Stumptown Kid Read online

  “Hey, Will?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What did Lobo do? I mean, after I ran into the tunnel?” I had to know.

  “Oh, he just said some stuff and left. I bet he’d never been in the storm sewer before.”

  “Oh.”

  A week ago, Will would’ve called him a chicken.

  There was a click on the line. Then old Mrs. Whitley said, “Who’s there?”

  I sighed. “It’s me, Mrs. Whitley. I’m gettin’ off the phone in a second, okay?”

  “Well, hurry up, then,” she said. “I have to order my groceries.” She hung up.

  “I swear,” I said to Will. “We have the crabbiest people on this party line. And they’re all a bunch of busybodies. You never know who’s listenin’ in.”

  “I heard that, Charlie Nebraska!” It was Lucy Stetton, a girl in our class. Her family was on the party line with us and Mrs. Whitley.

  “Get off the phone, Lucy!” I yelled at her.

  “Too bad you ran away from Brad Lobo,” she said before slamming the phone down hard.

  Great. Now the whole town would know what a chicken I am.

  “What time we playin’ workup?” I asked Will.

  “Four-thirty,” Will said. “The McNally guys have to help their mom move furniture this afternoon so they can paint the living room.”

  “Okay,” I said. “See you.” I started to hang up. “And, um, Will?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you still want to play ball with us,” I said.

  “Oh,” Will said. “Okay. See ya.” He hung up.

  I’d wanted him to say, Sure, I’d rather play with you guys.

  I wondered if he liked playing with the Wildcats better than us.

  It was only two o’clock, so I had a couple hours to kill. When I heard the buzz and bells of Herman’s ice cream cart, I grabbed a nickel from my bank and ran outside.

  Herman has a lame leg, but he can drive his cart since it’s mounted on a motorbike.

  “Hey, Herman!” I called. I stopped at the curb and waved my arms.

  He waggled a hand and pulled up next to me.

  I don’t know Herman’s last name, but we always talk baseball when we do business. I never see him without his St. Louis Cardinals cap. It’s dark with dirt, but he said he got it at a game in St. Louis in forty-seven and he’s never throwing it away. Or washing it, either, probably. He always has stubble growing on his chin and cheeks, like he can’t be bothered to shave more than every few days.

  “I want a grape Popsicle, please,” I said.

  “That’ll be a nickel,” Herman said, opening the frosty top of his cart. I stuck my face in to feel the cold air, but he pushed me out of the way. “Don’t breathe in there, kid. You hear the Cardinals game last night?”

  “I heard when Stan Musial hit a home run,” I said. “That was pretty exciting. What was the final score?”

  “The Cards walloped the Cubs, six to zero,” he said. He grinned and showed the hole where his front tooth should have been. He raised an eyebrow. “I hear you had to run from that Lobo kid this morning.”

  Geesh. Bad news travels at lightning speed around Stumptown.

  “You were talkin’ to Lucy just now, huh?” I said, scowling.

  Herman shrugged. “She bought a Frosty Ice Cream Bar. How’s your mom?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “She still seein’ that salesman?” he asked.

  I scowled again. Seemed Herman sure had to know everything. “Yeah. So?”

  “They gonna get married? Your mom and the salesman? What’s his name?”

  “Vern Jardine,” I said. “Why’re you so interested?”

  “Just wonderin’, that’s all,” Herman said. “Maybe he’ll adopt you, and you’ll inherit all his money. You’d have to change your name, probably.”

  “I’d never change my name,” I told him. “My dad’s name is Nebraska, and that’s the only name I’ll ever have.”

  “Not if that fella adopts you.” Herman got on his bike and started up his motor again. “Charlie Jardine. That’s not too bad. Well, see ya.”

  He rode away.

  I watched him go. If it wasn’t for those grape Popsicles, I wouldn’t care if I never saw Herman again. He’s the nosiest person I ever met, and he spreads gossip like wind spreads a wildfire.

  I tore the paper wrapping off the Popsicle and sat under the tree to eat it. There’s nothing better on a hot day than a grape Popsicle. It fills your mouth with a sweet coldness that spreads through you and seeps into your bones for a few minutes, like the cold in the storm sewer.

  This time I didn’t enjoy it too much, though. I was playing over in my mind what Herman said about Vern adopting me if Mom married him. There was no way I’d ever let them change my name.

  “Vern’ll never be my dad,” I said out loud to myself. “Never.”

  After the Popsicle was gone, I went inside and into my room. I picked up the snow globe my dad won for me and shook it. I lay on my bed and watched the white snow swirl around the little house.

  Dad, please be alive. Come home so Mom won’t marry Vern. Come home so Mom and I can be happy and everything can be like it was before you left.

  My comic books are piled on a shelf above my bed. I sat up and looked through them. I lay back again and reread one of the Superman comics. Captain Marvel and Superman are my favorites, but Batman, Robin, and Crime Does Not Pay are good ones, too.

  When I’d finished reading the comic book, I stared up at the ceiling. I wished I was a superhero. I wished I was so fast and strong that I wouldn’t be afraid of Lobo or anybody else.

  If I was a superhero, I could have big adventures, saving people’s lives and keeping the town safe from criminals. There would be more excitement in one day than I’ve had in my whole life.

  That would be so great.

  * * *

  I fell asleep for a while and woke up at a quarter past four. I grabbed my bat and glove and hurried in the heat to Scott Park.

  Everybody who’d played the day before was there, plus Will. They’d all started out in their favorite positions again, but Will was pitching because I wasn’t there.

  “I’m gonna pitch today, Charlie,” he said. “Gotta work on my pitchin’ arm.”

  “Okay.” For the first time I wished Will hadn’t made the team. Before this, if he wanted to play a certain position, he’d ask if anyone minded. This time, he told us.

  I wondered if Coach Hennessey was going to let him pitch for the Wildcats, but I didn’t ask.

  I got in line to bat behind Kathleen, Leslie, and Jim.

  Will wound up and pitched a good one to Kathleen. She smacked it up to Bowie in left field. He caught it, but the ball bounced out of his glove and onto the ground. He fumbled for it while Kathleen raced for first. She was safe before Bowie was able to scoop up the ball and throw it.

  Casey hollered from right field, “It’s that new glove, Bowie. It don’t catch the ball as good as our old ones.”

  Bowie nodded, but I think he was embarrassed. I mean, that fly ball Kathleen hit was a can of corn. Bowie was standing under the ball when it came right to him. He didn’t hardly have to take a step to catch it.

  Everybody rotated to the next position. Next up was Leslie, who’s a real good hitter. Will heaved her a fastball.

  She hit a grounder to Alan at shortstop. Alan fired it to Eileen on second, getting Kathleen out. Then Eileen threw it to Johnny on first, so Leslie was out.

  “Great double play!” Bowie yelled. “The Wildcats couldn’t have done better!”

  Will hollered, “I’ve seen ’em do better plays than that.” I guess he was feeling like a genuine Wildcat, loyal to his team.

  My chest felt like something was pressing on it right then and made me feel kind of sad.

  It was awful hot, but when I play baseball, I guess I forget about the temperature till I’m about ready to pass out. Sweat was rolling off my face and sliding down my back.


  We’d rotated positions about ten times before I noticed Luther walking along the grass next to the baseball diamond.

  “Hey, Luther!” I called. We were between plays, so I ran over to him. “How do you like the job at Landen’s?”

  “It’s a good job, Charlie.” He looked out over the ballpark. “You havin’ a good time?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Wanna stay and watch awhile? We’re playin’ workup.”

  “Okay,” Luther said.

  I turned toward all the players in the field.

  “Hey,” I yelled. “This here’s Luther Peale. He’s a professional baseball player.”

  Luther grinned. “I was,” he called out. “I was a professional.”

  “With the Memphis Mockingbirds,” I added.

  “Hey, Luther,” Bowie shouted.

  “Nice to meet ya!” Eileen yelled. “Charlie told us about you.” Everybody else waved or hollered hello, too.

  Luther grinned and waved back.

  We started playing again, and Bowie dropped the first fly ball.

  “It’s that stupid glove again, Bowie,” Alan yelled.

  I was up at bat next. I was feeling pretty self-conscious because Luther was here. Will pitched a good fastball. I swung hard and missed.

  “Strike one!” yelled Walter.

  “Don’t take your eye off that ball, Charlie,” Luther said from behind the backstop. “Talk to yourself. Say, ’I can hit it; I can hit it.’”

  I nodded and got ready. “I can hit it; I can hit it.”

  “Watch the ball,” Luther said, his voice low. “You can hit it.”

  The pitch came, and I slammed that ball clear out into the stratosphere.

  “Wow!” Johnny yelled from first base. “You really stung that ball!”

  I was too busy running for first base to see Luther’s face, but I bet he was grinning. I ran the bases for the first home run of the afternoon.

  Everybody pounded me on the back, and Luther came over. “See, Charlie?” he said. “You just got to watch that ball and tell yourself you can do it.”

  The others came in to hear what Luther was telling me.

  “You havin’ trouble with your glove?” Luther asked Bowie.

  “Oh, it’s not the glove,” Bowie said. His face turned red.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Luther said. “Let me see it.”

  He took the glove, slipped it on, and pounded his fist into it.

  “This is a new glove,” Luther said. “It needs shapin’.”

  “Shapin’?” Bowie asked. “How do you do that?”

  “Here’s what you do,” Luther said. “Tonight, you go home and—you have a kitten ball?”

  “A softball?” Bowie asked. “Yeah, my sisters play softball.”

  “Okay,” Luther said. “Put the softball into the glove and tie it closed with a strip of cloth. Then let the whole thing soak in a bucket of water for a half hour or so.”

  “Won’t that ruin the glove?” Alan asked.

  “No,” Luther said. “Take it out and let it dry for a day or two, still tied closed. Then—your mama got some hog lard?”

  “Sure,” Bowie said. “She uses it for pies ’n stuff.”

  “Okay,” Luther said. “Then when it’s dry, untie the cloth and use it to rub the glove with a little hog lard. You’ll have a great glove from then on.”

  I looked at all the faces around me. Everyone was listening real hard. I’m sure they were thinking they’d better listen to the advice of a pro.

  “Hey, Luther,” Bowie said, “maybe you could be our coach.”

  Everybody started talking at once. Why didn’t I think of that? Luther would be the perfect coach! And we wouldn’t have to try out to be on the team. All us Stumptown kids could play, even the girls who weren’t allowed to try out for the Wildcats.

  “Will you do it?” I asked Luther. “You could make us a great team.”

  “Who would we play?” Jim asked.

  “Luther hasn’t even said he’d coach us yet!” I yelled at him. “First things first. Would you, Luther?”

  A smile spread over his face. “Okay, Charlie,” he said. “It’d be fun gettin’ back into baseball.”

  So now we had ourselves a coach.

  “We’ll play any team that wants to play us,” Luther said. “Maybe even the Wildcats.”

  I looked over at Will. He was the only person who wasn’t smiling.

  Chapter Eight

  Vern, this bouquet is so pretty,” Mom said at supper that night. “It must have been expensive. You really shouldn’t have spent the money on it. But I love it,” she added. She reached over and turned the vase to the right a little.

  “Nothing but the best for my Mary,” Vern said, smiling.

  It made me mad the way he said it. Mom wasn’t his Mary.

  I’d been thinking a lot about what Herman said about Vern adopting me. I sat there staring at Vern, imagining what it would be like if he was here all the time.

  If he tried to be my dad.

  The thought of it made my stomach feel bad, like rocks were piled up in there. I was never going to be Vern’s son.

  “I’ve been thinking about something, Mary,” he said. “In fact, I’ve given this some serious thought, and seeing as how I’m the only male influence Charlie’s got, I think I should spend some time with him a couple times a week. We could start going fishing—maybe take in a ball game now and then.” He looked at me. “We’ll have fun, Charlie. I’m really looking forward to it.”

  I wanted to say, I don’t need you for anything. I have my dad and Luther. I nearly said it, too.

  “Oh, Vern, I think that would be wonderful,” Mom said. “Charlie would love to do some of the things he used to do with his dad.”

  What? She couldn’t believe that. Maybe she was trying to make Vern feel good. But Mom was smiling, so I didn’t know for sure what she was thinking.

  “You smart in school, Charlie?” Vern asked. He squinted at me from across the table as if he was trying to see into my brain.

  “I do okay.” I’m not at the top of my class, but I’m not at the bottom, either. Anyhow, I figured it was none of his business.

  “Well, it’s important to work hard, but don’t let anyone tell you that you’ve got to get straight A’s,” Vern said. “I didn’t get too many A’s, but I’m still a success. And I won’t be selling vacuum cleaners all my life, either. I’m working myself up to management, and before long, I’ll own the company. Then I’ll sell it and buy another one—build that up and sell that one, too. That’s how a man can get rich.”

  “That’s wonderful, Vern,” my mom said, patting his arm. “But an education is important. Charlie’s going to graduate from high school and then maybe go on to college.”

  “Maybe I’ll be an electrician like my dad,” I added.

  “Anybody can be an electrician,” Vern said. “Be somebody special. Like a—”

  “My dad was special!” Now I was really mad.

  “Bill was a very special man,” Mom said, frowning at Vern. “Charlie looked up to Bill a lot. We both did, and so did everybody who knew him. He was an excellent father and a wonderful man.” She looked back and forth between me and Vern. “But I think it’s a great idea for you two to spend more time together. In fact, why don’t you both go outside now, and Vern, you can pitch a few balls to Charlie while I clean up. It’ll only take ten minutes or so.”

  “Sure,” Vern said. “I’ll give you some pointers, Charlie.”

  “You gonna play ball in your suit?” I asked.

  He’d taken off his jacket when he came in, but he still wore a shirt, tie, and pants. I didn’t care if he wrecked his clothes. I just didn’t want to play ball with him. I figured Vern probably didn’t know a fastball from the nose on his face, and I didn’t feel like teaching him.

  “We’ll just hit a few until your mom’s finished cleaning up.”

  I almost said I didn’t feel like it, but Mom had a hopeful loo
k, so I changed my mind. I guessed I could stand a few minutes of it.

  “Okay.” I made sure I didn’t sound too happy about it, though.

  “I’ll be out in the backyard,” Vern said. He probably played so bad he didn’t want anyone to see him from the street.

  I got my bat, ball, and glove from my closet and walked through the kitchen on my way to the back door.

  Mom stood in front of the sink, running hot water for dishes. “Have fun,” she said, smiling.

  I couldn’t imagine having fun with Vern, but I didn’t say it. I went outside.

  Vern started calling out instructions right off. “Here’s the pitching mound,” he said, tapping a spot between me and the bush next to the kitchen window.

  “Mom’ll want me to hit away from the house,” I told him.

  He rolled his eyes and smiled as if it was him and me against Mom. “O-kay. We sure don’t want Mary to worry about broken windows.” He took the ball and glove from me and walked farther out into the yard. “We’ll play sideways. You can hit into the neighbor’s yard.”

  That was Mrs. Banks’s yard. I wondered if she was watching now like the night Luther came for supper. I couldn’t see her standing in the window. Watching us play ball probably wasn’t as interesting as watching me and Mom fight about a colored man.

  “Ready?” Vern asked.

  I nodded and got ready to swing.

  Vern threw a wild ball that went left and dropped into Mrs. Banks’s yard. I ran over and picked up the ball and tossed it back to him.

  “Watch now,” he said.

  He wound up again and pitched me a ball that flew over my head about four feet.

  I thought Vern would be embarrassed by that awful pitch, but he just shrugged, and I went to get the ball. I threw it back to him, but he muffed it and it landed at his feet. I sighed. This was going to be a long ten minutes. I wondered how many of the minutes had passed yet. Maybe Mom was watching from the window over the sink, and she’d have mercy on me and hurry with the dishes.

  “You want to trade places?” I asked him. “I’ll pitch you some balls.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Whatever will be helpful to you.”

  Helpful to me? Geesh. This was trying my patience something awful. We traded places, and I pitched him one right over the plate. He swung hard and missed.