The Kindest Lie(58)

The three of them worked steadily, Midnight trying as hard as he could to keep up with the men. Trails of filmy vapor carried their onion and cigarette breath, and they cursed as if they didn’t see Midnight standing there. They bragged, about either women or money or cars or all of it.

“You know they got a seven-day cruise going to the Bahamas. I’m taking Shirley with me on a honeymoon,” Loomis said, hobbling after Daddy in the snow.

“Your first trip better be to the justice of the peace, don’t you think?” The force of the windblown snow and his laughter made Daddy hold his side.

By now, other men hired to shovel for the day had joined them, and Daddy pounded his shovel in the ground to get their attention. He held the handle like it was a microphone. “Forget the Caribbean. I’m saving up to go to France someday. I met a girl from there a long time ago when I was driving trucks long distance. She offered to show me around to the places tourists don’t know about.”

Midnight had seen Daddy with a few women after Mommy died, but he suspected he might have been lying about this one. Something about the way his mouth twisted like when he talked to the electric company, the cell phone people, his boss when he’d been late to work, or Drew around the first of the month.

But usually, when Midnight was in school, he saw Daddy only twice a week, so much of what he knew about his life now he pieced together from what he heard him say to other people. Some of it must be true.

“Is that right now, Butch Boyd? You had a French girl?” Loomis tapped Daddy’s shoulder. “I think I’ll stick with Ganton women. At least they shave their pits.” He stepped back to avoid the jab of Daddy’s shovel handle in his ribs.

That laugh of Daddy’s was like a safe that Midnight didn’t have the combination to anymore.

When his father shoveled snow, he attacked it like it had done something bad to him and he had to make it pay. He jabbed at each mound with the blade and scooped it up, tossing it aside like chicken bones. “Bend at your knees,” Daddy said to Midnight.

“Like this, right?” Gripping the handle of the dustpan, Midnight pricked the snow, but it was packed too tightly for him to make a dent.

“Try pushing it. Lean into it more.” And that’s what he did, just like Daddy said, throwing all his seventy-three and a half pounds on it. “You got it, Patrick. That’s my boy.”

His back ached a bit, but there they were, side by side, snot dripping from their noses, grunting with each scrape of the asphalt. Midnight’s glasses slid to the tip of his nose and he pushed them up.

A strong wind whipped around them. While Midnight staggered, Daddy stood up to it, feet spread apart, like he could fight it with his bare hands. He grabbed Midnight and pulled him close. Daddy’s coat smelled of gasoline and sauerkraut, kind of like a fart, but he buried his cheek deeper in the space between Daddy’s arm and rib cage.

Once the wind died down, Midnight pulled back. It was like when the doctor had told Granny about her diabetes. One slice of apple pie was okay every now and then, but you had to know when to stop. Too much of it could hurt you if you weren’t careful. Same thing with getting too close to Daddy.

Midnight made small circles in the snow with the dustpan. “Um, so I was thinking about going out for Little League next year.”

If he joined the team, they’d be counting on him for games and he wouldn’t be able to move to Louisiana. All his friends played baseball, but after he got burned, he gave up on the idea. He might have missed out on his shot, though. During training, he watched Corey, Sebastian, and Pancho run, pitch, catch fly balls, field ground ones, and bat.

Before Midnight got burned, Daddy had coached him on weekends, determined to see his son start at the best infield position. Soft elbows. Stop locking those knees. Watch the ball. Get ready for it before it comes to you.

His father’s gaze, following every move, had burned like a flame at his back. Midnight’s head tightened like it had a rubber band pinching it.

Now, Daddy swiped his nose with his jacket sleeve and rested his arms on the handle of his shovel. His breaths came loud and fast like he’d been running.

“Leave that baseball crap to those who can’t do any better. I told you to focus on science. You won that science fair last year, right?” The sun’s brightness blinded Midnight, but he squinted up at Daddy’s face, which was unreadable.

“You’ll be a doctor someday. Treat cancer. Save guys like Elroy Richards. Hell, find a cure for it. Get some letters behind your name, in front of it, too. We need some good doctors in this town. And in this family.”

Daddy’s eyes weren’t on him anymore. Instead they focused on something far off that he couldn’t see, some future picture he was drawing in his head as he talked. Then, as if he remembered Midnight was still next to him, he laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Forget tryouts. You’re bigger than baseball. Remember that.”

Daddy expected him to do big, important things someday. But he also wondered if Daddy didn’t think he was good enough to play baseball. At least not with only one good arm.

“I read about this guy, Pete Gray. He was an outfielder in St. Louis and he played in the majors with only one arm.”

Daddy laughed. “That’s one guy. And how long ago was that? The forties? And the Browns were the worst team in the league. So bad they folded and became the Baltimore Orioles.”