Chapter 24
1
The bleachers are chock-full, and of course they face toward the field, so when the blue Thunderbird enters the park grounds, everyone on the third-base side stands and turns to watch it go by. Those on the first-base side, which includes the cops’ dugout, don’t get a good look at first, because the people across the field are blocking the view. There’s applause and cheering.
“What’s up?” Izzy asks.
Tom Atta climbs on top of the dugout and shades his eyes from the bank of lights. “Some old car touring the field. Vintage. Almost got to be Sista Bessie.”
They don’t have to wonder long, because Mr. Estevez takes the T-Bird on a complete circuit. Izzy and Tom trot down to the bullpen area reserved for the cops team, and get a good look when the T-Bird comes to their side. It rolls at a steady five miles an hour. A young man is now riding on the rear deck, black Converse sneakers parked on the back bumper. He looks bemused. Tom points and says, “That’s Jerome. Holly’s friend.”
“I know.”
Standing in the front, wearing a dark blue sash covered with stars, is Sista Bessie. She waves to the cheering crowd.
Izzy applauds like mad. “I remember her songs. They used to play on the radio all the time when I was a kid. Sweet voice.”
The car disappears behind the cinderblock building. “Can’t wait to hear her sing,” Tom says.
“Neither can I.”
2
The T-Bird pulls up to the equipment building on the other side of the centerfield fence. Well-wishers, autograph seekers, and eBayers gather, but Jerome and Mr. Estevez do their best to shoo them away, or at least keep them back, shouting, “Give the lady some privacy.” John Ackerly has been allowed to park in the small VIP lot. He gets out of Jerome’s Subaru and daps first Red, then Jerome. “All good?”
“Fine so far,” Jerome says.
Two representatives of the opposing teams come around the corner of the building. The Guns rep is Lewis Warwick. He gives Jerome a nod, shakes hands with Red, then turns to Betty and tells her how honored they are to have her.
The Hoses greeter, Fire Chief Darby Dingley, is wearing too-short shorts that display his large can and knobby knees. “Very pleased to have you, Sista Bessie. Can’t wait to hear you sing.”
“Can’t wait to do it,” Betty says.
“If you’d do us one favor before you go into your dressing room?”
“Will if I can.”
Dingley hands her a silver dollar. “We have to pick a home team. Would you flip that? Lieutenant Warwick can call it.”
Betty flips the silver dollar high. Warwick calls heads. Betty snaps it out of the air, slaps it on a meaty wrist, and peeks. Looking at Warwick, she says, “Sorry, boss.”
“Home team!” Dingley gloats. “We get our lasties! Yesss! ”
Warwick offers congratulations which, when coupled with his sour look, don’t sound terribly sincere.
Betty takes her after-show clothes into the equipment room, toting her purse. Between a bat-rack and a mowing machine she sees a door with her picture pasted on it (snipped from her pre-tour People magazine interview). She peeps inside.
“Not much,” Lieutenant Warwick says, “but the best we could do on short notice.”
“There’s a toilet,” Dingley says. “If you… you know… need to…”
“It’s fine,” Betty says, putting him out of his misery. All she wants is for them to go the fuck away . There’s something she has to do, and it’s important.
Warwick says, “We have a mic. Wireless. When it’s time, you’ll come straight to the pitcher’s mound. Chief Dingley and I will walk you out, and I’ll hand the mic to you. Or your accompanist.” He glances at Red, who is reclining on a bench to the left of the door, back against the cinderblock, looking to Jerome as comfortable as old Tillie. He’s got his sax case on his lap.
Betty says, “No need for a mic, it’d drown out Red’s horn. I’ve got plenty of lungpower, believe me. No need to walk me out, either. I trust Young Man Jerome here to get me to where I’m supposed to do my thing.” She comes back and squeezes Jerome’s shoulder. “If he can write a book, he can escort me to the pitcher’s booth, or whatever y’all call it.”
Dingley says, “That’ll be fine, ma’am, whatever you want.” He turns his attention to Mr. Estevez, standing nearby with his hands neatly folded. “You can park beside that Subaru, and stand by. Take Ms…. Ms. Sista… back to her hotel after she sings.”
Estevez nods.
Betty says, “I may stick around a bit, boys. Take in a little of the game. I’ll let you know.” Before anyone has a chance to say anything else, she goes into her makeshift dressing room and closes the door behind her.
“Take care of her,” Warwick says to Jerome, and starts away without waiting for a response. Which would have been Of course I will—her and Red, too .
Jerome looks at the old man, who is looking back at him with troubled eyes and a frown. “Red? All right? Not feeling sick?”
Red seems about to say something, then makes a business of attaching a glittery strap to his instrument. When he looks up at Jerome, his face is serene again. “Never better. I love me a gig, even if it’s only one song long.”
3
6:45 PM.
The gun is now in Holly’s right hand. She’s careful to approach the doors from the side, but when she gets close she sees there is no peephole to worry about. There’s a keypad, and the tiny red light glowing above the numbers tells her the doors are locked. Inside she hears two voices, a child and a man. This strikes her as weird. Very.
The child says, “I took down all the posters, all your favorite players, how do you like that?”
The man replies, “You wouldn’t do it if I could get at you.”
The child: “Fuck you!”
The man: “Don’t talk to your daddy like that.”
The child: “What did you do to her?”
The man: “Never mind. She’s gone . That’s all you need to know.”
Holly realizes there aren’t two people on the other side of the doors. The reason it’s weird is because Donald Gibson is speaking in two voices, and he’s got Kate and Corrie in there… unless they’re already dead.
The man-voice shouts, “Who are you?” He laughs, then almost sings it, the words punctuated by grunts of effort: “ Hoooo… are… YOU? ”
There’s a long pause, then the child-voice says, “We’re going to wait, Daddy. Either she’ll come or she won’t.” Laughter, cracked and high. “As many as I can get, as many as I can get, why not?”
Holly raises the gun, points it at the lock, then lowers it again. Shooting locks works in the movies, but would it in real life? Maybe all it would do is alert him, in which case he’d shoot his two hostages, as he’s shot… how many others? Five? Six? Seven? In her current state of stress, Holly has lost count.
We’re going to wait, Daddy. Either she’ll come or she won’t.
Is Gibson talking about a real person, or a phantasm? Holly doesn’t know. All she’s sure of is that the father—the Daddy—is make-believe. Gibson is like Norman Bates in Psycho , only talking in his father’s voice instead of his mother’s. Which fits, because Gibson is psycho. Maybe he thinks his mother is going to come. Or some girl he dated in high school. Or the Virgin Mary, riding down from heaven in a chariot to bless him and tell him he’s not crackers but doing the absolute right thing.
All Holly knows for sure is that if someone comes, someone real , he’ll have to open the door. Then she can shoot him.
Holly slides to the left, the .38 raised to shoulder level. Waiting is the best choice, she knows this, but if she hears gunshots from inside the deserted rink, she thinks she’ll lose her mind.
The child: “I hate you, Daddy.”
The man: “You can’t even hold your liquor. Mr. Useless, that’s you. Mr. Alcoholics Anonymous.”
Then, screaming: “ WHO ARE YOU? ”
4
6:46 PM.
Betty is alone at last, and can take off her show face. She hangs up her clothes for after the song and puts her purse on the room’s one shelf. She heaves a long, trembling sigh, and feels her pulse in the side of her neck. It’s too fast and stumbling all over itself. There are pills in her bag. She slips one under her tongue, then adds a second. The taste is bitter but somehow comforting. She wipes a hand down her face, then gets kneebound. She folds her hands on top of the closed toilet seat. She begins her prayer as she did as a child, whispering the incantatory words “Jesus, mighty Jesus.”
She pauses, gathering her thoughts.
“There’s no way I can save that girl’s life without your help, mighty Jesus, no way at all, but she’s a good girl, I already just about love her like the child I gave up when I was seventeen, and I mean to try. I don’t even know if that Mr. Gibson will call me like he said he would, because he’s as crazy as a rabid dog. I think he might mean to kill us both. I hope if I shoot him with Red’s gun you’ll forgive me. Not if there’s no other way to save her. Please help me to sing out there like there’s nothing wrong, all right? I’m in the way of believing you can do all those things—as long as I do my part—but now I have to ask you for a miracle, mighty Jesus. There ain’t no way I can get out of here without being seen, there will be all kinds of people waitin for me, because that is the curse of what I have become. I don’t know what to do about that, which is why I need a miracle. I—”
Lewis Warwick taps on the door with her face on it. “Ma’am?” he says. “Sista? It’s time.”
She whispers, “I pray it in your name, mighty Jesus,” then stands, reknots her starry sash, and comes out.
“Thank you again for doing this,” Lewis says.
She nods distractedly. “Will my little bag be safe in there? I see there’s no lock on the door.” Her phone is in her purse, and so is Red’s gun.
Warwick beckons Mr. Estevez, who is standing by the T-Bird. He asks Estevez to stay outside the door of Sista’s dressing room and make sure nobody enters. Mr. Estevez says he’ll be happy to do it.
“All right, then,” Betty says. “Red? What do you say?”
Red stands up, sax around his neck, and when Betty extends her hand, he takes hold. “Let’s git it.”
Betty extends her other hand. “Come on, Young Man Jerome,” she says. “I want you with me.”
“That’s my honor,” he says, and takes her hand. It’s warm in his. “You are quite a gal, Betty Brady.”
She smiles, thinking, I better be. I just better be .
They walk onto the field, the three of them with their hands linked. When the gathered thousand or so in the bleachers—hundreds more are standing—see them heading toward the pitcher’s mound, they get on their feet, applauding.
Two Black men, one old, one young. One sturdy-built Black woman between them. Their shadows, blacker than they are, walk beside them, crisp as cutouts. Red Jones whispers a question in Betty’s ear, and she nods. She turns to Jerome and tells him about a slight change in plans; there’s going to be a little additional music.
5
6:50 PM.
To the left of the Holman Rink doors, pressed against the splintery, gray-painted boards, Holly realizes she needs to pee, and badly. Hold it , she tells herself. Just hold it . But if she tries, she’s going to wet her pants. She steps carefully into the bushes (hoping there’s no snakes or poison ivy), lowers her jeans, and squats. The relief is enormous. She pulls up her pants and returns to her post as the mournful strains of a well-known tune, played on the saxophone, reach her.
In the foyer, Trig cocks his head listening. He can make out what the music is, and he smiles. He thinks, How fitting .
In the rink, Corrie and Barbara are waiting for what comes next, death being the most likely. They both understand this.
Kate has been afraid of death ever since she first saw shooting targets with her face on them for sale on the internet. That fear has been mostly academic, mitigated by the understanding that if it comes, her death will be a rallying cry. What she never expected was to be taken by some random crazy person with no political axe to grind, a man to whom she means nothing more than one more victim in a senseless killing spree. The pain in her face, exacerbated by the windings of tape around her head, is enormous. If I get out of this , she thinks, I’ll be buying some orthodontist a new Tesla… but I don’t think I’ll be getting out of it . The crazy man has stopped arguing with himself. He’s listening to the music.
In the rink, the three women who are going to die also listen.
6
6:52 PM.
On the field, the trio—Red and Jerome, and Betty (only now she’s Sista)—stops at the pitcher’s mound, where Izzy Jaynes will soon begin her night’s work as the PD’s hurler. Sista Bessie raises her hands for quiet, and the crowd stills.
Red steps forward and begins to play “Taps,” each note its own tolling bell. There’s a soft rustle as hats are removed. He plays slowly but doesn’t drag it out—no schmaltz. Sista knows better than to give the audience time to applaud, not for “Taps.”
When Red plays the last note—a C—she draws breath and sings a capella from her belly and diaphragm: “ O say can you see, by the dawn’s early light… ”
Jerome feels chills and goosebumps race up and down his arms as Red joins in, segueing from C to G, not only playing under her but making a half-turn away from her so that her voice, even more beautiful than in those few rehearsals, is the star. She sings with her hands outstretched, slowly widening her arms as if to take in the entire audience.
As she reaches the penultimate line— O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave —Red counts off in his head: One-two-three-four , just as they rehearsed. Then she gives it everything she has, and so does he, blowing like Charlie Parker or Lester Young. Hands to the sky, Sista Bessie puts all her soul into it: “ O’er the land of the free, and the HOME of the brAVE! ”
There is a moment of utter silence, and then the crowd goes bonkers, cheering and applauding. Hats are waved; hats are thrown onto the field. Sista Bessie and Red bow. Jerome beckons the audience— give it up for her, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon —and the noise redoubles.
Sista Bessie puts her hands to her mouth, kisses her fingers, and spreads her arms wide once more, giving the assembled crowd her love. Then the three of them walk back toward the equipment building. The applause and cheering continues as Betty, Jerome, and Red leave the field.
Red says, “However the game turns out, won’t nothing beat that. You killed it, Bets.”
“Totally amazing,” Jerome says.
“Thank you. Thank you both.”
“Are you all right, Ms. Brady? You look pale.”
“Fine. Just a little double-tap from the old pump. I need to go in and get out of these duds. See if you can clear those lookie-loos out. They just want autographs. Tell em to go watch the game. And you call me Betty, just like your sister does.”
“I will, and I’ll see what I can do about those people.” Jerome’s face says he has little hope of moving the crowd, and Betty thinks, Don’t I know it. Those folks didn’t come for the game, they came for me, and only mighty Jesus can clear em.
She goes into her little dressing room, closes the door, changes out of her singing clothes, and waits for the phone to ring.
7
7:00 PM.
The Fire Department team runs onto the field to cheers from the third-base side and jeers from those on the first-base side. The loudspeakers broadcast Steven Tyler screaming “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
The song reaches Holly as she circles the Holman Rink step by careful step, being quiet, looking for emergency exits. She finds two, both locked. At one point, as she nears the side of the building closest to the food wagons, she thinks she hears muffled sounds from inside the arena. They could be sounds of life or wishful thinking.
At the Mingo, almost every seat is filled. Maisie Rogan, the Assistant Program Director, is frantic, because tonight’s speaker isn’t here. After trying Don four times and getting voicemail four times, she checks all the dressing rooms again. No Kate. She tries McKay’s assistant, and gets another dose of voicemail. At last she walks out to the podium at center stage, avoiding music stands and amps but almost tripping over a power cord. The audience applauds, sensing an introduction, but Maisie shakes her head and holds up her hands.
“There’s going to be a slight delay in tonight’s program,” she says. The audience mutters about this. One of the pro-lifers yells, “What’d she do? Pussy out?” This prompts prompt replies of Shut up and Save it for the chaplain and Pipe down .
A woman yells, “Don’t legislate my vajayjay!” This brings applause and hoots of approval. Maisie scuttles back to the comforting darkness at stage left and starts making more calls.
They all go to voicemail.
Betty hears “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” from her tiny dressing room, where she’s sitting on the toilet with her phone in her hand. She’s had worse dressing rooms when she was just a teenager starting out, places without running water and puke-smelling shithouses behind firetrap chicken shacks and juke joints like the Shuffle Board or the Dew Drop Inn, where the pay was five dollars a night plus tips and a pitcher of beer. At least you could get a little fresh air through the loose boards. This one, with its cinderblock walls and single flickery overhead fluorescent tube, looks like a jail cell in one of those southern towns. Nothing like the one she had at the Mingo.
This little room (at least it has a toilet and mirror) isn’t her problem. Nor is Red’s J-Frame revolver tucked into her bag. She’s checked it twice, and it’s fully loaded. Her problem is how to get away undetected. She suspects that Red and Jerome are still outside, sitting on that bench. The hotel manager, Estevez, and Jerome’s friend John are probably with them. And the autograph hounds. How is she supposed to slip away? Fame has never felt like such a burden. They call this city the Second Mistake on the Lake. Her mistake, a big one, was ever coming here in the first place. What has happened to Barbara is all her fault.
“Mighty Jesus,” she says. “Mighty Jesus, show me the way.”
Her phone rings.
8
7:04 PM.
Trig goes back to the arena, stepping delicately along the ties. His prisoners are still all present and accounted for. Squared away , Daddy would have said. He calls the Black singer.
“You want to go east from the field,” he tells her. “Your phone will point you the way. Cross the soccer field and the playground. You’ll see some food trucks—”
“Mr. Gibson, there are forty-sixty-eighty people outside where I am, waitin to get my autograph.”
Daddy says, Didn’t think of that, Mr. Useless, did you?
“Shut up!”
“What?” She sounds confused, fearful. Good, that’s good.
“Not talking to you,” Trig says. “The people who want autographs are your problem, not mine. I ought to shoot your little Black friend right now for interrupting me with your nonsense.”
“Don’t do that, Mr. Gibson, please. You said about the food wagons?”
“Okay, right. Right. There are trees behind them. And picnic tables. You go through the trees and there’s a big wooden building like a grain silo, only bigger around. You can probably see the roof of it from where you are. It’s an old hockey rink. Condemned. That’s where you come.”
Trig looks at his watch. The signs at the Mingo will change in just twelve minutes. Give people some time to see them. To realize what he’s done. Doing.
You aren’t doing anything. You’re Mr. Useless. You’re Mr. Flincher.
“What I’m doing, Daddy! What I’m doing !”
“Who you talking to, Mr. Gibson? Your father?”
“Never mind him. I want you here at the Holman Rink at 7:40. Thirty-five minutes from now. Knock on the door. Say, ‘It’s me.’ I’ll let you in. If I don’t hear a knock at 7:40, I’ll shoot her. I’ll shoot them all.”
“Mr. Gibson—”
He ends the call. He points the .22 first at Kate, then at Barbara, then at Corrie. “You… and you… and you. If you’re lucky, I will shoot you. If you’re not…”
From the Giant Eagle grocery bag he takes the lighter fluid. He squirts it onto the crumpled posters in their nest of old creosoted wooden beams.
“They’re gonna see this,” he tells the three women. “Everyone at their stupid game. See it, see it, see it. You know what my daddy would have called it? A Viking funeral!”
He laughs, then goes back to the foyer and resumes kicking the body of Christopher Stewart. The son of a bitch actually tried to stop him! To shoot him!
9
7:06 PM.
Lewis Warwick (PD) and Darby Dingley (FD) don’t care for each other, but they agreed on one thing: there must be no bitching and moaning this year about partisan umpires, as in years past. No “homing” for either side. There happens to be a big Babe Ruth League tournament coming up in Cincinnati in early June, and for three hundred dollars, Warwick and Dingley hired two umps from that squad—not kids but grown men. Since these two aren’t from Buckeye City, they don’t give a shit who wins.
The field umpire lowers himself, hands on knees. The home plate umpire pulls down his mask and crouches behind the catcher. Both sets of bleachers, filled to capacity, cheer. “ No batter, no batter, he’s a whiffer! ” Darby Dingley shouts.
The first Guns hitter, Dick Draper, steps in and waggles his bat. He drives one to left. The FD fielder fades back and catches it easily.
Top of the first, one out.
The big game is underway.
10
7:10 PM.
The crowd at the Mingo Auditorium is getting antsy. One of the pro-lifers, a cheerleader at St. Ignatius before marriage and six children, starts chanting, “ Kate McSlay, Kate McSlay, chickened out and ran away! ” It’s an immediate success. The other pro-lifers, outnumbered but game, take up the chant. The cheerleader stands and motions for the pro-lifers to get up and get loud.
“KATE McSLAY, KATE McSLAY, CHICKENED OUT AND RAN AWAY!”
Someone throws a can of peanuts and bops Cheerleader Mom on her bouffant. It bounces away harmlessly—all that hairspray—but one of the pro-life men lunges over the seat and grabs the woman he believes to be the culprit.
Fisticuffs follow.
It’s on.