Summer at Forsaken Lake (3 page)

“Don’t try to strike him out,” he said of the chubby, red-cheeked boy waiting in the batter’s box. “You can’t
strike
everybody
out, Charlie. Keep it low. Make him hit it on the ground.”

She shrugged and blew another bubble. “I’ll try.”

The first pitch came in low, as the coach requested, and
considerably
harder than Nicholas expected. It landed safely in the catcher’s mitt with a satisfying
pop
as the batter swung late.

On the sidewalk, Nicholas involuntarily puckered his lips into a silent whistle. If they’d had a pitcher like her on his team, maybe they would have won a few more games.

“C’mon, Crenshaw!” the coach yelled at the batter. “Look alive up there. You were late by a mile—and that wasn’t even her best stuff.”

Who is this kid?

She wiped her forehead with the back of her glove and stared in at poor overmatched Crenshaw. The second pitch was chest-high and even harder than the first, and he missed it, too.

“Not even close,” the coach shouted at him. “Charlie, give him something to hit. This is supposed to be batting practice. The fielders are getting bored out there.”

She turned to the shortstop, who sat cross-legged on an old duffel bag at the edge of the infield, and smiled. “Sorry, Zack.”

He waved. “Hey, no problemo. Next time remind me to bring a video game or something.”

Then she got set and threw a perfect strike—right down the middle of the plate—as Crenshaw swung
fiercely, spinning and knocking himself down in the process. The ball smacked the catcher’s mitt so hard that the catcher hopped up to his feet, shaking his hand in pain.

Nicholas hadn’t intended to laugh out loud, but the sight of Crenshaw crumpled on the ground and the tiny catcher jumping up and down in pain made it impossible for him to contain that one loud
“Ha!”

The pitcher glanced over at him and smiled. “You wanna try me, funny guy?”

Nicholas blushed a little, not saying anything and trying to blend into the oak tree. The rest of the infield joined in, taunting him to pick up a bat and show what he was made of.

“You’re not afraid of a
girl
, are you?” the shortstop asked.

“Who is he, anyway?” asked the first baseman. “A spy from the Tigers?”

“Look at him—he looks like a wimp. I’ll bet he can’t even lift a bat,” the second baseman teased.

Nicholas weighed his options. He could just walk—or run—away. Even though it seemed likely that he would never see any of them again, he knew that was a lousy choice. He had a pretty good idea of what he and his teammates would say to someone scurrying away in the same situation, and he couldn’t bear the thought of hearing those insults.

He briefly considered faking an injury, telling them all he was recovering from a broken wrist, when he suddenly
nodded at the pitcher. “Okay, why not?” he said.
What are you doing? Did you see that last pitch?

“You sure about this, kid?” the coach asked. “You play ball?”

“Yeah, I can play. Not here—in New York,” he said, picking through the scattered bats, looking for something his size.

“Oooohhh,” the shortstop chided, assuming—in this case, correctly—that anyone from New York was from New York City. “A city kid. Show him how we do things around here, Charlie.”

Nicholas finally selected a bat and wished that he’d worn a baseball cap so there would be something between his head and the disgusting batting helmet he pulled on. There was no way he was facing anybody who threw that hard without a helmet; that much he knew. Then he took his place in the batter’s box, digging his feet into the sandy soil around home plate.

“You want my best stuff?” the pitcher asked.

“Definitely,” Nicholas said, hoisting the bat over his shoulder. “When I get a hit off you, I don’t want you to have any excuses.”

Oh, that’s good. Make her mad
.

“That’s fair,” she said.

Nicholas, remembering something his coach told him about facing a pitcher for the first time, decided
not
to swing at the first pitch no matter how tempting it looked. He tensed as she went into her windup and let loose a
fastball that was low and inside. It was a ball, but not by much. In four years of Little League in New York, he had never faced anyone who threw as hard as this ponytailed girl. He choked up on the bat a few inches and waited for the next pitch.

It was waist-high, on the inside half of the plate, the kind of pitch he usually laced over the shortstop’s head into left field. Not this time, though. He swung his hardest, but he was late and the ball slammed into the mitt behind him. His lips did that involuntary whistle thing again. He stepped back to reevaluate, choking up another inch.

She was smiling at him from the mound, not a mean-spirited smile, but one that said,
I can’t help myself—this is what I do
. And then she reared back and fired again. This time, Nicholas was ready, and he fouled the pitch off to the first-base side, forcing the coach to duck. He was still swinging late, but at least he made contact, which the girl acknowledged with a slight nod in his direction.

That foul ball gave Nicholas confidence, and he stepped up to the plate, wagging the bat over his shoulder, waiting for another chance.
I don’t need a home run
, he thought.
A ground ball. A pop fly. Just don’t strike out
.

On the mound, the girl took a deep breath and let go. The pitch was chest-high and well inside, and Nicholas instinctively jerked his head back—just in time to watch something extraordinary happen. A few feet before reaching him, the ball took a sharp left turn and gracefully
crossed over the center of the plate, leaving him standing there openmouthed. A perfect big-league-quality curveball, unlike anything he’d ever seen in New York.

“Steee-rike three!” the catcher yelled.

“Yerrrr outta there!” the shortstop added unnecessarily.

Nicholas let the bat fall to the ground at his feet, which were still frozen in place. “Who
is
this kid?” he asked no one in particular.

“She’s your worst nightmare, son,” the coach answered. “A cute girl with a wicked curveball. Remember this name, kid: Charlotte Brennan. Charlie. You’ll be hearing it again.”

“You sure you don’t wanna try one more time, city boy?” the girl asked. “C’mon. You’re just getting warmed up.” She seemed to want him to stick around, but Nicholas figured that was only because she wanted to humiliate him again.

He smiled and shook his head. “Maybe another time. I’ve gotta go.” Overhead, the rumble of thunder confirmed that he was making the right decision.

“Well, I guess we’ll see ya round,” Charlie said, smiling back.

Charlie Brennan. Remember that name
.

H
e got back to the truck just as the rain started to fall again, huge drops bouncing off the hood and roof with loud
ping
s. Uncle Nick, the twins, and Pistol were waiting for him, and they squeezed together to make room on the seat.

“Where did you go?” Hayley asked.

“Nowhere. Just down the street. Watching some kids play baseball.”

“You should have played with them,” Hetty said. “You’re good at baseball.”

“That right?” Nick asked.

“I’m okay,” said Nicholas.

“We’ll have to play some catch,” said Nick. “If it ever stops raining.”

Nicholas wasn’t sure if his uncle was kidding or not. He looked at Nick’s empty left sleeve, safety-pinned to the side of his shirt. “R-really?”

“What, you think I can’t play catch with only one arm?”

“Um, no, I just, uh …”

Nick laughed. “It’s okay, Nicholas. It’s a fair assumption. I guess your dad never told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Well, before I lost this,” he started, glancing at his left shoulder, “I was a good ballplayer—shortstop. Played for the high school team, then a little American Legion ball—even had a tryout with the Pirates. Guess I wasn’t quite
that
good. When I lost my arm, I didn’t want to give up playing ball forever, so I taught myself how to pitch. I knew I’d never be much of a hitter again, and nobody expects the pitcher to be much of a hitter, you know what I mean? Learned how to kind of tuck the glove under my stump while I threw, and then get it back on my hand so I could field.”

“That’s incredible,” Hetty said. “You’re like a superhero.”

“Ha! Not quite,” Nick said. “But I
was
good enough to play for my old team out in Williamsfield. Pitched a no-hitter once. Still have the ball.”

“A no-hitter!” Nicholas stared at him in wonder and puzzlement.
Why didn’t Dad ever tell me any of this?

“It was a long time ago. Nowadays, I help out with some of the local kids, that’s about it. So, how about you? Wait, let me guess: catcher.”

“Nope!” said Hetty. “Not even close!”

“Second base,” said Nicholas.

“Good for you,” said Nick. “Catching is too hard on the body anyway. The infield is the place to be.” He paused as lightning streaked across the sky directly in front of them. “Sailing is definitely out for today, but we’ll hit it bright and early tomorrow. Going to be a beautiful day. Right now, though, let’s swing by the library and get you all library cards. If you’re going to be here all summer, you’re going to need one. They’ll let you take out a couple of books today, and we can come back as often as you want. I’m a regular—I’m in there once a week at least. Today’s going to be a good day to curl up with a good book, and I have just the one in mind for you girls. It’s back at the house. And I’m sure I can dig up something for you, too, Nicholas. Between the library here and my own bookshelves, I think we can find some books about sailing that’ll be helpful. You can’t learn
everything
about sailing by reading about it, but you can start to learn some of the lingo, know what I mean?”

But Nicholas was already thinking of the strange discovery he’d made—the film and the notebook—and
was looking forward to a little more exploring. “Um, you wouldn’t happen to have a movie projector, would you?”

Nick turned to look at him, a quizzical expression on his face. “Now, that’s a funny question. Why would you—”

“We found a movie in Nicholas’s room,” Hayley said, earning a dirty look from her brother. “In a secret compartment.”

“You’re not pulling my leg, are you?” Nick asked.

“Nope!” cried Hetty. “We really did. It’s called
The Seaweed Strangler
! And we think Daddy made it.”

“I’ll be darned,” said Nick, turning the truck into the drive. “You’re right—your dad did make it. When he was about your age, Nicholas. I haven’t thought about that movie in years. Figured it was long lost. Your dad never, uh, told you about it?”

“Seems like there’s a lot of things he didn’t tell me,” Nicholas noted.

* * *

When Nick said they were going to “swing by” the library, Nicholas pictured a ten-minute visit. He figured that would be more than enough time to get a library card and maybe even pick up a book or two about baseball. But that was before he realized that the Deming Public Library
was much more than just a place to borrow books—it was bustling with activity, and Nicholas couldn’t believe the flow of people in and out the front door.

“Hey, Janet,” said Nick, pushing the three kids toward the librarian’s desk. “Meet my nieces, Hayley and Hetty, and my nephew, Nicholas. They’re going to be spending the summer with me, and they need some library cards.”

Janet greeted them warmly, adding, “You’re very lucky; Nick has the nicest place on the lake. It’s my dream house.”

“Kids, Janet here is the most powerful person in town,” Nick said. “She has worked here for going on forty years, and not only does she know everyone in town, she can tell you what kind of books they all like, too. So, do you think you might find something for these three?”

“Let’s see what we can do,” Janet said. “Why don’t we get you set up with cards first, and then we’ll look around.” She took a good long look at Nicholas, tilting her head slightly as if she recognized him. “You look familiar. Have you been in before?”

Nicholas shook his head. “Um, no. First time. Ever.”

“He looks like his dad,” said Nick. “
Just
like. He used to come in, too. Will Mettleson.”

“Oh, of course.
Will
. I remember him; he liked books about sailing … and movies, I think. How about you, Nicholas? You look like a baseball player to me. We have
a wonderful section devoted to sports. Are you a sailor, too?”

“Not yet,” said Nicholas.

“But he will be soon,” Nick said.

* * *

* * *

Arriving at the house in the midst of another downpour, they made a mad dash for the door, with Pistol leading the way. After the groceries had been put away, Nick searched the bookshelves that lined an entire wall of the living room.