The Last Ballad(97)

While Violet’s mother made dinner, Hampton stood out in the dirt road that ran through the middle of Stumptown and tossed a baseball back and forth with Ella’s son Otis. Neither of them wore mitts. The boy’s arm was surprisingly strong and accurate given his slight frame. He was nine, but, to Hampton, he looked no older than six. He’d learned that Hampton was from New York, and he’d asked him all about the Yankees.

“Babe Ruth’s my favorite,” the boy said. He threw the ball to Hampton. Each time he caught the baseball, Hampton’s hand wanted to recoil at the feel of it. It was sodden and near rotted, the frayed stitching coming loose. Sweat poured off his forehead.

“Babe’s pretty good,” Hampton said.

Otis caught the ball, stared at Hampton, his mouth hanging open as if portraying shock. “Pretty good?” he said. “Pretty good?”

They tossed the ball back and forth. Ella and Sophia and Violet sat talking on the porch. Ella’s daughter Rose was sitting on her mother’s lap, and Hampton could hear her raspy cough. Violet cradled Ella’s baby boy in her arms. Occasionally Hampton could feel Violet’s eyes on him, but he did not raise his head to look at her. Hampton watched the boy toss and catch the ball and caught himself wondering what it would be like to have a son.

“Yankees played a spring training game over in Charlotte just a few months ago,” the boy said.

“Oh, yeah,” Hampton said. “You go see them?”

“No,” the boy said. “I didn’t get to.”

“We’ll go see a Yankees game if you ever visit New York,” Hampton said.

The boy’s face exploded in a grin. Hampton did not have the heart to tell the boy that he would never visit New York, that he might never leave North Carolina or even Gaston County. He did not have the heart to tell the boy that he’d never even been to a Yankees game himself, could not afford both the ticket and the time off work, and even if he could, he could not imagine taking this white child along with him.

Hampton looked toward the porch, saw Violet hand the baby over to Sophia. She stood, walked down the few porch steps, and continued out into the yard. Hampton turned his eyes back to Otis and their game of toss. He was aware of Violet coming to a stop only a few feet away, aware of her watching him as he caught and threw the ball. He fought the urge to look at her, her dark skin against her pale blue dress, her hair now unbraided and pulled up and tied back with a white sash. She was beautiful, the kind of woman he believed he would have fallen in love with had he never left Mississippi, the kind of strong, country-hewn woman his mother may have been before she left, the kind of woman his younger sister Summer could have become had she grown up in the South.

“Hot, huh?” Violet said. She passed her hand across her forehead, shifted her weight to the other leg, put her hands on her hips.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “It is.”

“You got heat like this up where you’re from?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes we got heat like this.” He looked at her and smiled.

Violet raised her eyebrows, smirked as if she doubted everything he’d ever said.

“Is it too hot for a stroll?” he asked.

They walked side by side to the end of the dirt road and followed a path behind Ella’s cabin that led to a spring nearly hidden by willows. Hampton’s body welcomed the shade. The heat stripped itself from his skin as if being peeled away. He bent to the clear, cool water, cupped a handful to his mouth, took a drink. It ran down his chin. Violet laughed. He looked up at her, flicked his damp fingers at her legs.

“You not supposed to drink it?” he asked.

“No, you can drink all you want,” she said. “It’s just funny to see those nice shoes with mud on them.”

Hampton stood and looked down at his shoes. He saw that mud had crept up over the soles, that dust from the road had frosted the leather. He lifted his left foot, unlaced his shoe, and removed his sock. He tossed them behind him. The mud squished between his toes. He lifted his right foot, did the same. He rolled his pants up to his knees, stepped into the cold water, watched as the minnows fled. He looked back at Violet, gestured toward her feet. “Come on, country girl.” She laughed, slipped off her shoes, and stepped into the water beside him.

“Speaking of country,” she said, “I bet you never thought you’d be out in the woods like this.” She stepped forward. Her foot slipped. Hampton took her hand until she steadied herself.

“I didn’t know where I’d be,” he said. “But I’m glad to be here.”

“I heard you talking about New York. What’s it like?”

“Come visit and find out,” he said. He smiled, reached for her hand again. She let him hold it, let him intertwine his fingers with hers.

“Why’d you come down here?” she asked.

“Because I believe in the party,” Hampton said. “I believe in integration.”

She shook her hand free of his and reached up, closed her fingers around the thin branch of a willow tree, and stripped it of its leaves. She cupped them in her hand. “That’s an answer,” she said, “but that ain’t no reason.”

“I guess I wanted to see the South,” he said. “Really see it, not just from a train window or through somebody else’s stories. I wanted to find out if it’s what I imagined.”