Asked For (25 page)

“James can do anything,” Harold said. “You should see him play ball.”

James aligned the bars on the floor with his foot. One was barely shorter than the other. He measured the difference and lifted the smaller one to the bench. He turned, glad for the weeks and months he’d spent sorting, learning about metal, understanding the types.

“Come on outside,” Harold said to the man. “It’s cooler out there. James’ll let us know when he’s finished.”

The man muttered, then shuffled behind Harold, James’ brother leading the man away so James could have enough air and space to breathe.

“Got the right one?” Pop stood over him again.

“I think so.” James held up the pieces he’d chosen. There was no indication in Pop’s face if he approved or not. He stood like a silent sentinel. James carried the metal to the welder and began to work.

Pop stayed nearby, his eyes measuring each step, every move James made. Welding had looked simpler from far away where the flame wasn’t as hot, the metal not so heavy. He appreciated how tired Pop was at the end of the day, how disappointed he must be with where his life had ended up.

James strained under the work and under Pop’s stare. He was careful and slow, but he was accurate. When he finished, he laid the repaired bar on the floor next to the other. They were identical. He’d done it right.

“That’s not as easy as it looks,” James said, glancing up at Pop. “But I did it. I got it right.” James felt a smile inside. He’d done something good, as good as Pop. Maybe not as fast as Pop, but the result was the same.

“It’s the same way you play ball,” Pop said.

The smile froze inside. Ice formed in James’ gut. It hurt. Something inside burned cold, and hurt.

“You can do it, but it’s not in your blood.” Pop walked away. He walked outdoors. James had relished the thought of hearing Pop tell the man his bar was ready, but now all James could hear was, “It’s not in your blood.”

The ice began to thaw. The pool turned to tears, a hot puddle of anger brewing inside. The tears simmered, they gurgled, they roiled to the top in a geyser James couldn’t stop. He was gone before Pop returned. Out the side door before Harold could congratulate him about how well he had done.

He could hear the face shield spinning on the dirt floor behind him. The door slammed. Fresh air blew the scent of burning metal from his nose, the wind scattered small splinters of iron and steel in his trail.

James ran. He ran the opposite direction of home. He ran past the ball field, past the neighborhood Andy lived in. He kept running until town was behind him. He ran until his heart beat like a locomotive, the heart Mama had given him, the heart that made him weld and play ball, the heart that pumped blood that had nothing in it.

He ran. Ran, and ran, and ran.

Chapter 33

James 1957

It was Mama’s heart that turned James around. Her heart and Magdalena’s headlights. Max’s headlights.

It was dark, too dark to know where he was, but the moment he decided to turn and go back the way he’d come, lights shone. They came from behind, wide apart and rumbling, wide and loud like a large car.

He walked toward the beams, but off to the side and face down so they’d pass. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want anyone offering him a ride. His lack of worthwhile blood had taken him this far, but his heart could carry him all the way back.

The car stopped before it reached him, its engine a loud purr. He looked down, lengthened his stride, and moved farther off the road. Just as he moved past, the side door opened, and a cloud of smoke rolled out.

“Want a ride, little brother?”

James stopped. The interior of the car had a faint glow, enough to highlight the mass of curls.

“Mama’s at the house. Max’s house. She’s worried sick. And she’s mad.”

James walked over to the car and stood at the edge of Magdalena’s door. The door to the back seat opened and Harold stepped out. James could see Sandra in the middle of the long seat, she’d evidently been pressed at his brother’s side, the way a couple should be.

“Get in, son,” Max said from within. James glanced at the back seat, the other side of Sandra.

“No, up here with us. I’ll scoot over.” Magdalena disappeared inside, squeezing over next to Max.

“I…I don’t know…”

“It’s okay,” Magdalena said. “Pop’s not at the house. Just Mama.”

James felt Harold’s hand on his shoulder, tightening into a reassuring grip. James laid his hand over his brother’s and squeezed. Then he slid in beside Magdalena.

The interior was quiet as Max rumbled forward, looking for a place to turn his monstrosity of a car around. Magdalena lit up a cigarette, giving Max suggestions, smoke filling the car every time she offered advice. James drew in a deep breath. Magdalena’s smoke tasted good; it smelled reassuring. He liked her for it. He liked the way it was a part of her.

“Your letter came,” Harold broke the silence from the back seat.

James stopped, holding onto a lungful of Magdalena’s smoke. No one said anything. Magdalena put a hand on his leg.

James blew the air and smoke out. “It came after I ran out?” James wheeled toward the back seat when Harold didn’t answer. “I said, it came after I ran out?”

“It came a couple of days ago.” Harold spoke softly from the dark.

James turned farther around, squeezing Magdalena against Max. “A couple of days ago? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know. Honest, I didn’t. If I did, I would have told you.”

James stared into the dark where his brother sat. Sitting next to his bride, mapping out their lives the way they wanted them. James was glad for Harold and Sandra, but that didn’t stop his anger. Why hadn’t Mama told him a letter came? Anyone?

“Pop had it,” Magdalena said. “No one knew until tonight.”

“Pop?” James turned toward his sister. “When? How?”

“I don’t know. Mama found out when you didn’t come home. She went after Pop. Wish I’d seen it. Harold did. He took Sandra to the house when he realized you’d taken off. He said no one had ever silenced the house like Mama did tonight, not even Pop.”

James could feel Magdalena’s grin in the dark. She was proud of Mama. No wonder she wished she’d been there. He looked into the dark back seat again. He waited. He wanted Harold to tell him what happened.

“Mama said ‘that boy’ was her son. She jabbed Pop’s chest with her finger. I was afraid he’d hit her, but he didn’t. He kept backing up while she advanced. She kept at him until he spit out what had happened at the shop. His side of it. Mostly.”

“The letter,” James said. Mama’s heart beat inside of him. He was her son, and he was glad. Pop’s contribution to his life was minimal. It meant nothing. James didn’t care what wasn’t in his blood, because Mama’s heart was there. “Did Mama get the letter?”

Harold was quiet again.

“I said, did Mama get the letter?”

“No. Pop burnt it.”

“He had no right!” James yelled. He seized the back edge of the seat and glared into the dark. “Did he read it, at least?”

“Said he did. Said he thought it might be for him. But when he saw what it said and realized what you’d done, trying out and all, he burned it.”

James looked to the side. At Magdalena. He could see the orange glow where she drew on her cigarette in the dark.

“He said you didn’t make the team.” She said it as she exhaled, her words framed in a cloud of smoke. “You’re going to try again, though, right?”

Max’s car rolled onward, but the world stopped. The vibration James felt was steady, a hum beneath him that took him nowhere. He turned forward, leaned back against the seat.

“Son, I know it’s not my place.” Max broke the silence. He was right, it wasn’t his place, and James wished he’d keep quiet. “But from the bits and pieces I heard about your Pop and your day, he did what a father’s supposed to do.”

There was that scream again. The one that lived inside and never came out. James felt it come to life.

“Stop the car.” James’ hand was on the door’s handle.

“That thing he said about needing a trade. That’s probably why he said it.” Max leaned forward, steering, looking around Magdalena at James.

“I said, let me out!” James opened the door. Max stopped with a jerk, and everyone rocked forward.

“Son…”

James slammed the door behind him. He banged his fist on the car’s roof to tell them to go. They did. Max crept forward, probably at Magdalena’s insistence. As the car disappeared, the scream emerged. It was like a howl in the night, empty, long, and painful. It came from James’ depths. It sounded like “that boy.” It was too painful for any other words.

Chapter 34

James 1957

“You’ll need a trade” stuck in James’ mind with the same mulish insult “that boy” did. Magdalena better not marry that man. How dare he address James as “son.”
Max was just like Pop. They were probably the same age, so no wonder.

James kicked the dirt. Daylight was just beginning to creep into the sky, encroaching upon the darkness, trying to devour the worst night of his life and mute it to something hopeful. James preferred the dark. He didn’t want to come back into town when people could see him. He probably looked as horrid as he felt. He’d walked all night; he had nowhere to go. He couldn’t go backward to being a welder. And the letter—he couldn’t go forward either… He kicked the dirt harder.

He could hear Mr. Mullen’s milk wagon, a cruel reminder of the foolish hope he’d had the morning he’d hidden from him, the morning he’d gone for the tryouts. Mr. Mullen was coming his way. James turned to the right, took another street toward downtown.

You’ll need a trade.

Andy’s house was ahead on the right. It was still dark. Andy would probably take over his father’s hardware business someday. He didn’t seem particularly interested in it, but Andy wasn’t particularly interested in anything. His life was fairly simple. All he had to do was live it. He didn’t have to carve it from stone, like James did.

James thrust his fists into his pockets. He watched the toes of his boots move forward. His feet hurt. These boots were for welding, not walking. His feet hurt, his legs ached, his heart was broken.

“You lost?”

James jumped and wheeled around. A man approached from behind, a dark squareish figure advancing his way.

“Looks like you could use a walking partner.”

The man came alongside James where he could see him. Mr. Morgan smiled in the wan daylight.

“Mind if I join you?”

James thought of the number of times he’d wanted to shoo Mr. Morgan away. He always appeared at the worst possible moments, always James’ lowest, and offered advice. He was too tired to shoo him away this time, so he shrugged, and continued down the street.

The dull clop of Mr. Mullen’s old mare could be heard a street over. It was like a drum in harmony with James’ slow shuffle and Mr. Morgan’s refreshed clip. James tried to step it up a bit, not sound so sluggish. Anyone who wanted to play baseball should walk briskly, at least. Wanted to. Past tense. He slowed to a shuffle.

“You drink coffee?” Mr. Morgan asked.

James shook his head.

“Time to try some. It’ll give you a little clarity. Help you get started.”

They reached the restaurant well before Mr. Mullen. Mr. Morgan let them inside and locked the door behind them.

“Come to the back with me. You can sit and rest while I start some coffee.” He turned and studied James. “Maybe some eggs and ham, too. Juice. Even toast. Looks like you could use it.”

“Mr. Morgan,” James said, “I think one of your sundaes is what I need.”

Mr. Morgan grinned. “Maybe that too.”

James followed him to the back and took a seat near the wall. He turned sideways in his chair and leaned back against the wainscoting, his right arm resting on the table and his left arm on the chair’s back. It was surreal watching Mr. Morgan work in the dim light. He said he kept it that way until he was ready for customers. Too often they saw his lights and pounded on the front door, wanting in to eat or drink something. Mr. Morgan moved smoothly and quietly, back and forth. James’ eyelids drooped. Mr. Morgan became a shadowy blur, his dark hair, his tan complexion, his stout stature, all flowing together in a haze. James drifted along with him.

Mr. Morgan set a cup of coffee on the table. James straightened in his chair and wrapped his hands around the cup the way he’d seen Mama and Magdalena do when they sat and talked. Mr. Morgan disappeared, and James let the black steam clear his mind. It smelled wonderful. He didn’t know why he’d never tried drinking coffee before.

“Here’s your food.” Mr. Morgan set two plates in front of James, one of eggs, toast, and ham, the other of potatoes and gravy. “Eat up.” He pulled out a chair across from James and sat down.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan.” James lifted his fork and began to eat. As soon as the sensation of ham hit his mouth he was ravenous. He dug in; he ate everything. And then he remembered the coffee. It had cooled, but it was wonderful, too. Mr. Morgan was right. He needed starting, and this helped.

The back door opened and closed. James heard a key turn in its lock. He wondered if it was Ida. He cringed. No matter how dazzling Magdalena was in the restaurant that day, he still thought Ida wouldn’t care to see him sitting there. He started to stand, just as she appeared behind Mr. Morgan. She spotted James and stopped.

“Good morning,” James said.

She looked from him to Mr. Morgan, then hung her jacket on a nearby hook. “I’ll get biscuits started,” she said and disappeared.

“What’s the main thought running through your head?” Mr. Morgan asked when Ida was gone. She could be heard dragging out canisters and lard buckets, spoons and tins.

James thought of everything that had run through his mind as he’d walked all night long. Several were important, some just hurt. “Baseball,” he said. It was one of the hurts.

“Tryout didn’t pan out the way you wanted?”

James shook his head.

“There’ll be others. Don’t give up. You’re too good. And the lessons you learned from the last one will make you ready for the next.” Mr. Morgan tapped the table with a finger. “What next?”