Twelfth Angel

  I hesitated, feeling more than a little uncomfortable, but a glimpse of Timothy nodding hopefully up at me was not to be ignored. The door opened directly into the kitchen, and as soon as we were inside, Timothy’s mother extended her right hand to me tentatively and said, “I’m Peggy Noble, sir, and I’m so glad for this opportunity to thank you in person for all that you have done for my son.”

  She wore little makeup, her blond hair needed brushing and combing and her face was slightly flushed. Two pans were on the stove emitting steam. Mrs. Noble was obviously preparing supper, but she said, “Please, Mr. Harding, have a seat,” as she pulled a plastic-covered chair out from behind a small table that was already set for two. Beyond an old refrigerator, at the other side of the kitchen and close to the ceiling, I could see what looked like a piece of clothesline stretched across the room. Bedsheets hung from it as a sort of curtain, but they didn’t quite conceal the two unmade beds, barely visible in the shadows beyond. Timothy and his mother, I immediately realized, were living in a one-room camp that probably, in bygone years, had been used only by hunters each fall.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Harding,” she repeated.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Noble. I’ve got to be going. Now, how about next week? Our first game is on Tuesday. Will Timothy have his bike back by then, or should I come by and pick him up?”

  Her gray eyes filled with tears. “You are so kind, sir. So kind. No, they told me that I could pick up the bike this Saturday, so Timothy will be okay next week.”

  “Great! Then I’ll be on my way. Didn’t mean to disturb your supper, but it was still nice to meet you. This is a lucky boy to have you.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t do so very much for him. It’s hard, and I try because I love him so. But, Mr. Harding, most of all, he is lucky to have you in his life … at this time. So lucky. Thanks be to God you selected him.”

  She moved closer to me, stood on her toes and kissed my cheek.

  I drove home very slowly.

  XI

  Late Saturday afternoon, after stocking up on milk, bread, soda pop and frozen dinners at the local convenience store, I walked around the backyard that Bobby Compton and his crew had mowed and trimmed so neatly on Friday. Along both sides of the deck, pink Simplicity roses that Sally had planted so carefully, back in March when I thought it was still too early in the season, were now covered with blossoms. I snapped one off, inhaled its faint fragrance and pushed its thorny stem carefully into my shirt pocket. Then I strolled out into the meadow beyond our lawn to check on the wild-blueberry bushes. The clusters of berries were still pale green except for an occasional dab of pink. They were at least two or three weeks from picking, but even when ripe none of them would ever find their way into a Sally Harding pie or muffin or one of her giant blueberry turnovers that I remember holding in both hands, while still warm, before taking that first bite. Memories! Here I go again. All our lives, it seems, someone is trying to teach us how to remember better. There are even scores of memory courses and lectures on the subject, but I’ve never heard of a course on how to forget, and I’m certain that for some it would be a very popular seminar. Many of those who are so proud of their great ability to recall people and dates and events may well admit, someday, that their blessing has become a curse.

  On Tuesday evening we gave Chuck Barrio the starting assignment against the Cubs, and the classy left-hander was almost perfect for four innings. We were leading 8 to 1 when the Cubs came to bat in the fifth inning and exploded for twelve runs. They scored seven runs off Chuck before I relieved him with Paul Taylor, since Todd was scheduled for the Thursday game against the Pirates. Paul didn’t have it, either, walking the first three batters he faced before allowing two singles and a double. I blame myself for his poor performance, since I didn’t insist that he warm up longer after we sent him to the mound, even though the umpire was willing. In any event, we let a game that was won get away from us. The final score was 15 to 9, Cubs. Ben Rogers, our silent man at shortstop, was our batting star with two doubles and a single, and Todd hit another home run. Since all the Angels were now well aware that Timothy was the only one on the team without a hit, they all agonized on every pitch when he went to bat in the fifth, but the little guy went down swinging, once again, to end the inning.

  On Thursday, against Anthony Piso’s Pirates, we had a field day. Todd pitched shutout ball, and we unloaded on four Pirate pitchers for fourteen runs, never scoring less than two in any inning. Although our guys made twenty hits, according to Bill West and his scorebook, they all seemed more concerned about Timothy getting his first one. All the time he was at the plate, in the fourth inning, our dugout sounded more like a huge concrete high-fidelity speaker blaring, “Never give up, never give up, Timothy, Timothy, never give up!” until the home-plate umpire finally called time, came over to our bench and asked the boys if they would all kindly lower their voices to no more than a loud roar so that his calls could be heard. Our Angels stood and applauded as he walked back to the plate before renewing their cheers for Timothy. He did get his bat on one pitch and hit a fairly hard line drive down the right-field line that was foul, but then he missed the next two pitches. When he tossed his bat toward our dugout and ran out to his position in right, Bill beckoned to me to sit next to him.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Timothy. Does he seem okay to you?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I don’t know. He looks even more pale than usual, and when he ran in from the outfield, after the last inning, he acted as if he was having a tough time just keeping his balance. I asked him if he felt okay, and he just nodded his head.”

  When the game ended, after we had exchanged congratulations with the Pirates at home plate, I made it a point to talk with him. “Timothy, how’s the new bike chain?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Great. It’s like I have new wheels.”

  The words were spoken as individual utterances, with long pauses between each, not as a single, total sentence. Strange.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  He nodded again. “I’m a little tired. My mom had to go to work early today and I heard her making breakfast, so I woke up.”

  I patted him softly on the head. “Get a good night’s sleep tonight, you hear?”

  He nodded and forced a half smile. “Good night, Mr. Harding.”

  Bill’s car was parked next to mine in the parking lot. He was leaning against his vehicle, waiting for me, a concerned look on his face. “What did you find out, John … about Timothy?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “He said he was tired because he was accidentally awakened early by his mother, but, I don’t know, his voice pattern sounds a little weird, like someone speaking while they are under hypnosis.”

  Bill sighed. “The most amazing thing to me, John, is that the kid is still playing at all. I’ve coached a lot of Little League kids through the years, and when they keep striking out and do little or nothing very good in the field, they will usually quit, after a few games, rather than continue to be embarrassed by their lack of ability or coordination. Not this boy! He comes to play every day, hustles all the time, tries his very best, asks for no sympathy and instead of moping at his own failures he cheers loudest of all for every one of his teammates. That is one brave little Angel. We can all learn a hell of a lot from him.”

  We can all learn a hell of a lot from him. I kept hearing Bill’s words, over and over, long after I had put out the light and crawled into bed.

  The mid-July afternoon was hot and muggy, and huge waves of cumulus clouds were gathering overhead when I pulled into the Little League parking lot for our important Monday game against Sid Marx and his Yankees. After having completed half of our twelve-game schedule, we now shared the league lead with the Yankees, having both won four and lost two, while the Pirates and Cubs had each won two and lost four.

  In the lot, parked next to Bill’s car was a white panel truck with red lettering on both sides and the r
ear doors: NEW HAMPSHIRE’S LEADING TELEVISION STATION—CHANNEL 9—WMUR-TV—MANCHESTER, N.H. I didn’t give it another thought until I stepped through the opening in the fence and onto the grass and saw two young men in blue jeans and T-shirts fussing over a tripod and television camera that was facing toward the first-base dugout, our dugout for the game, as we were the designated visiting team. Another young man, in a dark business suit, who had been standing behind the camera, looked up as I approached and said, “Here he is now, guys. Perfect timing.”

  “Mr. Harding,” he said as he extended his hand and smiled, “I’m Tom Land, one of the sportscasters at Channel Nine in Manchester. We’d like to interview you for our Eleven O’Clock News this evening, if you don’t mind. Our station has already cleared it with your league president, Mr. Rand.”

  “Why in the world would you want to interview me? There are hundreds of Little League managers in New Hampshire, and if you want to talk with a real good one, he’s probably already in that other dugout. His name is Sid Marx. Great coach, and the kids love him.”

  “Well, sir,” he said, nodding his head, “there may be hundreds of other Little League managers and coaches in this state, but I promise you that none is as well known in New Hampshire, and the nation, as John Harding. I doubt there are many of our viewers who are not familiar with how you rose to become president and chief executive officer of Millennium Unlimited at such an early age before … before …”

  He stared at the ground, finally forced a smile and said, “And now, to see such a celebrated American example of success coaching a small-town Little League team instead of running that Fortune 500 corporation, gosh it’s an unbelievable story. I’m glad we found you before the networks!”

  “Well, now, whom do you want to interview, John Harding, manager of the Angels or … or John Harding, former and very brief chief executive officer of mighty Millennium?”

  Deep furrows suddenly appeared in his wide forehead. “Why … why … both!” he stammered.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to pass.”

  He acted as if he hadn’t heard me. “Mr. Harding, it won’t take us very long. Perhaps ten minutes. I have just a few questions I want to ask you, questions that I’m certain our audience would like to hear you answer, such as how you have handled the past few months, since the terrible tragedy, and then perhaps some questions comparing the old days of Little League when you were an all-star right here, on this very field, with the conditions and players of today.”

  “Mr. Land, we’re trying to get ourselves ready to play a ball game. I thank you and your fine television station for this honor, but my answer is no, and I’m afraid you and your people will have to move that camera and pretty damn quickly. As you can see, my kids are starting to arrive, and that thing is exactly the kind of distraction they don’t need. Now, if you care to shoot some of the game, be my guest. Back there, behind the home-plate wire backstop, you will find a handsome old boy named George McCord. He’s our public-address announcer, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to show you where you can best set up your camera.” I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Land.”

  He stared at me in disbelief, his mouth partially open. “You mean you won’t do the interview?”

  I patted his shoulder. “Correct! Now, kindly move your camera so that these kids can get themselves ready to play ball.”

  It was a tough game. With Channel 9’s camera stationed in the stands behind third base, the Angels and Yankees both played as if their very lives hung in the balance. Our guys took an early 2-to-0 lead in the second inning when Bob Murphy tripled to deep center, scoring Zullo and Nurnberg, but the Yankees came back in the fourth with four straight hits after Paul Taylor had some control trouble, and we were down 4 to 2. We managed to score one more in the sixth, but the losing final score was a bitter pill to swallow, 4 to 3. Tank Kimball finally found his batting eye, collecting two singles and a double, and Timothy came to bat with two men on in the fifth and a chance to be a hero. I found myself saying silent prayers, asking God to please let him get a hit, just a single, as if God had nothing more to worry about than a small-town Little League game. Later in the evening, recalling that moment, I would realize that it was the first prayer of any kind I had said since the funeral.

  After swinging wildly at the first two pitches, Tim refused to bite at the next two, which were both over his head, before he dug in with both feet, swung and connected. It was only an infield pop fly to the third-baseman, but he had finally hit a ball in fair territory during a game, and our entire team leaped to their feet, applauding and shouting as Timothy stepped on first base before he turned to jog back to the dugout. He paused, halfway back, doffed his cap and waved it toward the television camera behind third base before taking his seat on the bench. I was watching him carefully. When he came down the dugout steps, he seemed to be swaying from side to side and he was breathing hard. Then, when he went to sit, he first reached toward the bench with both hands before he lowered himself onto the wood.

  We bounced back on Wednesday evening against the lowly Cubs. Everyone in our lineup—that is, everyone except Timothy—managed to get at least one hit, and three of our guys had perfect nights, three for three! Final score was 13 to 4. Todd experimented with a few new pitches, including a knuckleball his older brother was using successfully in high school, or I’m certain he would have had another shutout. Timothy took some good cuts, but went down swinging on four pitches. He did, however, finally catch his first fly ball of the year, a fairly well hit ball that went right at him. He just held up his new glove and caught it as any major-leaguer would. Of course that produced another chorus of cheers from all the Angels, whether they were in the field or on the bench, and gave him another chance to doff his cap. What a little ham! And when he arrived in the dugout, he shouted, “Day by day, in every way, I’m really and truly getting better and better!”

  Now, with only four games remaining, the Yankees had a record of six wins and two losses, and we were second with five wins and three losses. Since the top two teams would play a single game at the conclusion of the season, for the league championship, I would have been satisfied if the regular season had ended right then. But we still had four more to play, and both the Pirates, with three wins and five losses, and even the Cubs, with two wins and six losses, could possibly catch us. We couldn’t relax yet.

  … And Timothy Noble, still without a base hit, was running out of games.

  XII

  Most New England towns fire off as large a display of fireworks as they can afford, usually on their most spacious athletic field, in celebration of Independence Day. Not the township of Boland. Of course most of its citizens drive to nearby Concord to enjoy fireworks displays on July Fourth, but then they have their own special celebration. Since town hall records show that Boland’s first settler, Isaac Thomas Boland, arrived among unfriendly animals and natives on July 17, 1735, that was the day when most of the townspeople always gathered in the grandstand and parking lot of Boland Little League Park. When darkness fell, rockets, Roman candles and a varied assortment of aerial bombshells were launched from the outfield area, exploding high above in a noisy and brilliant spectrum of blazing colors while the crowd “oohed” and screamed and applauded.

  Since July 17th fell on a Monday, our scheduled games, normally played Monday through Thursday each week, were all moved ahead a day, and our game against the Pirates was listed for Tuesday evening. Bill had phoned, sometime in mid-afternoon on Monday, asking if I wanted to go to the fireworks with him and Edy. I thanked him but declined. After some pastrami on rye with a glass of skim milk for supper, I went out on the deck, settled into my favorite chaise lounge and had almost dozed off when the first aerial bombshell exploded, almost directly over the house. Startled, I looked up just in time to see scores of flaming stars of all colors falling lazily out of a swirling pillar of white smoke. I sat up and watched as glowing rockets and bright balls of light climbed, one after the other, high
into the heavens, arching up from the playing field a half mile or so away, which was hidden from view by tall pines and oaks.

  After several minutes it became very difficult for me to watch. Almost from Rick’s infancy, fireworks had fascinated him. From the time he was only three, back in Santa Clara, and then for the two years in Denver, Sally and I had always taken him to see “the works!” on each Fourth of July. I remember holding him on my knees for the first couple of years. He would bounce up and down constantly while the rockets soared higher and higher, his big blue eyes opened so wide that there were deep furrows in his forehead as he pointed upward with the forefingers of both hands and shrieked his appreciation of each swishing rocket when it exploded to discharge multicolored stars and glowing balls of magnesium while the odor of burning sulphur and charcoal filled the summer air.

  I watched the Boland township’s celebration of lights in the sky for perhaps twenty minutes. It was probably the loneliest twenty minutes of my life. Then I went into the house and climbed into bed, hoping that I would never awake.

  Our kids were obviously getting a little cockier with each game and there was already talk of the big championship game against the Yankees, even though Bill and I kept reminding them that they hadn’t clinched anything yet. On Tuesday evening the whole team seemed higher than a kite at batting practice, and they were teasing Timothy because he had arrived wearing a brand-new pair of white Nike baseball shoes with molded cleats of black and red. When he saw me, he came running over and said, “See my new shoes, Mr. Harding.”

  “They look great! How do you like them?”

  He nodded eagerly. “They’re nice. Doc Messenger took me to Concord this morning and bought them for me. He said my old sneakers were no good to play ball in!”