Wrapped in Rain(36)

I looked around. "It's a good thing I did. Otherwise, we're guilty of some pretty serious trespassing."

She smiled and breathed lightly over the top of her coffee, cooling the next sip. She eyed my saddle. "What're you doing?"

"Well, this saddle belongs to that horse." I pointed to Glue's stall, marked by a brass nameplate. "And in a few minutes, I figure the little boy in that house is going to come running out that door. And when he does, he'll see that horse and want to go for a ride. So I thought I'd get it ready."

She nodded and smiled as if the whisper of a memory had interrupted her sip. I broke the silence.

"I had your car towed this morning to John's Garage in Abbeville." I stretched both arms beneath the saddle and carried it across the barn to hang it over Glue's stall. `John is the closest thing you'll find around here to a mechanic who would, or can, work on a Volvo, but I think you're looking at two weeks before he can have it running again." I paused, because I didn't want to hit her with too much bad news at once. "I hope your insurance is good."



"That bad?" she asked.

"That bad."

She nodded again and then walked to the coffeepot. Blowing the heat off the top of her mug, she looked at me out of the corner of her eyes and said, "Thank you."

"Well, Mose actually bought and made the coffee. I just poured some water over the used grounds."

She looked down and shuffled her feet close together. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh, then you mean thanks for not shooting back?"

She shook her head and found my eyes with hers.

I dropped the sarcastic tone. "You're welcome."

She grabbed a brush and began stroking Glue's mane. He took to her quickly, even nudging her with his nose.



During middle school, local coaches and players were starting to notice me due to baseball. People had identified me as a "player" and kept telling my coach, "That boy's got talent," "There's your star player," and "I haven't seen bat speed like that in a long time." I admit it; my head was swelling with the new identity. I also liked it because it was the first time I ever remember doing something right in other people's eyes. And it was an identity separate from "That's Rex Mason's boy."

I came home one afternoon, all full of myself, and Miss Ella yelled at me not to track mud inside the house. I ignored her. Quick as a minute, she reached me, jerked my head around, and said, "Child, you listen to me, and you look me straight in the eyes when I'm talking to you. I may be just old hired help, and a country woman to boot, but I'm a human. And you know what? God thought of me. He actually took the time to dream me up. I may not be much to look at, but what you see first started in the mind of God, so don't stand there and ignore me like I don't exist. You remember that." Miss Ella only had to say that one time to get my attention. And yes, I took my cleats off at the door from then on.



Later that night, while she was putting me to bed, I looked up and she gently poked me in the chest with her cracked and arthritic fingers. "You got something special in here. You may have the greenest eyes and best bat in Little League, but you're more than good looks, home runs, and triples. You got something inside that few else got. God gave you a people place big enough for more than just yourself. You start believing all this stuff other people say and pretty soon you'll only have room for you. Remember, there's an inverse relationship between your head and your heart. If your head swells, your heart shrinks. Tucker, you are not the sum of your bat speed and batting averages. And when you find that thing that you do-maybe it's baseball, and maybe it's not, but whatever it is-don't let it go to your head. You stay down here with the rest of us. I don't care if you find yourself on the front cover of Time magazine; you be Tucker Mason."

"But, Miss Ella, I don't want to be Tucker Mason."

"Well, child," she said with a disbelieving smile and resting her hand on my chest, `just who do you want to be?"

"I want to be Tucker Rain."

Her face softened with an "Ohhh" expression. She pushed sweaty hair out of my eyes and her breath washed across my face. "You can't choose your parents, child. The only thing you can control in this life is what you say and what you do."

The day she died, I assumed the name Tucker Rain.



Katie leaned against the workbench and watched my hands work the leather. "I used to look for your name at the bottom of all the photos of the top-shelf magazines. Then one day"-she turned and looked out across the pasture-"I was walking by the magazine rack and saw the Time cover. I didn't even have to look for your name. I just knew."

Two years ago, Doc sent me to Sierra Leone to cover the diamond trade and resulting rebel war. Two weeks into my stay, I shot a photo of three double-amputees standing shoulder to shoulder, smiling, with silver begging cups hung around their necks. A painful paradox. Healthy as horses, their whole lives before them, and yet they couldn't eat, dress, or go to the bathroom without a helping hand. Six weeks later, Doc called me with tears dripping off his face and using one cigarette to light another, saying, "Tucker ... Tuck ... you got the cover ... Time just gave you the cover."

Katie looked up at me. "Tucker, I think Miss Ella would have been proud of you." She kicked at the dirt and looked into the blackness of her coffee. "I was."