BASEBALL IN AUGUST by Christopher Bloss

    

 

Usually by the beginning of August, summer vacation lost its appeal to any Missouri youth due to the extreme heat and humidity.  During the end of one summer, one day of the week became as lifeless and indistinguishable from all the others.  The sun beat down and we were all tired of swimming.  It was a time for some sort of change, something else to come along to consume the wasted, lazy hours.  Each breeze carried the pervasive scent of rotting peaches that hung, unpicked and sagging, from their branches, and each gust of wind brought the sound of black wasps drunk on the sour-sweet ferment they found on their travels.  The reveries and hopefulness of summer activities seemed to disappear with the last of the dogwood blossoms, weeks earlier in the summer, leaving memories of cold watermelons and picnics. 

Jesus and Christ, our two ancient horses, milled wearily around the lopsided dock on the cool murky-green pond in the field behind our house, too hot to graze far away from the water supply.  Even the old crows, motionless on weathered pinewood fence-posts, waited impatiently for something to happen—for the heat and humidity to subside at dusk so they could find food—even the crows understood that the work required to find food wasn’t worth the effort in the thick humidity of a late Missouri summer. 

            Although at twelve-years old, none of my friends would dare admit it, we all longed for school to begin because it meant air-conditioned classrooms and a new routine beyond our world and well-used summer activities. 

            For most of the summer, Daddy had been living in the guestroom as part of a trial separation my parents decided to adopt.  Tired of their mutual miseries, a trial separation seemed like a logical step in their relationship toward mutual divorce.  One day, my father had simply moved into the guestroom with his lawn-chair rocker, his clothes, a black and white television, and a fifth of sweet whiskey. 

From my limited perspective at the time, though, the trial separation seemed silly and unnecessary because Daddy was still very much a part of the house:  still ate dinners with us, and still drank whiskey in the kitchen.  Nothing had really changed except that my parents must’ve quietly concluded that the trial separation to the guestroom wasn’t a very effective measure for their problems. 

            They finally decided, after years of pain and unhappiness and sorrow, to file for divorce.  I can only guess that they were both tired of living haunted lives of loneliness and midnight pain, of waking to unhappiness each morning, and of constant arguments where nobody spoke a word.  I’m sure they just wanted the possibility of something new, something different.   

I guess I couldn’t blame them because I could also feel the distance surmounting between us all.  At times the quiet was as thick as the stench of overripe peaches hanging sickly to their limbs.  Everybody and everything I knew at the time was ready for a change of some sort. 

            There had been, obviously happy times of sunlight and sweet cantaloupe, but there had also been dark days of alcoholism and neglect.  I was only certain that none of us lived in a perfect world.  Even summer becomes drained by exhaustion and frustrated efforts.  My family was no different. 

            So during the first few days of August, while aromatic slivers of walnuts piled beneath trees for the squirrels to scavenge, my father moved quietly—more quietly even than he had moved into the guestroom—into an apartment at Pirates’ Hills, a complex across the street from the Norfolk and Western Railroad yard where he worked. 

            When Daddy moved into the apartment, I lost hope that my parents would somehow find a reason to forego divorce, but I became numb to reality that they didn’t really want to be together any longer—even for my sake, maybe they didn’t even want me.  I wasn’t sure of anything after Daddy finally moved into his apartment.   

            I found I could contain my worries about the divorce by burying deep inside myself and ignoring the nagging reality of the situation—like a persistent itch that won’t go away.  I kept focused on everything except the divorce—the old horses, my Uncle Otis who had just admitted himself to Whitaker Home and the new clothes waiting for me when school began.  Anything but the divorce and the loss of my father.   

            One single thing bothered me that I couldn’t always control or understand:  my parents never once talked with me about the divorce, never asked me where I wanted to stay, who would keep me.  They never talked about custody or schedules with me.  Over the summer, Momma had been too busy pouring cold water into a clean sink while looking at the window at a world only she could see, where nobody with any good sense named horses “Jesus” and “Christ”; and Daddy kept drinking whiskey, lost in the reverie of a past he had never had, wondering what might had happened if he had made different decisions along life’s journey. 

            Somehow, over the course of the summer, I became lost in the exclamatory shadow of despair, the dark shadow-figure of a son on the wall or in a mirror, invisible to all. as decisions were made that would change all of our lives forever, change the course of events to something even less stable.  I was angry and confused at the entire situation.   Since my father moved into his apartment alone, I assumed that some sort of decision had been made that I would stay with Momma in the house.  My sorrow came with the fact that I was never consulted for my opinion.  Since I was a member of the family, it seemed reasonable they would talk with me sooner or later.   

            Everything continued to happen as always, but Daddy was gone most of the time now, although he would visit once a week or more.  Morning came, then twilight, and finally evening with sweet summer sleep. 

            Although I was angry with both of them for leaving me with so many unanswered questions, for not including me in this extremely important part of our lives, I was especially mad at my father.  I wondered if he would continue to have time to visit me, or if I would need to ride my bike to his apartment, hope he was home, so I could visit with him.  I was angry because he had told me I was a man, but he didn’t tell me answers to questions I had.  He left me on my own.  That didn’t seem to be the right thing for one man to do to another man.  He moved into his shitty little apartment at Pirates’ Hills without even saying good-bye to me.  Did he know how much I loved him? 

Did he know how much I wanted to be like him when I grew up? 

I wanted to be smart like a mechanic on the railroad, to drink whiskey with older men in town and at Salty Jim’s Motor Lodge on Friday afternoons.  I wanted to eat chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, and to wear white T-shirts and a white Panama hat, tipped to the side, just like him.  I worried that he wouldn’t keep his promise to teach me how to catch or hit a baseball without being afraid of it.  I had never been able to play on baseball teams because of a deeply rooted fear of the baseball; each time I saw the ball coming I was certain it would hit me in the mouth, knocking out teeth; or blacking one of my eyes—if not knocking one out altogether. 

            He had promised that he would somehow help me move beyond my childhood fear of the baseball, and last summer he had even bought me a new glove and a maple-wood bat.  I was afraid that after he moved into his new apartment, I would only remember him for broken promises and dark lies.  I wanted him to know how desperately I needed him, especially during the summer months. 

            After my father left, I learned to cry without making a sound, to work through my own misery without bothering anyone else.  I learned loneliness as a companion.  I didn’t know what else to do for them, so I maintained my silence.  I tried being with friends, digging for treasure, but nothing stopped the pain.  During the final days of summer, I tried to rely on Momma, but after Daddy left, Momma needed another obsession to replace pouring water into a clean kitchen sink. 

            Momma bought a clay sculpting kit and several arts and crafts books from the discount bin at River Bend’s Wal-Mart.  Working tirelessly, day and night, she became proficient at sculpting massive clay models with intricate details.  Momma was always very good with details about everything. 

Momma sculpted miniature busts of our two horses, bare dogwood trees, and a bottle of sweet whiskey; she sculpted our entire town, including Salty Jim’s Motor Lodge and Salty Jim; she made a careful caricature of the 82^nd Airborne from a picture she saw in Time; and she made black crows sitting on pinewood fence posts.  She made a careful sculpture of a woman pouring water into the kitchen sink. 

While she sculpted her new life in clay, she seemed alive with pride and hope and even the pain she had carried all of these years, but she didn’t notice me all that much or that I was spending less and less time at home.  She was too busy trying to keep busy.  I suppose she didn’t notice me because it hadn’t yet occurred to her to sculpt a rendition of me.  More than anything, her inattention reminded me how much I missed my father. 

            I became depressed, scarcely eating anything except chocolate chip cookies, and I was at home as little as possible. 

A few days after my father move into his apartment, I began to worry that I might go insane like Matt Roach, the sheriff’s son. 

One of the smartest kids at school, Matt went completely nuts after his parents divorced, but it really hurt him when he found out that his mother had moved to Jonesboro, Arkansas to work at a Frito-Lay factory that eventually closed a few months later.

            Matt came into the school cafeteria one day and climbed on one of the lunch tables, and announced, “Christ is coming back soon in a cherry-red Mustang convertible with dual exhaust.”  Matt had to go to a counselor several times a week, in order to figure out his feelings and to cool down.  Matt came out of counseling highly medicated and much more relaxed—if a little confused—and mellow.  He was also no longer the smartest kid in the school—since Matt became medicated competition for that position remained open. 

            On his better days, Matt would often sit on the curb outside his house on Old Plank Road, where he lived with Sheriff Roach, and eat Musselman’s Applesauce from the multicolored jar with a plastic spoon. 

Despite medication and supposedly good counseling, Matt developed another habit that surprised and puzzled all of us:  once or twice each week he would beat the shit out of the paperboy for no apparent reason, except to have something to do.  During that summer, Sheriff Roach’s neighborhood went through twenty-six paperboys in less than three months.  It was a staggering figure to anyone.  It was an especially surprising event since Matt was the Sheriff’s son and, formerly, the smartest kid in school. 

Out of respect for the long-standing Sheriff of River Bend and the surrounding area, residents simply bought their papers from local coin-operated machines at the local Suds-R-Us Convenience store, because no other boy in town wanted the job.  Nobody wanted to get beat up by the sheriff’s son.  The probability of injury far outweighed the perks of having a summer job delivering papers to an otherwise quiet neighborhood:  in short, it simply wasn’t worth the risk involved. 

            At thirteen-years old, Matt was a big boy with acne scars that made his face look as if it had somehow caught fire and been put out with a fan-rake.  Although Matt was never very popular in school, mostly because he was smart and generally made all the top grades, I generally enjoyed spending some afternoons with him, and I also grew a serious appreciation for Musselman’s Applesauce. 

Matt and I shared a kinship over our parents’ divorces.  No matter how life turned out for me, though, I knew I didn’t want to go to counseling and take “get happy” medication like Matt.  But it also occurred to me that Matt might know how to help me understand why neither of my parents seemed to talk with me anymore.  He might be able to shed some new light on my problems.  So, I started spending afternoons with him on the curb in front of his house on Old Plank Road.  I even began eating some dinners and spending nights with Matt and Sheriff Roach.  Maybe the relative safety of being with Sheriff Roach was the main reasons my mother didn’t worry about me being away from the house so much. 

            Some afternoons, Matt and I simply sat on the curb on Old Plank Road and talked about divorces and parents until we were both tired from the summer heat, the talking, and the looping and endless conclusions.  Other times we sat silently without saying a word for hours on end.  I appreciated the relationship Matt had with his father, perhaps I should say I was envious of the relationship Matt had with his father.   I wanted the same thing with my own father.   While my father seemed to have completely forgotten about me and happily left to start a new life, Matt and Sheriff Roach genuinely seemed to enjoy each other’s company.  Father and son relationships were a concept that intrigued me that particular summer. 

Sheriff Roach was a man like I wanted for my own father.  Sheriff Roach was a big man, standing six-foot-seven.  He could lift the back end of his car a full inch off the ground.  Sheriff Roach had a tattoo of an alligator with a dagger through it on his left forearm, and when he flexed his forearm it looked like the alligator was being stabbed with the dagger.  He was also a diverse person with a multitude of interests that didn’t include whiskey. 

Once during a celebrity auction, years ago, the Sheriff had met and had his picture taken with Gary Busey, who, the Sheriff told me, autographed the picture for fifteen dollars, which the Sheriff said, “was fifteen more than I should’ve paid.”

  But one of the main reasons I liked the Sheriff so much was because of his gentle and melodious voice—it calmed me just hearing him speak.  He never had to raise his voice because he spoke so quietly that one had to really listen to hear him, and it seemed that everyone wanted to hear the melody of his voice. 

I think what I noticed most with Matt and Sheriff Roach was the mutual respect one had for the other; it was almost as if they were friends, if that were possible between father and son.  They actually enjoyed spending time with each other, despite Matt’s reputation for beating the shit out of paperboys.  It was an extremely comfortable atmosphere.  I must admit, if I had been bigger or braver, I may have taken Matt’s example and beat a few paperboys myself to have this type of relationship with my father.  It seemed like an even trade—beat some paperboys and get my father back.   

Late in the afternoon, before the Sheriff came home from work, Matt would begin making dinner for all of us—spaghetti, lasagna, beef stew, or ham sandwiches—whatever was in the refrigerator or on hand at the time.  It was an activity that calmed my nerves at the time, and I was impressed that Sheriff Roach trusted Matt to make good dinners for them. 

Many times, though, Sheriff Roach would come home early in the afternoon and make apple pies that were always perfect, with the right amount of cinnamon, sugar, and ripe apples.  Each graciously ate the food the other had prepared for the other.  I couldn’t imagine a better situation among fathers and sons.  I longed for my father so much that it hurt when I saw that the relationship between the Roaches worked so perfectly.  Neither Matt nor the Sheriff seemed to mind having me around. 

At night, we watched movies together and ate popcorn, played checkers and Old Maid, and listened to the Sheriff talk about Gary Busey movies.  Even later in the night, Sheriff Roach would sit with us—Matt in his bed and me on an Army cot—and read to us until I was no longer certain whether I was asleep or awake.  I would drowse away to sleep listening to his sing-song voice.   

During those final dark, yet hot days of August, I remember wanting to make the Sheriff my father and Matt my brother so we could eat apple pies and play Scrabble forever.  I wanted stability and companionship.  Looking back as an adult, I know, even now that August is about endings and new beginnings, and it was the same all of those years ago. 

One morning, after I had been staying at Sheriff Roach’s house for several days, he asked Matt to leave the breakfast table so he and I could talk privately. 

“I need to speak to Logan, man to man,” he said, courteously.  Although Matt was confused by the secrecy—since we didn’t keep secrets at the Sheriff’s house—and the urgency in his father’s voice, he shrugged his shoulders and left us alone. 

Even though it was early, Sheriff Roach took a Coor’s Light from the refrigerator.  The refrigerator looked like a midget as the Sheriff hovered over it. 

“Logan, I saw you Daddy today.  He’s been goin’ to the ‘don’t drink’ classes at B.J.’s Hot House Pharmacy.  He seems to be tryin’ to get his life together.  Least-ways, he ain’t workin’ at no goddamn Frito-Lay factory.” 

There was a long pause as he stared above me into his own memories, then opened his beer.  “Maybe you should call him.  You know you can call him from here if you want,” he said. 

My heart was racing because I was afraid Sheriff Roach was going to send me home to Momma and her goddamn clay sculptures, to a home where I wasn’t seen no matter what I did.  I didn’t want to go back to a place where I was so easily forgotten. 

“I don’t wanna call him.  I’d like to stay here with you and Matt so we can watch Gary Busey movies,” I said, hoping that he wasn’t going to send me away. 

Before I knew it, hot tears were streaming down my face, making it hard for me to see the Sheriff across the table.  He reached across the table and pulled me over it into his arms.  He held me and talked about Frito-Lay factories and Gary Busey until I was tired, even though it was morning.  He hugged me until exhaustion and tears overcame me and I sobbed. 

            “We don’t need to make any decisions today,” he whispered in his melodious voice, handing me his handkerchief.  “Maybe we’ll just talk again later tomorrow.  Everything is always better tomorrow.” 

He sat me back down in the kitchen chair and stood up.  His shadow fell across the kitchen like the shadow of a giant. 

            Later that evening I crawled into the army cot next to Matt’s bed, still crying from the morning conversation, afraid I would be sent home the next morning.  I wanted to stay where people loved me.   

Sobbing, I heard Matt say, “I miss her, I miss my Momma, but I’m learnin’ that none of us are really in control of anything, it’s all a crock of shit.”  He reached across and held my hand until I calmed myself to sleep. 

            Sheriff Roach woke us up the next morning singing, “Nothin’ could be finer than to wake up with a Shriner in the morning.’” 

            Opening the bedroom door he said, I thought we’d spend the day at Holiday Lake playin’ a little baseball, maybe some catch, maybe even a good goddamn game of baseball.  So get your asses out of bed!” he said and chuckled. 

            A new worry crossed my mind:  now I would have to tell Matt and Sheriff Roach that I couldn’t catch or hit a baseball that I was afraid of even seeing the ball come toward me.  This was something I had never learned because my father had left too soon.   

Even my new life with Sheriff Roach and Matt was now in jeopardy because they could never understand that I was afraid of something like a simple baseball.  Plus, I still didn’t want to go home.  I was still afraid Sheriff Roach was going to make me go back home.   

The Sheriff seemed to understand my fears without me ever saying a word.  “Logan, I think I should tell you that I can’t hit a baseball for shit; never could,” Sheriff Roach said, disappearing into the bathroom still singing. 

Hardly anyone was at Holiday Lake when we arrived with a few baseballs, a bat, and several gloves.  There were a few members of the Grace Baptist Second Chance Church, who had been using the lake for a baptism service.  Fifteen people all dressed in flowing white robes, wading in knee-deep water while the rest of the congregation hummed “Amazing Grace.”  My Uncle Otis was the preacher.   

The Otis dunked one after another under the black-mirror surface of the lake while chanting, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”  Occasionally, a member of the congregation would break the silence with an “Amen” out loud, in contrast to the hummed doxology. 

Sheriff Roach walked us to the other side of the lake so the church members would have some privacy.  Warm bars of sunlight pushed through the bare limbs of the old dogwoods, and cottonwood floated over the gentle breeze. 

The Sheriff pulled a baseball out of a bag he had packed and tossed it up and down in his left hand, enraging the tattooed alligator with the dagger on his forearm.  My father walked into the clearing in front of us, and Sheriff Roach tossed him the baseball.  Daddy, in his Panama hat and white T-shirt, caught the ball effortlessly in his left hand with what appeared to be supreme confidence and strength. 

I tried to walk closer to Sheriff Roach because I didn’t know what was happening.  I was afraid to trust my father again, but Sheriff Roach and Matt had already started to walk away.  Daddy’s T-shirt reflected the bars of sunlight so that it almost seemed to gleam like the white robes of the people from the Grace Baptist Second Chance Church. 

He tossed a glove at my feet he had bought me the year before and I put it on. 

“Logan, I want you to keep you eye on the ball,” he said. “I want you to know that nothing’s gonna hurt you because I won’t let it.  Nothing’s changed between us,” he whispered.  “You just gonna catch this little baseball in that big glove and it ain’t gonna hurt you.  I promise.” 

“But I want to stay with Sheriff Roach and Matt and watch Gary Busey movies,” I yelled at him.  “I want to eat Musselman’s Applesauce with a plastic spoon and beat up the paperboy.” Hot tears of rage were running down my face like a gentle storm in the Ozarks. 

“Just keep your eye on this ball, Logan.  I’m gonna throw it and there’s nothin’ to scare you.”  He was as handsome as when he lived with us.  He was bigger than life, his Panama hat tipped slightly to the side for effect. 

In the split second that the baseball left his left hand, I loved him again despite his faults, despite my faults, and for all of the faults of every human who lived, loved, and hurt.  Despite the whiskey and the hopelessness that he gave me when he moved in Pirates’ Hills, I loved him all over again. 

He was tall and strong and confident as the ball left his hand, in a moment that would forever define my life and memories, so much that I’m still writing about them today, almost forty years later.  In the past I had only caught baseball pitches on accident, I was always afraid of what harm the ball would do to me.  I was afraid of the ball.  In the past, sometimes I would smack the ball with my glove, only to deflect it to the ground. 

Daddy threw the ball with his left arm and for a moment, the rest of the world stopped and held its breath.  The Grace Baptist Second Chance Church stopped singing.    I didn’t flinch or blink my eyes; there was no panic in my response.  He threw the ball and I caught it and held it. 

And I’ve never let it go.

 

 

 

Christopher Bloss is an English teacher in Georgia, where he lives with his family.  He finished his doctorate in Creative Writing from the University of South Dakota.  Christopher’s work has appeared in The Chiron Review; he has also presented creative work at the national Popular Culture Conference and the Milton Conference.  He is working on his first novel titled The Ersatz Palace.