The Robins of Iverhill: Chapter 22 – Card Game

NOTE: the following story, which will be serialized on this blog, was originally written in 1985 as my senior project in creative writing at Hamilton College. 25 years later, it has been updated. New chapters will appear Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. Previous chapters are listed with hyperlinks below.

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 – THE NEW MAN
CHAPTER 2 – ROOMMATES
CHAPTER 3 – UNWANTED RETURNS
CHAPTER 4 – OPENING DAY
CHAPTER 5 – RESULTS
CHAPTER 6 – CONFIDENCE
CHAPTER 7 – BUS RIDE
CHAPTER 8 – ARRIVAL IN BARK CREEK
CHAPTER 9 – BRAWL
CHAPTER 10 – BEDSIDE
CHAPTER 11 – DISCOVERY
CHAPTER 12 – RELEASE
CHAPTER 13 – THE CONTRACT
CHAPTER 14 – DOUBLEHEADER
CHAPTER 15 – THE REPLACEMENT
CHAPTER 16 – OUTFIELD THROW
CHAPTER 17 – APARTMENT
CHAPTER 18 – THE POND
CHAPTER 19 – PROTECTION
CHAPTER 20 – STENCH
CHAPTER 21 – NORTON

My name is Clete Olson, I’m the rookie relief pitcher for the Iverhill Robins, and I’m currently staring at two sixes, a wild deuce, a nine and an ace.

We were over at Mark Hunter’s apartment.  Hunter’s the starting first baseman for the Robins, and he’s been hosting this poker game since the start of the season.  It was he, pitchers Zach Phillipstern and Smokey Dulieau, and catcher Virgil Trunks around the table.  Trunks tossed a red poker chip into the center of the table.  “I’m in for a dollar,” he said.

I looked at my cards again.

“Come on, Clete, are y’all in or not?” Hunter asked.

Hunter’s a very good first baseman, but no professional team will ever touch him.  According to the story going round the clubhouse, Hunter gambles a lot – often with other people’s money.  When he wins, he turns around and tries to “double up” the bet and make more money.  When he loses, he disappears.

And it’s not like he can’t pick a winner in a race or predict whether the stock market will go up or down.  He can.  But he has terrible luck.  Trunks told me that Hunter went over to Vermont on an off-day and bet on the horse races.  He won three in a row, then put all the money on the fourth race – only to watch as the race was scratched when one of the mechanical gates wouldn’t open properly.  Trunks said Hunter should have taken that as a sign to stop right then and there, but Hunter simply put everything on the fifth race – and the horse came in dead last.  Hunter went home with no money.  When he got home, he received more bad news – his wife of two years left him, she couldn’t count on him to pay the bills when he was gambling it all away.

And really, he shouldn’t be playing poker right now, either.  Coach McCarling said that she didn’t want any gambling, betting, wagering or anything stronger than attending a bingo game, and if she caught anyone doing that, they would be off the team.  But I know McCarling’s seen Hunter play cards before – maybe because he is a decent first baseman, maybe this is part of looking the other way.

I looked at my cards again.  “I’ll see – and raise another dollar,” I said, tossing my last red chip into the kitty.

Phillipstern and Tierney, the two players on my right, tossed their cards onto the table.  “I’ve got to go,” said Phillipstern, getting up from his chair.  “My wallet is telling me it’s bedtime.  I’m cashing out.”

“Zach, you sleepyhead.  Y’all know where the cash box is,” Hunter said.

“Yeah, I-all know where the cash box is,” Phillipstern replied with disdain, trying to nasally imitate Hunter’s Texas-based drawl.

“Man, don’t go.  Y’all can stay if you need more money, I can advance you.  We get paid tomorrow.  Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, Mark, but I have to go.”

With that, Zach Phillipstern left the room and headed back to his apartment.

“Great,” Hunter said.  “So right now it’s just all y’all guys and me.  Hey Smokey, the bet’s two bucks.  Are y’all in or not?”

Without a word, the best pitcher in the IBA tossed in two red chips.

“All right, I’ll see you, Smokey… and call.”

Smokey picked up the deck of cards, dealing replacement cards to each person.

“I need two,” Hunter said.

“Two please,” I said.

Smokey dealt the cards, not saying a single word as each replacement card was tossed around the table.

“You know what’s missing here?” Hunter asked.

I shook my head.

“I’m not hearing Gene Raveler whine about Monty Mauntmaurency right now,” he self-answered, staring at his cards.  “And to tell you the truth, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.”

“That’s the truth,” Trunks replied.  “So what if Monty wants to act like a flake and pretend to be from 100 years ago or whenever.  I personally think he’s just psyching out the opposing team, and that he’s just playing a joke on us.”

“Y’all sure he ain’t some kind of publicity gimmick that the Wilson family put on the team to try to sell tickets?”

Smokey looked up from the cards, took his right index finger and pointed it at his own head, then drew a couple of air circles.  I knew what that meant.  He was calling Monty crazy.

“What makes you think he’s crazy, Smokey?” I asked.  I really didn’t care why Smokey came to that conclusion; only that maybe Smokey would at least say something – anything.  But the pitcher silently lowered his eyes to gaze at his playing cards.

“Yeah, sometimes he can be a hot dog,” Trunks said.  “Like why does he have to toss the ball over to second base either behind his back or through his legs, half the time Tierney’s trying to concentrate on where the throw is going to land instead of concentrating on how to avoid a slide to break up a double play.”

“What are you worried about?” I asked.  “When the game’s on the line, Monty gets that ball to second base like it was shot out of a rifle.”

“Yeah, but he should be doing that every time.  How are y’all supposed to get to the big leagues when y’all have to compensate for his antics?  Maybe I’m not as vocal as Gene Raveler about it, but I am starting to get fed up about it.”

While everyone at the table kept arguing back and forth about Monty and what his true motivations on the team were, I started pulling my attention into myself, my eyes focusing on a trailing line of smoke from Tierney’s ashtray-placed cigarette.  I watched each curl of smoke rise and twist from the cigarette into the air.

And in one swirl of smoke, I saw what appeared to be an image.  The smoke continued to dance in the air, and I thought I saw images of clouds and lights – the same sunlight and air that I remembered from a dream I had back in the hospital.

I continued to look – I couldn’t see my teammates or the poker game – just the beam of pure sunlight.  There was something about that beam – I remember that much from my dreaming memory.

My body slowly moved closer to the beam.  It was as if I had no control over my legs or hands.  Like I was being drawn closer to this warm, comforting light.

And then I heard sounds… whispers and chimes and the sounds of cooing doves.  And a voice, deep and wise, intoned.

“Montgomery.  You are needed.”

I looked.  There was Montgomery Mauntmaurency, wearing what appeared to be an old baseball uniform.  The front of the uniform had the word “ROBINS” in sculpted, detailed golden strands and silken weave.  It was the most beautiful baseball uniform I had ever seen.  I couldn’t even imagine a team wearing that uniform for anything other than a baseball card photo.

“I am here,” Monty said to the voice.

“A decision has been made.”

Decision?  What decision?

“Montgomery, your contract is binding.  But we had to wait until the time was right to send you back.  You will be arriving by train from Albany to a small town called Iverhill.”

“Thank you,” Monty said, in a humble voice that I never thought I would hear.  It wasn’t full of 19^th-century slang – it was almost as warm and detailed as the voice of the sunlight.

“You must help several people along your journey.  You can see from here.  You must help this person who manages the baseball team.  You must help heal this man, who has lost his way.  And this young man – look here.”

In the light, I thought I saw – wait, that’s me on the mound, back in my amateur ball days in Pennsylvania, I’m watching myself throw the no-hitter that was later taken away!

“Am I to take care of the pitcher?”

“Yes.  His confidence has been damaged.  He also has lost his faith.  Without his faith, he has no desire to find his true path.  You must help them all.  As specified in the contract you signed, we will send you to this baseball team in New York.”

“Thank you,” Monty said.  “I will do my best for you.”

“And remember, Montgomery… This is very important.”

Monty, who had turned away toward another direction, turned back toward the sunlight voice.

“What must I remember?”

“This is extremely important, Montgomery.  You must not tell anyone about where you came from.  No references to the afterlife, or eternity, or purgatory, or retribution, or damnation.  You can’t.  Not to anyone.  You can’t even hint at it.  You’re being sent to help people.  That’s it.  You do your job.  Then you come home.”

“Yes sir.”

“And if you fail, Montgomery… you will be recalled.”

“Recalled, sir?”

Recalled?  As in is he in the game?  Is he out of the game?  I don’t understand.  The light was drifting away.  I tried to concentrate on it more, but it faded away into a wisp of cigarette smoke.

“Come on, Clete, are y’all in the game or not?”

“A chill ran down every nerve and fiber in my body as I woke up from my daydream to find Hunter staring at me.  I was back at the poker game, and I hadn’t even picked up my replacement cards yet.

I quickly gathered my hand.  Along with the two sixes and a wild deuce, I tossed away a nine and an ace.  The new cards in my hand were a pair of tens.  Full house!

“Count me in,”- I said, tossing my chips into the pot.

I looked around the table.  Smokey put his cards down and folded.

“I call,” Hunter said as he tossed a chip in the pot.

I laid my cards down.  “Full house.”

As I started to pull the chips over to my side of the table, I tried to remember about the daydream.  But the memory drifted to the back of my mind, and all I could remember was a voice of sunlight.  And that was about it.

“Not so fast, rookie. I’ve got two pairs that beat your full house.”

“Two pairs don’t beat a full house.”

“My two pairs do.”

Hunter showed his hand.  Two queens, another wild deuce, and the wild one-eyed jack.  It added up to four queens.

I reluctantly released the poker chips.