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
