me flat on my ass, jabbed into my eye and done my face up pretty bad. A stroke of luck I had that hard hat on. That thing is in pieces, and Doc won’t say nothin’ yet about my eye.”
He took a breath, turned his head toward his blind side, and noticed Tim Sutton, the varsity shortstop, a former teammate and a steady guy.
“Who found you? Did Alan Ray know you were down?” asked Tim.
“Alan Ray? Alan Ray was halfway up the hill already,” Lux said, nodding slowly. “One minute I was sawing, the next I was pinned on my back, my saw ten foot down the hill. I can’t rightly say who got to me first. Took them boys a half hour, more maybe, to cut me out, and that’s when Alan Ray got busy on the bleeding. I owe all of them guys.” His face turned in the direction of Dessie Price.
Dessie’s blue eyes were the level of his chin, focused intently on his good eye. He wondered whether she knew that he was in the red Bronco as it sped past her that morning. He wondered if he’d dreamed her smile, her return wave. She seemed to be visualizing each moment as he related it. “That’s what Dad says,” Dessie said. Then she blinked at few times and brightened up a bit. “So, what happened to your pa’s shell box from the war? Isn’t that what you carry for your lunch pail?” she asked with a bit of a grin.
His good eye settled on a small dimple in her chin. How many other times had he noticed that dimple over the last few years? Now, though, she was taller, her neck slimmer and longer, her hair curled around her collarbones. The school bus behind her, as yellow as if it had just rolled out of a crayon box, revved up its engine and pumped clouds of diesel exhaust into the air. Lux scratched at a scab on his forearm, set his A-1 cap back onto his head. “Oh, shoot. That damn shell box,” Lux said, smiling back at her. “I been meaning to go back for that. I’ll bring it around the house if I can find it,” he said.
“I CAME by to show this to y’uns,” Lux told Bertram Price early that evening. Bertram was on the front porch of the white clapboard two-story farmhouse, sitting back in a sagging plaid recliner and listening to the Pirates game through the crackle of a transistor radio. He completely filled the La-Z-Boy. His legs had worn grooves into the raised footrest, and his thick fingers dwarfed a beer can. Cigarette smoke curled out from a dark green glass ashtray on a milk crate beside him.
Lux stood on the bottom step, eye-level to Bertram’s heavy scuffed work boots, the soles caked with clumps of reddish clay from walking the pipelines for Pennzoil. Lux had always liked the look of Bertram, his sonic boom of a voice, the odd bump in his nose where he’d broken it in the service, and he liked the way the tall man carried himself, the way people took him at his word. Bertram spoke his mind, whether or not you wanted to hear what he had to say. He’d been a play-by-the-rules kind of coach, a leader, and a no-nonsense competitor. He’d earned Lux’s trust by standing up for fair play and for the players on his team. Back when Lux was brought on as a pitcher, he knew how to hurl the ball fast and in the strike zone, and he’d thought that was all he’d need. But Bertram had taken him under his wing, teaching him how to size up a batter, drilling him on curveballs, change-ups, sinking fastballs. “Don’t throw your arm out the first inning,” Bertram advised. “Let ’em chase your bad ones. Keep your best pitch in your pocket, Ace, and play that card later in the game, when they ain’t expecting it.” These tips took Lux and the Harriers to the state semifinals, only the second time in the history of Fairchance High.
Lux knew that showing up at a man’s house was not the same as showing up for practice. He also knew that coaches, parents, teachers, all elders, needed to be handled just right. He’d have to get a feel for things. Sooner or later too, he’d have to deal with his pa, who’d mixed it up with Bertram one night three years earlier at the AmVets about a gas well right-of-way. Lux hoped there were no bad feelings toward the Cranfield family remaining on Bertram’s side. His pa, on the other hand, still swore a blue streak whenever anyone mentioned Pennzoil, Bertram Price, or even the AmVets.
Lux shifted around. His good eye squinted at Bertram’s round face. He held out what was left of the green World War 2 army-issued shell box. The handle was ripped clear off one of the steel hinges, the square metal top was crushed down into the bottom like a ten-ton coal car had driven over it.
“Bring that up here, Lux, let’s take a gander. Look at that thing! Made it all the way to Europe and back, and it gets done-in half a mile from home,” Bertram said, shaking his head and looking Lux over. “I can still see the letters. U.S. Army. Must be infantry. Them poor grunt SOBs.” He winked at Lux, who’d seated himself on the top porch stair. Standing up felt wrong, like he would be looking down on his old coach.
Bertram leaned forward, pulled the lever that slammed down the foot of the recliner, and turned toward the screen door. “Hey, Billie, you back there? If you can hear me, fetch us a beer,” Bertram called. “After all, any boy that’s been slapped across the face by a widow-maker and lived to tell the tale can have a man’s drink, right, Ace?” The noise startled a small flock of red chickens scratching on the side of the house in a freshly planted flower bed.
“Jesus Christ!” Bertram swore, shaking his head, turning back to the house again. “Rose, get one of the girls out here to pen up these birds. I told you I wasn’t going to be able to mind your flower bed and listen to the game.” He stubbed out his cigarette, felt around for the volume dial on the side of the radio, exhaled smoke, and looked over at Lux. “Son of a bitch! Clemente’s on deck.”
“Hey, Lux,” Billie Price said, swinging out of the screen door, her elbows sticking out of her blouse as she clutched the beer under her thin arms. She gave two to her dad and one to Lux. Her slim face, dark eyes half-buried behind dark bangs, was all grin. Behind her, with a wooden bowl of table scraps and torn-up bread, Dessie appeared, wearing her sweater, skirt, and knee socks from school. Lux caught Dessie’s eye, then turned to look at the side yard, where chickens scratched at the base of fruit trees and lilac bushes had begun to bloom; beyond, the garden had already been hoed into dark rows. Dessie’s stocking feet trotted past Lux down the stairs, calling, “Come, chick, chick; come on chick, chick.” Hens and roosters, clucking and flapping from all directions, followed her to their pen in the backyard. Lux caught himself staring at Dessie. Her blonde hair hung in waves down her back. Her hips looked soft and round, her legs seemed longer, her pale green skirt flared as she stepped past him. Cheeks flushed, Dessie returned to sit on a hanging swing on the far end of the porch next to her sister.
“Damn, them things are so stupid,” Bertram said. He gave up on the volume and began shifting the antenna to catch a better signal from KDKA. Lux began to relax. “They sure is, Coach,” Lux nodded. “Especially them purebreds.”
Bertram held his hand in the air. It was a full count, and all went quiet while they waited to see if Clemente would come through for the fans. The screen door opened once more for Rose. She was a petite woman, her gathered light-brown hair was streaked with silver around the temples, and though she was more fine-boned and slender than her husband, she had the same ample look. Bertram had often said that if he ate too much, it was because Rose cooked too well.
“Luther Cranfield, how are you? The girls said they saw you at the high school,” Rose said in a hushed tone; she wiped her glasses on her apron and waited until Bertram, disgusted, dropped his hand as the inning was over. “How’s your father getting along these days?” Rose asked. Her eyes fixed on the eyepatch as if she were trying to decide how bad the injury was, and whether or not to ask about it. It made Lux want to scratch; he rubbed the cold can of beer back and forth between his palms.
“Pa’s about the same as ever, Mrs. Price, thank you for asking, and I’m healing up fast, Mrs. Price, thank you. Another couple weeks, maybe, I’ll be good as new,” Lux said, his voice cracking more than he’d wanted it to.
“Well, it’s nice to see you up
