Suder

Chapter 1

So, I’m up at the plate in the top of the ninth and the first pitch is, I grant you, an honest-to-God textbook strike and the fat umpire’s backwards dance and that turn to the right he manages don’t offend me at all. And then the second pitch comes whistling in way inside and I hear that fat man in blue yell, “Steee-rike!” and I turn to catch the tail end of his routine and I just can’t believe it. So, I flip the bat in my hand like a baton, as is my custom, and step up to him, face to face, and give him the questioning eye.

There he is right in front of me, behind that foam-filled apron, and he yells, “Strike!”

“That was way inside,” I tell him, “I could feel it on my pants.”

“Strike,” he repeats and lets out this little shit-eating grin and I really want to hit him and I tell myself not to and turn away.

“Blind bastard,” I says under my breath.

And he says to me, “If you can’t—”

I cut him off: “Why don’t you go read up on the strike zone.”

He looks at me and yells, “Play ball!” Then when I’m stepping into the box he says, “That’s two, Suder.”

And I ignore him. The next pitch is so inside that the catcher leaves his perch to get it and I know because I follow the ball all the way, don’t even move my bat, but as sure as anything that fat umpire does his Fred Astaire and calls another strike. So, I’m out and when I’m walking away I mutter, “Why don’t you just put on one of their uniforms!” And I’m still holding the bat clenched in my fists when David Nicks flies to center for the third out.

The pitcher finishes his warm-ups and the ball gets passed all around and fast Eddie Ramos is walking up to the plate swinging a bat with a lead doughnut on it. Lou Tyler, our manager, is yelling that we’re up one run and that we should hold them. “Three up, three down,” he says. “Three up, three down.” Then he yells to me, “Suder! Suder!” and I turn to see him make like he’s bunting with an invisible bat. “Watch the bunt!” he yells. “Watch the bunt!” It strikes me that he sometimes says things twice and I imagine it’s a fancy way of stuttering and, heeding his words, I step on down the third-base line toward the batter.

The first pitch is outside, but I see his left hand sneak up along the wood and I know he wants to bunt and I get ready. On the next pitch he does bunt and I run for it and the catcher runs for it and the pitcher runs for it and we all stop dead cold like it’s something nasty we want somebody else to pick up. Finally, I pick it up, pump once — the asshole pitcher is in the way — and throw it to first, but I’m too late. So, the tying run is on first and I look up at the board and see I’m being charged with an error. The next guy up doesn’t bunt, he just tags that first pitch and sends it airmail special delivery over the left-field fence, the old Green Monster, and the game is over and we lose and ain’t nothing left but the crying and accusing. I close my eyes for a second and then I take to the showers.

So, I come out of the shower and slide into my Jockey shorts and sit down in front of my locker with my face in my hands. I think to myself that all I want to do is get stinking drunk, when I see Lou Tyler turning the corner and heading down the aisle toward me. He comes and sits beside me, straddles the wooden chair, and pushes the brim of his cap up.

“We all have slumps,” he says and I’m pulling on my socks, half listening to him, and he goes on, “but you got to break out of this one soon.”

I look over at him and I ask, “Did you see what they was calling strikes out there?”

“So you had a bad call.”

“A bad call? I suppose I really made that error out there, too.” I look away from him and shake my head.

“Okay, a couple of bad calls.”

“Jesus,” I says.

“Truth of the matter is, Craig, that you have to straighten up and fly right.” And he slaps me on the back and tells me to get dressed.

I watch him walk away and then I slam the locker. “Yeah, straighten up and fly right,” I says to myself, “fly right.”

We get to the airport and we’re boarding the plane when Tuck McShane, the trainer, comes up to me. “How’s the leg?” he wants to know.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my leg,” I says, sitting down.

He sits beside me. “I thought I saw you favoring your left leg last night.”

“Nope.”

“I’m glad you’re sitting by the window.” He looks past me out over the wing. It’s common knowledge that old Tuck gets dizzy when he stands tippy-toed.

“What you studying on so hard?” he asks me and then, before I can answer, “Don’t worry, you’ll pick up. You’ll play a lot better once you relax. You oughta try some breathing exercises.” He inhales deeply and lets it out.

I look back out the window and watch the flaps as we take off and I see a bird and I begin to wish I could fly up high and all without the aid of a machine.

As we’re climbing out of the plane in Baltimore, old Tuck turns to me. “It’s your right leg, ain’t it? Want me to take a look?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with my leg,” I says.

We check into the hotel and David Nicks and I go to our room. While David is in the bathroom I call my wife and she’s sounding a little down, so I ask her what’s wrong.

“Peter came home the other day and he’d been fighting,” she tells me.

“He’s a seven-year-old boy, honey,” I says, “they fight sometimes.”

“You don’t understand. This is the third time this week.”

“Maybe somebody’s picking on him. He’s gotta stand up for himself.”

“He says the boys at day camp tease him about you, the way you’ve been playing.”

I hear this and I don’t know what to say.

“Craig?”

“What’s he doing in that school yard, anyway? It’s summer, he should be out playing in the grass. Listen, I’ve got to go. David wants the phone.”

“Okay, I love you.”

“Me, too.”

I go out and get drunk enough to embarrass a few dead relatives. I’m still drinking and I’m feeling pretty bad seeing as we just dropped three straight to Boston and this fella recognizes me. “Ain’t you Craig Suder?”

I nod. I don’t even look at him, just keep my eyes on the bar and nod.

He starts to laugh and talk about how we got our butts whipped and I just keep looking at the bar, nodding. Then he says, “If you was outta the lineup, Seattle might win a few.”

He still ain’t got to me and I’m still nodding.

He sorta calls one of his buddies over and they’re standing on either side of me and the first fella says, “Black boys ain’t got no business in baseball no way.”

Well, at this I turn and look at him and the next thing I know I’m coming to in an alley with my face in some garbage. I get up and make my way to the hotel.

I sure as hell hope that craziness ain’t passed from parents to children by way of the blood. I say this because my mother was out-and-out raving insane. When I was ten and my brother, Martin, was twelve, my folks called the two of us into the kitchen. It was one of those hot North Carolina summer days when even the flies are moving slow. Daddy was sitting at the table in his underwear and Ma was wearing her cloth coat with the dog fur around the collar. Sweat was dripping off Ma’s face and Martin and I moved slowly to our chairs at the table. There was a great big glass of iced tea in Daddy’s left hand and a handkerchief in his right.

“Sit down, boys,” Daddy said.

We were already sitting and we looked at him, puzzled-like.

“Oh,” he said and gulped down some tea. “Boys …” He stopped.

Ma cleared her throat and sat up. A bead of sweat was hanging off the tip of her nose. “Your father has something he wants to tell you.”

We looked back at Daddy.

Daddy’s eyes were locked on Ma and then sorta snapped to and said, “Boys, your mother is crazy.”

We looked over at Ma and she nodded and smiled.

“Huh?” Martin was shaking his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, son,” said Ma, “I’m crazy.”

Martin and I just sat there at the table staring at each other. We stared at each other for a good long while and then Ma got up and walked out into the yard. Daddy rubbed his handkerchief across his forehead.

“Maybe it’s the heat,” Daddy said.

“Why is she wearing that coat?” I asked.

Daddy looked at me and wiped the back of his neck. “She’s crazy, Craig.”

“You’re a doctor, Daddy,” Martin said. “Fix her.”

“I can’t help her,” Daddy said and got up and walked to the screen door. He looked out into the yard at Ma. She was now hoeing in the garden. “Ain’t nothing I can do.” He stood there leaning against the doorframe, drinking his tea and wiping his face and neck.

“Why is she wearing that coat?” I asked again.

“Maybe it’s the heat,” Daddy said, eyes fixed on Ma. He turned to my brother and me. He picked the newspaper up off the counter and walked out of the kitchen.

“What do you think?” Martin asked.

“I’m only ten years old.”

Martin got up and walked over to the door and stared through the screen at Ma.

I started crying.

“Hush that noise up,” Martin said.

“Our mama’s crazy,” I cried.

He just looked back out into the yard at her and I heard him sniff a little, but I didn’t say anything.

Martin and I went down to the pond and threw rocks at the ducks. Martin hit one of the birds in the head and it flapped away screaming.

“Maybe we could hit her in the head and knock some sense into her,” Martin said.

“You think so?”

“How the hell should I know?” Martin looked up at the telephone lines and stared at the sparrows. “Go get my BB gun.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just get it.”

I ran back home and when I walked into Martin’s and my room I found Ma sitting on Martin’s bed looking at the girlie magazines that he kept hidden between the mattress and box spring. I stopped in my tracks.

“Come here, Craigie,” she said, patting a spot on the bed beside her.

I walked over and sat down. I was scared. She was crazy.

She put her arm around me and pulled me close and with her free hand grabbed the meat of my cheek. “You’re a good boy, Craigie.”

I tried to get up, but she pulled me down. “I’ve gotta take Martin his BB gun.”

“You see this?” she asked, showing me a couple of pages stuck together. “You see this? Your brother is a bad boy.” She dropped the magazine on the floor.

Just being so close to her coat was making me hot and sweaty and itchy. “Why are you wearing a coat, Ma?”

“I’m not wearing a coat, silly.” She looked at me and pulled her mouth tight. “It’s called masturbation.”

I just looked at her.

“What he does with these pictures …” She moved her fist up and down over her lap. “Don’t you ever do that. You’ll go blind.”

I started to get up again and she pulled me back. She started unbuttoning my shirt and I reached up and folded my arms over my chest.

“I want you to take a bath,” she said.

“It’s the afternoon,” I complained.

“Take your clothes off!” she screamed through her teeth. Her eyes had a real strange sparkle.

“But—”

“Now!”

I undressed. She was crazy. She pulled me by the hand into the bathroom. “Get in the tub!”

I stepped into the tub.

“Sit down!”

I sat down and she began to pull a dry washcloth over my body.

“Ma,” I said, “there ain’t no water.”

“The water is not too hot!” she screamed and then she stood up. “The water is not too hot.” She walked out.

Chapter 2

At noon the next day I’m up and just out of the shower and buttoning my shirt when Lou Tyler comes in.

“Don’t you ever knock?” I ask him.

“Never,” he says, looking around the room. “Where’s Nicks?”

“Shower.”

“How’s the leg?”

I look at him, puzzled, and sit on the bed and start pulling on my socks. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my leg.”

“But Tuck said … Never mind. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” I tell him.

“Feel okay?”

“I feel fine.”

“Big game today,” he says and pushes a stogie into his face. “We’ve got to get back on the right track. You hear me? The right track.”

David comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around him and says hello to Lou. Lou pulls his cigar out and nods a hello and then he turns back to me. “Get your mind on the game.” He turns to David. “Nicks, you keep an eye on him. Don’t let him think about nothing but baseball.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that?” David asks and pulls on his pants.

“I don’t give a shit, just do it.” Lou walks to the door and as he’s leaving he says, “The bus leaves at five.”

I watch the door close behind him.

“Hey, don’t worry,” says David, “you’ll break out of it.”

We have breakfast, watch some TV, and head for the stadium. We’re in the clubhouse and Butch Backman, the catcher, walks over to me.

“I hope you play good today,” he says in that dumb voice of his.

“I hope I play good, too,” I says, mocking the sound of his voice.

Butch stares at me for a long second and then walks away.

“Lighten up,” David says to me.

I look at David and I know he’s right, so I walk over to Butch and apologize. Butch tilts his head and looks at me through those slits he calls eyes. “I’m just a little uptight,” I tell him.

“Yeah?” he says, putting his finger in my face. “I might not be as smart as you, and maybe I didn’t go to college, but I know enough to give a hundred percent on the field.” He slams his locker and leaves the room.

It’s not a real hot night, but I’m sweating before the game starts. As I’m standing by the dugout, some kid leans out over the railing and hands me a program and a pen. He wants me to pass it to David Nicks.

The first inning ends scoreless and hitless and our cleanup man, Pete Turner, flies out in the second. So, I’m up and I look at the board and there’s my batting average staring me in the face, 198, first time ever under.200. Before I know it, I’ve got two strikes on me. The third pitch comes blowing in and I swing and hit nothing, but the catcher muffs the ball. He can’t find the handle, so I’m on base.

David’s at the plate and I’m taking a short lead toward second and I’m thinking about my slump and like something out of a dark room the pitcher makes a move to first and I dive for the bag. I’m out.

I brush the dirt off my clothes and walk back to the dugout shaking my head. I sit down beside old Tuck McShane.

“So, you gonna let me wrap that leg for you?”

Now I’m beginning to think that maybe something is wrong with my leg and I nod.

Tuck pulls up my pant leg and wraps my right leg. He wraps it pretty tight and I can’t bend my leg or straighten it out completely.

“It’s a little tight.”

“Naw, it’s fine,” he says.

We’re taking the field again and I’m limping. I was not limping before.

In the tail end of the seventh, Baltimore has men on first and third, with two out, and the score tied. I’m playing shallow when the ball is hit hard and low to the gap between me and the shortstop. I dive and knock the ball down and pick it up. I pivot around on my right leg, which has no feeling in it, and off-balance I throw the ball way over the first baseman’s head.

So, I’m at the plate in the eighth and the first pitch comes whistling in and tags me on the helmet. I go down and things get blurry. Old Tuck waves some smelling salts under my nose.

“How’s the leg?”

I just close my eyes. I’m loaded into an ambulance and taken to the hospital. The doctor comes in.

“How’s your leg feel?”

“The ball hit me in the head.”

“But Mr. McShane said—”

“The ball hit me in the head.”

He pulls up my pant leg and starts feeling around the wrapping. “Here’s your problem. This thing is cutting off your circulation.”

“Doc, honest to God, the ball hit me in the head.”

He grabs my head and pulls my eyelids up. “What day is it?”

“Friday. Today is Friday, July ninth.”

“How many fingers?”

“Three.”

“Good. I think you’re fine, but we’ll take some X rays just to be sure.” He starts to unwrap my leg.

I get X-rayed and then I go back to the hotel. I sit out the next two games and without me the team wins, three-one and one-zip. In the clubhouse after Sunday’s game, spirits are a little better.

It was Sunday, right after church, and Martin and I were out by the pond, still dressed in our powder-blue suits. Martin was trying to pick birds off the telephone line and I was watching tadpoles.

“You know,” I said, “Ma didn’t seem so crazy this morning.”

Martin looked away from his target and at me. “Asking everybody to move out of the first three rows was pretty crazy.”

I looked at my reflection in the pond and thought about Ma.

“Got him,” said Martin. He started off toward his kill and I followed him. We stood over the sparrow and looked at the little red spot on his head. “Got him in the head.”

I looked at Martin’s face. We didn’t say anything else. We just walked back to the house. We walked through the back door into the kitchen. All of Martin’s dirty magazines were on the table and open to the fold-out pictures.

“Not again.” Martin sighed.

“You filthy boy.” Ma pulled her hair, wet from perspiration, out of her face. “You pull on yourself.”

Martin turned and walked out.

“Don’t you leave this house!”

Martin stopped and turned around.

Ma walked to me and put her arm around me. “Why can’t you be a good boy like Craig?”

Martin sighed again.

“Oh, Martin, you’re just like your father. He’s out now, up to no good. The mighty Dr. Suder. He says he’s gotta go see if Sara Harris is about to have her baby, but I know better. He’s with that Lou Ann Narramore from down at the drugstore.”

“That’s not true,” Martin said.

“Why can’t you be a good boy like Craig, here?”

Martin looked at me real hard-like. His lower lip was pushed out slightly and his cheeks were puffed. He turned and walked out.

“You are a good boy, Craigie,” Ma said and hugged me tight. “You’re not like your father. You’re like me. You’re just like your mother, just like your mother.”

She hugged me tighter and I tried to pull away. I fell back and to the floor. I pulled myself up by grabbing the table and I knocked some magazines to the floor. Ma got down on her knees and started pulling them together.

As I stood over her, looking at the bald spot on top of her head where she’d tried to shave, I thought about what Martin had said about knocking sense into her. I picked up a china bowl from the dish rack and broke it over her head. She fell on her face. I let out a scream.

Martin came running in and saw Ma stretched out on the floor. “What happened?”

“I broke a bowl over her head.”

Martin kneeled down and picked up Ma’s head and let it drop. He closed his eyes for a second. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t tell anyone you hit her.”

“I have to tell Daddy.”

“No. We’ll just say she passed out. Just like that. Do you hear me?”

“I don’t know, Martin.”

“Look here.” He pointed at Ma. “She’s out cold, maybe dead. Do you want to go to jail?”

“No!”

“Then what are you going to tell Daddy?”

“She passed out. Just like that.” I paused. “She’s not dead, is she?”

Chapter 3

Martin and I were standing at the foot of the bed looking at Ma and Daddy was standing on her right, holding her hand. The curtains were open and the hospital room was flooded with light and it kinda made Ma look like she had a halo. The old lady in the bed on the other side of the room divider was moaning something awful.

“Oh, shut up, you old hag!” my mother yelled.

“Okay, dear, settle down,” Daddy said.

Ma looked down along her body and over her feet at me. “Come here, Craigie.” She held up her left hand.

I walked over to her left side and took her hand. The sun was hot on my back through the window. I looked closely at the wrapping on her head.

“Craigie.”

“Yeah, Ma?”

She looked at Martin and then at Daddy. “I’d like to be alone with Craig.” Her eyes moved again to me.

Daddy and Martin left the room and I watched the big door swing slowly closed.

“Craigie,” Ma said, “you’re a good boy. You’ve got to be careful in life. Don’t trust anyone. Trust not a living soul and walk cautiously amongst the dead.”

“Yes, Ma.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits and I got scared. “You know, your daddy’s been a bad boy. He’s been running around with that Lou Ann Narramore down at the drugstore.”

“No, Ma.”

She sat up and leaned toward me. The sun had made me hot and sticky, so I was scared and uncomfortable. “He is and I don’t want to hear another word out of you about it. Your daddy is running around and we’re going to catch him. You and me. You hear me?”

I nodded.

Daddy pushed his head into the room. “Craig, we’re about ready to go.”

“Get out!” Ma screamed.

Daddy’s head disappeared.

“Okay, Craigie.” She pulled me down and kissed my forehead. “Go on, but remember what we talked about.” She stroked my face.

I nodded and turned and started out.

“Craigie.” She called me back. “I love you the most. You were a breech baby. You were difficult. I almost died having you. That’s why I love you the most. You and me. We’re going to catch the two of them in the act, your father and that Lou Ann Narramore.” She fell back into her pillow. “From down at the drugstore.”

I started out again.

“Hey, psssst,” called the old lady in the other bed. I stopped and looked at her.

She summoned me with her finger. “Come here, little boy.”

I walked slowly toward her and looked into her face, which was contorted with pain.

“Look around,” she said, “and see if you can find my pills. They’re yellow. They’re for the pain. Please, little boy.”

“Huh?”

“Your mother took my pills and hid them. I don’t know why, but she did. And now the nurse won’t give me any more. Please, the pain is real bad.”

Ma snatched the divider back and yelled, “Go home, Craig!”

I ran out. In the hallway, Daddy looked at me and said, “She is still your mother.”

Ma spent one night in the hospital and Martin and I waited in the living room for Daddy to bring her home the next day.

“Daddy thinks it might be the heat,” Martin said, “that’s got Ma acting this way.”

“Martin, I’m scared.”

“Why should you be scared? She likes you. I’m the one who should be scared.”

“Do you think Daddy is running around with Lou Ann Narramore?”

Martin thought. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

The front screen door pushed open and Ma and Daddy walked in. Ma didn’t say anything. She just walked past us and into her bedroom. She came out wearing her coat.

“Dinner,” she said. “Dinner, dinner, dinner …” She walked into the kitchen.

My wife, Thelma, is waiting on me when we land in Seattle, but the kid ain’t with her. I walk to Thelma and give her a big hug and pull back to take a look at her. I put my arm around her and we’re walking out of the terminal and I ask where little Peter is.

“He’s at my mother’s house,” she says.

“How come?”

“It’s late. He’s got camp tomorrow.”

I nod and pull her closer.

“Besides, I thought it would be nice if we were all alone tonight.”

We drive home and enter the house. I throw my bag down and turn to Thelma and grab her and give her a big kiss. She takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.

Turns out I can’t perform. It’s a problem I’ve been having and I don’t know what to say.

“Still,” Thelma says and glares at me for a second. “That’s just terrific.”

“Please—”

“I’m tired of being patient, Craig.” She rolls over and sighs.

I fall asleep and wake up to all this noise and I turn on the light to find Thelma pedaling on her exercise bicycle. I look at the clock.

“It’s three-thirty in the morning,” I complain.

She doesn’t pay me any mind. She just pedals faster and her head is moving back and forth and perspiration is streaming down the sides of her face.

“Come to bed.”

She stops pedaling. “Is it your leg? Does it hurt?”

I shake my head.

She starts pedaling again.

I wrap my head up in the pillows, trying to block out the sound, but it ain’t no use. And now she’s singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows but …” I get out of bed and go to the kitchen to look for something to eat.

I find some ham in the refrigerator and make a sandwich. When I finish my sandwich and down a glass of milk, my eyes become hard to keep open. I put my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands and that’s the way I wake up four hours later.

Thelma comes in and finds the foil on the counter. “You didn’t eat the ham, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I was meaning to throw that out. It was spoiled.”

I put my face back into my hands. I get up and walk out of the kitchen, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom. I stand in the shower for a long time with the water pounding my back. Things are bad. I can’t make love to my wife, I can’t run bases, and I couldn’t get a hit if they was pitching me basketballs underhanded. And my kid hates me. To top it off, I got a bum leg that don’t hurt.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, reading the paper, and Thelma slides a plate of breakfast in front of me. I’m still thinking about that spoiled ham I got into and I look up at Thelma. Turning down this meal would be a grave error.

I eat and I read in the paper how I ain’t the only person in the world concerned with my slump. The headline of the sports page reads: MARINERS SEEK TO PLUG HOLE IN SUDER’S GLOVE; and below that, Sows Seeds of M’s Misery. I decide to skip the off-day practice Lou has called.

I move into the den and watch some television. I’m on my third soap opera when Thelma calls me into the bedroom. She kisses me and I pull away, shaking my head. It ain’t that I can’t get erect, I can’t stay that way.

“You don’t love me anymore,” she says.

“This sort of thing happens all the time.”

She pulls a tissue from the box on her nightstand and wipes the tears from her face.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

She just stares at me.

“Thelma, try to understand. I’m in a terrible slump. I can’t hit, I can’t field. It’s eating at me. I can’t get my mind off of it.” I look into her eyes. “I still love you.”

“Then show me.”

“There’s more to love than just sex.”

“Original.”

“I promise this won’t last very long. Thelma?”

“You’re only thirty-two.” More tears.

“So?”

“So, does this mean … mean …?”

“No, no, it’s just a passing thing. I promise. I just need to get my head together.”

This seems to quiet her some.

I pull the curtain back at the living room window and see my son getting off the bus. I open the front door and he walks by me, without a word, into the kitchen.

“Peter,” I call to him and follow him into the kitchen. “What’s wrong, son?”

His mother hands him a glass of milk and he looks up at me and says, “Nothing.”

“Your mother tells me you’ve been fighting.”

“Yep,” he says and downs his milk.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“Nope.” He walks out of the kitchen.

I sit down at the table and bury my face in my hands. I look up to find Thelma’s sympathetic eyes resting on me and she comes over to me and pulls my head into her breast and massages my temples.

“When’s your next game?” she asks.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Good, you need a rest.” I can tell she’s forcing herself, but I appreciate the pampering.

“Does he hate me?”

“No, of course not.”

“He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“He’s just a little upset.”

“I wish I knew what my problem is.”

Thelma doesn’t say a word. She just keeps rubbing my head and sighing and looking out the window. I decide to try again with Peter and what I do is ask him if he wants to play catch.

He nods his head and he grabs his glove and I grab my glove and we go outside. We’re tossing the ball back and forth and I get to thinking and the ball hits me in the face. I pick up the ball and look back at Peter and see him standing there with his glove by his side, looking away. “Ball,” I says as I toss it his way and he puts his glove up and catches it. After a few more tosses my mind slips away again and the ball gets by me and rolls into the street. I chase the ball into the street and a car nearly flattens me and a teenage girl leans out of the car.

“Stay out of the road, stupid!” she screams.

I pick up the ball and turn to see Peter walking into the house and I’m feeling pretty lousy and all I can do is shake my head.

“Ma says doing that will make you go blind,” I said to Martin as I watched the sheet above his middle move up and down.

“She’s crazy,” he said. He moved his flashlight beam to another open magazine.

“I don’t know, I’ve heard other people say the same thing. Reverend Austin from the candy store told Virgil Wallace that doing it would put hair on his palms.”

“He’s crazy, too,” Martin said.

“Why?”

“Because he just is.”

“No, I mean, why do you pull on yourself?” I asked.

“Because it feels good.”

“But why?”

He stopped and turned off his flashlight. “Sometimes you just feel like you have to do it.”

“Virgil Wallace does it all the time out behind the old school. I’ve seen him.”

“Just who is this Virgil Wallace?” Martin hit me with the beam of his flashlight.

I put my arms in front of my face. “Turn that off.”

He turned it off. “Who is he?”

“You’ve seen him. He’s that waterhead fella, wears them bright socks.”

“Oh, you’re talking about Moe.”

“Moe?”

“The guys call him Moe.”

“Why do they call him that?” I asked.

Martin didn’t say anything. We were silent for a while and then the silence was broken by the barking of a dog.

“I’ll bet that’s Dr. Counts’s hound,” Martin said.

“Have you ever seen Lou Ann Narramore?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her.”

“What’s she look like? Is she pretty?” I pulled my head up and rested it on my palm, my elbow stabbing my pillow.

“Yeah, she’s pretty,” Martin said. “She’s real skinny and she’s got big … big … Hey, you’re too young to hear this.”

I didn’t say anything. I just looked past Martin and out the window at the moon. The dog had stopped barking and the night became still and very quiet. Then Martin started up again, his flashlight panning from picture to picture.

The next morning I woke up early, got dressed, and went downstairs. I had plans to visit the pond and when I walked into the kitchen I found Ma at the counter, stirring the contents of a bowl and running in place. She was wearing her heavy coat and a brand-new pair of black high-top sneakers. Perspiration was pouring off her face and the fur about her collar looked matted in places.

“What are you doing, Ma?”

“Running … to lose weight…. Lou Ann … Narramore … skinny … lose weight….”

I started out.

“Where … you going?” she asked, still running.

“The pond.”

She stopped running and looked at me. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Be careful,” she said.

Chapter 4

The next day I show up for batting practice and I find a note on my locker telling me to see Lou Tyler and so I go into his office. I give a knock and he yells for me to come in. Inside, I don’t see him anywhere and I call out his name and he answers me from the bathroom.

“That you, Suder?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m taking a massive grunt here. Make yourself at home.”

Lou’s office is filled with stuffed animals and I’m paying close attention to his newest addition, a big grizzly bear. Lou took up taxidermy when his wife died four years ago and since then he’s been stuffing every dead thing in sight. He’s got birds hanging from the ceiling and snakes on the floor and a goat in the corner and now a bear. He’s got even more displays all over his home. The players got together and managed to keep the creatures out of the clubhouse, but overflow might send them in there yet.

“What is it, Suder?” The bathroom door swings open and there’s Lou sitting on the toilet, holding The Sporting News. “You say something?”

“No,” I tell him.

“How do you like my bear?” He smiles broadly.

“He’s a big one,” I says, looking back at the monster.

“Took me a month to stuff that sucker.”

I follow the jagged line where the bear was sewed up from his neck to his crotch.

“Tell you what,” Lou says. “I’m going to be on this bowl for a while. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll just talk to you from here.”

“Sure, I don’t care.”

“Here,” Lou says, tossing me a can of air freshener. “I’m used to it, but you might have some trouble. Give a blast of that stuff when it gets too strong.”

I nod.

“You know, Roy Rogers stuffed Trigger.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Well, he had him stuffed. He didn’t do it personally. I heard he wants to be stuffed himself when he dies. And then he wants to be set up on Trigger. Ain’t that something?”

“Sure is.”

“I wrote him a letter telling him that I’d be glad to stuff him for free, but I ain’t got no response yet. It’s been seven weeks now. I hope he ain’t died already.” He lets out a load of gas and there’s some splashing. “Better give a spray of that stuff.”

I hold up the can and press the button and shoot myself in the face.

“That’s wildflower scent — watch the bees when you go outside.”

I wipe my face with my sleeve.

“I ate a shitload of spaghetti that my daughter made up, last night.” He tightens his face and grunts and then he reaches back and flushes. “If I never see spaghetti again, it’ll be too soon.”

I’m just standing there, looking up at this vulture he’s got hanging over his desk.

“That’s a turkey vulture,” Lou says. “Look, I’m gonna forget you missed practice yesterday.”

I nod and look back at him.

“Now, about that slump of yours. You know, it wasn’t but a few years ago that you blacks was allowed in this league. The way you been playing lately, they might kick you all out.”

I don’t take offense because I know he doesn’t mean any harm and I don’t say anything.

“You got three more years left on your contract and both of us know you’re good. So, I’ve been talking to the bigwigs and we all agree that you should take some time off.”

“In the middle of the season?”

“The way you’ve been playing you ain’t doing the team no good. Besides, it might help you to be fresh for the end of the season. We’ll put you on the Disabled List — your leg.”

“So, when is this vacation supposed to start?”

“Right now.” He raises his butt up from the stool and looks into the toilet. “Look away. I got to wipe myself.”

I look up at the vulture.

“Okay, that’s got it,” he says and flushes.

I look at him and he’s fastening up his britches and I says, “Is that it?”

“I guess so.”

So, I leave and I go down to clean out my personal stuff and David Nicks is standing beside my locker.

“What’s the story?” asks David.

“Taking a little vacation.”

He sits down. “Oh, yeah?”

“No big deal. On the D.L. I need some time to think about things anyway.”

“They didn’t ax your contract or anything like that?”

“No, they can’t do that. Can they?”

David shrugs his shoulders. “Sometimes I think they can do whatever they want. They didn’t say anything about shipping you to the minors, did they?”

“No, nothing like that. Not yet. They got Ortega filling my spot, and let’s face it, he ain’t a hot glove.” A quarter falls out of my locker and rolls down the aisle and I chase it. And when I look up, there’s Ortega tying up his shoes around the corner. There he is, looking at me with his angry Puerto Rican eyes. “How’s it going, Ortega?” I ask, standing up.

He finishes tying his shoes and gets up and walks out and, all the while, mumbling in Spanish.

I turn and walk back to David. “Man, I tell you, I can’t do anything right.”

“Maybe you do need a rest.”

“You want to come over to the house after the game?” I ask. “Have a beer?”

“Sure.” David slaps me on the backside with his glove and heads out.

All over the ground by the pond were dead sparrows with BBs deep in their bodies. I don’t know what came over me, but I started picking them up. I pulled the bottom of my teeshirt out and away from my belly and put the birds in the net it formed. With my shirt full of dead sparrows I headed back toward the house. I ducked behind a bush when I saw Martin coming my way. He walked past me and on toward the pond. He was carrying his BB rifle. I ran home and managed to sneak up to my room without being seen. I dumped the birds onto my bed and counted them. Thirteen. I picked up one of the sparrows and sat silently, bouncing it on my fingers. I dropped the bird on my bed and went to the hall closet. I pulled down a hatbox and went back into my room and put the sparrows in it. I put the top on the box and slid it under my bed. I stretched out across the bed and imagined the lives of those birds passing up through the box spring and the mattress and into me.

Later, I walked over to the old school building and saw Virgil Wallace. He was sitting with his back against the pole of a basketball goal which no longer had a hoop. Virgil Wallace was about eighteen and real long and skinny. One of his legs was bent and the other was straight out. He was wearing one bright red sock and one bright yellow one. His hand was in his lap and he tossed his head back and looked up at the sky. I moved toward him. I noticed the ringworm on his head.

“Virgil?” I said. I was standing off to his side and slightly behind him.

He didn’t notice me.

I walked around and stood right in front of him and I looked at the hand that was in his lap. He was holding the head of his penis in his hand and it was covered with a milky substance. “Virgil?”

He looked at me. His eyes were half-closed.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He nodded.

“Why do you pull on yourself?”

He held up his hand dripping with the stuff. “For this here.”

“What is it?”

He looked at the stuff on his hand and then, without looking at me, he said, “Life.” He laughed out loud. “Life,” he repeated, looking up at me, the corners of his mouth curled slightly up. He pushed his messy hand toward me: an offer.

I ran all the way home. When I walked into my bedroom, Martin was pacing around, sniffing.

“Come in here,” he said. “Tell me if you smell something.”

I inhaled deeply. “No,” I lied to him.

“You didn’t even breathe.”

“I did, too. I just don’t smell anything. Maybe it’s your lip.”

Martin shook his head and left the room.

I pulled the hatbox from beneath my bed and looked inside at my birds. There were a few maggots moving around. I sneaked the box down into the garage and hid it behind a couple of tires in the corner.

So, I’m sitting in the living room and Thelma is beside me on the sofa and Peter’s on the floor with his toy truck, even though it’s past his bedtime, and neither of them has got much to say to me. The doorbell rings and I get up and let David in.

“Uncle David,” says Peter, running to David.

David picks Peter up and says, “How you doing, pal?” David looks at Thelma. “Hi, Thelma.”

“Hello, David.” Thelma’s voice sounds far off and she barely looks at him.

“I’ll get you a beer,” I says and I go into the kitchen and come back with two beers. “So, who won?”

“We did, eight-one.”

We sit down in front of the television and watch the late news.

“I was thinking,” says David. “Maybe you should go to the country for a while. That’s what I’d do if I had a vacation.”

Thelma’s and Peter’s eyes turn on me. “Look,” I says, “it’s time for the sports.”

On the television the fella runs off some scores and mentions cliff-diving in Mexico and then he says, “A representative of the Mariners said today that the team will play the New York Yankees tomorrow without the services of third baseman Craig Suder, who has been put on the Disabled List. He added that Suder may be out for an extended period. He said that Suder’s pulled hamstring muscle needs complete rest.”

My son turns and looks at me and then he gets up and goes to his room.

“I should be going,” David says and stands up.

I see David out and I turn from the door to face Thelma.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she wants to know. “I thought you just had tonight off.”

“I just found out when I got to the park.”

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing. They just want me to rest and get my head together, is all.”

She looks at me and then she walks away and into the bedroom. I take to looking through the records and I find a Charlie Parker album and it’s got a song on it called “Ornithology” that I remember liking. So, I put this record on and turn up the volume. I listen to this one song maybe a dozen times. I can’t get enough of it. I can’t get past it and I’m really getting caught up in the saxophone solo and I get excited and decide to tackle Thelma.

I undress and I’m waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. She comes out and sees me naked with an erection and she smiles and walks over to me. She puts her hand on it and just like that, just like somebody turns a valve, I go limp. She throws my pecker down against my thigh and climbs aboard her exerciser and rides off.

Chapter 5

Martin and I were out in the yard. Daddy pushed his head out of a window of his office and asked us to come in. Daddy’s office was next door to our house. We walked inside and found Daddy standing beside a sorta heavy fella.

“Boys,” Daddy said, “this is Bud Powell.”

I didn’t know who he was. I just looked up at his smiling face. I liked his face.

“Bud Powell, the piano player,” Daddy said. “The famous piano player.”

I didn’t know who he was, but if Daddy said he was famous, then he was special.

“Hello, Mr. Powell,” Martin said.

Mr. Powell nodded a hello and smiled again.

I didn’t say anything. I was staring at him with wide-open eyes.

Bud Powell laughed really loud and grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. He looked at my face and said, “You remind me of Bird.”

I moved my eyes to Daddy. Mr. Powell was still holding me by the hair.

“Charlie Parker,” Daddy said to me.

I didn’t know this name either, but I liked that he’d said I looked like Bird.

“Mr. Powell is playing over at Fort Bragg,” Daddy said.

“You’re not sick?” I asked. He was still holding my head back.

“Naw, I’m okay,” he said.

“Mr. Powell,” Daddy said.

“Bud.”

“Okay, Bud.” Daddy smiled. “We’re going fishing tomorrow morning and I was wondering if you’d like to join us.”

“Aw, gee,” said Mr. Powell. “Thanks a lot for the offer, Doc, but we’re leaving early in the morning for a gig up in New Jersey.”

“Well, maybe next time,” Daddy said. “Why don’t you boys run on along.”

Mr. Powell let go of my hair and Martin and I went back into the yard.

“I like him,” I said to Martin, looking back at Daddy’s office.

Martin didn’t say anything. He just started off.

“Where are you going?” I asked, following him.

“I’m going to shoot sparrows.”

I stopped. I didn’t go with him.

The next morning the bell rang and Ma jogged to the door and opened it. It was Mr. Powell and he was confused to see my mother wearing a heavy coat, running in place.

“Who are you?” Ma asked.

“Mr. Powell,” I said, running to the door.

“Mrs. Suder,” he greeted Ma.

“Come in,” Ma said. “Ben!” she called Daddy.

“Hey there, Bird,” Mr. Powell said to me.

“Bud,” said Daddy, walking into the room.

“Hey there, Doc. I decided to take you up on the fishing.”

Daddy rowed the boat out into the middle of the river. With the four of us it was a tight fit. The sun was strong and the mosquitoes were thick. Mr. Powell seemed real happy to be with us. Daddy and Mr. Powell were sitting at either end of the boat.

“This is my special spot,” Daddy said. “I can guarantee you the big ones.”

Mr. Powell laughed. “All right, Doc.” He looked at me. “I can’t get over how much you look like Bird. Round the eyes. Round the eyes.” He grabbed my face and tilted it from side to side, looking. “The mouth, too. Doc, your boy got lips like Bird.”

I put my finger to my mouth and traced the outline of my lips. He let go of my face.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” asked Mr. Powell.

Martin and I looked at him.

“What about you, Marvin?”

“That’s Martin.”

Mr. Powell nodded.

“I want to be a dentist.”

Mr. Powell was silent for a second as he looked out over the water. “What about you, Bird?”

“A ballplayer, I guess. Baseball.”

“No, you should go into music. You should pick up the saxophone. You’ve got the lips for it. Lips just like Bird.”

I looked at Daddy and saw him smiling at me. He was sliding his hook through a nightcrawler. “Maybe you should think about that, Craig,” Daddy said. “About taking up the saxophone.” Daddy dropped his line in.

“Why was your wife wearing that coat, Doc?” Mr. Powell slapped a mosquito on his neck.

Daddy sighed and then he looked at Mr. Powell. “Well, Bud, I’ll tell you. She’s crazy.”

Mr. Powell laughed and then he stopped. He just watched as Daddy attended to his line.

“What you got, Daddy?” Martin asked.

Daddy pulled in a catfish. “I told you this was a great spot,” Daddy said.

A few minutes later Mr. Powell snagged something. His line got tight and he started pulling and reeling. “Jesus,” he said. The tip of his pole curved around to point toward the water.

“What you got there?” Daddy asked.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Powell said, “but it don’t seem like no catfish.” He pulled the line in and at the end of it was a sack.

Martin reached over and grabbed the line. He pulled the sack out of the water, over the edge, and into the boat.

“No,” said Mr. Powell, “don’t open it. Don’t open it.” He sat up straight and frowned.

Martin stopped and looked at Mr. Powell. “Don’t open it?”

“Don’t open it,” Mr. Powell repeated.

Martin hesitated, then he grabbed the sack and dumped what was inside onto the bottom of the boat. It was kittens, little kittens, little, wet, dead, decomposed kittens. And a rock.

“Damn,” said Mr. Powell, turning his head.

“I didn’t know what was in there,” Martin said, anticipating a reaction from Daddy.

“Just put them in the sack and toss it back in the water,” Daddy said.

“With my hands?” Martin whined.

“You dumped them out.” Daddy raised his eyebrows.

Martin pushed the kittens back into the sack, and also the rock. Then he dropped the sack over the side. Martin put his hands into the water and rubbed them together.

Not too much was said about the kittens. As the morning passed, Daddy caught a few more fish, Martin caught one, and I pulled in two, but Mr. Powell didn’t catch a single one.

“Well, damn,” said Mr. Powell. “I must be doing something wrong or else you fellas are fishing with cheese.” Just then his line went tight.

“You’ve got one, Mr. Powell,” I said, standing up. I was excited for him. Daddy pulled me down.

“Look at the size of that thing,” Mr. Powell said. Then his line snapped and the pole flew back like a whip. Mr. Powell looked quickly at me and then stepped out of the boat into the water.

Daddy stood up. “Bud!”

The water came up to Mr. Powell’s chest. He was searching around with his hands for the fish. He put his hands, palms down, on the surface of the water and looked around. “Damn,” he said. “Damn.”

The next night I ask Peter if he wants to go to the game with me and he shakes his head and I go alone. I sit in the stands behind our dugout and watch the game. I watch third baseman Manny Ortega initiate a double play and hit a double and clobber a lazy change-up over the right-field fence. I just sorta scratch my head and start feeling uneasy. The Yankees get beat.

After the game, Lou Tyler comes over and spits some tobacco juice and asks if I want to ride home with him.

“I’ve got my car,” I tell him.

“But I ain’t got mine.”

So, after he changes, we go get into my car, but he don’t want to go straight home. “Just where do you want to go?” I ask.

“Find a nice little country road. Get out of town.”

We drive off and he pushes a cigar into his face and starts asking me how things are at home. I tell him that everything at home is just fine.

“How’s Thelma?”

“She’s good.”

“How’s your boy?” He blows some smoke out and then spits out the window.

“He’s okay.”

“David tells me things are sorta tense around your house.”

“Things are fine.” We’re out of the city pretty much by now. There are houses, but less lights. “How far out you want to go?”

“Keep going.”

He sits quietly for a while, gnawing on his cigar. “You know, I really hate that Dome.”

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It’s big. It’s ugly. It ain’t a ball park. You know what I mean?”

“I know.”

“It just ain’t a ball park. Stop the car!” he shouts and he’s excited and he’s pointing over to the left side of the highway.

I stop the car. “What is it?”

He’s out of the car and across the road and I’m out and after him. “Great,” he says. “Terrific.” He’s looking down at a dog that’s been run over. He bends over and looks at the dog real close. “Good shape.”

“What are you talking about?”

He’s down and picking up this German shepherd dog. “Well, help me,” he says. “This ain’t no little dog.”

“What do you want with this dog?”

“I want to stuff it. Now, help me put it in the car.”

“My car?”

“I don’t see another one. Come on, grab the back legs.”

I bend over and take the back legs in my hands. I look at all the blood and guts running out of the dog’s middle and I feel a little sick. The dog’s head is hanging loose next to Lou’s leg and we walk across the road to the car.

“You want to put him in the back seat or the trunk?” Lou asks.

“I don’t want to put it in at all.”

“We better put it in the trunk — might smell a little.” We put the dog in the trunk and get back into the car. Lou’s eyes are searching the road and the bushes and he’s sitting up close to the windshield.

“What are you looking for?”

“Road kills,” he says matter-of-factly, “like the one in the trunk.”

“You’re not filling my trunk up with dead dogs. I’m sorry.”

“They ain’t gonna hurt nothing. Where else am I supposed to get specimens?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Stop!”

I stop the car and we get out and pick up another dead dog and toss it into the trunk. I got blood on my hands and I don’t like it. I’m getting just a little bit upset. “I hope you’re satisfied. I can smell them up here.”

“There!” he yells and grabs the steering wheel and the car swerves and we just miss this deer running across the road.

“Jesus!” I screamed. “What are you doing!”

“Shit, we missed.”

“You mean to tell me that you really wanted to hit that deer?”

“No, but I need one.”

I let out a sigh and I turn to see Lou yawn and I says, “You ready to go home yet?”

“Yeah, I guess it’s getting pretty late. Too bad about that deer, though.”

“Those are the breaks,” I says.

So, I take Lou home and by the time I get home myself it’s pretty late. I walk into the house and the first thing I hear is Thelma pedaling on her exerciser. I don’t even go into the bedroom. I just walk over to the stereo and put on that Charlie Parker record and listen to that one song over and over. I just can’t seem to get enough of it.

I get to thinking about the saxophone solo on this here recording and noticing how things get built around one melody. Even when the melody ain’t played at all, somehow it’s there and it’s waiting when the saxophone is finished singing. And that’s just what that saxophone does, it sings.

I notice all of a sudden that I don’t hear the exerciser anymore and I look around to see Thelma. She stands there for a second and pulls the sleeve of her pajamas across her forehead, then she turns and walks back into the bedroom. I hear her climb into bed and I get up to switch off the stereo. The music is off and I’m heading for the bedroom when I hear Thelma get out of bed and start pedaling again.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” I ask as I walk into the bedroom.

“No.”

“Could you stop pedaling for a second? Think of Peter, he’s trying to sleep.”

She stops pedaling and gets off the machine and climbs into bed. I sit on the bed and start to take my shoes off. She lets out a real loud sigh like she wants me to ask her what’s on her mind.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing.” She’s sitting up in bed.

“Okay.”

“I should have married your brother.”

“Yeah?”

“At least he has a normal job.”

“What do you mean ‘normal’?” I stand up and pull off my britches and climb into bed.

“I wish you were a dentist like your brother.”

“Who wants to stick his fingers in people’s mouths all day long?”

“At least you’d be home. You wouldn’t have to go out of town to pull teeth. At least you’d be able to—” She starts crying. “You’re like your mother, you know.”

I roll over and close my eyes.

“That’s it, just ignore me.”

“I’m not ignoring you. I’m tired.”

“Well, it’s not my fault. I’m not to blame. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Of course it’s not your fault.” I sit up. “Please try to be patient. Please try to understand.”

“Understand? Understand? It’s been two months. I’ve been patient.”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay for you to have a headache, but when I say no it’s another story. Is that it?”

“So, we’re even.”

“Jesus.” I roll over and go to sleep and I wake up with a terrible headache. I throw on my robe and walk into the kitchen. It’s late and Peter has gone to school and Thelma’s gone, too. I pour some juice and sit at the table and I start to think about me and Lou Tyler driving around those back roads looking for dead animals. Then I start seeing that vulture Lou’s got hanging over his desk and I get a funny feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I remember those dogs lying on Lou’s lawn and I picture myself lying there with them. To tell the truth, I think it might be an improvement. Nobody expects nothing from them dogs, nobody wants them to do anything. I finish my juice and I walk into the living room and play that Charlie Parker song. The Song.

Chapter 6

Ma never knew that it was her younger-born that knocked her into unconsciousness in the kitchen. So, she read it as a revelation from the Almighty. She figured it was God who slammed her face into the linoleum. When she came home from the hospital she began to mention God a little more often than usual and gradually she spoke of Him quite a bit, except she referred to Him as Max.

“Maxdamnit,” Ma said. “You will too go to the dentist.”

I didn’t say anything. I just stared at her, scared.

“And this dentist is a good Christian dentist,” she added, wiping the perspiration from her face with the coat sleeve.

Martin must have seen it coming because he managed to slip far away from the house early, long before Ma mentioned the dentist. So, it was just Ma and me in the car, silent from driveway to dentist, Dr. McCoy. The waiting room of Dr. McCoy’s office was done all in white and there was a picture of Jesus on each wall. Already seated in the waiting room were several other children and their mothers, all white. The white mothers all stared at Ma in her heavy coat and her black high-top sneakers. We sat down and Ma pulled a tissue from her pocketbook and dabbed at the corners of her nose.

A tall man, a white man all dressed in white, stepped into the room. His complexion was pale, his eyes were powder-blue, and his hair was white. He pulled his palms together in front of his chest. “Let us pray,” he said in a soothing tenor voice. All the white people bowed their heads. I looked at Ma to see her head also lowered. “Our heavenly Father, give us strength to endure the dental trials which lie before us. Give us a steady hand in the wake of deep cavities and let us wade safely through the drainage of abscesses. God, and let us be good little patients, sitting still through every step of the procedure. Amen.”

“Amen,” the voices in the room mumbled.

The dentist pointed a long crooked white finger at me. Ma put her palm against my back and pushed me into standing. I followed Dr. McCoy through a white hallway, past white nurses dressed all in white, and into an examination room all done in white except for the bright silver of the instruments resting on the counter and hanging above and beside the chair. I sat down and the nurse fastened a white bib around my neck and handed me a tissue.

I looked over at the nurse to find her head lowered and her eyes closed. I turned to see that once again the dentist had placed his palms together. “Let us pray,” he said. “Dear God, please let everything go well with this little colored boy.” He switched on the light above my face and looked into my mouth. He pulled back and stood erect. “Lord God, this boy has a cavity that must be filled. Give us a steady hand.” I looked at the nurse. Her eyes were still closed. “Amen.” Dr. McCoy opened his eyes, grabbed the drill, and gave it a couple of whirs.

“Ain’t you gonna give me a shot?” I asked.

“No shots here, son. This is a dental office of the Lord. No shots here.” He put his fingers in my mouth and pried it open. He pushed cotton into my cheeks and hung this metal thing over my lip which sucked up my spit. Then he started drilling. I closed my eyes. It all hurt very much and he was none too fast. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, digging my nails into the vinyl. He stood up, finished. “Thank you, Lord.”

The nurse pulled the cotton from my mouth. I was breathing rapidly.

“You drink Coke?” Dr. McCoy asked me.

“Huh?”

“Coke is real bad for your teeth. I put a tooth in a glass of Coke once and left it overnight. Next morning the tooth wasn’t nothing but dust.”

I just looked at him.

“Drink milk, boy. Lots of milk.”

The afternoon sun is burning hot like a cheap cigar and the traffic is heavy and I’m reaching back to roll down the window behind me because I can’t get the air conditioner working. I’m going downtown to see my brother at his office and I spend half an hour looking for a place to park. I decide to pull into a space marked for the handicapped and I look up and standing on the sidewalk is a cop. He’s looking right at me and I think about getting out of the car and limping, but I decide to back out. I find a space three blocks away.

I walk through the heat into the building and into the elevator, where I press the fourth-floor button. I’m all alone in there and the doors start to close and this fat hand pulls them open again. In steps this great big fat guy and he’s followed by an enormous woman and an obese young boy. I glance up at this plaque on the wall above the buttons that says just how much weight this machine can hold. I start to do some estimating and figuring and then the elevator moans and I take a step toward the door. The doors close and the elevator slowly starts up. Then there’s this weird noise and we ain’t moving.

The fat man says something to the fat woman in German and then he says to me, “The machine is broken?”

“Yeah, it stopped,” I says and I push the alarm button. The alarm is sounding and I look over at the woman and she smiles and she’s sweating profusely. All three of them are sweating heavily. After a few minutes I says, “I figure somebody’s heard it by now.” I stop pushing.

The kid is staring at me and then he gives a tug on his father’s coattail. The man leans over and the kid whispers in his ear and then they both look at me.

I push the alarm again. After about ten minutes the elevator starts to move. I press the fourth-floor button.

“It was very nice to speak with you,” the fat man says as I step out of the elevator.

I walk down the hall and into my brother’s office. He’s standing there leaning over the desk of his receptionist, talking real low. He stands up straight when he sees me and presses his white jacket with his hands.

“Hi, Craig,” he says.

I wave. “Just thought I’d stop by.”

“Good day for it. Business is slow. Come on back.” He knocks on the desk and winks at his receptionist and leads the way to an examination room.

I walk over to the counter and start messing with some instruments.

“You look flustered,” Martin says.

“Naw, nothing. Fat Germans in the elevator.”

He looks at me funny.

“Never mind. You know, you ought to get somebody to do something about that elevator. Getting stuck.”

“Sit down in the chair and let’s have a look.”

I sit down in the chair. “I want to talk to you about some problems.”

“What are older brothers for?” He pulls my head back and starts probing around in my mouth. “You know I’m always here to help you with your problems. Open wider.”

I pull his hand out of my mouth.

“What do you say we clean them today.”

“I really just want to talk.”

“Well, what’s wrong?” He’s over to the counter grabbing tools and stuff.

“I’ve been in sort of a slump lately.”

“I’ve heard something like that.” He’s back and standing over me. “Open wide.” He puts this metal thing with a hose attached to it in my mouth and it’s sucking up my spit. He starts cleaning my teeth. “Yeah,” he says, “things are tough all over. Take Juanita. She went out the other day and spent seventy dollars on two blouses. Two blouses! Rinse. That’s nothing compared to the money she spent having the backyard landscaped. And it looks pitiful. You told me the winters are mild out here but you didn’t tell me it rains all the goddamn time. But do I get upset? No, not me. Rinse. Your problem — you need to brush a little better in the back — your problem is that you don’t relax enough. You’ve got to learn to take it easy. Rinse.”

The receptionist comes in and tells Martin there’s a patient outside in the waiting room. Martin raises the chair and smiles.

“I’m really glad you came by,” he says.

“Me, too.”

I smile and walk out of his office and wait on the elevator. When the doors open I’m looking at those enormous Germans. So, I take the stairs.

As I’m walking down I start to think that maybe I’m asking too much for anyone to listen to my problems. I mean, maybe people can’t listen and understand if they’re busy expecting things of me. This matter of expectations is really getting to me and I begin to have an identity crisis of sorts. I don’t know if I’m Craig Suder the ballplayer, or Craig Suder the husband, or Craig Suder the fellow talking to the fat Germans in the elevator.

Downstairs in the lobby I run into the Germans again. “Are you on TV?” asks the man.

I look at him and I says, “I am Craig Suder and if you don’t like the way I play ball, you can … you can … suck my bat:”

The fat man opens his eyes wide and I walk out into the street. I head down the street toward the park, where I sit and watch the pigeons. I sit there watching them walk around and this kid starts chasing them and they fly away.

I looked out the window in the living room at the front yard. Ma was resting on her knuckles at the edge of the driveway. Martin came and stood beside me. Ma pushed her butt into the air, leaned forward, and took off in a sprint across the yard. Her coat became full with the wind as she dashed. Daddy came and stood behind us.

“What do you think?” Daddy asked.

Martin and I turned to face Daddy.

“I want to talk to you boys about something.” He paused. “Do you think that your mother would be better off in a hospital?”

Martin looked back out the window.

“She’s not sick,” I said.

“Not that kind of hospital,” Martin said.

“You mean the crazy house?” I opened my eyes wide.

Daddy nodded.

“No,” I said. “No.” I got real excited and my eyes watered up.

“Okay,” Daddy said, calming me down.

Then Ma came running in. She was really sweaty and her coat was soaked. She was panting. “Around the city,” she said. “I’m going to run around Fayetteville. It’s twenty-three miles.” She pulled her hair out of her face. “And I’m going to do it.”

The night of my visit to my brother I’m home sitting alone and Thelma comes in. She’s singing.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Just out.”

“Where’s Peter?”

“He’s here.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Peter!” she calls.

Peter appears in the hallway.

“Why didn’t you come when I called you?” I ask.

“I didn’t hear you,” he answers.

“Time for bed, sweetheart,” Thelma says. “It’s eight o’clock. Camp tomorrow.” She points and he walks back to his room.

“What’s got you so chipper?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“I want you to hear something,” I says to her and I walk over to the stereo. “You have to hear this song.” I put the needle on the record and I turn to find her gone. I sit down and I listen to the song and I’m waiting to hear Thelma start up on her exerciser, but the noise never comes. I get up and walk into the bedroom and I see Thelma getting ready for bed and she’s got a big smile on her face.

Chapter 7

Daddy was standing in the garage with his hands on his hips, looking around, sniffing the air. I was just outside, peering at him from the corner of the house. Martin was coming up the driveway on his bike.

“Martin,” Daddy called.

Martin hopped off his bike and ran to Daddy’s side.

“Martin, take a sniff.”

Martin sniffed and frowned.

“Smells like something dead in here,” Daddy said, “and we’re going to find it.” He paused. “Well, start looking.”

We looked around for a good while and then Martin found my hatbox full of dead sparrows. “Over here, Daddy,” Martin cried.

Daddy looked at the decaying birds. “Jesus. Put the lid back on the box.” He looked at the door to the house. “If your mother put them there, we should leave them there.”

“Ma?” Martin asked.

“Yeah,” said Daddy. “I’d say that’s pretty crazy.”

I didn’t say anything.

“So, you want me just to leave it here?” Martin asked.

“I suppose so.” Daddy scratched his head. “I’ll drop a little charcoal in the box and try to soak up some of the stench.”

Martin pushed the box back behind the tires.

“Your mother must be pretty sick to keep stuff like this around. You boys stay away from this.” Daddy headed out of the garage. Martin followed him.

I stood there for a long time, smelling the stench of the birds, feeling afraid because I thought I was crazy. Daddy just assumed the birds were Ma’s, so he must have thought putting the birds in the box was crazy. But I put the birds in the box, so I figured I was crazy.

I spend the next few days just sitting around the house listening to the song and watching my son walk from the front door to his bedroom without saying anything. Thelma is in a good mood and this bothers me, but I don’t say nothing and I get to feeling a little ashamed for wanting her to feel bad. Peter walks out of his room and quietly toward the kitchen and I ask him if he wants to go to the game with me. He shakes his head and disappears into the kitchen. I walk into his room and get his portable phonograph and I grab my Charlie Parker record and leave for the game.

I’m really early and I go up to Lou Tyler’s office and give a knock. Lou yells for me to come in and I open the door and walk over to his desk. I place the phonograph on the desk and start looking for a place to plug it in.

“What are you doing?” Lou wants to know.

“Where can I plug this in?”

“Behind the goat.”

I walk to the corner and I get down on one knee and reach through the goat’s legs and push the plug into the outlet.

“What you got there?” He’s standing at the bathroom door, buttoning his uniform shirt.

“I want you to hear something.”

“What is it?”

“A song. Sit down.”

He sits down and he’s looking at me funny. “You feel okay? Your leg giving you trouble?”

“Just listen.” I put the needle down on the record and watch for Lou’s reaction.

His face is blank at first and then he starts to frown. “Ain’t there no words?”

“No, just music,” I tell him.

He’s silent for a few seconds and then, “Well, thanks for letting me hear that, Suder.” And he gets up and walks into the bathroom, where he stands in front of the mirror combing the few strands of hair he has.

I pack up and walk out and down into the clubhouse.

“What’s up, Craig?” David greets me.

“David,” I says, “I’ve got something I want you to hear.”

He’s reaching into his locker for his shirt. “What is it?”

“A song by Charlie Parker.”

“The saxophone player?” He’s putting on his shirt.

“Yeah.” I can’t find an outlet, so I says, “Come on in here,” and I walk into the bathroom.

“Come on, Craig. I want to warm up.”

I balance the phonograph on one of the sinks in the long row of sinks. “This won’t take but a minute.” I plug in the machine and drop the needle down on the record.

“That’s great,” David says and walks away.

I don’t call him back because echoes of the song in the bathroom have got me sorta hypnotized. I ain’t never heard anything like it, the way it’s bouncing off the tiles, and I turn up the volume and sit on the toilet. Pete Turner walks by and looks at the record player and then at me. “You heard this?” I ask.

He doesn’t say anything, just walks out.

“Give it a chance,” I says.

So, the game’s about to start and I walk out and tonight I head for the bleachers out in left field and I’ve got my phonograph and record in my lap. I watch the game, but I ain’t really paying attention. Everybody around me is jumping up and screaming and carrying on, but I’m just sitting. Butch Backman steps up to the plate and drives an off-speed pitch high and left. I follow the ball up and then my eye catches this bird that somehow has got into the Dome. I follow the bird all over and up into the rafters and around the beams and then I notice the game is over.

I wait for David and the two of us head out for some drinks. We go to this little bar not far from the Dome and sit down at a table. There’s a band playing some music and people are dancing and it’s pretty crowded. David’s looking closely at the behinds of women on the dance floor.

“I love this place,” David says.

The waitress stops and pulls out her pad and scratches her head. “What’ll it be?”

“Beer,” David says without taking his eyes off the dance floor. His hand is tapping the table in beat with the music.

The waitress looks at me.

“Beer.”

“David, did you like that song I played for you in the locker room?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s smiling and watching the women dancing.

“That song does something to me. I mean, that saxophone solo … Well, here, I’ll let you hear it.” I get up and start looking for an outlet.

David looks at me. “What are you doing?”

I don’t say anything. I spot a jukebox across the room against the wall, between the rest rooms. “Over there,” I says and take off.

“Craig.” David follows me. “What are you doing?”

I’m looking behind the jukebox. “They have to plug these things in, don’t they?”

“You can’t-”

“There it is.” I unplug the jukebox and plug in the phonograph.

“There’s a band playing,” David says. “You can’t come in here and play a record.”

“It’s not a long song.” I put the record on the turntable and drop the needle and I turn the volume all the way up.

“Craig, turn that off.” David reaches for the record player.

“Just listen,” I says, blocking him out.

The band stops playing and the people stop dancing and people stop talking and David takes a few steps away from me. The manager of the place comes over and says something, but I can’t hear him, so I lift the needle off the record.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the manager asks.

“I was just playing a song for my buddy.”

“We’ve already got music here.”

“Yeah, and they sound swell,” I tell him, “but it ain’t Charlie Parker. This here is Charlie Parker.” I point at the record.

“Okay, Charlie,” he says and he’s getting mad, “get out.”

David steps in and tries to calm this fella down and he tells me to pack up. He’s looking at me with disbelief. Everybody is watching us as we walk out and the band strikes up as we pass through the door.

In the car, David keeps looking over at me. “Have you been drinking?”

“No.”

He looks at the road. “How’ve you been feeling lately?”

“All right. Why?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Why?”

David looks at me. “No reason.”

There’s a long silence. Then I says, “I think Thelma is seeing somebody.”

“Thelma? No, I can’t imagine that.”

“Can’t you?”

David looks out the side window. “I don’t like your tone.”

“I’m just touchy,” I tell him. “I’m probably just dreaming all this up, right?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say you ain’t the guy.”

“I ain’t the guy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

David exhales. “Jesus Christ.”

He lets me out at my car.

Chapter 8

“Guess what?” Daddy said, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Powell is coming back through Fayetteville.”

“Is he coming here?” I asked.

“Yep.” Daddy sat down with me at the kitchen table.

“He’s coming to dinner,” Ma said, placing a platter of hotcakes in front of us. “Dr. McCoy is coming, too.”

“Who?” I asked and I looked to see a puzzled expression on Daddy’s face.

“Your dentist,” Ma said.

“That man is coming here?” I asked.

“You are joking,” Daddy said.

“No,” Ma said, “I invited him and he accepted.”

“Jesus,” Daddy said.

“Ma, that guy is crazy,” I said. I turned to Daddy. “He prays before everything he does. He dresses all in white. His office is all white.”

“Kathy, I don’t believe you invited that McCoy here for dinner,” Daddy said, pulling a few hotcakes onto his plate.

“Where’s Martin?” Ma asked.

“Asleep,” I said.

Ma turned to face Daddy. “Why shouldn’t I invite him to dinner?”

Daddy didn’t say anything. He just pushed some food into his mouth and chewed quickly, leaning on one elbow. “The man’s a damn bigot.”

“He saw Craig as a patient,” Ma said.

“So what? He’s the worst kind of cracker.” Daddy punctuated his words by pointing his fork at Ma.

“Well, he saw our son as a patient.”

“I don’t know why he did. He probably got paid twice his usual fee. Who knows why this sick cracker took Craig as a patient. Jesus Christ, Kathy. Somebody would think that you—”

“He’s coming to dinner and that’s final.” Ma dumped the skillet into the sink and stormed out of the kitchen. Then she pushed her head back in. “It’s okay for you to invite somebody to dinner. A man who jumps into the river after a catfish.”

“Jesus,” Daddy muttered.

“Why don’t you invite Lou Ann Narramore to dinner, too!” Ma screamed.

Daddy ignored her.

“Did you hear me? Lou Ann Narramore!” Ma ducked back through the doorway. I could hear her in the other room. “From down at the drugstore.”

All the kids in the neighborhood gathered around and stared at the sight in our driveway. Parked behind Daddy’s Mercury was a white Cadillac convertible with white upholstery and white sidewall tires. Out of the big car climbed Dr. McCoy, wearing a white shirt, white shoes, a white tie. The late-afternoon sun was playing off his white hair. His socks were bright red. He walked across the yard toward the front door. I was beside Daddy at the front window, watching Dr. McCoy approach.

“Jesus,” Daddy muttered.

The doorbell rang and Daddy let Dr. McCoy into the house.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Suder,” said the dentist.

“Dr. McCoy,” Daddy greeted him.

“Isn’t this a beautiful day that God has presented us with?”

“Beautiful,” Daddy said.

Ma came into the room wearing her heavy coat and her high-top sneakers. She bounced over to the man in white. “Hello, Dr. McCoy.”

“Mrs. Suder, you’re looking wonderful. The Good Lord has blessed you with beauty.” Dr. McCoy looked down at me. “How are you, Greg?”

Martin came into the room and stopped, confused, as he caught sight of Dr. McCoy.

“Come on in, Martin,” Ma said. “This is Dr. McCoy.”

Martin nodded.

McCoy smiled.

Daddy was watching all of this without any expression. Then the doorbell sounded again. Daddy opened the door.

“Hey there, Doc,” said Mr. Powell.

“Bud.” Daddy stepped aside to let him in.

“New car, eh?” Mr. Powell said as he passed through the doorway. “Pretty fancy.”

“Not mine. Bud Powell, I’d like you to meet Dr. McCoy.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Powell,” said McCoy, extending his hand.

Mr. Powell’s hand closed firmly around McCoy’s rag of flesh. The contrast was striking. “I was just admiring your machine,” said Mr. Powell. I could tell he didn’t know what to make of McCoy. We sat at the table and McCoy closed his eyes and put his hands together.

“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal…”

“Just fine,” said Mr. Powell, glancing at McCoy. “It was real hot there. People don’t come out when it’s hot.”

“And bless these peas and sweet potatoes…”

“Atlanta’s going to be even hotter,” Daddy said.

“Lord, help us through these trying …”

“Yeah, well, at least people down this way are used to the heat.”

“And Lord God, bless these good colored folks who I’m eating with.”

Daddy shook his head and smiled and Mr. Powell laughed out loud.

“Amen.” McCoy opened his eyes and looked sternly at Daddy and Mr. Powell. “If you folks believed more strongly in God, maybe you wouldn’t be colored.”

Daddy sat up very straight and his eyes narrowed. He leaned forward on his forearms. “What are you doing in my house?”

“What?” McCoy asked.

“I want to know why a peckerwood like you comes to a Negro house for dinner.”

Mr. Powell raised his napkin to his mouth to hide his smile.

“Ben?” Ma tried to call Daddy off.

“Well, Dr. Suder, I just wanted to see what colored folks was like. So, I could pray for you, like real people.”

“McCoy, you half-baked, Bible-headed redneck, just get out of my house.” Daddy stood up. “Get up and get out.”

Mr. Powell stood up, too.

McCoy looked at Daddy and Mr. Powell and slowly pushed himself up from the table. He looked at Ma, but she didn’t say anything. McCoy walked out of the house.

I’m sitting in the living room listening to the song and looking out the window when Thelma comes in.

“What time does the drugstore close?” she asks.

“Which drugstore?”

“The one on Maple.”

“Six o’clock.”

“Great. You’ve got ten minutes,” she says.

“What do you need?”

“Kotex.”

“Jesus, you know how I hate to buy those things. Especially there. I can’t stand that old lady.”

She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there looking at me.

“Okay, I’ll go.” I hop into the car and drive over to the drugstore and all the while I’m trying to think of what else I should buy because the old lady seems to notice the Kotex pads less if they got company on the counter.

I’m in the drugstore and I pick up a couple of boxes of facial tissue with the Kotex and set them on the counter. The old lady comes out of the back room,

“Hello, Mr. Suder.”

“Mrs. Wilson.”

“Is that it?” She picks up the Kotex. “These ain’t going to help your leg much.” She laughs. “Sometimes I just crack myself up.”

I drive home and when I walk through the door I see ribbons strung all along the ceiling and a banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

“Surprise!” shouts Thelma. David Nicks, Lou Tyler, and my brother, Martin, also shout.

Thelma runs to me and kisses my cheek. “Happy birthday, honey.”

I look at each of their faces and then at the cake on the dining room table. The cake’s got a baseball diamond on it and the message HAPPY 33RD, CRAIG.

“It ain’t my birthday. My birthday ain’t for three days.”

Everyone is quiet.

Then Lou says, “Well, better early than never.”

I smile.

“Let’s cut the cake,” says my brother.

“After he opens his presents,” says Thelma.

I turn and see, beside the table, three boxes on top of one large box. I open the gift from Thelma. A pair of silk pajamas. I thank her and kiss her. I open the present from David. An electric razor.

“Thanks, David.”

“Don’t cut your throat with it,” David says.

I open the present from Martin. It is a Water Pik. “Thanks, Martin.”

“Open mine,” says Lou.

“Sure is big,” I says.

“Just open it,” Lou says.

I rip through the paper and open the box and I’m looking down at a stuffed dog. It’s one of the dogs we picked up on the road. I am speechless.

“Pretty good, huh?” says Lou.

“Yeah, great,” I says and I look at Thelma and she’s frowning and I look at David and he’s doing all he can not to laugh out loud.

We sit around eating cake and all the while that dead dog is staring right at me. The dog’s mouth is sewed shut but his tongue is poking out the side and I really want to put him back in the box.

“Pretty good job, huh?” Lou says.

“Yeah,” I says.

“Look here.” Lou puts down his cake and walks over to the dog and turns it over. He’s showing me the belly and he says, “Look at that stitching. That’s a job, huh?”

“Sure is,” I says.

“What do you think of it, Nicks?” Lou turns the dog’s belly to David. “I should be a goddamn tailor. Look at that needlework.”

“That’s something else,” David says softly.

Martin moves to the dog and pulls up on the dog’s lips as Lou is holding him and looks at the teeth, revealing the long, jagged sutures keeping the animal’s mouth shut.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” says Lou. “I got a letter from Roy Rogers.” He puts the dog down.

“Oh, yeah?” I says.

“He sent me an autographed picture. I don’t know what it means. I’m gonna write him again.” Lou looked at the dog. “I wonder how tall he is.”

“That’s great, Lou,” I says. “Ain’t that great, David?”

“Yeah, great,” says David.

We sit in silence for a little while. Then I get to thinking about the song and I get up and start toward the stereo.

“I want you all to listen to something,” I says. I drop the needle down on the record. “Listen to this. You’re going to love it.” I listen for a second. “Ain’t that something?” I close my eyes and listen to the saxophone solo.

One by one, Lou, David, and Martin excuse themselves. And so, I’m all alone with Thelma and the stuffed dog.

Thelma starts clearing things off the table.

“I suppose Peter’s at your mother’s,” I says.

“Yes.” She takes the dishes into the kitchen and comes out pulling her sweater on.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“For a walk,” she says.

“This time of night?”

“It’s not late.”

“Where are you going?” I step in front of the door.

“Craig,” she whines.

“I want to know where you’re going.”

She starts taking off her sweater. “Noplace.”

“Who are you going to meet?”

“I’m not going anyplace.” She sits.

“Who have you been seeing?”

She picks up a magazine. “You’re being ridiculous.” She gets up and shuts off the music. “You’re not well, Craig.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This music, this paranoia. You’re like your mother.”

I open the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” I leave.

Chapter 9

Ma draped the wool blanket all over me. This was after she made me curl up on the floor in the back of Daddy’s Mercury.

“Stay down,” Ma said.

“Ma, it’s hot.” I was already sweating profusely. I started to rise.

She pushed me down. “Stay. Craigie, I’m depending on you. When your daddy stops at the drugstore, you get out and sneak in and then you’ll see. You’ll see them in the act.”

I could taste the salt of my perspiration in my mouth and all I could see were a couple of stripes of light crawling under one edge of the blanket. “But—”

“I’m depending on you. You’ll see. That Lou Ann Narramore.” She closed the door.

All the windows of the car were rolled up tight and I was good and soaked. Then the driver’s-side door opened and Daddy got in. I wanted to get up and tell him of my presence, but Ma’s words echoed in my head: “in the act.” It was a short, uncomfortable ride to the drugstore. After Daddy got out I waited a few seconds and then I tiptoed from the car to the drugstore door. I opened the door slightly and pushed my hand inside, grabbing the bell which dangled from the inside door handle. I slid the rest of me inside. I crawled down the aisle of colognes and hair tonics to the end so I could see the prescription counter.

Daddy was standing there, waiting. Then a pretty young woman with a bright smile came from the back room with a couple of bottles. Daddy looked at the bottles.

“Thank you, Miss Narramore,” Daddy said.

“By the way, Dr. Suder,” Lou Ann Narramore said, “Mrs. Jordan came in earlier today and she said—”

“She’s not to have that prescription refilled,” Daddy said.

I retreated into the aisle. They hardly knew each other. I was relieved, and shocked that Ma could be so wrong. Then I heard the bell on the door and I looked back at the counter to find Daddy gone. I knocked something off a shelf and became afraid. I ran for the door, threw it open, and plowed right into someone.

It was Virgil Wallace. He fell back and hit his enormous head on the sidewalk. His hands moved quickly up, grabbing his skull. I was on top of him. I stood to find the lower front of my shirt and the front of my pants covered with a milky substance. I rubbed the stuff between my fingers and screamed. I felt sick. Virgil Wallace was rolling all over the ground now, still holding his head. I could see a little blood creeping out from between his fingers.

I ran all the way home, through the front door, and up to my bedroom. I sat on my bed, out of breath and scared.

“Well?” Ma asked, bursting into the room.

“Nothing,” I panted.

“What do you mean?”

“They hardly even know each other.”

Her eyes caught the front of my clothes.

I glanced down at the mess and began to shake with fear.

Ma walked to me and stroked the front of my pants and then rubbed the thick substance between her fingers. For the most part it had dried. She looked at me through narrow, angry slits. “Craigie!” she screamed. “I thought you were a good boy!”

“I am a good boy.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been pulling on yourself.”

“No, I haven’t. Really, I haven’t,” I cried. “I ran into Virgil Wallace, the waterhead boy.”

She didn’t hear my words. She looked at my clothes again. “Come, you have to take a bath.”

I agreed.

“If we don’t hurry, you’ll go blind.” She looked at me, shaking her head. “Undress.”

I pulled my clothes off and then she led me by the hand into the bathroom.

“Sit!” she screamed, pointing at the tub.

I sat in the dry tub. Then Ma turned the cold water on full through the shower. I yelled and tried to crawl out, but she pushed me back.

“You must learn to be good!’’, she screamed. Then she made the shower very hot. “Promise me you won’t do it again!”

“I promise! I promise!”

A couple of days walk by and most all I’ve been doing is listening to the song.

I’m walking around downtown and I pass a music store. I look through the window at the saxophones and then I go inside.

“What can I sell you?” asks the clerk.

“I’m interested in a saxophone.”

“What kind?”

“The kind Charlie Parker plays. I think it’s an alto.”

“An alto.”

“How much do they cost?”

“There’s a whole range of prices. How much are you willing to spend?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“They start at about three hundred dollars.”

“Can I see one of those?” I asked.

“Sure can.” The clerk turns and looks at the saxophones in stands on the shelf behind him and pulls one down. “This one is four hundred dollars.”

“Is it hard to play? I mean, to learn?”

“Piece of cake.”

“I’ll take it. Do I need anything else?”

“Just a reed.” He puts a reed on the mouthpiece. “Goes right here. You just tighten these.”

I nod.

“You gotta remember to suck it, though.”

I look at him.

“The reed. Get it soaked.” He pauses. “Bite down and don’t blow out your cheeks.”

I look at him.

“The mouthpiece.”

“Should I have a book?”

“Naw, you don’t need a book.”

I write him a check for four hundred dollars.

He looks at the check. “Craig Suder, the ballplayer?”

“No.”

“I’ve seen you on television.”

I leave. I go to the park and spend a few hours trying to blow through the horn. Then I head home.

When I get home I don’t see Thelma or Peter. I look out the window and across the street at that white guy’s house. Bill, that’s his name — I remember it now, Bill. His front door opens and out steps Thelma and my jaw drops and I watch as she walks toward the house. I open the door.

“So, I was right,” I says. “Jesus, Thelma, why him? Why some white guy?”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” I’m pacing. “I’m talking about adultery, fooling around, you carrying on with the neighbor, Bill.”

“I’ve never seen you just this way before.”

“You’ve never seen me just this way?”

“I was borrowing some paprika, see?” She holds up a little tin.

“Paprika? You can do better than that. Paprika? What kind of single man keeps paprika in his house?”

Thelma walks to the kitchen. “He’s very nice.”

I follow her. “I’m sure. Who borrows paprika?”

“Are you through?”

I don’t say anything. I just walk out of the kitchen and pace around the living room. Then I go back to the kitchen. “I know how to get to the bottom of this.”

“What?”

“I’m going to have a word with Bill.” I head off to the front door.

“Craig, no.” She’s behind me.

I open the door. “Yes.”

Thelma follows me across the yard and she’s pleading. “No! Please. Nothing’s going on. I swear, Craig.”

“We’ll see. We’ll see.” I ring Bill’s bell.

Bill pulls open the door.

I slap him flat-palmed in the chest and he rocks back. “What’s the story, Bill?”

He looks at me and then at Thelma. “What’s going—”

I interrupt him. “Let’s have it, Bill.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and my wife.” My hands are in fists.

“Bill,” says Thelma, “I’m sorry. He’s crazy lately.”

I turn to Thelma. “Crazy? I’m not crazy and I’m sure as hell not blind.”

“Let’s talk-” begins Bill.

“Are you ready, Bill?” I ask.

“What for?”

I punch Bill in the face and Thelma jumps on my back. I shake her off and chase Bill across the room and I tackle him. His head hits the doorframe and he starts to bleed.

“You’re crazy!” screams Thelma. “You’re insane!”

I stand over Bill and look down at him. I walk back to my house and collect my record, my phonograph, and my saxophone. I leave home.