Somewhere I Belong Page 20

  Later that day, Ma came storming into the kitchen, looking like she wanted to strangle someone. Uncle Jim and I were sitting at the table, taking one of our afternoon breaks.

  “I’ve just spoken to Jaynie Giddings,” Ma said. “She tells me Pat Jr. was in on Pius James’s little escapade.”

  “Whatever for?” Uncle Jim looked up at Ma, then over at me.

  I sat there, trying my best to put on an innocent face.

  Ma stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes practically coming out of her head. “Maybe Pius James wants to tell us.”

  Uncle Jim was still looking at me. “What’s this all about, Pius James?” He waited, momentarily. “You don’t mean to tell me you got Pat Jr. in on it too?”

  I looked over at him, then up at Ma, searching for an answer. Wondering who had snitched on Pat Jr.

  “He’s suspended,” Ma said. “Just like Pius James. He can write his exams. But that’s the end of it. Charlie doesn’t want to see hide nor hair of them until September.”

  “What does Jaynie have to say ’bout all this?” Uncle Jim asked. “She’s not a woman who takes kindly to havin’ her kids pushed ’round.”

  “She put in a call in to Mr. MacPhee,” Ma said. “He promised to investigate.”

  “I hope that means he’s not just talkin’ to Charlie,” Uncle Jim said. “He’d better be talkin’ to the boys too. There’s still two sides to this story.”

  The next day, Uncle Jim came through the back door waving an envelope in the air. A package wrapped in brown paper was tucked under an arm. It was late afternoon. Larry and Helen had just returned from school and were seated at the kitchen table with Alfred and me. Ma, Aunt Gert, and Granny were buzzing around the kitchen, preparing supper. Uncle Jim dropped the package on the counter and held up the letter.

  “News from the Boston States!”

  “Who’s it from?” Ma asked. “Let me see.”

  “Not so fast.” Uncle Jim grinned at her, stepped back, and held the envelope to his chest. “How d’you know it’s for you?”

  “How’d you know it isn’t?” Ma reached out and pried the envelope from his hand. “It’s from Everett—it is for me.”

  We all crowded around her as she pulled back a chair and sat down. She opened the envelope and pulled out a letter, two strips of red paper, a U.S. Postal Service money order for one hundred dollars, and a newspaper article. She arranged them on the table, then picked up the letter and unfolded it.

  “Well, ain’t you gonna read it?” Uncle Jim asked.

  Ma scanned the first page. “It’s from Mayme…news of George…something about a baseball game here too.” She folded the letter and smiled. Now she was playing Uncle Jim’s game.

  “Well, read it then.” Uncle Jim moved behind her and peered over her shoulder.

  Ma held the letter up in both hands.

  “‘Dear Martha, I must apologize for not writing sooner. George has been working with Mayor Roche on a very exciting venture and I wanted to be sure everything was in place before I sent the news. You probably heard that there was talk of a fundraiser for the families who lost men at the Beacon Oil Refinery explosion. Being the manager of the plant, I suppose the mayor felt he needed to do something.’”

  Ma hesitated at the mention of the accident that had killed my dad. Then she rested her head on her hand and continued to read.

  “‘Just a week after you and the kids left, he invited George and some of the local businessmen to a meeting at the Elks Lodge, here in Everett. He had an idea about organizing a ball game and he wanted to talk to them about it. At first, most of the men were skeptical. But when he reminded them about the local ball team he sponsored and told them he had a connection with the Boston Red Sox, they all got onside. Then he asked George to head up a committee. And you know George—when he takes on a project, there’s no stopping him.

  “‘The following week, he and Mayor Roche went down to Fenway Park and met with Red Sox manager, Bill Carrigan. They mentioned their idea of a ball game and asked him to donate some Red Sox hats and pins to sell at it. Well, you wouldn’t believe what happened. Mr. Carrigan told them to forget about “the small stuff.” Then he offered some of his players. And on top of that, he said they could use Fenway Park and he would put in a call to his old buddy, Babe Ruth.’”

  “Babe Ruth!” I said. “Really?”

  “Hold on, Pius James,” Ma said. “Let me read and we’ll find out.”

  She straightened the letter and continued. “‘He and Ruth had played together for the Sox when they were rookies. Carrigan was catcher; Ruth pitched. That was before the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth to the Yankees. According to Carrigan, all he had to do was mention widows and orphans and The Babe would be on side for sure. The only problem was deciding on a date that wouldn’t conflict with the busy major league schedule. George and the mayor weren’t so sure it would work, but Mr. Carrigan said to give him a few days and he would get back to them.

  “‘Sure enough, two weeks later, the mayor got a call. Mr. Carrigan said he had contacted Babe Ruth, as promised and that he immediately agreed to help out. But he said he would only play if he could pitch and Carrigan played catcher, like they did in the old days. The added bonus was that Ruth was bringing his best friend, Lou Gehrig. ’”

  “I knew they was good buddies,” Uncle Jim said. “Imagine seeing the two of ’em together like that.” He looked at Ma. “Sorry, Martha.”

  Ma waited for Uncle Jim to settle. “‘First he had to tell his manager, Miller Huggins. Carrigan thought Huggins would be the sticking point; he thought there was no way Huggins was going to let his best players barnstorm at the height of the season. But Ruth said he would deal with it.

  “‘Well, he must have been pretty persuasive because it wasn’t long before he called Mr. Carrigan back. Ruth told him that Huggins said he would spare Ruth and Gehrig because he figured they’d go ahead and play anyhow. When Carrigan heard that, he immediately offered this year’s rookies—all sixteen of them. Then he checked the schedule and drew up a plan. As you can imagine, everyone was flabbergasted. Here is what they are going to do:

  “‘The Yankees are playing four games against Boston, at Fenway Park, from August 6 to 9. So Carrigan suggested August 9 would be the best time to fit in the charity ball game. They would play in the afternoon at Fenway. Then they could take a little break before playing a few innings for the charity event. The stadium would be full anyhow, so this would help ticket sales.

  “‘Mayor Roche was thrilled with the news.’”

  “I’d be thrilled too,” Uncle Jim said. “What about you fellas?”

  “Let me finish, Jim,” Ma said.

  Uncle Jim sat back and listened.

  “‘Most of the committee members wanted the game be held at Glendale Park, here in Everett. They thought it would be more fitting to have it close to where most of the families affected by the explosion lived. So the mayor had to turn down Bill Carrigan’s generous offer of Fenway. Can you imagine, Martha—Babe Ruth and that handsome Lou Gehrig at Glendale Park!’”

  “That’s our park!” Larry said. “That’s where we play baseball.”

  “What’s it say next, Ma?” I said. “How are they going to do it?”

  Ma scanned down the page, then continued to read. “‘So after their afternoon game, both teams will be bussed up to Glendale Park. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Bill Carrigan will play for the Knights of Columbus Blues—Mayor Roche’s team—against a team of Boston Red Sox rookies. The rest of the Yankees and Red Sox will sit in the stands in full uniform and cheer on the game. The tickets have already sold out, but George managed to nab a few. There’s one each for Larry and Pius James, and a money order for the return train trip.’”

  “Wow,” I said. “You mean, Larry and I get to go?”

  Ma looked over at me and pursed her lips. Then her voic
e trailed off as she finished reading Aunt Mayme’s letter. “George and I would really like the boys to come. They loved it when he and Joe…took them to see the Red Sox play…’” Aunt Mayme was referring to the last time Dad had been at Fenway Park. To the game he took Larry and me to, the one where Babe Ruth had signed my baseball. And I was still wondering where Ma had put it.

  Ma gasped at the mention of Dad. Her excitement at Mayme’s news seemed to disappear and she breathed out a sigh. “The rest is for me.” She dropped the letter to the table. “News from the neighbourhood…lay-offs at Crandall Dry Dock…orders down, but George still has his job….” She looked over at us kids. “Your father worked there with your Uncle George before he went to Beacon Oil. I wish he had stayed.”

  Uncle Jim pulled out a chair and sat down next to Ma. “What’s in that there newspaper article?”

  “No doubt the same baloney Beacon Oil fed to the newspapers after the accident.” Ma pushed back her chair, got up and left the room.

  Uncle Jim watched her hurry up the stairs toward her bedroom. Then he folded the newspaper article. I caught a glimpse of the headline before he tucked it into the envelope: State Fire Marshal to Investigate Refinery Explosion. “This stuff upsets your mother,” he said. “Can’t say as I blame her.”

  When we heard Ma’s bedroom door close, Uncle Jim held Aunt Mayme’s letter up and read it. Then he put it down and ran a finger over the money order and the ball game tickets that were spread out on the kitchen table in front of him. He picked them up, tucked them into the envelope, and propped the envelope against the sugar bowl. Then he sat back and spoke to Larry and me.

  “Sounds like quite a trip. You’d think your mother’d be happy for you fellas.”

  “Do you think she’ll let me go?” I gave him a pleading look.

  “I don’t see why not.” The look on his face said he wasn’t so sure. Still, I sensed that my uncle had become an ally.

  “What about Old Dunphy? What about Pat Jr.?” I asked. I was thinking about how upset Ma was, how she blamed Pat Jr.’s suspension on me.

  “Let it set for a while. Maybe your mother’ll cool down.” He pushed back his chair and got up from the table. “Give it time.”

  After supper, we stayed seated around the kitchen table and watched Ma re-read Aunt Mayme’s letter. When Aunt Gert collected up the dishes and carried them to the sink, Uncle Jim turned to Ma.

  “I hear tell Babe Ruth is more famous than Ty Cobb even. Hit sixty home runs last season. Set a new world record. Said he had a better year than President Hoover. I reckon he’s the most famous man in the whole United States….”

  “Dad and Uncle George took Larry and me to see Babe Ruth play at Fenway last year.” I tried to add to the discussion without sounding like I was begging. “He hit a home run clear out of the park. He even autographed my baseball after the game.” I looked at Ma. “That’s the one I’ve been looking for. Have you found it yet?”

  “No, Pius James, I haven’t,” Ma said. “I have one more box to unpack. It’s probably there.” She looked tired and annoyed.

  “Maybe I could go and get him to sign another one.” It sounded like a question. But Ma ignored me and kept clutching the letter, her lips moving as she scanned it.

  Uncle Jim cleared his throat and leaned toward her. “Those two boys’ll have a grand old time, Martha. The train’ll take them straight down to Boston and George’ll be right there to meet ’em.”

  The look on Ma’s face said she wasn’t convinced. “Surely you don’t think Pius James is going.” She fixed her glaze on Uncle Jim and then glared at me. “Not after what he did to Charlie Dunphy. Not after the trouble he got Pat Jr. into!”

  Uncle Jim looked at her, silent.

  I didn’t say a word.

  Larry spoke up in my defence. “Mr. Dunphy’s been picking on P.J. ever since we got here.”

  Ma pursed her lips. “And that justifies what your brother did?”

  “No, Ma,” Larry said.

  “I wish I was going,” Helen said.

  “I wanna go too,” Alfred piped in. “Can I, Ma?”

  “No, Alfred, you can’t.” Ma turned to Helen. “Now look what you’ve started. Take your brother upstairs—it’s time for bed.”

  Helen grabbed Alfred’s hand and pulled him from the room.

  “I wanna go,” Alfred hollered. “P.J. gets to go, I’m goin’ too.”

  “P.J.’s not going anywhere!” Ma hollered back.

  Alfred screamed all the way up the stairs.

  His bedroom door banged shut. Then Uncle Jim rested a hand on my shoulder and turned to Ma. “Don’t you think you’re goin’ a bit hard on the boy? This business with Charlie Dunphy’ll blow over. And Pius James won’t be gettin’ himself into any more trouble.” He jostled my shoulder. “Will you, P.J.?”

  “I don’t believe in rewarding bad behaviour, Jim.” Ma wasn’t changing her mind.

  I hung my head and fought back tears.

  Larry just sat there, staring at her.

  Uncle Jim gave it one last try. “All those famous ballplayers playin’ in their own neighbourhood. Likely their friends’re goin’. Mayme even sent the tickets and the train fare.” He paused momentarily, searching for words. “Lookit how hard he’s worked ’round here, Martha. Don’tcha think he deserves a second chance?”

  I looked up at Ma; tears streamed down my face. “It’s because of Mr. Dunphy, isn’t it? It’s because he suspended me and Pat Jr.”

  “It’s because of what you did to Mr. Dunphy, Pius James,” Ma said. “It’s because of the trouble you got your friend into.”

  “But Aunt Mayme said he could go,” Helen said, coming back into the room. It seemed like everybody was on my side except for Ma.

  “That was most kind of Aunt Mayme, Helen,” Ma said. “But if she knew what your brother has just done, she wouldn’t have. Larry can go. I’ll ask Percy Giddings to take him.”

  I turned to my uncle, pleading, but he was already pushing back from the table.

  “You send Larry with Percy Giddings and they’ll be lost before they get to Charlottetown,” he said. “I’ll take ’im to Boston.” He brushed a hand across my head and went out to the barn.

  I stood up and stared at my mother. I suppose she was right to punish me for what I had done. Still, the trip home, the chance to see all my friends again. To watch all those famous ballplayers playing in our own park. Babe Ruth, even. And Lou Gehrig. And we would get to see this year’s Red Sox rookies and two entire major league teams seated on the bleachers at our own ballpark. Uncle George probably even got us seats right beside them. Besides, Ma had lost my Babe Ruth baseball. If she didn’t find it, she had better let me go.

  All of the events of the past five months welled up inside of me and poured right out. “I hate this place. I hate everything about it.”

  I bolted out the door and raced up the back field, looking for Lu. I found her grazing at the bottom of a grassy slope, catching the sun’s last rays. She lifted her head and moved toward me. I wrapped my arms around her huge neck and she nuzzled me. I stroked her and talked to her, pulled new shoots of grass from the field, and held them out to her. She stayed close, fixing her eyes on me, perking her ears forward. Listening.

  “It isn’t fair. Ma’s just…she’s just….” But I couldn’t find the words.

  Lu lowered her head and nudged me as if to say she understood. I wanted to mount her and ride up the field and away from here. There was a boulder resting beside a nearby copse. I grabbed Lu’s halter and urged her toward it. I scrambled up the rock, slid onto her bare back, and grabbed her mane. “Gee up, Lu.” I sat on top of that big old Percheron, feeling her huge, muscular body move easily beneath me. We loped up the back field together, me gripping her mane, Lu moving at a gentle pace. A cool breeze drifted down the field. I leaned into Lu, taking in her warmth. F
eeling as if she were my only friend.

  Clouds soon gathered in the darkening sky. The horizon turned to a blaze of deep pink. When night closed in, I turned Lu back down the field, feeling the grey, empty space around me. When we reached the gate, I dismounted and led her toward the barn. Her water pail was full; a fresh stook of hay had been laid in her stall—I figured it was Larry. I opened the blanket box and grabbed a heavy blanket. I climbed up the ladder to the hayloft, wrapped myself in it, and cried.

  About an hour later, the barn door opened. Larry entered, carrying a lantern and a plate covered in a tea towel. He hung the lantern from a hook on a crossbeam and moved toward Big Ned’s stall. “Hey, Big Ned.” He spoke in a hushed tone, as if he didn’t want to awaken the cows. The big old Percheron lowered his head, and Larry produced a lump of sugar from a pocket. He held one out to his horse and another to Lu. Then he called up to the loft.

  “Supper, P.J. Chicken—it’s good.”

  I’m not hungry.

  Larry waited, then carried the plate up the ladder. He put the plate down on the edge of the loft, then returned for the lantern and hung it from a nearby beam.

  “How you doing?” He slid next to me and sat cross-legged, resting the plate on a knee.

  I sat up and faced him, still wrapped in the blanket. How the heck does he think I’m doing?

  “I talked to Ma.” The flame of the lantern flickered, casting shadows across his face. “I asked her if she would, maybe, change her mind.”

  I didn’t move.

  “I asked her if you could write Mr. Dunphy an apology, offer to do some chores around school. Maybe apologize to Mrs. Giddings too.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She said, ‘I’m not sure.’”

  That means no.

  “Look, P.J.,” Larry said. “That was a crazy thing you did to Mr. Dunphy. And you shouldn’t have involved Pat Jr. If I had known about it, I’d have stopped you.”