Michael Chabon - Summerland

Jennifer T. sat down on the big driftwood log that was her favourite perch. The desire to cry was like a balloon being slowly inflated inside her, pressing outward on her throat and lungs. She resisted it. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t enjoy crying. But then whenever she closed her eyes she would see Albert running around, waving his arms, spitting when he talked, cursing, with his zipper undone.

She heard a scrape, someone’s laboured breathing, a rattle of leaves, and then Ethan Feld emerged from the trees that still screened Hotel Beach from the ball field.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” She was very glad she wasn’t crying. If there was one person she did not want feeling sorry for her, it was Ethan Feld.” What’s going on? Did the police come?”

“I don’t know. My dad said—Oh, my God.”

Ethan was looking now the devastation of Hotel Beach. He stared at the bulldozers and backhoes, the neat depressions where the cabins had stood. And then for some reason he gazed up at the sky. Jennifer T. looked, too. Here and there ragged flags of blue still flew, holding out against the surge of black clouds.

“It’s raining at Summerland in June,” Jennifer T. said. “What’s that about?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “Weird.” He seemed to want to say something else. “Yeah. A lot of… weird stuff… is happening.”

He sat down beside her on the driftwood log. His spikes still looked almost brand-new. Hers, like all the furnishings of her life, were stained, scarred, scratched, their laces tattered.

“So I hate my dad,” said Jennifer T.

“Yeah,” Ethan. She could feel Ethan trying to think of something to add to this, and not finding anything. He just sat there playing with the strap of his big ugly watch, while the rain came down on them, pattering around them, digging little pits in the sand. “Well, he was always, I don’t know, nice to me and my dad.”

That was when the balloon of sadness inside Jennifer T. finally popped. Because of course while she did hate her father, she also, somehow, managed to love him. She knew that, when he was in the mood, he could be surprisingly nice, but she had always assumed she was alone in that knowledge. She tried to cry very quietly, hoping that Ethan didn’t notice. Ethan reached into his uniform pocket and took out one of those miniature packages of Kleenex that he carried around because of his allergies. He was allergic to pecans, eggplant, dogs, tomatoes, and spelt. She wasn’t really sure what spelt was.

The plastic crinkled as he took out a tissue and passed it to her.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said.

“About Albert?”

“No.”

“OK, then.”

“Do you believe in, well, in the, uh, the ‘little people’? You know.”

“ ‘The little people’, ” Jennifer T. said. It was not the question she had been expecting. “You mean… you mean like elves? Brownies?”

Ethan nodded.

“Not really,” she said, though as we know this was not strictly true. She believed there had been elves, over in Switzerland or Sweden or wherever it was, and a tribe of foot-high Indians living in the trees of Clam Island. Once upon a time. “Do you?”

“Yeah,” Ethan said. “I’ve seen them.”

“You’ve seen elves.”

“No, I haven’t seen any elves. But I saw a pixie when I was like, two. And I’ve seen fer… some other ones. They live right around here.”

Jennifer T. moved a little bit away from him on their log, to get a better look at his face. He seemed to be perfectly serious. The chill wind blowing in from the west again raised gooseflesh on her damp arms, and she caught the faint echo of the whistling she had heard before, coming from somewhere off beyond the trees.

“I’m sceptical,” she said at last.

“You can believe the boy,” said a voice behind them. Jennifer T. jumped up from the log and spun around to find a small, stout black man standing there. He wore a suit of dark purple velvet, with a ruffled shirt, and the cuff links in his shirt-cuffs were shaped like tiny baseballs. His ponytail was white and his beard was white and there was a kind of white fuzz on the rims of his ears. “You do believe him. You know he ain’t lying to you.”

There was something familiar about the man’s smooth, dark face, his wide green eyes, the missing third finger of his right hand. She recognised him, in spite of the passage of many, many years, from a grainy, washed-out photograph in the pages of one of her favourite books, Only the Ball Was White , a history of the old Negro leagues.

“Chiron ‘Ringfinger’ Brown,” she said.

“Jennifer Theodora Rideout.”

“Your middle name is Theodora?” Ethan said.

“Shut up,” said Jennifer T.

“I thought you said it didn’t stand for anything.”

“Are you really him?”

Mr. Brown nodded.

“But aren’t you, like, a hundred years old by now?”

“This here body is one hundred and nine,” he said, in an offhand way. He was eyeing her carefully, with a strange look in his eye. “Jennifer T. Rideout,” he said, frowning, giving his head a shake.” I must be gettin’ old.” He took a little notebook from his breast pocket and wrote in it for a moment. “I don’t know how,” he said. “But somehow or other I done missed you, girl. You ever pitch?”

Jennifer T. shook her head. Her father had been a pitcher; he claimed to have been scouted by the Kansas City Royals, and blamed all his problems in life on the sudden and surprising failure of his right arm when he was nineteen years old. He was always threatening to show her “how to really ‘bring it’” one of these days. She supposed she ought to welcome his attempts to share with her the game she loved most in the world. But she didn’t; she hated them. She especially hated when he used baseball lingo like “bring it”.

“I don’t want to be a pitcher,” she declared.

“Well, you sure look like a pitcher to me.”

“Missed her for what?” Ethan said. “I mean, uh, well, who are you, anyway? Like, OK, I know you were in the Negro Leagues, or whatever.…”

“Most career victories in the history of the Negro Leagues,” Jennifer T. said. “One book I have said it was three forty-two. Another one says three sixty.”

“It was three hundred an’ seventy-eight, matter of fact,” said Mr. Brown. “But to answer your question, Mr. Feld, for the last forty-odd years I’ve been travellin’ up and down the coast. You know. Lookin’ for talent. Lookin’ for somebody who got the gif’. Idaho. Nevada.” He eyed Ethan. “Colorado, too.” He took something from his hip pocket. It was an old baseball, stained and scuffed. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jennifer T., “you try throwin’ with this little pill sometime, see how it go.” Jennifer T. took the ball from him. It felt warm from his pocket, hard as a meteorite and yellow as an old man’s teeth. “I done used it to strike out Mr. Joseph DiMaggio three times , in a exhibition game at old Seals Stadium, down in Frisco, away back in 1934.”

“You mean you’re a scout ?” Ethan said. “Who do you scout for?”

“Right now I’m workin’ for those little folks you met, Mr. Feld. The Boar Tooth mob. Only I don’t scout ballplayers. Or at least, not only.”

“What do you scout?” Jennifer T. said.

“Heroes,” Mr. Brown said. He reached into his breast pocket again and took out his wallet. He handed Ethan and Jennifer T. each a business card.

PELION SCOUTING

MR. CHIRON BROWN, OWNER-OPERATOR

champions found – recruited – trained for over seven eons

“A hero scout,” Ethan said. It was the second time the word hero had passed through his mind in the last hour. It did not sound as strange to him as it had at first.