Two weeks ago, Dean and I attempted to make nitroglycerin in my basement laboratory. We claimed partial success because he dropped a test tube of the liquid, and it burst into flames with a ‘pop’ sound. However, our research revealed the product needed more refinement.
Since my two-week grounding kept me on the property, I decided to clean my glassware and put away chemicals from the experiment. With Mom calling to verify my presence in the house, I couldn’t leave the property. The phone rang upstairs, and I ran from the lab. Bounding up the steps two at a time, I lunged to the phone on the fifth ring, just before the call went to the answering machine.
“Hello!”
“Man, you sound out of breath,” said Dean. “I bet you were cleaning your lab.”
“Yeah–you’re right. I was putting stuff away, and an idea came to me about the nitroglycerin. We can refine it using a special piece of glassware called a retort. I’ll try to save enough money to order one. It looks like I’ll be working more this summer.”
“You mean working is part of your punishment?”
“Maybe. Mom said I’m on restriction for two weeks and can’t leave the yard without an adult. She thinks I need to set goals and stay busy, so extra work may be part of my punishment. I might even have to go to my Uncle Eugene’s farm and help Mom and Detective Roark with Vacation Bible School. But that’s not the worst part; I have to meet with Palmy, Detective Roark, Mr. Johns, and my mom later today.”
“Watching Potbelly Palmy run all through the park was hilarious. I got grounded for a week but can leave to play baseball. By the way, the word is already out about us. Bishop and Henry, from the baseball team, called me.”
“Why did they call you?”
“They just wanted to be sure I could still play. I told them I’m still good for baseball.”
“When does baseball start?”
“Tryouts are tomorrow. That gives me an idea. Why don’t you try out for baseball? I’ll speak to Coach, and you’ll be chosen for our team. Practice and games will keep you busy for the entire summer. Bishop and Henry are on the team, and you know both of them.”
“Yeah, I know them, but no way. I don’t like sports all that much, and what if I’m not good enough to make your team? Besides, I’m not sure Mom would let me leave the house.”
“This could be your goal for the summer! Make the all-star team! We have a couple of games a week and practice on some other days.”
“It would be fun to be on the same team. We could have some good laughs. Could you and I practice together first?”
“I don’t think we have time. Mom is taking me to see the doctor later today. Besides, almost everyone makes one team or another. I’ve seen you play in our pickup games, and you’re better than most of the players that are chosen for teams. So you’ll be picked for a team, even if it isn’t the Jaycees. I don’t remember. Are you left-handed or right-handed?”
With my thumb, I rubbed the wart on my right middle finger knuckle to remind me of my right hand. “I’m right-handed, but there’s no way I’m trying out for baseball. I’d be out in the field, limping around and making a fool of myself in front of everyone. I’ll wait until after today’s meeting and see what happens.”
“Okay, but keep the idea in mind. Tryouts are tomorrow. I have to go, so think about it.”
The problem with Bible School was all the rules and snotty-nosed little kids running around. The problem with mowing lawns was the particular, snooty people. What difference did the direction make when everything was drying up? Dad would help if he were here.
The phone started buzzing because I hadn’t hung up. I returned it to its cradle, and my dog, Andy, scratched at the back kitchen door.
“Good boy. How come I don’t get to be free like you?”
Andy squeezed between the doorframe and my leg, turned, and sat. “Arf!”
“That’s okay, boy. You can get on my bed,” and he ran to my room.
I walked to the front storm door. Across the street, my twelve-year-old neighbor, Major Brooks, threw a tennis ball against the side of his family’s brick home and attempted to catch the rebound. Restrictions kept me on the property but not inside the house. If I couldn’t be free, I could at least watch freedom. I ran to my room, opened the window to hear the phone, and then walked to the street curb.
Major missed a lot of balls because he wasn’t positioning his glove correctly. He caught balls bouncing a step or two in front, but he missed balls to both sides and the ones at his feet. He missed another one, and it rolled close to the street.
Major ran and retrieved the ball. “Hey, Gavin. What’re you doing this summer?”
Major’s parents, Percy and Julia, were African-Americans and always kind and welcoming to me. Mrs. Brooks made delicious toasted tomato sandwiches, but many neighbors didn’t like that they had moved to the neighborhood.
Major ambled to the curb across from me. “You want to play catch?”
“Not right now. Why are you throwing the ball against your house?”
“I’m getting ready to try out for baseball tomorrow. I need the practice, and I don’t have anybody to throw with.”
“Oh? I didn’t know they let black kids play. I hope you get picked.”
Major giggled. “I know! Right? But all I can do is try. If I don’t make it this year, then maybe next year. Do you have any ideas for me? I could use some help.”
“No, I don’t think I can help you. I can’t leave the yard. Could you get your dad’s help?”
“Dad is always working, and if not he… I don’t know. It wouldn’t work. Are you trying out for a team this year?”
“No. I don’t play baseball.”
“I’ve seen you with a glove before. You, Dean, and some other guys with bats and gloves walking toward Carter Field.”
“Yeah, I’ve played pickup games, but never on a team.”
“Well, you should try out.”
“Dean had that idea.”
“Well, why not?”
“I—ah. Well, right now, I can’t leave the yard. Besides, I don’t really like sports.”
“You’re grounded. Why?”
That’s the problem with little kids. They’re always asking embarrassing questions. “I got caught with fireworks. No big deal.”
“Really? By the police?”
“Yeah. But we didn’t get arrested or anything,” Not yet.
Major used his glove to point back to the brick wall. “Wow! Well, I’ve gotta get back to practice. Remember that tryouts are tomorrow if you change your mind.”
On the first throw, the ball returned to his side, and again, he set up wrong and missed the ball.
I walked back toward my front door.
“Hey. Why didn’t you help Major?”
My next-door neighbor Tatum, also fourteen years old, stood at the end of a tall hedge separating the two front lawns. I changed course to meet her. She smoothed her short, soft-looking brown hair. Her clean jeans and new-looking multi-colored shirt made her look different. Or was it a blouse? I’d never thought of her as pretty. More like someone who liked to ride bikes, play kick-the-can, and swing on vines. “I’m not really a baseball player.”
Tatum gestured down to the grass and gravel driveway in which we stood. “I’ve watched you do the same thing here in y’all’s driveway, and you catch most of the balls. You could have helped him.”
She’s fussing at me. “Yeah, that’s right, but I can’t leave my yard.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Give me a break. You could have brought him over here. Anyway, does your grounding have anything to do with Detective Roark bringing you home last night?”
“So, you saw that?”
“Yeah. We all did. Dad said,” she put up air quotes and lowered her voice, “That boy is going to jail one day.”
“Ah—well. It was close last night.”
“Did you get any punishment besides being grounded?”
“I don’t know it all yet. I have more chores and still have to meet with Mr. Johns and the police.”
“Oh, wow. So, it’s not over?” Tate pressed her lips in a fine line, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer.
“I hope it will be soon.”
She uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. “Look, I’ve got to go. Mom is waiting for me. I hope all this stuff works out for you.”
“Thanks. I hope it does too.” She turned and cutely walked away.
Mr. Willard, a local handyman, rumbled into our driveway in his old, faded, red Ford pickup. Dean and I joked about how it sounded like some of the older teenager’s mufflers, but Mr. Willard used rust instead of cash.
“Hello, son. Your mom wants me to look at y’all’s arbor and give her a price for tearing it down.”
“Yes, sir. She said you’d be coming by.”
Mr. Willard, wearing his usual brown, sweat-stained hat, limped down the driveway, and I followed him. Sycamore trees lining our driveway would soon shed their bark between our home and the Pulling’s home. One more job to do. My Uncle Thornton called them and Magnolias “trash trees.”
The arbor’s wisteria grew thick with large vine stems. When in bloom, it smelled really good, but the wooden structure had rotted despite the gallons of paint I applied. The fast-growing vines needed trimming more than I liked and even popped up in the lawn.
Mr. Willard shook the wooden support. “Come here, boy, shake this, and you can see how rotten it is.”
I didn’t care about the rot. I just wanted it gone. I placed my right hand on a wooden brace and moved it back and forth. The entire structure moved. “Yes, sir. It’s pretty rotten, and the vines grow like the ones in the woods behind the school. Even in the yard where I have to mow.”
“You got that right. It’s not the frame holding the whole thing up. It’s the plant.” Mr. Willard pointed at my right hand. “Boy, that’s a mess of warts you got on your right hand. Do you go in those woods often?”
I moved my other hand over the warts. “I… I go there to ride bikes and play with friends and to school and back.”
“Well, just be sure to stay on the paths. Would you like those warts gone?”
“I don’t want any shots or anything.”
Oh, no. No cutting and no shots. I know this nice lady that will put a potion over them, and they will go away. You just can’t think about them.”
I uncovered my hand. “If it’s alright with Mom, it’d be alright with me.”
Mr. Willard laughed and took my hand. “It might take a couple of treatments, but we’ll blow them things away like crepe myrtle blossoms in a hurricane. I’ll come by sometime and give your mom the price, and I’ll mention it to her then.” He turned and hobbled away. “I’ll see you later.”
Neighbors told stories about Mr. Willard hurting his right leg in Vietnam when he attempted to save the life of his friend, Tom Patterson, the husband of Mrs. Patterson. She lived down the street and should have been sent to Vietnam permanently.
Back at my father’s old desk, I worked on a drawing. Mom’s car door slammed, and I put my drawing pencil down. The ‘big meeting’ would begin soon, and Detective Roark had asked me to apologize to Officer Palmer. Another hard job. Palmy had such a bad attitude about kids, always assuming the worst.
I met Mom in the living room, and she reviewed what I needed to do and how I needed to act. She finished with all my instructions, and with perfect timing, a knock sounded on the door.
She opened it and stepped back. “Hi, Butch. Won’t you come in?”
Detective Roark stepped in with Officer Palmer behind him. “Hi, Patsey. I’m sure you remember Officer Noel Palmer.”
Mom partially lifted her hand and moved toward Officer Palmer, apologizing for having to meet again under ‘these circumstances.’
Officer Palmer wriggled his lips and loosely lifted one hand with a ‘who cares’ gesture.
Mom changed her hand motion to indicate seating. Good recovery, Mom.
Detective Roark’s face redden. “And, of course, you know Gavin.”
I returned Officer Palmer’s nod and stood still.
Detective Roark moved his head and eyes, indicating I needed to come from across the room. I walked over and offered my hand. After hesitating, Palmer lifted his fish-cold, floppy hand, and we shook once. I returned to my seat, and Palmer sat across from me. Mom sat next to me.
The doorbell rang again, and Mom asked Detective Roark, still standing at the door, to answer it. He welcomed Mr. Johns, who entered wearing his full Saponi Indian dress, including moccasins.
He often wore tribal attire to important functions, except school events. He had worn it once to a school function and had been punished. The school board didn’t like different, but kids knew him as an adult who talked to us, not at us.
Palmer turned his head and softly said, “Oh, god.”
Mr. Johns glanced at Palmer. Mom flinched and fingered her cross, and everyone avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Finally, Mom jumped up. “Hi, Ted. Thanks so much for coming.”
Mr. Johns shook hands with her and sat next to Detective Roark. Palmer, arms recrossed over his coffee-stained light blue shirt, with a white t-shirt underneath, and now showing over his tarnished belt buckle, never left his seat. His eyes moved around and never made contact. I quickly looked away when Palmer, a bump in the circle, caught me staring.
Detective Roark leaned forward. “We’re here today to devise a plan for Gavin, but first, I think Gavin has something to say to Officer Palmer, don’t you, Gavin?”
Shit. Mom had warned me this would be coming, and they didn’t forget. “Yes, sir. I—I just want to apologize to you, Officer Palmer. We shouldn’t have set the fireworks—I’m sorry.”
Palmer uncrossed his arms. “You’ve offered an apology, and I think that’s a good start. However, the money you’ve cost the taxpayers of this community can never be repaid. Just keep your nose clean, and you and I won’t have any more problems.”
Asshole
Detective Roark leaned back. “It looks like we may be making some progress. The other thing that we wanted to talk about is keeping Gavin out of further trouble. Patsey, you’ve discussed Gavin’s summer plans, right?”
“Yes and no. I’ve suggested some ideas for Gavin,” She turned to me, “but he hasn’t really responded.” Then, she turned to Roark, “He likes spending time at the kid’s art club, Prize 434, delivering the News and Record twice a week, and he has some lawns to mow. But budget cuts have reduced his time at the Prize, and his mowing has dried up with the drought.”
Detective Roark began talking about the drought and his lack of talent at gardening, which happily took the spotlight off me. Then Mr. Johns spoke about his sister-in-law and how her neighborhood shared land, water, and work to benefit everyone.
Palmer coughed and put his hands on the upholstered chair arms. “Let’s stick to the topic of the hour. What kind of punishment is he receiving? I need to finish up some paperwork. I want to watch a baseball game from the West Coast.”
Detective Roark leaned toward Palmer. “Well, Officer Palmer, what would you like to see happen?
I couldn’t believe I had heard that. I’d already been grounded until Mom’s cheer gauge had topped out, and now this guy would demand a year.
Palmer’s pits darkened, and he bared his teeth. “Yeah, there are a lot of things. I just can’t say it in front of his mom. Come on, you folks. These kids today are all a bunch of spoiled punks with no respect for authority. I mean, if they all had the kind of whippings I had as a kid, there would be no problems. One time my daddy whipped me with a belt until I bled, and no telling what would have happened if Mom hadn’t stepped in. I mean, my as—butt was raw—.
Detective Roark opened his mouth—. “Ah—ah, there are many problems that need to be solved. Patsey, have you enacted any punishment for Gavin?”
Mom glanced at Palmer. “Of course. He’s on restriction and can’t leave the property until I’m satisfied that he’s changed his ways.”
“Wait, this needs to be fair. Dean only got a week, and now, you’re saying I might have to wait longer.” I pointed at Palmer. “And he still has Dad’s knife.”
Officer Palmer jumped up and rested his hand on his gun. “You better believe it. You’re lucky you’re not in jail. You were carrying a concealed weapon. It’s just one of many things that I have to deal with on these mean streets.”
Detective Roark spread out his hands and moved them in a downward motion. “Okay, okay. Gavin, I think you may have said enough. Just take it easy.” With eyes pleading for help, Roark turned to Mr. Johns. “Mr. Johns, is there anything you can add to this conversation?”
I sat back in my chair. Officer Palmer stood for a second longer, settled into his chair, and recrossed his arms.
“I’ve heard a lot today explaining a lot of things. I want to continue counseling and tutoring Gavin and hopefully guide him positively. I know Gavin likes art and drama—
Mr. Johns stopped with Officer Palmer’s interruption. “Art and drama. Who are you kidding? He hangs at the Prize with all those other freaks. None of them play sports. Let him get a real job at one of the local businesses like Meggetts’s Department Store. Or—or he could work on my dad’s farm. That man will make him grow up fast.”
Mom stuck her hand out. “Hold on a minute. I already have a farm job worked out for Gavin if he wants it.”
I didn’t like the direction of this meeting.
Detective Roark’s smile softened his voice as he turned to Palmer. “So, you’re a baseball fan?”
Palmer uncrossed his arms, and his eyes sparkled. “Yep. I’m strictly National League. I like the Giants.”
“Ha. Well, there you go. We have one thing in common. The National League.”
Mr. Johns sat forward. “It’s an American sport. Even some native Indians played a game they called “stickball.” It was sometimes used to settle tribal disputes. Nothing like today’s games, but still American.”
Officer Palmer huffed. “That’s not an American game. Sticks and a ball. Come on. The guys on the real baseball field have to face ninety-mile-per-hour balls when at bat, and well over a hundred when the ball comes off the bat. And, then, there’s the game inside…
I relaxed. There had been a change in the room. The tension had gone down, and Mom smiled at me. If only Dean and I had known the baseball thing on ‘dog shit’ night. Maybe I wouldn’t have been grounded the entire summer.
Officer Palmer appeared relaxed for the first time, sat forward in his chair, and continued talking. “…many people think baseball is boring, but they just don’t understand.”
After Palmer finished, Detective Roark stared at him for a beat. “Okay. Maybe at this point, I should summarize. We all agree that Gavin deserves some punishment. He apologized for his behavior and will continue counseling with Mr. Johns. Does everyone agree?”
I counted three nodding heads. One head, Officer Palmer, with a frown, crossed his arms. At least he kept his mouth shut.
Roark continued. “Mr. Johns, is there anything you can add?”
“I…I think Gavin has come a long way over the past year. His grades are up, and I believe he truly was finding himself at Prize 434. I think his punishment should continue through this coming Thursday, because at some point he needs his freedom so he can prove or disprove his ability to function within the rules. We are all fortunate that he and Dean didn’t hurt Officer Palmer or themselves because, as we all know, fireworks can take off fingers. It’s a reason they’re against the law.”
Detective Roark sat forward. “Well, I couldn’t agree more. I’d like to add I will stand behind Officer Palmer in taking Gavin to court if he gets into any more trouble. But one thing remains, what does Gavin want. So, Gavin, remember that many people have to do something they may not like for a while until they get to a place where they can do what they want. You’ve been given many choices today. So, what is it you want to do?
“I want to play baseball.”
wkspizer 