose as she leaned forward.
“No, you can't,” she said, craning to look behind him. Maybe it was coming from the room itself. “She's closed the diner for the day so she can help with the food at the memorial service.”
“Well, that's a shame.” He shifted his weight, reaffirming his presence, and began to inch the door closed. “I'll get something later.”
“Duke, wait.” She wedged her toe against the door. “You've got to go. People will be expecting—”
“I don't make decisions based on what people expect from me.”
“Oh, really?” She leaned in close to get a whiff of his breath. It was sour and unpleasant, but as far as she could tell, not suspicious. “People expected you to stop drinking, and you did.”
“Yes,” he said, looking just past her eyes. “And people are expecting me to be back on the ball field day after tomorrow. So if you don't mind, I have some packing to get done.”
There was no toe or foot or body big enough to hold the door open after that. In fact, it closed right over the corner of Ellie Jane's good black silk skirt. She tried to tug it free, and rather than risk tearing it, she pounded on the door again, insisting that he open it long enough to free her. When he did, she made one more plea.
“Duke, please. Even for just an hour. We owe it to the family —”
“Do you honestly think going to a funeral will give back to that family what I took from them?”
“It's not a funeral. It's a —”
“Listen, Ellie. If I thought for a minute it would make a difference. That it would bring him back…”
His voice trailed off, and the two stood in silent, stilted grief. She'd run out of things to say. Instead, Ellie Jane took advantage of Duke's moment of weakness and stepped through the door, into his room, and straight into his body. She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. It was, at first, like holding a straight-backed chair, but soon enough he softened against her and tightened his own embrace.
It was nothing like the moments she spent in his arms that night a lifetime ago. She felt no temptation to do anything other than hold him, like she would any other wounded soul, and it was clear he harbored none of his previous passion.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she allowed them to seep unchecked into his shirt and wondered if the raggedness of his breath meant he was crying too. It occurred to her then that, despite his bluster, Duke was every bit the little boy that Morris had been, and she held him even closer.
When the front doorbell rang the first time, neither moved. It wasn't until the second ring that Ellie Jane said, “That must be Ned,” before easing away from his embrace. At the third ring, they were standing an arm's length apart, holding each other's hands. His were cold and damp, and he seemed desperate not to let her leave.
“I have to—” She stopped, midtug. “Oh, Duke. No.”
Amidst the chaos of the room, the open luggage spilling over with half-folded clothes, a bottle sat on the writing desk, morning sunlight glinting off the amber liquid.
Duke dropped her hands and put his own in his pockets.
“I haven't touched a drop of it, Ellie.”
Her head filled with a million things to say—warnings and reprimands and all kinds of chastisement. In the end, though, all she could think to say was, “Not in my house, Duke.”
The bell rang again. Free, she turned on her heel and ran out of the room, down the stairs, and straight for the door. She flung it open to reveal Ned standing—tall and clean.
“Good morning,” he said, but his smile didn't last the time it took Ellie Jane to usher him across the threshold.
She pointed upstairs. “It's Duke.”
Ned indicated that he would go talk to him, but as he headed for the stairs, Ellie Jane heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom. Perhaps Duke had changed his mind.
“Come help me in the kitchen first.” She took Ned's hand to lead him away, pleased with how natural the gesture felt. Happier, still, with how eager he seemed to follow.
Once through the swinging door, Ellie Jane donned an apron and nodded toward the chair where she wanted Ned to sit. She placed a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese in front of him along with a bowl and a grating box and instructed him to get to work. Meanwhile, Ellie Jane drained a jar of olives and sat at the table with him, chopping them fine on a small wooden cutting board.
After a few minutes of busy silence, Ned asked if Ellie Jane had heard anything from her father.
She shook her head. “No.” Pop had assembled a group of deputized men, including the Vick brothers; they'd been given Mayor Birdiff's personal touring car to track down the suspected murderers Peach and Ray.
“We just want to talk to them.” Her father eyed the guns each man had brought to the house.
That was yesterday, just after noon, just as Mr. Poplin was delivering a new, clean shirt to Picksville's undertaker.
She didn't share all of this with Ned who, she was sure, would have loved to have been part of the posse, but instead opted to stay home and be a friend to Duke. Right now, she was glad for that decision. How nice it was not to be alone—not only for this pleasant moment looking at him across the table, but also knowing about the man upstairs, newly reverted to a stranger, and the memory of the bottle sitting in the sunlight.
