“Hit him, Frank!” someone crowed from the crowd.
“You can do it, Frank!”
“I’m adding fifty cents to the pot if you do,” someone else called.
Frank smiled and lifted his hand to the voice. He stepped into the batter’s box, waving the bat in showmanship.
Ben watched the giant roll the ball in his bare hand, examining it. Then he saw the slow rocking of the giant’s body and the one full turn of the arm and the slight, graceful twist of his torso and the sudden whip of motion. Ben did not see the ball. He heard it splatter against the mitt of the catcher, saw the catcher recoil in pain. He saw Frank Mercer stand motionless, staring in disbelief at the giant with the face of scars.
“Strike one,” the barker sang.
“You got to swing the bat, Frank,” yelled Coleman Maxey, laughing happily.
“At what?” Frank called back. “I never seen nothing to swing at.”
“I got him figured,” Coleman bellowed. “You swing when I tell you.”
The pitcher took the ball and stared coldly at Coleman, standing behind the rope near the catcher. He then turned back to Frank and started his rocking motion.
“Now,” Coleman shouted.
Frank swung viciously. The pitcher still held the ball. The crowd laughed joyfully and booed Frank.
“Damn,” Frank muttered, smiling sheepishly.
“Best wait to he throws it, mister,” the barker advised, tipping his hat to Frank.
Frank struck out on the next two pitches and dropped the bat. He said, “That’s it. Great Goda’mighty, I never saw nothing like that.”
“Try again, friend?” the barker teased.
“You got two dimes out of me for trying it too many times already,” Frank said. “Won’t find me wasting no more money.”
“Who else?” the barker called through his megaphone. “Tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to raise the prize. One dollar to the man that gets a hit, fifty cents for even touching the ball.”
The crowd murmured.
“Hey, you,” the catcher said suddenly in a gruff voice, muted by the mask he wore. He was pointing his mitt toward Ben. “You look like a player to me. Cost you a nickel.”
Ben smiled and waved away the offer.
“C’mon, Ben, give it a try,” Frank Mercer urged in a mocking voice. “You used to hit pretty good. Shoot, boy, you were a pro.”
“I gave it up,” Ben mumbled. He stepped back into the crowd.
“You ever see anybody that good down there in Augusta?” Coleman asked.
Ben looked at the giant, holding the ball, glaring at the crowd. He shook his head.
“What you think that fellow you was telling us about—that Arnold Toeman—would tell you to do, hitting against somebody like that man out there?” Coleman pressed.
Ben did not answer. He knew he was again being played the fool by Coleman, though he had long given up going to the Generals’ practices or the games. He turned his head toward the tents, made a move to leave.
“Used to hit pretty good, did you?” the catcher called. “You look like you still can. Look like somebody that’s been around the game. C’mon, boy, give it a try.”
The crowd around Ben began to push him forward.
“Go on, Ben, try him.”
“Yeah, Ben. Everybody else has.”
“Shoot, Ben, I’ll pay the nickel,” Frank thundered. He flipped a coin to the barker.
“You can’t back out now, Ben,” someone said merrily. “Cheap as Frank is, he’ll hound you to your grave over owing him.”
Laugher rippled over the crowd. “You get a hit, Ben, I’ll throw in a extra dollar,” Coleman chortled. He held up a dollar bill. “In fact, I’ll put my mark on it to prove it’s mine, if you get a hit.” He took a pencil from his pocket and with showmanship, marked an X in the corner of the bill.
“Well, if Coleman’s gone throw in a dollar, by shot, so will I,” Frank declared. “So will I.”
Another voice: “Me, too, by God.”
Another voice: “Count me in. Shoot, I’ll even let Coleman hold my dollar right now.”
Another voice: “I’m in for it.”
The voices around him became louder. Money was passed to Coleman. Hands pushed Ben to the rope, pulled the rope up, nudged him beneath it. He stood and looked at the pitcher. The pitcher stared angrily at him.
“I got the money right here, Ben,” Coleman called, holding fanned-out dollar bills over his head, waving them. “Ten dollars, boy. Ten dollars. And just for the hell of it, I’ll throw in a new set of soles for them shoes you wearing. Let’s see what old Arnold Toeman taught you, boy.”
The crowd hooted.
“Bat’s right here,” the catcher said.
Ben walked slowly, self-consciously, across the field. He picked up the bat, rolled it with his fingers. It was hard ash, turned for a thick handle. He waved it once in the air, weakly, feeling the weight. Then he stepped to the plate and twisted his feet into the grass. His heart was thundering and his mouth was dust-dry. He closed his eyes and rolled his head, and for a stunning moment the wondrous exhilaration of the game flooded him, filled him.
“Well, well, well. We got us a player,” the barker boomed, his voice echoing through the megaphone.
A cheer flew up from the crowd.
“Ben,” the catcher whispered under the cheer. “You just stand there and do what I tell you, boy.”
Ben’s head jerked toward the catcher. He looked into the gray eyes behind the mask: Foster Lanier.
“Don’t say the first goddamn word,” Foster warned. “I’m fixing to make you a hero, boy. They’ll tote you out of here on their goddamn shoulders.”
“Fos—”
“Shut up,” Foster growled. “Turn back in the box and listen.”
Ben obeyed.
“Take you a couple of swings,” Foster said quietly. “He’s gone throw two balls you not even gone see, then he’ll float one in and you better, by God, hit it out of sight.”
Ben raised the bat, balanced it above his shoulders. He saw a small smile ease into the face of the pitcher, and then the smile vanished, and the face turned cold. He watched the rocking motion of the pitcher’s body, the turn of his arm, the long, hard step forward. He saw the ball for only a fraction of time, a blink of white across space, then he heard it explode into Foster’s mitt. The crowd screamed at Ben.
“Hit him, Ben!”
“Watch out, Ben! He could throw it straight through you if he hits you!”
Ben heard Frank and Coleman laughing.
Behind the plate, Foster oohed joyfully. He said in a low voice, “You ever see anything like that, Ben? Damnedest pitcher alive, I swear it. Ugly, too. Watch this one, Ben. It’s gone miss you by two inches.”
Ben looked quickly to Foster and Foster lobbed the ball back to the giant.
“Hell, don’t worry none,” Foster whispered. “He’s not gone hit you. It’s just gone rile up the crowd a little bit, and then you’ll get your hit and they’ll think one of their boys kicked the shit out of us. Good for business. We do it everywhere.”
Ben could feel the ball that missed him by two inches. He fell away instinctively as Foster leaned dangerously from his stool to catch the pitch.
“God-o-mighty,” Foster cried. He looked at Ben sprawled in the grass. Ben could see him wink from behind his mask. “You all right?” he said in a voice loud enough for the crowd to hear.
The crowd hissed angrily.
“Now, don’t get upset, folks,” Foster pleaded. “Once in a while, one slips. Looks like the boy’s all right.”
Ben pulled himself to his feet and picked up the bat. He stepped to the plate and lifted the bat to his shoulders. His heart was racing.
“Hit the son of a bitch, Ben,” someone yelled. And then a chant began: “Hit him, hit him, hit him…”
Foster leaned forward on his stool. “It’ll be belt-high, Ben,” he whispered. “No curve, just straight. Swin
g easy.”
The pitch glided in, exactly as Foster had promised. Ben could feel the hit as he turned the bat, could feel the rhythm of his muscles, like a rehearsed dance, and the splendor of the shock rushing through him. He looked up and watched the ball lifting high into the bright, angled rays of the sun, flying beyond the crowd. He heard an eruption of voices screaming his name, and he heard again the cries in Augusta:
“You got it, Ben! You got it!”
The giant pitcher stood unmoving, glaring at Ben with bitterness. He did not like the artless game of deceit that Foster Lanier had commanded him to play. In every place they stopped, he threw the pitch that would be hit, but he did not like it. Foster called it the business pitch. “Let one hit it and every man and boy in the crowd’s got to give it a try,” Foster had said. Foster was right, but the giant did not like it.
The crowd spilled over the V of the rope, threw itself into a circle around Ben. They slapped gladly at him. Coleman shoved a wad of money into his hand with a yodel of joy. “By God, you done it,” Coleman shouted.
Ben looked at Foster, who sat relaxed on his stool, holding his catcher’s mask. A playful smile fluttered across Foster’s face. He winked at Ben.
“By God, Ben, I’m gone give it a try,” an older man declared, reaching for the bat.
“Wait a minute, friends,” Foster called. “Quiet down just a minute.” He caught one of his crutches beside his stool and struggled to stand. “Wait a minute,” he repeated.
The crowd around Ben became silent.
“They calling you Ben,” Foster said. “What’s your name, anyhow?”
Ben answered, “Ben Phelps.”
Foster whistled softly. “Well, no damn wonder,” he said in astonishment. “I know you. Watched you playing down in Augusta earlier this year. Ben Phelps. No damn wonder.”
“You know Ben?” Coleman asked with surprise.
“Know him well enough,” Foster said. “I can’t believe he’s here and not off playing somewhere with the professionals.” He hobbled to Ben and extended his hand. “It’s a privilege, Ben Phelps,” he said earnestly. “I saw you make a catch down there in Augusta—it was against the Savannah team, I believe—that was the best I ever saw, and I’m a man that’s played and watched baseball all over this country.”
Ben said nothing. He stared at Foster quizzically. The crowd remained quiet.
“I’m telling you, folks,” Foster continued, “you’d of been proud of him. Ben here looked like he was flying that last ten yards. Caught that ball a half-inch off the ground. Nobody alive could of done it but Ben.”
Ben could sense the people looking at him curiously. He mumbled to Foster, “Thanks.”
“How come you not playing somewhere?” asked Foster.
Ben licked his lips. He crossed his arms and shook his head.
“Yeah, Ben, how come?” someone asked.
“Guess you learned it wadn’t all that it was made out to be. That right, Ben?” Foster said.
“Well, I—”
“I don’t blame you,” Foster said, laughing merrily. “Wish I’d of done the same thing when I got started. Lost this leg trying to play baseball. I’d lots rather been working at a good job somewhere. I’d be dancing if I’d of done that.”
“Ben can play, all right,” Coleman said. “I been trying to get him to come back and play for the town team, but he won’t do it.”
“You got a job, Ben?” asked Foster.
Ben nodded.
“Well, there’s your answer, friend,” Foster said to Coleman. “A good job’s a lot more sure than baseball, I’ll tell you that for God’s truth.”
“I can’t argue that,” Coleman admitted. “But Ben can play, and that’s a fact. I never saw him hit one like he just did, but I guess he picked up some good pointers down there in Augusta. He’s always been the fastest man around here.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Him and Milo Wade was two of the best we ever had on the town team, that’s for sure.”
“Milo Wade?” Foster said, wiping his face with a handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket. “I know that name, too.” He looked at Ben. “He was down there in Augusta too, wadn’t he?”
Ben nodded.
“He’s up in Boston now,” Coleman said. “Doing good, too, from what I hear.”
“He’s good, all right,” Foster said, “but I’d take Ben here. You saw what he just did, and I guarantee you they’s not a half-dozen men a month even come close to hitting my man.”
“I—was lucky,” Ben protested meekly.
“Everybody’s lucky and everybody’s unlucky,” Foster replied, dangling the stump of his right leg. “But luck’s got nothing much to do with it. You hit the ball, Ben Phelps. Hit it better than anybody since I put this show together. That’s all I’m saying. These people here got a reason to be proud of you.”
“Well, we are, mister,” Coleman said enthusiastically. “Wish we could get him back playing with us.”
“Maybe he will now,” Foster said. “But I wouldn’t advise him to quit on his job.” He stepped back on his crutch and the crowd closed around Ben.
“You get a chance, you come back tonight and talk some baseball with me, Ben,” Foster said. He smiled again and winked at Ben. “Who’s next?” he sang. “Who’s as good as Ben Phelps?”
FIVE
IT WAS DARK when Ben returned to the Marvels of the Earth carnival. The street of tents was empty except for carnival people moving about lazily, gathering beneath orange moons of lights from lanterns. Ben could hear the mumbled talk and tired laughter, could see silhouettes of their faces in the orange lights, could smell their cigarette smoke and the meat-rich odor of their cooking. The people of the carnival were exhausted, and Ben knew it. They had arrived in Jericho by train, had raised a small city of canvas, had begged and teased to make their daily wage, and now they were exhausted.
As Ben passed among them, they stared absently at him, and he wondered if they had homes or if their tents were their homes and they were merely nomads of slow travel, like Gypsies who transported their nations in brightly painted wagons. Most likely there were Gypsies among the carnival people, Ben thought. Gypsies possessed by spirits too mystic to understand. He paused at one tent advertising the telling of fortunes, found himself gazing at the chipped-paint canvas face of a woman peering through jeweled fingers into a chipped-paint crystal ball, and he wondered if Gypsies were standing behind the dark slits of the closed tent flaps, watching him from black eyes. If they could see into the beyond, into days that had not yet been lived, what would they see for him? A chill rushed through him and he pivoted quickly to walk away. He did not see the giant one-armed man standing in the shadows near the tent, or the stubby, broad-faced midget sitting on a table.
“Boy,” the man said in a coarse, low voice.
Ben did not answer. He stood, unable to move, staring at the man, the blood of his heart driving painfully against his chest. The vivid white scars of the man’s face were almost fluorescent in the dim light.
“You didn’t hit me, boy,” the man growled. “I give you that.”
“Yes—yes sir,” Ben whispered. “Foster told me.”
The midget giggled.
“Won’t no way you hit me,” the man said.
“No sir.”
“Never.”
“I—I was looking for Foster,” Ben said.
“Be by the tree, in the field,” the man said.
Ben looked toward the tree. “Thank you,” he mumbled. He turned to leave.
“Boy.”
Ben stopped and turned back. The man held a baseball in his hand.
“Next time, I bust you in the skull,” the man said.
A peal of laughter squawked from the midget’s throat, a cry of a predator bird. He crossed his chest with his hands and the laughter collapsed into a hacking cough.
Ben walked away quickly, away from the street of tents and into the field where Foster Lanier’s game of baseball ch
ance had been played. Under the oak, he saw the light of a lantern and, behind it, the outline of a tent. He found Foster sitting against the oak, drinking. The stub of his right leg was propped on a blanket. In the night light, Foster looked very old.
“I been waiting,” Foster said. “Didn’t think you was coming.”
“Took some time finding you,” Ben lied. His eyes fell on Foster’s half-leg.
Foster laughed wearily and slapped the leg at his thigh. He said, “Not as much of me as they was the last time I saw you.”
“What happened?” asked Ben.
“Found me a crazy doctor up in Knoxville,” Foster said easily. “Took out his handsaw and cut it off like it was a plank.”
“Why?”
“Said it was me or the leg. Hell, the leg wadn’t worth much nohow,” Foster said. He shrugged. “Sit down, boy. We got some catching up to do.”
Foster had not made it to Kentucky. He had stopped in Knoxville with Norman Porterfield and Lottie Barton, and there he had become ill and the leg had been amputated. While recuperating, he heard tales of a one-armed man who could throw a baseball through the side of a barn. The man made wagers that no one could hit a ball thrown by him, but few people were willing to try, because there was a story that the man had killed someone by hitting him in the face after the challenger had tormented him for his deformity.
“Truth is, he knew the man,” Foster said. “Had something to do with how that man treated his daddy.” He shook his head. “I guarantee you it was on purpose. My man can throw it where he wants to.”
Foster had met the one-armed giant, watched a performance, and then offered the proposal of a one-armed pitcher and a one-legged catcher, and they had begun touring with the Marvels of the Earth carnival.
“Ben, he’s the meanest son of a bitch I ever saw,” Foster confided. “Got his face cut to ribbons in a razor fight with some nigger in St. Louis when he was a boy, and his arm was cut up so bad they had to take it off. God only knows what he could of been if he’d had two good arms. No man alive born to throw baseballs like him.”