She was mystified, examined the Cessna. They were not far then from Loch Ness. “How in hell …”
“Well. Maybe not this kind of plane. Need something a trifle bigger. But it’s distinctly possible that if we.…”
“Are you a member of the … Mile High Club?”
“Matter of fact (embarrassed) no.”
“Never found a co-pilot who’d have you, eh?” She was meditating. Then she began taking off her blouse. She said: “It’ll be cold in here. Turn up the heater.”
He turned up the heater; she removed the blouse, then the bra. He admired. He said: “Hope we don’t have to make a sudden landing. Scotland is a bit … conservative.”
“Well.” She regarded him with interest. “Guess there’s only one way. I have to do all the work. Billy, sure you can control this here airplane while I … go to work? Joining the club?”
“How do you figure … ?”
She put her head down in his lap. She said: “Do you think this will qualify us?”
“Gee. I don’t know.”
“Well. Far as I’m concerned.…”
She went into action, with that lovely, masterful mouth.
And so they joined the Mile High Club.
They rented planes everywhere they went, overseas. Flew in New Zealand, up on the glaciers. Flew up the Rhine, round the Lorelei. He asked her once if she could picture herself as an old maid and she said: “Oh, sure. I’m going to live in this beautiful little house in the country, surrounded by a high wire fence, loaded up with books and cats. Cats and books. Once I get out of the big city … You, Billy? God. I bet you’ll be the old man glued to the TV set watching ball games all day all night. Do you root much? I mean, the games are noisy enough, but do you yell and scream and throw things, like my father does, and spill beer all over?”
“Hell, no. Oh, I won’t watch. Not me.”
“You won’t? You’re kidding.”
“Nope. I just don’t like to watch a game I can’t play any longer. I can’t just … sit there. That happened to me after I left high school and didn’t play basketball again. I wasn’t tall enough, so if I went to a game I found I went nuts just sitting there, so I didn’t go anymore, and TV wasn’t … well … maybe a little. But I just couldn’t sit there and root, you know? Yell my head off. Not natural. But football now, maybe yes. I never did play much, so I can watch and enjoy. But this game, baseball, once it’s over, it’s really over.”
Chapel opened his eyes. Suddenly, abruptly, rather tired. Stared at the team up the bench. They seemed … unusually intense, wanting to win. Odd. Something strange in all the faces. Looked to the plate and at that moment the hitter up there went into one, caught it good and hard and deep, and Chapel himself hopped to his feet to see it go.… Very unusual for him, but the ball had been hit and he saw it rise and rise, and go and go, and he thought for one long lovely matchless moment it was gone, up over the fence and far far away, but it started to come down just a bit too soon, one hair too soon, struck the top of the fence and bounced back in the field and they played it quickly and damn near got the man going into second base: Gus, of all people, old Gus had hit that one and made it to second base, in flight all the way like an airborne battleship. When he slid into second he knocked the baseman down, and—temporarily—out, and they needed attention out on the field and there were ugly remarks but big Gus stood out there with that huge grin, sweating away from the run, although it was late September weather and a cool day. Chapel watched with great hope. A nothing-nothing ball game, every play tight at a normal time, but today—Gus was very slow, and even if there was a hit—Maxwell was on the edge of the bench thinking of taking Gus in for a pinch runner, but then, all too quick, a pop foul: the catcher, Birch, circled under it and tucked it in and it was over, no score again, another man left. But Chapel was happy for Gus. Doing his best, that guy. May someday learn to be quite a hitter, if he works at it. Tell him that? No.
Gus came out to the mound, puffing. Chapel took time now. Let us all rest a bit. He said: “Man, that was close. I thought for a minute there.…”
“Me, too. Ah. Wouldn’t it be loverly? All I want is a room upstairs.”
Gus was nervous, rubbing his face. Chapel took note of it but it meant … approaching the end. Well. Throw hard, Billy. He warmed up slowly, giving Gus time to get his breath. Phrases from Carol … all came back:
Fear no more the heat of the sun
Nor the furious winter’s rages.
Thou thy earthly task have done,
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must
Like chimney sweepers, come to dust …
Carol read that. Several times. Never forgot it. Didn’t know who. Shakespeare? Golden lads and girls all must, like chimney sweepers, come to dust … our revels now are ended.…
No more of that. But the music now in the mind was quieting. Harder to concentrate. He thought: there is still time, brother.
Who said that? Quote from where? Can’t remember.…
… remembered:
“Mr. Chapel, I’m sorry.”
Highway Patrol, at the door. Big tall fella who had known him and Pop since … long time ago. Hat off, held it in his hand. Tears. Remember: all things come to sharp clear focus. You take a deep breath and the heart rolls over.
“Your folks, Mr. Chapel.”
Pause.
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
Pause.
“Happened about an hour ago. No hope left. I’m … they just went off the road. They’ve been taken in. If you want me to … do anything? Drive you in?”
In that moment, no motion. You take the time in, Billy, and let it come in and go by and out the other side, and then you must move. And you say, I can drive myself, because you really must be alone and that you know. You put on the hat and the coat, against the cold. Oh, it will be cold. And you say: “They went together?”
And he understands.
“Yes, sir. They went together.”
“Well. I think … they’d want it that way.”
… later somebody wanted him to identify and Chapel refused, and some official was surprised, irritated, because everybody did that when necessary, it was a duty, but Chapel did not do it, and walked away. To look down upon a mangled face … I have been hard in my day, but I am not hard enough for that, I might just crack across the brain. I have looked well enough before, and will remember what I have seen … always. Will not look now at what I do not wish to remember, with these eyes—Dad used to say, “My God, Billy, but you’ve got great eyes! That’s where the control starts, in those great blue eyes!” And Mom hugged him and said: “Pretty blue-eyed boy. So pretty.” And so that day Chapel went off by himself and started to cry, and was left alone. And he remembered Pop saying: “If ever that day comes, Billy, and I’m gone, always remember, I’ll be waiting for you somewhere, somewhere up ahead, and it won’t be long, won’t really be long.…”
Tap on the shoulder. Chapel turned, woke. What inning? Bottom of the seventh. Nothing—nothing. You sure. His eyes were hazy. Not good. He thought: “over the hill.” Not quite yet. If I can go just a little bit farther.…
PART TWO
WHEN CHAPEL THREW the first pitch in the bottom of the seventh he began to feel pain in his right arm. That was unusual for Chapel: fatigue yes, weariness of course, but pain he rarely felt, and never for long. Weariness of the muscle was easy to recognize and even to foresee, to feel coming, but pain was a sudden signal, rare and always abrupt, the clear warning: cease, desist. The big red light.
Chapel backed off the mound. When that had happened on other days he would signal Gus and Gus would come out and then maybe Maxwell also … but today … tell no one. Today … it doesn’t mean the same. Today must go on.
Hmm. Reminded him of a book, of The Old Man and the Sea, the way the old man sat out there with that one bad hand that the old man felt sorry for, because it had worked so hard all his life a
nd was pretty much useless now … odd thing to think about. Worn and weary hand, out there hooked into the big fish … he felt an astounding sympathy for the old man. Know what you mean. Because there was a pain in his right arm, beginning in the elbow going up into the muscle above that, leading to the shoulder, and there had been times when he’d gone on, talking to the arm, pushing it, coaxing it, scolding it, as he did in the World Series, saying: buddy, not now, don’t quit now, and sometimes it kept going long enough, and sometimes the pain got much worse and he had to quit, so he talked to it now, said: “Just this time. Just this last time. Sorry old buddy, but today we must go all the way, and we haven’t got much more to go, so if you have to hurt a bit that’s all right, but let’s give them … the best. Get the last few. Only a few.”
But it was more than a few. He went to the fastball. Easiest to throw in some ways; the curve could cause more pain. Remember Koufax? The fastball was what he couldn’t take.… Don’t think of that. They’ve been waiting for you to slow down for six innings, and look at them now, they’re walking up. So fire Old Smokey, and if it’s there … please God.…
First hitter in the seventh was Robinson, dug in now, waiting with eagerness now. Chapel struck him out for the third straight time. The fastball was there and no mistake. The pain was there, too, and it was new to be this way, to throw hard with pain in the arm. In the past they worried and sat him down as soon as possible and the pain never lasted, was always quickly gone, and he remembered the Old Man’s fear.…
But Old Man, there’s nowhere else to go today and there’s nothing more to lose … he apologized to the fine and aging arm as that reliable veteran who had the power still struck out another one … Parrilli again, gee whiz, wonder how many. Lost count. Doesn’t matter. Bless ’em all, bless ’em all, the long and the short and the tall … turned round and glanced at the infield and … something strange happening. Different position. They were all tensed and crouched and bobbing up and down and yelling. He could begin to hear Christopher screaming, as Christopher almost never screamed: “Go get ’em, Billy Boy, blow ’em away, Billy. You got ’em, Billy, you got ’em,” on and on, never ceasing.
A rare thing.
They didn’t get excited near the end of a game, not this team. They were a tired team in the seventh, all except Christopher, and Manieri, and sometimes the Dutchman. They did not expect to win and so it had not really been a contest in a long time and almost never had the motion and energy he saw now. No more playing with a stacked deck. Got a chance to win.
Chapel felt shortness of breath. At your age, old buddy, when it starts to go … He threw the curve and backed off Murphy, who was expecting the fastball. Sidearmed him with another ball. Then threw the third straight wide breaking curve which fell outside and Murphy reached far enough to touch it, and hit a meager ground ball to first and was out by half the length.
Done.
Seven.
Chapel came down off the mound and walked toward the dugout … and the concentration began to go.
The pain was in the right elbow going up through the shoulder. As he put his left hand over to probe, to soothe, his eyes began to wander anew, and suddenly, abruptly he came into focus on all those people watching. He slowed the walk and looked up across the stands and they began to come to life, moved back into sight; the sound broke through the barrier and he could hear the great boiling hum of … eighty thousand people. The yelling, the rooting, no special words, all now bedlam, going into the top of the eighth, could not even hear the voice on the loudspeaker. But he had lost it now … he had come out of that quiet world of total commitment and control was gone now, no longer in complete control and knew it. Seven innings … as far as we can go. Time now to warm up the relief.
But not today.
Two more innings.
What you think?
Got to.
No doubt at all.
Got to.
Wonder … how far you’ll get.
All the way.
So help me God.
Sonny boy, thou canst not make two more.
Well. Give it a try. Will do that. Am going out now. Yes. He nodded. There may be enough left … we shall see.
He looked over at the Yankee bench. Tension and motion; they were steaming. Pressure from that bench. They really wanted … feeling from that way came as a wind. Was a quiet surprise. He sat wishing it was … more quiet. Too damn much noise. He looked up and around, down the bench, no longer pulled the cap down over his eyes, kept running his hand up to his right shoulder. The pain there was growing as he sat.
He was still very much alone at this end of the bench. He looked down the bench now and the nearest was Garcia, the young pitcher who had pleaded with Maxwell to give him a break earlier, before the game started. Garcia was not looking at him. He was sulking, gloomed, one foot against a post. He had no interest in who won that day. Not unless he pitched. Well. He may. Chapel said: “Hey.”
Garcia swung, startled:
“Ha?”
Chapel remembered, a long time ago, when a great pitcher, Sam Johnson, began sitting there on the bench lecturing to him about the big things he should know. But Chapel was foggy now in the brain; this was instinctive. He wanted to talk, to somebody. He said: “Hey, young feller. When you begin to hear the crowd, that’s time to quit. You ever notice that? Long as you don’t notice the crowd, you’re all right.”
Garcia was staring at him, mouth open. He shrugged, said something in Spanish. Then abruptly he got up and moved away, sat down on the bench, talked to another ballplayer, pointed at Chapel and then Chapel noticed much of the rest of the bench staring at him and talking. He knew: I have pitched one hell of a game. They’re wondering … I never let up. They didn’t think I had it in me. I.… Over the hill? He chuckled, but both arms across his chest. Not yet I ain’t.
Two more innings.
Rest. Drink the water. Eat some candy, ice cream.
He went to Gus and got the Babe Ruth that Gus always had sitting there, near cold water. He always chomped on candy in the late innings. He didn’t say a word. When Chapel came near everybody quieted. He went away again, sat alone.
All right: rest. Every bone, every muscle, the eyes. The brain. Send the resting signals down: right leg, left leg, and on around. Pain only there, in the right arm. Better now. How much reserve?
No way to know. From the back of the brain … a slow dark signal from deep down there, way back where the dreams formed and much of the work was done. There’s not enough left, Billy Boy, Billy Boy. They’re going to get you.
Well then. He took a cool breath. Why don’t this team get a run? Just one. Even one. The salubrious effect, the message to the brain would spark all the way down. Learned long ago: you do the best you can. If they don’t score behind you it doesn’t help to get mad or sad or lifeless … and yet … strange thing … if they do … if they only back you up.… But Durkee had gone to his reserve, was throwing all the best. The Hawks went down.
Bottom of the eighth.
Chapel waiting, just sitting as long as possible, before beginning the long walk out to the mound which was now dangerous. Things had changed. He had lost much of the power. They had been waiting all day for the golden time: it had come. Chapel went out … and began to hear from his own team: alive and ready for the brawl. Out there to win. They were all looking his way and yelling encouragement. Maxwell … did not come out. Maxwell did not say a word. Odd. Stood above the bench watching, waiting. There was real tension here now, almost as if the World Series was under way and this game was the heart of it—as if it was one of the few games, the very few, out of all the long years of all the long games, the few that really and truly permanently mattered, and Chapel felt a choke in his chest. He had a team behind him. “Go Chappie go Chappie… !”
Somebody from the stands. Them, too? For him? What the hell.…
Gus was waiting at the mound. Ashen face. Twitching. Chapel, hazing a bit in the brain, looked
at the scoreboard. Instinctive message, before he looked, come from that dark place there in the dreamy brain, the place that followed the game and knew it all.
No-hitter.
He focused on the board. Nothing-nothing. But the numbers behind that, under: Runs, Hits, Errors read clear and bright: Hawks: 0 Runs, 4 Hits, 0 Errors. Then underneath, for the Yanks: 0 Runs, 0 Hits, 0 Errors.
In the early innings … but this was the eighth.
Chapel said, aloud: “Gee whiz.”
Christopher, the shortstop, came running up to the mound. He had the ball in his hand, the one they’d been tossing around the infield. He had a wide-eyed, formal, very tight face, and he handed Chapel the ball, held his hand for a long moment, saying, through gritted teeth: “We gonna git ’em. We gonna git ’em. Anybody drops the ball, so help me Christ, I’ll kill ’em. Go ‘head, man, I’m right behind ya.”
He ran back to position, hopping, skipping. Manieri at third was crouching, pounding his glove with heavy punches, yelling something untranslatable. Italian? The man at second base stalked like a readying leopard.
Gus said: “Chappie? Listen. Joe Birch. Time for Joe Birch. What you wanna do?”
Eighth inning. Birch up for … third, or was it fourth time? Only third? He looked past Gus, saw Birch, standing, leaning slightly against his own bat, like a cane, motionless, looking out toward Chapel. Waiting. Chapel thought: know what? This is serious. It was as if he was waking up. All this was … clear and real. A well-developed picture … of a ball game. Chapel put a hand to the right arm, the shoulder.
Gus: “How you doin’, Ace?”
“Little tired.”
Gus nodded. “You got a right. Anybody got a right.” Pause. “Well, Chappie. It’s Birch. Whatya wanna do?”
Chapel blinked. What now? Nothing came.