Mudville (20 page)

“Right now I want someone who can get a base hit. We'll decide who pitches when it's our turn to pitch.”

“I'm fine. I can pitch as long as you need me to.” He hands the bat to Anthony and goes back to the dugout.

“Bring 'em home, Tony!” I holler.

He does, flying out to left field, deep enough that Steve can score. We're all hugs and high fives at the plate, except
Sturgis. Rita herself gives Anthony such a hug I'm a mite jealous, although it's nothing compared to the way he squeezes Shannon.

I slide over by Sturgis on the bench. “I'm going to have Rita close the game. Show them something different.”

He just grumbles at me.

“Fine. Be that way.”

Adam's team is relieved to see Rita take the mound in the bottom of the seventh, since they've had no success against Sturgis. That is, until they find themselves flailing helplessly at her screwball. They get a base runner but strand him on second.

“See, we won,” I tell Sturgis. “Come on, let's go shake hands with those guys.”

He just looks at me with mean, hurt eyes and refuses to budge.

I'm thrilled when Rita clambers aboard Mr. Robinson's SUV after the game. She sits next to me, which may or may not mean anything.

“Switching horses, eh?” Mr. Robinson asks her.

“I needed to make room for Sturgis. He wanted to ride back with them.”

Ride back without me is more like it, I think.

“It's all right with me, though.” Rita shudders visibly. “The way that woman drives scares me.”

“I'm a big fan of traffic safety,” I tell her. “My aunt Evelyn died in a car accident.”

“Oh!” She looks at me sadly.

“It's okay,” I say. “I didn't really know her.” As usual, when I'm talking to Rita, everything I say is dumb.

“Well, you're in luck,” Mr. Robinson announces. “I've got some great music lined up for the trip home. Sam Cooke. Otis Redding. Etta James.”

“Sounds great,” says Rita politely. I realize for the first time that her hair smells like raspberries and she has a few small pimples covered with a brownish cream. I knew they made pink pimple cream that didn't look at all believable on white skin, but I didn't know they also made pimple cream that didn't look at all believable on brown skin. In a weird way, it's interesting. Both the raspberry smell and the cream make me like her more.

She edges away from me, and I realize that studying a girl's blemishes in fascination isn't a very good way to woo her. I'm unable to recover with anything clever, so we ride back in silence, barely mumbling to each other when the car hits a bump and sends one of us crashing into the other.

In the back, Steve and Tim are whispering to one an-other. I can't really hear them but catch occasional words and phrases.

“… not much of a team player,” Steve is saying.

“Always been a jerk to me,” says Tim.

They're obviously talking about Sturgis. I don't have the energy to defend him, though. Besides, what could I say?
That he didn't brood and pout after the game? That he was full to the brim with team spirit?

Maybe I'll talk to him later, I decide. Probably not tonight but maybe tomorrow.

Eventually, I slide down into my seat, resting my knees on the back of the seat in front of me. My knees are pretty sore after the game, and a long, cramped drive is the last thing I need. I close my eyes and doze off to the soothing voice of Sam Cooke over the car stereo and the intoxicating smell of raspberries.

Thanks to Mrs. Obake's NASCAR approach to highway driving, Sturgis is home long before me. When I come in, he's helping my dad make supper.

They bustle about in the kitchen, muttering in low voices, while I rub my aching knees with ointment and stretch out on the couch. I think they're talking about gazebos and patios and whatnot. Sturgis takes a lot more interest in my dad's work than I do. Yogi hops up on the couch and tries to lick the menthol ointment off of me, which is one of his more disgusting habits.

I finish reading
Their Eyes Were Watching God,
which ends with the woman's third and favorite husband getting bitten by a rabid dog and her living in disgrace because she has to kill him when he was all rabid and crazy. It makes me wonder why great literature always has to end horribly. Can't anyone live happily ever after?

Also, the stuff with the dog makes me think about Sturgis and his dog bites, and Peter's mumbo jumbo about spirit animals and all that. I've never been bitten by anything interesting. Not even a radioactive spider.

Dinner is stuffed squash. The squash isn't stuffed with anything that weird—just ground beef, onions, and a bunch of spices. It's one of my dad's better meals. I'd think maybe Sturgis was giving him some advice, except that Sturgis will eat anything.

“So are you going to tell me about the game?” Dad asks.

I'm too tired to talk but halfheartedly describe the game. I compliment Adam's pitching but say that in the end he was no match for Sturgis.

“I didn't pitch in the end,” Sturgis reminds me, still brooding about getting pulled in the last inning.

“Huh?” my dad asks.

“I pinch-hit for Sturgis and let Rita close the game.”

“Who's this Rita? You have a girl on the team?”

“A couple,” I tell him.

“Well, what do you know?”

It stuns me to realize my dad has never seen all of us play, not even for a full practice. He's really supportive at home, but he's been busy with his new job, plus trying to get his business off the ground. My dad's a workaholic. Even when there's no real work to do, he just creates busywork for himself.

“I got stuff to do,” says Sturgis when he's done eating. He shoves his plate aside and goes off to the office, maybe to e-mail his grandma.

“He's a bit of an odd duck,” my dad says in a low voice, “but he's a good kid, don't you think? They told me he might be trouble, but I haven't seen it.”

“He is,” I tell him, but the way it comes out, it's not clear which statement I'm agreeing with.

“You all right?” I ask Sturgis when we're getting ready for bed.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“You were sort of upset about the game.”

“It's only a game,” he says with a shrug. “So maybe you made a mistake as manager, but all's well that ends well.”

It's hard to argue that I made a mistake when all ended well, but I let the remark slide.

“I pitched pretty good, right?”

“You were fantastic.”

“I could have pitched ten more innings,” he says. “I could go pitch again tomorrow. My arm feels great.”

“That's good news.”

“Do you think I'm ready?”

“Ready for what? You already pitched against a good team and won. I think you're there.”

“All right, then.” He seems satisfied, and I edge in with my agenda.

“So maybe next time we play, you can act like a member of the team? You know, the handshakes and all that. It's part of the game.”

“I was never much for the formalities.”

“The other guys—” I start to say.

“What?” His voice takes on an edge. “The other guys what?”

“I was just going to say that the other guys were asking if you were okay.”

“You can tell them I'm fine.”

“Well, next time, maybe go along with the formalities. Just so they don't worry about you.”

“Sure,” he says. “It's no big deal.” To prove it, he's sound asleep a few seconds later.

“So do you want to come with?” Sturgis asks me in the morning. He's groomed and ready to go by the time I wake up.

“Huh?”

“Come see my grandma.”

“Really?”

“Why not? You met my dad. She can't be any worse than him, right?”

“She's just in a nursing home, at least,” I tell him. “Not in prison.”

“Exactly.”

“I guess.” Visiting old people isn't high on my list of fun things to do, but I figure it's a good start at mending the little feud we had yesterday. Also, I'm a bit curious. So I take a quick shower and put on my cleanest jeans and a kind of Hawaiian shirt that looks nice and not too gaudy. Just festive.

“Lookin’ sharp,” says my dad when he sees me. “Got a date? Maybe with this Rita?”

“No,” I tell him, feeling myself redden. It's a lucky guess on my dad's part that I'm even interested in Rita. “I'm going with you guys.”

“No kidding. Did Sturgis say you could come?”

“He asked me to,” I explain.

Sturgis's grandmother lives in Temple Village, a retirement community a few miles short of Sutton down the highway. It's a gray little cluster of buildings poking above the yellow prairie. There's a stiff wind blowing, which is probably why the terrace and grounds are empty, even with the sun shining.

My dad has brought the Sunday paper and now settles into a comfy-looking chair in the lobby to read while Sturgis leads me up a flight of stairs and down a long hallway that smells like asparagus.

“Don't mention baseball,” Sturgis suddenly whispers as we approach the end of the hall.

“Huh?”

“She doesn't know I play,” he explains. “She wouldn't like it.”

He knocks loudly, and we hear coughing and scratching about until the door finally opens.

She's not even that old, I think. No older than Steve's grandma, who's still working and always doing things, and nowhere near the retirement home kind of lifestyle.

Sturgis's grandma is a little worse for the wear, though. There's a yellow tinge to her skin and eyes, and she smells funny. There's something weary and broken about her. She's sick with something, I know. It must be one of those long, drawn-out diseases that destroy you in slow motion.

“Oh, it's you,” she says. “You've brought a friend?”

“This is Roy,” he tells her. “Remember, I told you about Roy?”

“Of course I remember Roy,” she tells him crossly. “My liver isn't working right, but my brain is.” She nods hello to me but doesn't notice the hand I offer.

“Come in, come in,” she says. “I'm making soup.”

The kitchen is just a little open area off to the side, not a proper room. I can see potato peels and carrot shavings in the sink and something bubbling on the stove. I'm a bit scared of eating anything made in this place, but it smells okay. Just vegetables, I tell myself. Vegetables probably can't hurt you.

“It won't be ready for a while,” she says to me. “You hungry now?”

“No, ma'am,” I tell her.

“‘Ma'am,’” she repeats with a weak smile as she walks slowly back to the living room to sit down. “He's a polite one, Stuey.”

“I told you, he's a nice guy.” Sturgis sits by her on the couch, and I take a dining room chair, since there's pretty much nowhere else to sit.

“Well, I'm glad you have a friend,” she says, plopping down on the couch. “Sturgis never had friends,” she explains.

“Grandma,” he says in disbelief.

“Well, it's true,” she says. “It's my fault, I guess. I should have moved to Moundville instead of living in the old farm-house out in the middle of nowhere.”

“So your family is originally from Moundville?” I ask.

“Oh, we're not from Moundville,” she says. “Them's fighting words,” she adds with a wheezing laugh.

“Sinister Bend,” Sturgis explains.

“You never told me that.”

“Didn't I?” He won't look at me for some reason. “Well, I never lived there myself. Just Baltimore and out at the farm-house.”

“Right.” I try to incorporate Sinister Bend into the Nye family history.

“It was probably a mistake to homeschool, too.” His grandma is still obsessing over her mistakes. “But what else could I do after you got kicked out?”

“Crab apples?” I whisper to Sturgis.

“Different occasion,” he whispers back. “Hey, do you want to watch a movie or something?” He picks up the remote.

“We're talking, Sturgis.” She reaches for the remote, and he hands it to her. She puts it down in front of her.

“I suppose you know about Sturgis's dad?” she asks me.

“Mostly,” I tell her. “I know he's in prison.”

“It's true. My boy's a jailbird,” she says with a sigh. “You try to keep your boys out of trouble, but they always find it. He fell in with the wrong crowd, he did. That and the devil music and the trashy novels, he never had a chance.”

Sturgis rolls his eyes. He's inherited all of his father's books and music, after all.

“I tried to keep this one out of trouble,” she says of
Sturgis. “He was getting into fights at school, so I took him out.” She's just said he was expelled, and now she's trying to cover her tracks. “Who knows what goes on in schools any-more anyway?”

“He turned out okay,” I tell her, wondering how Sturgis kept his hard-rock tapes and Orc books hidden from her when he lived there.

“I don't know what inspired him to throw rocks at cars,” she says. “You can't pin that one on me.”

“Kids just do dumb things,” says Sturgis. He's looking longingly at the TV, and I guess he usually tries to pass the time by finding a movie rather than talk about the past for two hours.

“You might think he did it just to get me in trouble,” she says thoughtfully.

“That's stupid,” says Sturgis quietly.

“Maybe I didn't do enough!” she suddenly says, as if the thought has just occurred to her. “Was I a bad grandma?”