Molly McGinty Has a Really Good Day (8 page)

“Nope, just the starting lineup for the baseball game. Cubs and Braves at Wrigley.”

“Who are the starting pitchers?” he asked. “If there's a stiff breeze blowing infield this afternoon, you know it'll be a pitchers’ duel.”

“Don't let me disrupt your class, Jim. I'll keep the
volume low, and given how long those umpires let the at-bats drag out, I should be able to pay sufficient attention to your discussion, too. May I borrow a pencil?”

Father Connery smiled. “I'm flattered. You'll be taking notes on my lecture?”

“I've got a scorecard to fill out.”

“I'm still trying to get enough people interested in that spring training trip to Florida, Irene. But it seems that you and I are the only members of the parish who'd rather tour the Grapefruit League than Cabo San Lucas. I heard St. Boniface has some keen baseball fans, so maybe we can work out an intrachurch trip next year.” He sat on the edge of Irene's desk and thumbed through an old program she had pulled out of her bag, along with the radio and scorecard.

“Uh, excuse me, Father?” Molly interrupted.

“Yes, Molly?”

“Aren't we going to review for the test?”

“Oh, uh, yes, of course we are.” He stood up reluctantly before looking back with a huge smile on his face. “Did you ever stop to think that a
well-managed baseball team runs like a good government?”

Irene's head bobbed up, and most of the boys, who usually spent the period dozing, snapped to attention.

“Just think about it,” Father Connery went on. “Democracy is a team effort—everyone has to pull their own weight to get the most out of our system of government. But there is a clear hierarchy. In our government, it is the judicial, the legislative and the executive branches. In baseball, it is the coaching staff, the general manager and the owner.”

Irene continued the train of thought Father Connery had begun. “Baseball is the greatest game on earth for that reason: it is the most like our government. Neither is perfect, but both are always interesting. Baseball and democracy may not be ideal, but they are the best we have to offer. Winston Churchill said democracy was the worst form of government in the world, except for all the rest. The same might be said of baseball.”

“And that's”—Irene blew a huge pink bubblegum bubble—“why baseball players get the big bucks
and the beautiful babes.” She shuffled through a deck of baseball cards, tucking some into a plastic bag and tossing others to a corner of her desk.

“Mrs. Flynn has the best baseball card collection of anyone I know,” Mary Margaret told Father Connery.

“I don't
collect
them. I just buy them and put them on my piano in little plastic cases. I'm not a fanatic, Mary Pat.”

“Mary Margaret.”

“Whatever.”

Father Connery opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a clock radio. “Let's all listen to the game. Can you find the station for us, Irene, while I draw a scorecard on the blackboard?”

Mary Margaret tossed Molly a note:

Molly looked over at them; they were reenacting the most recent play of the game for the non-baseball fans in the class, illustrating the virtues of an ideally executed sacrifice bunt. Irene was holding a yardstick that had been abandoned in the corner of the room, using it to show how the bat
catches the ball, making it bounce weakly into the infield. And Father Connery was playing the role of the befuddled infielder scrambling after the ball.

Molly scribbled a fast reply and hurled the note back to Mary Margaret.

Irene was then demonstrating for three boys the proper grasp for a knuckleball as Father Connery sketched an aerial view of the infield on the blackboard.

Mary Margaret threw note after note at Molly's desk. Molly studiously ignored them all, concentrating fiercely on her textbook.

Mary Margaret resorted to whispering. “Well, I was just thinking that, since Mrs. Flynn doesn't seem to like my great-uncle Charlie, even though it's the talk of the neighborhood how stuck on her he is, maybe Father is more her type.”

Without thinking, Molly blurted out, “Are you insinuating that my grandmother is flirting with a priest?”

The room fell instantly silent, and Molly looked up to see Irene crouched on the floor in a catcher's
squat, flashing hand signals to the small crowd that had gathered around her. Irene ducked her head modestly and fluttered her eyelashes at Molly.

“Thanks, cutie, I'm glad to see you think this old lady still has what it takes to catch a man's eye. But”—she shook her head—“I could never flirt with someone like Father Connery.” She paused. “We're just too radically different in our philosophies. For instance, he thinks the designated hitter is a good idea.”

Irene took a good look around the industrial arts workshop when they arrived at what Molly was relieved to note was the final class period. Molly did her involuntary visual sweep of the room to locate Jake Dempsey.

“Who's that?” Irene caught Molly's glance around the room and pointed to Jake. “He's a dish.”

“N-n-no one,” Molly stammered, feeling her cheeks turn hot and putting her hand over Irene's pointing finger. “J-just someone named Jake.”

“Sweet pea, he's adorable. You know he asked about working for us during lunch. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Not really.” Molly fidgeted with the lock on Mary Bridget's cello case.

“Well, he should be. Go over and talk to him.”

“Talk to Jake Dempsey?” Molly's voice squeaked before she regained control. “Uh, no, that's okay, Irene.”

“Oh … well, I see. Never mind, then.” Irene whistled to herself and followed Molly to her workbench. “Whatcha doing?” she asked.

“Making a desk organizer. See, I can put my pens and pencils in this cup, I can fit a ruler in this slot thing, and this little depression is for paper clips. I'm going to add a paper tray and some little stand-up dividers for envelopes later.” Molly felt content for the first time all day.

She was soon lost in the job of sanding the top of her desk organizer and checking the straightness of its edge with the mini-T-square she carried on her key chain. She'd half noticed that Irene had strolled away from her and was investigating various projects around the room.

Molly was debating whether to add a magnet to the paper clip tray when she began to hear fragments of an argument drifting her way from across the room. At first she didn't pay attention. But when she heard Irene's raised voice, she looked up and dropped her sanding block.

Her grandmother was standing on a box, which made her tall enough to peer down at the innards of an engine that were scattered across a workbench. She was standing next to Jake Dempsey.

Jake and Irene were talking. Not just talking, but arguing. Loudly.

“… so you want to retard the timing on the compression stroke to set more power,” Irene said.

“Yeah, if you
want
to ruin the engine.” Jake frowned at the engine part he held in his hand.

“Anyone who knows the principles of an internal combustion engine—”

Irene caught Molly's eye.

“Flowerpot, come over here.”

Molly shook her head vigorously.

Irene beckoned again.

Molly shook her head again. As much as she wanted to run from the room or disappear completely, she was unable to turn away from the sight of her grandmother and Jake working together.

Irene got a glint in her eye and picked up a booklet from the workbench, waving it in Molly's direction.

“There's a manual,” she called. “Just full of instructions and directions and, urn, rules and regulations and so on and so forth.”

Molly's ears pricked up. She felt her feet slowly move toward her grandmother.

Irene made room for her in front of the engine next to Jake. Molly couldn't begin to meet Jake's eyes. She took the manual from Irene with shaking hands and tried to concentrate on the words printed in it. She studied the bits of machinery scattered in front of her, trying to align them with the instructions in the manual.

“It's an outboard motor for my dad's fishing boat. I'm trying to juice it up, and your grandma is helping,” Jake explained.

“That's a head gasket, right?” Molly asked, pointing. “I mean, it looks like the picture in the book.”

“Yeah, that's right. Can you hand me that little screwdriver?”

“Oh, sure. And these must be spark plugs.” Molly concentrated on the manual, then looked back at the parts on the workbench.

“Uh-huh,” Jake said. “Are you twitching?”

“Urn, sort of. I don't usually, I mean, but we had a funky lunch. Is this piece cracked or is it supposed to look like this?”

Jake took it from her hand. “Yeah, we'll have to replace it. You know, I've seen you before, but you seemed like you'd be hard to talk to.”

“I, urn, thought the same thing about you.”

“Then I'm glad your grandma came over to see what I was doing. She's wrong about internal combustion engines, of course, but interesting to talk to.”

“That's what everyone says about her. Really, I'm not very much like her. At all. Ever.”

“You're kidding, right? You've got a black eye and you're twitching. And I don't know what's all over you but it smells like lunch. And you seem real cool about it all. Plus, you pick up mechanical stuff real
quick. That makes you the most interesting girl I've talked to all day.”

You only think that, Molly thought, because you didn't get the memo about how really boring I am. But this time, wisely, she kept her mouth shut.