Percival Everett - Suder

“Daddy thinks it might be the heat,” Martin said, “that’s got Ma acting this way.”

“Martin, I’m scared.”

“Why should you be scared? She likes you. I’m the one who should be scared.”

“Do you think Daddy is running around with Lou Ann Narramore?”

Martin thought. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

The front screen door pushed open and Ma and Daddy walked in. Ma didn’t say anything. She just walked past us and into her bedroom. She came out wearing her coat.

“Dinner,” she said. “Dinner, dinner, dinner …” She walked into the kitchen.

My wife, Thelma, is waiting on me when we land in Seattle, but the kid ain’t with her. I walk to Thelma and give her a big hug and pull back to take a look at her. I put my arm around her and we’re walking out of the terminal and I ask where little Peter is.

“He’s at my mother’s house,” she says.

“How come?”

“It’s late. He’s got camp tomorrow.”

I nod and pull her closer.

“Besides, I thought it would be nice if we were all alone tonight.”

We drive home and enter the house. I throw my bag down and turn to Thelma and grab her and give her a big kiss. She takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.

Turns out I can’t perform. It’s a problem I’ve been having and I don’t know what to say.

“Still,” Thelma says and glares at me for a second. “That’s just terrific.”

“Please—”

“I’m tired of being patient, Craig.” She rolls over and sighs.

I fall asleep and wake up to all this noise and I turn on the light to find Thelma pedaling on her exercise bicycle. I look at the clock.

“It’s three-thirty in the morning,” I complain.

She doesn’t pay me any mind. She just pedals faster and her head is moving back and forth and perspiration is streaming down the sides of her face.

“Come to bed.”

She stops pedaling. “Is it your leg? Does it hurt?”

I shake my head.

She starts pedaling again.

I wrap my head up in the pillows, trying to block out the sound, but it ain’t no use. And now she’s singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows but …” I get out of bed and go to the kitchen to look for something to eat.

I find some ham in the refrigerator and make a sandwich. When I finish my sandwich and down a glass of milk, my eyes become hard to keep open. I put my elbows on the table and rest my head in my hands and that’s the way I wake up four hours later.

Thelma comes in and finds the foil on the counter. “You didn’t eat the ham, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I was meaning to throw that out. It was spoiled.”

I put my face back into my hands. I get up and walk out of the kitchen, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom. I stand in the shower for a long time with the water pounding my back. Things are bad. I can’t make love to my wife, I can’t run bases, and I couldn’t get a hit if they was pitching me basketballs underhanded. And my kid hates me. To top it off, I got a bum leg that don’t hurt.

I’m sitting in the kitchen, reading the paper, and Thelma slides a plate of breakfast in front of me. I’m still thinking about that spoiled ham I got into and I look up at Thelma. Turning down this meal would be a grave error.

I eat and I read in the paper how I ain’t the only person in the world concerned with my slump. The headline of the sports page reads: MARINERS SEEK TO PLUG HOLE IN SUDER’S GLOVE; and below that, Sows Seeds of M’s Misery . I decide to skip the off-day practice Lou has called.

I move into the den and watch some television. I’m on my third soap opera when Thelma calls me into the bedroom. She kisses me and I pull away, shaking my head. It ain’t that I can’t get erect, I can’t stay that way.

“You don’t love me anymore,” she says.

“This sort of thing happens all the time.”

She pulls a tissue from the box on her nightstand and wipes the tears from her face.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

She just stares at me.

“Thelma, try to understand. I’m in a terrible slump. I can’t hit, I can’t field. It’s eating at me. I can’t get my mind off of it.” I look into her eyes. “I still love you.”

“Then show me.”

“There’s more to love than just sex.”

“Original.”

“I promise this won’t last very long. Thelma?”

“You’re only thirty-two.” More tears.

“So?”

“So, does this mean … mean …?”

“No, no, it’s just a passing thing. I promise. I just need to get my head together.”

This seems to quiet her some.

I pull the curtain back at the living room window and see my son getting off the bus. I open the front door and he walks by me, without a word, into the kitchen.

“Peter,” I call to him and follow him into the kitchen. “What’s wrong, son?”

His mother hands him a glass of milk and he looks up at me and says, “Nothing.”

“Your mother tells me you’ve been fighting.”

“Yep,” he says and downs his milk.

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“Nope.” He walks out of the kitchen.

I sit down at the table and bury my face in my hands. I look up to find Thelma’s sympathetic eyes resting on me and she comes over to me and pulls my head into her breast and massages my temples.

“When’s your next game?” she asks.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Good, you need a rest.” I can tell she’s forcing herself, but I appreciate the pampering.

“Does he hate me?”

“No, of course not.”

“He wouldn’t even look at me.”

“He’s just a little upset.”

“I wish I knew what my problem is.”

Thelma doesn’t say a word. She just keeps rubbing my head and sighing and looking out the window. I decide to try again with Peter and what I do is ask him if he wants to play catch.

He nods his head and he grabs his glove and I grab my glove and we go outside. We’re tossing the ball back and forth and I get to thinking and the ball hits me in the face. I pick up the ball and look back at Peter and see him standing there with his glove by his side, looking away. “Ball,” I says as I toss it his way and he puts his glove up and catches it. After a few more tosses my mind slips away again and the ball gets by me and rolls into the street. I chase the ball into the street and a car nearly flattens me and a teenage girl leans out of the car.

“Stay out of the road, stupid!” she screams.

I pick up the ball and turn to see Peter walking into the house and I’m feeling pretty lousy and all I can do is shake my head.

“Ma says doing that will make you go blind,” I said to Martin as I watched the sheet above his middle move up and down.

“She’s crazy,” he said. He moved his flashlight beam to another open magazine.

“I don’t know, I’ve heard other people say the same thing. Reverend Austin from the candy store told Virgil Wallace that doing it would put hair on his palms.”

“He’s crazy, too,” Martin said.

“Why?”

“Because he just is.”

“No, I mean, why do you pull on yourself?” I asked.

“Because it feels good.”

“But why?”

He stopped and turned off his flashlight. “Sometimes you just feel like you have to do it.”

“Virgil Wallace does it all the time out behind the old school. I’ve seen him.”

“Just who is this Virgil Wallace?” Martin hit me with the beam of his flashlight.

I put my arms in front of my face. “Turn that off.”

He turned it off. “Who is he?”

“You’ve seen him. He’s that waterhead fella, wears them bright socks.”

“Oh, you’re talking about Moe.”