The Robins of Iverhill: Chapter 23 – 9N Bar and Grille

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
CHAPTER 22 – CARD GAME

My name is Eugene Raveler.  I’m the starting center fielder for the Iverhill Robins, and right now I’m waiting for someone to bail me out of jail.

“He’s right in there, Coach,” I heard someone say.  “Ruffin!  Go get Gene Raveler.”

Through the bars in my holding cell, I could see Jenny McCarling, our illustrious manager, talking to the guard.

“Thank you.  I’ll make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble.  The team has already paid his bail at the front desk.  He’ll be released to my custody.”

The guard unlocked my cell and opened the door.  “You’re free to go.  Your coach posted bond for you.”

“Honestly, Gene, I’m getting sick and tired of bailing my players out of custody.  Monty and Olson a month ago, and that barroom brawl last night, what the hell were you thinking?”

And I told Jenny the whole truth.  Everything that happened that night.  Everything from the time I left the ballpark until this morning.

We hosted Corbett Falls that day, it was a Saturday afternoon early game, and it was a good matchup – I went 2-for-5 with a double, but Corbett Falls beat us 5-4 when one of their guys hit a Texas League single right into the gap between left field and center and the infield.  Three of us – Monty, Tierney and me – ran to get the ball, and then all three of us slowed up so that we wouldn’t crash into each other.  Nobody shouted out “I got it!” or “It’s yours,” and the ball dropped between us.  By the time I got the ball and fired the pitch home, the winning run had crossed and we lost.

After the game, Clete Olson wanted me to drop him off at Otswego County Medical Center so he could see his new girlfriend, some nurse named Amy.  I saw her.  She’s definitely cute.  Olson can have this one.  But as I’m walking back through the hospital room to get to my car – which was parked in a lot adjacent to the emergency room entrance – I glanced over at the emergency room triage center and saw someone resting on a hospital gurney.

It was the kid.

It was Terry Wallis, the little kid before the season started, the kid whose autograph I signed, the kid who hid in our locker room, the kid who I said could come to the ball park any time and I would buy him popcorn.  He showed up a few times, but then around late July he stopped coming around – except for that one time when he was hiding in the locker room.  I thought Terry had an issue with bullies at school, so I let him stay in the clubhouse until his parents could come pick him up.

And now here he was, in Otswego County Medical Center, bruised and battered and beaten like he went ten rounds with Joe Frazier and they should have stopped the bout after six rounds.

The kid’s mother was there, sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed.  “Daddy didn’t mean it, honey, he really does love you, but sometimes he gets a little frustrated with things,” she told the kid.

I didn’t want to be there.  Every nerve in my body told me this was none of my business.  Every fiber in my skin was tingling, warning me that this was someone else’s family problem, not mine.  The last thing I wanted to do at that moment was be part of this mess.

And for the love of God, I stepped into that triage room, and approached the gurney.

“How is he?” I asked her.

She looked up.  I could tell she had been crying for a long time, and the tears hadn’t stopped yet.  “He’ll be all right – I think.”

I looked at Terry.  He wasn’t moving.

“He’s sleeping now.  The doctor gave him something to help him rest.”

“I’ve seen your son around Wilson Field this year.  He’s been going to Robins games.”

“He loves the Robins,” she said.  “His favorite player is Gene Raveler.  Do you know him?  Do you work with the Robins?”

I nodded.  Apparently she wasn’t as big a fan of the Robins as Terry was, so I just let her talk.  It sounded like she really needed to talk.

“Robert’s a good man.  He’s worked at Magedoma Lumber for a few years, but times have been tough.  They’ve laid off people at the mill, and he lost a lot of hours and a lot of pay.  I guess it’s been tough this year, we’ve had it luckier than most, I know people who were fired at Magedoma.”

“Yeah, it’s tough these days,” I noted.

“Terry wanted to go to the Robins game, but Robert wouldn’t drive him over.  Said he didn’t have time.  Terry would ride his bike over there to the ballpark, but when he got home, well – ” she looked over at her son, sleeping in the bed as if he didn’t want to wake up any more.  “Robert said that Terry brought it on himself, he should have been studying so he could get a real job instead of working a dead-end job in the lumber mill.  Robert tried to make Terry listen.  And – well – I think if Robert hadn’t had those beers before he came home – I’ve always learned to leave him alone when he’s had a rough day, let him drink some beer and sleep it off.  Terry doesn’t understand.  Robert’s been very upset, and Terry just caught him at – at the wrong time.”

I looked back at Terry.  And it dawned on me.  Terry wasn’t hiding from school bullies – he was hiding at the clubhouse because his father had hit him.  How stupid could I have been?  The signs were right there and I missed them – if I had said something, anything, I could have stopped this.  Terry would be fine.  Instead of resting in a hospital bed.  It was my fault, I could have called the police, I could have called a social worker, I could have called anybody.  And I did nothing.

“Please excuse me,” I said to his mother, and walked out to the car.  I climbed in, locked the door, and the tears started coming out of my eyes before I could even get my key in the ignition.  I needed a drink and I needed it right now.

Later that night, I was at the 9N Bar and Grille, trying to drink away what I saw at the hospital.  Several of the other Robins players were at the bar – Tierney, Smokey, Trunks, Phillipstern, Frees.  I still don’t know how Smokey can get the bartender to get him the right kind of beer, I’ve never heard that guy say a word in the three seasons he’s been in Iverhill.  I think he’s mute or deaf or something. Phillipstern had a cola, so he was sober – from what I understand, Phillipstern has had issues with alcohol in the past, and has been going to meetings to deal with it – but Trunks and I had a few glasses of whatever was on tap, and were feeling like finishing off the night.

Over at the entrance to the 9N bar, it looked as if someone was having trouble with the cigarette machine.  He pulled on one of the knobs to get a pack of cigarettes, but the knob jammed.  “This machine took my money,” he snarled at the bartender.

“Hold on,” the bartender said, “I have to get a key for the machine.”

The guy continued pulling on the knob, then tried to pull a couple of the other knobs so that an alternate box of cigarettes would pop out.  No luck.  The machine wouldn’t give him his nicotine fix.

“Give me my god damn cigarettes!” the guy roared.

“Hang on, this is an old machine,” the bartender replied.  “Give me a minute.”

“I don’t got a god damn minute, I need a god damn smoke!”

“Hold on,” I said, walking over to the machine.  Reaching for one of its pull knobs, I gave it a slight push, then jerked it with a sharp pull.  One second later, a pack of menthols slid into the machine’s exit tray.  “Here you go.”

“That’s not my brand,” he said, as he picked the cigarette box out of the machine.  “I don’t smoke menthols.”

“Well, the other brand is jammed,” I replied.  “Smoke these. A change will do you good.”  I went back to my drink at the bar.

“That’s how you solve things?” he said.

I turned around.  The guy looked like he wanted to start a fight, and it looked as if he was already in one, his knuckles were skinned.  Probably beat up some other cigarette machine that didn’t have his brand.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out two quarters.  “Here, next time you find a cigarette machine that works, you can buy a pack on me,” I said, placing the quarters on the table.

“Yeah, Eugene Raveler, the big star of the Iverhill Robins,” he slurred.  “God damn has been.  Pfft.  More like a never-was.  Can’t hit off a tee-ball, let alone a fastball.”

I tried to hold my temper.  I really did.   I’ve seen liquid courage before, and this guy was bursting with it.  Besides, I’ve heard worse about my game from the fans in Bark Creek.

I looked at Smokey and Trunks.  If this thing turned ugly, I needed to know they had my back.  Trunks nodded.  Smokey nodded.

“Listen, mister,” I said.  “You’ve already had too much to drink, and I’m not sure I’m functioning right now.  So let’s say we just forget about the whole thing, you go have a smoke, and I’ll go back to my beer.  Okay?”

“Yeah, you go back to your beer, you jerk.  My goddamn kid’s in the hospital and you just go back to your drink.”

I think the minute I heard “kid’s in the hospital,” I should have just stayed at my bar stool and minded my own business.

But something stronger than me convinced me to get off the bar stool and walk over to the cigarette machine, where the guy was still standing.

“Your last name Wallis?”  I asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“Answer me.”

“Yeah, I’m Wallis.  So what?”

“You’re Terry Wallis’ old man?”

“What do you know about my kid?”

“I saw him in Otswego Med.  Looks like someone beat him up.  Beat him pretty bad.”

“He fell down a flight of stairs, if you need to know.  He slipped and fell down a flight of stairs in our house.”

I looked at Trunks and Smokey, who were already leaving the front of the bar and walking over to my position.  Phillipstern and Tierney stayed at the bar, I think Phillipstern told the bartender to call the police.

“Your son fell down a flight of stairs in your house.”

“If you must know.”

“He lives at the trailer park outside of Iverhill.  There are no stairs in a mobile home.   Unless – – you know what, I’m sorry, you’re right.  That really isn’t your brand of cigarettes.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Yeah, I think you need a pack of Benson and Hedges.”

“What?  That’s not my brand either – ”

He never saw it coming.  I landed on him and pounded him with everything I had.  I punched him and cursed at him and hit him.  I hit him for every time he hit Terry, and for every time Terry had to lie about it, and for every time I didn’t believe what was happening, and for every time my parents didn’t believe me when I said that Mr. Germain did horrible things to me, and for every time my childhood was torn away from me by a monster.

Trunks and Smokey got in and broke up the fight.  Actually, this guy Wallis was lucky, cause Smokey was holding him back while Trunks kept a good solid grip on me.  “You don’t want to do this, Gene,” Trunks said to me, holding me fast.

“Let me at him, let me at him, let me go Virgil!  That son of a bitch beat his son to the point where he’s in a hospital right now, fighting for his life!  This son of a bitch doesn’t deserve to live!”

Trunks tightened his grip.  “Yes, but Gene, that’s not for you to decide.”

And Trunks was right.  I gotta hand it to him.  I stopped struggling.  Trunks held on, just in case I tried to break free.

The cops came to the bar.  I told my side of the story, and Wallis told his.  The bartender mentioned that Wallis was drunk and belligerent, and that I was actually protecting some patrons because Wallis had a broken beer bottle and was waving it around the bar.  Next time I go to 9N Bar and Grille, he gets a big tip.

The police held me overnight – probably so I could sober up – until Jenny McCarling came to get me out.

But now I understand what that dream was all about.  The one by the pond.  And now I need to do something that no one ever did for me.  I have to be a responsible adult.  Someone a kid can look up to.

I have to be the male adult Terry Wallis doesn’t have.