Stealing home, p.26
Stealing Home, page 26
She wondered how she would tell him, or if she should at all. There was already so much ugliness. She would keep these few minutes, pouring her energy into making her special cheese-and-olive spread sandwiches, keeping her conversation with Ned a series of soft smiles.
They worked in such sweet tandem: she mixed the grated cheese and chopped olives with a bit of mayonnaise dressing; he sliced the bread—perfectly thin—and arranged the assembled sandwiches artfully on the tray. He even took one for himself, nibbling a corner before finishing it off in two great bites, then helping himself to coffee.
Ellie Jane was covering the pile of sandwiches with a sheet of waxed paper and her prettiest tea towel when Duke breezed into the kitchen, bringing with him a fresh scent of shaving soap and skin cream. He'd managed to pull a clean, pressed shirt and dark trousers from his bags.
“Think I'll take you up on that coffee, Miss Voyant.” His voice was new and robust. He rubbed his hands together like a man ready to dive into a grand adventure and blew across the floor, heading straight for the cups hanging on hooks on the wall. He tossed a “Morning, Ned” over his shoulder as he poured, impressing Ellie Jane with his newfound control.
“So have you changed your mind, then?” Ellie Jane untied her apron.
“No.” He took a sip, made the same face he always made at her coffee, then sipped again before turning on his heel and leaving.
She wasn't about to go after him, not with Ned sitting right there at the table. Instead, she threw her hands up in frustration and tossed her apron onto the back of the chair.
“What was that about?” Ned stood and drew her face up to look at him.
“He won't go to the service.”
Ned's eyes softened. “It can be hard for a man to show his grief.”
“It isn't hard for you.”
He smiled. “Maybe I'm more of a man.”
She laughed and went to her toes to plant a soft kiss on his cheek before speaking directly into his ear. “You're more man than I ever imagined.”
“Do you think I should talk to him?” Ned asked as she returned to her feet.
“There's one other thing.” She busied herself folding and smoothing the tossed apron. “I'm worried that he might be drinking again. There's a bottle upstairs. And he's so upset. And if he would just talk to someone—”
Ned gently tugged at her chin, his eyes searching.
Ellie Jane took a deep breath and, bound by a loyalty she didn't understand, said, “I'm afraid. For him.”
NED
He spent more than a few minutes pounding on Duke's door to no avail, and when he spied Ellie Jane on the upstairs landing, he gave up, pronounced that Duke was a man who would have to live with his own decision. That's when Ellie Jane shooed him downstairs, and now he stood in the middle of the parlor, holding a tray of sandwiches, waiting for her to get her hat.
There was a hitch in his spirit as he stood there, a heart-wrenching guilt for feeling contentment in the wake of such tragedy, but he couldn't remember when he'd last felt like he was at home. Not because of the parlor—the upholstered furniture, the bookcases, the drapes—but the idea of belonging. He looked around and wondered if he'd want to live the rest of his life here.
Before he could formulate an answer, a movement at the top of the stairs caught his eye. Funny how he always knew just where to look for her, whether in town, in church, or in her own home. Now there she was, her black lace glove poised on the polished banister as she made her way down. Her hair was topped with a complicated mass of black silk and feathers, with a tiny bit of netting draped over one eye, but with each step, his vision of her changed. He could imagine her black-and-gray striped blouse replaced by ivory silk, her little black purse a spring bouquet.
He knew, then and there, that he would marry her. He waited six years for her to look at him, but he wouldn't wait that long again. Now that he had her, he would wait—until after the funeral, until after Duke was gone, until her father returned to grant his blessing. He'd wait until he had her back, and then he'd never let her go.
She walked right up to him and laid her hand on his arm. Are you ready ?
“Yes, my love,” he said, immeasurably pleased at her smile.
They walked together, Ned conscious of matching his stride to hers. The neighborhood streets were empty at this midmorning hour, and he noticed more than one front-room curtain parting as they walked by.
Ellie Jane tugged on his arm. It's like our own Promenade.
“Well, then,” he said, not missing a step, “I'll call for you at six.”
Not tonight. Her eyes were full of apology. And worry. I want to stay home and wait for Pop.
“Then maybe I'll just come and sit with you.”
She gave his arm a squeeze, and they continued on. Glancing down he could see that she was talking. And talking. Her lace-covered hands flitted around, and though he couldn't hear her words, he knew what she was talking about, because he was thinking the same thing. That there wouldn't be a game tonight—maybe never again. That those long, easy evenings on the field were a bright flash in the town's life, and with one star fallen and the other shooting himself away, it would be awhile before anyone would wish to meet at the bleachers and choose up teams.
In fact, he was dreading that moment at the intersection of Green and Park when a glance to the left would reveal the corner of the unassuming railway station, the little octagonal booth, and the corner of the chicken wire backstop. He found himself slowing his steps even more, and Ellie Jane slowing with him until, at some point, they were stopped, and he followed the line of her lace-covered finger as it pointed.
There were six of them, boys dressed in patched-up play clothes and caps. One on the mound, one at the plate, two at the corners, and two in the outfield. A wobbly throw, a valiant swing, and a soft bouncing grounder making its way lazily to second. Then a change of positions, a new batter up. He wondered what rules they'd devised for themselves, but it didn't matter. He took a moment to wish they'd been here before, on a sunny day when Morris could have joined in, then offered thanks to God for a vision of life. Of new beginnings.
He shifted the weight of the sandwich tray to one arm, offering the other to Ellie Jane, and on they walked, past the station, past the booth, skirting the field, and over the tracks. Ned was no stranger to this part of town, but he doubted Ellie Jane had much experience maneuvering its narrow dirt paths. Floyd had given him directions to the house Morris shared with his mother, and it was there that the friends and family would gather after the services. He steered them toward it and knew he was at the right house when he saw the tiny, sideways shack overflowing with people.
They were Morris's people, mostly, all dressed in their best clothing. But there were a few townspeople too. Besides Marlene and Gustav, he saw Mr. Poplin and Mr. Samms, Old Mr. Shiner, and some woman he didn't know. She stood out among the others, not merely for the color of her face, but for the amount of paint she'd smeared over it.
A large black woman broke from the crowd and made her way toward them. She took the plate of sandwiches, saying, Thank you, without looking either of them in the eye. The mournful mother was nowhere to be seen; neither was the unpleasant Darnell. Ned supposed they were already at the church, and by some command, the crowd began a unified pilgrimage to join them there.
It was just a matter of a block or so, but the slow-moving passage of so many shuffling feet made the journey a long, somber one. Nothing like the veneer of comfort he'd felt walking alone with Ellie Jane. She hadn't let go of his arm since he'd offered it to her, and she clutched it tighter and tighter with each step. She spoke to no one, but kept her eyes fixed straight ahead.
The church was just a slightly larger version of every house they passed on the way to it. Plain, white clapboard with a modest cross mounted at the top. The double doors were wide open. Ned, Ellie Jane, and the people from town held back and let the others file in. He couldn't imagine they'd all fit, but somehow person after person disappeared through the doors, and when it was their time to follow, he and the others filed neatly into the last rows and sat down.
Craning his neck above those seated in front of him, Ned could just make out the narrow white coffin at the front of the room. The open lid revealed the outline of Morris's face, soft brown outlined against white silk. Other people he'd seen in death—his mother, his father—looked so different than they had in life. But not Morris. He'd always been a child of peace, and now he looked simply asleep.
A large, impressive-looking man stood at the front of the church and immediately bowed his head in prayer. Ned did too, closing his eyes and opening his heart in agreement with all these people around him. He didn't open his eyes until he felt Ellie Jane's gentle nudge, and that's when he saw the mother, leaning heavily on the arm of another woman, making her way up the aisle. She went immediately to the coffin, touched her son's face, and allowed herself to be led to a seat in the front row.
Then, something broke loose.
It started with the minister at the front—Bishop Tilley, as was recorded on the attendance board on the front wall. Ned could not follow his words, as he didn't establish his spot on the floor behind a pulpit like Reverend Porter did. Instead, he paced the length of the room, back and forth in front of the casket, up and down the aisles. He held an unopened Bible in one hand, which he pounded and waved intermittently. He spoke to the heavens and he spoke to the people, his mouth a continuous flashing white beacon.
Soon the crowd was a little brown rolling sea. Faces raised, hands lifted up. He saw their mouths moving along with him—not in unison, like a congregation engaged in a hymn, but seemingly random utterances.
He looked to Ellie Jane for some explanation.
Amen, she said. Praise God. Morris is home.
And then he realized he was sitting in the midst of praise. He knew, of course, of Morris's faith, but to see it played out in front of him was something to behold. Slowly the vestiges of sadness he'd carried with him since finding that small, broken body in the field transformed to something new, and he felt something akin to joy ready to burst forth.
One glance beside him showed Ellie Jane standing at the edge of the same fervor. Tears streamed down her face, yet she wore a rapturous smile.
He saw the same expression echoed in face after face, and he wondered if these people even knew all about the life they were celebrating. That Morris had been a familiar, trusted soul. That he'd had goals and dreams and skill. That he'd touched the heart of a giant and brought together the lives of two lonely people.
Ned had no idea how long the actual service lasted, but when Bishop Tilley yielded the floor to the crowd and they began to line up to pay their respects at the casket, he tugged at Ellie Jane's arm and, exhausted, they exited out the back of the church.
They were joined by Mr. Poplin and Mr. Samms, who indicated they needed to return to their businesses. Mr. Shiner and the mysterious woman soon followed, looking equally bewildered. When Mr. Shiner offered his arm, she took it eagerly, hungrily, and the two staggered off together down the path, narrowly avoiding a collision with a boy running toward them.
Miss Voyant?
Ned recognized the boy from church—the nondescript middle son of the Ohio family. He ran up now, holding out a familiar-looking envelope.
A telegram.
The boy held his hand open long after Ellie Jane took the envelope. Ain't you gonna give me a tip?
Ned dug into his pocket and produced three pennies, which he dropped into the outstretched pink palm. The boy scowled at the coins and stood there, expectantly, before closing them up in his fist and thrusting them into his pocket.
Without anything close to a Thank you, the boy turned and shuffled off.
With a shaking hand, Ellie Jane gave the telegram to Ned.
I can't.
He opened the envelope and took out the small yellow paper. It was from Dave Voyant, and it was short.
Pop called. He got them.
Ned showed the telegram to Ellie Jane and waited for her to look pleased. Instead, a softness came to her face, and she shook her head slowly.
Those poor, awful men.
Ned tried to drum up some sympathy for the guys who were now at the mercy of Picksville's imposing sheriff, but none came. He took Ellie Jane's arm and led her in a slow, easy stroll. “I wish Duke would have been here.”
Ellie Jane stopped in the middle of the dusty street. I'm worried.
“It'll take some time—”
No. She formed her hand around an invisible flask and motioned it to her lips.
“He's drunk?”
Not yet… But she looked so helpless, and despite the near pure joy he'd experienced inside the little church, anger sparked deep within his gut.
“Come on.”
This time when he took her arm it was meant to hurry her along with his stride as he retraced their steps back to town. The nerve of Duke, bringing that ugliness into Ellie Jane's life—into her home. The man was dangerous enough sober; Ned couldn't imagine what he'd be capable of after taking a few drinks.
But that wasn't exactly true. Of course he could imagine it. In fact, he didn't have to imagine it. He knew.
DUKE
He closed the last latch on the final suitcase and looked around the room. Neat as a pin. Just as he'd found it. Like he'd never been here at all.
Except for the bottle, still untouched but still there.
There wouldn't be a train to get him out of here until Monday, but he couldn't stay in this house. Leave it to Dave Voyant to stick him in the one town without a hotel. Never mind. He'd stay with Ned. Should have gone there a long time ago. Ever since they started building the field together. Or at least since the first game. Then he could have had a little peace and quiet in his life, away from her endless chattering.
He lifted one bag off the bed and tested its weight. Heavy, yes. But not impossible. He lifted the second one and tried to take a step. He might be able to make it across the room, but he'd never make it as far as Ned's.
He'd have to find somebody to send back for them.
But he wouldn't need much for one night at Ned's. He took the smallest of his bags —a soft leather satchel filled with his toiletries — and tossed in a couple of clean shirts. He picked up the satchel, put on his cap, and stared at the bottle. All he'd have to do is walk away. Walk off and leave it sitting right on the table. No need to pour it over the balcony. Just go to Ned's and let her dump it out.
Easy.
But then again he was strong enough to hold on to it this long. He could last one more day. Besides, if he left it here, he'd be tempted to come back.
And he couldn't come back.
So he picked it up, felt the heft of it in his hand, and put it in his pocket.
Now he could go.
Duke walked downstairs, out the front door, and through the little iron gate at the end of the walkway. There were people on the street he'd come to know as neighbors, and they offered weak, sympathetic smiles and halfhearted waves as he passed. Mrs. Finneworth came running off her front porch and actually grabbed his sleeve as he passed, saying she was so, so sorry about that little Negro boy.
He said something back to her. Some sort of mumbled charm. Enough to make her say, “God bless you, Mr. Dennison,” before returning to her potted plants.
God bless him indeed.
The town was strangely quiet for a Saturday, and when he got to the corner of Park and Green, he heard a sound as familiar to him as any other. A bat hitting a ball. A boy calling a play.
He should turn right. Head up Park Street to Ned's place, but he had to see. Even though he knew—knew it wasn't the kid. His kid. Someone was playing the game. So he took the well-worn path and saw the chicken wire backstop looming through the haze in his head.
They were just kids, hitting a ball around. Scrambling a few plays. No rules, no winner. Nothing but the joy of hitting and throwing. Running and catching.
He wanted to go sit on the bleachers and watch, but already he felt the burning at the back of his throat. One more minute and he'd need to either cry or drink.
He turned right and headed for Ned's.
The door to the store was locked and a sign hung in the window saying Closed: Memorial Service. Duke went around to the back and climbed the stairs to the apartment. He'd never been here before, but he figured this door wouldn't be locked. He was right.
It was a tidy, functional front room. Duke dropped his satchel on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. The weight of the bottle pulled on his pocket, so he lifted it out and set it on the table in front of him. Then he pushed it away. An arm's length and a bit more.
He was shrugging off his jacket when he felt it. The sleeplessness of the night before. Everything hurt. His back, his eyes, his head. Somewhere beyond this little kitchen room, there had to be a bed, a couch, something. But his legs suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. He folded his arms on the table and buried his head in his clean, starched sleeves.
He should have gone to the church. There had to be a reason people went there when they felt like this. But this hard wooden chair in this bare room was the closest he was going to get today.
“Listen, God.” He spoke straight into the table. Tears gathered in his eyes. They trickled along his face, gathering at the corners of his moustache. He thought about that long-ago day, the minister putting a wafer on his tongue, a swallow of wine, and he hoped that was enough to make him be heard. “Floyd says You have a reason. And I need to know. So You have to tell me. Either that,” he reached his hand out, almost enough to touch the bottle, “or I've got to just forget it. The only way I know how. 'Cause I won't be able to stand not knowing.”
