Things Invisible to See (31 page)

Father Legg ran up to Clare.

“You’re the second miracle,” he said and hugged her.

The first miracle, he told her, was Ben. He was wide awake. Too weak to play, the doctor said, but wide awake. And though it was still too early to say for sure, he appeared to have lost neither speech nor memory nor movement.

“What did he talk about?” asked Clare.

“The game. He can’t think of anything else.”

“Of course,” said Clare.

“The other team hasn’t arrived yet,” said Father Legg. He avoided uttering the name Dead Knights. “We’re warming up. I hope the crowd doesn’t make you nervous.”

No, she wasn’t nervous. No. Because there was only the game and the no-game, the players and the watchers, the inside and the outside. Right now only the inside mattered. The people in the bleachers rustled like so many blades of grass, faceless, innumerable.

The very hairs of your head are numbered,
said God.

“Here are your positions,” said Father Legg, addressing the little group on the bench. He could not accustom himself to seeing the women in slacks and shirts. Look like they all work in a defense plant, he thought. “And we would especially like to welcome Sol Lieberman and Mr. Clackett.”

The two grinned, their right arms in nearly identical casts.

“Sol will coach first base and Mr. Clackett will coach third. Please—give me your attention. Mrs. Teresa Bacco, first base. Mrs. Schoonmaker, second base. Mrs. Lieberman, third. Mrs. Henrietta Bacco, shortstop. Ernestina, you’re our catcher.”

He wanted a tight outfield, he told them. He was counting on Mrs. LaMont in center and Mrs. Clackett in left. Willie would play right field. Wanda and Helen would wait on the bench in case they were needed.

“And Clare Bishop will pitch,” he added with a grin. A current of warm feeling ran through the women. “And you all know the good news about Ben.”

He lowered his voice.

“Dear Lord, Who knowest our needs before we ask them, be with us all, now and in the world to come. Ladies—and Willie—take your positions.”

Kitty helped Ernestina into her chest protector, and Ernestina laughed nervously and said she felt like an old crawdaddy rigged up like that, and then they all fanned out and trotted to their places. Helen and Wanda made themselves comfortable on the bench.

Poor Wanda, thought Father Legg. She feels useless.

“Wanda, let’s see you take a few cuts at the ball,” he said gently.

Wanda took her stance, knees flexed, at home plate. Clare did not move. The two women stared at each other.

“What’s wrong?” asked Father Legg.

“I was just thinking, this is a funny place for us to meet,” said Clare.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Father Legg. “I thought you knew each other.”

Out in left field, Willie shaded his eyes. Were they talking about him? Or was Father Legg giving his pitch on love?

Suddenly the murmurs of the crowd ceased. Wanda let the bat drop. The air grew faintly chill, as if rain were not far off—yet not rain, either, but the dank moisture on the undersides of stones.

“They’re here,” said Father Legg.

They did not run onto the field. They simply appeared, as if they had broken through a wall of air, or an invisible ray into visibility. First, Durkee, tugging on his visored cap, in his old maroon jacket with “AA Pioneers” in white script on the back. Then the players: big, slow-moving men in the uniforms of the teams they had served. They lumbered onto the field and their feet touched the earth, yet the earth did not take note of them; they raised no dust, disturbed no blade of grass.

Lord have mercy on us, thought Father Legg. They’ve got Lou Gehrig on first.

And yet he was not as Father Legg remembered him. This man was a shell, its passenger gone; tossed through hurricanes, through deep silences, it had washed ashore intact, luminous, dead.

Their coach strolled over to Father Legg and offered his hand; Father Legg shook it gingerly.

“My name’s Death,” he said.

“I know,” said Father Legg.

“Both of us in black today,” Death observed with a smile.

Father Legg said nothing.

“I see you’re expecting an easy three innings. You’re giving the women a chance.”

“A bus accident,” said Father Legg. His mouth felt dry. “Everyone was hurt. Nobody killed, fortunately.”

“Fortunately,” said Death. “I believe most of my players are familiar to you,” he added.

Father Legg nodded.

“I never thought I’d live to see Christy Mathewson pitch again. What did he die of?”

“TB,” said Death. “Naturally, it doesn’t bother him now.”

“Naturally,” said Father Legg.

“Those who play for me never tire. They never get hurt.”

“Very convenient,” said Father Legg.

“So many wanted to come. You can imagine. They haven’t picked up a bat and ball since the day they died. Durkee was ecstatic. Not all of you can keep your positions, I told them. And they still begged to come. The pitchers even offered to play in the outfield. Baseball was their whole life.”

“Do they need to warm up?”

“Some things you never forget,” said Death. “Baseball is one of them.”

What were the others? Father Legg wondered. Once he would have said “love.” Now it did not seem that simple.

The nurse wheeled the radio toward Ben’s bed and stopped in the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry. The plug won’t reach. We’ll push all the beds down to this end.”

By the time she found the station, the announcer was halfway through the lineup.

“Mrs. LaMont, center field.”

“Give it to ’em, Kitty!” shouted Mr. LaMont.

“And Willie Harkissian in right field. And now the lineup for the Dead Knights.”

A hush fell over the room.

“Starting pitcher is Christy Mathewson of the New York Giants. At first base, Lou Gehrig, New York Yankees. At second base, Joe McGinnity, New York Giants.”

“Lord,” said Mr. Lieberman. “Not Iron Man McGinnity.”

“At third base, Eddie Plank of the Philadelphia A’s.”

“They’re playing the wrong positions,” said Ben.

“There’s a reason for it,” said Mr. LaMont. “There’s a reason for everything.”

“At shortstop,” the announcer went on, “Hughie Jennings of the Baltimore Orioles.”

“The ee-yah man,” said Mr. Schoonmaker. “I used to think the world of him.”

“In center field, Rube Waddell of the Philadelphia A’s. In left field, Big Dan Brouthers—”

“Rube Waddell!” exclaimed Mr. Bacco. “He’s the guy who used to run off the field to chase fire engines.”

“In right field, Ross Youngs of the New York Giants. And the catcher: Moses Fleetwood Walker.”

“Who’s he?” asked Mr. Bacco.

“He played with the Chicago Lincolns,” said Stilts.

“There’s a Negro on this team?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Stilts. “This ain’t the majors.”

They were flying over Lake Erie when Hal realized he was listening to the engine of the plane. The steady hum had shifted into a lower pitch, then a quick, polite cough. Another, and another. And then it hummed as before, but Hal kept listening, noting the smallest changes in its voice. The two pilots had stopped talking and were listening, too. As the hum steadied itself, Hal felt his muscles unclench.

Whef-a-whef-a-whef.

The pilot checked the fuel gauge.

Whef-a-whef.

“Engine trouble?” inquired Hal.

“Not really,” said the pilot.

They were all listening intently now, and each knew the others were listening too, and waiting for the cough in the motor, the rattle in the chest, blood in the urine, numbness in the leg, a dizzy spell, a lump: Doctor, will I die?

Christy Mathewson, five years dead, translucent as a leaf through which the sun scatters shadows, had not lost his pinpoint control. He hurled a fastball at Mrs. LaMont, who swung under it and missed.

“Makes ’em hit on the ground,” observed Mr. Clackett to Sol. “It’s a damned hard pitch to hit in the air.”

“God help us if he throws his knuckleball,” said Father Legg.

Dear Lord, he whispered, Dear Lord Who stopped the sun for Joshua, Thou knowest the score is three to nothing in the bottom of the first. Thou knowest the Dead Knights are winning. Stop the ball, Lord, so that Mrs. LaMont may hit it.

But the Lord did not stop the ball, and Mrs. LaMont struck out.

“It’s a bad time to need the bedpan,” said Charley. “There must be fifty people in here.”

“Do you have to—?” asked the nurse.

“No,” he answered quickly.

The nurses from the floor and the ambulatory patients from the private rooms had gathered in the ward. That nurse’s aide by the door—Ben was sure he’d met her before, in an earlier life.

“I’m Ginny,” she said. “Remember?”

Of course. How could he have forgotten?

“The kid with the St. Anthony medal—remember?” said Ginny. “He finally went home. He asked if I’d take him for a ride in my old Studebaker next time he’s in the hospital.”

“He’s probably listening to the game right now,” said Ben.

“There’s one out in the bottom of the first,” said the announcer, “and three-zip is the score. This is a big game for the Rovers. ’Course, it’s a big game for the Dead Knights, too … Mrs. Schoonmaker’s at the plate. There’s the windup—the pitch—it’s an easy grounder toward first base. Gehrig fields it, steps on the bag. That’s two out, nobody on.”

It was terribly quiet in the ward. Everyone seemed to stop breathing at once.

“Mathewson winds up. The pitch—it’s a curve ball. Mrs. Lieberman swings and misses. Strike one.”

Ben climbed off his bed and threaded his way to the door and nudged Ginny.

“Where are your car keys?”

“In my coat pocket. Why?”

“Don’t ask. Where are you parked?”

“In the first row behind the hospital, but—”

Clare stood up and walked behind the dugout. If she was going to cry, she wanted to get it over and done with, out of sight. A fly buzzed at her ear; she swatted it fiercely.

Don’t, daughter. You know me.

“Dear lady,” whispered Clare, “can’t you go into the ball and make us hit it? Or make them not hit it?”

I can’t give you anything you don’t already have, murmured the Ancestress.

“You got into the knife.”

Ben has a way with a knife. He just hadn’t discovered it.

She could still taste the dust from the field, chalky, all the way down her throat. “I don’t have a way with the ball,” said Clare.

True,
said the Ancestress.
Therefore, do as Ben does. Put some stuff on it. The Dead Knights can never hit a ball with some stuff on it.

“What kind of stuff?” asked Clare.

The stuff of being alive. Morning, evening, the first snow and the last snow, bells, daisies, hubcaps, silver dollars, ice cream, hummingbirds, love.

Clare drew a deep breath. “How do you put that kind of stuff on a ball?”

You say it very softly over the ball before you throw it.

She heard Father Legg calling her.

And when you pitch to Mr. Gehrig, say “Mother.
”
There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for his mother.

His clothes—where were his clothes? The nurse’s lounge was empty. Ben darted in and opened the closet. Nothing but a blue raincoat and a pink silk scarf. He pulled them on over his hospital gown.

He had almost reached the stairs when Ginny grabbed his arm.

“My raincoat! My scarf! Where are you going in my clothes?”

“I’m going to tie up the ball game.”

“You can’t go! You haven’t been discharged.”

“That’s why I took your clothes. Ginny, please!”

“You can’t go—”

“I can’t wait to be discharged. I’m needed
now,
” he cried and yanked himself free of her grasp. She let him go, down the stairs and through the lobby past the receptionist and out the front door, past the patients in wheelchairs who were brought out every afternoon for fresh air and a change of scene. He did not stop running till he reached the parking lot. Ginny’s car. Ginny’s car—which was Ginny’s car?

A window opened on the sixth floor, and her voice called out, “It’s over there, to your right, the blue one.”

Thank you, Ginny. Thank you, car. Thank you, God. Ben drove out of the lot and headed toward the ballpark.

By the time Youngs and Jennings had struck out, everybody in the ward was cheering, and everybody in the bleachers who knew anything about baseball realized one thing:

They’d never seen a ball behave like this one.

“Will you look at Bishop’s unorthodox delivery!” exclaimed the announcer. “A high kick, then she bends down as if she’s talking to the ball. Good breaking pitch by Bishop. Strike two. Two quick strikes on McGinnity, two out in the top of the second. … Watch that pitch. McGinnity is swinging at her motion, not at the ball. Halfway into the swing he decides not to swing. Ball one. It’s one and two.”

Over the ball, Clare whispered: “A cold beer. Your first home run.”

The ball sped away and McGinnity started to swing, then stepped back as if he’d gotten a whiff of something it was carrying, something that took his eye off the ball, off the game, everything.

Strike three.

Clare glanced up and saw, over the bleachers, a vast, silent throng that receded as if on invisible waves, the women in white, the men in black, the lovely fabric of their presence growing faint among the far-off dead, turning in those farthest from her to feathers, wings, the faces of birds.

Willie was bending over the drinking fountain behind the bleachers when someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Willie,” said Death, “nobody appreciates you.”

“I know,” said Willie. Immediately he felt embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to say it right out.

“You’re a good, steady worker. You’re smart. What’s a girl like Marsha in the eyes of the great world? She’ll marry a doctor and live unhappily ever after. There are thousands of girls more beautiful where I come from. Don’t look so surprised. I know both the living and the dead; they all come to me eventually.”

Willie rolled the water around in his mouth thoughtfully, as if he were judging a fine wine. A cheer from the bleachers startled him.