Mudville (7 page)

“Let me finish the story,” Peter replies. “The search party came back and told Ptan Tanka his son was lost. Ptan Tanka hung his head in sorrow and spoke in a low growl. He said
that dark times were ahead. He said that there would be vengeance, but he didn't say what kind. That's where the story of the curse was born.”

“Sounds like a curse to me,” I say.

“I think it was more of a warning,” Peter explains. “Ptan Tanka didn't believe his son was dead, see. He thought his son had entered the spirit world and would harness its power to wreak his revenge. That's what the prophecy was about.”

“But that still doesn't explain why it took so long to kick in,” I realize. “It just started raining over twenty years ago.”

“You're making one really big assumption,” he says.

“What's that?”

“That the rain is Ptan Teca's revenge.”

“Well, if it wasn't, then why are we talking about him?”

Peter looks thoughtfully up at the sky instead of digging. “Not much rain right now,” he says. “Good time for a break.” He heads off to the tent for some coffee, ignoring my question.

“Maybe that story does have something to do with us,” Sturgis whispers after Peter is gone.

“You don't mean you believe all that business about a kid entering the spirit world.”

“Well, Peter believes it,” he says, and trots off to the portable toilet.

“So what?” I say to nobody. Lots of people believe lots of things. Curse this and dam that, as my dad says. What no-body gets is that it's all percentages.

I look up at the sky and think I see some of the clouds blowing away and maybe a little sunshine peeking through.
That happens sometimes. You learn pretty young not to start planting sunflowers just because the rain lets up a little. I stick the shovel firmly in the mud, take off my raincoat and hang it on the shovel handle, and go to the tent for some water.

When I step back outside, the rain has stopped completely.

The clouds are clearing, revealing a stunning blue sky. The guys on the roof drop what they're doing and reel back in astonishment. Up and down the street, people leave their houses and offices to look up in wonder.

I've imagined this moment many times, and I always thought people would shout and skip and sing and dance in the streets, like so many extras in a musical. I thought I would run to the ballpark, with its rotting benches and ruined field. I would have my shin guards and chest protector on, my bat and glove ready, and I would stretch out in the muddy outfield and wait for the grass to grow back.

Instead, my stomach is in a knot and I can't move. Lou is crying, gesturing at the now-cloudless sky and trying to speak to Frank, but Frank turns away, overcome. I realize we're all scared.

Sturgis glances up, takes his shovel, and starts scooping mud from his wheelbarrow back into the ditch.

“We might as well fill this back in,” he says.

Frank says we should take the day off. Either the rain will pick up again and fall for another twenty-odd years, or it's really over. If it starts raining again, we'll waste the only sunny afternoon in years; if it doesn't, our jobs are obsolete anyway. So for maybe the first time in history, something is called off on account of no rain.

“So how do your percentages explain this?” Sturgis asks when we get home.

“What do you mean? Statistics
completely
explain it.”

“You said the statistics were why it was raining. Now they're why it's
not
raining. That makes a lot of sense!”

“It does.” I go through the whole explanation again, using Walt Dropo as an example.

“So Walt Dropo is Moundville, and base hits are rain?”

“Exactly.”

“All right. So what does that have to do with it not raining anymore?”

“Because after Walt Dropo got twelve hits in a row, he wasn't guaranteed a hit the next time. That's why.”

“I still don't get it.”

“It's called a gambler's fallacy. It's like if you're playing roulette and there's a bunch of reds in a row. A gambler might think it's going to be red next time, or maybe that there's going to be a run of blacks. Either way, he's wrong. The odds are exactly the same for every spin.”

“I read this James Bond novel where this casino had a magnet under the wheel and could freeze the ball wherever they wanted it. I'd put my money on red.”

“If it's fixed, you're going to lose either way,” I remind him.

“Oh, right.” He looks thoughtful. “Anyway, I don't see what that has to do with this.”

“Every day is a new day. The past doesn't matter. That's all I'm saying.”

“If that's what the statistics think, the statistics are dumb.” He grabs his fantasy book and stalks off to read it. With all the junk he reads about elves and wizards, it's no wonder he can't think scientifically.

My dad is not much in the mood for cooking, so he sprinkles some frozen peas on a frozen pizza and throws it in the oven.

“Peas on pizza?” I ask when I see it.

“You need your vegetables,” he says sharply.

The pizza is burned on the edges and cold in the middle. We eat it anyway, seeing how upset he is.

“Up to my nose in debts,” my dad mutters, and “Good luck getting anyone to honor their contracts,” and “My life's work is down the tubes.”

“When it rains, sell umbrellas,” I remind him.

“I did that!” he snaps. “It's not raining anymore, and I have a warehouse full of umbrellas.”

“It might start raining again,” Sturgis says helpfully.
“There's no reason it can't rain another twenty years, even. Percentagewise.”

“He's right, Dad,” I agree.

“Do you think?”

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“I hope you're right.” My dad spends the rest of the evening taking calls from customers, all of them canceling their orders.

Later on, he yells at me that I have a phone call. I won-der if it's Steve. He probably wants to play baseball ASAP, before the rain starts again.

“Dude,” I say into the phone.

“Well, hello there.” It's my mother. She sounds a little tipsy. “I saw you on the late news.”

“I was on the news?”

“Your town, silly. Good old Moundville.” She laughs. “Mudville, USA. They said it stopped raining, just like that.”

“Yep,” I say, like it's no big deal.

“Who woulda thunk it?”

“Not me,” I say. “Next thing you know, the Cubs will win the World Series.”

She laughs. “Or maybe Moundville will even beat Sinis-ter Bend! Hey, I sent you a postcard from Chicago. Did you get it?”

“Yeah. Thanks. I added it to the collection.” She sent me a postcard from U.S. Cellular, though, not Wrigley Field.

“Anyway,” she says, “I just wanted to say congratulations. Hey, tell your dad he can finally finish that baseball game. If
they can round everyone up.” She laughs again and starts singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

Now I know she's tipsy.

“Well, thanks for calling.” I hang up the phone right in the middle of the part about how she doesn't care if she never gets back.

The next day is the Fourth of July. It's a perfect day for it, too: sunny and not a drop of rain. Around noon, I get an itch to head outside and see what's going on.

“Want to go hang out downtown?” I ask Sturgis. He's on the couch, reading one of his paperback books.

“I don't think so,” he says. “I've been wanting to reread this series for a while. Roger Zelazny.” He looks at me hope-fully, but I've never heard of the guy and don't care.

“You're going to hang out inside when it's actually not raining?”

He shrugs. “Inside's okay,” he says. “I just kind of want to read.”

“Didn't you say yourself that it would probably start up again? What if it's the only nice day for the next twenty-two years?”

“There's a short story like that by Ray Bradbury,” he says. “It takes place on a planet where the sun comes out for a few hours every seven years. One kid spends the whole day locked in a closet.”

“And you want to be that kid?”

“Yeah. I always identified with that kid.”

My dad is in the office, messing with invoices or something.

“Want to go kick around town?” I ask him.

“Maybe later. I'm trying to figure out how to give every-one two weeks’ severance pay without selling our house.”

“Well, I'm going to head out,” I tell him. “Just in case this is the one sunny day in my whole life. I don't want to be like the kid in the Roger Bradbury story.” That sounds wrong, but whatever.

“All right. Have fun.”

What a couple of sad sacks, I think as I bang out the door.

I'm glad to discover I'm not the only one eager to get out and enjoy the weather. People are setting up rusty old grills in their driveways, trying to light age-old charcoal. They're in the street, tossing Nerf footballs and Frisbees. One family has even dumped enough fresh sand in their muddy yard to have a go at volleyball.

It occurs to me that I don't really know everyone, the way you're supposed to in a small town. Everyone was inside all the time, and even outside they were hidden under hoods and umbrellas. I walk along, waving at all the neighbors and wishing I could halfway whistle. I'm just in that kind of mood.

Downtown, there's an impromptu block party. Most towns have them on the Fourth, but Moundville never has in my lifetime. Everyone packs off to Sutton or wherever for barbecue and fireworks. This year, everyone has gathered downtown.

There's a big grill going—who knows where they found it—and a snow cone machine and an ice cream truck and popcorn and cotton candy. There's a rock band playing in the ruins of the grandstand and a guy dressed like Uncle Sam, on stilts, making balloon animals for kids. It's strange to see all this among the washed-out buildings and gray mud. It reminds me of this weird painting I saw once, because the background is the same, like a desert on Pluto. Only instead of melting clocks and a dead walrus, there's kids eating cotton candy and an Uncle Sam making balloon animals.

“Hey, Roy!”

I turn around and see Steve.

“Nice day!” he says, grinning from ear to ear.

“I've seen nicer,” I joke, but I'm grinning, too.

“I'm going to get bunnies for my baby sisters,” he says. I wait while he puts in the request with Uncle Sam. “Two rabbits. One blue and one red.”

“So where's your foster brother or whatever?” Steve wants to know while we're waiting.

“Sturgis? He's reading.”

“Man. That's messed up.”

“Well, he's only lived here like a week,” I remind him. “This is no big deal for him.”

Uncle Sam hands Steve the two balloon rabbits, and Steve hands one to me.

“For me?”

“Shut up. Come on.”

We're walking through the crowd when we see the girls
from the gym. The one I noticed before turns around and smiles really adorably at both of us. I smile back, then remember I'm carrying a balloon bunny. I try to carry it casually, but it's just about impossible to carry a balloon bunny and be cool about it. The girls are whispering to each other, pointing and laughing.

“Remind me to beat you up later,” I tell Steve.

“What for?”

“Just remind me.”

We find Steve's family eating hot dogs and watching the band play.

“We saw a guy making balloon animals,” Steve announces. We give the rabbits to Sheila and Shauna. I glance around, hoping those two girls can see us, but they're gone.

The twins are excited, of course, and want to tell me all about how the sun came out and the rain went away, and how all the kids at day camp went out and played tag, and how the teacher didn't care that they were all covered with mud from head to toe by the end of the day.

Steve's dad hands me a hot dog loaded with mustard and onions, but no ketchup.

“Thanks. Just the way I like it.”

“I know. I don't forget a man who knows how to eat a hot dog.”

There are more hot dogs after that, and pop and caramel corn and ice cream. It's kind of a blur. Steve and I join some guys kicking a soccer ball around in the street, then supervise
a three-legged race by kids eight and under, which is won by his sisters.

The main thing everyone talks about is rain—why it stopped and whether it will start up again. Since he's pretty much the smartest guy I know, I ask Mr. Robinson.