Adrift in the Sound (19 page)

“Get on the bed, behind Sandy.” Marian commanded when he came in. She straightened Sandy’s legs. “We need something for her to push against besides the headboard.”

“I can push?” Sandy asked, sounding desperate. A contraction swept her. Lizette watched her puff through her blowhole like an orca, faster and faster, then stop and sink into the mattress, as if going under. Rocket, work boots and all, hopped onto the bed. He propped Sandy from behind and braced his back against the headboard, leaned forward as if sheltering her with his arms and shoulders.

Marian set Sandy’s bare feet on top of his boots. She rubbed mineral oil on her gloved fingertips, sat on the side of the bed and waited out the next contraction. She cooed, told Sandy she was doing a great job, stroked her arms, said the baby was almost here, that everything was perfect, sponged away water and blood. Sandy sobbed. Lizette watched Marian gently massage the labial skin over the bulging red and black knob—rubbed and eased, swabbed, rubbed and eased—Sandy puffing.

Lizette knelt at the end of the bed and felt like they were girls again and she was helping with lambing, Marian calming the ewes, determining how many lamb’s feet were in the birth canal, sorting them out, checking head position, pulling as the ewe strained, Lizette swabbing, untangling the umbilical cords. She felt calmer now, thinking back to those days. They’d done this before.

“The head’s crowning,” Marian said, looking up at Sandy, locking onto her eyes to guide her. “With the next contraction, push slow and steady. Get everything you can out of it.” Sandy nodded and puffed hard.

“It’s the third inning,” someone yelled up the stairs.

The phone rang. Bomber bellowed up to them,” It’s the landlord. Wants to talk to Sandy. What should we tell him?”

“Tell him she’s busy,” Marian yelled. “If you guys want to see the birth, get up here!” Lizette hunkered down at the end of the bed, only her head bobbing above the edge of the mattress. The Dogs thundered in and were struck silent, as if someone had flipped the off-switch. Their mouths hung open, eyes wide, attention riveted on Sandy and Rocket, frozen.

A contraction hit. Sandy pushed, turning deep pink, sweat beads sparkling along her hairline. The baby’s head emerged and lay limp in Marian’s hands. They all gathered closer around the bed, leaned in, hardly breathing.

Another contraction and Marian said, “Push!” Sandy hunkered over her belly and pushed hard against Rocket’s feet, stirruped under her own. She strained, turned red. The stitching on the side of Rocket’s work boot ripped, exposing a dirty sock. Someone whispered “bummer,” and they fell silent again, hypnotized.

Marian turned the baby’s shoulders, unlocked them from behind the pubic bone, and it slithered out and gasped. Everyone gasped. The baby cried. Lizette burst into tears. Sandy fixed her eyes on the ceiling and chanted, “My God! My God!”

“It’s a big, beautiful girl,” Marian announced. The baby cried lustily, cutting the silence of the world that had gathered around the bed, then she shifted into a louder, messy squall. The Dogs laughed and slapped each other on the back. Rocket kissed Sandy on the top of her head, held her full breasts against her chest with his dirty hands, rocked her gently as she wept.

On TV the baseball crowd roared. The Dogs charged down the stairs to check the score. Someone beat on the front door and delivered Chinese food. Lizette recognized the sound of Cadillac Carl’s measured, superior tone. The mailman rattled the door and the Dogs told him what happened. They gave him a beer and a seat on the sofa.

Upstairs, Lizette cleaned up the baby, Marian put a flowered gown on Sandy, folded the towels and sheets, stacked them. She bundled her tools into a clean towel to sterilize them later. Cadillac Carl stood in the bedroom doorway, surveying the scene with a bemused smile.

Marian pulled a piece of paper out of her bag and placed it on the dresser, signed it. “Here’s the birth certificate.” She glanced at the couple on the bed. “All you have to do is fill it out and take it to the county to register the birth. It might help when the baby grows up and needs a passport.”

Marian went to Lizette, standing at the window holding the baby. She stepped back and watched as Lizette wondered into the tiny face. She leaned in to check the baby’s color.
Good
, she thought,
eyes already tracking. Very good.
She went downstairs with Cadillac Carl to fix Sandy something to eat.

Lizette wrapped the baby more closely and crossed the room to the dresser, shielding the top with her back and the baby’s blankets. She slipped the birth form into the blanket folds and took the baby to her nursery. She sat on the edge of bed, staring at the bundle in her arms. On the freeway above Franklin Street, she heard a big rig jam its jake brakes and blast a long-horned warning. Trains and tugs hooted and children threw tantrums, sounds burst out everywhere in a noisy crescendo and pressed the edges of the sky. Lizette looked deeply into the baby’s eyes, into the pool of her soul, locking, swaying with her in the last gilded ripples of daylight. A fish leapt in Lake Union, spreading concentric circles that changed the shape of the world, but no one noticed.

TWENTY–ONE

“OUCH! SON OF A BISCUIT!”
Gizzard yanked his hand from the car’s door frame, shook it, smeared blood along the cream-colored finish of Rocket’s 88. He worked his Adam’s apple, thrust his long neck side-to-side like a distressed turkey. “You mashed my fingers, man. How’m I gonna pitch? This is my throwing hand, dick face!”

“Why’d you stick your hand in the door?” Slick said and hoisted up his jeans, set his shoulders in case Gizzard took a swing on him. “You can see I’m loadin’ gear.” He put a canvas bag with bats and balls behind the front seat it. “Get the cooler, put it in the trunk, idiot. We’ll get ice and a couple of cases of beer on the way to the game, that’ll fix your fingers.”

Inside the house, the Dogs crashed around, pushed each other out of the way, got down on all fours, dug through closets, cussed, reached under the couch, pulled out softballs and tennis shoes, broke dishes, turned over the garbage pail. The house had been in an uproar ever since Rocket called the game to honor Greg, challenging the dock workers who hung around the Rusty Tug to a match.

The Tuggers were more than happy to accept the challenge—losers paid for beer and pizza. There was unrest on the docks. Rocket knew money was tight. Their labor contract was up and the tug owners were telling the men mechanization would make them obsolete, that pretty soon they’d all be out of jobs, that they should take the paltry contract they’d been offered and start going to night classes to retrain, learn how to keep books or upholster furniture. Rocket figured the Tuggers were a tough team that needed to blow off steam, worthy opponents, especially with Little Dickie Armstrong playing on their side.

Under an old ship’s wheel and faded sailing posters tacked to the smoke-stained walls, the Tuggers made their agreement with Rocket to play a game against the Dogs the next weekend. They put their elbows on the sticky table in the tavern’s dim light after Rocket left and cooked up their game plan. They thought of the Dogs like they thought about bugs—little winged pests good for flicking, for pulling the wings off and smashing. But, winning is good, they thought, even if the opponent didn’t matter.

As the Dogs prepared to play in the “Greg McLean Memorial Softball Game,” they analyzed their opponents’ weaknesses, which weren’t many, they decided. It’s not that they feared the Tuggers or missed the bandy-legged little Canuck and his stiff-necked ways, always talking big and acting small, it’s that decency required some kind of response to Greg’s death, if only because of his connection with Marian and the women. Actually, the Dogs were glad to be rid of the grasping little junkie, always looking for a fix, panhandling them for money, making a mess, nodding out, talking crazy and banging a woman way too good for him.

Just playing the Tuggers would secure the proper appearance of respect for a fallen player, Rocket explained. The Dogs couldn’t lose no matter how the game turned out, he said. Not with Little Dickie Armstrong, the swingingest shit in Eastern Washington playing for the Tuggers. Losing a game to him would be such an honor, it would seem like the dogs actually won no matter how the game turned out. Everybody knew Dickie had played Triple-A ball for the Indians in Spokane with Tommy Lasorda at the helm, that the Indians had won the Pacific Coast League championship on his winning run. Dickie had been rehabbing on the Seattle docks for about three years after blowing out his knee in 1970. Some guys whispered Dickie was washed up, others counted on a comeback.

Now Rocket scanned the Dogs standing on the sidewalk, sizing up the talent. “Who’s onboard?” he said, saw half of them were drunk or high, the other half probably would be in the same condition before the third inning. He got a few half-hearted barks in answer. He figured Rainman would be good for first base and Bomber was probably still sober enough to catch. He’d put gangly Fisher in left, maybe park Lucky in centerfield. The rest would have to spread out and cover the bases and the rest of the field. Greg had been pretty solid at shortstop. He’d give that job to Carl since they were a man short.

Next door, the women shuffled down Sandy’s stairs, Lizette carrying the baby in a bundle of blankets, lugging the stroller, a diaper bag on her shoulder. Sandy bounced out in platform heels and tossed her long blonde hair, her legs looking tan and shapely in white cotton shorts.

Rocket went to Lizette and took the baby, pushed the ruffled edge of the blanket aside to see baby Violet’s pink face. He nuzzled her, smelled the warm milk on her breath. Violet opened her eyes and cooed, startling him yet again with her lavender-colored eyes and long lashes.

“How’s this little shit pants doing?” He spoke softly, to no one in particular, engrossed in the baby’s sweetness.

Cadillac Carl pulled up, honked, arm hanging out the window of the yellow Caddie, diamond pinkie ring sparkling in the sunlight. Rocket handed Violet back to Lizette and went to Carl. “Whyn’t you take the girls? Maybe one or two guys. Put Fisher in the back. I can get the rest in my car.”

Carl threw him a thumbs-up. Marian, Sandy, and Lizette piled into the Cadillac, Sandy sitting in the front seat, next to Carl, fiddling with the radio knobs. Lizette got into the back with the baby. Fisher loaded the stroller and diaper bag into the trunk.

“Don’t slam the goddamned door,” Cadillac Carl barked over the backseat at Lizette after she closed the car door. Marian rode shotgun. Carl accelerated to the stop sign at the corner, Sandy fingering his crotch, playing her fingers lightly across the seams of his jeans, making him shift in his seat and grin, relax his shoulders. They’d been spending a lot of time together, Lizette thought, studying the back of their heads, sneaking glimpses of their faces reflected in the rearview mirror.

The Dogs piled into the Rocket 88 and they drove behind Carl down Eastlake Avenue, like the bereaved in a funeral procession. An unmarked cop car fell in behind Rocket along the way. Somebody in the backseat warned him to slow down. Rocket checked the speedometer, which stopped working in 1969, and said, “I am slowed down.” They pulled up in front of Clown Liquors. Rocket and Carl went in, returned with supplies.

They pulled into Ravenna Park, clouds moving in from the west, breaking the July sunlight into puddles. Lizette got out with Violet and Marian took the stroller and diaper bag from the trunk. Sandy stayed melded to Carl in the front seat, whispering. The cops watched from their unmarked Ford. The Dogs pulled equipment from Rocket’s trunk, carried it to the nearest battered green dugout and threw the bats and balls down in a jumble.

Stinky checked field conditions, tapped moist dirt with the toe of his boot, walked the baseline to first, scuffed the ground where the bag would go. He went into the dugout and changed his boots for Converse high tops, laced them tight, wiggled his toes inside, tucked his dirty “Dogs” T-shirt into his jeans then took the heavy gray bags out to the bases and squared them up against the imaginary baselines.

The Tuggers rolled up in trucks with gun racks and dented fenders. They tucked their matching blue jerseys into tight gray baseball pants, adjusted their jock straps, scanned the field, sized up the competition, snorted.

A powder blue Mustang three-speed cruised up. Dickie Armstrong, the Tugger’s prize slugger, got out. Everyone turned to watch him standing there, preening in a sunburst, cleats thrown casually over his shoulder. One of the cops couldn’t help himself and clapped. His partner elbowed him in the ribs and the cop stopped.

A flip of the coin and the Dogs won home field advantage. They spread out across the diamond, toed the dirt, pulled arms overhead to stretch, jogged in place, squatted. The first Tugger stepped into the box, tapped the depression that served as home plate, took a check swing, softened his knees, bat on shoulder. Gizzard’s first pitch was high and outside, followed by a fat boy down the throat, swing and a miss. Two more strikes and one man down.

The cops settled on the bleachers, careful of splinters. Marian, Sandy and Lizette took seats near the Dogs’s side. Violet let out a cry and Lizette pulled the stroller close.

“I hate the kid’s crying,” Sandy got up to pace on the grass. “Makes my tits tingle.”

Lizette peered under the stroller’s shade canopy. Violet wailed. She pushed the stroller away, through the parking lot and up a little rise beyond the outfield. She spread a blanket on the grass and lifted the baby out, laying her down on her back. She changed her diaper, adjusted her lime green sleeper so she could kick her legs, then picked Violet up, rocked her side to side, kissed her neck, intoxicated by the sweet smell of her body.

Sandy grabbed a beer from the cooler, popped the top, and leaned back on the bench, resting her elbows on the riser, offering smooth legs to the sun, flowing her long blonde hair behind her shoulders, sticking out her chest. She caught Carl’s eye in the dugout, sent him a sly smile, took a gulp from the can, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Toulouse showed up in the third inning, flourishing his cape. He walked to the pitcher’s mound and took the ball from Gizzard’s hand, turned it in the light as if studying the facets of a jewel. He faced the dugouts, gathered himself. The Tuggers complained about delay of game, but settled down when somebody said they were doing a tribute to a fallen player. Toulouse stepped forward, cleared his throat, addressed the crowd:

“I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d
,

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition
,

They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God
,

Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things
,

Not one kneels to another, nor do his kind that lived thousands of years ago
,

Not one is respectable or unhappy of the whole earth.”

Toulouse grandly extended his hand from beneath his cape in benediction. “This is how we’ll remember Greg.”

Marian came onto the field then and stood beside Toulouse. The Dogs clapped. Spreading his cape, showing the flourish of its hot-pink lining, Toulouse stepped closer to home plate, hewing more to the Dogs dugout. Marian sprinkled ashes around the pitcher’s mound from a simple wooden box.

“I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love
,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.”

The poet wrapped himself in his cape with a flourish, bowed and escorted Marian from the field. Cheering and clapping broke out. “Fuckin’ A, man!” “Far out.” “Greg was a tough little dude, man.” They pumped their fists and then the uproar settled. Somebody hollered, “Play ball!”

The Tuggers’s next batter got up and the Dogs crouched in their playing stances, bent over, hands on knees. The batter sent the ball soaring into left field over Fisher’s head, where it rolled into the bushes beyond the fence. The Tuggers got up from the bench and hit the dugout cooler, popping beer tops, slouching back into place, not even bothering to cheer. The Dogs frowned, threw each other hand signals, stood their ground.

Marian leaned over to Toulouse, sitting near her on the bleachers. “Your poem was perfect.”

“Not mine. It’s Uncle Walty’s.”

“Your uncle?”

“Walt Whitman, my good woman.
Leaves of Grass
.”

“Excuse me?”

Toulouse scowled at her ignorance and stalked off. He headed for the hill where he saw Lizette making a daisy chain in the grass. Violet slept beside her under the shelter of a blanket she’d rigged to the side of the stroller, protecting the baby from the sun.

“Elizabeth. May I speak to you?”

Lizette looked up, “What?”

“May I sit down?” She looked at the baby sleeping peacefully and back to the stilted, black-draped poet.

“No.”

“I understand you may not care for me, but … “

“You killed Greg,” she said, looking down. “You almost killed Marian.” She lifted her face to him and flared her delicate nostrils, the sun making her squint. “I know what you and Greg did. Because of it, Marian can’t have kids. Because of you, you slimy bastard!”

“That’s bullshit.” Toulouse shifted, like he considered leaving. “Greg did what he wanted. Look, all I want to say is this. I want to help you. A dealer in New York looked at a couple of your paintings and … “