Jokers Club (17 page)

Hands shot into the passenger side window, grabbing my arm.

I twisted around sharply, my heart jumping in my throat. I looked in horror at the maniacal face before me.

“HEY!” Carrothead screamed, drool running down a face scrunched up like a clenched fist. “Tell your friend he’s too old to play games!” His hands withdrew to the edge of the window. I remained pressed up against my door, afraid he’d reach out for me again.

“Do you hear me?” he screamed. His face was brighter than his hair. “He can’t play games no more! Tell him he doesn’t belong in the park!” He stepped back from the car, his mouth still frothing. “Tell him to stay away from the park!” he shrieked one last time, then turned and shuffled down the boardwalk.

I had been holding my breath the whole time and now released it. My body was shaking and I gripped the steering wheel to settle it. When the shakes were gone, I tried to figure out what Carrothead was ranting about.

The park? Games?

Did he mean the ball park? The Little League field out past our old neighborhood near the cemetery?

Had he been talking about Lonny or someone else? It could have meant nothing. But it was worth a look. I started the car.

As I headed up Autumn Avenue, I decided to take a cruise through our neighborhood, just on the off chance Lonny was wandering around there. I turned onto Maple and drove slowly down the quiet street. I looked at my old house once again and the one next to it that Woody lived in, thinking about the night Woody and I talked to each other from our bedroom windows and decided to go out to the Tin Man’s house. I looked over at the blackened skeleton of a tree that stood in the Rench’s old back yard and thought of the fire that inadvertently started this whole nightmare. A nightmare that still hadn’t ended, apparently.

When I got to the end of the street, I turned left onto Shadow Drive, looking up at the house on the corner where the Nightingales lived. I imagined Jason’s family was still haunted by the same memories we were.

I didn’t drive all the way down Shadow Drive. I stopped at the spot where Elm Street intersected it. But I could see the end of the road. I could see the Tin Man’s house. I sat in the car and stared at the windows of the house with the drawn green shades. I watched for movement behind those shades. After all these years. He was still alive. How could Emeric Rust have lived so long? What kept him alive? He was behind those windows somewhere, I could feel it. Was he watching me? What was he living for? What driving force kept him going?

I shook my head, as if to rid myself of the somnambulant trance I seemed to be yielding to and turned the car down Elm Street. I scanned the ravine behind the houses, not really expecting to find Lonny lurking there. I glanced at the house Hooper lived in and wondered if he still did. Probably.

I looked to my right, up the hill to the Pines and saw somebody.

I pulled over to the side of the street and stopped. I looked through the windshield and could see a figure standing amidst the trees on top of the hill. I got out of the car to get a better view.

The figure moved. A man.

He moved quickly along behind a row of trees creating a strobe effect on my vision. The man looked dirty and disheveled. He glanced down at me.

It looked like Woody.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Woody! Wait!”

He disappeared over the crest of the hill.

I thought of running up the hill after him but didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me again.

I stood there for a minute, pondering, and then got back in the car. As I pulled out onto Autumn Avenue once again and got around to where I could see the other side of the hill, I looked over. There was no one there.

I dismissed it and pulled my car up by the Little League field. I surveyed the field as I stepped out of the vehicle. It looked much smaller than I remembered as a kid. Back then the outfield fence seemed impossibly far away, but now it looked like I could throw a ball over it from home plate.

There was no one around. The ballpark was in a state of rest for the upcoming winter ahead. The grass had grown thick and was turning brown. The concession stand was boarded up. The green paint on the wooden dugouts on either side of the field was cracked and peeling.

I walked toward the middle of the field, out to the pitcher’s mound. The pitcher’s rubber had been removed, but I stood where it had been. The mound seemed low. I looked at the infield and outfield around me.

At the players around me. My teammates.

It was the city Little League championship. I stood on the mound rubbing the ball into my glove. It was the bottom of the last inning and I was tired. My arm ached. I had pitched the whole game, but I didn’t want to stop now. We were up by only a run with one out and no one on. I couldn’t let the coach see I was tired. I wanted to get these two outs, wanted to finish the game, wanted to be the hero. If the coach saw I was tired, if he knew how sore my arm was, he would give me the hook.

A quick peek into the bleachers and I could see my dad’s smiling face. I wanted to impress him, needed to make him proud of me. That’s why I had to finish this game.

I stepped onto the rubber and looked at the batter. Glancing into the on-deck circle, Oliver Rench waited, swinging a weighted bat. I had to get these next two outs because I knew what awaited me after Oliver’s turn: Chuckwagon.

I stared in at Woody behind the plate. He was setting his catcher’s mitt up low and inside. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to work too much to this guy. My arm couldn’t take it. Nothing fancy. Just put it down the middle and let him hit it. Then hope for an out.

I wound up and threw as hard as I could right down the pipe.

The bat cracked and the ball lined way over my head. I spun around and watched as the center fielder ran in and caught the ball.

One more, I thought, removing my hat to wipe my forehead. I replaced my cap and caught the ball after it went around the horn.

Oliver stepped into the batter’s box, and Chuckwagon stepped into the on-deck circle. He was built like a block of granite. Even his head looked square. He held three bats together and swung them back and forth.

“Keep it alive for me, Oliver,” he hollered.

Oliver grinned at me, then at the plate.

I released a sigh and looked in at Woody. I had to get Oliver out. I didn’t want to face Chuckwagon. He had hit more home runs than anybody in the league. If I could just get Oliver out, we’d be the champs. The pressure was sickening.

I wound up and threw the ball right down the middle of the plate. He took the ball for a strike.

I shook my head. I wanted him to swing. I was putting every bit of energy I could into my pitches. I didn’t want to waste time throwing. I wanted him to just hit the ball and get it over with. My arm felt like lead.

I wound up and threw again. This pitch was high for a ball.

Come on, I said to myself. Just swing at the damn thing.

My arm gave out in the middle of the next pitch. It was accurate, right down the heart of the plate, but there was no power to it. It just floated to the bat.

Oliver swung and lined the ball into left field. A roar went up from the crowd and the opponent’s dugout. I felt my heart slip a notch inside me.

Chuckwagon tossed two bats aside and strode up to the batter’s box. The coach called time out and walked to the mound. Woody joined us.

“I’m all right,” I said to the coach, before he even had a chance to speak.

“How’s the arm?”

I was staring into the stands at my dad. “It feels great,” I lied. “Really, I can get this guy.”

The coach shook his head, as if not convinced by my plea, but then surprised me. “Okay,” he said. “Do it.”

Woody spoke up. “Maybe we should put this guy on, Coach?”

“No way,” I said, emphatically. “That’s the coward’s way out.”

“If we want this championship,” coach said, “we’re going to earn it.”

Coach walked back to the dugout.

“Don’t give him a treat like you’ve been feeding these other guys,” Woody said.

“Don’t worry,” I nodded. Woody went back to the plate. He was right. I couldn’t fool around with Chuckwagon. Anything down the middle of the plate would be out of here for sure. He already put one out on me earlier in the game that wound up in the cemetery. I would have to be a bit craftier.

“Take him out coach!” one of the parents yelled from the bleachers. It didn’t sound like my dad.

I glanced over at the opposing dugout. The whole team was standing up at the chain link fence that covered the face of the dugout, hands gripping the metal fibers, eyes bugging out at the field. No one had even bothered to step into the on-deck circle. It was as if they were all certain Chuckwagon was going to end the game.

There was no doubt in my mind he was thinking home run all the way. He wouldn’t settle for anything less.

I went into my windup and threw to the plate. I threw the ball low, hoping he’d be over anxious and bounce a grounder to the infield, but he just watched it and Woody bobbled the pitch and dropped it.

Out of my peripheral vision I saw Oliver take off for second. Woody was barely able to pick the ball up and his throw down to second was nowhere near in time. Oliver stood up from his slide laughing, brushing the dirt off his pants.

“Oliver!” Chuckwagon hollered. The whole park was jolted into silence. “Don’t you dare take a chance like that again! This game is mine.”

I looked at Oliver and his smile was gone. I had never seen a look of fright on Oliver like that before.

My next pitch was high and outside, but Chuckwagon’s long arms and huge bat reached for it and connected.

I held my breath at the sound of that crack. He had gotten solid wood on it. I spun around and watched the ball sail out toward right field. I leaned way to the right, mentally trying to force the ball foul. I don’t know if it helped, but the ball started to hook. My pitch must have been just outside enough. The ball went foul, well beyond the homerun fence.

There were oohs and ahhs from the crowd and I released my breath. My teammates cheered behind me.

Hmmmm babe. Hmmmm babe.

My arm was throbbing, so I thought I’d try a curve. I just didn’t have the strength to have much faith in my fastball. As I released the ball, my arm spasmed. The ball was heading for his head and I didn’t think it was going to break. At the last possible second before it met his helmet, he threw himself to the ground. The crowd gasped. I don’t think anyone had ever seen Chuckwagon go down from a pitch. I think maybe the only reason he did was because he didn’t want to get on base by being hit. He wanted that home run, could taste it.

He got up, shook off the dirt, and then glared at me, brandishing his lumber menacingly. The fire in his eyes dried up my throat.

I knew I had to forget about the curve. My control was shot.

I wound up and reared back, gripping the ball tightly, and heaved it with all my might. I think I garnered energy I thought was long gone. It was inside and he swung. He was over anxious I think and it jammed him. He fouled the ball back over the backstop.

The ump threw in a fresh ball and it turned out to be brand new. I pretended to accidentally drop it on the mound and, when I bent to pick it up, I dragged it in the dirt. I then rubbed the ball in my palms. I didn’t need to give him a nice bright white target.

I think the last pitch totally exhausted every muscle I had. I didn’t think I could throw another fastball. I figured maybe I could fool him with a breaking ball. Maybe he wouldn’t expect it.

I tucked the ball deep into my palm. Chuckwagon was gripping the bat so tightly his knuckles were white. I wound up and threw, releasing that ball ever so lightly. It drifted down toward the plate, right down the middle, letter high. It must have looked as big as a beach ball to him. The ball seemed to take forever to get to the plate.

Chuckwagon gritted his teeth and swung with all his might.

There was a loud popping sound.

I shook my head.

The ball was in Woody’s mitt.

I was dazed. I couldn’t even lift my arms above my head to cheer. Everybody was on top of me. I was buried, but soon found myself hoisted up in the air and carried off the field. I turned and looked toward the stands, looking for my dad.

I wanted to see how proud he was of me.

But he wasn’t proud of me. Because that wasn’t the way it happened. That was the way I wished it had happened.

Someone else pitched that game. I watched the whole game from the bench in the dugout. I didn’t get to pitch that game. I never got to pitch in Little League. I sat on the bench most games, and when I did play it was for a couple of innings in right field. That was where they stuck the players who were no good. Right field was where the fewest balls got hit, there were fewer chances to screw up.

We didn’t even win the game that day. Chuckwagon hit the homerun. I remember Oliver rounding third base and making faces at me as I sat in the dugout. Chuckwagon ran the bases with his arm in the air, finger pointing skyward, waving it back and forth. My teammates slowly walked off the field, heads down. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t a part of it. Why should I have cared?

I stood on the mound remembering days best left forgotten when I realized I was being watched.

I didn’t make any sudden movement. I was afraid to.

Someone was sitting in the dugout on the third base side watching me. I could see the figure of what looked like an old baldheaded man behind the chain link fence, sitting in the shadows of the dugout. Just sitting, staring out at me.

I suddenly felt an uncontrollable panic creep over me. My heart raced, but I tried to remain calm. It was broad daylight, nothing could happen to me. I inconspicuously glanced around. There was no one else here. Across the road from the ball park were a few houses, but there was no one visible in or by them. Why was this town so damn quiet?

I thought about sprinting for my car. He’d never catch me.

This is ridiculous, I thought. I was getting paranoid. It’s probably just some old guy out for a leisurely Sunday walk who decided to stop and rest in the shade of the dugout.