Читать книгу Country Ham - John Quincy MacPherson - Страница 11

On his way to school Monday morning, Ham saw Uncle Carl had already left the hearse for repair at Moore’s Garage, the same place Ham had left the Studebaker for repairs (turned out to be the starter). He pulled over to the side of the road and walked back to Moore’s shop. It was just after 7:00 a.m. so the Moore brothers hadn’t arrived. Ham found the bullet hole in the passenger door about two inches below the door handle. It was a small hole matching the .22 pistol Uncle Rose had brandished Saturday night. Ham whistled, got back in his car, and drove to school.

Ham parked in his familiar spot in the student parking lot. It was raining, so he walked into the gym, which was the shortest route to his first period class. Across the gym, he saw the assistant football coach, Trey Groves, about to enter his little cubbyhole of an office. They were the only two in the gym at the moment. Ham yelled across the gym, “Coach Groves.” The natural intonation of his voice caused the second word to come out louder than the first. Across the gym, Coach Groves heard only his last name. Irritable and tired from the long fight the night before with his estranged wife, Coach Groves took immediate offense at the apparent infraction.

“Ham, get over here right now!”

“Yes sir.” Ham was taken aback by the obvious anger in Coach Groves’s voice.

“Dammit Ham, how many times have I told y’all not to call me by my last name? It’s disrespectful and I won’t tolerate it!”

“But Coach Groves, I did say Coach. You must not have heard me across the gym. I’d never disrespect you like that.”

“Bullshit Ham! I know none of you athletes respect me.”

“Coach, I played football for you for four years. ‘Course I respect you. I never done nothin’ like this before. I promise you I said ‘Coach.’”

By now Coach Groves had become unhinged. “Nah, you boys think I’m just a washed up teacher and all. Ever since my wife took up with that damned quarterback over at Starmount High, I’ve been the laughin’ stock of the county. I’m gonna teach you a goddamn lesson, Ham, you and everybody else will never forget!”

Coach Groves went behind his desk and pulled out his paddle. The paddle was actually a baseball bat with the barrel end shaved and smoothed to make a flat hard surface. Ham had heard of the baseball paddle—it had a name, but he couldn’t remember it—but he had never actually seen it or knew anyone who had ever been on the receiving end of it.

“Pull your pants down and bend over the desk, Ham.”

“Sir?”

“I said, ‘Pull your pants down and bend over the desk,’ dammit.”

“But Coach—”

“Just do it.”

Ham complied.

“Boxers, too.”

Ham pulled his boxers down below his knees and bent over Coach Groves’s old school issued oak desk. Ham could not believe what was happening to him.

WHACK. Coach Groves brought the paddle down on Ham’s exposed buttocks with violent force. Ham grunted.

WHACK. A second blow harder than the first landed on Ham’s backside. For a reason he would never be able to explain, Ham snickered. Maybe it was because of the absurdity of the situation, him standing with his jeans and boxers down around his ankles in Coach Groves’s cubbyhole office. Maybe it was to keep from crying. Maybe it was because at that moment he remembered the name of Coach Groves’s paddle—Jose, after Chicago Cubs outfielder Jose Cardenal, whose signature was engraved on the unshaven portion of the barrel of the Louisville Slugger bat. Kids used to say, “Jose, can you see Trey?” He even remembered the model number—C271; that bat was known for its large sweet spot.

Ham may not have known why he snickered, but Coach Groves did. “Makin’ fun of me again, you big oaf?” Groves shouted. “I’ll show you!”

Coach Groves grasped the handle of Jose with both hands and swung at Ham’s hams as hard as he could. WHAMMMM!! His feet left the floor as the bat struck Ham’s backside with a sickening thud. An instant later and the bat splintered into several pieces. Ham gave out a blood-curdling cry that caused the kids who had gathered for first period gym to come running over. Coach Groves shooed everyone way, saying to mind their own business.

He turned back to Ham, “Pull your pants up, boy, and get to class. AND DON’T EVER CALL ME THAT AGAIN!”

“Yes sir.” Ham said weakly, gingerly pulling his shorts and trousers up over his throbbing buttocks. He thought, “I don’t think anything’s broken or I wouldn’t be able to walk.” Actually, he was barely able to walk, and he certainly could not sit. He stood whenever he could, and when a teacher asked him why he was standing, he just said, “Tryin’ to stretch my legs.” Or “Got a Charlie horse, Miss Turnage.” When forced to sit, he tried to make as little contact with the chair seat as possible. He didn’t tell anyone what had happened, not even Nora. He was embarrassed and ashamed. He drove home that day by leaning back against the upright seat without having to put his bottom on the seat.

When he hobbled into the house, his mother immediately wanted to know what happened. He knew he couldn’t fool his mother, so he didn’t try. Standing on one foot and then the other, he began to sob and through the tears told his mother what had happened. Nina hugged Ham and rubbed his back.

“Let me see where he hit you, Hammie.”

“Okay, Mama.” Ham pulled down his pants so his mother could see. Nina gasped at the huge, angry whelp that went from one side of Ham’s butt to the other. Blood blisters had already formed. And the very center of the whelp was white as if there were no blood there at all.

“Good Lord, Hammie, we’ve got to get you to the doctor.” Nina told Ham to pull up his pants and said simply, “Let’s go.”

Nina put down the back seats of the station wagon and told Ham to lie down on his stomach if he could. He obeyed, and she drove him to the Wilkes General Emergency Room. When they got out of the car, Ham noticed Nina’s eyes were red.

“Have you been cryin’, Mama?”

“A little, Hammie. I can’t believe somebody would do this to you!” She squeezed his hand.

The doctor ordered x-rays, which came back negative for any broken bones. He gave Ham two large pills and handed Nina the rest of the bottle and an ointment to apply to the wound. Then he said, “He can stay home from school for a day if you like.” Then he added, “Your son is very lucky he was not hit higher across his backside; the damage could have included skeletal fractures or nerve tissues.”

Relieved, Nina said, “Thank you Doctor. I’m so glad Hammie’s gonna be okay.” By the time they got home, the painkiller had taken the edge off the throbbing, though the pain was still there.

Ham could see his dad was home. He pushed through the back screen door and headed up to his room. He lay down on his stomach across the bed. He could hear muffled voices as his mother presumably explained where they had been and why there was no dinner on the table. Thom Jeff let out a yell; Ham wondered if it was because of his whoopin’ from Coach Groves or because Thom Jeff had no dinner. He heard his mother rustling around in the kitchen; he knew she was putting leftovers out for dinner. He knew his father hated leftovers.

Nina called out, “Diane and Michael Allen! Dinner’s ready. Wash up and come to the table.” His mother knew he wasn’t coming down for dinner.

His mother came in to check on him before she went to bed. “Hammie, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think so Mama. I didn’t call Coach Groves by his last name, Mama. I promise.”

“I know you didn’t son. Coach Groves has a lot of family problems and what not. Ought not to be workin’ at the school in my opinion. He nor nobody else has the right to hit a child like that.”

“What’s goin’ happen, Mama?”

“I don’t know, Hammie. We’ll figure it out. You just have to concentrate on gettin’ better.”

“Can you sit for a while, Mama, and maybe sing to me?” Ham felt a little foolish, asking that. His mother hadn’t sung to him since he was a small child.

“Sure Hammie.” Nina sat and sang Peter, Paul, and Mary songs, “Puff the Magic Dragon,” “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” and “Stewball.” The last words he remembered before falling asleep were

Old Stewball was a racehorse and I wish he were mine He never drank water; he only drank wine.

In the morning when Ham came down for breakfast, his father was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.

“You all right, Ham?”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, I’m goin’ to school with you today to have a word with Coach Groves.”

“You don’t have to do that, Daddy.” Ham knew when his father “had a word” with someone it never stopped with just a word. “I’druther just let it go.”

Thom Jeff ignored that statement. “Can you sit or do you need to ride in the back of the truck?”

Ham took a quick inventory of his current physical condition. “I think I can sit, but probably shouldn’t drive.”

“Okay, then eat your breakfast and let’s go.” Ham woofed down a bowl of cereal while standing beside the sink, and kissed his mother, who had been carefully observing the interaction between the two. He gingerly made his way to the Studebaker.

When they got to the school, Thom Jeff and Ham headed straight for the gym. Coach Groves saw them coming, and began walking toward them with his hands raised. “Hold on now, Thom Jeff. Let me explain.”

Thom Jeff ignored him and walked straight into Coach Groves’s office, turned and glared at Coach Groves. Ham followed his father and stood behind him. Groves sighed and went into the room. There was barely enough room to close the door.

“Ray, nobody hits my boy but me.” Ham knew the latter part of that statement was true. He thought about the whippings he had received from his father with a variety of instruments—switches made from Weeping Willow branches, flyswatters, and Thom Jeff’s favorite, his leather belt.

“Thom Jeff. Ham disrespected me. He knows the rules and called me by my last name with no ‘Coach’ or even ‘Mr.’ in front of it.”

“The boy says he said ‘Coach’ before he said ‘Groves,’ but you didn’t hear it.”

“Yeah, he told me that too. But like I told him, if I didn’t hear him it was like he didn’t say it. Kinda like a tree fallin’ in the woods. If nobody hears it, it don’t make a sound.” Actually, Ham thought, you didn’t say that.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass if he called you Jesus Efin’ Christ, Trey! You got no business hittin’ my son with a goddamned baseball bat.” Thom Jeff was getting wound up now, and he hadn’t even been drinking! Ham was impressed, especially since the last person Thom Jeff had argued with had pulled a gun on him.

Something on the shelf behind Coach Groves’s desk caught Thom Jeff’s eyes. It was part of the barrel and handle from the baseball paddle, posed like a kind of trophy. Thom Jeff reached up and pulled the pieces off the shelf. He turned the barrel fragment over in his hand.

“This the thing he hit you with Ham?”

“Yes sir, what’s left of it.”

“Jose Cardenal? Plays for the Cubs, don’t he?”

Coach Groves tensed body slackened a bit. “That’s right. Outfielder. The Cubs are my fav—”

“I oughta drag your ass before the school board or file criminal charges, but my wife says no. She’s afraid that would come back to hurt Ham in some way. And she feels bad cause you and your missus is goin’ through a bad patch. So, against my better judgment, I’m not goin’ to go public, but dammit Trey, this better never happen again.” Thom Jeff said it with such conviction Ham believed it to be true. Evidently, so did Coach Groves, who was probably equally relieved to learn Ham and his family were not going to pursue disciplinary action with the school board.

“All right, Thom Jeff, I hear you.” Then Coach Groves said to Ham, “Ham, I’m sorry things got a little out of hand yesterday. I shouldn’t have broke Jose over your butt.” Ham thought Coach Groves sounded genuinely remorseful, but he thought it might be more for the loss of Jose than for any undue pain he had caused Ham.

“There are two conditions for me lettin’ this go. First, you’re gonna get an emergency room bill from us. I expect a certified check within a week of your gettin’ it.” Groves nodded.

“Second,” he turned the bat handle over slowly in his hand, “you ever take a paddle or lay a hand on a single hair of my boy’s head or any other student here, I will personally come up here and shove this handle and barrel so far up your ass you’ll be readin’ Jose’s name with the back of your eyeballs.”

Coach Groves’s eyes widened.

“Let’s go, Ham.” Thom Jeff said and abruptly left the office. Ham started toward the exit where the Studebaker was parked. But Thom Jeff walked across the gym to where the baseball coach’s office was. He found Coach Maynard leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, reading the morning paper and eating a doughnut. Maynard jumped up when he saw Thom Jeff and his star pitcher.

“Mornin’ Mr. MacPherson!” Coach Maynard beamed. “Ham.” Coach nodded toward Ham. To Coach Maynard’s knowledge, Thom Jeff had never been to see Ham pitch during his three years on varsity, but Coach Maynard knew who Thom Jeff was nonetheless.

“How can I help you?”

“Ham won’t be playin’ tonight, Coach.” Ham was the regular Friday night pitcher; on Tuesdays he played first base.

“Why not, Mr. MacPherson?

“He’s injured.”

“Why, how did he get injured?” Coach Maynard asked. It had rained yesterday so there was no practice, and Coach hadn’t seen Ham at all yesterday.

“Why don’t you ask Groves about that?” Thom Jeff turned to walk away. Then over his shoulder said, “He may not be able to pitch on Friday either.”

Coach Maynard’s mouth dropped open, but before he could say anything, Thom Jeff and Ham were headed out of the gym. Thom Jeff muttered, “That oughta take care of that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ham saw Coach Maynard, who outweighed Coach Groves by 100 pounds, stomping across the gym floor toward Coach Groves’s office yelling, “Groves! Groves! What the hell have you done now?”

As they got into the Studebaker to go home, Ham realized he should not have had such unkind thoughts about his father, at least not this time. His father really did care about him, Ham decided, even if he had a hard time showing it.