THE MOON
I was just getting a little too nervous at the breakfast table. I sat down and stood up. Down and up. Down and up.
“Make up your mind,” Grandma said. “You gonna be jack-in-the-box? Or jack-out-of-the-box?”
“Can I get back to you on that?” I blurted out, and laughed and forgot why I was laughing and just felt hollow inside.
“You’re nuts again,” Grandma said, and she stood up and went to the bathroom.
As soon as she was out of sight I reached for the telephone. I punched in the numbers for home and it rang and rang and I started thinking that Mom wasn’t at home or at work and I got it mixed up in my head that she had gone someplace and hadn’t told me—like Mexico again although I knew she hadn’t but maybe
she had anyway. She probably went where life was a lot easier and where she’d be happier without me pestering her. Maybe she got tired of worrying about me. I figured if I started walking now, by the time I got home she wouldn’t be there. Not even a note on the table. Nothing. And all her stuff would be packed and gone. I’d open her closets and they’d be empty except for the old things that reminded her of life with me and she’d have left them behind just like she was leaving me. And everything in her drawers would be gone. All her perfume and jewelry and shoes and magazines, and the only thing left in her room would be the blurry pictures of me in motion because she didn’t want to be reminded of her old life now that she was busy making a new life. I was desperate to see her and have her hold me and even though a small part of me said I was thinking out of control, I was too far out of control to listen and as the telephone rang I suddenly remembered that Mom didn’t have a license anymore and couldn’t pick me up if I wanted her to so I said to myself, “Just walk home anyway, just go out the door and follow the road and it will get you home,” and even though I felt my legs were full of springs and ready to walk around the planet I knew I wouldn’t get there fast enough to stop her if she was running away. Then I thought of Dad’s car so I hung up the phone and went into his room where he was still asleep and I knew he’d sleep for a while because there were so
many empty beer bottles on the floor neatly lined up around his bed like a brown picket fence. I picked up his pants where he had folded them over a chair back and fished the keys out of the pocket and crept up the hall, when Grandma called to me from the bathroom.
“Get in here,” she said, and I thought she had seen me take the keys and I was going to tell her I planned to wash the car but she only said, “I need your opinion on something.”
I stuck my head around the corner and almost screamed, but I caught myself. Grandma had pulled half a cheek full of loose skin all the way back behind her jaw where she had it gathered in a wad and clipped to her ear with a clothespin. “Don’t you think I’d look better with a face-lift?” she asked, and breathed through her mouth like a fish out of water. “I met someone nice at one of your ball games and he said I must have looked good twenty years ago.”
I didn’t know what to say but opened my mouth anyway and said, “You better watch out. If you pull the skin too tight it might rip apart like when you pull Play-Doh too hard.”
“That’s a nasty thought,” she snapped, then looked into the mirror again and checked the color of her tongue, which was gray-looking and cracked like a dried-up bar of gas station soap. I didn’t want to see anything more and when she asked me to take the little plastic tongue scraper and scrape the gray gunk
off her tongue I just moaned as if I had seen a ghost and turned and ran down the hall.
I tugged Pablo out of the hole he had dug in the couch cushion and ran out the front door. I got into the car and moved the seat all the way forward like Dad had showed me. Then I took the key and stabbed it over and over at the little keyhole but the key kept sliding away until I got my face really close to the slot and slowly wiggled it in. Then I glanced up at the front door to make sure that nobody was looking before I turned the key and slouched down and pressed the gas and the engine started. I pulled the gearshift down to R and the car backed up and I went straight out the driveway and right away I knew I was in trouble because I couldn’t see where I was going and steer and press the pedals all at once so I pressed the gas and lurched back then looked up over the seat and by then I was already out in the middle of the road and before I could hit the brake the car flattened the neighbor’s mailbox and slid down into a little rain ditch and stopped. I was so scared I just turned the car off and grabbed the keys with one hand and Pablo with the other and ran back across the street and into the house where I pushed Pablo back into his hole and raced up the hall where I darted into Dad’s room and put the keys back in his pants. One good thing about wrecking the car was that it knocked some
sense into me and I no longer thought Mom was trying to leave me behind and as I sneaked down the hall Grandma was still looking into the mirror only now she had both sides of her face pulled back and held in place with circles of Scotch tape.
“Give me a hand,” she gurgled, and held the roll of tape out, and I did what she said and circled it from around her chin to the back of her head and around and around like I was wrapping up the Egyptian mummy in a scary movie.
Later, after Dad woke up and screamed at the sight of Grandma with her face-lift because she scared him half to death and had made a mess in the bathroom, he spotted the car across the street. I thought I was going to be in big trouble, but he didn’t say anything more to me than maybe he forgot to put the car in park and it must have rolled down the drive overnight, because he had done that before. While he went to call a tow truck to pull it back to our driveway I turned the television station to one of those exercise shows where people were doing all kinds of hopping around and sweating, and I just did what they did and tried to wear myself out. But then Dad saw me doing push-ups and he turned off the TV.
“I want you to sit down and rest,” he said, and scooted the coffee table back into its place and smoothed the carpet marks out with the bottom of his
shoe. “You got the biggest game of your life tonight and I don’t want you wearing yourself out. Now what do you want for breakfast?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m fine. Just fine.” And I didn’t know what else to do so I went into my room. I sat down on the corner of my bed with Pablo and put the little speakers into my ears and listened to the tape. I pulled out my trumpet and started to play along, which must not have sounded very good because Pablo hopped down and began scratching at the door to get out, but I didn’t stop playing. I kept thinking to myself that the music is the glue that keeps me together and so I played as loudly as I could.
The next thing I knew Grandma burst into the room and pulled the trumpet out of my hands. “You gotta knock that racket off,” she said in a tight voice that sounded like her jaw was broken because she had it all taped up.
“I’m just keeping busy,” I said.
“Well, try to keep busy doing something more quiet,” she suggested.
“Yeah,” Carter yelled from the kitchen. “Like cleaning.”
I hopped up and went to the bathroom and closed the door before Grandma could get there first. I was going to get the cleaning supplies out of the cabinet but then I saw Dad’s foamy shaving cream on the counter and suddenly thought it was a great time to
do something I had been wanting to try. The Tijuana Brass tape cover had a naked woman buried under a mountain of whipped cream and since I didn’t have whipped cream I thought shaving cream would do. I took off all my clothes except for my underwear and began to shake the can and spray foam all over my body. I started with my legs and inched my way up bit by bit and by the time I sprayed a big swirly beehive of foam on top of my head I didn’t look anything like the tape cover. Instead, I looked like the abominable snowman. I started making moaning noises and I was hoping Grandma would come and knock on the door because I remembered a scary movie where the abominable snowman met the mummy for a showdown.
“Grand—maaa!” I wailed. “Grand—maaa!”
“What’s going on in there?” she asked, and pounded on the door. “Are you ill?”
“Grand—maaa!” I wailed again. “Open the door.”
She pushed the door open and I lunged at her. “Arghhh,” I growled.
Her mouth popped open so wide it snapped the tape around her jaw and she screamed until she lost her breath and had to lean against the wall. I dropped to my knees with laughter and when she finally recovered she said, “I don’t know what’s gonna kill me first—a heart attack or a lung attack.” Then she started to laugh too.
It was funny until Dad came around the corner and saw the shaving cream mess all over the bathroom.
“What has got into you?” he barked. “You’re goofing around and making a mess and all I ask is for you to rest before the game. Now get in the shower, then clean up the floor and get back to your room. You hear me, mister?”
“Yes, Dad,” I said. “I was only having some fun.”
“This is not a fun day,” he snapped back. “This is a serious day. We’ve got a big game ahead of us—not a shaving contest! Now do you hear me?”
“Can I get back to you on that?” I replied.
He jerked forward like he was going to take a swipe at me but Grandma stepped between us. “Calm down, boys,” she said. “Save it for the game.”
Dad turned and marched back to the kitchen, where he loudly announced that he was going to clean the oven, “because someone made a potpie mess again!”
“That will be the third time he’s cleaned it this month,” Grandma whispered to me.
I took my shower and went back to my room. I got dressed in my baseball uniform and sat in a chair until I couldn’t do that any longer, so I got out my duffel bag and I filled it with all my stuff. Then I dumped it out and packed it again. I got tired of that so I lifted up my shirt and got a pen and started to draw tattoos all over my body. I kept doing that until Dad poked
his head into my room and told me it was time to eat a little something then head out to the ball field.
When we got into the car Dad had his speech all prepared. “We’re going to play like pros. With dignity. No tape players, no dogs, no phone calls, no rolling the ball to the plate, no weird stuff. Just pure baseball played by the rules.”
“Do the rules really say no dogs allowed on the mound?” I asked.
“Don’t question me, Joey,” Dad snapped. “I’m a little tense and I have no patience for your shenanigans. So just do what I tell you and nothing more. You got that?”
“Dad,” I said. “I’m not having fun.”
“Get used to it,” he replied. “Life isn’t fun when all day long you can’t do anything but mess up.”
I wanted to say something back but I had such a bad case of the jitters that I zippered my lips because I was sure if I spoke it would be messed up and Dad would get even more tense.
By the time we arrived the parking lot was jampacked and the stands were full. The towers full of lights were so bright that when I looked up at them my eyes jerked over to one side like when you yank your hand back from touching something too hot. I looked over at the green grass and it seemed to cool my eyes down, as if dipping my hand in ice water.
“There he is,” Leezy announced when she saw me coming, “the king of the hill.” Then she gave me a hug. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. Hope your dad didn’t make you wash the walls. When he’s nervous he is a cleaning fool.”
I smiled. “I just cleaned myself,” I said.
“Joey!” someone called out. I looked up into the stands and it was Grandma. She held Pablo up. He was wearing his lucky belly sweater. “Good luck!” she yelled, then looked away to cough.
“Come on,” Dad said, and steered me toward the mound. “We have business to complete.”
I followed him out to the mound, where he turned and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Caveman,” he whispered, “don’t let me down. I hate losing. Just hate it. Guys like us—you know, guys who have had their hard times—want to be winners too. Some lucky people are born winners. But you and I have to go out there and earn it. You know what I mean, son?”
“I do,” I said. And I did. I knew everything there was to know about learning how to be a winner the hard way. I knew it down into my toes. And now I was with my dad and he was saying things to me about wanting to be a winner that I always felt but had never said to anyone. And here we were, wanting to be winners together. I had him and he had me and we were so alike it was as if I had a giant twin. I didn’t want to let him
down and I was hoping and praying that I could just get through this one last game before I unraveled at the seams like a baseball that had been smacked around one too many times.
Dad fit the new ball into my hand. Then he rolled up his sleeve and pointed to his tattoo. “You’re undefeated, let’s keep it that way,” he said. “This is a championship game. I want you to cover first, cover home, and catch pop-ups.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ll give it my best.” Then I pulled up my shirt and showed him the tattoos I had drawn on with a pen.
He was puzzled. “What are they?” he asked.
“Patches,” I said, poking them. “They’ll keep me calm.”
He frowned. “The only thing you need is determination,” he said. “Now hunker down and beat these guys.”
The umpire stepped forward and brushed off the plate and the crowd began to roar. “Batter up,” he called as he adjusted his chest protector and mask. Dad trotted toward the dugout and our catcher punched his fist into his glove.
“Come on, Pigza. Blow ’em away!” he hollered.
I looked at the catcher’s mitt and nowhere else because I had the feeling if I started to look around my mind would wander off so I just threw as hard as I could and before long it was three up and three down.
Our team didn’t score either and I was right back on the mound. I reared back and let one fly. But right away I could tell there was something wrong because I was trying to throw a strike and the ball went over the umpire’s head. The catcher jumped up and threw it back to me. I gripped the ball and it felt like a jumping bean in my hand. I looked up at the full moon. It was big and round and solid. “Come on, Joey,” I whispered. “Don’t crack up.” Then I looked back at the catcher. He smacked his glove.
“Put ’er right in here,” he shouted. “Come on, Pigza.”
I did and the batter hit it in the gap for a double. Right away Dad was yelling, “Lucky hit! Come on, Joey. Hunker down!”
“Focus,” I said to myself as I circled around the mound. “Just take it easy and focus.”
I listened but the ball didn’t. I walked the next two batters and loaded the bases and Dad was hollering stuff from the side but I wouldn’t even look at him.
On the next pitch I got lucky and the batter hit into a double play that drove in a run and the following batter hit a fly ball to the outfield.
When I returned to the dugout I pulled my hat down over my face and tried not to hear a thing—not Dad or Leezy or even Grandma and Pablo. Inside my head there was a hissing sound like someone had poked a hole in me and whatever control was left inside was leaking out.
“You’re up, Joey,” Dad hollered.
As I grabbed my bat Dad dropped down on one knee and put his hand on my shoulder. He looked me in the eyes. “I want you to stand real close to the plate. That might help with your hitting and if a ball happens to come at you, just turn your back on it.”
“Won’t that hurt?”
“Not for long. Just take one for the team,” Dad said. “Now suck it up and let him plunk you.”
“Batter up!” the ump called, and I ran over to the plate and got real close and lifted the bat up over my shoulders. The pitcher reared back and let it go and I thought it was coming for my head so I dropped down on the ground.
“Strike one,” the ump hollered.
When I stood up I turned and looked at Dad. He gave me the thumbs-up.
I inched even closer to the plate and dug my feet into the dirt. The pitcher went into his windup and let the ball fly. I turned my face away and squeezed my eyes together and the ball slammed off my helmet. I went tumbling backward and rolled across the ground. The ump dashed over and put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” he asked, and he looked scared.
I looked up at him. The funny thing was that I think the hit on my head was good for me. It hurt so much I could hardly think of anything else except for Dad,
who started to trot toward me, and when I saw him coming I jumped up and ran down the first-base line. “I’m okay!” I kept shouting to the ump. “I’m fine. Play ball!”
“Yeah, he’s okay,” I heard Dad say. “He’s got a head like concrete.”
The next batter was the right fielder. The pitcher must have been shaken up more than me because he threw one in there that the batter turned on and blasted out over the fence. I let out a cheer and skipped to second and turned and ran backward to third and was going to walk on my hands all the way to home but when I rounded third base Dad slapped me on the butt and growled, “Stop your clownin’.” So I settled down and trotted to the plate. I stood there and when the right fielder touched home he said, “Way to take one for the team or we’d just be tied.”
I smiled like a goon but when I walked back to the dugout Leezy made a big fuss over my head and started to rub it. I pulled away and when I looked over at Dad he winked at me and I smiled. The side of my head was sore but it didn’t matter because we were ahead and all I had to do was hold the lead and we’d win.
Our next batter hit a ground ball out and I went back to the mound. I took a deep breath and looked up into the night. The moon looked like a shiny splatmark in the sky. Then I reared back and threw the
ball. It hit the batter on the shoulder before he could duck. As he trotted toward first I left the mound and ran over to meet him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay,” he replied, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m fine.”
“It was an accident,” I said. Then I felt Dad’s hand on my shoulder. He steered me back toward the mound.
“Don’t ever say you are sorry,” he insisted. “They hit you first.”
“I think something is wrong with me,” I said.
“Don’t disappoint me, Joey. Don’t be a Humpty Dumpty on me and crack up.”
“I’m not Humpty Dumpty,” I said, shuffling my feet. “I’m just me.”
“Then suck it up. A real champion doesn’t make excuses.” And he stomped back to the dugout.
I threw another pitch and hit another batter.
“You’re losing control!” Dad barked. “Get a grip!”
The coach on the other team started yelling that I was hitting batters on purpose and the ump came out to the mound.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did that hit on the head knock you silly?”
“It was nothing,” I said. “I’m just a little nervous.”
By then Dad came running up. “He’s fine,” he said to the ump.
“I’m talking to the boy,” the ump said. “You go back to the coach’s box.”
The funny thing is that as I was falling apart I looked over at Dad walking away with his arms swinging over his head and I felt as though his problem was my fault and if I could pull it together and win the game then he would pull together too.
After the ump settled everyone down he returned to his spot behind the plate and yelled, “Now, play ball!”
I reared back and let it fly. The ball went on a line directly into the stands. A few people scattered.
“Don’t make me come out to the mound again,” Dad shouted, “or I’ll change more than just pitchers! I’ll change your whole attitude! Now throw strikes!”
The catcher tossed me another and I reared back and let it go. It must have popped a car window in the parking lot because I heard glass flying and then I saw Dad run toward me with his face all pinched with anger. I didn’t wait to see what he would do. I dropped my glove and ran toward the outfield. I passed the second baseman, passed the right fielder, and climbed the chain-link fence. At the top of the fence I looked back over my shoulder. All the players were in their positions. They hadn’t moved an inch except to turn their heads in my direction. I figured Dad would be right behind me, and he would have been except that Leezy was standing in front of him with her hands on his shoulders.
“Get back here and finish the mess you started, you retard!” he shouted, and pointed at me. “Get back here before I have to track you down!”
I couldn’t hear what other mean things he was saying but in my mind his giant voice was growling, “Fe Fi Fo Fum! I smell the blood of a little one.” I jumped down from the fence and rolled and stumbled through a rough field and when I reached the road I ran toward a cluster of lights.