Muckers (29 page)

“So that’s why you’re here? To double the money you won on me?”

“It’s just numbers,” he scoffs, puffing at his cigar.

“No it’s not.” I jab my fist into his chest. “I’m your son. Family shouldn’t bet on family.”

“Do me a favor an’ make your pop proud,” he says, dumping the cigar in the Cup. “Hock it for a lunch.”

I drag him down, catching a cheek with my fist.

“I got twenty on Junior!” somebody hollers.

The trophy nicks Pop’s mouth, splitting open his lip. He goes to wipe off the blood but he misses. And I see that he’s too drunk to counter with his fists, so I stop.

“Alastar’s all liquored up,” Wynn shouts. “All bets off.”

My father takes a few snorts through his purple nose and wipes off the blood with his sleeve.

“Hah!” he spews. “The big hero, eh? You really think this means something?” He paws at the trophy, but I pull it out of reach. “Just gets you killed,” he says, “on an island fulla Japs. A bloody waste o’ time. But I know you’ll keep it. You’re the soppy one. Suppose you can piss in it when you get to Bisbee.”

“I won’t be going to Bisbee.”

“Sure you won’t.”

The crowd groans, focused on what’s happening in the ring. The cocks are dueling in midair, three feet above the sand, a flurry of feathers and knives. When the handlers finally separate them, the red one’s lost an eye.

“He’s down a blinker,” Wynn says to my father.

“See?” he whines, still lying on the floor. “You lost your focus, Red. Do that for one minute and you get an eye gouged out. You got one more round. What’s the score?” he yells.

“Up by one, boss,” Wynn says.

“Ah, so you’re left protectin’ the lead. No matter. We’re good with numbers, we O’Sullivans. Ten drinks to Bisbee, three eight-hour shifts gets you forty dollars, but a seven-an’-oh record got me half a grand. It’s all numbers. Hours, games, wages. Me. You. Bobby. I got ten more years in the hole. What did he end up bein’? A ten-digit roll call in the marines. Win me that cockfight,” he blubbers. “Squeeze out them numbers and win.”

“You can have your numbers, Alastar.” It’s not natural to call him Pop anymore, the way he treats me. Or how a father ought to feel about his son.

I cradle the Cup like a football, not too tender, more like a solid hold with just enough room to give. Then I use my other arm as a block and find an opening.

He staggers toward me but I push him away. “I think they took her to Bisbee today,” he says, landing on his wobbly knees.

I see a break in the tent. I lunge, stepping on his hand, and he lets out a howling scream. I keep sprinting, over bodies and bloodshot faces, until I land in the ring. I jump over the bloodied birds and out of the tent, where I can finally breathe.

“See ya in Bisbee!” He laughs. They all do. “He’s a real cracker that one, isn’t he?” I hear him bellow. “Broke my feckin’ thumb.”

* * *

I sprint up Main. She can’t be gone. They told me that I had a week before they took them all to Bisbee.

I’m beat up from the game but I know my legs can go faster up this hill. They have to go faster.

The misty air’s cold up top and a crisp slice shivers down my throat, cutting into my ribs. Still, I force my legs to pump
higher, ignoring the sting, until the incline stops me at Company Ridge. The Yavapai Cup weighs twenty pounds, but it’s another limb as far as I’m concerned. And she ought to see it.

I earned it. Not like a stupid bet. How long does that last? This is for always. After he’s gone and I’m gone and she’s gone, but not yet. Make him wrong about that, too.

I reach the landing of the hospital. Someone turned on the light above the door, but when? My heart’s tumbling and just about ready to rush through my skin. But the hospital’s dark inside and it’s cold and hollow.

I feel my way around the stairwell, anxious for a whisper or a moan. Even a desperate sigh to prove him wrong.

I suck back sweat and phlegm, stumbling, not wanting to be the only one gasping for breath. I smell coffee. Slightly burnt, but a pot’s been on sometime today. My forehead hits the wall so I know I can’t climb any higher. I turn right, into the moon’s milky stillness streaming through the window above the corridor, and run to her room.

“Maw!” I call into the silence. I push the door open, my eyes searching for the bed, her silhouette.

She’s there. Lying in it. Thank God, she’s there.

“Maw,” I whisper, kneeling beside her. I reach for her hand, then bury my wet face in her shoulder.

“I did it, Maw.” I show her the trophy, resting it on the bed. “I won it. We’re champions. The very last ones.”

There’s a whinny in her throat and her eyes sparkle then search, diving and darting about like a nervous bird, frantically probing my face.
She’s about to know me
. Her cheeks turn pink and then the glint comes. The glint of recognition. She squeezes my hand, then the whinny gets stronger and her mouth opens.

“Bah-bee!” she calls out.

She’s glowing. Happier than I’ve seen her in years, beaming up at me, and won’t let go of my hand. She’s so happy thinking I’m Bobby that I have to smile. I reach for his letters, giving her one to take hold of, and wrestle my fingers free. Then I take the Cup, hugging it close to my chest, and follow the purple shaft of light out the door.

SPECIAL CHAMPIONSHIP EDITION

Muckers Upset Phoenix Before Record Crowd

Ending the football season in a blaze of glory, the Hatley Muckers hoisted themselves to the top of the heap in the entire state Saturday by upsetting heavily favored Phoenix United, 19–17, before a mud-soaked crowd. An estimated 1,600 watched amazed as the Mighty Mites cut their rugged opponents down to size to win the Yavapai Cup.

It wasn’t the breaks that won it for the Mucker eleven, though they took full advantage of the few they created, somehow finding traction on the muddy field. Nor was it because the Coyotes let down. P.U. looked and was formidable with their rugged line and powerful backs. It was heads-up, inspired football that was the deciding factor in the game.

It was the cool passing of Felix O’Sullivan, the sticky fingers and quick breaking of Cruz Villanueva and Lupe Diaz. It was the hard charging of the whole Muckers forward wall, including unknown junior Melvin Sneep—who had never seen first-string action before, in a game that frequently saw All-State guard Tony Casillas breaking
through to spill a play before it started.

O’Sullivan scored the decisive touchdown on the game’s final play, charging into pay dirt after catapulting over the entire Phoenix team from the two-yard line. In winning the game, the Muckers have won the admiration and respect of the entire state.

WANT ADS

FOR SALE
—1940 Ford Deluxe. Never driven past Cottonville. Call Cruz at Copper Star.

WANTED
—Sewing of all types. Buttonholes a specialty. Hand- or machine-made. Mrs. Ben Hansen. E.C. Apartments. Phone 133-H.

HOUSE FOR SALE—
Everything in it. Move in next week or haul away. A. O’Sullivan. The Hogback. 869-H.

FREE PIANO
—Situated under a tarpaulin on the sidewalk of Upper Main. Kindly use care when moving. Go softly on the middle C, harder on the soft pedal when playing.

THE CHEVY ISN
’
T MUCH. IT
’
S
been under a tarp most of the year because of all his drunk-driving infractions. I pretended to be asleep last night when he came into my room and put the keys on the washstand. I know how to treat this old car. That if you bring it back real gentle till the needle hits fifty, it won’t give up on you.

I turn off the engine, gliding it under the oak on top of Gulch Lane, and take the duffel bag with me.

It won’t be easy to hide because of the moonlight, but I figure I’ve got an hour of stillness. The night animals are done feeding—they’ve already taken cover—and it’s much too cold for any belly crawler to venture out and hunt.

I crouch low, inching through the switchgrass, but by the time I reach the Villanuevas’ house my Levis are all wet—the Barrio’s covered in mud.

I come to the shanty from behind, dipping under the broken shutters so the moon’s glow won’t cast a shadow and
wake up Cruz. Then I suck in my breath—there can’t be more than two feet between us—and tread lightly onto the porch. What I’m holding belongs to him, not in that trophy case collecting rust. I take the letter from my boot and put it on our Northern Crown trophy. Then I rest the ’41 trophy that Manny and Bobby won next to it, looking at that kicker a last time before walking away.

I’m shaking—it’s already winter cold—and I hope Cruz won’t be sore. It’s just that I couldn’t think of any other way of doing this that didn’t involve me staying.

The moon is hanging low above the open pit. There’s a good amount of blue around it instead of the usual gray, now that the blasting’s stopped. It’s strange not seeing any lights or digging down there. Just a ring of dew lining the ledge where they left the dozer. Even the wind passes it by, and when the breeze finally reaches me, I’ve made it to the cemetery. I start to breathe normal again.

Bobby’s empty coffin is buried several yards away in a spot that’s all wrong. Father Pierre chose it and it’s the farthest you could be from the football field, on a cliff without any shelter.

I look for some high growth that might give Bobby relief from the wind and the heat and the cold (at least the memory of him, locked up in this memento I’m holding). Just a spot—not a big one—where there’s cover. He never had that on the island. You couldn’t even build a decent foxhole on Iwo Jima. It’s time for him to come home and I think this spot would suit him just fine.

There’s enough dirt between a chalky white monument and a thornbush with a clear shot of the field. They call it a crucifixion tree, and its thorns are growing in all directions along branches too thick to give in to the wind. The
limestone ledge of the headstone has a chunky silver heart on it—a
milagro
. It’s the same color as the Eagle Scout medal and has a ribbon around it, too. The heart isn’t shiny but has a weighty presence to it, like if you cupped it in your palms, it would feel solid and ripe as stone fruit. There are wings on either side of it and I like that, too. And the heart puffed out to bursting with little suns all over it. I suppose it’s to thank a patron saint for making a prayer or some sort of wish—maybe even a miracle—come true.

With Bobby it wasn’t about miracles. He did things. Earned things like that medal and the Northern Crown. Now I’ve earned something, too, and it’s time to start thinking about after. That’s not getting too far ahead. I know I can’t stay. And the mountain’s already given me plenty.

There’s a rustle in the grass behind me, so I turn and see Francisco standing there.

“You need a shovel,” he says.

He’s got one in his hand and tells me to take it. The handle’s warm and my chilled fingers loosen. The soil is moist, too, and gives way without a struggle. Francisco’s praying while I dig, and it’s as proper a burial as you can get, I suppose, with him being a minister, self-ordained.

I tuck the cigar box with Bobby’s Eagle Scout medal in the hole while Francisco’s got his eyes shut, murmuring things in Spanish. I haven’t a clue what he’s saying until he gets to the
corazón
part. I know that means “heart,” but it’s more than that, beyond the simple beating of it. I think it’s one of those words that get lost in translation, because whenever a Mexican says it, they get all weepy or quit talking and start clearing their throat, the way Francisco’s doing now.

I think about all the people in my life—the ones who are
lost to me, like Bobby and Coach; those I’m not sure about, with Maw living inside her head and Pop broken and hard as those rocks in the mines; and the ones I consider real family, Cruz and Rabbit. I know I’ll see them again. Angie, too.

Francisco waits until I’ve covered the box with sandy loam. He spits on his hands and shows me what’s between them: a seed, then points to the paradise trees behind us angling over his rugged garage, makes a cross in the dirt, and buries the seed in the crux with his thumb.

Taking hold of my shoulder, Francisco tucks a photograph in my shirt pocket. I don’t have much time, but I let him lead me to his trees. He opens the gate and I follow as he scurries past the garage.

Paradiso nuzzles up to me. I keep stroking the burro’s neck, since I don’t know what to say—the sight before me is so remarkable. Even though it’s barely dawn, I know what I’m seeing is real.

He did it. Francisco built a church. Not just a miniature version of something you hope to build someday, but a
real
church. Thousands upon thousands of dynamite boxes that we’d cut up for him as kids make up the walls, a steeple, and a nave.

Francisco smiles and points to the sky. He tells me he’s going to get an airplane, fill it with seeds, and shake them loose over Hatley so the mountain can become green again. I watch him standing against the horizon, his fedora over his
corazón
and his eyes closed, head raised to the sky as the dawn breaks.
Praying
. Maybe even for me.