No matter what I talk about, I always get back to baseball.
If you listen closely, you can hear the whispers in the outfield. That’s what Pop always says. Ghosts of players past, asking for the ball.
I don’t hear anything right now. The stadium is silent as a photograph. I’m all alone, hopping over the fence and walking to right field. I’ve got a shovel in my right hand, and a dead fish dangling in my left.
That’s when I hear the voice.
“Jimmy,” it says softly in the distance. I swing around and search the infield.
“Jimmy,” it whispers again.
“JIMMY!”
I jerk awake to Ma standing over me, clean and folded clothes in her arms. “Time to get up, dear.”
“Yes, Ma.” I sit up and scan the room, remembering all the events of the night before. Bing Miller is still floating belly-up in the fishbowl, and a things-to-do list is on my bedside table. Ma places the clothes on the end of the bed, and I spring to life.
“Ooooooooouch!” I yell. Every muscle screams at my movement, and I force myself to slow down and try to stretch out the soreness. I carefully inspect fresh bruising on my arms and legs. I don’t even want to look in the mirror.
Uncontrolled grunts come from my mouth as I slowly put on my clothing. I pick up the list and head down to breakfast. Pop is talking to Nina as I enter the kitchen.
“Morning,” he says in a deep, sleepy voice, and turns his attention back to her. “Open the store and just sit tight until we are done.”
“Okay. I got it covered.” She stands up and turns to me. “Nice face. Makes you look tough.”
I realize she’s trying to be nice. I smile weakly, and I slowly take her seat across from Pop.
“Breakfast?” he says.
“No, thank you.” I look down at my list. He studies me a bit.
“Let’s go over it again,” he says and takes the paper from me.
“I know it by heart,” I say.
I rattle off the list in order. Of course, he doesn’t know that the first thing I have to do is bury Bing Miller for luck.
To Do
1. Confess to Father Ryan.
2. Confess to the police.
3. Apologize to Lola.
“A short list. That doesn’t mean this is going to be easy,” he says, handing it back to me and looking at his watch.
“Not easy.” I take a deep breath. “Also, I forgot to show this to you yesterday.” I pull the baseball card out of the journal. “Mrs. Carson gave it to me. It was her son’s card. It’s worth something, right?”
“This must be twenty years old.” He closely examines both sides.
“I don’t deserve it. Not after last night,” I say. Ma and Pop exchange looks.
“It is very special,” she says, looking it over. “You can learn a lot from Mrs. Carson’s goodwill. Be sure to thank her properly. But right now, we have even more important things to do.”
“And I don’t want to hear the words baseball or Spite Fence one time today. Not once,” Pop says. “We leave in thirty minutes.”
Despite pain with every motion, I hurry to the basement and reach in the back corner for the dark bag of tulip bulbs lying dormant for the winter. I collect one bulb and a small orange clay flowerpot and fill it with potting soil. I find an empty matchbox on the floor and run back to my room.
Time to bury Bing Miller. I should say something.
Something, I think to myself, and I picture Lola’s scowl.
“You were named after our old right fielder, Bing Miller. Lola was there when I won you at the fair.” I pause as I hear Nina walking down the hall. I whisper the rest. “See, there are these boys. And there is this church window. But mostly, there’s Lola. Please bring me luck. Amen.”
I carefully place the fish into the cardboard matchbox and slide it closed, dig a small hole, and place the tiny fish coffin on the bottom of the flowerpot. I add the tulip bulb and top it off with rich soil. I’ll have to fix Rule #13 to include burying fish in flowerpots.
“Put it on the roof,” Ma says. I look back and see her leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. “The cold will keep the flower from waking up too early.”
I push the skylight up and slide the flowerpot onto the roof. A little snow falls inside, and I use my towel to clean it up before it melts. I look at the wall clock. It’s time to go.
“I’m ready!” I yell from the front door.
“You know what you have to do, son.”
“Yes, Pop. I know,” I say. He stands before me, waiting for more.
“Confess to Father Ryan. Confess to the police. Apologize to Lola.” My stomach flips a couple of times.
“Confess and apologize,” Pop says.
“Confess and apologize,” Ma says, putting on her coat. She kisses me on my forehead and takes Pop’s hand.
“Confess and apologize,” I repeat. “Let’s go.”