What Hearts (6 page)

Amy Louise was already walking out toward the center of the stage. In a second he overtook her, pulling her by the elbow and mumbling an apology as he passed. She took one look at his face and turned back to the wings without a word.

He found himself standing in bright lights, facing perhaps 800 people. He looked past them to the back and located Joel's mother. She raised her hands at him and shook her head. Then she pointed at the back door. Then she held her hands as if she were riding a bicycle, and pointed at the back door. Once more she held up her hands as if helpless. Then, finally, urgently, she motioned him to start.

He nodded. From the wings he heard Mrs. Brock's voice: “Asa. What the dickens are you doing out there?” Asa realized she had not asked about Joel's absence; this meant she had been squared by Joel's mom. Asa did not look at her. Instead, he stepped up to the apron of the stage and lifted his chin.

“Good evening,” he said. He noticed several people looking at their yellow mimeographed programs, noting he was out of order. He gave them a second to stop rustling. Then, just as his tongue touched his top teeth to make the first sound in announcing “ ‘The Highwayman,' by Alfred Noyes,” the same back door flew open and in ran Joel.

He was panting and his face was even redder than usual. He was wearing a blue blazer hitched back on his shoulders as if the wind were blowing down the back of his neck, a very wrinkled white shirt, and an orange clip-on tie fastened only on one side of the knot: his right leg had a rubber band around it at the ankle, to keep his good gray trousers out of his bicycle chain. His eyes shot to the stage and found Asa. Right away all the haste and tension left him, and he grinned:
Hey! I made it!
He gave a little wave and started to trot down the center aisle. But somewhere on the way another thought hit him and he stopped. This time, when he looked up at Asa, Joel wasn't grinning.

Asa had not moved; his expression had not changed. He took a quick reading of his own face and decided it showed surprise, and a frustration he was ashamed of, frozen there the instant Joel burst in. He knew it was clear, what he had been about to do. And it was too late to shift into some sort of welcoming smile now. So he kept Joel's eye straight on,
and watched as his friend came to realize his treachery.

He saw Joel get it, reject the idea, then get it again. Joel looked around, and found his mother leaning against the back wall. In the auditorium, no one else moved or spoke; it was as if a sudden lightning storm were flashing incomprehensibly above their heads.

Joel swung his eyes back to Asa. And there, in those bright eyes, Asa watched the flutter of pain disappear, replaced in a flicker by cheery acquiescence. Joel smiled, a huge one, genuine, frank, full of acceptance of himself and the strategies necessary to get around him; he shrugged, gestured for Asa to go on. Then he looked down the rows to his left for a seat.

From the wings, Mrs. Brock now said, “Go ahead, Asa. Go on, now.” Asa swallowed. He looked around the auditorium, taking in the expectant faces. One of them was Joel's, already watching him with the same expression of readiness to be thrilled. The quick lightning storm was over. Showtime.

“Good evening,” he repeated. His voice was thin; he swallowed, licked his lips, took a
breath that felt like water. He looked at Joel. Joel nodded. “All right,” Asa said. “Okay.” He decided, and drew another breath. This one felt warm and dry. “Now. A change. The next item in the program was to have been a dual recitation of ‘The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes, performed by Joel Prescott and Asa Hill. There has been a change.” He glanced around the room. The faces waited. “Instead of ‘The Highwayman,' Joel and I will now recite ‘Little Boy Blue' by Eugene Field. We think you will like it.” He paused. “Joel?”

Joel was already hustling down the aisle, fingers at his tie, lips moving confidently over remembered words.

 

ONE

The dew was falling. Asa frowned and scuffed the grass with his right foot. In twenty minutes it would be slick as wet tile. He sighed. This was the peril of playing in the second game of the evening: the dew always fell.

Far away at home plate, the batter swung. Asa jumped as he always did when the ball sprang off the bat. This time it was not sailing to him in center field; it lifted straight up in front of home plate. Asa kept moving anyway, his feet keeping pace with the choices his intuition made. He watched the catcher, looking straight up, spin and stagger in a rough circle as the ball peaked and began to drop. Asa trotted low and quiet along a curved shadow that ran between left and center, where the pools of light from the high spots did not quite meet.

The ball came down just as the catcher, in mid-step, was recovering from a dizzy half turn, two feet inside the first baseline. The ball glanced off the heel of his mitt like a waterfall off a rock. The kid who had hit it and run looked back as he rounded first. He hesitated a second while the catcher whirled his head around in confusion, looking for the ball the way a dog does when someone stands on it for a joke; then the runner lit out for second. The catcher found the ball, looked up, saw the runner, and, swaddled by his heavy gear and strained by his panic at the infielders' screams, unleashed a wild throw that disappeared into, the black sky fifteen feet over the shortstop's head. The runner, grinning, kept right on running, around second, lightly and surely for third.

Forty feet beyond the shortstop, however, stood Asa, unnoticed. He hollered the third baseman's name, calmly caught the catcher's wild ball on the fly, turned, and fired it—tamed and orderly now—on one hop to third. The third baseman, alerted by the holler, caught it and neatly tagged the runner, who was so
surprised by the sight of the ball arriving in front of him that he went into his slide six feet early and never even reached the base.

The umpire jerked his hand. The runner howled. Infielders strutted, slapped hands. The catcher, standing tall, jutted his jaw, jammed his mask on with a warning glare at the next batter, as if to say he hoped the kid had watched carefully and learned not to try to fox
him
with any twisty pop-ups. Asa trotted back to his position in center. Inside, his sense of right and wrong registered once again the justness of baseball: it was too fine a game to allow a triple off a dippy pop five feet from home plate.

The grass was wet now. Asa had to straighten his knees and jog on his heels, more upright, slower. He hated slowing down. Asa liked a challenge, but a dew slick was not a challenge. A challenge allowed solutions without sacrifices; adjustments, yes, but not sacrifices. Sacrificing speed was cheap and easy.
Anyone
could slow down.

The third batter of the inning swung too hard at an inside pitch and dribbled a grounder
to the second baseman, who bobbled it but had plenty of time to throw it in the direction of first. The first baseman caught it, looked around for the bag, and stomped on it an instant before the runner arrived. Three outs. Time to bat.

Asa knew he batted fourth this inning; he could get his cuts if one of his teammates got on base. This, he also knew, was unlikely. It was equally unlikely that
he
would reach base when
his
turn came. The Quik-E-Freeze Cool Guys had not scored a single run in the first four games of the season.

Asa watched the boys assemble on the bench, rowdy and happy in relief that another spell amidst the mysteries of defense had somehow been brought to an end. For them, playing in the field was a bad dream—fielding frantic grounders that seemed to pick up speed as they kicked closer, and fly balls that vanished on the way up, only to reappear suddenly coming fast as cars; remembering which base to throw to when there was one out instead of two, or two on base instead of three. They tried to survive until the moment when
three outs had miraculously accumulated, then—hooray! r—it was off to the dugout to jostle and laugh and spray insect repellent in each other's ears until Coach told you you were on deck.

Mack and Jeff, who Asa knew were scheduled to bat first and second this inning, sat along with the rest, waiting without a clue. Only Tim, the third baseman, up third, seemed to know his spot: his batting helmet was already on.

“Mack up, Jeff on deck, Timmy in the hole,” said Coach Henderson. The boys scrambled eagerly. Asa listened for the slightest sound of disappointment in the coach's voice, but there was nothing but warmth and ease. He never seemed to expect them to keep up with the game. Watching him, you would think he barely paid attention himself: he seemed committed more to making the kids all feel good than to building a ball team.

Mack hit a line drive back to the pitcher. This boy, whose height and clear jawline revealed he was nearer 13 than 12 (the league's upper age limit), ducked and stuck up his mitt
sideways without taking the extra second to try to open it for a catch. The ball caromed off the glove to the shortstop, who threw Mack out.

“Good hustle,” said Coach Henderson as Mack returned, full of pep, no regrets, happy with the feel of the decent smack he had given the ball. Jeff stood in and the coach clapped. “Little bingle, Jefferoo.” Inspired, Jeff swung early at three high pitches in a row. Out two.

“Good cuts,” said the coach.

“Yeah,” said Jeff, eyes aglow. “I almost
fouled
that second one!”

“Attaboy.” The coach and Asa watched Tim move out to the plate. Asa waited a moment, then stepped over to the on-deck circle.

He loved being on deck. He loved swinging two bats in a leisurely, patient way, as if this were all there was to it, lulling his arms to stretch and strengthen to handle the big weight. It was a trick, of course. When he went to the plate with only one bat and clicked into the quick intensity of the swing, his arms would find they were able to whip the wood around as if it were a hickory switch. It always
worked. his arms never learned. This was a miracle to him—one part of him could remain innocent while another knew perfectly well what was happening.

He was delighted. All of this made him feel mysterious to himself, capable of doing things he could not foresee, with a power that reversed the usual cycle of observation, analysis, understanding, practice, action.
This
power came from
not
knowing,
not
understanding.

Tim took a couple of high ones, then scythed at a low pitch. The ball looped high over first and landed halfway out to right field, just on the line. The right fielder charged hard, scooped it up, and cocked his arm; but instead of firing a throw by instinct, he looked up at Tim rounding first. Tim was ready with a scowl that gave the fielder just a moment's uncertainty, and by the time the boy recovered, his throw was too late to beat Tim.

Good. Runner in scoring position. Asa clapped. He liked the way Tim played offense (though he was careless and impatient with his mitt on); now they might actually score a run,
against all odds. The other team, Table Talk Bakery, was one of the best in the league. Their last game against Asa's team had ended 9–0, even with the Table Talk scrubs playing the final three innings.

Asa walked to the plate and took his stance. The Table Talk catcher, an ebullient All-Star named James Neal, chattered at him with a stream of good-natured taunts that were taunts nonetheless.

Asa ignored him and began what he called his “checkup,” going over his positioning limb by limb, using a special perception trick: he pretended he was his stepfather in the stands behind home plate. His stepfather
was
there, along with his mother; Asa knew this, though he never looked up at them during a game. And Asa knew his stepfather was scrutinizing his every move, holding the set of each elbow or eye against the technically determined ideal adopted when they practiced together. Dave knew
everything
about baseball, and was a patient, precise teacher. If Asa bent his knees too little, sat back on his heels too much, moved his head during the swing, or failed to
roll his wrists all the way in his follow-through, he would hear about it next time they took the field together.

Now he was ready. The pitcher, looking bored, flipped a pitch that caught the outside corner in a hurry. His next one was in the dirt in front of the plate, and his third was high. Asa hated batting against a pitcher who wasn't taking the job seriously: it was impossible to fox someone who had no strategy. He stepped out of the batter's box, took a practice swing to refocus, then stepped back in. The pitcher, impatient, threw quickly.

The ball flicked toward the plate, and without deciding to swing Asa swung—it just looked like a good one. He hit it flush and it flew away. As he dropped the bat and ran, excitement fluttered in his chest. The ball soared high over center field; he willed it to keep going away, not to peak, not to begin its fall. He had never hit a home run; he had never hit a ball this hard. But as he touched first and watched, the ball faltered in its flight. He knew it would stay in the park—his center fielder's eye would not deceive him, no matter what his
hopes. He kept running dutifully, in case of an error, but the excitement turned to a sigh. The outfielder, running back, slowed, turned, reached up, and caught the ball snugly. Asa, too, slowed down and stopped. He could hit okay, but he was small. Talent and technique could not create power.

TWO

When they moved into the big two-story house, Dave did not seem to want to let Asa have one of the two second-floor bedrooms to himself. The master bedroom, with its own bathroom, was on the first floor, in the rear of the house; the room that seemed logical for Asa was in the front of the second floor, over the living room. It was a nice room, with three dormer windows, a peaked ceiling, and a walk-in closet. Asa gravitated toward it as if he had been born there. But then, he was
getting to be pretty quick about finding his spot in a new house: this was his tenth move and he was barely eleven.

On the day they moved in—the first time Asa saw the place—he raced up the stairs with the large box containing his comic-book collection, which he had carried on his lap from their old house. Dave grumbled, “Not so fast now,” and Asa froze on the landing.

“What's the matter?” Asa's mother asked. Asa heard in her voice something warning, dangerous, tired.

Dave said, “Well, I don't know that the boy should have that room.”

“And why not?”

For the first time Dave noticed the dangerous tone. He looked at her and, frowned. “Well, it's a big room. An awfully nice room.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “
Too
nice, you mean. For him to just
get
.”

“Well—”

“He should have to go through some hardship first, or something. Have to share it, maybe—the way you did, of course, with your
two brothers.” She made a show of looking around earnestly. “Trouble is, see, there are no other kids.”

Dave cocked his head to the side and pushed his chin out a smidgeon, a sign that he was just about to be inclined to begin to get a little tough. “Now, be careful.”

“And,” said Asa's mother, “as for hardships—well, it's a bit late to come up with some task to make him earn the right to a room in our house, since we're moving in right now and all, but maybe we can think of something. What could we have him do? We don't want anything to be too
easy
for him, do we? Got to keep it
rugged
. Let's see—he could refinish the floors up there. We said they needed it. How about that?”

“Look—”

“No? Well, how about he slates the roof? Too wet today. Besides, we really don't want it to be some simple one-time job, do we? To get yourself a nice room, you should have to go through something long and twisty. He's already done a divorce and a remarriage and seven moves in three years, so we can't let him
repeat any of that. Just be going through the motions. Well hey,
I
know!”

She snapped her fingers. Dave just glared at her. Asa watched from the landing, stooping to see their faces under the ceiling. His mother took a step up to Dave and put a hand on his chest. She smiled. He scowled, unmoving.

“
I
know,” she repeated. “If we can't think of anything to get out of him, well, then, we can just reserve the right to task him whenever we feel like it in the future!” She gave a fake gay laugh that made even Asa wince. But Dave took it without a flinch, right in his face. She went on, patting him on the chest fondly. “We can just give him a hard time every now and then on general principles, because he's got this nice room he doesn't really deserve. How about that? Solves a
lot
of our problems. Honey!” she called up the stairs to Asa. Her voice was strong now, natural and direct, without sarcasm. “Go ahead and pick your room and carry your stuff up and arrange it however you like. Leave room for your bed.” Then she returned Dave's glare, took her hand slowly off his chest, and went out the door to get
another load from the rented truck.

In the next couple, of months Asa decided that what bothered Dave about his room was not so much that it was nice, but that it was far away: he could really be alone there. There were several things about this that could not fail to aggravate Dave, Asa knew. First, Dave did not trust the state of solitude. He clearly did not think anything good could come of someone being by himself; Asa could not speculate about exactly which evils Dave believed arose from such isolation, but it was obvious that bad things were supposed to happen when you let a kid think too much, or play by himself, or read. Second, Dave did not trust Asa. Again Asa was unable to come up with ideas of what specific sins he was capable of committing up there—but he knew it wasn't really a matter of specifics. Something about him made Dave suspicious.