If You Knew Then What I Know Now (5 page)

“You got it yet? You see it?” My dad's yellow light wiggles over me. My arm is curled back; I cover the ball with my body.

“Almost,” I tell him.

 

The last game of the season. I've somehow persevered and made it to the end. And even if our team wins today's game, we still can't make the play-offs. “So then why do we have to play?” I
asked my dad, and he told me to put my bat and glove in the car. In the last inning, I'm the second batter—the last time I'll ever bat in a game. I know if this were a library book or a movie, if someone was telling this as a story, this would be the swing when I hit a home run, tie the score and take us into extra innings, my teammates leaping from the bench and my dad feeling huge and proud.

It's not a library book though. It's me, so I'm standing at home plate and the count is one ball and two strikes. The pitcher is this tall kid with such a suntanned face, he looks dirty. The catcher behind me has sweaty arms, little balls of water spread all over his skin. Dust rolls in waves across the field like my mom snapping clean sheets across my bed. The foam cushions inside the batting helmet are soaked, the cold sponges pressing on my ears.

The pitcher stands still, then explodes into movement, leg bending up and arm going over like he's just come apart. His hand opens and the ball comes out and my eyes try to follow it, but it's spinning so fast the red stitches are blurred. It flies and comes at me as I'm thinking about practice with my dad, how I have to hit this or go fetch it on the other side of our back yard fence. The ball drops in the air, falling and still flying, dropping and shooting above the ground by my front foot. It can't be a strike, it's too low, but it's fast and I don't know how close it is and I can't move quickly enough to get out of its way. The ball smacks me right against the round knob of my ankle joint, pushing my feet out
from under me. I fall, my hands in the dust, the ball rolling, my aluminum bat thumping down—the handle knocking home plate with a metal pinging that vibrates in the stiff air.

The place on my bone where the ball hit vibrates too. Or maybe it's echoing so the pain hits me again and again, out to my toes and up my leg to my knee. My dad is here suddenly, all the way from his lawn chair. He picks me up and helps me stand. Because he's always reading books, I want to ask him if a bone can echo—I'm betting he would know. My coach is also here, crouching in front of me. He knows my dad is smart too because he's asking him the questions instead of me. Can he run the bases? Can he still play? My foot feels broken, but it's not. I can wiggle everything. My dad cradles my foot in his big hands, one wrapped around the ankle, the other around the top of my foot and down to the heel. He covers the part that hurts, the bone in there that's bumping with pain.

The coach's hand is on my shoulder. He's pulled his hat off and his hair underneath is wet and pressed down. I get a base because the pitcher hit me and my coach thinks I should take it. “Walk it off, you'll be fine,” he says. One of my dad's hands rubs my cheek, there's dirt clinging to a wet spot on my face. He's asking me the same questions that the coach asked him. Can I walk on it? Do I think I can take the base? I'm not saying any words, just shaking my head side to side like it's heavy.

My dad's so smart he knows I can run the bases just fine, but he's not going to make me. In a few minutes, he will carry
me to the grass behind the bench and hold a cold can of grape soda to my throbbing bone. Tomorrow, I'll limp dramatically behind him into Tipton's Appliances and pick out my new TV—one with beautiful silver knobs and plastic sides that look exactly like dark-stained wood. A deal is a deal. This summer, we've been trying to be certain kinds of men we probably weren't ever meant to be. And sitting together on the field, we both know I'm the only quitter here because he's trying much harder to be my dad than I've tried to be his son.

Shivering in the dust, I don't look at his face or my coach or the boys on my team, all standing behind the dugout fence, or the catcher and the pitcher trading smirks, or the umpire peering over my coach's shoulder. At the moment, I can't even look at the clouds. This kind of focus is what he means when he tells me to keep my eye on the ball. Right now, the only thing I can watch are my dad's hands wrapped around my ankle because I can't believe so much sting is already fading under just the heat of his squeeze.

I
'm not allowed to go back to that chicken coop for at least an hour. “Those hens can't lay with someone in there all the time,” my grandmother says. “Someone,” I know, means me, the eight-year-old boy known around here for barging into henhouses, at least during these summer weeks my brother Garrett and I spend with her and my grandfather. If she would let me carry a chair and table out there, as I've repeatedly suggested, and set up a comfortable area in the corner of the coop to watch from, then I wouldn't disturb the chickens with my constant excited arrivals—swinging open the plank door and stomping across the speckled floor, anticipating newly-made eggs.

Reaching under a dozing chicken in the small nesting boxes and finding an egg there is a miracle, one that happens several times a day—not nearly enough. It's like finding a five-dollar bill or a jewel on the sidewalk. The egg in my hand is warm, heavy, a singular whole thing, impossibly smooth and brown, the same color as the makeup sealed in tiny glass jars in my mother's medicine cabinet at home. To think that
this
comes out of a chicken is mysterious and somewhat sickening, but I
crave the discovery, and sometimes when I push my hand under those nervous, feathered bodies and mistakenly imagine my fingertip slipping over polished eggshell, I actually gasp. When the hen flutters off, her egg-making concentration broken, and she leaves me with her bare nest, I generally call her a name I couldn't repeat in front of my grandmother.

But this afternoon, here in the kitchen, a warning has been made about the henhouse. I am to stay in here until right before dinner, until Garrett and Grandpa come in from the field, no matter what. Only then, when the tractor is back in the machine shed, and my grandfather is washing up, may I check on the eggs.

Other than stalking chickens, there's not much to do at the farm. After the four-and-a-half hour car ride, and our eager greetings once we arrive, I slowly remember the previous long summer visits, the quiet days stretching out in my head, hot and dull. This is a working farm, and that's what they do—my grandparents—ticking off the same list of chores one by one every day, whether little boys are here or not. Their mornings start in the dark hours before dawn when they sit at the kitchen table and he reads the Bible aloud before she cooks their breakfast. My grandfather then spends the rest of his day driving huge machines around, doing things to the soybean and hay fields that I don't understand. Garrett likes anything with an engine so he goes along. My grandmother tends to her garden and the chickens, sews, washes clothes, makes lunch, cleans it up and then makes dinner. This is a farm in the middle
of nowhere—nowhere near toy stores or libraries—so far from everything that even their mailbox is on the wrong side of the road, as if no one here has ever seen the way it is supposed to be.

In the kitchen, dinner is underway. My grandmother is measuring rice, peeling carrots, sugaring a pie. She works so quickly and mechanically, without any words—the way she does almost anything—that she doesn't notice me sliding my feet across the blue linoleum and down the hall. I know enough not to try opening the big door to go outside, so I wander down to the bedrooms, looking for a distraction. In the room where Garrett and I sleep, my dad's room when he was a boy in this house, I sit on the bed, bounce a little and stare longingly out the window through walnut branches at the chicken coop.

There's a large closet and rummaging through things might give a few minutes of pleasure. On the shelves, I expect to find old toys of my dad's, thinking of the shelves of my own closet—hand puppets, Candyland, my potholder loom—stuck there in the silent dark without me. And here is a Davy Crockett lunchbox, a glass jar packed with plastic soldiers, a metal car with doors that open, and strange orange numbered tags with barbed points that I'll find out later are pushed through the velvet of a cow's ear to mark them. On the bottom shelf, shoved beneath a lace tablecloth and a crocheted blanket is a large white box; inside it, wrapped in tissue paper, a blue dress.

Shaking it out, smoothing away wrinkles and laying it across the carpet, I know immediately this is a dress for a girl, not a
woman. The length is for a body about my height. Stiff navy satin with short puffy sleeves, wiggly gold designs threaded into the tight middle part—the pleated embellished bodice—cloth heavy and lush as I lift the skirt to trace the perfect stitches of the hem and peek underneath. My dad has a sister, a tall regal woman named Aunt Karen, so maybe this is hers from a long time ago.

I throw my T-shirt into a sweaty lump in the corner, and standing in front of the mirror on the back of the bedroom door, I pull the dress over my head and my shorts, and see that
yes
, it does seem made for someone my size. The bottom hem just skims the carpet as I shift my weight left and then right, my eyes in the mirror watching the full skirt tilting like a bell. I gather the folds of the dress in my hands, the way the women do on
Little House on the Prairie
, and bustle around for a minute or two before the door opens.

My grandmother. She just stands there and keeps her hand on the knob. She doesn't say anything, only stares at me with her serious face—the same face she always wears.

“I found this,” I say. My hands clasp each other behind my back. I look at the T-shirt wadded up on the floor near her feet, but she doesn't seem to notice it. The fact that I took off my T-shirt before I put on the dress makes me feel more embarrassed, as if I'm somehow exposed in front of her, though the dress covers me, neck to toes. Suddenly my arms feel cold and the trim encircling the collar scratches my neck. She stays there, utterly still, and doesn't speak.

I say, “It fits me,” and sort of twist side to side.

“It does. It does,” she says. Her lips press together, bunching up like my two handfuls of blue satin, and then she lets them go. “I was coming in here to see if you would set the table for Grandma.”

She knows I love setting the table because she taught me how.

 

The fork goes on the left and that's easy to remember because
left
has an
f
in it, and
f
is for
fork
. The knife and spoon go on the right. The plate should always be an inch from the table's edge, which is two thumb widths. Water glass on the right of the plate, and just a little right of the knife's point. Tea for Grandma and Grandpa, milk for Garrett, water for me. Napkin folded in half in the center of each plate. We always pass to the right.

In the dining room, I walk behind each pushed-in chair, and check the settings I've laid out. Over and over, I circle the table, each time nudging a fork, straightening a napkin, tapping a glass or pushing the ceramic boy salt shaker just a little closer to his twin, the pepper girl. Butter dish, pickle bowl, a stack of sandwich bread on a plate, milk pitcher, everything is here. Hanging next to one of the long sides of the table, a wide mirror stretches across the wall. I can't get enough of watching myself, gazing at how I move and perform these tiny actions, which are somehow glamorous now instead of just chores. Because I'm wearing the blue dress.

And I love the feeling of the skirt on my legs, the cool slickness sliding over my skin, how the hem rustles over the carpet when I stop suddenly to fix a spoon. Or how dark the small sleeves look against my white arm. I love smoothing my hand down the crinkles of the bodice. And standing at a corner of the table, spinning on my heel, watching the dress open up wide and twist around my feet. The gold thread, the pleats, the tightness at my waist. I love touching my face when I'm wearing the dress because beautiful women touch their faces a lot when they want to be noticed. I even pick up one of the spoons and hold its end to my earlobe, imagining it as a long silver earring.

Because wearing it has me spellbound, I don't hear the tractor rumbling down the big hill and through the gate toward the grey machine shed. They are coming in for dinner. In the doorway, my grandmother dries her hands on the white apron tied around her waist. She's wearing a housedress, a worn shapeless thing printed with small yellow flowers. It's neither as lovely nor as womanly as mine, but I still wish I could wear that one too.

“Thank you for helping,” she says, standing in the watery light reflected off the mirror from the dinnertime sun.