The Natural (23 page)

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Authors: Bernard Malamud

BOOK: The Natural
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Roy frowned. “Come out of the bushes.”
The Judge paused. “I was trying to help you assess this action in terms of the future.”
“You mean if I sell out?”
“Put it that way if you like.”
“And that maybe some good might come out of it?”
“That is my assumption.”
“For me, you mean?”
“For others too. It is impossible to predict who will be benefited.”
“I thought you said you were doing this to get rid of the gamblers—that's good right off, ain't it?”
The Judge cleared his throat. “Indeed it is. However, one might consider, despite the difficulty of the personal situation —that is to say, within the context of one's own compunctions —that it is impossible to predict what further good may accrue to one, and others, in the future, as a result of an initially difficult decision.”
Roy laughed. “You should be selling snake oil.”
He had thought there might be something to the argument. He was now sure there wasn't, for as the Judge had talked he recalled an experience he had had when he was a kid. He and his dog were following an old skid road into the heart of a spooky forest when the hound suddenly let out a yelp, ran on ahead, and got lost. It was late in the afternoon and he couldn't stand the thought of leaving the dog there alone all night, so he went into the wood after it. At first he could see daylight between the trees—to this minute he remembered how still the trunks were, as the tree tops circled around in the breeze—and in sight of daylight it wasn't so bad, nor a little deeper in, despite the green gloom, but just at about the time the darkness got so thick he was conscious of having to shove against it as he hallooed for the dog, he got this scared and lonely feeling that he was impossibly lost. With his heart whamming against his ribs he looked around but could recognize no direction in the darkness, let alone discover the right one. It was cold and he shivered. Only, the payoff of it was that the mutt found him and led him out of the woods. That was good out of good.
Roy pulled the covers over his head. “Go home.”
The Judge didn't move. “There is also the matter of next season's contract.”
Roy listened. Would there ever be a next season? He uncovered his head. “How much?”
“I shall offer—provided we agree on the other matter—a substantial raise.”
“Talk figures.”
“Forty-five thousand for the season. We might also work out some small percentage on the gate.”
“Twenty-five thousand for dropping the game is not enough,” said Roy. As he spoke an icicle of fright punctured his spine.
The Judge scowled and drew on his half-gone cigar. “Thirty,” he said, “and no more.”
“Thirty-five,” Roy got out. “Don't forget I stand to lose a couple of thousand on the pay I could get in the Series.”
“Utterly outrageous,” snapped the Judge.
“Don't slam the door on your way out.”
The Judge rose, brushed his wrinkled pants and left.
Roy stared at the ceiling—relieved.
The Judge returned. He removed his hat and wiped his perspiring face with his dirty handkerchief. His head was covered with a thick black wig. You never got to the bottom of that creep.
“You are impossible to deal with—but I accept.” His voice was flat. He covered his head with his hat.
But Roy said he had changed his mind when the Judge was out of the room. He had thought it over and decided the boys wanted to win that game and he wanted to help them. That was good. He couldn't betray his own team and manager. That was bad.
The Judge then hissed, “You may lose Miss Paris to someone else if you are not careful.”
Roy bolted up. “To who for instance?”
“A better provider.”
“You mean Gus Sands?”
The Judge did not directly reply. “A word to the wise—”
“That's none of your business,” said Roy. He lay back. Then he asked, “What if I couldn't lose the game by myself? The Pirates ain't exactly world beaters. We roasted them the last seven times. The boys might do it again even if I didn't hit a thing.”
The Judge rubbed his scaly hands. “The Knights are demoralized. Without you, I doubt they can win over a sandlot team, contrary opinion notwithstanding. As for the contingency of the flat failure of the opposing team, we have made the necessary arrangements to take care of that.”
Roy was up again. “You mean there's somebody else in on this deal?”
The Judge smiled around his cigar.
“Somebody on our team?”
“A key man.”
“In that case—” Roy said slowly.
“The thirty-five thousand is final. There'll be no changing that.”
“With forty-five for the contract—”
“Agreed. You understand you are not under any circumstances to hit the ball safely?”
After a minute Roy said slowly, “I will take the pitch:”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The fix is on.”
The Judge caught on and said with a laugh, “I see you share my philological interests.” He lit his dead King Oscar.
Through the nausea Roy remembered an old saying. He quoted, “Woe unto him who calls evil good and good evil.”
The Judge glared at him.
 
Memo returned and covered his face with wet kisses. She
tweaked his nose, mussed his hair, and called him wonderful.
After she left he couldn't sleep so he reached under his pillow and got out Iris' letter.
“ … After my baby was born, the women of the home where my father had brought me to save himself further shame were after me to give it up. They said it would be bad for her to be brought up by an unmarried mother, and that I would have no time to myself or opportunity to take up my normal life. I tried, as they said, to be sensible and offer her for adoption, but I had been nursing her—although warned against it, nursing shrinks the breasts you know, and they were afraid for my figure—and the thought of tearing myself away from her forever was too much for me. Since Papa wouldn't have her in his house I decided to find a job and bring her up myself. That turned out to be a lot harder than I had expected, because I earned not very much and had to pay for baby's care all day, her things, the rent of course, and the clothes I had to have for work. At night I had supper to think of, bathing her, laundry, house cleaning, and preparing for the next day, which never changed from any other.
“Except for my baby I was nearly always alone, reading, mostly, to improve myself, although sometimes it was unbearable, especially before I was twenty and just after. It also took quite a while until I got rid of my guilt, or could look upon her as innocent of it, but eventually I did, and soon her loveliness and gaiety and all the tender feelings I had in my heart for her made up for a lot I had suffered. Yet I was tied to time—not so much to the past—nor to the expectations of the future, which was really too far away—only to here and now, day after day, until suddenly the years unrolled and a change came—more a reward of standing it so long than any sudden magic—and more quickly than I could believe, she had grown into a young woman, and almost as if I had wished it on her, fell in love with a wonderful boy and married him. Like me she was a mother before she was seventeen. Suddenly everywhere I looked seemed to be tomorrow,
and I was at last free to take up my life where I had left it off one summer night when I went for a walk in the park with a stranger …”
He read down to the last page, where she once more mentioned herself as a grandmother. Roy crumpled the letter and pitched it against the wall.
O
n the morning of the game fist fights broke out all over the stands in Knights Field. Hats, bottles, apple cores, bananas, and the mushy contents of sack lunches were thrown around. A fan in one of the boxes had a rock bounced off his skull, opening a bleeding gash. Two special cops rushed up the steps and got hold of an innocent-looking guy with glasses, whose pockets were stuffed with odd-shaped rocks. They dragged him forth, although he was hollering he had collected them for his rock garden, and flung him headlong out of the park. He was from Pittsburgh and cursed the Knights into the ground. A disappointed truck driver who couldn't get in to see the game tackled him from behind, knocking the rock collector's head against the sidewalk and smashing his glasses. He spat out two bloody teeth and sat there sobbing till the ambulance came.
The sun hid behind the clouds for the most part. The day was chilly, football weather, but the stands were decorated with colored bunting, the flags on the grandstand roof rode high in the breeze and the crowd was raucous. The PA man tried to calm them but they were packed together too tight to be peaceful, for the Judge had sold hundreds of extra tickets and the standees raced for any seat that was vacant for a second. Besides, the Knights' fans were jumpy, their nerves ragged from following the ups and downs of the team. Some glum-face gents bitterly cursed Roy out, calling him welsher, fool, pig-horse for eating himself into that colossal bellyache. But he had his defenders, who claimed the Big Man's body
burned food so fast he needed every bit he ate. They blamed the damage on ptomaine. The accusers wanted to know why no one else at the party had come down sick. They were answered where would the Knights be without Roy—at the bottom of the heap. The one who spoke got a rap on the ear for his trouble. The rapper was grabbed by a cop, run down the catwalk, and pitched into the rotunda. Yet though the fans were out of sorts and crabbing at each other, they presented a solid front when it came to laying bets. Many pessimistically shook their heads, but they counted up the seven straight wins over the Pirates, figured in that Hobbs was back, and reached into their pockets. Although there were not too many Pirate rooters around, the bets were quickly covered for every hard-earned buck.
Otto Zipp was above all this. He sat like a small mountain behind the rail in short left, reading the sports page of his newspaper. He looked neither right nor left, and if somebody tried to talk to him Otto gave him short shrift. Then when they least expected it, he would honk his horn and cry out in shrill tones, “Throw him to the hawks.” After that he went back to the sports page.
 
When the players began drifting into the clubhouse they were surprised to see Roy there. He was wearing his uniform and slowly polishing Wonderboy. The boys said hello and not much more. Flores looked at his feet. Some of them were embarrassed that they hadn't gone to see him in the hospital. Secretly they were pleased he was here. Allie Stubbs even began to kid around with Olson. Roy thought they would not act so chipper if they knew he felt weak as piss and was dreading the game. The Judge was absolutely crazy to pay him thirty-five grand not to hit when he didn't feel able to even lift a stick. He hoped Pop would guess how shaky he was and bench him. What a laugh that would be on the Judge—serve the bastard right. But when Pop came in, he
didn't so much as glance in Roy's direction. He walked straight into his office and slammed the door, which suited Roy fine.
Pop had ordered everybody kept out of the clubhouse until after the game but Mercy weaseled in. All smiles, he approached Roy, asking for the true story of what went on at the party that night, but Red Blow saw him and told him to stay outside. Max had tried the same act in the hospital last week. The floor nurse caught him sneaking toward Roy's room and had him dropped out on the front steps. After leaving the clubhouse Max sent in a note, inviting Roy to come out and make a statement. People were calling him a filthy coward and what did he intend to say to that? Roy gave out a one-word unprintable reply. Mercy shot in a second note. “You'll get yours—M.M.” Roy tore it up and told the usher to take no more slop from him.
Pop poked his baldy out of his door and called for Roy. The players looked around uneasily. Roy got up and finally went into the office. For an insufferable time Pop failed to speak. He was unshaven, his face exuding gray stubble that made him look eighty years old. His thin frame seemed shrunken and his left eye was a little crossed with fatigue. Pop leaned back in his creaking swivel chair, staring with tears in his eyes over his half moons at the picture of Ma on his desk. Roy examined his fingernails.
Pop sighed, “Roy, it's my own fault.”
It made Roy edgy. “What is?”
“This mess that we are now in. I am not forgetting I kept you on the bench for three solid weeks in June. If I hadn't done that foolish thing we'da finished the season at least half a dozen games out in front.”
Roy offered no reply.
“But your own mistake was a bad one too.”
Roy nodded.
“A bad one, with the team right on top of hooking the
pennant.” Pop shook his head. Yet he said he wouldn't blame Roy too much because it wasn't entirely of his own doing. He then apologized for not coming to see him in the hospital. He had twice set out to but felt too grumpy to be fit company for a sick man, so he hadn't come. “It's not you that I am mad at, Roy—it's that blasted Memo. I shoulda pitched her out on her ass the first day she showed up at my door.”
Roy got up.
“Sit down.” Pop bent forward. “We can win today.” His cold breath smelled bad. Roy drew his head back.
“Well, we can, can't we?”
He nodded.
“What's the matter with you?”
“I feel weak,” Roy said, “and I am not betting how I will hit today.”
Pop's voice got kindly again. “I say we can win it whichever way you feel. Once you begin to play you will feel stronger. And if the rest of those birds see you hustling they will break their backs to win. All they got to feel is there is somebody on this team who thinks they can.”
Pop then related a story about a rookie third baseman he once knew, a lad named Mulligan. He was a fine hitter and thrower but full of hard luck all his life. Once he was beaned at the plate and had his skull cracked. He returned for spring practice the following year and the first day out he crashed into another fielder and broke his arm. On the return from that he was on first running to second on a hit and run play and the batter smacked the ball straight at him, breaking two ribs and dislocating a disc in his spine. After that he quit baseball, to everybody's relief.
“He was just unlucky,” Pop said, “and there wasn't a thing anybody could do to take the whammy off of him and change his hard luck. You know, Roy, I been lately thinking that a whole lot of people are like him, and for one reason or the
other their lives will go the same way all the time, without them getting what they want, no matter what. I for one.”
Then to Roy's surprise he said he never hoped to have a World Series flag. Pop swiveled his chair closer. “It ain't in the cards for me—that's all. I am wise to admit it to myself. It took a long time but I finally saw which way the arrow has been pointing.” He sighed deeply. “But that don't hold true about our league pennant, Roy. That's the next best thing and I feel I am entitled to it. I feel if I win it just this once —I will be satisfied. I will be satisfied, and win or lose in the Series, I will quit baseball forever.” He lowered his voice. “You see what it means to me, son?”
“I see.”
“Roy, I would give my whole life to win this game and take the pennant. Promise me that you will go in there and do your damndest.”
“I will go in,” Roy sighed.
 
After the practice bell had rung, when he reluctantly climbed up out of the dugout and shoved himself toward the batting cage with his bat in his hand, as soon as the crowd got a look at him the boo birds opened up, alternating with shrill whistles and brassy catcalls. Roy hardened his jaws, but then a rumble erupted that sounded like bubbling tubfuls of people laughing and sobbing. The noise grew to a roar, boiled over, and to his astonishment, drowned out the disapprovers in an ovation of cheering. Men flung their hats into the air, scaling straws and limp felts, pounded each other's skulls, and cried themselves hoarse. Women screeched and ended up weeping. The shouting grew, piling reverberation upon reverberation, till it reached blast proportions. When it momentarily wore thin, Sadie Sutter's solemn gong could be heard, but as the roar rose again, the gonging grew faint and died in the distance. Roy felt feverish. The applause was about over when
he removed his cap to clean the sweat off his brow, and once more thunder rolled across the field, continuing in waves as he entered the cage. With teeth clenched to stop the chattering, he took three swipes at the ball, driving each a decent distance. At Pop's urging he also went out onto the field to shag some flies. Again the cheers resounded, although he wished they wouldn't. He speared a few flies in his tracks, dropped his glove and walked to the dugout. The cheers trailed him in a foaming billow, but above the surflike roar and the renewed tolling of Sadie's gong, he could hear Otto Zipp's shrill curses. The dwarf drew down on his head a chorus of hisses but thumbed his cherry nose as Roy passed by. Roy paid him no heed whatsoever, infuriating Otto.
The Pirates flipped through their practice and the game began. Pop had picked Fowler to start for the Knights. Roy figured then that he knew who was in this deal with him. Leave it to the Judge to tie the bag in the most economical way—with the best hitter and pitcher. He had probably asked Pop who he was intending to pitch and then went out and bought him, though no doubt paying a good deal less than the price Roy was getting. What surprised and shocked him was that Fowler could be so corrupt though so young and in the best of health. If he only had half the promise of the future Fowler had, he would never have dirtied his paws in this business. However, as he watched Fowler pitch during the first inning he wasn't certain he was the one. His fast ball hopped today and he got rid of the first two Pirates with ease. Maybe he was playing it cagey first off, time would tell. Roy's thoughts were broken up by the sound, and echo behind him, of the crack of a bat. The third man up had taken hold of one and it was arcing into deep left. Already Flores was hot footing it in from center. It occurred to Roy that although he had promised the Judge he wouldn't hit, he had made no commitments as to catching them. Waving Flores
aside, he ran several shaky steps and made a throbbing stab at the ball, spearing it on the half run for the third out. As he did so he noticed a movement up in the tower window and saw the Judge's stout figure pressed against the window. He then recollected he hadn't seen Memo since Saturday.
To nobody's surprise, Dutch Vogelman went to the mound for the Pirates. In a few minutes it was clear to all he was working with championship stuff, because he knocked the first three Knights off without half trying, including Flores, who was no easy victim. Roy had no chance to bat, for which he felt relieved. But after Fowler had also rubbed out the opposition, he was first up in the second inning. As he dragged Wonderboy up to the plate, the stands, after a short outburst, were hushed. Everybody remembered the four homers he had got off Vogelman the last time he had faced him. In the dugout Pop and the boys were peppering it up for him to give the ball a big ride, and so were Red Blow and Earl Wilson, on the baselines. What they didn't know was that Roy had been struck giddy with weakness. His heart whammed like a wheezing steam engine, his head felt nailed to a pole, his eardrums throbbed as if he were listening to the bottom of the sea, and his arms hung like dead weights. It was with the greatest effort that he raised Wonderboy. As he was slowly getting set, he sneaked a cautious glance up at the tower, and it did not exactly surprise him that Memo, still in black, was standing at the window next to the Judge, blankly gazing down at him. Anyway, he knew where she was now.
Vogelman had been taking his time. For a pitcher he was a comparatively short duck, with a long beak, powerful arms and legs, red sleeves leaking out of a battered jersey, and a nervous delivery. Despite the fact that he had ended the regular season as a twenty-five game winner, he worried to bursting beads of sweat at the thought of pitching to Roy. Every time he recalled those four gopher balls, one after the other
landing in the stands, he cringed with embarrassment. And he knew, although there was nobody on base at the moment, that if he served one of them up now, it could conceivably ice the game for the Knights and louse up the very peak of his year of triumph. So Vogelman delayed by wiping the shine off the ball, inspecting the stitches, fumbling for the resin bag, scuffing his cleats in the dirt, and removing his cap to rub away the sweat he had worked up. When the boos of the crowd got good and loud, Stuffy Briggs bellowed for him to throw and Vogelman reluctantly let go with a pitch.
The ball was a whizzer but dripping lard. Weak as he felt, Roy had to smile at what he could really do to that baby if he had his heart set on it, but he swung the slightest bit too late, grunting as the ball shot past Wonderboy—which almost broke his wrists to get at it—and plunked in the pocket of the catcher's glove.
… Where had she been since Saturday? Sunday was the first day she hadn't come to the hospital, the day she knew he was getting out of the joint. He had left alone, followed by some reporters he wouldn't talk to, and had taken a cab to the hotel. Once in his room he got into pajamas, and wondering why she hadn't at least called him, fell asleep. He had then had this dream of her—seeing her in some city, it looked like Boston—and she didn't recognize him when they passed but walked on fast in her swaying walk. He chased after her and she was (he remembered) swallowed up in the crowd. But he saw the red hair and followed after that, only it turned out to be a dyed redhead with a mean mouth and dirty eyes. Where's Memo? he called, and woke thinking she was here in the room, but she wasn't, and he hadn't seen her till he located her up there in the tower.

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