“The official organist’s name is Josh Kantor.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow night, right?”
“He wouldn’t miss a playoff game. He’s a good guy. But he has no idea that he shares his work space with Smoker.”
“Why do you call him Smoker?”
“Is it obvious why Weasel-man is called Weasel-man?”
“Yep,” Oscar said.
“This will be too.”
And as if on cue, the door creaked open, streamers of smoke blew in, and Smoker swaggered out of a gray cloud like a magician. “Hello, good people!” he said graciously in a voice so low and gruff it was barely audible. He was smoking four cigarettes, two out of each corner of his mouth. He wore a Red Sox baseball cap much like Weasel-man’s, hiding his horns. He was bony and tough, his skin leathery. “Have you come for a little light music?” he asked hopefully. And then he groaned. “Or are you in the mood to get a chant going?” He waved his hand at Oscar and his father. “Get off the bench! Get up!”
Oscar and his father slid off the bench and let Smoker take over. As soon as he sat down, the cloud of smoke caught up with him and hovered, giving the impression that Smoker was caught inside of a crystal ball. He leaned forward out of the cloud when he spoke. Oscar got little peeks at the knot in the bridge of his nose, his pointy chin, and his craggy, gray skin. “This here is a Yamaha AR100 Electone electronic organ,” Smoker said. “The best of the best. Or as the French say, the cream of the cream.” And then he played a gorgeous classical snippet of trilling notes that slowly turned into the national anthem, as if a game were just about to start. “Who is this child?” he asked, stabbing the butt of a cigarette in Oscar’s direction. “Is he yours?”
“Yep,” Oscar’s father said. “This is Oscar.”
“Charmed,” Smoker said, though he didn’t offer his hand for shaking. “What brings you?”
“Well,” Oscar’s father said, “Oscar is going to try to break the Curse.”
The organ’s notes smeared and then came to a sudden stop as if Smoker’s hands had slid off of the keys. There was a silent moment, and then he played three ominous chords, reaching down into the low notes. “Does he know what’s at stake? Does he know the rules? Does he know about the Pooka? The Pooka doesn’t like people sniffing around the Curse. Does he know that?”
“I do,” Oscar said.
“Well, then,” Smoker said. “Good luck to you.” And he played a short, jaunty tune that sounded a bit like “Sweet Caroline,” the song that was always played in Fenway during the seventh-inning stretch.
“Let me know how it all goes. Off you go!”
“Not so fast,” Oscar’s father said. “We may need you.
“The second rule says that each Cursed Creature has a position to play. We don’t know what that means, but it could mean that you might help us somehow.
“For example, you haven’t ever come across a misplaced baseball—an old-looking one from, say, 1919 or so?”
Smoker played a quiz show theme song, a tick-tock rhythm. “Hmm,” he said, and then chased his fingers up the keyboard and stopped. “I can’t help you.”
“Any ideas? At all?”
Smoker stood up and folded his arms across his chest. “You know what I want?”
“You’re changing the subject,” Oscar’s father said.
Smoker ignored him. “I want to make my own music heard. I’m tired of chants and hoo-ha.” He picked up the sheet music sitting atop the organ, rifled through it. “Junk!”
“What do you mean?” Oscar asked.
“Everything I try to play becomes some sort of baseball hoo-ha,” Smoker said, his low voice warbling with sadness. “I can be quite classical, but ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ is always lurking underneath! Do you know how that feels? But,” he said with a bit of hope, “if I could just have a true audience for my compositions, if I had a true purpose for my art, I could play like one of the greats. I know it.”
“If we could arrange that—a true audience—would you help us?” Oscar asked.
Smoker popped out of his cloud joyfully. “You could do that?”
Oscar’s father poked Oscar with an elbow. “I don’t know how we could. I mean, Josh Kantor is the one who has the booth when there’s an audience. I mean…”
Smoker’s face crumbled. He retreated into his cloud.
“But if we could somehow?” Oscar said. “Let’s just say…if we could, would you help us?”
There was silence.
“Are you in there?” Oscar asked.
A few muffled sobs.
“Are you okay?” Oscar’s father asked.
The smoky cloud began to swell. Oscar and his father had to back up as it grew to envelop the organ, filling the entire .406 Club. They started to wheeze and cough.
“Smoker,” Oscar’s father gasped. “We need you.”
Then, finally, Smoker emerged from the cloud for a moment. His mouth was stretched wide, it was so filled with cigarettes. It was a wonder he could still speak clearly at all. But he did. With perfect enunciation he said, “If you can help me, I will help you. I will give my true gift—music!” He then darted back into his cloud, which drifted across the room. The door opened and closed. Smoker was gone.
Oscar and his father headed out of the .406 Club and walked back to the ramp. Wisps of smoke still lingered in the hall.
They dipped through a doorway to the Hall of Fame Club, a restaurant nestled under the .406 Club.
“Smoker and his gift of music,” Oscar’s father muttered as they wound their way around the empty tables. “How is that going to help us?”
Oscar shrugged. “It’s better than nothing, I guess.”
His father nodded in agreement and then waved his arm around the restaurant. “These days, the radio and TV people pack into the cushy roosts next to the .406. But once upon a time, the old Red Sox announcers used to sit here—with an open-air look at the field—Ned Martin and Jim Woods.”
Oscar’s father opened the door of a supply closet. It was filled with boxes of napkins, straws, canned sodas, and ice buckets. There was a door in the floor propped open by a mop. Faint light drifted up, along with the sound of a ball game on a radio. “Here we are,” his father said, as if reporting terrible news.
Oscar leaned over, looking down through the opening at a steep ladder.
“Down there?”
His father nodded. “But I have to warn you,” he said. “Stickler likes to make fun of me. He never lets up! And the Bobs! They’re always getting in the middle of things with their stupid play-by-plays.” He balled up his fists and shoved them into his pockets.
“Can’t we stand up to them together?” Oscar said nervously, thinking of Drew Sizemore.
His father smiled then, a soft, gentle smile. “I’m glad you’re here. You know that?”
Oscar nodded, feeling a little shy for a moment. “I’ll go first,” he said, and then he started down the ladder, his father shuffling behind.
The broadcast booth was small and fairly dark. The air smelled sour and stale, and overwhelmingly of burned coffee. A two-headed, horned creature with a single massive back covered in a mix of fur and tweed sat in a chair in front of them. The heads turned in unison.
“The Bobs,” his father said. “Mustache Bob and Jowly Bob.”
One had a mustache and pop eyes; the other was jowly, his chins wobbling slightly as he gazed at Oscar wide-eyed. Instead of baseball caps to hide their horns, they wore gray fedoras and shared an old-fashioned mic—silver and fat, with an RCA label. They sat on two rolling wooden chairs shoved together. They were conjoined somewhere in their beefy torso. They terrified Oscar. He stumbled backward into his father’s chest.
But they weren’t alone. They muttered, “What’s this? What’s this now?” and leaned in for a closer look at Oscar. This exposed a third horned creature slouched in the seat behind them. The third horned creature didn’t have a mic. He’d been leaning way back in his chair with
his feet propped up on the desk, but popped forward and stood in one swift motion. He was a wiry, anxious guy with a flattened nose, as if he’d been in a fight; and he had a restless angriness, as if he were looking for another one. He wore a baseball mitt on his left hand and kept socking it with his right fist.
“Stickler,” his father hissed under his breath.
Jowly Bob said, “It’s a beautiful night for baseball and thanks for joining us. Joining me in the booth tonight is as always, my partner, Bob. Bob?” There were no speakers in the room. The mic was unplugged and useless, but still Jowly Bob had a raspy radio voice—full of static, full of distance and echo, as if it were being broadcast through an old, badly tuned radio. Oscar wasn’t sure how he did it.
Mustache Bob pulled the mic away from Jowly Bob. “Actually, I think we’re expecting rain, as a thick layer of clouds is hurrying in from the southeast. We’ll be lucky to get this one in tonight, Bob, as the Red Sox look to break an eighty-six-year skid against the stalwart defense and punishing power of…” And here, Mustache Bob made some static noises with his mouth and faded out.
“There isn’t a game tonight,” Oscar said timidly.
“There isn’t always a game, but there’s always a battle,” Jowly Bob said. “And joining us in the booth tonight is the slim right-hander, Malachi Egg, and what looks to be a mouthy rookie just up from the minors.”
“This is Oscar,” Oscar’s father said.
“We don’t offer half-priced tickets for kids. Red Sox policy,” Stickler said in a gruff voice. “You’ll have to pay full price for him, or are you broke, Egg? Not getting enough allowance from your aunties?”
The Bobs spun the casters on their chairs, wheeling closer to the action in the booth.
“Egg’s had a real shaky season, a weak arm. Let’s see if he bobbles this one. I smell Buckner!” Mustache Bob said.
“Hey, that’s not funny,” Oscar said, knowing his dad’s love for Buckner.
Oscar’s father mumbled. “The boy is one of us. He doesn’t have to buy a ticket.”
“I live here,” Oscar said.
“Egg fields it cleanly, shovels over to the rookie,” Jowly Bob reported with a hint of disappointment.
“Handy teamwork.”
Stickler glared at him. “What do you want here, anyway, Egg?”
“Well,” Oscar’s father said quietly, “um, see. Well…”
“I’m going to break the Curse,” Oscar said.
Everything went silent in the booth except for the pounding of Stickler’s fist into his glove. Then Stickler roared with laughter, and the Bobs followed suit.
“There’s a little comic relief, my friends,” Mustache Bob said.
Oscar’s father shuffled back to the ladder. “C’mon,” he said. “Forget them. Let’s go.”
Oscar shook his head, and once the laughter died down he said, “The second rule of the Curse says that each of the Cursed Creatures has a position to play. So, I take it that, in baseball lingo, this means each of you has to play your part. If I’m going to be able to break the Curse, that is.”
“Listen, kid, you aren’t going to break no curse.” Stickler turned to Oscar’s father. “What’s this supposed to be—your son or something? What are you, seeing impaired, Egg? Do you need a large-print program?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar’s father said sternly.
“Hate to say it,” Stickler went on, “but he ain’t yours. You just got stuck with the bill, if you know what I mean!”
“There’s a drive toward the Monster,” Jowly Bob roared.
“This one is way back,” Mustache Bob said.
“Looks like Egg is going to miss it….”
“You talk like you think my father’s afraid of you. He isn’t,” Oscar said. “And he doesn’t care what you have to say about me.” Oscar wasn’t even sure what he was saying. His knees were shaking.
“But the rookie shows up out of nowhere, and it pops into his glove. A sliding catch right under the old man!” Mustache Bob said.
Stickler started pounding the glove with his fist a little more angrily. “This ball field is cursed. The Curse can’t be broken. Not by anybody and not by you, that’s for sure.”
“You talk tough,” Oscar said. “So why haven’t you been able to break the Curse, huh? You’ve been here long enough. You really aren’t all that tough, are you?”
“Looks like the teams are engaged in a little trash talking,” Mustache Bob added solemnly.
“Why don’t you come a little closer and say that to my face,” Stickler said.
Oscar glanced at his father, whose expression was a mix of pride and shock. Oscar took a step forward. “You really aren’t all that tough, are you?”
Stickler lunged at Oscar, picking him up off the floor and pushing him against the narrow, built-in table under the window. Oscar’s head was at such an angle that he could see the field, could feel the cold breeze on his face. He was pinned, but there was now a tussle above him. He could hear his father shouting, “Get off him, Stickler!” There was grunting and shoving, and the two Bobs were still calling the play-by-play.
Oscar, stuck in his spot, looked out at the field through the window. “Cursed”—the word came back to him. That’s how he felt. He felt like Drew Sizemore was chanting “Who’s your daddy.” He felt stuck, like he had back at home. The world was rotten all over. He let his eyes blur, and that’s when he picked up on something in the stands above right field. The seats. Some were folded up. Some weren’t. And the ones that weren’t folded up were in patterns: rows and lines. The seats spelled something.
Oscar still couldn’t turn around, but he didn’t want to, anyway. The first letter Oscar could make out was a P and above it a T and above it a K. He followed all of those letters to find three words stacked on top of one another:
KNOW
THE
PAST
Who had put that message up for him to see?
Stickler lost his grip, and Oscar fell to the floor. His father was wrestling Stickler into the back corner. He had an elbow against his neck. “Don’t ever touch my son again,” his father said, his wings rattling against the back of his shirt.
Stickler nodded, his eyes bulging.
Oscar’s father eased up slowly and then let him go. He turned to the Bobs. “What?” he said. “What happened to the play-by-play? Anything to say now?”
The Bobs, stunned, were completely silent. They shook their heads. Jowly Bob’s chin swung back and forth. Mustache Bob’s mustache sank at the edges, anchored by his frown.
And Stickler? Oscar realized he’d played his position, without even knowing it. He’d shoved Oscar into a spot where he saw a sign: KNOW THE PAST. As Oscar followed his father up the ladder, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Thanks, Stickler,” he said.
Stickler glared at him. “Whatever, kid,” he said, then pounded his fist into his glove and folded himself into his seat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Pooka and the Banshee
ON THEIR WAY BACK THROUGH the empty restaurant and down the ramps, Oscar’s father slapped him on the shoulder. “Did you see Stickler’s face there at the end?” his father said, beaming. “And the Bobs? They were speechless!”
“It was great,” Oscar said, his chest warm, his heart still pounding. It had been great. His father had stuck up for him, and Oscar was proud that he’d spoken up, too.
Half jogging down the ramps, his father actually let out a hoot, and Oscar hooted too.
They made their way back to the field and soon enough found themselves sitting on the bench in the dugout, breathless, waiting for the Banshee. A fine mist started coming down, with a sharp rising wind. Their victorious mood left over from the dugout seemed to disappear quickly as if carried off by the bitter wind.
“When is the Banshee supposed to get here?” Oscar asked, shivering.
“She’ll show. She’s always looking for someone she’s supposed to meet??
?another lost soul,” Oscar’s father told him. “But she’s always alone.”
“What is a banshee?” Oscar asked. It dawned on him that he wasn’t sure exactly what he should be looking for.
“A banshee is a kind of ghost who warns that a death is coming by crying in this awful howl so full of hopelessness that you can feel it inside of you. It rattles you to your very bones.” He shuddered. “When she’s not out here, she floats around the Lost and Found—which seems to be her home, in a way. Like all banshees, she howls and keens when death approaches, but she also cries each year as the World Series gets closer. We wait and listen; and then we hear the shrill rise of her voice, and we know. We know.”
Oscar told his father what had happened to him while Stickler had held him down against the table in the broadcast booth. “He played his position,” Oscar said. “He led me to the next sign.”
“And he didn’t even mean to help,” his father said, one side of his mouth curling up into a smile.
“I like that.”
“But I don’t know enough yet,” Oscar said.
“What made Keeffe curse the Red Sox like that anyway? How do curses work?”
“Well, you make a curse, and then it hardens like concrete. Keeffe took off before it was set in stone. He didn’t tell anyone. He just disappeared, and then the Cursed Creatures were conjured up, the weasels, the mice, the Pooka.”
“And the Banshee?”
“Her too,” Oscar’s father said. “She showed up with the rest of them.
“My grandfather wanted what he thought he deserved: lush new land in America. He was a farmer. He wanted this great piece he was promised: land on the Emerald Necklace. But he got this swamp and then the ball field. Right? And he was angry about being thought of as different, tired of being the half-blooded orphan; and he had no stomach for injustice. And so Ruth getting traded; well, it hurt him in the same way he’d been hurt before.”