Sophomore Campaign (18 page)

Dennison smiled, his thoughts rising precipitously and
overflowing like the swell of papers challenging the thin cardboard binding of his portfolio.

“I have all of that, Murph, right here,” he said. “Numbers. Statistics. Projections. Charts and graphs. It's all here. I can see the value there. Believe me. But, I also know that those things only tell part of the story.”

Dennison walked backed to his desk, sighed purposefully, and pulled from the top drawer a stack of letters addressed to Lester in care of the team. “Do you know what these are, Mr. Murphy?” he asked. “Hmm? Allow me.”

He undid the shoelace holding the envelopes together, pulled and opened the first, then began to read aloud.

Dear Mr. Sledge,

Ain't nothin' more sickening than a jigaboo that don't know his place. You best watch yourself boy. Hear? Nobody wants you here and nobody will cry none when they find your black jungle bunny ass hanging in the woods. You better know I'm watching you and your jigaboo loving friends.

Murph shook his head, his mind flushing faintly into frustration. “Don't give me this crap, Warren,” Murph said. “I know all about that. Ain't anything new. Lester has already shown me a hundred others, just like it.”

“And what about all the other stuff, Murph?” Dennison persisted. “Huh? Is that all ‘nothing new' as well?”

Murph felt the approaching crisis in Dennison's words. “Look, Warren, things have not been easy. And I guess I should have told you about some of the other things that have happened. Yes, it's not always pleasant. I hear you. But you know what? Look at us. Would you just look at us? We are a pretty good damned baseball team. Despite all of this horse crap—the letters, the threats—we
have played through and have come out on top. Think about that. We are halfway through the season, and sitting on top. You can't argue with that.”

“I'm aware of the numbers, Murph. I am.”

“And have you seen the newspapers? Have you really thought about this? Here we are, with the best freakin' pitcher on the planet, and the league's leading hitter, and we are getting all the ink. I think Lester has started to really win people over. It's news, Warren. And good news. He's fascinating to talk about. Now what could be bad about that?”

“I know all that, Murph. And it's—”

“Stop right there,” Murph ordered, reading the old man's expression. “We had a deal, Warren! Jesus Christ!”

“All of that is good, Murph. But there's a little something called opportunity cost. You know, weighing that good against the bad. And I've done that. Now, that being said, I called you here today—”

“I know exactly why you called me here today. Bull. That's what it is.”

“I called you here today,” Dennison continued, “to tell you I am fairly satisfied with what you have done. I am. And I don't suppose I could justify to the people letting you go. Not now anyway. However, if we are to continue as is, I need some of this to go away. It's gotta stop. It's bad press. You need to find a way to keep this boy out of trouble. Out of the public eye.”

Murph wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “Wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying? Continue? As we are?”

“Now don't go breaking your arm patting yourself on the back, Arthur,” Dennison replied. “And don't be making any party plans either. You ain't out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. You've got a lot of work to do before you can lift up any glasses.”

Murph shook his head again as his insecurities took their final breaths. “Work is fine,” he said. “Work I can handle.”

That night, Murph celebrated the news with Molly. They ate steak and drank wine by candlelight, and Molly played the clarinet for him afterward while he sipped his brandy. Then, under a sleek velvet sky adorned with a thousand glinting diamonds, they walked in the cool night air, arm in arm, listening to the crickets and reveling in the happiness they continued to find together. Their feet were light and moved in unison, displacing dead thistles and loose gravel with every step. Murph was quiet. She watched, with fascination, the moon's reflection in his eyes and tried, at every turn, to gauge his mood. He said nothing, however. Just filled his lungs and stared transfixed at the myriad constellations peeking through the gathering clouds that had lingered curiously in front of the moon for a moment before continuing their nightly pilgrimage.

“Mr. Murphy, you are a million miles away tonight,” Molly said, her lashes fluttering. “What in the world are you thinking about?”

He took a few more steps with her, still reticent, then finally alighted, bringing his hand from his side to her cheek. “It's beautiful out here, Molly,” he said, staring out into the tide of darkness at a star ensconced in a purplish hue. “Sort of makes you believe that everything in the universe is right—just the way it should be. All we need to do is just stop and look.”

Molly smiled as the crickets continued to blow their tiny kazoos. “I agree, Arthur,” she said, squeezing his hand. “It's a perfect night.” Her reply brought about in Murph a swift return of thought to issues of a more earthly nature.

“It
is
perfect, Molly. I've been thinking that it's all perfect. All of it. Including right now, which seems the perfect moment for us to do what only seems good and natural.”

He looked at her softly and tucked the errant strands of hair
hanging in her eyes behind her ears. For a while, they said nothing. Just stood, face to face, locked in a sort of visual embrace. The air was still, the only movement coming from a handful of desultory fireflies sprinkled across a dark canvas, tiny drops of soft light that glowed intermittently as they embarked on their nocturnal odyssey.

“I'm thinking that it's about time I made an honest woman out of you, Molly,” he finally said, kneeling on bended knee. “You know, make this whole thing official.”

Molly's eyes dilated. She sighed deeply, as if his words had forced all of the air from her lungs, and turned her head. It was not what she was expecting. She was finally legally free from Clarence, and this afforded her considerable peace, but she still suffered from the indelible residue of their tumultuous union. So much of it, she thought, was rooted in all the years she spent in silent subjugation. Clarence was a ruthless martinet. Volatile. Self-serving. Abusive. He had stripped her of every last shred of self worth and dignity. His dominion was so inexorable, so unrelenting, that she marveled at how she had even survived. It began almost the very minute they were wed. That night, at the farm, under the auspices of matrimonial consummation, he climbed on top of her, his rancid breath strong, and told her not to move.

She shuddered at the recollection and swore she would never again subject herself to such incarceration.

Yet part of her also remembered how it was she came to recognize the evils to which she had grown so numb. He was standing next to her. Arthur Murphy was no Clarence. Far from it. From the very first time they met, he was warm and attentive. She never felt more liberated than when she was with him. And then there was Mickey. The boy had really blossomed in Murph's care. There was no denying that. With the moon melting down the backside of the distant oaks, she struggled with the opposing forces. It was a lot to
consider. This protracted pause, an awkward silence that swelled all around them was interminable—certainly long enough to fill Murph's head with the dreadful thought that he had misspoken. He stood there, foot tapping, wishing he could recapture his words, certain he had jumped the gun. He had just closed his eyes in cloying humiliation when he felt her lips press softly against his. It was unlike any other kiss they had shared. There was something ethereal, ineffably electric about it. As if her entire lifetime had been communicated to him through her soft, wet lips. He had never felt closer to her.

“I love you, Arthur,” she said softly, holding his face in her hands.

“It's going to all work out,” he assured her. “It will. The time will have to be right, but I love you, Molly. I love you too.”

Murph continued to ride the swell of good fortune. He never smiled so much. His happiness was indomitable, had taken off like the company of field sparrow that skimmed low and playfully over the flowering meadow just beyond the artificial boundaries of his modest lot. He was intoxicated with blithesome promise, and his joyous mien could not be tamed. Even Matheson's trite admonitions could not dampen his spirits.

“Don't go counting your chickens, son,” the old timer warned him. “Things are good, sure, but Fate's a fickle shrew. One day, everything's coming up roses, and you're riding high, and the next, misery is all around you, like a mad woman's piss.”

Murph paid him no mind. It was all good. Glorious even. His burgeoning career. This relationship with Molly which had blossomed into a beautiful flower. What had he done to all of a sudden become worthy of such bliss? He could not fathom an answer. The world just seem to burst into a spinning wheel of brilliant color. Even things he had observed a thousand times before had come to life. And it wasn't just those large, unmistakable things that were now imbued with this ferocious vitality, like the grass at Borchert Field or the towering oaks surrounding his home. No, it was
everywhere. Even in the most rudimentary things, like the morning air, now crisp and redolent, and the pattern of the tiny leaves on the elderberry bushes just outside his bedroom window, which had morphed into tiny canvasses of marvel. But amidst all the euphoria, he was still galled by the problems with Lester, frustrated like a willful child eager to set in place the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Look, about what happened that night, Lester,” Murph said, as he and Mickey sat around on the porch showing Lester some pictures from last season. “Did anyone see you guys leave, or say something to you?”

“No, no way. We even switched up our routine, just to get away from all of it. I don't get it. It's like someone followed us, or knew somehow where to find us.”

Lester's words rattled something loose inside Murph.

“Yeah, it does seems a little strange,” he said raising his eyebrows. “The whole thing just ain't right. Things don't seem to add up. Not at all.”

“You don't know something?” Lester asked. “Do ya, Murph?”

Murph began to speak, as though something had suddenly occurred to him, but he kept himself in hand and said nothing more.

Mickey sat, tapping his foot nervously against the leg of his chair. The conversation had ignited a spark in his mind as well. He had said nothing about the attack that night. Until now.

“Why do those men wear white hoods, Murph?” he asked.

“Those men are bad, Mickey. Bad apples.”

“All of them?”

“Every last one.”

“I thought that bad men always wore black. Like in them movies, with John Wayne.”

“Well, this here is a special kind of bad man, Mickey. Ain't no rhyme or reason to what they do. They're just plain bad.”

“All of them?”

“Yup. All of them.” Mickey's eyes tightened and seemed to fix themselves on something distant.

“Can there be one who isn't bad?”

“I don't reckon that's possible, Mick,” Lester said, reading the boy's face carefully. “Haven't met one yet who didn't have the devil in his eye.” Murph watched as Mickey fidgeted, his back hunched unnaturally.

“Something on your mind you want to talk about, Mick?” Murph asked. The boy chewed at his fingers.

“Nope.” Mickey don't want to talk about nothing.”

“You sure now?”

He looked away before answering. “Yup. Mickey is sure.”

“Look, I know this is hard to understand, Mickey. Hell, I don't even get most of it. But people are funny sometimes. But not everyone. There are plenty of good people out there too. The trick is knowing who the good ones are and who are the ones you need to steer clear of.”

The boy's voice rattled, as if something were lodged in his throat. “Some people are mean. I reckon that's why I'd rather be with Duncan and Daphney and the rest of the animals. Ain't no bad ones there.”

The wave of prosperity on which Murph had ridden gleefully for months eventually fell. It was to be expected he told himself. Just the natural ordering of the universe. With the exception of his plans with Molly, everything seemed to turn to crap. The latest news about Boxcar was not good. Dennison was on his ass and no matter how hard he tried, he just could not shield Lester from the festering odium. The letters and packages and violent affronts kept coming. It was maddening. The more successful Lester was on the field, and the more hearts he won, the worse it got. Murph did not know what to do.

To make matters worse, the Brewers hit their first rough patch of the season during that same stretch. They dropped four straight and were spiraling out of control. Murph was beside himself. Dennison's edict was clear: win or you're out. His face grew a shade paler as he recalled the conviction with which those words had been said.

Just the thought of his recent success—now ephemeral and as certain as a fist full of sand—was enough to light the fuse of utter panic. It was this desperation that lead to an emergency meeting following their last failure.

“Listen, fellas. I'm done screaming. Now I don't know what the hell is going on here. I'll be damned if I can make any sense of any of it. All I know is that we are in trouble, boys. Real trouble. Our lead is dwindling. And it doesn't appear to be getting any better.”

There was something melancholic and urgent in his voice that accented the contours of his sunken face and fleeting eyes.

“Now I don't know if any of this matters to you guys. Or if you have anything left inside of you. Any part of you, no matter how small, that wants to fight for your own well being and self respect. If you do, and I know that some of you do, I am asking for you to call on it. Now. We need it now. It cannot wait any longer. And if for some reason none of this means a hill of beans to you, and I'm asking too much, then do it for
me
. Because I gotta be honest with all of you. If we don't right this ship, I'll be gone. Dennison's had my head on the block for months now, and he's getting itchy. And I have to say, I've grown sort of attached to your ugly mugs, and I'm not quite ready to give that up. So please. Let's do this thing. We cannot afford any more setbacks. And we need everyone to contribute. We cannot do this without everyone in this room.”