Stumptown Kid (2 page)

“Yeah. Pick me a handful.” He tossed the ball back to me with his good arm.

He said he’d played some ball, but it must have been some weird kind of baseball. I’ve never heard of a pitcher picking grass at the end of a pitch.

I didn’t want to argue with him, though, because he was just trying to help. So I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Right here.” He held the glove in front of his stomach again.

This time, I put my fingers over the seams, wound up, and threw right at his stomach. In the same motion, my hand reached down and pulled up the grass like he told me. The ball went right to him.

He laughed. “What’d I tell you? Perfect.”

I put my hands on my hips. “I’ll be darned, it worked.”

He just stood there and smiled.

“What’s your name, anyway?” I asked him.

“Luther Peale,” he said.

“Well, I’m Charlie Nebraska,” I said, “and I sure do wish I’d met you a week ago.”

Luther’s forehead was beaded with sweat. He wiped his face with the crook of his arm.

“Well, you keep practicin’, Charlie,” he told me. “You remember to follow through on your pitches and you’ll be playin’ like a pro before you know it.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. He looked away and back at me and finally said, “You know of anybody needin’ a man to work?”

I shrugged. “No, sorry.”

He nodded. “Well, I better get going.” He hoisted his bag over his shoulder. “See you, Charlie.” He started walking toward the road along the side of the park.

“Hey, Luther?” I called. He turned back. “My mom might know of someone wanting to hire a man. You want to ask her? She’s probably home by now.”

He looked like he was thinking about it. Then he nodded. “All right. I’d be much obliged.”

“My house is this way.” I nodded in that direction.

We headed through the park and down the sidewalk. A car drove past and the people in the back pasted their faces onto the window glass, staring at Luther. I guess I wasn’t the only person surprised to see a colored man in Holden. I was kind of embarrassed for Luther, and I hoped he didn’t see them. If he did, he didn’t let on.

“That sure is a big sack,” I said. Up close now, I could see it was made of a couple of gunnysacks sewn together. I was wondering what he was lugging in it, but it seemed kind of rude to ask. I was hoping he’d tell me.

“Just got into town last night,” Luther said. “Haven’t found a place to stay yet.”

“Where’d you stay last night?” I asked him.

“Oh, I built a camp south of town on the river. Fixed me a lean-to and caught a catfish for supper. You got pretty good catfish in that river.”

We walked along in silence while I chewed on what he’d just told me. Why didn’t he just get a room somewhere instead of camping out? Maybe he didn’t have the money.

I looked over at his big sack. Maybe he used it because he had too much stuff and it wouldn’t all fit into a suitcase. But the sack didn’t look too heavy.

I wanted to ask him where he came from and why he was here in Holden. But I didn’t want be nosy, so I kept still.

We walked some more, crossed the railroad tracks, and headed into my neighborhood. The houses here are pretty small, with just one floor and four or five rooms.

“This is Stumptown,” I said. “My house is about three more blocks, down by the river.”

“Interesting name, Stumptown,” Luther said.

“Yeah. I guess a long time ago when people came up the river, they stopped in Holden and cut down trees for houses. They moved on with the wood and left the stumps. So when my neighborhood was built, the stumps had to be pulled out little by little, and everybody started calling the place Stumptown.”

“Makes sense,” Luther said.

A few more minutes went by, and then I pointed to my house on the corner. It’s one floor and white. Dad used to keep the grass mowed, but since he’s gone, it’s been my job. It looked pretty good. Especially with the flowers blooming and the maple in the front filled out with leaves. “That’s where I live,” I said.

“Looks nice,” Luther said.

We walked up the gravel drive and over the grass to the front stoop. I opened the screen and the hinges squealed. The big door inside was standing open.

“I can wait out here,” Luther said, backing off a ways.

“How come?” I asked. “Mom works downtown, but she’s always home by now. Come on in and meet her.”

Luther smiled and set down his sack. “Oh, I’ll just stay here and enjoy the sunshine.”

I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll go get us some lemonade and have her come out.”

“That’ll be fine,” he said.

I went inside. The living room smelled of lemon oil, and the doily over the back of the davenport was straightened, so I knew Mom had done her usual Monday tidying up after work. I went to the kitchen, opened the Frigidaire, and pulled open the freezer compartment. When I took out the metal ice cube trays, my fingers stuck a little on them. I pulled up the lever, and the ice squeaked and crunched as it came loose. I filled a couple of glasses with ice and poured the lemonade from the pitcher in the Frigidaire.

Mom came in the kitchen door from the backyard, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes. She was wearing the old housedress she puts on after work and an apron over that. She carried a bowl of peas in their pods, picked from the garden, and a pair of scissors. On top of the peas were some daisies she’d cut from a clump that grows next to the house.

“Oh, Charlie, I didn’t know you were home,” she said, heading for the sink. “How’d the tryout go, hon? Did you make the team?”

“No,” I said. “I got too nervous.”

“Oh, honey, that’s too bad,” she said. “But you’re a good player. You shouldn’t have been nervous.”

“I know, but this kid named Brad Lobo kept yelling stuff at me.”

“Brad Lobo? Do I know who he is? I don’t think I’ve heard you mention him before.” The water rushed over her hands and she turned to me, frowning. “I should’ve gone with you. I can’t believe the coach let some boy get away with making you nervous that way.”

I should’ve known better than to tell Mom what happened. She’s always hovering around, trying to keep everything perfect. I don’t tell her so, but it gets on my nerves.

“Come on outside,” I said to change the subject. “I met somebody, and he’s real nice.”

“Oh, a new friend?” She smiled. “That’s nice, Charlie. But didn’t you ask him in?”

“Yeah, but he said he likes the sunshine.”

“Okay,” Mom said, “give me a second and I’ll be out.” She picked up a dish towel and ran a hand through her hair. “At least let me run a comb through this mess. The humidity makes it all frizzy.”

“You look fine,” I said.

I took the glasses of lemonade outside. Luther was sitting under the maple tree, his big old gunnysack next to him on the ground.

“Mom’ll be right out,” I said, handing him a glass.

“Thank you, Charlie,” he said.

He must’ve been awful thirsty, because he drained the glass in a few seconds. He wiped a hand across his mouth and leaned his head back against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.

“That was the best lemonade I ever had,” he said, “and that’s a fact.”

“There’s plenty more.”

Mom opened the front door and came out on the stoop. She’d taken off her apron and looked like she’d fixed her hair. She stopped when she saw Luther, like she was surprised. She came out to the maple tree.

Luther got to his feet.

“Hello,” Mom said.

“Mom, this is Luther Peale,” I told her. “Luther, this is my mom.”

Luther lifted his cap with his left hand and shook Mom’s hand with his right.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he said. He smiled at her but then looked at the ground. “I don’t shake too good. This hand isn’t what it should be.”

“Luther showed me some good baseball stuff after the tryouts,” I said.

“Well, that was nice of you, Luther,” Mom said. She smiled, but she was peering hard at him the way a scientist might look into a microscope.

“Charlie’s got a good arm,” Luther said, glancing up again. “He just needs a little practice. He’ll come around, you wait and see.”

“Mom, do you know of anybody needing a man to work?” I asked.

“Oh. Here in Holden?” Her voice sounded far away. She cleared her throat. “Well now, let’s see.” She put her fingers to her mouth and looked away, thinking. “I believe Mr. Landen from the egg-buying station said the other day he was looking for help. Maybe you could talk to him.”

“Thanks very much, ma’am,” Luther said. “I’ll go see him.”

My stomach growled. I remembered I’d been so nervous about the tryouts, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “What’s for supper?”

“Spaghetti,” Mom said.

“Good. Mom makes great spaghetti,” I told Luther. I turned back to her. “Can Luther maybe stay for supper?”

“Oh now, Charlie,” Luther began. He held up a hand and took a step back. “I better be going now.”

Mom paused a second. Just past her at the house next door I saw Mrs. Banks peeking around her living room drapes. She must’ve seen me see her, because she let go of the drapes and backed away from the window. I still felt her eyes on us, though, like she was watching us from deeper inside the room. Mrs. Banks is an old busybody. She’s always watching us, but I figured she was spying on us now because Luther was a stranger. Probably because he was colored, too.

“Well,” Mom said, “if you like spaghetti, Luther, you’re welcome to have some with us.”

“Oh, I don’t know, ma’am.” He looked away into the trees.

Mom blinked a couple of times. “We’d be pleased to have you.” She sounded more definite now.

“Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble,” Luther said slowly.

“She don’t mind,” I told him.

“Doesn’t,” Mom corrected.

“She
doesn’t
mind.”

“That sounds good then.” Luther nodded, but he still didn’t look Mom full in the face. “Thank you, ma’am.”

I wondered then if Luther had eaten anything since that fish last night.

“I’m gonna get Luther some more lemonade,” I said.

“I’ll get it,” Mom said quickly and took Luther’s glass from him. She cleared her throat again. “Charlie, will you come in and help me, please?”

I followed Mom back inside. In the kitchen, she said, “It was nice of Luther to talk to you about baseball.” Her voice was light, but I could tell she was deliberating on something.

“Yeah,” I said. “He seems real nice.”

“He does seem like a nice young man.” She pulled open the Frigidaire and got hold of the pitcher. “But you know you should be careful about strangers.”

“I am,” I said. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him. And I wouldn’t have brought him home, but I knew you’d be here.”

She set the pitcher carefully on the counter. “I’m glad you’re thinking about that, hon. I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to keep in mind how to be safe.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just not sure if Vern …” Her voice trailed off.

“If Vern what?” I asked.

She poured the lemonade into Luther’s glass. “Well, I’m just glad he’s not coming tonight.” She said it so quietly, I almost didn’t hear.

“Why not?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

“No, let’s talk about it now,” I said. “What about Vern?” I could hear my voice getting louder. Just hearing that man’s name was setting my teeth on edge.

“Well …” She frowned a little. “It’s just that he—he doesn’t like colored people very much.”

“How come?”

Mom took the pitcher back to the Frigidaire. “Well, some people are just that way. And there’s no point getting him upset.”

I didn’t care if Vern was upset. “Why do you have to see him, anyway?” I asked her. “He’s nothing like Dad. Vern couldn’t be a war hero if you jammed the enemy’s guns and told him exactly what to do.”

“Nobody’s like your dad,” Mom said. “And you remember that. It’s just that I … get lonely sometimes.” She looked at me close for a second or two. “Being your mom is easy, sweetheart, but I’m not very good at being a dad, too. It’d be nice to have some help with that.” I started to open my mouth, and she rushed on. “I don’t mean for anyone to take your dad’s place, honey. But it would be wonderful if you had someone to do father-son things with.”

“I don’t want to do father-son things with Vern.”

“Now Charlie, Vern’s a good man in a lot of ways. He can be very thoughtful. And he has a good, steady job.”

“I still don’t like him.”

Mom sighed. “Charlie, Vern cares about you, you know. So don’t say anything against him. Now, you go on out with Luther, and I’ll call you when supper’s ready.”

I felt like arguing some more, but Luther was waiting for me. I took him the lemonade, and we sat under the tree.

“You sure your mama don’t mind if I stay for supper?” Luther asked. He wrapped his big hands around the cold glass.

“No, she wants you to stay,” I said.

“She’s a nice lady.”

“Yeah.” I blew out, puffing out my cheeks. “I just wish she’d get rid of Vern Jardine.”

“Who’s that?” Luther took a drink of the lemonade.

“He’s her friend. He travels around and sells brushes and vacuum cleaners. When he’s in town, he comes around at suppertime, and Mom invites him to eat.”

“He nice to you?”

I thought about that. “Well … he acts friendly, I guess. But you ever look into somebody’s eyes and know that behind their eyes, they’re different than they want you to think?”

Luther kept his eyes steady on me. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, that’s Vern,” I said.

Luther and I didn’t talk a lot after that. We sat on the grass with the breeze brushing against our faces and worked on our lemonade. I couldn’t see Mrs. Banks at the window, but I figured she was still there. I felt like walking right up on her porch, knocking on the door, and saying, “What’s the matter? Ain’t you never seen a colored man before?” She probably didn’t like colored people either. Vern Jardine should take her out instead of Mom. They’d make a good pair.

Petey Wilder, who lives about a block away, came galloping along the street wearing his cowboy hat. He’s five years old, and I’ve never once seen him without that hat. He must think it makes him look like Hopalong Cassidy or something. He took out his popgun, pointed it at a robin, and made the sound of a gun blasting away. The cork flew out of the gun and he nodded, looking pleased with himself. Then he looked over at us. He squinted hard at Luther and grabbed his cowboy hat like the wind just came up.

“Hey!” he hollered. The cork from his gun was swinging back and forth in front of his knees.

“Hey, Petey,” I said. I didn’t know what he was about to say, but I guessed it wasn’t going to be polite.

He ran over to the edge of the yard and stared at Luther. “How come he’s brown?” he asked.

I couldn’t think of what to say. Poor Luther must have felt like an animal in the zoo with everybody staring.

I frowned and said in a loud voice, “Petey, why don’t you go on home?”