Viola Avenue Page 2

  “He cut it all off,” Bonnie said. “His child bride took off, so he’s trying to get full custody of the children. His attorney told him he better clean up his act.”

  “Jessie left?”

  “Last week,” Bonnie said. “Took up with some college kid and ran off. Nobody knows where.”

  ‘How do you know so much?” Claire asked her aunt.

  “Frieda’s been cleaning the bakery,” Bonnie said. “I’m giving her leftovers for the kids.”

  “One of his kids is playing?” Claire asked.

  “Bluebell,” Hannah said. “She’s on Sammy’s team.”

  Many years ago, when they lived in California, Pip had cheated with and impregnated Jessie, who was a barely legal, precocious rich kid. After Claire divorced him, Pip married Jessie, and they subsequently had three more little girls. Since Pip also had the mental age of a teenager, the pair had one of those tumultuous, drama-filled relationships where one of them was always running off, sticking the other one with the kids. Claire had heard they were divorced, but it hadn’t seemed to keep them apart for long.

  Claire assumed Jessie’s wealthy parents must currently be in the mode of “not enabling” their daughter, which would explain why Pip’s mother, Frieda, was in charge of the children. Frieda was a hard-drinking, hard-smoking, semi-professional con artist who could read your tarot cards with one hand while she pickpocketed your handbag with the other.

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave Frieda alone in the bakery?” Claire whispered to her Aunt Bonnie.

  “We don’t leave until she’s done,” Bonnie said, and then nodded toward the right hand bottom row of the bleachers, where Frieda was sitting with three tow-headed little girls.

  “I know Bluebell, and the baby, Pixie,” Claire said, “but I can’t remember the names of the other two.”

  “Tiger Lily’s the oldest,” Bonnie said. “Then Daisy, Bluebell, and Pixie. God help them.”

  Delia put her hand out to still Claire’s jiggling foot, dangling from where she had crossed her legs.

  “So, when does it start?” Claire asked.

  “Any minute,” Hannah said. “The coaches just turned in the line-up to the announcer.”

  “There’s an announcer?” Claire said.

  Hannah pointed behind them, to the structure they were leaning back against. Someone turned on a microphone just then and the feedback squealed. Evidently, the press box was right behind them and the speaker was right above Claire’s head.

  “Welcome to The Knights of Columbus Community Park Field!” a voice boomed.

  “Lovely,” Claire said.

  Delia again reached out and stilled her daughter’s foot.

  Claire didn’t care about sports and she certainly didn’t want a ringside seat to the latest drama Pip had created, but luckily it was a sunny September day, the air was deliciously cool, the leaves were turning gold and red, and she couldn’t claim she had anything better to do. She leaned back against the press box and closed her eyes behind her dark glasses.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” her Aunt Bonnie said, with a pinch of Claire’s leg. “If we have to watch you have to watch.”

  Claire soon decided that tee ball would almost be as boring as real baseball except for how comical it was. The first child up to bat swung eleven times before he hit the ball. He hit the tee, he hit Patrick, and he moved a lot of air before he finally connected.

  “Are there no strike outs in tee ball?” Claire asked.

  “They’re just getting used to the game,” Bonnie said. “Little League will toughen them up.”

  When the first batter got to first base, he promptly sat down on the bag and began playing in the sandy dirt.

  The next child up to bat was interrupted by the center fielder, who announced he had found a mud puddle with worms in it. All of the players on the field and some from the dugouts scrambled out to look at them. After the worms were safely carried to the other side of the fence, the coaches got the players back where they belonged and the game continued.

  “Does this take all day?” Claire asked.

  “Pretty much,” her mother said.

  Next, a mongrel dog ran onto the field and joyfully evaded all attempts at capture. Hannah particularly enjoyed this, as she was the local animal control officer. Finally, her husband appealed to her from the pitcher’s mound, and Hannah expertly cornered and caught the offender. Someone donated a belt to tie the dog to the bottom bleacher until his owner could come collect him. Hannah called the number on the tag while Pip’s little girls petted him and someone got him water to drink.

  After everyone settled back down, another tiny child made it onto first base and they coaxed the previous occupant to second. Hannah’s son Sammy was up next. The batter’s helmet was too big for him; he kept trying to take it off and his Uncle Patrick kept putting it back on him. Finally, his father walked to home plate and had a few words with him.

  Sammy’s first swing was all air, the second was a foul ball, but the third was a decent ground ball to right field. He seemed shocked by what he’d just done, and had to be prompted by Patrick, his father, the coaches, and everyone in the bleachers to “Run, Sammy!”

  Sammy ran to first base and his Papaw Curtis was there to guide him. All the Fitzpatrick women were on their feet, cheering from the top row. Sammy waved to them.

  The bases were now loaded.

  The next batter was Bluebell, Pip’s next-to-youngest. To everyone’s surprise, she demonstrated a professional batting stance, and Patrick removed the tee.

  “She’s our secret weapon,” Hannah said. “Watch this.”

  The coaches in the outfield asked all the children in the field to move back and pay attention.

  On the first pitch from Sam she hit a long drive to left field. The left fielder, the third baseman, the shortstop, and the second baseman all ran after it, ended up in a pile on top of the ball, and then fought over it.

  While Ed and Pip were occupied trying to untangle the players and get everyone back to his or her position, Sammy saw his opportunity.

  He ran to second base, pulled off his helmet, dropped it, and kept on running. Not to third base, mind you, but into the outfield, over the fence, across the train tracks, and down over the bank toward the river.

  “Look at him go,” Bonnie said. “That little stinker.”

  “Aw, Sammy,” Hannah said with a sigh.

  Fire Chief Malcolm Behr, along with some other spectators, were seated in lawn chairs on the other side of the fence from the outfield. Malcolm took off over the bank after Sammy. When he reappeared, holding Sammy in his arms, the crowd cheered. He handed Sammy to his father, who was waiting at the fence.

  If anyone expected him to get a whuppin’ or a talking to, they were then surprised to see his father tickle and kiss him all the way back to third base.

  Claire could hear people in the crowd murmuring to the tone of, “if that were my kid,” and “there’s the problem right there.”

  Claire glanced at Hannah and was surprised to see tears in her eyes. Claire looked at her mother but Delia just shook her head and put her arm around Hannah. Claire looked at her Aunt Bonnie, but Bonnie just rolled her eyes.

  When the next child got a hit, Ed escorted Sammy to home plate, where Patrick picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, whirled him around, and then stood him up on the plate. All the Fitzpatrick women stood up and cheered. Sammy gave them the thumbs up, and then trotted off to the dugout.

  ‘How many innings are there?” Claire asked.

  “Just two,” Bonnie said.

  “Thank you, sweet Jesus,” Claire said, whereupon Sister Mary Margrethe turned around in her seat, which was right in front of Claire, and wagged her finger.

  Claire was in the middle of apologizing when her Aunt Bonnie pinched her.

  After the game, Claire waited with Hannah and Maggie while the bleachers cleared.

  “Are you all right?” Claire asked Hannah, as soon as Bonn
ie and Delia were out of earshot.

  “It’ll be okay, probably,” Hannah said.

  The tears were gone but there were shadows under her eyes, and for the first time since she’d moved back to Rose Hill, Claire thought Hannah looked every bit of her thirty-nine years.

  “What’s going on?” Claire asked.

  From the dugout, Sam waved to Hannah to come on, and she stood up.

  “I gotta go,” Hannah said. “Maggie can tell you.”

  “I’ve never seen Hannah so miserable,” Claire said after she left. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know Sammy had preschool orientation this past week?” Maggie said. “Hannah couldn’t go, so Sam took him. According to the other mothers, the preschool teacher is new and from out of town, so she doesn’t know anybody here. She’s against letting anyone help out in the classroom, so there’s nobody to keep Sammy from sneaking out.”

  “What has she got against teacher’s aides?”

  “She thinks the children need to learn discipline, and they won’t if someone is always there to coddle them.”

  “If they were older,” Claire said, “but they’re only four, and this is preschool we’re talking about.”

  “Evidently, this woman taught early childhood education at a university, so she’s the expert. She says they’re never too young to learn the consequences of their actions,” Maggie said. “Everyone knows about Sammy, so the church board made a rule especially because of him. If he runs away, he’ll be expelled.”

  “From nursery school.”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Claire said. “This is at Mom’s church, right? Has Hannah talked to Reverend Ben about it? Is there another class?”

  “Our community is so small there are only enough kids for one preschool class,” Maggie said. “There’s no other class they can put him in, and the education committee is standing behind this teacher, supporting her rules. They’re liable if a child gets out of the building. They could be sued.”

  “What are Sam and Hannah going to do?”

  “There’s a preschool in Pendleton, but Hannah’s worried he’ll sneak out of that one and won’t know where he is. He could get hit by a car or kidnapped or something.”

  “Pendleton’s not exactly the big city,” Claire said.

  Maggie cocked an eyebrow, which was a portent of her temper flaring.

  “But I understand what you’re saying,” Claire quickly added. “They could homeschool him.”

  “You know how busy Hannah is, and they need her job for the health insurance,” Maggie said. “She can’t quit and stay home with him.”

  “But Sam could.”

  “Can you imagine that?” Maggie asked.

  “He’s Sammy’s father,” Claire said. “He needs to take responsibility.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes and shook her head, looking just like her mother, Bonnie, but Claire wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing out loud.

  When Hannah found out she was pregnant with Sammy, Sam had agreed to move from their isolated farm out Hollyhock Ridge into Rose Hill, to live on a small farm at the end of Possum Holler, just a quarter mile from town. This agreement was on the condition that he could sell his network security business and work with injured vets full time, for no pay. He and a former football coach had a program at the Rose Hill Community Center where vets could go to rehabilitate their bodies and get some much needed emotional support and mental health counseling. It was staffed by volunteer professionals. Sam loved what he did and was good at it.

  “So, what are they going to do?”

  “Well, your mom has offered to take him in the mornings.”

  “She loves him and I know Dad will love that,” Claire said, “but he needs to be socialized with other children, so he knows how to behave among normal people.”

  “There are no normal people,” Maggie said. “That’s a popular myth, though.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Maggie shrugged.

  “If you can come up with a better solution, let us all know.”

  On Tuesday morning, the day after Labor Day, Hannah wrestled Sammy into some clean clothes and shoes that matched, and then chased him with the comb.

  “No comb!” he yelled as he ran. “Me hates it!”

  They’d only been up for an hour and Hannah was already exhausted. Sammy didn’t want toast, he wanted pancakes. He didn’t want the syrup on the pancakes, he wanted it beside them. He didn’t want the yellow cup, he wanted the green one. He didn’t want the blue shirt, he wanted the red one that was covered in mud and grass stains, currently soaking in the utility sink. He didn’t want to wear shoes; he wanted to wear his cowboy boots. And on, and on, until Hannah thought she would scream.

  Finally, they were in the parking lot outside the United Methodist Church, where all the other parents seemed to be calmly walking their well-dressed, well-behaved children from their shiny big SUVs to the side door of the church, which led to the basement. Hannah got out of the beat up twenty-year-old Subaru that was currently considered their “good car” and opened the rear door.

  “I know you’re scared,” Hannah said, as she unfastened the straps on her son’s car seat. “First days are always tricky.”

  “Me not scared,” Sammy said. “You scared.”

  “You have to listen to the teacher and do what she says,” Hannah said.

  “Why?”

  “You’re a big boy now and you have to act like a big boy.”

  “Me hates school.”

  “There will be kids you know there, like Timmy, Tyler, and Todd Tucker.”

  “Me hates them.”

  “I heard you had a great time with them at the preschool picnic last week.”

  “Me catched a frog; ’member I told you?”

  “I remember. I’m sure Mrs. Meyers remembers, too.”

  “She hollered so loud!” Sammy said.

  According to Sam, their son had slipped a large bullfrog into recently retired preschool teacher Mrs. Meyers’ handbag, which came as quite a surprise to Mrs. Meyers when she reached in for a tissue. Hannah wouldn’t have to be paranoid to wonder if Mrs. Meyers chose this summer to retire because she knew Sammy was going to be in her next class.

  “You have to be good, Sammy. There’s only this one preschool in Rose Hill, and if they kick you out, you have to go to the one in Pendleton. You know what that means?”

  “No Auntie D.”

  “That’s right. Auntie D had to call in some favors to be allowed to help out in your classroom, but she won’t be allowed if you have to go to Pendleton.”

  “Me wants to stay with Auntie D and Uncle Ian all the days of the world.”

  “I know, but you’re four now, so you have to go to school. Daddy’s counting on you to be a big boy and do what the teacher says.”

  “Why no Daddy takes me?”

  “Daddy’s at a meeting in Morgantown,” Hannah said.

  “Why?”

  “He and Coach are trying to get more money for their program.”

  “For the hurted people?”

  “Yep,” she said. “For the soldiers who got hurt in the war.”

  “Me hates the war.”

  “Me, too, honey, me, too. But sometimes you have to have them, and then you have to take good care of the people who fought in them.”

  “That’s how Daddy lost his feets,” he said. “A big bomb esploded. BOOM!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Me not losin’ me feets,” he said, wiggling them.

  “No, your feets are safe,” she said. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  The preschool was in the basement of the church. Hannah gripped Sammy’s sweaty little hand as they crossed the parking lot. Reverend Ben Taylor was standing in front of the side entrance, greeting the new students as they arrived.

  “Hi, Sammy,” he said. “Catch any frogs lately?”

  Sammy smiled really big.

  “Miss Meyers yelled so loud!” Sammy
said.

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” Hannah said.

  “I think you’re going to do great here, Sammy,” Ben said. “Ms. Gearhart has lots of energy.”

  “She’ll need it,” Hannah said.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Ben said. “Come on in.”

  The church basement smelled like the ghosts of a million pot luck dinners and bleach. The cinder block walls had been painted in bright, cheerful colors, and pinned to bulletin boards were posters of cartoon characters welcoming the children to school.

  Because there were so few preschool- and kindergarten-age children in Rose Hill, there was just one class of each. The other rooms were used as day care for younger children, from babies to toddlers.

  Hannah greeted the other mothers and fathers as she pulled Sammy down the hall. She ignored the looks they gave her and one another: amused, disgusted, or contemptuous. She was used to them and their looks, and was determined not to care.

  “Excuse us,” she said loudly. “Possum wrangler coming through.”

  Sammy laughed but then went completely limp, so she hoisted him up and carried him the last few feet. Inside the preschool classroom, the Tucker triplets were gazing with rapt attention at a hamster running on a wheel in a cage lined with wood shavings. Four little girls were coloring with crayons on a long sheet of butcher paper rolled across a low table.

  Hannah’s Aunt Delia was comforting a little girl who was crying. She waved at Hannah.

  “There’s Auntie D,” Hannah said as she put Sammy down on the floor.

  Sammy was running toward his beloved Auntie D when he was intercepted by a slender middle-aged woman wearing rectangular dark-framed eyeglasses, her dark hair cut in a short, angular bob. She was wearing an ivory-colored blouse under a tan business suit jacket, matching trousers, and low beige heels. Hannah thought she looked more like a bank manager than a preschool teacher.

  “Excuse me, young man,” the woman said as she caught Sammy. “There is no running allowed in my classroom.”

  Sammy froze.

  Aunt Delia stood up, almost dropping the little girl.