The Youngest Hero (15 page)

The boy I had fallen in love with in high school and the man I had grown to hate were as different as angels and demons. Here
he was, sober and unable to get booze in prison, and what kind of a man was he? Like before he had turned to alcohol? No.
Still a child, whimpering, selfish, a dolt. I was not about to let myself be used by him again. I may have held some cards
in his game of life, but now was not the time to play them.

I dragged my chair back to the kitchen.

“So, we’re done talking?” Elgin said.

I nodded. “I am. I wasn’t asking your advice, you know. I was tellin you something.”

He said something under his breath.

“What did you say, young man?”

“I said, ‘Truth hurts.’”

“Because I don’t do what you say, I don’t like hearing the truth?”

He turned on the TV again. “Well, it
is
the truth.”

“Maybe when you grow up and go through a few of life’s valleys, you can start tellin me how to live.”

“I wouldn’t even try.”

“Don’t get smart, Elgin.”

“I’m not trying to be smart, Momma. I just—”

“There is a lot you don’t know, and I wish you’d just trust me. If I can’t tell you stuff without this happening, then I just
won’t tell you stuff anymore.”

He had turned his back to me and was watching the Cubs fall farther behind.

I was suddenly ravenous. I retrieved what was left in the oven and remembered that this was the same fare we had eaten the
day we moved in.

I ate quickly and more than I should have. I had always been trim and never worried about my weight, but when I overate I
felt uncomfortable. Plus I had argued with Elgin, which I hated more than anything. I couldn’t begin to tell him what he
meant to me. How do you tell someone his age how committed you are to making him into the opposite of his father? If Elgin
had an inkling of his importance to me, it would be too much for him.

How I hated to have anything between us!

I cleaned up the kitchenette and went to sit with him. He was clearly not angry. I doubted he had backed down from his position,
but he wasn’t the type to make me suffer, even when we disagreed. I put my arm around him and he let me cuddle him. I couldn’t
get interested in the game. I was thinking of that stupid pitching machine.

I had wanted it at one time, thinking of Elgin’s future and knowing it was one of the few things of value Neal owned. But
we had no place to set it up. Elgin obviously didn’t need it. Apparently, it was on its way anyway. That would be fun to see:
Ricardo Bravura taking delivery of a several-hundred-pound contraption he wouldn’t even recognize.

I decided to write the chaplain and inform him that Neal Woodell was indeed not my husband, but that he was the father of
our son. I would say that I was—what would be the right word?—upset, troubled, saddened, something, to hear of Neal’s latest
troubles. I would not be mean, not say he was getting what he deserved and I was sorry he hadn’t succeeded in killing himself.
I would be careful to be cool without being nasty, and yet I wanted Mr. Wallace to tell that no-good—to tell Neal to write
to his son.

“That’s all the boy lives and dies for,” I would write later. “Every day he looks for that letter from his daddy. And then
we get this. Mr. Wallace, if you have any influence on Neal, get him to write something, anything to his son. And please look
it over if you have to. I will read it before I show it to my son, and I don’t want any of this mess in it.

“As for forgiving Neal, you can tell him I didn’t speak to that. I’m still thinking and praying about it. Maybe someday I
can talk to you about it. It’s not as simple as it seems, that’s all I can say.”

As I sat on the couch with Elgin, framing the letter in my mind, Elgin suddenly turned and stared at me.

“Just one question, Momma,” he said, unsmiling. “When was the last time the Cubs had a pitcher who could get a bunt down?”

I swatted him and went to write my letter. “I’m serious,” he called from the couch. “Did you see this? The runners were going!
He pops it to the pitcher and we were lucky they didn’t turn a triple play on us!”

The game wound down as I finished writing. Elgin wandered out and sat as I folded the letter.

“Can I see?”

“Private,” I said. “Sorry.”

“If it was lovey-dovey I could understand,” he said. “But you’re probably just telling him how much you still hate him.”

“I’m not even writing directly to him.”

“I’m not either,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not writing him again until he writes to me. I’m sorry he got hurt, but why couldn’t he even write and tell me?”

I shrugged and looked away.

“Momma, I want to go see him.”

“Elgin! It’s been months since you heard from him. If he’s not worth a letter, how can he be worth a visit?”

“I just think he’s forgotten me, and if I go see him, he’ll remember me.”

I embraced him. “No one could forget you.”

“How much would it cost to go?” he said.

“More than we’ve got.”

“I’d hitchhike.”

“Sure you would. And I’d sit here in Chicago and work and eat alone and pray you were okay. And then the people in the white
coats would come and ask me if I was the mother who let her eleven-year-old son hitchhike alone to prison.”

F
ive weeks later I received a polite reply from the prison chaplain, informing me that he had relayed my messages to Neal.

“I can’t guarantee he will accede to your wishes,” the Reverend Wallace wrote. “Your son will be pleased to know that his
father is recovering. I urge you to continue praying about your own response to him, though I would not presume to advise
you.”

It didn’t take a brain surgeon to read between the lines. The response had taken so long, I guessed, because the Reverend
Wallace was not happy with my letter. He had apparently hoped for more. It was clear that he assumed I had told Elgin everything.
I would keep praying about my own response, but I was at peace with my decision not to tell Elgin about Neal’s attempted suicide.

When Elgin’s letter from his father finally arrived, I could tell the chaplain had written it and had Neal copy it. It read:
“Dear Son, I’m sorry I haven’t written you in such a long time. I have been ill. I miss you and love you and wish I could
see you. Maybe someday soon we can get together. Keep up the good work with your baseball. Love, Dad.”

It didn’t sound like him, and not one misspelling. Elgin didn’t notice.

“Mom! Do you think he’s gonna get out after all?”

I shook my head. “I think he’s hopin you’ll come and see him someday, Elgin.”

“Can I?”

“Maybe someday. You’re growing up and he’s gonna be there a long time.”

Elgin scowled at me.

I loved the fall in Chicago, but when the temperature began to bite, I wondered if I could squeeze a few dollars out of my
budget for a warmer coat. For six weeks I put a ten-dollar bill in a small envelope in the cabinet above the refrigerator.
A couple more weeks and I would be able to afford a coat I might actually look forward to wearing.

The day before my four-day Thanksgiving weekend, I trudged home exhausted. Pre-Christmas orders had taxed everyone in the
office. Tempers were short, and bosses whose passes I had ignored seemed to take their frustrations out on me. I was working
an hour extra each day and still getting criticized and corrected. I worried about my raise, which had been promised and then
delayed and then promised again before the end of the year.

A drunk on the bus circulated among the women passengers, asking for money. I could not understand why these men thought women
had more money or were more sympathetic than men. I shook my head and looked away, but the drunk stood staring at me with
a hateful look. He scared me. The door of the dingy hotel actually looked inviting. It would be warm inside. Mr. Bravura would
say something nice, though I would be only cordial. And the slow, rickety elevator would connect me with the reason I endured
all this.

Mr. Bravura was occupied with another tenant as I walked past, but he sang out, “Oh, Mrs. Woodell, a word please, if it’s
convenient.”

“I need to get to my son,” I said, slowing.

“Just a word. Anyway, your son only just arrived.”

I looked at my watch. It was an hour and a half after dark. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine, ma’am, and if you could just give me a second…”

He finished with the other tenant.

“Now, Mrs. Woodell. Please, sit down.”

“I really don’t have a lot of time.”

“If you knew what I did for you today, you would give me all the time I need.”

Why did he have to play games? Had he rescued Elgin from some danger? Caught him hanging with gang members? I sat. Ricardo
leaned forward far enough that I could smell him. Tobacco. Alcohol. Sweat. Breath. I fought to keep from wrinkling my nose.

“I did something for you today that I have never done for another tenant. When C.O.D.s come, I usually turn them away. Oh,
I have paid a few extra pennies, but never have I done what I did for you today.”

He looked as if he expected a thanks before I had even learned the nature of the favor. I pressed my lips together, determined
not to beg.

“Well, it wasn’t C.O.D., thank God. I would not have been able to advance you that much. But look at this.” He produced a
carbon sheet from a stack on his desk. “The total cost of shipping this, this contraption, is hidden under these squiggly
lines, but you can see clearly the difference between that figure, which was paid in advance, and the amount that had to be
paid before they would make the delivery. I told them there was some mistake, that you were not here and that I couldn’t imagine
your ordering such a—a monstrosity. It must weigh over two hundred pounds. I had to help get it to the base of the stairs,
but they would not take it down for me. Maybe I should have refused it, but then if you were expecting it, what is a person
to do?

“I knew for sure you would be good for the, let me see, sixty-three dollars and seventy-seven cents.”

It had to be the pitching machine.
There goes my coat
. “Elgin doesn’t know about this, does he?”

Ricardo shook his head.

“Good. And thank you for doing that for me. I’ll have Elgin run the money down in a few minutes, if you promise not to tell
him about it. May I see it?”

He led me down a dark hallway to a steel door that led to the cellar. I hadn’t realized the building even had a basement.
“Does anyone ever go down there?”

“Not often,” Ricardo said. He flipped on a bare bulb that hung from the ceiling and gestured toward the shipment.

I had seen the thing before, but never quite like this. Every protruding piece had been twisted or pivoted or folded down
and wired to keep it as compact as it was, which was not very.

“May I ask what it is?” Ricardo said.

“A pitching machine.”

“Like a robot that throws the ball?”

“You could say that. Only it doesn’t look like a robot. It’s just a box that shoots baseballs at you.”

“I can probably store it for you downstairs.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It will probably take your son and you to help me move it. We can’t leave it here, and you don’t have room for it.”

“Can we do it tomorrow morning?”

“Of course. Tell me, is this normally an outside toy?”

“I’ve seen them in field houses,” I said, “but yes, it is intended for outside.”

“May I ask one more thing? Do you intend to leave us, maybe move somewhere with more space? I would hate to see you go.”

I shook my head. “If you can find a spot to store this, we’ll be here quite a while.”

Ricardo looked relieved and busied himself in his cubicle while I waited for the elevator.

“Why were you late?” I asked Elgin a few minutes later.

“Who said I was late? Big-nose Bravura?”

“He’s a nice man.”

“He should mind his own business.”

“I want him to look out for you, El! Don’t blame him. Where were you?”

“At a secondhand store.”

“A couple of blocks over?”

He nodded. “Chico was looking for something. I had never been in there before. They have everything! It’s like a pawnshop.
I got to looking at everything and lost track of time.”

“You should have been able to tell it was getting dark.”

“I know. It won’t happen again.”

I sat in the kitchenette with my coat on and the envelope of ten-dollar bills in my hand. I took sixty dollars from the envelope
and the rest from my purse in exact change.

“Run this down to Mr. Bravura, will you, El? Then we’ll have supper, and tomorrow I have a little Thanksgiving surprise for
you.”

“Turkey?”

“Better.”

B
eing able to sleep past six-thirty on a brisk Chicago morning was heaven. Problem was, Elgin was up and around. I hoped he
hadn’t noticed the small turkey in the back of the refrigerator. Neither of us could hide anything in that tiny two-and-a-half
rooms and a bathroom.

Elgin spent as much time at the stove as I did. Still I was amazed to hear the cabinets opening and closing, the match being
struck, the rattle and tap of pots and pans. He sounded as much like a born housewife as an eleven-year-old boy.

When I smelled breakfast I lay on my back with my hands behind my head, wondering what Elgin was up to. I finally padded to
the kitchen where Elgin greeted me with a grin and a set table. Coffee was brewing, bacon was sizzling, French toast frying,
and scrambled eggs ready. To be able at his age to get those dishes ready within seconds of each other astounded me.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said.

“Ain’t you somethin?” was all I could think to say.

“Yeah, I’m somethin,” he said, for once not correcting my English. “I figure if you have a surprise for me, I can have a surprise
for you.”

After we ate, Elgin started clearing. “You just get dressed so we
can get to my surprise.” I shot him a double take and he smiled. “Don’t trust Mr. Bravura.”