Mudville (5 page)

Sometimes I sort the cards by teams, sometimes alphabetically, and sometimes by year. These days I have them sorted by position. I like catchers the best, so I start with those. Mike Piazza. Ivan Rodriguez. Jorge Posada. A. J. Pierzynski. Bengie Molina. A Joe Mauer rookie card. I even have a Yogi Berra card from the 1960s that my dad gave me for Christmas. He gave me Yogi's book and planted that card in the middle as a surprise. Sturgis nods at each of them, but I might have been showing him a stamp collection for all he cares.

“Do you want to see my card?” he asks.

“You have cards, too?”

“Just one,” he says. “Let me get it.” He rummages in his bag and comes up with a battered book about motorcycle maintenance. He opens it and removes a card wrapped in tissue paper. He hands me the card.

It's ten years old, for a pitcher named Carey Nye of the Baltimore Orioles. He's a gloomy-looking guy, tall and lanky like Randy Johnson, with long hair and a mustache. I'm not sure I ever heard of him. His stats aren't that impressive. Then I remember Sturgis's comment from last night.

“Is this your dad?”

“It's a real collector's item, right?” He laughs and takes the card back, folding it into the square of paper and putting it in the book.

“Well, thanks for showing me,” I tell him, trying not to sound either sarcastic or patronizing, and failing on both counts.

I suddenly feel like I've caught both ends of a double-header, with a marathon in the middle. It's only 8:00, but I brush my teeth, get undressed, and drop into bed. Sturgis is still up, reading by the overhead lamp, as I fade off to sleep. When I wake up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, the light's still on. Sturgis is sound asleep, cuddling a homeowner's guide to landscape construction.

“You know,” I tell Sturgis as we scrape around in the mud that Friday. We're done digging the ditch, which now runs across two of the property lines in an
L.
Frank wasn't happy with the job we'd done; the line of the ditch was ragged, its width and depth irregular. So now we're scraping it, evening out the sides, getting it ready for the concrete lining. “It's not just that it's killing my back and shoulders. It's not just the muddy wetness of it either. It's the mind-numbing boringness of it all.”

Sturgis is working at his usual clip, a few paces away.

“I don't know how anyone does it,” I say. “I mean, it's one thing to dig mud nine or ten hours a day for a whole week, but how about doing that day in, day out for months or even years? In the
rain,
no less? It's really something.”

He's not listening to me, but I've found that complaining helps pass the time, so I do it anyway.

The guys order pizza for lunch. Sturgis and I have been
eating our lunch on the roof every day, enjoying the view. We figure it'll be pretty messy carrying pizza up the ladder, so we eat in the tent.

There's this guy, Peter, who joins us at our table. I've noticed him before. He's the shortest guy I've ever seen doing construction, like maybe five foot two. He's also got some-thing messed up with one of his hands. There's no proper fingers on it, just little stubs. I've seen him holding nails while he pounds them in, using power tools, whatever. He handles the pizza just as easily as we do, too.

“You're the boss's son, right?”

“Yeah.” I guess word gets around.

“My son could work, too. Peter Junior. He's your age but strong as an ox. Do you think you could talk to your father?”

“I don't know,” I tell him honestly. “I think there are laws and stuff. You can have family work for you, but you can't hire other kids until they're older.” Besides, I don't need an-other kid showing me up all the time, is what I'm thinking.

Peter looks confused. “You mean both of you are family?”

“In a manner of speaking,” says Sturgis.

For a while, we just eat pizza without talking. One nice thing about this job has been the free food, although I guess it really isn't free to me since my dad pays for it.

“So do you boys have plans for the weekend?” Peter finally asks.

“Don't know,” says Sturgis. “Maybe read or watch TV.”

“I think it might rain,” I add. It's the oldest and lamest joke in Moundville.

“Right. The rain,” Peter says seriously. “I live in Sutton myself, so I don't get it all the time, but I'm originally from Sinister Bend, so …”

“That's too bad.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Our family lost everything in the flood. Well, we didn't have that much, but I was a kid. It was scary.”

“Do they know why it keeps raining?” Sturgis asks. “I mean, there must be a scientific explanation.”

I start in with my whole theory about Walt Dropo of Detroit and percentages and luck. I don't think either Sturgis or Peter buys it.

“Well, my grandma says an old Indian guy cursed it,” says Sturgis.

“She must mean Ptan Tanka,” says Peter. “He said dire things were in store for this town.”

“It had something to do with the Sioux Uprising, right?” I offer. “I mean the Dakota War?”

“Not the war itself but what came after. The natives were sent away, to live on a reservation in South Dakota. People who had lived here for centuries.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. I am, too. I wasn't here, and I don't think my ancestors were either, but I'm sorry anyway.

“Come on,” Lou suddenly calls over from the other end of the table. Lou has been around a long time and is one of Frank's best buddies. “Don't start in with that Indian curse nonsense.”

“It's not nonsense!” Peter sort of bangs on the table. “I'm just talking about history.”

“Anyway, the rain is caused by that hydroelectric dam upriver,” someone else says. “The power company pays the government off so they won't look into it.”

“That's what I think!” Ted or Tom or whatever his name is shouts. “The dam screwed up the local ecosystem.”

“Hey, hey!” Frank raises his voice just one notch above normal indoor voice, and everyone listens. “No talking about the weather. That's the rule, okay?” Moundville is the one place on earth where it's not a safe topic for conversation.

Most of the guys nod, and it looks like things will calm down, but then Lou mutters something and Peter throws a wadded-up napkin at him, cursing. Pretty soon they're shoving each other and everyone is joining in, sticking up for Lou.

“I said knock it off!” Frank steps between them. They stop but keep glaring at each other. “Peter, I've talked to you before. You've had warnings. What is it going to take? Do I have to let you go?”

Peter crumples. “I'm sorry. I got carried away. Please don't fire me.”

“Come on, Frank,” one of the guys says softly. “You know he's got a family.”

Frank throws his hands up in surrender.

“All right, all right.” He wags his finger in Peter's face. “One more fight, though, and you're gone. I mean it this time.”

“Thanks,” Peter says with a sniff.

Frank turns to Lou and the others. “Peter is going to stay on this crew. I don't want anyone messing with him just to get him in trouble.”

“But he threw something at me,” Lou complains.

“It was a balled-up napkin, you sissy,” one of the guys reminds him. Everyone laughs.

“Still. I thought we had one of those zero-tolerance policies.”

“You called me a dirty name,” says Peter. “There should be zero tolerance for that, too.”

“No more throwing anything, names or napkins.” Frank's voice is now two notches above normal. You don't hear a peep out of anyone.

“All right, Frank,” a few guys mutter.

“I wasn't asking for consensus. Lunch is over. Everyone, get back to work.” The guys start filing out. Frank grabs Peter's arm as he walks by.

“You're on probation. Get a shovel and help the kids.” The men howl with laughter. Apparently, working with me and Sturgis is a good punishment.

Peter grabs a shovel and digs like he's got to hit China by dusk.

“I think Lou deserves to be digging as much as you,” says Sturgis.

“He's in pretty good with Frank,” I tell them. “You don't want to mix it up with Frank's buddies. I've been around long enough to know that.”

“You're right. I should know better than to argue with that fathead.” Peter starts to smooth the sides of the ditch with his shovel.

“So are you an Indian?” Sturgis wonders.

“I'm part Sioux. A lot of people from Sinister Bend are … or were. That name is inaccurate, though, just like ‘Indian.’ Our family didn't pay much attention to our heritage, but lately I've become interested in my roots. I've been reading about Native American spirituality.”

“I'm part Indian, too,” says Sturgis. “A small part,” he adds. He points at his face, maybe showing us the features that best reflect that aspect of his heritage.

“How did you get that scar?” Peter asks bluntly. “Were you attacked by an animal?” I'd been wanting to know for a few days, and Peter asks just like that. I'm impressed.

Sturgis's eyes widen. “Yeah. It was a wolf dog, actually. Part wolf, part dog.”

“All dogs come from wolves. How did it happen?”

“When I was little, we had this big wolf dog named Sammy. I used to play catch with him, throwing tennis balls as far as I could into the woods. He'd always find them and bring them back, even if they went into a hole or some water or something. He was a great dog.”

I'm kind of jealous. I've always wanted a dog, but dogs aren't exactly practical around here, so we just have Yogi.

“My dad trained Sammy to fight other dogs, though,” says Sturgis. “Sammy was a great fighter. He won lots of fights.”

“Dogfights are awful,” I say without thinking.

“Oh, I agree.” Sturgis nods. “It was my dad's idea, not mine. Anyway, my dad brought me to one of Sammy's fights. It was in the dirt basement of this bar in Sutton. We were right in front, surrounded by maybe a hundred guys, all making bets on which dog would win. I'd never seen Sammy fight and couldn't imagine him fighting. Once he was in the ring, though, he knew what to do. The other dog was bigger, but Sammy was faster and got his licks in.”

“It's not the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog,” says Peter. It's a kind of bumper sticker thing to say, but he has a point.

“Well, that big dog did get a piece of him,” Sturgis continues. “I was scared and yelled Sammy's name. Sammy turned when I called him, and the other dog tore right into him, going for his throat. I jumped into the ring to save Sammy, but the other dog jumped on me, too. Maybe would have killed me, but my dad grabbed that dog and threw him off of me.

“There I was, bleeding all over the place, and these guys were just yelling at me for stopping the fight and yelling at my dad for letting me get in the way. Anyway, it was already over for Sammy. He was on his side, bleeding, and not breathing.”

He says all this matter-of-factly, like it's something he's seen in a movie.

“The wolf attacked you to test you.” Peter holds two of his stumpy fingers to Sturgis's face. “He wanted to make sure you could handle his power. He left his mark on you.”

“Really?” Sturgis touches his own scars thoughtfully.

I don't put much stock in Peter's theory. That dog didn't try to test Sturgis; it tried to kill him. I don't say anything, though. I don't want to argue with Peter and get him in more trouble. Besides, if it makes Sturgis feel better about his face, what's the harm?

“I have a mark, too,” says Peter. He pulls up his shirtsleeve and shows us a horrible scar on his arm. It looks like a bear tried to take his arm off or something.

“Wow! How did that happen?”

“Cougar,” he says with obvious pride.

“You got attacked by a cougar?”

“I was foolish once.” He might as well be talking about a speeding ticket. I wonder if I'm the only one who's made it through life without getting mauled by an animal. I guess I'll have to find a bear and let it take a swipe at me if I want to fit in.

Frank and all his crew are coming with shovels. Peter begins digging furiously, to show he's a hard worker.

“Afternoon break is over,” says Frank in a friendly way, clapping me on the shoulder with his big hand. “Come on, champ, let's dig. We're not going home until we finish this house.”

I hope we can make short work of it and go home early.

Sturgis has finally slowed down, though. He throws up a few thoughtful shovelfuls of mud now and then, and that's all.

“There was a fight at work today,” Sturgis tells my dad on the drive home.

My dad looks anxious. “Nobody swung a shovel at any-one, did they?”

“No, no.” I wish I could kick Sturgis from the front seat. “Just an argument. It was no big deal.” I don't tell him that it nearly turned into a fistfight. I don't want to get anyone in trouble. “Frank took care of it.”

“Whew,” he says. “Good thing nobody swung a shovel at anyone. I don't need that kind of trouble. So what was it about?”

“The rain,” says Sturgis.

“Of course,” says my dad. “I bet one side said we're cursed.”

“Yeah.”

“And somebody else blames the dam?”

“Yeah.”

“I've never heard such foolishness,” says my dad. “Curse this, dam that. I say curse them all and dam them all.” He chuckles at his own joke.