The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had (5 page)

Jim Dang-It took Emma’s wet jacket and draped it over a chair in front of the fire. “Dr. Griffith worried himself sick about you.” He brought me and Emma a blanket. “What kind of dang fools go out when there’s a storm coming?”

“I didn’t see no signs of a storm,” I said.

“No signs of a storm!” exclaimed Jim. “What do they teach you kids these days? Didn’t you notice the squirrels hiding and hear the birds singing their storm song?”

“No,” I said.

“Dang stupid,” said Jim. But he smiled as he shook his head.

Jim’s cabin was nothing like I had imagined. Sure, there was a dirt floor, but it was swept neat as Mama’s. There was a bed built into one corner and covered with a bright-colored quilt. His tools were neatly hung on the walls. Every item had its place. A pot of coffee boiled over the open fireplace.

There wasn’t no place for all of us to sleep, so Emma got the bed and I settled down with a blanket on the floor. Pa, Mr. Walker, Dr. Griffith and Jim Dang-It huddled around the fireplace, sipping coffee.

“All this rain,” said Pa. “Ain’t doing my corn no good.”

“More rain coming,” said Dr. Griffith.

Mr. Walker nodded. “Rain all over the state, from what I hear.”

They were all silent for a moment. Jim Dang-It seemed to be studying Mr. Walker. “You the new postmaster, right?” Jim asked finally.

“Yes, I am,” said Mr. Walker.

“Don’t get too much mail myself,” said Jim Dang-It. He blew on his coffee. “Anyone tell you ’bout that man in Selma?”

“I did,” said Dr. Griffith.

“Good,” said Jim. “’Cause it’d be a dang shame if . . .”

“Jim.” Pa cut him off and gestured toward me and Emma.

“Sorry, kids,” said Jim. “Know you’re trying to sleep.” He lowered his voice and continued talking. I listened real hard, but I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. I was just ’bout ready to roll over and go to sleep, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Dit?”

I looked up. Emma had the quilt pulled up over her head and was peering out at me like a squirrel in its den.

“What?” I asked.

“This was the best fishing trip I’ve ever been on,” said Emma.

“Ain’t it the only fishing trip you’ve ever been on?”

“Well, yes,” Emma admitted.

“And we lost all the fish,” I grumbled.

“But didn’t we have fun catching them?”

“No,” I lied.

“Oh, come on, Dit.” Emma laughed. “You were having a nice time before those snakes showed up.”

“I was not!”

“You two still awake?” Mr. Walker interrupted. “Go to sleep.”

I finally closed my eyes and the next thing I knew, the sun was up and Pa was pouring me a cup of coffee.

 

 

We had to drag the tree out of the road and dig out Dr. Griffith’s car before we could go home. I was covered in mud by the time we were all done. As I handed my shovel back to Jim Dang-It, he turned to my pa and said, “Strong boy you got there.”

Pa nodded. “Yup.”

Guess it wasn’t such a bad trip after all.

8

 

 

 

DIDN’T SEE MUCH OF EMMA FOR A WHILE after that. She’d been okay on the fishing trip, and maybe we’d even had a little fun, but I still didn’t want to be her friend. What’d we have in common? I loved the outdoors; she liked to sit on the porch all day. But my mama had a rule—we didn’t have to like anyone, but we had to be nice to everyone. That’s exactly the kind of rule grown-ups make up, ain’t it?

There was one place in town where everyone followed Mama’s rule—on the baseball field. Course it wasn’t a real field, just a vacant lot, but we used old rags to mark the bases and even piled up some dirt to make a pitcher’s mound. Everyone played, and I mean everyone: boys, girls, black, white, green or orange, we all took our turn at bat.

One day in the beginning of August, it was so hot the sweat dripped into my ears. We were picking teams when I noticed Emma lurking on the edge of the field. She had a book in one hand but wasn’t reading. I was captain that day and was in a good mood, having already gotten Raymond, Ulman and Pearl for my side. There weren’t too many people left, but that still don’t explain why I suddenly heard myself call out, “I pick Emma.”

“Who?” asked Elbert. He had a rare afternoon off from working with his pa at the barbershop.

“Emma,” I repeated. “Emma Walker. She’s right over there.” I pointed. Everyone turned to look.

Emma stood perfectly still, her eyes wide. “No thank you,” she said finally, “I don’t want to play.”

Now this irritated me to no end. She’d been looking at us like we were enjoying a royal banquet and she ain’t ate in a week. I knew she was lying. “Come on, Emma,” I coaxed.

Emma glared at me, but she came over and joined our team.

Soon as I started pitching, I forgot all about her. I’m always the pitcher. No one can throw like me. I’m a fair hitter too, but pitching is what I do best. I think it comes from killing all those birds with my flip-it. Or maybe from the fact that I’m left-handed. Or maybe it was just ’cause I was the only one in town with a real glove.

Anyway, an hour later, Pearl was playing second base and Ulman was on first. Raymond was catching and taking his turn as umpire. Emma was somewhere way out in right field. I threw a fastball. Elbert swung and missed.

“Strike one,” said Raymond.

I threw a curveball. Elbert swung and missed.

“Strike two,” cried Raymond.

I threw another fastball, but Elbert hit it this time. He ran easily past first, but Pearl had her eye on the ball. She had to dive for it, but she caught it. I was pretty darn proud of my little sister. That made two outs.

Elman was up to bat next. I grinned at my older brother in friendly competition. He hit my second pitch way out to right field and started running. The ball was falling directly toward Emma. All she had to do was reach out her hands and the ball would fall right into them. But Emma was staring at her fingernails.

The ball thumped into the dirt six inches from where Emma stood. She jumped.

“Pick it up!” I yelled. “Throw it to third!”

Elman was running slowly around the bases, laughing.

Emma picked up the ball like it was a wild rat about to bite her. She threw it with all her might. The ball went about ten feet. Toward Ulman on first. Elman slid into home.

I threw my glove to the ground and marched over to Emma. “What were you doing?” I snapped. “That should have been an easy out!”

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Don’t you know how to throw a ball?”

Emma shook her head. Her eyes welled up, but she didn’t make a sound.

I felt a little bad then. “I gotta go back and pitch.”

It started raining as I walked back to the mound. Mitch was up to bat next. He was the largest boy in the game, seventeen years old and at least 160 pounds. His face was slightly flat and he always wore a wide, lopsided grin. Dr. Griffith had some fancy name for his condition, but we just called him slow.

I threw a wicked curveball. Mitch hit it through the drizzle all the way to Main Street.

“Way to go!” Pearl called out. Raymond gave Mitch a push to start him running. Pretty soon everyone was chanting, “Mitch! Mitch!” as he took his victory lap around the bases.

Mitch’s grin was wider than ever. He shook his head back and forth as the rain came down and he joined in the chant. “Mitch! Mitch!” he yelled. “Way to go!”

Finally Mitch slid into home plate, splattering Raymond with mud. Everyone laughed.

“Watch where you’re going!” Raymond grumbled.

This only made Mitch grin harder.

I glanced over at Emma. Even she was smiling a little. And suddenly I was glad I had asked her to play, even if it meant we lost the game.

Maybe there was something to Mama’s rule.

9

 

 

 

IT FINALLY STOPPED RAINING THAT EVENING after supper, and I went to hang out on Mrs. Pooley’s front porch. Doc Haley sat in one of the rockers, while me and Elbert played marbles in the mud. It was a nice, quiet evening, with no one saying much. After a game and a half, Big Foot wandered out of the store onto his mama’s front porch. Soon as Doc saw him, he jumped up.

“Come on, Elbert,” Doc said.

“I’m right in the middle of a game,” Elbert protested.

“Sorry, son. It’s time to go.”

Me and Elbert divvied up our marbles, and he and Doc went on home.

Big Foot sat down in the empty chair without saying a word.

I headed home soon after that. It was already dark. The moon was out, so I could see just fine to practice my pitching, which I did by throwing rocks at each of the houses I passed. I’d pick a spot, maybe ten inches square, above a door or between two windows and throw the rock at it. I’d heard once that was how the great pitcher Walter Johnson had perfected his aim, and ever since, I’d practiced that way myself.

I hit Dr. Griffith’s place first. He’d moved to town five or six years ago and his wife died two years after that, so now he lived alone in their large wooden house. The oak front door made a nice
thwunk
when my rock hit it.

Next to Dr. Griffith’s house was a smaller house that he rented out to the schoolteacher. We had only one teacher in our primary school, which went from first to eighth grade. As far back as anyone could remember, the teacher had been Mr. Summons. But the old man had finally died—choked on a fish bone while he was eating his supper. His housekeeper found him, a pile of ungraded papers under his head.

So Mrs. Seay had recently moved into the house. She was a young widow from a rich family who had been educated at the University of Alabama. Most people said she wouldn’t be a schoolteacher for long; she was too pretty not to get married again. I hadn’t met her yet but had heard Mama gossiping about her. So I crept up to the window to see what she was like.

I guess she hadn’t had time to hang her curtains ’cause I could see her clearly, reading by the fireside. She sure was pretty. Her long blond hair was braided and pinned high up on her head. Her dress had lace all over it and looked more suited to a fancy party than sitting at home reading a book. Round her neck she wore a string of pearls.

I could even see the book she was reading:
Democracy and Education,
by one John Dewey. What kind of foolishness was that? Ain’t no democracy in school. Everyone knows that. The teacher is boss and if you forget that, you’re gonna end up with one sore bottom.

I’d seen enough, so I moved a couple of steps back and took aim at a little dark patch on the wood above her window. I pulled my arm back. Then right before I let the stone fly, Emma stepped out of the darkness.

It was exactly the wrong moment to surprise me: too late for me to stop my throw, but early enough to distract me. Instead of bouncing harmlessly off the wood, the rock sailed through the closed window, shattering the glass.

We both winced and ran for the bushes. Peeking through the leaves, we could see Mrs. Seay pick up a kerosene lamp and walk toward the front door. The door opened and she stepped outside. “Who’s there?” she called sharply. Her long dress billowed in the night breeze.

Emma took a deep breath, like she was gonna say something, but I grabbed her shoulder. She shut up. Mrs. Seay walked right by the bush where we were hiding, scanned the yard twice, then went back inside.

I let out a sigh of relief and let my grip on Emma relax. She squirmed away. “You shouldn’t be throwing rocks at people’s houses.”

“It’s your fault,” I spit back at her. “If you hadn’t startled me, I wouldn’t have broke her window.”

“You have to go tell her what you did.”

“No!” I whispered through clenched teeth. “Are you crazy?”

“Then I will.” She brushed a clump of wet dirt off her dress.