Debbie pushed open the door to the second bedroom. “Bud? Mom’s here. Come and visit.” The twelve-inch filled the darkened room in blue flickers. The trophies and memorabilia on the walls danced in the light like aging go-go dancers.
“Aw, jeez, Debbie. We’re right in the middle of the fifth and Lefty’s pitching a no-hitter. Sox are smokin’.” He started chanting at the television. “Hum batta, hummm batta, hummm, easy out. Go, Lefty, go!”
She stared at him for a moment. Beer in one hand, bowl of chips on his knee, his lucky hat, his lucky undershirt. Maybe it was better if he didn’t come out to socialize. She closed the door.
Back in the kitchen, her mom was poking through the drawers. “So, my son-in-law going to honour me with his presence today? Thought not. Don’t want to look at his ugly mug anyway. Ever think of leaving him, honey? Ever think of cleaning out these drawers? There’s mouse dirt in here.”
“It’s just toast crumbs, Mom. I haven’t had a mouse in here since I chinked the baseboards.”
“Never thought I’d see my only daughter living in a trailer with a bum for fifteen years. Don’t know why you don’t leave him. Come live with me. We can split the condo fees, and you’ll like my girlfriends.”
Debbie sighed. Every Saturday, the same thing. Nine million reasons she should dump Bud. A fresh batch of reasons every week. “I better set the table. The roast is almost ready.” As if she didn’t know Bud wasn’t the best catch in the sea. But why trade one hell for another?
“Should have dumped that loser the day he stood you up for the prom. Eloise’s son is pretty nice. He comes around every Saturday for tea, knows how to hold a cup and saucer real pretty.”
Debbie slapped the forks on the placemats. “Bud didn’t stand me up. He was sick.”
“Funny kind of sickness that prompts a guy to drop off a corsage in the morning and four hours later he can hardly hold the phone.”
Plates. Glasses. Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind, Mom. But he swore on a ball game program he was sick as a dog. It had been one of the biggest disappointments of Debbie’s life. She had gone to the prom alone, wandered around saying hi to all the couples, and hidden in the washroom when the dancing started. Three hours of combing her hair and putting on layers of lipstick.
The roast pork smelled wonderful. Debbie mashed the potatoes while her mom inspected the glasses for smudges. Another hour, and Mom would be heading home to tell her buddies all about her poor daughter and her rude, no-good son-in-law. Just like always.
She placed the bowls of vegetables on the table and stepped down the hall to the den. “Bud, supper.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”
Debbie sat down and passed the potatoes and peas. “Bud?” she hollered. “Come on. I need you to carve the roast.”
The den door flew open. Bud stormed to the table and grabbed the carving knife. “Can’t you do anything yourself? Two out and the Sox are oh for four.” He slashed the roast into three big chunks and a pile of shreds. “There.”
“Well, hello to you, too, Buddy-boy,” her mom said. “You sure have a talent for slicing a roast. Makes for a nice family dinner.”
Bud straightened his lucky hat so it stood up tall and proud. “Well, don’t have family dinners when the Sweat Sox are playing, is all I’m saying.” He flopped some meat and potatoes onto his plate and took it to the den.
Debbie stared at the mutilated roast. All that good meat reduced to a pile of rubble. She offered the platter to her mother. Her mom shrugged, scooped some onto her plate and drowned it in gravy.
“You want to come over to my place after, watch a movie?”
“Can’t, Mom. I have to work. Maybe next week.”
“Maybe next week you come over in the morning and then call the loser and tell him you’re too sick to come home.”
“Mom, don’t start. Let’s just eat, okay? Let’s just have a nice family dinner, you and me.”
“Ha. Family dinner means all the family. And no baseball game in the background. Pass the salt.”
When dinner was finished, Debbie was late. She grabbed her purse and paused at Bud’s door. “I’m taking Mom home and then I’m going to work. Can you do the dishes after the game?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
The Hungry Hordes was really busy. When she got home at midnight, her feet were throbbing but she had another thirty dollars in tips. Another foot of that double-wide. She put the money in the cookie jar and looked at the brochure one more time. Sure was a beaut. Three bedrooms and a sun room. She could have her own special place, like Bud’s den. She could keep all her yarn and craft supplies together, and maybe even squeeze in a small television. She could watch the bowling while Bud was in his den hanging on Lefty Simmons’ every move.
The kitchen was a mess. Bud had forgotten to do the dishes. The roast was still on the table, and the mashed potatoes, drying up and sticking to the bowl.
Well, she was too tired. Bud could do them tomorrow.
She stepped into the den. Beer bottles all around the old easy chair. Bud’s lucky hat, the one she had crocheted for him, sat beside the chair on a tall fat candle in a Sweat Sox candle holder. Someone had told Bud wax was good for Phentex, helped it keep its shape. Stupid hat. All the drinks they’d had to buy at the fast food place to get those rigid plastic Sox glasses. Cutting them in half, flattening them and punching holes along the sides so she could crochet them together with brown Phentex to make the sides of the hat. Crocheting yellow horns on the top that flopped forward like bison horns. Bud wore it for every game, at home and at the ballpark. It was the stupidest looking thing she had ever made.
She sat on his TV chair and flicked the remote control. A news update said the Sweat Sox had won. Lefty Simmons was being interviewed. The reporter asked him what his feelings were on the sexual assault charges against him by a fan. Lefty said it was all lies, and hurried toward the team bus. He was instantly surrounded by autograph hounds. A screaming girl threw herself at him, knocking him down. He came up grinning. The girl looked shocked.
Enough of that. Debbie clicked off the set. Maybe she had made a big mistake with her life. When Bud was sick for the prom, she should have gone looking for another date. Not that you can blame someone for being sick, but maybe he could have dragged himself out of bed for an hour. He’d made a complete recovery by next day. Even offered to make it up to her by taking her to the Sox’ away game the next weekend. As if a stupid ball game could make up for missing the highlight of her whole high school career.
She got up and stood in front of Bud’s trophy case. The cork wall behind his two high school sports trophies was covered with ticket stubs of all the Sox games he’d ever attended. She’d never really looked at them before. Almost every home game for seventeen years, plus a few out-of-towners. In order.
She ran along until she found June, fifteen years ago. Yep. She should have known. Prom day. Sweat Sox home game. Second tier seat.
She could just kill him.
She woke Bud up before she went to work and told him he had to do the dishes.
When she got home, with another fourteen dollars toward the double-wide, he’d washed the plates and cutlery, but left the potatoes on the table, curled up into stiff flakes. He’d made a sandwich out of the rest of the roast, and left the bread open on the counter, with the carving knife.
Debbie stared at the knife for a few minutes, then pushed it unwashed into the drawer. She tossed the potatoes, bowl and all, into the garbage.
She knew something was wrong the minute she got home on Friday. The easy chair from the den was sitting outside the front door. Bud and a couple of guys were at the end of the trailer, hoisting something onto the roof. It looked like a small satellite dish.
“Bud? What’s going on?”
Bud was grinning like a cat with a canary in each paw. “Hey, Debbie, looky here. I found out you could get these dishes that go on your roof and haul in over five hundred stations. Can you imagine? Five hundred stations. There’s always a ball game on somewhere in the world. All day, every day. And come on, I’ve got something else to show you.”
He was bursting with pride. She followed him into the trailer, where the twelve-inch sat in the living room opposite her favourite chair.
“See, rejigged the wires, got it all hooked up to the antenna.”
“I’m not watching baseball with you.”
“No, you don’t have to. This is for you. Anything you want to watch.”
“Will it be hooked to the satellite? Five hundred stations?”
“Well, no. Dish works through a receiver. Would have to buy another receiver to run two sets.” He dragged her down the hall by the elbow and opened the den door, his eyes dancing.
Debbie nearly swallowed her tongue. A brand-new television, at least a fifty-six inch, sat facing a brand-new Naugahyde recliner.
“So let me get this straight. You get five hundred channels real big and I get six channels with flicker.”
“Yeah, but they’re the same six we always had, aren’t they? You know them. You like them. And look what else I got.” He pointed.
Above the television hung a framed poster of Lefty Simmons. Beside it hung a Lefty uniform, with dirt stains on the knees.
“What is all this?”
“It’s a Lefty collection. Got a good deal on it from a collector who’s switching to basketball. An authentic Lefty uniform, autographed. Autographed poster.” He pointed at the trophy cabinet. His high school trophies were gone. “Complete set of Lefty cards. Lefty’s ball glove, worn in last year’s World Series. Replicas of every trophy Lefty ever won. Complete set of Sox plastic drinking glasses.”
“We have a set of those.”
“Yeah, but we use them, so they’re scratched. These are mint.”
“Bud, we can’t afford all this.”
“Hey, sure we can. The television was on sale, last one in stock, making room for the new model. And the memorabilia, well, I just couldn’t pass it up. Chance of a lifetime to get all this stuff. Always wanted to collect Lefty.”
“And the satellite dish? I know we can’t afford that.”
“Fabulous deal on it. Way below list. Cash deal, and we never saw them before. I’ll be able to watch every ball game. I can even watch two at a time, with the split screen.”
Cash. Debbie felt faint. “Where did you get the cash?” She turned and hurried to the kitchen.
“Hey, there’s just you and me. What do we need a double-wide for? Plenty of room in this trailer.”
She lifted the lid of the cookie jar with ice-cold fingers. The brochure for the double-wide sat at the bottom, all alone, smiling up at her with double sash windows.
“You took all the money I saved. All my tips.”
“But it was too good a deal to pass up. And you’ve still got your job. You make tips every day. Maybe by next year, we can get an add-on room.”
Debbie slugged him, her fist making a loud crack against his chin.
Debbie didn’t speak to Bud for the rest of the week. She sat in the living room crocheting Phentex in front of the twelve-inch while he surfed sports channels in the den. She didn’t even make him meals. She heated up soup for herself in the microwave, and ate dinner at work. She didn’t clean up any of the messes he left in the kitchen. He stole more tips from the cookie jar and bought takeout. She hid her money in her crochet bag.
By Saturday, she was still too angry to invite Mom for dinner. She called and suggested they go to the matinee at the mall, and then she’d come for tea with Eloise’s son. She slipped on one of Bud’s sweatshirts; movie theatres always had the air conditioning too cold. She picked up her crochet bag, and scooped the dirty carving knife into it.
They couldn’t decide on a movie, so her mom bought a ticket to the musical in Theatre One and Debbie bought one for the shoot-’em-up in Theatre Six. Debbie stood in the lobby in the candy-counter lineup and watched her mom disappear into the darkness with a jumbo popcorn.
It was dusk when she got home. The trailer was dark and quiet.
She got out the toaster oven and made herself some toaster strudel. She sat down in front of the twelve-inch with her crochet bag, started ripping out her last project and reballing the yarn while the solemn sportscaster recited the events of the day. If he’d had a cap, he’d have held it over his heart.
Lefty Simmons had been murdered at the ballpark.
They had it all on tape, and they ran the tape over and over while the sportscaster talked. Lefty had come out of the dressing room last. Outside the dressing room door, there were a dozen picketers yelling about the assault charges, and fifty fans holding out papers and pens. The picketers jostled for position and the fans fought back. Some of the heftier picketers tossed the security guards aside like candy wrappers. It looked like a riot at a soccer game. Lefty pushed his way into the middle of the fans, grabbing girls. It didn’t look like he was signing autographs. Then one of the picketers lunged forward using a “Lefty’s a Lecher” sign as a battering ram. Lefty disappeared like something going down the drain. Two girls fell on top of him. There was lots of screaming. The picketers surged forward, and girls scrambled in every direction. The security guards fought their way to the centre of the fracas, and found Lefty had been stabbed in the back with a carving knife.
The sportscaster said the police were looking for an unidentified fan, and here the camera stop-framed the scene, with a circle around the fan in question. The picture was grainy, but alert viewers could clearly make out the crocheted Sox hat with yellow horns and slices of fast food cups for sides.
Debbie flicked off the set and went into the den. Bud’s Lefty collection would sure be worth something now. She took the candle from its usual place beside the recliner and sat it on the television, in front of the framed autographed poster. She lit the candle, and a soft sandalwood scent drifted through the room. Nice. She’d have to get some candles for the living room.
She went back to her television chair and rooted through her crochet bag. She took the flat pieces of plastic from the ripped-out project and ran them through the toaster oven until they were blackened lumps. She wadded cotton stuffing around them and crocheted them into a doorstop.
The police arrived at midnight. Debbie let them in.
“Your husband has been detained by the police for questioning,” the officer said. “Can you tell me where he was today?”
“Sure. At the ball game. He never misses a home game.”
“You don’t go with him?”
“No, I went to the movies with my mom.”
“Do you recognize this?” He held out a plastic bag.
“Sure. That’s my carving knife. It’s a set of three. The other two are in that drawer.”
The officer put on a latex glove and picked up the knives. “We’ll have to take these for evidence. Mind if we look around?”
“No problem. That’s his den in there.”
The police officer stepped into the den and stopped. The candle still burned in front of the poster. The room smelled like incense.
The officer cleared his throat. “Um, this looks like a shrine.”
Debbie shrugged. “I guess. Bud’s crazy about Lefty. He’s been a little upset lately, though, with the assault charges and all.”
The officer shook his head and pulled out his radio to call for backup. Debbie went into the kitchen and plugged in the coffee.
The next morning, Debbie went to the police station, as instructed. She was allowed to talk to Bud in a little bare room with an officer standing inside the door.
“They took my hat, Debbie. My lucky hat. The one you made for me. They say it’s evidence. I told them it was one of a kind, and they better not lose it.”
“Didn’t bring much luck, did it?
Lefty’s dead.”
“I know. I’m just sick about it, and they seem to think I did it. I don’t understand. Why would I stab Lefty? You gotta get me outta here. Get me a lawyer.”
“We don’t have any money for a lawyer. You’ll have to take the legal aid guy.”
“Debbie, I’m looking at life in prison. You gotta get me the best lawyer in town. Take the television back.”
“Can’t. It was on sale. No returns on final sales.”
“Well, the satellite dish, then. Call those guys.”
“They never saw you before, remember? You made a deal with them. Cash under the table. No receipt.”
“Well, my Lefty collection. Sell it.
It’ll be worth a bundle now.”
“Can’t. The police impounded it as evidence. Something about a shrine.”
When Bud started yelling, they took him away.
That evening Debbie sat in the den in front of the fifty-six-inch with her crocheting on her lap. When all this was over, she would crochet a throw for the Naugahyde recliner, to make it look more feminine. The satellite dish and large-screen television she would have to keep, but there were lots of movies on the satellite. She’d buy a set of glasses, real glass ones.
And after the trial, the police would give her back the Lefty collection. She could let the Enquirer take pictures of it, that would earn her some cash. The collection would be worth plenty when the Enquirer was done. She could sell it and get back her nest egg.
Maybe she didn’t need the doublewide now. It wasn’t looking good for Bud, with all the evidence and that videotape. Bud’s fingerprints were all over the carving knife. Some people claimed they saw a glint of a knife in the hand of the person in the crocheted hat in the video. She couldn’t see it herself, and she’d seen the clip on the news a dozen times.
She flipped the channels until she found a movie, and opened her crochet bag. All that unravelled brown and yellow Phentex lay in a wrinkled heap. It was safe to throw it out now.