lead this way. He’s got as much chance to score on a single as the guy on second does.”
I grew up with brothers. I knew how boys could be about sports they loved. But I had never seen anything like this. Not even
Neal had loved the game the way Elgin did. It was too early to tell whether he had Neal’s ability, but if I could keep him
off booze and anything else that might destroy him, his desire alone could take him far. If only Neal had loved baseball more
than the buzz of a six-pack.
Maybe it was my loneliness that kept me from being bored by Elgin’s constant baseball chatter. The only thing I grew weary
of was tossing a sock ball to him all the time. If I hadn’t protested, he would have kept me throwing it for hours. Whenever
there was a commercial or a break in the action on television, he would toss me the sock and run and dive on the couch. I
had learned to lead him so he could catch it in the air and then flop onto the couch, as if saving a dramatic home run.
In the late evenings, when I was watching an old movie on television and he was supposed to be asleep, he would call out to
me.
“Momma, can I come tell you just one thing?”
“Just one.”
He would pad out with some bit of trivia I could hardly believe anyone could remember.
“Cool Papa Bell, from the Negro Leagues, could run around the bases only a second slower than Maurice Green can run the same
distance in a straight line. That’s how fast I want to be.”When he was finally asleep I would pace and long for someone to hold me. I knew men noticed me. Here in the North they were
bold enough to comment on my looks. They often complimented my clear, pale skin and my red hair. Three different men at my
office had asked me out. Two of them were married.
It was nice to be noticed and thought pretty, but I didn’t feel available, didn’t feel free. I would have loved to have an
adult to talk with about something other than business or kids—something I hadn’t had since the early days with Neal. We had
halfway intelligent conversations at one time. But when the alcohol took the place of his career and he saw everything falling
apart, he took it out on me. There was no adult conversation after that.
My family had been little help. My mother and grandmother reminded me that there had never been a divorce in our family, and
that a real woman could hold a man, regardless. I could have “held” Neal. There would have been nothing to that. He wanted
a punching bag and a bed partner who would pay his way, pick up after him, and let him do what he wanted. I might have done
all that except put up with the beatings. The rest was not a fair trade, but it was a trade.
But who knew when the anger would be directed at Elgin? And what good would I be to him or any future children if I were injured?
Sadly, I left one fight too late. And on those nights when I dreamed of a mature, soft-spoken, loving man merely holding me,
hearing me, I could just as easily shift to a wrenching need to cuddle my baby girl in my arms.
Tears dripped in my lap as I sat curled up on the couch, watching TV but not really watching. I would fold my arms across
my chest and imagine cradling a newborn, a helpless, feathery girl with wisps of hair and a pink bow, huge blue eyes and a
rose petal mouth. In my mind I enveloped the child without hurting her, protected her, made her feel warm and secure and loved.
When I imagined that sweet, unnamed child at my breast, the pain became too intense, and my hands curled into fists and my
nails dug into my palms. I wanted to scream, to wail, to yes, crylike a baby. Sobs caught in my throat as I forced myself to remain silent. Elgin would never understand.
I buried my face in my hands and wept, renewing my resolve. I would pour my grief, my loneliness, my passion, my motherly
and wifely instincts into my surviving child. This was the reason I had fled Hattiesburg. I had hated the shame, but
I grew up with brothers. I knew how boys could be about sports they loved. But I had never seen anything like this. Not even
Neal had loved the game the way Elgin did. It was too early to tell whether he had Neal’s ability, but if I could keep him
off booze and anything else that might destroy him, his desire alone could take him far. If only Neal had loved baseball more
than the buzz of a six-pack.
Maybe it was my loneliness that kept me from being bored by Elgin’s constant baseball chatter. The only thing I grew weary
of was tossing a sock ball to him all the time. If I hadn’t protested, he would have kept me throwing it for hours. Whenever
there was a commercial or a break in the action on television, he would toss me the sock and run and dive on the couch. I
had learned to lead him so he could catch it in the air and then flop onto the couch, as if saving a dramatic home run.
In the late evenings, when I was watching an old movie on television and he was supposed to be asleep, he would call out to
me.
“Momma, can I come tell you just one thing?”
“Just one.”
He would pad out with some bit of trivia I could hardly believe anyone could remember.
“Cool Papa Bell, from the Negro Leagues, could run around the bases only a second slower than Maurice Green can run the same
distance in a straight line. That’s how fast I want to be.”When he was finally asleep I would pace and long for someone to hold me. I knew men noticed me. Here in the North they were
bold enough to comment on my looks. They often complimented my clear, pale skin and my red hair. Three different men at my
office had asked me out. Two of them were married.
It was nice to be noticed and thought pretty, but I didn’t feel available, didn’t feel free. I would have loved to have an
adult to talk with about something other than business or kids—something I hadn’t had since the early days with Neal. We had
halfway intelligent conversations at one time. But when the alcohol took the place of his career and he saw everything falling
apart, he took it out on me. There was no adult conversation after that.
My family had been little help. My mother and grandmother reminded me that there had never been a divorce in our family, and
that a real woman could hold a man, regardless. I could have “held” Neal. There would have been nothing to that. He wanted
a punching bag and a bed partner who would pay his way, pick up after him, and let him do what he wanted. I might have done
all that except put up with the beatings. The rest was not a fair trade, but it was a trade.
But who knew when the anger would be directed at Elgin? And what good would I be to him or any future children if I were injured?
Sadly, I left one fight too late. And on those nights when I dreamed of a mature, soft-spoken, loving man merely holding me,
hearing me, I could just as easily shift to a wrenching need to cuddle my baby girl in my arms.
Tears dripped in my lap as I sat curled up on the couch, watching TV but not really watching. I would fold my arms across
my chest and imagine cradling a newborn, a helpless, feathery girl with wisps of hair and a pink bow, huge blue eyes and a
rose petal mouth. In my mind I enveloped the child without hurting her, protected her, made her feel warm and secure and loved.
When I imagined that sweet, unnamed child at my breast, the pain became too intense, and my hands curled into fists and my
nails dug into my palms. I wanted to scream, to wail, to yes, crylike a baby. Sobs caught in my throat as I forced myself to remain silent. Elgin would never understand.
I buried my face in my hands and wept, renewing my resolve. I would pour my grief, my loneliness, my passion, my motherly
and wifely instincts into my surviving child. This was the reason I had fled Hattiesburg. I had hated the shame, but
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