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Authors: Jonathan Friesen

The Last Martin (6 page)

BOOK: The Last Martin
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“Stop scaring the girl, Landis!” Aunt Jenny fumes. She’d probably kick him with both feet if she could. But then she’d fall and that would be bad for the little one —

My gaze zooms in on her gut, and I drop my bottle of scrub. The little one.

Aunt Jenny carries the first child in their family. It’s a boy. They will name him Martin after the Boyle tradition.

There can only be one Martin.

I stare at the row of headstones, at the space next to Dad’s brother. My space.

Lani vomits again, but this time I don’t care.

When that kid is born …

“I’m going to die.”

CHAPTER 6

I
WONDER WHAT DYING FEELS LIKE.

The question has haunted me since the cemetery. On our silent drive back from Landis’s. Throughout a sleepless night. It sticks with me now.

I walk the rails westward; my house long vanished behind me. I’ve never been this far down the tracks at 5:30 in the morning without the Barn Owl’s permission. I shiver and clutch the whistle that hangs around my neck. One tweet on the safety device would activate Mom’s bowels and bring her screeching to my side.

“Death. The last gasp. The big send off. Dust to dust. Farewell, cruel world.” I pry a stake from the track and point it at the sky. “It’s not fair. Being dead isn’t fair,” I whisper. “How was Disneyland, Martin? Sorry, never been there. Do you have your driver’s license? No, corpses can’t parallel park.”

My free hand cups around my mouth, and I whip
the stake toward the clouds. “I mean, what did I do to you? What did I do to anybody? Sure, I put a little hot sauce in Lani’s eyedrops, and I did cover her toilet with Saran Wrap, but those don’t deserve —”

The stake plummets to earth and impales the dirt between my feet.

Cripes! What do you have against Martins?

I break into a run, a stumbling, angry run that carries me away from the tracks and toward the outfield wall of Midway Stadium.

The field looms large and foreboding and empty. I clank into the ten-foot security fence down the right field line and tug at the loose chains connecting oversized gates. I release the chain links and glance at my hands, covered with rust.

Note to self. Check on tetanus booster.

I hold my breath, think skinny thoughts, and squeeze between the gates and into the stadium. I straighten on the right-field warning track and inspect my arms for scratches and skin breaks.

Minutes later I plunk down on the bleachers, surrounded by ten thousand empty seats.

Nobody will miss me anyway.

I stare at the field, groomed and waiting — waiting for a living kid to leave cleat marks on the base paths. How great would it have been to play baseball, run track — anything?

“Next up … Martin Boyle! They’re carrying him out right now. He’s looking a little stiff. What’s that? Duct tape? Yes, sports fans, his teammates are yanking him out of the coffin and duct-taping a bat to his hands! Have you ever seen anything — “ “Popcorn! Peanuts!”

I jump and reach for the whistle around my neck. “Kinda early for you, isn’t it, Marty?” Grimy waves from the upper deck and slowly makes his way down the aisle. “Your mom’ll blow when she finds you gone.”

Poole doesn’t look so scary. Not now. He strolls by me onto the top of the dugout, where he plops down and dangles his feet. Not a grimy care in the world.

“I’m thankful for this beautiful morning!” He points toward the sky. “See that sunrise? Smell that air — “ “That’s stink from the rendering plant.” “Someone’s having a bad day.” He grins. “Shame too. Such a glorious —”

“Stop it! You don’t have … issues. Well, maybe an ongoing odor problem, but besides that, no issues. I, on the other hand, might look normal — “ “You don’t.”

“Whatever. I look normaller than you.” I hold up a hand and rub my knuckles. “But you, at least, might live to get arthritis.”

Poole frowns. “And that’s a good thing?” I leap to my feet, pause, and kick the bleacher in
front of me. “You have no idea what’s going on — okay, that hurt my toe — where was I?”

“Um. You have no idea —”

“Right,” I say. “You go where you want and sleep where you want and take a shower every third week —”

“Fourth.”

“… fourth week. And you have a whole grimy life in front of you. Seventy, eighty, ninety grimy years.”

I breathe hard. I’ve never yelled at anyone like that before. Poole yawns at me, like he’s waiting for more, but I’m exhausted. “Sorry, yesterday was tough and today is tougher and tomorrow …”

“Tomorrow?” He stands.

I drop my gaze. “I found out I don’t have too many of them.”

Poole exhales, long and slow. “You don’t look sick.”

“Not sick.” I bury my face in my hands and feel the wet. “Cursed. See, Dad named me Martin.”

“Tragic.” He wears a thinking face. “A Martin Boyle curse. What are ya going to do?”

He’s an idiot. Die! I’m going to die!

“You don’t believe me.”

“Didn’t say that. It’s just not something you see much in obituaries.” Poole lifts his hand and traces an invisible headline.
“Boy Killed by His Name.”
He stretches. “Are you into baseball?”

“I’m telling you I’m curse — I, uh, think I’d love
baseball. Mom never let me play. Dirt fungi. It grows around the base paths, then gets beneath the fingernails and causes cuticle rot —”

“Follow me.” Poole leaps off the top of the dugout and disappears from view. I scamper forward and peer over the edge. Grimy stands on the spongy field near the batter’s box. He waves me down. “Jump, Martin.”

I shake my head. “Five foot rule. Did you know that if you freefall more than five feet you have a better than thirty percent chance of doing internal damage to the ligaments near your ankle?”

Poole glares with that Dad glare. It pulls me forward. I sit down, grab my whistle, and slip off. I land hard and my ankles scream.

“My feet! Oh, oh, here comes the ache … Yow! I told you —”

“You’re fine. Shake ‘em out and wait here.” Poole vanishes into a small stadium door and quickly reappears.

“Okay, slugger, you’re in luck. I know Frank, the watchman. He lets me use the equipment. Here you go.” Poole tosses a bat toward home plate and shoves a pitching machine toward the mound.

He whistles. A vagrant shouldn’t be whistling. I frown. “You really live in my backyard.”

“No. Your house is in my front yard, but it’s all in how you see it.” Poole sets down a bucket filled with
baseballs.

“And you sleep out there,” I say.

“Yep.”

“Don’t you get cold?”

“Yep.”

“Hungry? Where do you get food?”

Poole turns the pitching machine toward home plate and leans over the top. “Those tomatoes you paint are always mighty tasty. Now, that pumpkin years back was certainly a letdown.”

I frown, and Poole rolls his eyes. “Frank checks in on me now and then.” He raises a hand. “Any more questions?”

I adjust my glasses. “Not right now.”

“Good.” He straightens. “Here’s how this works. You stand at the plate, I’ll load ‘er up and fire you some balls. Plaster ‘em!”

“But I don’t know how to —”

“Exactly, and it sounds like you don’t have much time.” He grins. “Now or never.”

I bend over and pick up the bat, turn it around in my hands. “This curse is
not
my imagination.”

Poole slips twenty balls into a duffel and slings the bag over his shoulder. “Doesn’t matter what I think. Besides, you don’t live much anyway.” He points at the batter’s box. “Play ball!”

I inch closer, place the bat on my shoulder. “Those aren’t going to come fast, are they?”

Whoosh.
Inches from my nose. I fall to the ground, jump up quick, and swipe dirt off my shirt. Fungi everywhere. “That’s slow?”

“Fire!” he hoots.

Whoosh! The ball skims my rear.

“How do ya like that one?” Poole pumps his fist into the air.

“What are you do —”

“Run. Martin, run!” He fires another ball, pegs my calf.

“Ah!”

“Direct hit!” Poole leaps and dances and shoves the machine toward me. “Run!”

My eyes widen, and I take off for first.

zing!

Poole falls in behind and chases me to first. “Faster!”

“You’re crazy!” I jam my whistle in my mouth and start tweeting.

Zoom!

“Oh!” Tweet! “That hit my back.” Tweet, tweet. I speed to second.

Poole chases me three times around the bases before I collapse in the fungi jungle near home plate. “Fine,” I gasp. “Finish me off. It’ll happen soon anyway.”

Poole nudges me with his foot. “So what are you going to do now?”

I groan. “Ice my butt.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t see any other way to get you to play.” He kneels. “So you’ll go home and what, sit in the tub? Plan your funeral?”

“You think this is funny.” I push to all fours, wince, and slowly stand.

He shakes his head. “Like I said, what I think doesn’t matter much, does it?”

I shuffle away from Poole and into the outfield. It’s a long walk home, and there’s a barn owl in a panic by now.

“Good heavens, Martin!” Mom throws open the door and pulls me in by the arm. “Where have you been?” She squints at my neck, grabs my collar, yanks, and peeks at my back. “Bruises. Everywhere. Who did this to you?”

“A kid.” I step toward the stairs, but her grasp stiffens.

“A ruffian, no doubt. We need to document the damage or the police won’t take this seriously.” “Police?”

Her hands shoot to her hips. “Martin, you’re a victim of A-S-S-A-U-L-T. This is a police matter. Strip!”

“What?” I glance around the living room. “Here? Now?”

Lani bounds down the stairs. She looks at me and grimaces. “Who beat you up?”

I roll my eyes. “A kid.”

Her eyes are huge, like I did something great. “Cool! Did you fight him off?”

“Not exactly.”

“Strip to your boxers, Martin.” Mom fiddles with her digital camera.

I point at Lani. “Not in front of —”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, you used to share a tub. This is nothing new.”

“Ew!” Lani dashes up the stairs, and I move into the kitchen.

I wince and pull my shirt off. Mom gasps and reaches for the camera. “My son, my son. What has this ruffian done to you?” Click. “The pain.” Click. “A mother should never have to see this kind of — turn around, Martin — injury inflicted on her child.” Click.

She captures my spots of black, blue, and yellow from all angles. “Now the police cannot shirk their responsibilities. They’ll find your assailant and throw him behind bars. And you can believe that at his trial we will have words. Oh yes, we will have word —”

“But I know my assailant.” I grimace into my shirt and limp from the room. “We were just playing baseball. I fell. Sort of. A lot.”

“Who was it? Who? Who?” cries the Barn Owl.

Monday morning comes quickly and painfully.

I gimp to the mirror. A particularly nasty neck bruise mocks me, and I gingerly push a comb through my hair.

“School. Neck bruise. Bad combination.” I stroke my blue skin with my fingers. “Make-up? No. Face paint? No …”

Turtleneck!

I pick the weighty red one, the Christmas one with the battery sewn inside. Touch near my heart and Christmas trees will flash to the musical stylings of chipmunks singing
pa-rum-pa-pum-pum.
But at least it’s way big and hides the bottom of my chin.

Perspiration gathers and beads. It drips near the brow, at the neck, in the pits. The shirt is muggy and a scorcher but this woolen tomb is my only choice. I haul sore muscles down the steps and stop.

8 x 11 portraits hang all around the living room. Post-it notes title each picture.

Martin Boyle’s abdomen.

Martin Boyle’s left thigh.

I walk into the kitchen. Six magnets clip a life-sized blow-up of my mottled rear to the fridge.

“Officer Wilkins will be stopping by around ten.”

Mom pours coffee at the table. “He describes the incident as petty, but these pictures will change his mind.” She sips and gestures toward my buttocks with
her mug. “I affixed Post-it arrows to highlight the most painful blows.”

BOOK: The Last Martin
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