The Legend of Mickey Tussler Read online

  The boy fidgeted. “Aw, don’t reckon Mickey remembers.”

  Arthur smiled softly. “Well, that’s all right now. It’s nice to meet you, Mickey. You’ve got quite an arm there. Really. I was watching you from over there. How old are you?”

  The boy was biting the inside of his cheek. “I got me some pigs, sir. Want to see my pigs?”

  “Uh, sure. Maybe later.”

  “I got six of ’em. My favorite one is named Oscar.” Arthur studied the boy. He was certainly in amazing shape. A fine athletic specimen. But there was something about him. A vacuity behind his eyes that seemed to overshadow everything else.

  “Well, that sounds very nice, son. Say, how old did you say you are, Mickey?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Ever play baseball?”

  Mickey just looked at him.

  Murph thought again about Dennison’s ominous admonition and how desperately grave his situation with the ball club had become.

  “You, know. Baseball. Three strikes. Home run. All that good stuff.”

  “I don’t reckon I have. I’ll show you my pigs now. I got six of ’em.” Then Mickey placed his hands together and began rolling his elbows once again.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, Mickey. In a minute. But first, how’s about waiting here while I run to my car. Then maybe you can show me that neat trick of yours again—you know, throwing those apples in the barrel?”

  Mickey nodded blankly. Murph was gone and back in a flash, fearful that the boy might change his mind. With his breath short and erratic, Murph reached down to pick up one of the wormy specimens that had fallen outside the original makeshift grid. He tossed it in the air a couple of times. Then he reached into his pocket with his other hand and presented to Mickey a beautiful new baseball.

  “What do ya say, kid?” Murph prompted, holding out both his hands. “They’re almost the same exact size. Except mine is real clean and smooth. Go on. Have a feel for yourself.” Murph watched as the boy’s hand swallowed the ball. “Pretty neat, huh?”

  Mickey ran his fingers over the laces. “Mickey likes it, sir.”

  Murph smiled. His heart beat on. “How about giving it a toss, Mickey? You know, right over in that barrel. Just for laughs.”

  The boy nodded. “Can I show you my pigs now?”

  “Well, sure you can, son. But first, I’d love to see you toss that baseball into that barrel.”

  The monotony of the conversation sank into a vague haze through which Murph’s glittering visions persisted. He placed his hand on the boy’s back and nudged him gently. “What do you say, son?” he prodded. “Will you do that for me?”

  “Okay, Mr. Murphy. Mickey will do it.”

  Murph watched with immeasurable fascination as the boy held the ball, brought his hands together, and rolled his arms. Then, like a bolt of lightning released from the heavens, the ball took flight, a streak of white radiance that cut the air with a whizzing sound before landing directly in the center of the barrel, splintering the wood. Murph’s eyes widened like saucers. His breath was gone again. Then, in the flatness that followed the euphoria, Murph knew, just knew, that he had stumbled on something special.

  “How’s that, Mr. Murphy?”

  “That’s terrific kid. Terrific. Now, what do ya say I go get that ball and you do it one more time. Then we’ll check on those pigs.”

  Mickey looked right past Arthur. His face twitched ever so slightly and his gaze was off in the distance, focused on the raucous noise at the side door of the barn.

  “Godammit!” a man thundered, incensed by a baby chick that would not stay in its pen with the others. “Git back here.”

  Arthur turned around. An elderly man in dirty overalls and a straw hat had come through the door and was sidling over to them. He had a pitchfork in one hand and a metal bucket in the other.

  “What can I do for ya, stranger? I reckon ya’s lost or sumpin like that.”

  The appearance of the farmer altered the boy’s demeanor. He became stiff and distant and rocked nervously while muttering words that Arthur could not understand.

  Slowly, silently, now the moon,

  Walks the night in her silver shoon;

  This way, and that, she peers and sees,

  Silver fruit upon silver trees.

  The old farmer had a hardened look to him. He was strong too, but not like the boy. His salt-and-pepper beard was dirty and snarled and his voice strained and raspy.

  “Hello,” Arthur said, extending his hand to the farmer. “I’m sorry. Arthur Murphy’s the name. I was just explaining to your son here—”

  “Don’t bother splaining nothing to him. Wasting your time.” The old farmer smelled of tobacco. He had a wad of chew squirreled in his cheek and was working on a thin piece of straw that danced across his lip and in the gap between his stained teeth when he spoke.

  “Well, my car is sort of banged up,” Arthur continued. “I was hoping to make a phone call, if it’s all right.”

  “Clarence Tussler. You in need of assist?” the man responded, shaking Arthur’s hand.

  The boy just stood nervously, cowering behind his father. “ ‘Slowly, silently, now the moon …,’ ” he repeated, almost catatonic.

  “Knock that off, boy, ya hear!” Clarence chided. “Sorry ’bout that, Mr. Murphy. He does that sometimes when he gets nervous. Some cockamamy poem his ma learned him.”

  “That’s okay,” Arthur answered. “And, yeah. Your help would be great.” He was still staring at the boy. “That would be great. I could sure use a telephone. And maybe some directions.”

  The farmer was about to say something when out of the corner of his eye he observed a tiny ball of gossamer yellow feather, vocal and wayward.

  “Son of a—!” He flew into a rage, raising his boot high above the chick until a cold shadow enveloped the helpless creature. Then, with an inescapable vengeance, he lowered his foot hard, grinding his heel into the ground with curious delight.

  “Annoying little bastard,” he mumbled. “That’ll learn ya.”

  Then the irascible farmer spit out his chew, took a cigarette from his outer pocket, and lit it, his deliberate motions noticeably slower from the effort he was making to calm himself.

  Murph winced. He gazed briefly at the farmer in disbelief, appearing to abandon his search for something that he suddenly felt could not possibly exist.

  “Why don’t ya follow me up to the house, fella,” Clarence said from behind a cloud of smoke. He scratched his beard. Then he shot his son a look.

  “What ya looking so stupid about, boy. Go on. Go on now. Finish with them apples, then git yer keister over to them troughs. Pigs got to eat soon.”

  Murph looked at Mickey, not knowing what to think. “Say, you’ve got some arm there, kid. It was sure nice meeting you, Mickey.”

  The boy just hung his head.

  Clarence frowned and exhaled loudly while tapping his boot on the ground. “Well, go on, boy. You heard me.”

  Arthur walked alongside Clarence. Once or twice he turned back to look at Mickey, sad and defeated, his head hanging between his massive shoulders. Clarence didn’t give his son a second thought. Just rambled on about his property and the Tussler family history.

  “So, what brings you out this here way, Mr. Murphy?” he asked, pulling on the handle of the aluminum screen door.

  “Clarence, is that you?’ a voice called from inside the house.

  “Yeah, Molly, it’s me. Get out here. We got us company.”

  The abrasive farmer tossed a sleeping cat from the chair closest to the door and motioned for Arthur to sit down.

  The room was dark and oppressive. The walls were splashed with a mahogany paneling that drowned out the little light that squeezed through the heavy draperies across the windows. Papers and cartons and other random objects were strewn about the room. Clarence stood leaning against a gray stone mantel, adorned with a yellowing lace doily held in place by an old brass lantern. Next to that was a family por
trait in a tarnished frame and a dusty clarinet. Arthur’s eyes hurt, as if something acerbic were in the air. It smelled like cat urine or perhaps it was just mold spores. Either way, he could not stop rubbing his eyes.

  “Well?” Clarence asked. “What did you say you were doing in these here parts?”

  “Baseball,” Arthur replied, wiping the moisture from his right eye on his shirtsleeve. “I work for the Milwaukee Brewers. I’m here to scout a local kid.”

  “No kidding? Hey, Molly,” Clarence bellowed. “Did you hear that?”

  A tiny woman with long brown hair and a faint smile entered the room, carrying a tray on which rested a sweating pitcher of lemonade. She was much younger than Clarence. She walked with her shoulders slightly hunched, as if each step were a painful deliberation. He recognized the look in her eyes—it was Mickey’s. She moved carefully around her husband, like a frightened puppy negotiating a dangerous intersection. Her gentleness and timidity were incongruous with everything else he had experienced thus far.

  “Pardon the intrusion, ma’am,” Arthur said, removing his hat. “I had a little car trouble.”

  “Not at all, sir.” She placed a glass on the cluttered table in front of him. “Guests are always welcome in our home.” She poured the lemonade and stood uneasily next to her husband.

  “Say, before I use your telephone, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Well, I reckon that ought to be all right. Shoot, Mr. Murphy. What’s eating at you?”

  “Mickey’s got quite an arm. I was watching him hurl those crab apples across your property. He ever play any baseball?”

  Clarence laughed incredulously. His voice became louder and even more overbearing. “Baseball?” he mocked. “You want Mickey to play baseball? Now, what in tarnation is a baseball team gonna do with a retard? Huh?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The farmer was scratching his beard. His amusement brought forth a smile, foul and yellow.

  “What my husband meant to say, Mr. Murphy, is that Mickey is a little—”

  “I said exactly what I meant to say, woman,” Clarence barked, raising his hand in mock attack. “Don’t you be correcting me. He’s a retard. Ain’t much use to us on the farm and probably would be even less useful to you. Tits on a bull. That’s what that boy is.”

  Molly frowned.

  “Look, Mr. Tussler, I mean no disrespect, but I think your son has an extraordinary talent. I watched him out there.”

  “Now, what kind of a country fool you take me for? Huh? You watched him? What, for two minutes? He was smashing apples to mix in with the pig slop. That boy ain’t got no talent. He can’t find his own behind with two hands.”

  Arthur stood up. His eyes were bothering him again. “May I use your telephone?”

  Molly led Arthur into the small kitchen. Off to the side, next to the pantry, was a kerosene heater. It was old and, by the looks of it, barely functioning. The smell ran together with the pungent odor of cabbage cooking on the stove.

  “Here you are, Mr. Murphy,” the woman said softly. “I’ll leave you to your business.”

  Arthur dialed Dennison’s office and explained the mishap. As he detailed the events, he could hear Molly and Clarence exchanging words in the other room.

  “Why do you have to talk about him like that Clarence? Why?”

  “Don’t you question me now, woman,” he fired back. “We got to face what we got here. I don’t got to sugarcoat nothin’ for nobody.”

  “The man says Mickey’s got talent.”

  “Mr. Murphy is a city boy. Don’t know shit from Shinola.”

  “But, Clarence, why can’t we just—”

  “Hush up, woman, ya hear? That’s enough lip from you. Get back in the kitchen and finish fixing what it is you’re fixing.”

  Arthur had finished talking to Dennison when Molly returned to the kitchen. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “Much obliged.” She would not look at him, just passed by, head down, chin resting on her chest.

  He put his hat back on his head and started for the door. Clarence had taken a seat in the rocker and was whittling a piece of wood with a small knife.

  “Did ya get through all right to your friend there, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Yes, yes, I did. They’re sending someone for me right away.”

  “Well, you can set yourself down here for a spell until they come for ya.” Murph cringed at the thought. “If it’s all the same, Mr. Tussler, I’d just as soon wait outside. But before I go, I’d like to make you an offer.”

  “How’s that?”

  “An offer. You know, money.”

  “Mr. Murphy, a phone call ain’t but just a couple of pennies. That’s all right.”

  Murph glanced to the side and smiled. “Well, Clarence, I’d be happy to pay for the call. I insist. But you misunderstood me. I’m talking about Mickey.”

  The farmer stood up. Molly came back quietly and listened by the doorway, out of view.

  “Come again?”

  Shit, what did he have to lose? Murph had no idea if this kid could really cut it on the diamond, but given the situation, how bad could it be?

  “I’ll pay you—thirty-five dollars—if you will let me sign Mickey up for a tryout. Just a tryout. No big deal. It’s just a formality, really. He’ll come with me, back to Milwaukee, and stay with the rest of the fellas on the team. We’ll be able to give him a real good look.”

  Clarence was smiling. All at once the abrasive farmer was juggling crowding thoughts.

  “I can assure you both, it won’t be a big deal,” Murph continued. “He’ll be with me the entire time and should be back in a few days.”

  A loud sound, something like pots and pans crashing against each other, dashed the air.

  “Now hold here, Mr. Murphy,” Molly interrupted, as she emerged out of hiding. “You don’t know anything about Mickey. He’s not what you think. He’s special. You don’t know him. At all. You can’t take him with you.”

  Clarence looked as though he would explode. “Pipe down, Molly,” he thundered. “Don’t go starting a row. Let the man finish. He was talking money with me.”

  “I’m not trying to start a row, Clarence. I appreciate the offer, Mr. Murphy. Really. It’s nice that you like our boy. But it is just out of the question.” Molly continued to duck the menacing looks Clarence was shooting.

  “Please don’t worry, Mrs. Tussler,” Murph interrupted. “Really. It’s all legit. I have papers, and everything.”

  “Pay her no mind, Mr. Murphy,” Clarence demanded, shooting Molly a piercing look. “I’ll fix her later.”

  She frowned again and left the room, defeated and bothered by the transparent reversal of her husband’s mood. Arthur watched the conquered woman, her hands in her pockets, feet shuffling quietly, as her silhouette vanished around the corner. Then he turned to face the room once again. The slovenly farmer was smiling at him.

  “Now, Mr. Murphy,” he asked through narrowed lids, “you was saying?”

  TUSSLER FARM—SOME YEARS BEFORE

  Michael James Tussler, “Mickey,” was born on a frigid evening in February, when the clouds had gathered in clumps across a gray, melancholy sky, bringing a thickening darkness and premature night to an already beleaguered town. Tree limbs and rooftops, heavy with the previous night’s storm, frowned at the thickening white veil that had just begun its descent. All around, stray lines of yellow light escaped from frosty windows of the surrounding farmhouses and slid across the icy enclaves, exposing the obvious signs of distress— evergreen boughs hunched mournfully over paralyzed automobiles that had fallen victim to the natural boundaries of the landscape, which had been erased by waves of drifting snow. Barren apple saplings, tiny limbs peeking out helplessly from underneath a suffocating shroud of white. A lonely schoolhouse. It was as if the universe had suddenly sat up and cried out plaintively in defiant opposition to the new life that was destined for hardship and uncompromising cruelty.

 
; At first, everything seemed normal. He was a beautiful baby boy, like every other. He grabbed his toes. Gurgled and cooed. He was the light of his mother’s life. But before long this newfound bliss was betrayed, in a burst of consternation for the little boy. Molly always told herself that God would never give her more than she could handle. Like the man she married. She had grown up in the small town of Bakersfield. She lived according to small-town rules and adopted a small-town sensibility. The concerns of most Bakersfield folk were limited to agricultural. It was their livelihood. Good crops meant good living. And when the harvest was plentiful, and life was smiling upon them, they kicked back and drank beer and talked about hunting and fishing and how the city folk were stuck-up fools, misguided in their frivolous love for theater and music and all things cosmopolitan. Molly was surrounded by that mentality all her life. And although none of the simplicity that plagued the others seemed to run through her veins, she married small-town, as most girls there did. Who knew any better?

  On a bright Sunday morning, the kind where the sun seems to be a splash of yellow sponged across a canvas of blue, she first met Clarence. It was the semiannual pancake breakfast held in the St. Agnes auditorium. He was tall and strong. He had a square jaw, rugged and cleft, and broad, hulking shoulders. He also had his own farm.

  “Say there, little lady,” he said to her, tugging unctuously at his overall straps. “Ain’t you Otis’s daughter?”

  She clasped her hands behind her back and turned her face away. “Uh, ye—ye—yes. Yes, I am.” Her head was down and her eyes fixed on the errant shoots of straw suspended in his bootlaces. Poor Molly. She was timid and unsure. And she was never comfortable around men, much to the chagrin of her father, who lamented that he would never see the day when his daughter would be claimed.

  “Fix yourself up, Molly, for chrissakes,” he always urged. “No man worth a lick ever looks twice at no mousy girl.”

  Molly had had one or two other opportunities with men when she was younger—but nothing had ever materialized. And as time elapsed, thirty approached like a ruthless executioner.