Sophomore Campaign (25 page)

Murph's idea was well received. Most of the guys decided to just
hang around at home and kick back, but McGinty, Mickey, and Lester left on their fishing excursion the next day under a dubious afternoon sky stricken with intermittent cloud bursts that seemed to suggest a storm despite the prevailing sun. McGinty's place was not much to speak of—just a threadbare shack that provided a place to sit and shoot the bull after a day of fishing at the lake—but it was his haven, and he was always willing to share the solitude with anyone who could tolerate the austere accommodations.

Once at the lake, Pee Wee was the first to set up shop. He found an old log and sat momentarily, baiting his hook and musing about the last time he and his brother caught enough bass to feed a small village, then stood up and cast his line into the middle of the water. Satisfied with the distance and placement of his effort, he sat back down and watched hypnotically as a succession of rings unfurled across the water.

“Okay, boys, who's next?” he asked, pulling his cap down over his brow to shield his eyes from the lengthening glare. “Don't wait too long now. Won't be any fish left for either of you.”

Mickey found a log of his own on which to rest. His eyes, now the color of the lake, passed over the water to a grassy knoll across the way, and fixed themselves on a row of bushes, heavy with ripened red berries. He imagined himself on the other side, darting from thicket to thicket, his shirt pulled away from his waist to form a basket of sorts where the delectable fruits would sit before being counted and consumed.

“Whatta ya say, Mick,” Lester called, as his line joined Pee Wee's in the murky pool. “Ain't you fishing today?”

“Aw, I reckon that Mickey will just sit for a while,” he replied, his gaze still somewhere off in the distance.

“That's all right, Mick,” Pee Wee added. “Lester and I will catch enough fish for all of us to share.”

Here and there, shadows continued to creep across the water as the day wore on. Neither Pee Wee nor Lester had gotten even a nibble and Mickey, who was still seated close by, had yet to bait a hook all afternoon.

“You know, I was thinking,” Pee Wee said. “Seems like the three of us have an awful lot in common.” He looked first in the direction of Lester, who raised his eyebrows and smiled incredulously, and then at Mickey. “I'm serious. We are really a lot alike.”

“So you think you two boys are like me?” Lester asked.

“Yeah, I do. I think we are
all
the same,” Pee Wee said. “All of us.”

Lester shook his head and tugged on his line.

“Wanna know what I think, McGinty?” Lester paused and smiled oddly. “I think you've been out in the sun too long.”

“Come on, Lester. You've gotta be kidding me. You can't see what I'm saying?”

Lester shook his head again and tightened his lips.

“Don't you be asking about something you don't really want to hear about, Pee Wee.”

“I'm serious, Lester. Come on. You really don't see it?”

“You want to know what I see? Huh? Is that what you want? What I see, what I always see, is the same thing I seen since the day I got here. That is one black man in a white man's world. Your world. A world that keeps pissing all over me and damn near expects me to call it champagne. A world that pats me on the back with one hand and grabs me by the onions with the other. So while I'm much obliged to Mr. Murphy and to you and Mickey and some of the other white folks who have shown me kindness, don't you dare tell me, ever, that we are the same.”

The two men struggled with feelings both sharp and twisted. They sat in silence, their eyes tracing the erratic movements of a
cloud of black flies hovering over the water. It was only the innocence of Mickey that rescued them from each other.

“Mickey thinks Lester is right,” he said, shattering the silence before walking over to join the conversation. “Lester Sledge is right, Pee Wee. Lester is right. He is. I'm sorry.”

“What?” Pee Wee asked. “What the hell are you talking about, Mickey?”

“There, you see, even Mickey gets it, McGinty. It ain't that hard.”

There was a brief pause before Mickey spoke again.

“Mickey is very tall, Pee Wee is very small and Lester is right in the middle.”

Pee Wee did his best to hide his exasperation.

“That's not what I mean, Mickey. Look, if you would just—”

“Lester has very dark skin and dark hair, Mickey has tan skin and light hair, and Pee Wee has white skin and only a little hair.”

Lester laughed and sputtered a few “I told you so's” as Mickey continued a constant stream of commentary enumerating the many physical disparities between the threesome.

“Aw, cut the crap, Lester,” Pee Wee protested. “You know what I'm talking about. I know all that, Mickey. I know all those things you're saying. I ain't blind.”

“But you said that—”

“I know what I said, Mick,” Pee Wee interrupted. “But what I meant is that we, the three of us, are all misfits in our own way. Jesus, look at
me
. Is this the body of a grown man, let alone a baseball player? Do you know the abuse I have taken—all the snide remarks and practical jokes at my expense? I have had to fight for everything I have, every step of the way. And it ain't over yet. And what about young Mickey here. Is he any different than me? So he's a little slow sometimes, and has a few quirky habits. Does that make him
bad? No, but it sure makes him different, just like being five foot five makes me different. Then there's you, Lester. Yeah, your skin is darker than ours. And your hair is curly and you don't always speak the way we do. Yeah, you're different too. Just like we are. Just like we are. Get it? Do you guys get it now? We are different, sure, but not from each other.”

Lester's first reaction was a bit bizarre, his face reminiscent of a Salvador Dali-like portrait in which eyes were not windows to the soul but simply prisms through which nothing was readily discernable. He said nothing—just stared blankly with a look both unsettling and surreal.

“Look, I hear ya, Pee Wee,” he finally said some time later. “I do. But ya'll got to remember one thing.
My
different puts my life on the line. Every day. I gots to worry every day. It ain't just teasing and razzing. Or even simple prejudice. I'm talking ‘bout the fear of getting my neck stretched, just cause I'm a negro. See what
I'm
saying? Ain't nobody burning crosses on your lawn or threatening you every day cause you is short.”

A half hour passed without a single word spoken. They still had not caught any fish and the sun had already begun its descent below the tree line. Evening was fast approaching, with the day's light waning in slanted oblongs through the distant pines.

Sitting there, they had sunk into a heavy awkwardness that, save for Mickey's humming, had eradicated any exchange of sound among them. Pee Wee sat, imagining ways in which he could articulate this feeling he was trying to convey, but the more he thought about it, the more detached he felt from the others. He fidgeted on his log, and tugged gently on his fishing line now and again. He decided to focus on the fish. The distraction, however, was formidable, and the ruminations continued. After several more minutes of beating himself up over what had come out all wrong, he promised
himself he would just let it go. He had all abandoned any hope of finding just the right words when to his own surprise he was suddenly seized by the need to speak.

“Look, Lester, I ain't trying to say that we've had it as tough as you, although Mickey here can tell you a few stories that would straighten some of those curls. All I'm saying is that I think we understand each other because we all have had similar experiences. Ya know? I have to tell you, when Mickey came last year, I finally felt normal. Like my life wasn't so messed up. I could finally talk to someone who also knows what it's like to grow up different, and without a father.”

“Mickey's got a daddy,” Lester said. “He told me so himself.”

“His daddy's alive, sure,” Pee Wee commented. “But he ain't no father. Damn near killed the boy a few times with his own hands.”

“That right, Mick?” Lester asked. “Yer daddy go beatin' ya all the time?”

Mickey inhaled a few breaths then spoke, nourished by the softness in Lester's voice. “He hit me pretty good, Lester Sledge. Sometimes two and three times a day. All on account of me being a retard.”

Lester set his pole down gently. He heard, in his own heart, echoes of misfortune and suffering that pounded his chest like a factory machine. His face sagged and the dark circles under his lower lids enlarged like a dam about to burst.

“Well don't that beat all,” he said, a profound sadness tolling over him. “I think, Pee Wee, that I may owe you an apology. Ain't we the sorry lot here.”

“Ya think?” Pee Wee asked.

“I sure do. The midget, the retard, and the monkey boy. You is right. We don't belong here. None of us. But, Christ, I'd still trade
places with either of you guys in a second, but glory be, I sees where you is going.”

The walk back to the cabin under a blackening sky that was signaling the impending death of another day was cloying. Between their unsuccessful fishing and the heavy conversation, all three were having difficulty shaking the foggy, lingering state of uncertainty that had filled the corners of their minds. Once back inside, Pee Wee pursued some levity. He posed in front of the only cabinet in the cabin, and gestured like Maryanne, their favorite waitress at Rosie's, placing one hand on his hip and the other in the air, palm up, as if balancing an imaginary tray.

“Welcome to Pee Wee's, boys,” he announced in his best female southern drawl. “I'm afraid we are plum out of fish, but there's plenty of today's special left.”

The glow of the gas lamps inside revealed a burgeoning smile on Lester's face.

“And what, pray tell, would that be, little darling?” he asked, winking while rubbing his hands together feverishly.

Pee Wee curtsied, held up one finger to both Lester and Mickey, a tacit request for their patience, then turned to face the cabinet. The rusty hinges protested against Pee Wee's intrusion, but the grating sound was soon replaced by mock cheers and applause as he held in his hands, for all to see, the staple of their grand repast.

“Anyone for pork and beans?”

They sat around on wooden crates with metal plates balancing on their laps, each taking a turn talking about struggles they wished they could forget but could not. “Mickey pissed himself once,” the youngest of the three shared. “I told him I had to go. I did. Told him, lots of times, till he hit me for talking. Just kept telling me to shut my trap and shuck the corn. Mickey tried to hold it. I did. Crossed my legs, like this here, and tried to forget. But I just couldn't hold
it no more. Soaked my pants something good.” Lester and Pee Wee chuckled.

“Is that the thing that bothers you the most, kid?” Lester asked. “A little pee pee on your leg?”

The two men chuckled again, laughed heartily until Mickey, who had waited for the impromptu hysteria to abate, continued the painful reminiscence.

“My pa, he was so angry. Mickey remembers, he could not even speak no more. Just took the basket of corn, dumped it on the ground, and started hitting me with it. On my hands, the back of my neck, all over. Said I was a dim-witted numbskull, dumber than a stump.”

There was no more laughter. Only silence, a deflated hush, as if all the air in the room had been released at once. Discomfort ruled the minute. Pee Wee's old boots hurt his feet, and Lester's hands could no longer steady the plate on his lap. All of them were, all at once, uneasy with themselves.

“Gee, we're sorry, Mick,” Pee Wee said. “Didn't mean nothing by laughing like that. It ain't funny. Not at all.”

“Nothing funny ‘bout getting whooped,” Lester added. “No, sir. Don't suppose I'll ever forget my first one.”

Lester paused momentarily, as if summoning some necessary strength from deep within, before recounting the tale. He explained how it was a stormy day, with jagged clouds that had darkened all at once and began dumping rain everywhere. His mother was due back from her day of cleaning houses but had yet to arrive. It was a good four miles on foot from the good part of town and with this sort of weather, it would take her that much longer. So Lester did what any ten-year-old boy who loves his mother would do. He went out to find her. He wandered aimlessly, trying to remember the route his mother always took, and hadn't gotten very far when he ran into
three boys, not too much older than he, playing in the puddles that had just begun to form.

“Hey, boy,” one of them shouted.

Lester pretended he did not hear.

“Hey, boy. Yo, you over there. Boy. Come here now. We want to talk to you.”

The voice was now closer. Lester turned to face the request. A stiff wind blew the rain hard against his face as he dragged his feet on the wet asphalt.

“What do you think you're doing in this part of town?” another asked.

Lester hung his head.

“Answer us now, boy. Don't you know there ain't no colored folks around here?”

A dark shadow passed over Lester's heart.

“I'm just looking for my ma,” he said.

“Your ma? Is that what you said?” the third boy asked. “Are you jiving us boy? Why would a colored woman be here? Huh?”

Lester shrank, shivering beneath the cold rain drops and the bluster of the tiny mob.

“I think I know what's happening here,” the first boy said, smiling devilishly. “I think our colored friend here has forgot that he's a negro.”

The empowered miscreant turned and faced his two cohorts.

“Now, what do you suppose we should do about that?”

In his dim, frightened state, Lester never saw it coming. His heart beat deep and powerful as two of the boys held him down while the third filled his hands with mud and began smearing it all over Lester's face. He could still remember the punching and kicking and the taste of dirt on his tongue.