Stumptown Kid (4 page)

Mom stared at him, blinking, and Luther added, “They’re a team with the Negro League.”

“Wow. You’re a professional baseball player?” I asked.

I thought of the advice he gave me after tryouts and suddenly realized I’d been coached by a genuine pro. “Did you ever meet Jackie Robinson?”

“I sure did, Charlie,” Luther said. “Back in forty-five. Jackie’s a champion, and that’s a fact. I’ll tell you about him someday.”

“Why did you stop playing?” Mom asked.

I wanted to know, too, but it was embarrassing the way she asked, like maybe she thought he got kicked off the team or something.

“I hurt my arm, ma’am,” he said. “Couldn’t play no more.”

Mom finally stopped asking questions and we let Luther eat. He sure was hungry. It only took him about two minutes to eat it all. When he was finished, he went to the river and washed the dish and fork.

“Thank you for bringing the spaghetti, ma’am,” Luther said when he came back. “It was real good.” He handed the dish, fork, and napkin to Mom.

“This is a great camp, Luther,” I said, looking around. I ran for the lean-to.

“Don’t go in there, Charlie …” Luther said, coming after me.

But I was already there and stepped inside. Luther’s sack was on the ground. An open bottle sat on a tree stump in the middle. It was nearly full. I stared at it. It looked like the whiskey that my granddad drank on special occasions.

It was weird that Luther didn’t have food, but he had whiskey. I once saw Eileen’s dad drunk, and later Mom explained he had trouble with drinking. Luther looked okay, though, not like Eileen’s dad.

But Mom didn’t drink at all, and if she saw that whiskey bottle of Luther’s, she wouldn’t like it.

I didn’t want to mess with Luther’s things, but even more, I didn’t want Mom to tell me I couldn’t see him again. So I picked up the bottle and set it down behind the stump.

“Charlie?” Luther stood in the opening to the lean-to. “I think your mama’s ready to go home.”

I came out of the lean-to and Luther gave me a little nod. I’m not sure, but I think he was thanking me for putting the bottle out of sight.

“I’ll come by tomorrow and take you to the egg-buying place,” I said.

“Um, Luther, why don’t you come to our house and meet Charlie?” Mom said quickly. “Then you both can walk to see Mr. Landen.”

I could tell Mom didn’t want me coming back here. But Luther’s camp was real inviting, and I wanted to come back again as soon as I could. Just before he found out he had to go into the Army, Dad said he’d take me camping. But we never got to do it.

So I was already planning how I could come back here.

I do what Mom tells me most of the time. But once in a while I do something different. Like I said, it’s not very often.

Just often enough so I don’t go completely crazy.

Luther knocked on our door about nine o’clock the next morning.

“Hi,” I said, opening the screen door. Its rusty hinges creaked like a complaining cat. “Come on in. I was just having breakfast. You want some?”

Luther didn’t move. “Um, Charlie …”

“Yeah?”

He looked around. “Is that fella here?” he asked quietly.

“Nah, luckily,” I said. “Vern usually comes over after work.”

Luther nodded and came inside. Mom was in her bedroom getting ready for work. She’d just turned up the radio in the living room so she could hear Nat King Cole sing a song about some girl named Mona Lisa. It was her favorite song.

I led Luther into the kitchen.

“You want some oatmeal?” I asked. “Or toast?” I pointed to our toaster that was so shiny you could see your face in it. Our old toaster broke last winter, so we saved enough S&H Green Stamps to get a new one last month.

“Your mama’s going to think I eat all my meals here,” Luther said. He didn’t move to sit down.

“She made some extra for you, in case you wanted it,” I told him. It was sort of a lie, but I figured Luther wouldn’t eat unless he thought it was okay with Mom. And I knew she wouldn’t mind.

Luther smiled. “Your mama’s a special lady, and that’s a fact,” he said.

I dished him up most of the oatmeal from the pan on the stove and put the rest in my bowl. Then I gave him the sugar bowl and the milk bottle from the Frigidaire. We ate without talking much, but that was okay.

Mom came to the kitchen doorway, smoothing her hair with both hands. “Hello, Luther. Charlie taking you to Landen’s this morning?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s good. Kiss and a hug, Charlie,” she said, leaning down.

I pointed one side of my face at her, so she could kiss it, and I let her hug me, but I didn’t hug back. Boys as old as me don’t do that kind of stuff in front of other people. It’s embarrassing.

“Oh, hon,” Mom said. “Mrs. Crawford called yesterday. A book that I reserved came in. So could you go to the library sometime today and pick it up?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” She kissed me again. “Now you be good, and call me if you need anything.”

I rolled my eyes at Luther, and he tried not to smile.

Mom walks to her job at Woolworth’s on nice days to save on gas. She said good-bye and went out the front door.

“I sure do wish she’d quit babying me,” I said to Luther.

“I wish my mama was still alive to baby me,” he said.

“What happened to her?” I asked.

“Pneumonia,” Luther said. “She was a good woman.”

After the Army told us that Dad died, I thought about what would happen if Mom died. I’d be an orphan. I guess I’d have to go live with my Aunt Glenda and Uncle Burt in the country near Keokuk. That would be real bad because Aunt Glenda can’t cook for nothing, and Uncle Burt spends all his free time sitting on the porch, chewing. I don’t see how he can stand it. His teeth are brown and his breath so bad, I lose my appetite around him. Between her bad cooking and his chewing tobacco, I figure I’d be close to starvation in a month.

Besides, if my mom died, I’d feel awful lonely. Sometimes I can’t hardly stand it that my Dad’s not here anymore. Me and him played catch every night of the summer before he left for the war. That was the best summer I ever had. A familiar hollow space opened up in my chest when I thought about Dad. I didn’t want to go into that dark place now. So I said, “Ready to go?”

“Ready,” Luther answered.

We walked toward the egg-buying station downtown. It seemed like on every street people turned to stare at us. Luther must have noticed it, too.

When we got to the corner of Main and Ash, a truck came up the street with two men in it. The driver slowed as they got near. His window was open, and his elbow stuck out. He gave Luther a mean look and said, “What’re you doin’ here, boy? You don’t belong here.”

Luther looked at the ground. “Just keep walkin’,” he mumbled so soft I almost didn’t hear. “If there’s any trouble, you keep movin’.”

I looked up at Luther and back at the truck.

“Don’t look at ’em, Charlie,” he said, still real soft.

Luther seemed calm, but his eyes had a sharp, focused look. My body felt charged with electricity. I was ready to put up my fists or run, depending on what Luther and those men did.

The truck rolled on by, though, and I heaved out a big breath.

“They might be back,” Luther said.

“Come on.” I touched his arm. “Let’s go down the alley. It’s faster, anyway.”

I hurried down the alley with Luther following. I glanced back over my shoulder at him. “This happen to you in other towns?”

“Many times,” he said. A second later, he repeated in a tired voice, “Many times.”

It hardly seemed possible that there were that many people around who didn’t like colored folks they hadn’t even met yet. It didn’t make sense to me. I couldn’t see anything about Luther that was different from anyone else, except his skin was darker. In the summer, people lie around in the sun trying to make their skin tan. In Luther’s case, he just started out a darker shade.

A minute later we were at Landen’s. It’s a small place between a tavern and the railroad tracks.

I opened the screen door and we walked in. The wax on the wood floor was polished so glossy, I could see the gleam of the overhead light reflected in it. The floor creaked under our shoes as we crossed it. Mr. Landen was sitting at a small desk behind the counter. He looked up.

“Hi, Mr. Landen,” I said.

I’d met him a bunch of times. He helps out with the Fourth of July fireworks in the park every year, and I’ve seen him at a few Wildcats games. My dad seemed to like him, so I figured he’d be nice to Luther.

I was surprised how he looked when he came over. Not mean, but he didn’t smile. “Hello. It’s Charlie, right?” he said. “Bill Nebraska’s boy?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. I turned to Luther. “This is Luther Peale. He’s looking for a job, and Mom said you need help.”

“Well, yes, I do,” Mr. Landen said. He examined Luther, his head tipped back, squinting through the lower part of his thick glasses. Then he stuck out his hand. “Hello, Luther.”

Luther said hello and shook the man’s hand.

“You ever candle eggs?” Mr. Landen asked, still squinting.

“Yes, sir,” Luther said. “My daddy works a farm in Tennessee, and I was in charge of the hatchery and chickens.”

“That right?”

“Yes, sir,” Luther said. “I turned the eggs under the lamps every day. Put X’s and O’s on ’em so I could keep track of which ones I’d turned. I fed the chickens, candled the eggs so we wouldn’t go sellin’ the bad ones, and I helped my mama butcher the chickens we ate.”

Mr. Landen folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “What kind of chickens you raise on your farm?”

“At first we had leghorns ’cause they lay so many eggs,” Luther said. “But they’re skinny and light, and they kept flyin’ over the fence. So we got Plymouth Rock and White Rock hens. They have better meat for eatin’, anyway.”

Mr. Landen’s face relaxed into a smile. “Well, you know your chickens. All right, Luther,” he said. “I think you’ll do fine.”

I laughed and thumped Luther on the arm. He put his other hand over that right arm.

“I gotta tell you, Mr. Landen,” Luther said. “I got a bad arm here. I can lift with it, but nothing too heavy, and only so high.” He lifted a shaky right arm as high as his chest.

“Well, you wouldn’t have to do the overhead lifting,” Mr. Landen said. “There isn’t much of that anyway. I’ll start you out and see how it goes.”

“Thank you, sir,” Luther said.

“You’ll be working Monday through Friday, nine to five. Pay is minimum wage: seventy-five cents an hour.”

“Sounds fine,” Luther said.

“When can you start?”

“I’m ready,” Luther told him. “Whenever you need me.”

“How about right now?” Mr. Landen asked. “I’m having a hard time keeping up.”

“Right now’s fine,” Luther said, nodding.

I was a little disappointed, because I’d been hoping we could walk over to Luther’s camp. But I was glad he got the job.

He turned to me. “Thanks for bringing me here, Charlie,” he said. “I’ll see you soon. I want to thank your mama for letting me know about the job.”

“How about tonight?” I asked. Then I remembered that Mom had said Vern was coming by for supper. “Oh, I guess tonight isn’t good.”

Luther nodded. “Some other time, then.”

“Okay,” I said. “See you later.”

Luther turned and followed Mr. Landen behind the counter and into the back room.

I went outside and headed toward the library. It was on the other side of downtown Holden, which is only about three blocks long.

Holden’s a small town except during the Sweet Corn Festival in August. Crowds come in from bigger cities, like Cedar Rapids and Mt. Vernon, and our town swells up with about twice as many people as usual. For those two days, the downtown streets are blocked to traffic. You can buy cotton candy, and ride Ferris wheels, and pay a nickel for the chance to shoot a target and win a prize. When I was about seven, Dad won a snow globe. It’s a clear plastic ball that’s filled with water. It has a winter scene inside, and when you shake it, these little white specks float around, and it looks like it’s snowing. He gave it to me, and it’s sitting on the table next to my bed.

I climbed the front steps to the Holden Carnegie Library. It’s a vine-covered brick building, and I visit it about once a week in the summertime. Mom reads a lot. She says I have to read one book for every five comic books I buy at the drugstore.

I pulled open the heavy glass door and went inside.

Mrs. Crawford sat at the circulation desk reading some papers that were spread out in front of her. I stood next to the desk till she looked up.

“Oh, hi, Charlie,” she said. “Are you here to pick up your mom’s book?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Say, I just processed a new Heinlein book called
Between Planets.
It’s upstairs in the juvenile section.” She looked at me over her glasses. “It’s a lot better than those comic books you’re always reading.”

I shrugged.

“Where do you suppose the heroes buy those blue tights they always wear while they’re flying around saving people?”

She was teasing, but I said seriously, “I have a lot of really good comic books. But the Heinlein books are good, too.”

Mrs. Crawford’s eyebrows went up. “Very diplomatic, Charlie,” she said. “Maybe you’ll work for the government someday.”

That didn’t sound very interesting, but I shrugged again. “Maybe. I’ll go up and get the new book.”

I took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.

I like the upstairs part of the library. It’s really a loft, and you can look down over the railing onto the library’s main floor and circulation desk. It’s pretty quiet, and on slow days, I can be the only person up there for an hour or more. I sit in this big, soft chair near the door to the stairs and hang one leg over the armrest and read while Mom talks to Mrs. Crawford or looks for books on the main floor. When it’s time to go, Mom clears her throat. I look down at her, she waves, and I meet her downstairs.

The juvenile section is in some stacks on the right side. I followed along the shelves and found
Between Planets
by Robert Heinlein right away, at the end of the G—J stack. I pulled it off the shelf and read the description on the cover. It looked pretty good.

A door in the back wall opened, and Mr. Billett came out. He was lugging a big box.

“Hey, Mr. Billett,” I said. “Need some help?” I grabbed the door and held it open.

Mr. Billet works at the library. He keeps it clean and sometimes shelves books and stuff.

I peeked through the doorway behind him. There was a small, messy room with two desks and a table piled with stuff.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he said. “Want to help me get this downstairs? It’s heavier than I thought.” He huffed out a heavy breath. “Sure would be nice if we could get an elevator installed here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Or we could make a pulley thing and lower the box over the railing from the edge of the loft.”

He laughed. “Okay, Charlie, if you make the pulley thing, I’ll use it.”

I tossed the Heinlein book on top of the box and grabbed hold of it. We balanced the box between us.

“You got books in there?” I asked.

“Yep. New ones, ready to go on the shelves.”

We edged to the stairs and took them real slow to the bottom. We crossed the floor and set the box on the circulation desk.

“Oh, Charlie,” Mrs. Crawford said, looking up from her desk, “I hear you have a birthday coming up.”

“On the sixteenth,” I said, surprised. “Did Mom tell you that?”

She got a look on her face then that made me think she remembered she wasn’t supposed to say nothing.

Mrs. Crawford shrugged. “She might have.”

I smiled because I bet Mom told her about my present. I hadn’t hinted about anything I wanted, so I couldn’t guess what it was.

“Thanks for the help, Charlie,” Mr. Billet said. “If I don’t see you before the sixteenth, have a happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

I checked out my book and Mom’s and left the library. It was still pretty early, so I didn’t want to go home yet. Maybe somebody was at the park playing ball.

I walked the five blocks to Scott Park. Johnny O’Toole and Brian Malone were there, along with Eileen McNally. Me and Will usually play here with them, too, but Will wasn’t here this time. Maybe he’d come later.

The memory of tryouts yesterday was a fresh attack in my head. I didn’t want my chest to heat up again, so I pushed the tryouts out of my thoughts and hurried toward the baseball diamond.

Johnny, Brian, and Eileen were all just fooling around, playing catch. It was a nice day, not so hot yet, and the sun was shining soft through the trees.

I crossed the grass toward them, and Johnny called out, “Hey, Charlie’s here!”

“Charlie!” Eileen hollered.

Eileen’s the only girl in a family of nine brothers, so she plays ball real good, better than most boys I know. Shortstop is her specialty, because she’s fast and has a strong arm. She’s got a nose for the ball, too.