Mudville (2 page)

“Anyway,” he says, “I got tied up with some stuff here in Moundville, so I asked Steve's dad to give you a lift back.”

“Sure. What's going on?” Usually it means someone's rainproof house is leaking and my dad has to go and fix it. He gives out a five-year warrantee that's no end of grief.

“It's kind of a surprise. You'll find out when you get home. See you soon!” He hangs up on me, and I hand the phone back to Mr. Robinson.

“Thanks for giving me a ride.”

“We're happy to have you along. Maybe the girls will bug you instead of bugging the rest of us.” Mr. Robinson thinks this is hilarious, and so do Steve's mom and grandma. “Anyway, we're parked right outside. See you in a bit.”

We can hear the twins racing to the end of the hall and their mom begging them to slow down before the door swings shut behind them.

“So I guess I'll see you when we're in the big leagues?” Adam asks as we leave the dorm for the last time.

“Sure thing. Get drafted by the same team, okay? I don't want to hit your stuff.”

Adam is the only kid I know with a legitimate curveball. I've seen him carve up batters like they were turkeys with that thing. He's small, though. You don't see too many pint-sized pitchers in the majors. So who knows if he'll make it to the bigs?

We trade a clumsy hug, and that's that.

The drive is about two hours, but it's going to be a long couple of hours. For one thing, Mr. Robinson is always trying to help us appreciate the contributions of African Americans to American music, and his lesson this car trip is on the most inaccessible jazz music ever recorded. I like Louis Armstrong, but John Coltrane sounds like a snare drum beating up a sax-ophone.

For another thing, I have to sit between the twins, and they have a little contest to see who can ask me the most questions the fastest.

“What's your favorite baseball team?” Sheila asks.

“I don't know. The Tigers, maybe.”

“Why the Tigers?” Shauna asks.

“Because Pudge plays for them.”

“Who's Pudge?” Sheila asks.

“Ivan Rodriguez.”

“Is he your favorite player?” Shauna asks.

“Kind of, yeah.”

“Why?” Sheila asks. I feel like I'm watching a tennis match.

“Because he's a really good catcher and I'm a catcher.”

“Is he cute?” This sets off a giggle bomb, and it's a while before they settle down.

“So are you going to play catcher?” Shauna asks.

“I already do.”

“I mean, when you grow up?”

“You never know,” I tell her.

“Why don't you know?”

“It's a tough job to get,” I tell her. “There are millions of kids who want to play baseball, but there are only thirty starting catchers in Major League Baseball.”

“Only thirty?”

“Exactly thirty.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there are thirty teams, silly.”

“Name them!” says Sheila.

I sigh and start to rattle off names while the girls count on their hands. They also make me name the catcher for each team and tell them whether or not he's cute. They also think I've named one twice, and I have to explain that there's more than one Molina and they're brothers, but the girls think I'm making it up because I made a mistake, so we're halfway to Moundville before I can take a breath.

We live in a very flat state, so you can see Moundville from far away, a big bump on the prairie. When it comes into view, with the familiar gray haze of clouds over it, I feel a little twist in my stomach that's part dread and part home-sickness.

“Daddy, rest stop, one mile!” Sheila hollers, pointing at a blue sign. Mr. Robinson nods and puts on the blinker.

I don't need to use the facilities myself, but I do want to stretch my legs one more time in dry outside air, so I walk around a little bit.

It seems like all the rest stops around here have historic significance. For example, this one has a plaque about a skirmish during the Sioux Uprising, which makes for interesting reading. The sign says that twelve people died on both sides of the battle. I wonder how the deceased would feel about the site being memorialized with public toilets.

“Pretty sordid stuff,” says Mr. Robinson, who sees me reading the plaque. He reads it himself and clucks. “It should say ‘Dakota War.’ Nobody calls it the Sioux Uprising any-more. Both words are inaccurate.” I just nod, hoping he won't start lecturing me. Mr. Robinson is a history teacher and will talk as long as you let him.

Sure enough, though, once we're back in the car, he goes into teacher mode.

“People don't want to think about it too much, but this area has some ugly history. Brutal conflicts between the white settlers and the natives. It started when the U.S.
government didn't make good on some supplies they promised. People were starving, and the store owners on the reservation wouldn't give food on credit. To add insult to injury, one store owner said—”

“Dad,” Sheila whines, “this isn't history class.” “It's interesting, is all.” Mr. Robinson lapses into thoughtful silence, looking back and forth across the road, maybe seeing the ghosts of the past playing out their endless battles.

There used to be a Native American trading post where Sinister Bend is now, and the traders got along pretty well with the settlers. The trading post mostly dealt in furs, which was a wintertime business. The traders’ kids didn't have as much to do in the summer. They saw the settlers’ kids playing baseball and asked if they could play, too. That was where the whole rivalry began—especially when the natives started beating the settlers at their own game. Eventually, the trading post turned into Sinister Bend, and the pioneer settlement turned into Moundville.

According to local stories, one of the soldiers sent to protect the trading post learned the game directly from Abner Doubleday at Fort Sumter and was transferred up here a few weeks before the Civil War started. I don't believe that any more than I believe that Doubleday invented baseball. Still, I wish I could see those old games, which were played with bats the players carved themselves and a ball made out of
horsehide wrapped around sawdust—one that wouldn't go a hundred feet if Barry Bonds gave it his best rip.

I'm not that much into history, except when it comes to baseball.

Both of the twins have fallen asleep on me, so I can barely move, and my left arm is asleep. I know we're nearly home, though, because the rain picks up, spattering the windshield of the SUV. Sure enough, a moment later the famous sign flashes by, reading “Welcome to Moundville,” with the letters
o
and
n
crossed out. The town has tried every kind of plastic cover and paintproof coating, but vandals always find a way to cross out those two letters.

Steve groans and pulls the brim of his cap over his eyes. I know just how he feels.

Well, Mudville is a good name for it. Twenty-two years of rain have destroyed the grass and killed all the trees. Most of the topsoil has been washed away, exposing the gray clay underneath. I suppose, given enough time, the muddy clay will wash away, too, and Moundville will be left clinging to a pile of granite.

There's less joy in our Mudville than the one in the poem. Maybe mighty Casey struck out, but at least those guys got to watch a baseball game.

We pull into the driveway of my house, a long rambler with sheets of heavy-duty plastic arced over the roof like the protective wings of a mother bird. That's my dad's rain proofing. Most of the houses in Moundville have it, and the ones that don't aren't suited for living in. From the air, Moundville probably looks like so many misshapen igloos on a bank of filthy snow.

We all say “Goodbye” and “Thanks” and “See you soon,” and eventually I grab my bags and climb over Shauna and out of the car. I hustle up the walk like it's a base path but still get pretty drenched.

“I'm home!” I drop my bags by the door and use my hand to squeegee the water off my head. Then I step out of the foyer into the living room and stop dead in my tracks.

There's a kid about my own age stretched out on the couch, watching television. He's wearing a flannel shirt and
corduroy pants, even though it's over eighty degrees out. One of his loafers is held together with duct tape. He's tanner than anyone I've ever seen, and his hair hasn't been cut in a long time.

So there's my dad's surprise, I think. I don't know what it means, though. Maybe some homeless people he knows are visiting from out of town?

“Still raining?” the boy asks, seeing how wet I am.

When I get a better look at him, I see his face is a mess of scar tissue on the right side. His ear is unnaturally pink, and I realize it's a fake one.

“It's been raining for over twenty years,” I tell him. “It never stops.”

“I know. I was kind of kidding.” So he's a comedian, too. I should ask him who's on first.

“I'm Roy,” I tell him. “I live here.”

“Hey. I'm Sturgis. I live here, too. As of about”—he looks at the clock on the cable box—“two and a half hours ago.”

“Huh?”

“I'm like a foster kid. Your dad didn't tell you about me?”

“Nah, but it's good,” I say, as though I'm used to coming home and finding the living room strewn about with new siblings. “Where are you from?”

“Between here and Sutton,” he says, which is funny. I don't think there
is
anything between here and Sutton.

“So where's my dad?”

“In the kitchen making dinner.”

I shudder and know I'll miss the excellent camp food I've gotten used to.

The kitchen looks like a small tornado has tried to make a spaghetti omelet. There's something boiling on the stove, and the counter is cluttered with open cans and dripping bowls. Our old orange Manx cat, Yogi, is licking a broken egg on the floor. He's a weird cat. We've had him since before I was born. He's probably about 112 in cat years.

“Roy!” My dad gives me an awkward hug and gets some-thing sticky on my shirt. “Sorry I didn't hear you come in,” he says. “Hey, can you please get me the Dijon mustard and Tabasco?”

I nudge Yogi aside to get the condiments out of the fridge while my father adds big chunks of Spam to the blender and pushes a button.

“Did you meet Sturgis?” He spoons mustard and Tabasco into the mixture and gives the blender another spin. “He's only two months older than you, you know. You guys are practically twins.”

“Yeah, I met him.”

“Great. Hey, can you put those noodles in a baking dish?”

“So what's the story with him anyway?”

“The noodles, Roy! They're overcooking!”

I pour the boiling contents of the pot into a colander to drain. When the steam clears, I see that it's manicotti tubes. I peel them apart and lay them out in the baking dish.

“So what's going on?” I ask again.

“Well, his mom passed away, and his dad … Well, you know about some kids’ dads, right?”

“Sure.”

“Darn it, I was supposed to put tomato sauce on this.” My dad looks forlornly at his Spam manicotti. I hope he tosses the whole mess and sends out for a pizza instead. “Well, I'll put tomato soup on it. That'll be just as good.” He grabs a jar of Campbell's from the cupboard and dumps it over the manicotti.