"Doc, I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Doc, my brother is a mess, and this woman, well-"
Doc interrupted me. He sounded like Thomas Magnum. "I hear something in your voice I haven't heard before."
"Yeah, well .. .
"You don't have any idea what you're doing, do you?"
"Not in the least bit."
"Me neither, and I've been married four times. Women! Can't live with them, can't live with them."
"Doc, I just need some time. A month. Maybe two. I don't know."
"You got enough to live on?"
"For a time. I can't retire, but we can make out."
'-We' or `I'?"
I paused. "We."
"You know, you could make the upper echelon. You're almost there now." Doc firmly believed that I'd make a great photographer one day.
"And when I get there, where will that be?"
"At the top, Tucker."
"The top of what? Doc, there's only room for one man on top of Everest. It's cold, lonely, and it kills a lot of the people who climb it. My father showed me that."
"All right, Rain"-the Zippo cracked and popped again-"do what you've got to do, but don't make me come down there and kick you in the tuckus. You're too good to quit. You see what others don't. Always have. Remember that. Get your collective crap in order and don't wait too long to pick up the phone."
"Thanks, Doc. I'll be talking to you."
Doc hung up, and I knew I'd let him down. But Doc also knew bits and pieces of the whole story, and he could sense that pressure in the cookerwas building. Unscrewing the vent was often better than watching the top blow sky-high.
I splashed water on my face, wiped the grit from my eyes, and strolled out the back door, walking nowhere in particular. Aimlessly circling the cottage, the footprints caught my attention-they were large, about the same size I'd seen out on the highway pointing at Katie and me through the fence. I scoured the ground, and when I picked it up, the cigarette butt was cold, smoked down to the nub-like somebody had enjoyed it and the tip smelled of an overabundance of a cheap man's cologne.
Chapter 29
FROM WEDNESDAY TO SATURDAY, MUTT WORSENED. Every time he used the barn toilet, he used an entire roll of toilet paper, clogging it every day since he got here. His hands were chapped, cracked, and bleeding regularly from hard water and too much soap. He had yet to break the seal on the toiletries I bought him, and his face was one constant contortion. But amid this digression, I had noticed odd progress-if you can call it that.
I woke Saturday morning to the sound of an engine running and another high-pitched sound I couldn't quite place. Like a mower or go-cart. I climbed upstairs, walked side of the house was soaked.
Mutt stood at the edge of the back porch, wearing protective safety glasses and yellow earplugs stuffed into each ear, and both hands gripped the biggest pressurewasher wand I'd ever seen. He had braced his legs against a column and looked like he was holding a flamethrower. At his feet was a thirteen-horsepower Honda engine on wheels connected to some sort of pump that fed water through a hundred-plus feet of pressurized hose snaking around the porch. A small transparent hose ran out the side of the pump and sucked bleach from a gallon bottle resting nearby. Mutt was spraying the sides of the house with broad strokes and had already made pretty good progress. The roof, windows, gutters, and sides of the house were covered in bleach, the smell was strong, and the sound almost deafening. None of which I wanted to face first thing in the morning.
I looked up, caught a wave of misty bleach in the eye, and felt the sting. Judging by Mutt's stance and evident pressure coming out the end of that wand, that thing could peel the chrome off a trailer hitch. Waverly didn't stand a chance. Algae, mold, and thirty years of goo trickled and then gushed down the cracks and crevices of Waverly like wet paint in the rain. Even the mortar came clean. The roof tiles, long since green and black with algae, were returning to their native orange and even glistening a bit. As was the brick and green trim around the windows and shutters. The difference between what had been cleaned and what remained to be clean was striking. To be honest, I hadn't thought the house was that dirty.
Mutt picked up on it the moment he first saw the house. I almost felt embarrassed. Circling the house, I stepped over the puddles that held yesteryear's scum and dirt. Within minutes, they had soaked through the earth and were gone. Above me, the house shone brilliantly.
I waved, and Mutt nodded in my direction and kept spraying while maintaining a strong grip on the wand. I walked into the barn, dropped a Maxwell House can's worth of feed in Glue's trough, and started rubbing his mane. I spread some hay, mucked out the manure, opened the gate, and let him follow his nose around the pasture. Thinking about a shower, I walked toward the house, and Jase hopped off Miss Ella's porch holding a baseball in his hand. It didn't take me a second to recognize it. My home-run ball from the College World Series.
I eyed the ball, hoping he wouldn't throw it and scuff the cover. "Hey, partner."
"Unca Tuck, can you teach me to hit?"
Twenty-five years ago, in roughly this same place on planet Earth, give or take about three feet, I had asked my dad the same question. He walked out of the barn dressed in his best riding boots and pants, having just wrestled one of his thoroughbreds around the pasture, and walked right past me. He never responded. He didn't even acknowledge that I had asked the question. He left me standing there holding a ball, the bat Miss Ella had bought me, and a raggedy old glove that needed new stitching. He walked inside-his face twisted and angry, his mind busy with the next deal or secretary-poured himself about four inches of scotch, and shut the library door. Discussion over.
I looked at Jase, standing there holding that ball, innocent as a puppy, and I wondered how in the world my dad could pass me by. What was wrong with how I had asked the question? What was any different? What did I do wrong? Why didn't he answer me?
I stepped across a mud puddle rimmed by soapsuds, stood next to Jase, took the ball gently from his hand, and turned it over in mine. The laces were tight, and dried clay clung to one stitch where the laces narrowed. I looked at the ball and remembered the pitch. A slider, coming in low and moving out to in. Halfway to the plate, I slowed the pitch, put Rex's face in between the laces, took a step, and swung-splattering his brains across the pitcher's mound. By the time I rounded first, the ball was gone, deep over left center, the game was over, the stands erupted in a frenzy, and I had just killed Rex Mason for the umpteenthousandth time. I crossed home plate, and so help me, if that pitcher had asked, "Hey, buddy, the ball slipped. Can we do that over?" I'd have grabbed the bat, stepped into the box, and nodded.
I opened Jase's hand, spread his first two fingers across the ball, lined them up on the laces, and then gently cocked his arm back. "Like that," I said. "See how that feels?"Jase nodded. I pointed him toward the barn and the Swiss cheese wall. "Okay, point, step, and throw." Jase pointed toward the back wall with his left hand, took a big step, and threw a five-year-old's throw into the barn. The ball spun sideways, arced high, bounced off a stall wall, and came to rest in the hay trampled across the middle of the barn. Jase watched the ball roll until it stopped and looked up at me.
There was only one answer. "Yeah, buddy, I'll teach you to hit."
"Right now?"
"This very minute."
We walked into the barn, and I looked underneath the workbench that lined the wall on the left side. I peeled away the cobwebs, cautious for rats' nests, and grabbed the bucket-the one Miss Ella used to sit on. It was full of old baseballs; I had forgotten how many were in there. Maybe thirty. Next to the bucket, spilled across the bottom of the lowest shelf, were a dozen or so bats-measuring sticks of my growth. I grabbed the smallest, the first bat Miss Ella had given me. The one I carried with me across the floor and in front of Rex's room, the one I used to tap her window, the one I hit ten thousand pebbles with, and the one that rested on my shoulder the day Rex Mason d
idn't answer me.
I slid it out and wiped the barrel gently with my palm. It was splintery, gouged with deep holes where I'd hit rocks that were too big, and the handle was dark with use. It was a 25-15-twenty-five inches long and fifteen ounces in weight. Perfect.
Lastly, I pulled the tee from underneath the workbench. A hard plastic tube, fitted with a short piece of radiator hose at the top. I sunk the tube into the ground at the barn door and sat off to one side, close enough to reach out and set balls atop the tee. "Okay, lesson miniher one."Jase stood trained on me. Goofiness mixed with perfect concentration. His hat was tilted to one side, and sleep filled his eyes. "We've got to line up your knuckles. A good grip is the beginning." Jase held out his bat, and I lined up the flats of his knuckles. "Secondly, stance." Jase kept both hands on the bat and looked at his feet. "You can't hit it if your feet are all catty-wompass. You've got to address the tee. Almost like a cowboy in a shootout. Stand square."
I lifted him up and set him down in the imaginary batter's box and drew a line around him. "Thirdly, eyes." I touched the tip of his nose gently with my finger. His eyes watched my finger, crossed, then looked at me. The entire time, he just kept nodding and never said a word. "You can't hit it if you're not looking at it. You can watch where it goes later; right now, let's watch you hit it." I stood hack; Jase cocked the bat and angled it just slightly behind his neck.
"Lastly, step and swing. It's a rhythm thing. First you step, then you swing." I lifted his elbow, straightened his feet, and tucked his head down into his shoulder. "Okay, take a practice swing. Remember"-I enunciated slowly, letting my voice fall into a monotonous rhythm-"step and swing."Jase gritted his teeth and took a big step and a huge swing. The barrel of the bat hit the rubber and made it glorious smacking noise. His eyes grew wide and asked the questions mine had asked a thousand times. "Did I do good? Can we do it again?"
I patted him on the shoulder and smiled. "Good, a good first effort; we can work with that. Now, this time, I want you to keep your eye on that imaginary ball. One more practice swing." Jase cocked, gritted his teeth, stepped, swung, and kept his eye glued to the tip of the radiator hose. Textbook-for a five-year-old.
I set a ball on the tee; Jase licked his lips and waited on my instruction. He turned his red baseball cap around backwards-rally cap style-kicked his right foot in the dirt, digging it in, and cocked his bat. "Okay, remember, step and swing." Jase nodded, raised his right elbow, and waited, hanging on my instruction, a compact bundle of cocked anticipation. "Play ball."
Jase swung, connected with the ball, and foul-tipped it over my head. "Not bad, not bad, a little low. Your knuckles weren't lined up and your step was too short, bringing you in underneath it. Open your hips, point your belly button at that wall, and step like you mean it. Okay, try it again." Jase licked again, gritted harder, and stepped. The bat connected with the ball, and it shot down what would have been the third base line. It banged into the side wall of the barn and then rolled down to the Swiss cheese wall.
Jase's eyes lit up and he pointed at the ball. "Unca Tuck, did you see that?"
"I did." I sat on the bucket and pointed to the infield. "I think you'd better take a trip around the bases, buddy. That one was out of here." Jase dropped the bat, trotted around the imaginary bases in the barn, touching the right side stalls, the wall at the back, and then the workbench, finally stomping on the dirt next to the tee and giving me a high five.
"Can we do it again?" I looked at him as if I hadn't heard him right. He had said it. The actual words came out of his mouth. They were beautiful. His face was a mixture of pure joy, pure delight, and pure kid. Everything that was good in this life, and everything I ever wanted to be, was staring me in the face.
"Buddy," I said, the tears filling the corners of my eyes, "we can do this as long as you feel like picking up these balls. 'Cause that's the deal: you hit 'em, you pick 'em." I held out my hand, palm up, and he gave me a big slap. "You ready?"
Jase cocked the bat over his shoulder, took a big breath through his nose, and nodded.
Thirty-three balls later he was making good contact and sending balls straight down the center of the barn. He was a good way yet from hitting the back wall in the air, but he was definitely getting there on the roll.
He was tireless, so we picked them up and collected them in the bucket, and by the time I turned around, he was standing at the tee with the bat cocked over his shoulder. I sat down, put a ball on the tee, and said, "Play ball."
Jase swung, foul-tipped it over my head, and watched it roll into Glue's stall. Mutt walked up behind Jase, wearing squishing rubber boots and eyeglasses and with his ears filled with plugs. He looked like he wanted to say something but just stood there. I looked up, Mutt pointed to Jase, and I nodded. Mutt reached down and gently lined up Jase's knuckles, lifted his right elbow about two inches, and tucked his head gently but snugly into his left shoulder. Without a word, he walked back over to the house and cranked up the pressure washer. I set another ball up and Jase smacked it down the center of the barn.
Sixty balls later, I said, "How 'bout we pick this up tomorrow?"
He dropped the bat, which he could barely hold by then anyway, gave my leg a giant squeeze, and ran to the porch. "Mom, did you see that?" He pointed to the barn. "Did you see that?"
Katie sat on the porch, wrapped up in one of Miss Ella's shawls, rocking. My back had been turned, so I didn't really know how long she'd been there.
"I did," she said. "I did." Jase turned his hat around, hopped on his bike, and circled the driveway riding on the last hour's high.
"How long've you been there?" I asked.
"Long enough."
She folded her hands behind her back and walked up to me, coming to a stop just a few inches from my chestonce again invading my personal space. "Thank you, Tucker Rain."
If beauty had a face in the morning, it was staring me in the face.
"What for?" I said, trying to set out again toward the house.
She stepped in front of me and squeezed me toward the split rail fence. "For teaching my son to bat."
"Oh, sure." I ducked.
"And ..." She nodded toward the bathroom. "For yesterday."
"I didn't do anything," I said, shaking my head and avoiding eye contact.
She reached up, tugged the chest of my shirt, and pulled her stomach to mine. "That's what I'm thanking you for."
"Oh."
We stood for a moment, her pressing me against the fence while Glue stood solo against the horizon on the far side of the pasture. A few cowbirds milled and fluttered around him. "You loved baseball, didn't you?" she asked.
I nodded. "I do." She let go and straightened my shirt, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the fence.
"What do you love about it?"
To answer that question meant I had to swim beneath the surface, and I wasn't sure I wanted to do that. I had already drowned once. I kicked the dirt beneath my feet, spreading the pebbles with clay and manure, and said, "Most folks see baseball as a sport where big guys, wearing tight pants and chewing a mouthful of gum, spit constantly, adjust themselves, scream, `Hey, batter,' run in circles, and make odd hand signals. And yes, that is part of baseball, but it's not the heart. The heart of baseball is found in backyards and sandlots, and the faces of little boys like that."
"You sound like you know what you're talking about."
I turned and found her eyes. "Katie, I know what it is by what it wasn't." Mutt tugged on his hose, which made a slapping noise on the wet marble, and circled the side of the house, keeping the spray nozzle pointed at a secondstory window. "We both do."
I walked up the back porch, tripped over Mutt's pressurized hose, and looked at the house. The transformation was startling. As stark as the difference between a screaming infant in the delivery room and a cadaver in the morgue.
Chapter 30
SUNDAY MORNING, THE SKY HUNG LOW WITH GRAY clouds and blocked any direct sun. I was
leaning back in my chair, hunkered over a cup of coffee, staring blankly over the front lawn. If Rex had seen me doing this, he would have kicked the chair out from underneath me, slapped me, and sent me tumbling. Which was exactly why I was doing it. If leaning against the back of the house broke both back legs, I'd just work my way through each of the dining room chairs until I had a matching set of twelve.
Mose ambled around the corner, smelling of diesel fuel and freshly cut grass. He took off his hat, wiped his brow, and sat on the brick wall opposite me that framed the porch. He looked out over the drive and spoke softly, so as not to be heard by anyone other than me. `Just came from the far corner of the pasture." Something in his tone told me he wasn't about to tell me a horse story. I leaned forward, all four legs now on the ground. "When I got to the far corner, I smelled cigarette smoke." I leaned closer. "So I hopped off, left the tractor running, and slipped through the woods following the acrid smell." I stood and walked across the porch next to Mose. He looked up at me. "A man sat in a four-door sedan, smoking. Binoculars on the dashboard, a note pad and cell phone next to him, and three empty coffee cups in the back." Mose stood, propped one foot on the brick, and leaned his elbow on his knee. "So I knocked." Mose spat. "He saw me and took off."
"You get his tag?"
"Yeah." Mose spat again without looking at me. "You really think we need to get somebody to run it?"
I shook my head. "Probably not."
Mose pushed off the wall and began walking back toward the tractor. "Maybe you should give some thought to going on a trip." He tilted his hat back and whispered, "All of you."
I nodded and leaned back against the wall, and that's when I heard the approaching vehicle. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I thought about the Greener, but two more seconds convinced me I wouldn't need it. A white delivery truck covered in stickers and a rainbow of paint, with three orange lights spinning above the driver's seat, came rolling down the driveway on four out-of-balance tires. The suspension was shot and the truck rested low on all four tires, white smoke poured from the exhaust, the cracked front glass spiderwebbed across the driver's vision, and the brakes screamed metal on metal. Other than that it was in perfect condition. The truck ambled down the drive, bringing me out of my three-point stance and upright. The sight of an ice cream truck on the Waverly driveway was one thing. The sight of an ice cream truck on Waverly drive at 7:30 a.m. on a Sunday was quite another.