Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy (4 page)

Now the fact that Heather Acosta
wants
to play softball tells you something about Santa Martina. In this town if you don’t play softball, you might as well not be alive. It’s a
huge
deal. Teams play year round, rain or shine. Grams says the community would sooner cancel Christmas than a softball game, and I think she’s right. People are nuts for it. And at our level, winning the Junior Sluggers’ Cup is like winning the Super Bowl.

So all of us keep a pretty good eye on each other. Watching other players teaches you a lot about them, which comes in really handy if you play with them. Or against them. And I hate to admit it, but Heather really is a pretty good shortstop, which is how she made it on a team of mostly eighth graders. I don’t know how in the world Tenille made the cut. She plays right field and mostly just puts her glove up and prays when a ball comes her way. What that backstabbing little spy Monet’s doing on second base is easy to figure out—she’s blackmailed someone into giving her that position. Maybe even Mr. Vince.

Mr. Vince teaches eighth-grade history, but he lives to coach and his team usually wins. So I guess I should want to be on his team, but really, he gives me the creeps. It’s one thing that he’s got the IQ of an aphid and talks like he’s got a mouth full of sawdust, but what makes me want to puke is how he’s always joking around with the eighth-grade girls and offering to buy them sodas. And when it comes to softball, he thinks he’s the God of Strategy. Please.

Anyway, Heather’s on his team, which would be reason enough for me to be glad to be on the other team. But I also really like our coach. Ms. Rothhammer’s tough but she’s smart and she’s fair. She spends part of the day teaching P.E. and the other part teaching eighth-grade biology. I’ve heard that she can pith and dissect a frog in fifteen seconds, and that you don’t want to be anywhere
near
her while she’s whipping a scalpel around.

At first the eighth graders grumbled a lot about Dot,
Marissa, and me being on their team because we’re just lowly seventh graders. But they figured out in a hurry that all grumbling got them was laps and push-ups, so now they don’t actually
say
anything about us being on their team—they just don’t include us. And I’m sure a lot of them think they’d be ranked number one instead of number two if only some eighth graders could magically take our place.

They’re wrong, and the reason they’re wrong is Marissa. If it weren’t for her, we wouldn’t have made it nearly as far as we have. Marissa may sometimes act kind of skittery, but when she gets on the mound, she turns into a pitching machine. She’s cool and calm and can put the ball over the plate every time, any way she wants. You can practically see her shut everything out. Everything but the strike zone and her catcher, that is.

And that’s where I come in. Being catcher is not exactly the position most people want when they try out for a softball team. Pitcher, shortstop, second base, first base—those are popular. But catcher? It’s dusty and sweaty and hard on the legs. But ever since the day I found a catcher’s mitt in Grams’ closet, I’ve
wanted
to play catcher.

What Grams was doing with a catcher’s mitt in her closet was something I sure couldn’t figure out, so as soon as our nosy neighbor Mrs. Graybill was gone and I could come up for air, I popped out and asked Grams, “Where’d you get this?”

She just stares. First at the mitt, then at me. Then she takes her glasses off, huffs and buffs them some, and says, “I fished it out of the garbage.”

“You
what
? Why?”

Grams sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs. “It belonged to your mother.”

It was my turn to stare. “Lady Lana played
softball
?” I mean, my mother thinks it’s strenuous to vacuum, and I couldn’t exactly see her in the middle of a dust bowl with face gear on, squatting to catch balls.

Grams takes a deep breath. “Not exactly.”

“Well, then, what was she doing with a catcher’s mitt?”

Silence.

“Grams!”

She sighs. “It was your father’s.”

That made me a little wobbly around the knees, and the next thing you know I’m sliding down the closet door, saying, “My
father
?” because my father is someone Grams will not talk about. Doesn’t think it’s her place.

Lady Lana doesn’t like to talk about him either, except to say that he was a mistake she wished she’d never made. I asked her once if he knew about me. All she said was, “No.” I asked if she had a picture of him. All she said was, “No.” Then, when I asked if she knew where he was, she said, “No, and we’re not going to discuss this anymore until you’re older.” I tried telling her I was plenty old enough, but she got up and walked out of the room.

I sat there feeling like a kid who’d tried all year to be good and then found a chunk of cement in her Christmas stocking. And a few months later, when Lady Lana dumped me at Grams’, well, I couldn’t help feeling that my father wasn’t the biggest mistake my mother had ever made—I was.

So when Grams told me that the catcher’s mitt belonged to my father, I just sat there on the floor staring at it. I turned it over and over. I pulled on the knots. I put my hand inside it and then buried my face in it until all I could smell was leather and dust. And when I finally came up for air, I knew that the next time I played softball I’d play catcher—and I’d do it with my dad’s mitt.

And you may think this is kind of stupid, but I carry it with me all the time. Mostly it’s in my backpack smashed between my books, but I like knowing it’s there. Some kids carry pictures of their family in their wallets. You should see Dot’s! She’s got two brothers and two sisters and a billion cousins. She’s got a whole
album
of snapshots in her wallet. Me, I’ve got my mitt. And even though it’s not a photograph or a letter or even a present from him, it’s a little piece of my dad. A piece that’s all mine.

Turns out I’m a
good
catcher. Of course, Marissa had something to do with that—last summer she spent a lot of time coaching me. But I am pretty good, and with Marissa pitching, I look great.

I’m also fast. Not quite as fast as Dot, but no one is. You should see her run the bases or chase down balls—that girl
flies
. She can be on third, dive for a ball down the line, get up and throw to first, and be back in position before the umpire’s made the call. Even Ms. Rothhammer says she’s never seen anyone as fast as Dot, and that’s quite a compliment coming from ol’ Speedy Scalpel.

Anyway, the eighth graders may not want us to be on their team, but we’ve come this far in the tournament and there’s no getting rid of us now. And even with their
attitude and Heather’s little threat of dust consumption, it seemed like nothing could shake our good mood.

On the walk home from school, Dot’s making jokes and busting us up with commentary like, “And now it’s Heather Acosta’s turn at bat. The pitch is good and it’s a … line drive past third. The left fielder bobbles the ball … but wait! What’s this? Acosta is dragging the bat along with her … they’ve called her out! Was that sheer excitement on her part or … wait! It seems that … yes … it appears that her
fingernails
have embedded themselves into the bat. What’s that, Don? You think they’re
through
the bat? Is that possible? Ladies and gentlemen, this is sensational! Acosta is pulling the bat with all her might but cannot seem to release herself! Her coach is now helping her, and
he
doesn’t seem to be able to get those claws out of that bat. They’re taking her off the field now, and they’re calling for shears. Looks like they’ll need
pruning
shears on those babies!”

By now I’m laughing so hard that when we get to the mall there’s no way I want to just say “Bye” and head for St. Mary’s. So when Marissa asks, “Do you have time for a Juicers?” I say, “You bet!” and follow her and Dot into the mall.

So the three of us are stepping out of the elevator at the mall, still laughing, when who do I see? The Sisters of Mercy.

Now, they’re not out praying or converting. They’re shopping, and I mean
shopping
. Bernice has about ten bags hanging from her arms, and Abigail and Clarice are saddled up pretty good, too.

I say, “Hey, you guys, look! Over at the Braddock’s window. Those are the nuns I was telling you about!”

Dot says, “
Those
are the Sisters of Mercy?”

I laugh. “Yeah! They’re a riot. Want to meet them?”

So off we go, only before we get to Braddock’s, the Sisters pop inside. So we stand outside, watching and waiting. Sister Bernice drops all her packages in a corner and runs around the store flicking through dress racks, feeling scarves, holding things up for the other two to see. Sister Abigail looks around, but she doesn’t touch much and spends more time checking out what Sister Clarice is holding up than anything else. And even though they’re in there for quite a while, we don’t mind. I mean, watching nuns shop is funny—kind of like it’d be to see Father Mayhew get up and karaoke.

When they get done combing through the store, Bernice shoves a new bag on her arm and practically knocks me over as she comes out the door.

At first she doesn’t recognize me, but when I say, “Hi, Sister Bernice!” she flashes her gap and says, “Mercy me! If it isn’t our new friend Sammy.” Then she says, “Look, Sisters! Sammy’s caught us doing our Christmas shopping.”

Clarice and Abigail say hello, and I say, “These are my friends, Marissa and Dot.”

Bernice throws her head back and laughs, then shakes Dot’s hand and says, “Dot. What a wonderful way to thank God for making you special. That’s a name I shan’t forget.”

When most people first meet Dot, they try real hard not to stare. She’s got a beauty mark on one of her cheeks and at first, well, that’s all you really notice. It’s not gross—it’s
just a perfect circle that looks like a small splat of paint. But after you’ve known Dot awhile, you don’t even really see the dot anymore. You just see Dot.

Bernice breaks her eyes away from Dot’s dot and says, “Well, we’d better move along. I still have nieces and nephews to buy for, and oh, yes! Aunt Isabelle. Don’t let me forget Aunt Isabelle!”

As they walk away, Dot laughs and says, “Wow.”

We get drinks at Juicers, and when we’re about done, Marissa asks, “What are you guys doing tomorrow? Do you want to get together and practice for Monday?”

I say, “Sure,” and so does Dot because it’s easy to see that Marissa’s worried about getting slaughtered on Monday.

I ask, “At the park?”

“Cool. How about ten?”

Dot says, “Oh, I can’t at ten! I’ve got to take Nibbles over to the Pup Parlor for a dip at ten.”

Marissa and I look at each other and then at Dot. “A
dip
?”

Dot blushes a little and whispers, “He’s got fleas.”

I say, “Well, why don’t we all just meet over at the Pup Parlor at ten, then walk over to the park and practice until Nibbles is ready?”

Everyone thinks that’s a good idea, so I say, “I’ve got to get over to St. Mary’s. See you tomorrow!”

Now, I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it all day, telling myself that for once I just need to keep
out
of it, but as I’m heading over to the soup kitchen, I know that before I spend the rest of the afternoon dodging Sister Josephine’s cane, there’s somewhere else I’ve
got
to go.

Gregory saw me first. He wiggled out from under the desk and laid what was left of his carrot at my feet. I laughed and scratched his chest and whispered, “No thanks, boy.”

Father Mayhew was standing over by the window with his hands behind his back, looking outside. At first I thought he might be having a word with God so I tried to be quiet, whispering, “No, boy, no!” when Gregory nosed his carrot stump in my direction.

But after a little while I could tell that he was just thinking. And since I was getting tired of being chased around by a carrot, I cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me … Father Mayhew?”

He jumped a bit and then wiped his eyes, and when he realized it was me, he put on a stern face and walked to his desk. “What is it, Samantha”

Well, all of a sudden I can’t find any words. I mean, here he is, sitting behind his big desk, pretending to be in complete control, but his complicated eyes are red around the edges and it’s easy to see that he’s been crying. I whisper, “I was hoping you’d found your cross …?”

“Noooo.” He blows his nose and sighs. “It wasn’t misplaced, lass, it was taken.”

He was still looking pretty stony, but he
had
said lass, so
I inched into his office and sat in a chair against the wall. “Father Mayhew, I swear, I didn’t take your cross. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me. Was it in this office the day I painted? Is that why you think I took it?”

He studies me a minute. “It was in the sacristy.” Then he points to a door at the back of his office and says, “Right through there. I left it open because I thought it would help with the ventilation while you were painting.”

Now the whole time Father Mayhew’s talking, his dog’s inching over to me with that carrot stump in his mouth. Finally, he just makes a break for it. He comes over, dumps his slobbery carrot in my lap and then sits next to me, grinning from ear to ear. He’s acting like he wants me to play carrot catch, but I don’t feel like tossing a slimy orange stump around. I put it on the floor next to me and ask Father Mayhew, “Is that the only door to the sacristy?”