It was in the last game of 1957 with Ben pitching against the Arlington Jaycees before he left the Little Leagues forever that Coach Murphy rubbed his pitching shoulder with Atomic Balm and whispered for Ben to keep the ball low and throw for the knees. And he whispered," This one's for you and me, Ben. For you and me. "And Ben could remember how on a frog-choired summer night in Virginia, he pitched into a sweat as slick as birth, then hit a double in the last inning driving Ronka home with the winning run. The whole team ran to him, picked him up and pummeled him madly. Then he was lifted and hurled by Coach Murphy toward the infield lights, his spikes silvered with false light, and Ben came down laughing and jubilant to Coach Murphy. He came down like a child thrown up by a father.
Then Coach Murphy cried out," Free Cokes!" and the Old Dominion Kiwanis sprinted toward the Coke stand. Taking Ben into the trees beyond the Park, the Coach poured two fingers of bourbon into Ben's Coke and said to Ben," From now on, you call me Dave. "Coach Murphy had this gift. He could turn a boy into a king. Ben drank the Coke and he remembered it glowing in his blood like the moon and, very deliberately, Ben looked into the softest of male eyes and said," That's good Coke, Dave."
But we desert the coaches of Little League, Ben thought, leaving the river's edge and returning to the sidewalk beneath the huge water oaks of River Street. We leave them behind and we never think of them again until Ronka, the catcher, or maybe Schmidt at first asks me if I've heard about Coach Murphy imprisoned in the most terrible room of hospitals, benched by the hardest and most silent of coaches. "Did you hear about his face?" they asked. "It was eaten clean up. They had to cut his nose and half his face off when they probed. All he has left are holes, but he wears a mask now because his mother screamed when she saw him."
Old Coach Murphy. Thirty-one. The Coach of the Old Dominion Kiwanis has come to this hospital, to this strange outfield, to this old dominion of cancer, to this old dominion of death, coaching in the ward of the doomed. Ben went to that hospital and was sent away by nurses who said, "Family only" and Ben had said," But Dave was my coach," and the nurses had said" Family only. "But they talked to him later and Dave Murphy's wife talked to him and they told him how it was in the last days. They said that in the last month Dave tried to teach the other undermined men to bunt down the line at third and to steal signs from the opposing teams, teaching with fearstunned eyes behind a gauze mask in the last, inarticulate fury of coaching, while the instincts were still good and before the slow-footed cancer partially stole the brain. As the cancer with its unstealable signs moved toward the eyes behind gauze.
At the end, the very end, they roped him screaming to his bed, screaming out for Ronka to take two, for Schmidt to hold fast to the bag at first, and for Meecham to call him Dave. They tied him faceless to his bed, far away from his boys who cried into their pillows, who took down the dusty photos of their coach and prayed for him from the thunderstruck source of their boyhood. At last the cancer entered his brain or maybe his soul, and far from bleachers and Coke stands, far from shoestring catches and the voices of fathers behind backstops, far from the light of spikes, and the sad, blooded moons of Four Mile Run, he screamed out his death not like a coach but a man. What kind of world is it, Ben thought, that lets its coaches die without his boys around him, buying him Cokes, calling him by his first name, and rubbing his shoulder with Atomic Balm? He died without a face in a room I never saw without my kisses in the stained gauze or without my prayers entering the center of his pain. But worst of all, O God, you let him die, let Coach Murphy die, let Dave die, without my thanks, my thanks, my thanks.
As Ben passed Hobie's Grill and the alleyway where Toomer sold his flowers, he wished that all the fathers of rejected sons could go on a quest as Bull Meecham had once done, comb the fields and gyms looking for a coach who understood a tiny bit the mystery of being a boy. But in Ravenel there was only Coach Spinks and he didn't even understand the mystery of the double post offense. He walked until he was ascending the steps of his house. He saw his mother, Mary Anne, Matthew, and Karen waiting for him in the living room. Entering the house slowly, he put on a sad, mournful expression. He paused to look at them, then as if the effort was too much, he began to walk toward the stairs, his head bent in defeat.
"What happened, sugah?" Lillian asked, her voice breaking as she prepared herself for the worst. "I heard he was a dreadful coach and a fool of a man," she continued as Ben continued to walk up the stairs. "Do tell us what happened, Ben. We're perishing."
"Nothing," Ben said softly, sadly, then looking up he said," except that I made the team," and he ran to his mother and his family screamed out their relief.
Chapter 21
It was six in the evening on the first Friday in December. The sky was clear and dark and bright with stars. A moon of cold silver shone on the river in a brilliantly luminous band. When the light reached the river's edge, it betrayed the last dying green of salt marsh before dropping lightly into the forests across the river from Ravenel, losing itself as it fingered its way from branch to branch and from leaf to leaf. On this night, the moon burned like metal.
In the Meecham house, Ben descended the stairs carrying his gym bag. His hair was wet and brushed back. Outside, in the backyard, he could hear Matthew shooting set shots at the outdoor goal. His mother and two sisters were sitting before a large fire. The room smelled of oak, and flame, and December. Entering the room, Ben said to his mother," Mama, I really do need a new gym bag to tote my stuff. You got this one up at Henderson Hall when I was in the eighth grade. That was about a million years ago."
"Your last name is Meecham, sugah," Lillian answered. "It isn't Rockefeller, Vanderbilt, or Carnegie. Your daddy didn't invent Coca-Cola and I didn't recently discover King Solomon's mines."
"It's not like I was asking you to buy me an F-8, Mama. These things only cost a few bucks."
"If I give in for one thing, then the next thing you know, I'll be giving in for everything," his mother replied.
"Why don't you put your uniform in a paper bag, Ben?" Mary Anne said. "After all, we're not Rockefellers."
"We've got a lot of expenses neither of you know about. Your father and I are also trying to save a substantial amount of money each month."
"What are you saving it for?" Karen asked.
"Well," Lillian answered," it's really none of you children's business but if you swear not to let it go any further than this room, I'll tell you. Your father and I are saving money for our dream house."
"Dream house?" Ben said.
"Yes, dream house. I've lived in over twenty houses or apartments since I married your father and I think I deserve a dream house when he retires from the Marine Corps. I want it to be an exquisite, wonderful home that will be included on garden and candlelight tours. I know exactly what it will look like and how it will be furnished. I can see it in my mind as if it were already built. I've been collecting ideas from Better Homes and Gardens for over ten years now. There is one thing I can tell you about my dream house: it will be like nothing you have ever seen."
"Does that mean you can't buy us socks or underwear anymore," Ben teased," because of the dream house?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Lillian said.
"Why don't you get the dream house now so we kids can enjoy it too?" Mary Anne said.
"The dream house will be for your father and me. We earned it. It will be lovely and charming and no one will be allowed to lose their temper or to be ugly or to make scenes in the dream house. It will be a place of perfect harmony and people will act sweetly toward each other at all times. There will be no pressure on Bull at all. There will be no Marines around because they tend to bring out the worst in your father. There will be no one around. Just the two of us living in the dream house."
"I've got to get to the game, Mama," Ben said.
"We've got over forty-five minutes, darling. Hold your horses. You're going to turn me into a basket case if you don't relax. Let's go pray at the shrine."
/> "Oh, brother," Mary Anne moaned.
"You hush, Mary Anne," Karen said," this is the first game."
"Oh," Mary Anne said sarcastically. "Oh, a thousand pardons, little brown-noser. If I'd only known that it was a prayer for the first game. There's nothing in the world as tacky as a basketball game."
"Then you can stay home, darling," Lillian said. "I'd never force you to do anything tacky."
"She wouldn't miss it for the whole world," Karen said.
"That's what you know," Mary Anne said. "I'm going to the game so I can see our golden Apollo here shoot jump shots. Of course, I have to admit that there are other reasons. I like to look at the naked legs of all the boys."
"Mary Anne!" Lillian said.
"It's true. I'm an honest person and I say what's true. But the big reason I want to go to the game is that I enjoy sitting up in the stands hating the guts out of all the cheerleaders."
"You're just jealous because they're prettier than you," Karen said. "I'm going to be a cheerleader when I get old enough, just like Mama was."
"Jealous of cheerleaders? Me?" Mary Anne sneered. "Jealous of Ansley Matthews with her perfect legs and her brain the size of a pea? Jealous of Janice Sanders with her perfect bosom and her brain the size of a bean or Carol Huger with her perfect smile and her brain the size of a BB or Sally Tomlinson with her perfect everything and her brain the size of a chigger's eyeball? I'm not jealous of them. I loathe them. I love just sitting in the stands hating them. They're so disgustingly happy and enthusiastic. They're so peppy. They bounce. I hate girls that bounce."
"Some of them are real nice girls," Ben said.
"Is that the voice of perfection?" Mary Anne said, cupping her hand to her ear. "Is that he that hath fed on honeydew? Is that my saintly, sugarcoated brother, projected hero of the first game? The patron saint of jump shots?"
"Let's pray for Ben's success in the first game," Lillian said, ignoring her older daughter.
They walked to the alcove in the front hall where the shrine was set up beneath the steps. Lillian lit two candles on either side of the statue of Mary. Then she knelt on the rug and motioned for her children to do the same. Ben and Karen knelt beside their mother while Mary Anne knelt behind them. The color in Our Lady of the Fighter Pilots' shawl was pale blue that changed hues in the flickering of the beeswax candles. Lillian prayed aloud, "Blessed Mother, thank you for my family. Thank you for their health, for their intelligence, and for their good humor. "With the last words, Lillian glanced back and smiled at Mary Anne who scowled behind her. "Tonight," Lillian continued," we ask your intercession when Ben Meecham plays West Charleston High School. Help him score a lot of points, play good, strong defense, and thread the needle with his passes. But most of all, help him to be a good sport, to hold his head high, and to make the Meecham family proud. We love you, Mary, and we love your Son."
"And let's beat the hell out of West Charleston High," Karen shouted toward the icon.
"Karen, I'm surprised at you."
"None of the girls in the sixth grade believe that Ben's on the team. They say they never heard of him."
"This is so ridiculous," Mary Anne said, removing her glasses and wiping them off with a Kleenex. Her eyes had a stunned, swollen appearance when she removed her glasses; they strained to make out shapes, to translate blurs. "I bet heaven has a few more important things going on besides a silly basketball game between Ravenel and West Charleston High. Like maybe a famine or two. Or a couple of wars. I'd like to remind this family that this stupid game is not the most important thing in the world."
"You're wrong, Mary Anne," Ben said. "God appeared to me last night in the shape of a glass backboard and said, 'In this sign thou shalt conquer and you, Ben Meecham, are to cut your oldest sister's throat with a dull machete to prove your worthiness.' So Mary Anne, if you'll just step to the kitchen."
"I've raised the two most sacrilegious children I know," Lillian said sadly.
"That's nothing, Ben," Mary Anne retorted. "the Virgin Mary appeared to me in the shape of a pom-pom . . ."
"Stop it!" Lillian shouted.
"They do this all the time, Mama. I try to stop them but then they start teasing me," Karen said.
"I've never teased you once in my whole life, so help me, God," Mary Anne said.
"Where's Dad?" Ben asked.
"Your father's meeting us at the game."
"Oh, no," Ben groaned," he's not at happy hour."
"Yes."
"That's great. That's just great. In fact, that's more than great. That's just fabulous."
"He promised to have just two drinks."
"He probably will just have the bartender fill up two washtubs and call that two drinks," Ben said.
"He promised," Lillian said, looking at her watch. "Let's go. We're on our way to beat the hell out of West Charleston."
* * *
Ten minutes later, Ben entered the overheated locker room. Odors seemed to deepen in the heat. He could smell Tuf-Skin and ankle tape, week-old perspiration, moist towels mildewing in forgotten lockers, foot powder, ammonia, and unwashed socks. It was a smell of general decomposition but one with universal dimensions, one that an athlete could identify until the day of his death. Several players were sitting on the long wooden bench beside the varsity lockers. In low whispers, they talked about the sock hop following the game that night. It was a natural law of athletics that there must be whispering before a game and nothing else. To converse in a normal tone of voice meant that an athlete was not thinking seriously about the coming game; it exposed a frivolous nature alien to victory. Coaches loved silent, frowning boys in the nervous air of locker rooms before games. Opening his locker, Ben unpacked his uniform and stared at the new Converse All Stars Bull had bought him, a purchase that had gone unreported to the ironfisted keeper of the books, Lillian Meecham. If Lillian had her way, Ben was certain he'd be playing in Scotch tape and sweat socks. One thing about Santini, Ben thought, he always made sure my basketball shoes were the best. Carefully, Ben placed his new All Stars in the locker, then entered the hushed conversation by sitting on the wooden bench and turning toward Pinkie Taylor.
"You going to the dance tonight, Meecham?" Pinkie asked.
"Im not sure," Ben answered.
"Who have you been dating, Meecham? I've never even seen you with a girl," Pinkie said.
"I've been sort of playing the field."
"Ansley's father told me that the night you dated Ansley was the first date you ever had," Jim Don Cooper said, pulling up his uniform pants.
"A lot he knows," Ben said.
"Why are you getting dressed so early, Jim Don?" Blease Palmer, a second string forward, asked.
"Because he always has to take an hour long shit before every game," Pinkie said.
"It helps me relax," Jim Don said defensively.
"They brought in a nigger band for the victory dance," Blease said. "Payin' 'em seventy-five dollars. It should be a swingin' night."
Art Bullard walked into the locker room, his long arms swinging back and forth, and a broad smile on his face. "Gentlemen. Gentlemen. Gentlemen," he said in greeting.
"What are you showing your gums about, Art the Fart?" Jim Don asked.
"You haven't heard," Pinkie said. "He's got a date with Susie Holtzclaw after the game."
"Whoopee!" his teammates shouted.
"I may just park down by the river to watch those underwater submarine races," Art said.
"We know what you're after, ya ol' stud horse," Pinkie said.
"You're gonna have a hard-on this whole game," Jim Don said, smacking his oversize lips together. "Ol' Pinkie used to date Susie until she got tired of sucking on that birthmark of his."
"Don't say nothin' about my mark," Pinkie flared.
"Yeah, let's think about the game," Philip Turner said. He had slipped up to his locker quietly. No one had noticed or acknowledged his entry.
"I'd rather think about the treasures of Susie Holtzclaw
's body," Art said dramatically. He then broke into a low, primordial litany. "Nookie, nookie, nookie, nookie," he began to chant. He closed his eyes reverently, danced in a circle, and raised his hands, as if in supplication to the gods who decided such matters. Pinkie and Jim Don began to clap in time with Art's voice. None of the players saw Coach Spinks standing in the doorway drinking a newly opened bottle of R.C. Ben saw him first.
"Hi, Coach," he said. Art froze on the "k" syllable.
"Good evening, Coach," Art said. "We were just discussing what kind of defense West Charleston might throw up against us."
"I told you boys I don't want this kind of talk before a game. All you boys think of is pussy. We got more important things to think about . . . like beating West Charleston High School. Now, I know all you boys got the hot pants cause I was young myself and I had to cut my horns like anyone else. But there is a time and a place for everything and this is no time to be screaming about some cheap piece of poontang. "He spat some R.C. into an empty, open locker, casting an acrimonious glance at Art. He took a long swig on the R.C., then continued his harangue. "I told you boys last year what to do when you felt your peckers getting hard. You got to think about your girl friends in a certain way. You can't think about them all dolled up in lace panties and satin, skimpy nightgowns. You got to think about them differently. Think about them with their hair up in curlers, no makeup on, squattin' on the commode and takin' a shit. That'll soften your pecker. Just think of 'em squattin' on the pot with a bead of perspiration poppin' out on their forehead, with them gruntin' and fartin' tryin' to get rid of a big one. Now the girls' game's about half over so let's start gettin' dressed for war. We're waging war tonight, men. We are playing West Charleston High School and they think they're coming down here to trounce the hicks. Well we're going to surprise the big city boys by cleaning their pipes real good. Get your uniforms on and get on over to the blackboard. I don't want to hear another word out of you."