THE CARNIVAL HAD unfolded its worn canvas tents in a pasture near the train depot and had begun to play its beckoning calliope music—lively and shrill—and the enticing spell of the music began to pull the people of Jericho and Caulder County to the wonders of a traveling event advertised by posters as the Marvels of the Earth Exhibition.
It was not a great carnival, not like the spectacles of Barnum and Bailey, with jungle animal acts and beautiful women doing acrobatics on the backs of white horses, or daredevil men walking steel cables that swayed in the high, trapped air of tents, or sideshows of part-people, part-something mutants.
Still, it was a carnival—game tents and food tents, the scent of fresh sawdust and peanuts and cotton candy, the yodeling singsong of show barkers, the yelping of children—and Ben walked alone among the late-afternoon crowd that moved languidly along the street of tents. He liked the closeness of the crowd, the gentle nudging of arms, the courteous sidestepping, the darting, wiggling bodies of boys chasing amazement. He liked the lavish, moving colors of dresses and ribbon streamers—ambers and reds and blues and yellows—swimming in the September sun.
Ben also liked the tricksters behind the booths and at the canvas tent doors, babbling like excited auctioneers—daring, inviting, promising. He liked the absurdity of the aging tiger, tail-swatting at flies like a drowsy cow, located next to the tent of scientific oddities that were certain to change mankind in the electric age that Thomas Edison had fathered. It was the twentieth century. The motorcar was real. George Franklin owned one and Branson Quitman had ordered one. The Wrights had flown an airplane across the sands of a place called Kitty Hawk in North Carolina. Men with genius, or madness, had predicted that voices would be picked up from the air—from the air, not from the wires linking telephone to telephone. At the Marvels of the Earth Exhibition, the twentieth-century world was on display in illusions of magic and in spectacular renderings of imaginative paintings and in toys of fantasy far grander than the grandest of dreams.
The crowd moved with the motion of a slow body of water, lapping in waves to the tents, and at each tent, the alluring oddity hidden inside was more splendid, more incomprehensible, than the oddities in the nearby tents. It was song and dance and laughter that flowed along the street of tents.
Ben followed the festival, permitting himself to float like a leaf in the gentle current of the onlookers. He did not enter any of the tents or stop to play their games. He watched and listened and wandered leisurely, speaking politely to people who floated with him, or against him. He could feel, in the heat of the late-afternoon sun, an almost surprising mood of relaxation. When he laughed at something unexpected or amusing, he could sense the weight of his hurt over Milo Wade leaving him.
And then he was at the end of the street of tents, moving with the crowd to a cleaned-off cornfield beside a single large oak. It was where he and Milo and other townsboys had played choose-up games of baseball as children. In the distance, he could see people pushing into a half-circle around something that commanded their attention.
“Ben, Ben, you got to see that,” a boyish voice near him cried.
The voice belonged to David Grubb, who was young and blond and often sang solos with the Presbyterian church choir. David would be the first man from Jericho to die in World War I.
“What’s going on, David?” asked Ben.
“They got a baseball-hitting contest going on, that’s what,” David said excitedly. “Anybody that gets a hit off that fellow gets fifty cents. Cost a nickel for three strikes. I’m going to find my daddy, see if he’ll let me try.” He ran away, dodging into the flow of the crowd.
Ben could hear the unmistakable slap of a baseball hitting a leather mitt, and the gasps of awe from onlookers. He could feel his throat tighten. The muscles in his arms quivered. He moved toward the sound of the ball striking the mitt, a sound that called to him out of the crowd.
He stood at a rope line that fanned in a V, like the first and third base lines of a baseball field, and watched Frank Mercer standing at a wood home plate, waving a bat in the air, stretching the muscles of his shoulders. The man behind the plate wore a bleached baseball uniform and a mask that covered his bearded face. He was sitting on a stool. He looked awkward and deformed.
“What’s the matter with the catcher?” Ben asked a man standing beside him.
The man chuckled. “Looks like he’s about to topple off, don’t it? He’s just got him one leg.”
Ben looked more closely. The catcher’s right leg was missing at the knee. He could see a pair of crutches beside the stool.
“Well, you right,” Ben whispered.
“Shoot, that’s nothing,” the man beside him said. “Take a look at the fellow throwing the ball. Just got one arm.”
Ben turned to look at the pitcher. He did not have a left arm. His shirtsleeve had been pinned or sewn to the face of his shirt. He stood majestically, staring down at the catcher and Frank Mercer. Ben was stunned by his size. He was a giant. And then Ben saw his face. Scars. White ridges of flesh against a burning red skin. It was a face to turn from, to fear, to remember.
“All right, all right, all right,” a skinny man wearing a black suit and a top hat chortled through a megaphone. He was standing near the catcher. “This looks like a strong fellow. Maybe he’ll do it. Maybe he’ll get a hit off the One-Armed Wonder of Tennessee. But take my advice, folks, and don’t make any side bets on it.”
“Hit him, Frank!” someone crowed from the crowd.
“You can do it, Frank!”
“I’m adding fifty cents to the pot if you do,” someone else called.
Frank smiled and lifted his hand to the voice. He stepped into the batter’s box, waving the bat in showmanship.
Ben watched the giant roll the ball in his bare hand, examining it. Then he saw the slow rocking of the giant’s body and the one full turn of the arm and the slight, graceful twist of his torso and the sudden whip of motion. Ben did not see the ball. He heard it splatter against the mitt of the catcher, saw the catcher recoil in pain. He saw Frank Mercer stand motionless, staring in disbelief at the giant with the face of scars.
“Strike one,” the barker sang.
“You got to swing the bat, Frank,” yelled Coleman Maxey, laughing happily.
“At what?” Frank called back. “I never seen nothing to swing at.”
“I got him figured,” Coleman bellowed. “You swing when I tell you.”
The pitcher took the ball and stared coldly at Coleman, standing behind the rope near the catcher. He then turned back to Frank and started his rocking motion.
“Now,” Coleman shouted.
Frank swung viciously. The pitcher still held the ball. The crowd laughed joyfully and booed Frank.
“Damn,” Frank muttered, smiling sheepishly.
“Best wait to he throws it, mister,” the barker advised, tipping his hat to Frank.
Frank struck out on the next two pitches and dropped the bat. He said, “That’s it. Great Goda’mighty, I never saw nothing like that.”
“Try again, friend?” the barker teased.
“You got two dimes out of me for trying it too many times already,” Frank said. “Won’t find me wasting no more money.”
“Who else?” the barker called through his megaphone. “Tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to raise the prize. One dollar to the man that gets a hit, fifty cents for even touching the ball.”
The crowd murmured.
“Hey, you,” the catcher said suddenly in a gruff voice, muted by the mask he wore. He was pointing his mitt toward Ben. “You look like a player to me. Cost you a nickel.”
Ben smiled and waved away the offer.
“C’mon, Ben, give it a try,” Frank Mercer urged in a mocking voice. “You used to hit pretty good. Shoot, boy, you were a pro.”
“I gave it up,” Ben mumbled. He stepped back into the crowd.
“You ever see anybody that good down there in Augusta?” Coleman asked.
Ben looked at the giant, holding the ball, glaring at the crowd. He shook his head.
“What you think that fellow you was telling us about—that Arnold Toeman—would tell you to do, hitting against somebody like that man out there?” Coleman pressed.
Ben did not answer. He knew he was again being played the fool by Coleman, though he had long given up going to the Generals’ practices or the games. He turned his head toward the tents, made a move to leave.
“Used to hit pretty good, did you?” the catcher called. “You look like you still can. Look like somebody that’s been around the game. C’mon, boy, give it a try.”
The crowd around Ben began to push him forward.
“Go on, Ben, try him.”
“Yeah, Ben. Everybody else has.”
“Shoot, Ben, I’ll pay the nickel,” Frank thundered. He flipped a coin to the barker.
“You can’t back out now, Ben,” someone said merrily. “Cheap as Frank is, he’ll hound you to your grave over owing him.”
Laugher rippled over the crowd. “You get a hit, Ben, I’ll throw in a extra dollar,” Coleman chortled. He held up a dollar bill. “In fact, I’ll put my mark on it to prove it’s mine, if you get a hit.” He took a pencil from his pocket and with showmanship, marked an X in the corner of the bill.
“Well, if Coleman’s gone throw in a dollar, by shot, so will I,” Frank declared. “So will I.”
Another voice: “Me, too, by God.”
Another voice: “Count me in. Shoot, I’ll even let Coleman hold my dollar right now.”
Another voice: “I’m in for it.”
The voices around him became louder. Money was passed to Coleman. Hands pushed Ben to the rope, pulled the rope up, nudged him beneath it. He stood and looked at the pitcher. The pitcher stared angrily at him.
“I got the money right here, Ben,” Coleman called, holding fanned-out dollar bills over his head, waving them. “Ten dollars, boy. Ten dollars. And just for the hell of it, I’ll throw in a new set of soles for them shoes you wearing. Let’s see what old Arnold Toeman taught you, boy.”
The crowd hooted.
“Bat’s right here,” the catcher said.
Ben walked slowly, self-consciously, across the field. He picked up the bat, rolled it with his fingers. It was hard ash, turned for a thick handle. He waved it once in the air, weakly, feeling the weight. Then he stepped to the plate and twisted his feet into the grass. His heart was thundering and his mouth was dust-dry. He closed his eyes and rolled his head, and for a stunning moment the wondrous exhilaration of the game flooded him, filled him.
“Well, well, well. We got us a player,” the barker boomed, his voice echoing through the megaphone.
A cheer flew up from the crowd.
“Ben,” the catcher whispered under the cheer. “You just stand there and do what I tell you, boy.”
Ben’s head jerked toward the catcher. He looked into the gray eyes behind the mask: Foster Lanier.
“Don’t say the first goddamn word,” Foster warned. “I’m fixing to make you a hero, boy. They’ll tote you out of here on their goddamn shoulders.”
“Fos—”
“Shut up,” Foster growled. “Turn back in the box and listen.”
Ben obeyed.
“Take you a couple of swings,” Foster said quietly. “He’s gone throw two balls you not even gone see, then he’ll float one in and you better, by God, hit it out of sight.”
Ben raised the bat, balanced it above his shoulders. He saw a small smile ease into the face of the pitcher, and then the smile vanished, and the face turned cold. He watched the rocking motion of the pitcher’s body, the turn of his arm, the long, hard step forward. He saw the ball for only a fraction of time, a blink of white across space, then he heard it explode into Foster’s mitt. The crowd screamed at Ben.
“Hit him, Ben!”
“Watch out, Ben! He could throw it straight through you if he hits you!”
Ben heard Frank and Coleman laughing.
Behind the plate, Foster oohed joyfully. He said in a low voice, “You ever see anything like that, Ben? Damnedest pitcher alive, I swear it. Ugly, too. Watch this one, Ben. It’s gone miss you by two inches.”
Ben looked quickly to Foster and Foster lobbed the ball back to the giant.
“Hell, don’t worry none,” Foster whispered. “He’s not gone hit you. It’s just gone rile up the crowd a little bit, and then you’ll get your hit and they’ll think one of their boys kicked the shit out of us. Good for business. We do it everywhere.”
Ben could feel the ball that missed him by two inches. He fell away instinctively as Foster leaned dangerously from his stool to catch the pitch.
“God-o-mighty,” Foster cried. He looked at Ben sprawled in the grass. Ben could see him wink from behind his mask. “You all right?” he said in a voice loud enough for the crowd to hear.
The crowd hissed angrily.
“Now, don’t get upset, folks,” Foster pleaded. “Once in a while, one slips. Looks like the boy’s all right.”
Ben pulled himself to his feet and picked up the bat. He stepped to the plate and lifted the bat to his shoulders. His heart was racing.
“Hit the son of a bitch, Ben,” someone yelled. And then a chant began: “Hit him, hit him, hit him…”
Foster leaned forward on his stool. “It’ll be belt-high, Ben,” he whispered. “No curve, just straight. Swing easy.”
The pitch glided in, exactly as Foster had promised. Ben could feel the hit as he turned the bat, could feel the rhythm of his muscles, like a rehearsed dance, and the splendor of the shock rushing through him. He looked up and watched the ball lifting high into the bright, angled rays of the sun, flying beyond the crowd. He heard an eruption of voices screaming his name, and he heard again the cries in Augusta:
“You got it, Ben! You got it!”
The giant pitcher stood unmoving, glaring at Ben with bitterness. He did not like the artless game of deceit that Foster Lanier had commanded him to play. In every place they stopped, he threw the pitch that would be hit, but he did not like it. Foster called it the business pitch. “Let one hit it and every man and boy in the crowd’s got to give it a try,” Foster had said. Foster was right, but the giant did not like it.
The crowd spilled over the V of the rope, threw itself into a circle around Ben. They slapped gladly at him. Coleman shoved a wad of money into his hand with a yodel of joy. “By God, you done it,” Coleman shouted.
Ben looked at Foster, who sat relaxed on his stool, holding his catcher’s mask. A playful smile fluttered across Foster’s face. He winked at Ben.
“By God, Ben, I’m gone give it a try,” an older man declared, reaching for the bat.
“Wait a minute, friends,” Foster called. “Quiet down just a minute.” He caught one of his crutches beside his stool and struggled to stand. “Wait a minute,” he repeated.
The crowd around Ben became silent.
“They calling you Ben,” Foster said. “What’s your name, anyhow?”
Ben answered, “Ben Phelps.”
Foster whistled softly. “Well, no damn wonder,” he said in astonishment. “I know you. Watched you playing down in Augusta earlier this year. Ben Phelps. No damn wonder.”
“You know Ben?” Coleman asked with surprise.
“Know him well enough,” Foster said. “I can’t believe he’s here and not off playing somewhere with the professionals.” He hobbled to Ben and extended his hand. “It’s a privilege, Ben Phelps,” he said earnestly. “I saw you make a catch down there in Augusta—it was against the Savannah team, I believe—that was the best I ever saw, and I’m a man that’s played and watched baseball all over this country.”
Ben said nothing. He stared at Foster quizzically. The crowd remained quiet.
“I’m telling you, folks,” Foster continued, “you’d of been proud of him. Ben here looked like he was flying that last ten yards. Caught that ball a half-inch off the ground. Nobody alive could of done it but Ben.”
Ben could sense the people looking at him curiously. He mumbled to Foster, “Thanks.”
“How come you not playing somewhere?” asked Foster.
Ben licked his lips. He crossed his arms and shook his head.
“Yeah, Ben, how come?” someone asked.
“Guess you learned it wadn’t all that it was made out to be. That right, Ben?” Foster said.
“Well, I—”
“I don’t blame you,” Foster said, laughing merrily. “Wish I’d of done the same thing when I got started. Lost this leg trying to play baseball. I’d lots rather been working at a good job somewhere. I’d be dancing if I’d of done that.”
“Ben can play, all right,” Coleman said. “I been trying to get him to come back and play for the town team, but he won’t do it.”
“You got a job, Ben?” asked Foster.
Ben nodded.
“Well, there’s your answer, friend,” Foster said to Coleman. “A good job’s a lot more sure than baseball, I’ll tell you that for God’s truth.”
“I can’t argue that,” Coleman admitted. “But Ben can play, and that’s a fact. I never saw him hit one like he just did, but I guess he picked up some good pointers down there in Augusta. He’s always been the fastest man around here.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Him and Milo Wade was two of the best we ever had on the town team, that’s for sure.”
“Milo Wade?” Foster said, wiping his face with a handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket. “I know that name, too.” He looked at Ben. “He was down there in Augusta too, wadn’t he?”
Ben nodded.
“He’s up in Boston now,” Coleman said. “Doing good, too, from what I hear.”
“He’s good, all right,” Foster said, “but I’d take Ben here. You saw what he just did, and I guarantee you they’s not a half-dozen men a month even come close to hitting my man.”
“I—was lucky,” Ben protested meekly.
“Everybody’s lucky and everybody’s unlucky,” Foster replied, dangling the stump of his right leg. “But luck’s got nothing much to do with it. You hit the ball, Ben Phelps. Hit it better than anybody since I put this show together. That’s all I’m saying. These people here got a reason to be proud of you.”
“Well, we are, mister,” Coleman said enthusiastically. “Wish we could get him back playing with us.”
“Maybe he will now,” Foster said. “But I wouldn’t advise him to quit on his job.” He stepped back on his crutch and the crowd closed around Ben.
“You get a chance, you come back tonight and talk some baseball with me, Ben,” Foster said. He smiled again and winked at Ben. “Who’s next?” he sang. “Who’s as good as Ben Phelps?”