The Queen of Sleepy Eye (20 page)

“Mom?”

“Okay, yes, he's playing on the coal miners' team.”

I peeked inside the picnic basket. “You baked a cake? So what are you feeling guilty about?”

“What? I can't bake a cake for the man I love without having a reason?”

“It's just that—”

“I'll show you how much you know about me. This is a just-incase cake.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Just in case Bruce gets angry that we go to the game.”

I threw up my hands and groaned.

“All right, you little
sapa,
I'll tell you.” She slapped the picnic basket closed. “I've already been to a couple of these games. Does that surprise you? Nothing interesting happens. The hippies always win, but no one seems upset about that. We share food. We laugh at the men tripping over the bags.”

“The bases?”

“Yes, the bases. There are rumors about the game tonight. That nasty little man who writes the articles in the paper called for the locals to come to the game with sheep dip for the hippies. Bruce is concerned about my safety … and yours—”

“Even though I'm a toad?”

“Bruce thinks you're nice for a
sapa,
most of the time, and so do I. I may tell him the truth about you tonight since you keep interrupting me like an old woman who can't hear.” Mom busied herself wiping the counters. “He asked me not to come. None of the women or children are going. He didn't want to worry about our safety.”

“Maybe he's right. Maybe we should stay home.”

“I hear these old men talking tough in the store every day. They're like sailboats without wind. They're bluffing, I tell you. Nothing will come of it, and then the men will be hungry after all of their playing.”

“I don't know …”

“Amy, they are a bunch of old, fat men who have nothing better to do than make idle threats. They won't stop me from enjoying a fine summer evening like this.” She turned me by the shoulders toward the bedroom and patted my bottom. “Now, go do as I told you. I need your help carrying the basket. It weighs a ton.”

A gray quilt of clouds held the day's heat to the valley floor. I regretted not taking the time to pull my hair into a bun. Mom dabbed her face with a hankie, careful not to undo all the makeup she'd applied. On the three-block walk to the softball field, Mom and I sat the basket down every fifty yards or so and switched sides. The wooden handles dug into our hands. Before we made the turn up Sawyer Street, we stopped in front of Cordell's Gun Shop. A hand-printed sign in the window asked,
Where have gun laws reduced crime?

“Are you sure we're doing the right thing?” I asked.

“Keep complaining, my little
sapa,
and I'll give your slice of
bolo
da iha
to a stinky hippie.” The anticipation of her chocolate cake laced with cinnamon and honey made my mouth water.

When we arrived at the softball field, Mom stopped abruptly to set down the basket. With hands on hips she scanned the scene. Spectators, mostly women with children, filled the bleachers. Other women sat on blankets in the grass with their infants.

Mom frowned at the crowd. “I think Bruce got his nights mixed up.” We spread our blanket near the coal miners' bench.

A chain-link backstop and fence protected the crowd and the players' benches from errant balls, and that was the extent of the facilities. Period. No grass. No concession stand. No pitcher's mound. A rambling stripe of flour marked the foul lines, and mismatched pillows filled in for bases.

Bruce stood behind a pink velveteen pillow, presumably second base. He pounded his glove with his fist and shifted his weight from
one foot to the other as the batter dug into the dust to set his stance. Mom waved wildly to catch Bruce's attention. He nodded curtly and scanned the bleachers. I followed his gaze. No fat men with malice on their minds sat among the wives, children, and parents.

Who are you looking at?

Mom patted my knee. “He sees us.”

The hippies wore athletic shorts that revealed their roped muscles. Their hair bushed out from their baseball caps.
Hmm, Bozo plays baseball.
Just looking at them made me hot. I twisted my hair off my neck and secured it with a pencil from my purse. When Falcon came up to bat, he made the center fielder chase after a home run. My heart pounded wildly as he ran around the bases. The hippies scored six runs before the coal miners finally managed a turn at bat, but the hippies sent them right back to the outfield with two strikeouts and an underhanded toss to first base. Really, the coal miners played like a bunch of girls.

A line of pick-up trucks drove slowly past the field—first one way and then the other, some taunting the hippies with hog calls and worse. The spectators booed, but the players remained engaged with the game.

The hippies took the field after a failed bunt. Another player took Falcon's place in the field, so he sat alone on the bench. If I was going to ask him about repairing the church windows for Leoti, this was the time.

“Mom, I need to talk to someone. I'll be right back.”

Bruce trotted toward the coal miners' bench and stopped. The fear in his eyes made me hesitate. He looked over his shoulder toward the bleachers, turned and trotted to a woman who kissed him smack on the lips. A young girl with pigtails jumped into his embrace, and when he sat down, a towheaded boy climbed onto his shoulders. A family. Bruce was married.

Mom stiffened. I sat back down.

“Do you want to leave?” I asked.

“Not yet. Soon.”

We sat through two of the longest innings ever played. Mom smiled as she filled a plate with ham pudding and sliced tomatoes. Eating was like trying to swallow a tennis ball. The hippies scored run after run. Mom set aside her dinner and used her fork to gouge a bite out of the cake. With chocolate on her teeth, she told me a story about a little girl who had returned a rooster to the store that morning, complaining that it didn't lay eggs. I couldn't laugh, but I offered her an understanding smile that probably looked more like a grimace.

The trucks I'd watched drive back and forth now idled behind us. I recognized Jim Warner as one of the passengers. Although the cool mountain air flowed through the valley to clear the clouds and tame the heat, my palms dampened with sweat. The drivers exchanged glances and stopped their engines. A stock tank, perfect for dipping sheep or hippies, filled the back of one truck. The men left the cabs of the trucks to lean against the truck hoods. They spat in the dirt and covered their broad chests with forearms the size of pineapples.

“Mom, I think we should go home now. The mosquitoes are biting.”

Mom followed my gaze to the men behind us. “I'm ready.”

We walked home in silence. Mom hoisted the picnic basket onto the kitchen counter. “Would you mind, Amy? I'm very tired.” She closed the bedroom door. I listened to her muffled sobs as I stored our leftovers and read toward the final chapters of
The Good Earth.
Truthfully, I'd lost interest in the story since O-lan had died. I read of Wang's plan to buy opium for his lecherous uncle and his wife while Mom's cries ebbed and flowed. I prayed for her.

Father, bring someone to love Mom with a pure heart who isn't married or cruel or exploitative or a jerk.

And I prayed for Feather to be comforted in her disappointment.

Before long, Mom's sobs subsided, and I tiptoed into the room to remove her sandals and cover her with a sheet. Even in sleep, her breaths snagged on her heartbreak. I slumped to the floor to lean against her bed, waiting for sirens or angry shouts from the softball field. Crickets chirruped. Dogs barked greetings. A train blew its warning blasts as it entered the town's northern limits. The chatter of the sparrows that roosted in the spruce trees crescendoed and faded until the little flock slept.

A trill of hopefulness brightened my mood when I realized Mom would be willing to leave Cordial now that she knew about Bruce. And just as quickly my hope turned to shame, based as it was on Mom's heartache.

I'm so selfish, Lord.

I considered visiting Feather at the clinic, but visiting hours had long since passed. Leoti, too, would be in bed by this hour. I rose to leave Mom to her dreams and to see if Wang Lung would actually fool his uncle into using the opium.

Phooey with that.

I made my way to the softball field, curious about what had happened after we left and, more truthfully, hoping Falcon was still there. By the time I reached the field, I'd fully convinced myself that I only wanted to talk with him about repairing the church's windows.

A group of men sat on the lawn behind the back stop, passing a cigarette around the circle. The moment the sickly sweet smoke reached me, I stepped back, hoping my presence would go unnoticed. I turned to leave.

“Hey! Amelia, is that you?” Falcon asked, rising and walking toward me.

“I couldn't sleep. I thought if I walked for awhile … I didn't mean to interrupt anything.”

“You shouldn't be out alone. I'll walk you home.” He waved to the circle of men. “Catch you later.” He put his arm around my shoulders. “I just need some steadying, little sister.” He smelled of old sweat and dust and marijuana. Then why did my stomach flip at his touch? I should have been calling the sheriff to report drug use, but honestly, Falcon's touch undid me. The farther we walked the more I relaxed into him. When he pulled my arm around his waist, I didn't resist.

“You left early,” he said. “You missed my grand slammer.”

You noticed?
“My mom wasn't feeling well. And those men … they made us nervous. Did they give you any trouble?”

“Did they dip us like sheep? Nah. The coal miners stood shoulder to shoulder so the families could leave without being hassled. When the locals saw how outnumbered they were, they took off.”

“And you stayed behind?”

“Somebody had to thank those guys.”

The sun had stored its warmth in the sidewalk, and now it bled through my flip-flops. Lightning flashed over Logan Mountain.

Don't rain. Don't rain.

“You had a big scare with Feather,” he said with rubbery lips. “I guess you saved the day.”

“I ran for help is all. H carried her to a house to meet the ambulance.”

“Straw and Butter are trippin' over this epilepsy thing.”

“They're worried. They want to do what's best for her. The tests, the meds. Everything is so expensive.”

“Still, you showed a lot of courage, Amelia.”

I enumerated all of the reasons that being with Falcon and enjoying his touch was a very bad idea. For one, there was the whole unequally yoked thing. But, come on, I wasn't going to marry him or anything. For two, he was a lot older than me. But didn't that make him more mature and responsible? It showed in how he cared about Feather and her family. Besides, he had a Masters degree in sociology. That meant he had a deep appreciation for human struggles. Sure, he smoked marijuana, but what was marijuana but hippie moonshine? Smoking marijuana would probably be legal before the end of the year. Instead of wine cellars, people would have greenhouses for their hybrid marijuana plants. No big deal. Really, what was the difference between my mother swilling beer and Falcon puffing on a joint? Then I remembered Falcon's contempt for all things Christian. That meant something, but did it mean I couldn't have his arm around me, that he couldn't kiss me? I really wanted him to kiss me, so I chanted in my thoughts,
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.
Only a kiss, a real kiss, would satisfy the ache yawning under my heart.

He belched. “Excuse me,” he said, covering his mouth, but it was too late. The full force of his breath awakened my reason.
Get down
to business, girl.

“Falcon, I need your help with something.” I told him about my friendship with Leoti and how Arthur had helped the coal miners. “Arthur and Leoti commissioned the original stained-glass windows at Spruce Street Church. Three of the windows were broken before they paved Johnston Avenue.”

Falcon stopped. “Wow, that's a coincidence. I noticed those windows the very first day I got here,” he said, walking again. His arm remained around my shoulders. Could he feel my heart racing? “The craftsmanship is amazing. In fact, a bro from the farm helped me copy the pattern. It took me a while to gather the glass to match, but I eventually
duplicated one of the sashes. Honestly, you couldn't tell the old from the new. I showed the new sash to the pastor—some dude named Ed.”

“You showed your work to Pastor Ted?”

“Ted, yeah, that was his name. He was impressed with the work, but the elder board needed to appropriate funds. I figured they'd refuse, and I was right. But the pastor was cool. He found out where I was crashing to return the sash. I told him to keep it. He gave me thirty dollars, said it was all he had on him, which was kind of a trip because that was how much I was going to charge him anyway.”

“Thirty dollars? Is that how much you'd charge now?”

“I should charge more, but I'm a sucker for restoration work. That's how I started with stained glass.”

We stopped at the front gate of the funeral home. We stood face to face. “Falcon, I need a straight answer. Will you or won't you make the remaining five sashes for thirty dollars apiece?”

Falcon rested his hand on my cheek. “Lovely Amelia, I'm leaving soon. If this lady has to convince a committee to take the project to the elder board, I'll be long gone.”

A lump tightened my throat. “When are you leaving?”

“Before the nights get cold. Besides, September is best for surfing in California.”

“If we didn't have to worry about approval from the elder board, and Leoti agrees to the price, could you start right away?”

“Can you help me? The curved pieces need grinding to smooth the edges after they're cut. You could do the grinding while I solder the joints. If you're willing, we can get 'em done before I leave.”