22 - August 1974

Even after I played baseball during recess and then again at practice, I’d still find myself at the Johnson house that evening playing baseball in the backyard with Byron and Lee until we used every ounce of available light.

Sometimes, Byron’s little sister would be there with her friends, sitting on the back porch and watching. Until we were older, Byron never let Erica or her friends play.

“Girls play softball and boys play baseball,” he’d say and that was that.

Throughout the summer, we’d move the Jugs machine from the garage and chain it to the telephone pole at the back corner of the Johnson’s yard.  It was always Byron’s duty to care for that machine. Mr. Johnson always made sure of that.

I remember us standing at the front edge of the garage on an otherwise nondescript day, helping Mr. Johnson with the Jugs machine.

“Byron, get me the 7/8ths socket.”

“Yes, sir.”

Byron quickly fetched the socket wrench and fixed the proper socket into place. Then, he plopped it into his father’s right hand as if he was assisting him in surgery. Mr. Johnson fit the wrench head onto the nut and held it there.

“3/4 combination…oh, there it is,” he said as Byron appeared at his side with the combination wrench in hand.

Mr. Johnson fished it through the gap between the rubber rotor wheel and the housing and locked it into place.

“Hold this tightly,” he said to me.

While I did, he applied torque on the top-nut. My wrench spun backwards. Before Mr. Johnson could utter a single word, Byron moved to the opposite side of me and placed his hands below mine, holding the wrench with all his might.

“Let’s try that again.”

Mr. Johnson gave it a quick twist and the top-nut clicked as it popped free.

“How long has it been since you’ve oiled this?”

“Just a few weeks.”

Mr. Johnson shook his head.

“If you don’t keep it properly oiled, the nut will seize and you’ll never get it loose.”

He snatched the wrench out of my hands and placed it aside before unscrewing the top-nut with his fingers.

He placed the nut on the workbench beside the wrench. His wrench was perfectly parallel with the edge of the bench and the top-nut was placed about an inch from the wrench and an inch from the edge.

He pulled the rubber wheel from the axle and placed it next to the top-nut. Then, he snatched the combination wrench from the bench and fixed it into place under the other rotor wheel. Byron and I held it tightly while Mr. Johnson removed the top-nut and placed the second set of parts on his bench, aligned perfectly next to the first.

“What about me?” asked Lee.

“I have a very special task for you. Take that oilcan and put one squirt into that oil rag over there. Then, squish the rag around until the oil is spread evenly. Wipe down all of the metal surfaces until they are shiny and clean.”

At first, Lee thought it was no big job until the Jugs Machine was completely dissembled. There were about thirty nuts and bolts, a handful of ball bearings and a half dozen connecting bars.

When we finished cleaning the machine, we put it together again, in reverse order.

“Why are we being so careful?” said Lee, “It’s just an ordinary machine.”

Mr. Johnson’s gaze turned from the machine to Lee. He glared at the thirteen year old as if he’d cursed in church. He tapped his socket wrench on one of the connecting bars as he spoke.

“A man is measured by every single thing he does in his life and that includes something as simple as taking apart an ordinary pitching machine. Furthermore, this isn’t just any ordinary machine’ it’s a Jugs pitching machine. Besides his glove, it’s the most important tool a baseball player will ever use. Every serious baseball player spends his entire life attached to this machine.

Mr. Johnson helped us tug the machine out to the backyard after we finished putting it back together. Then, he stood at one end of the backyard while we stood at the other.

“Byron, put on your catcher’s gear.”

Byron suited up in his armor and crouched down in front of the wooden backstop while Mr. Johnson fetched a laundry basket full of baseballs from the back porch and emptied them next to the machine. He placed the empty basket just in front and to the side of home plate.

“Let’s practice bunting,” he explained, “your goal is to guide the ball down into the dirt and roll to that basket. Show me your bunting stance, Jake.”

He stood in front of me, carefully positioning my hands on the bat.

“Your left hand stays put, sliding the bat backwards as you place your right thumb and fingers just above the center. You want to place the ball right here in the bat,” he said as he etched a circle with his finger just above the oval where it said ‘Louisville Slugger’.

“Right in the sweet spot.”

Mr. Johnson returned to the Jugs machine and methodically fed baseballs into the hopper.

“Wohnk-thunk!” the ball smacked into the sweet spot of my bat, but popped the ball up into the air. Mr. Johnson reached out a long black arm and snagged the ball in the palm of his hand.

“You’re not trying to hit home runs. You’re trying to get runners around the bases. If you’re safe, then your teammates are out – and that’s bad baseball.”

Every evening we spent at the Johnson house became a lecture, but Mr. Johnson wasn’t a history teacher, he was a professor of baseball. Even when he wasn’t talking about baseball, he was talking about baseball. That was just his way. It was Byron’s way, too.

“Force the catcher to work. Make him stand up and scamper after that little white ball.”

Byron pitched a ball into the ground and then scampered after it. The plastic parts of his chest and shin protectors rustled as he clambered after the ball.

“Because catchers are carrying around all this padding, they are the slowest guys on the field. Make sure you’re hitting the ball where they have to chase it down.”

That summer, while we learned how to play baseball with Mr. Johnson, our friendship with Andy Fitzpatrick began to fizzle. Fitzie, who was the standout athlete from a very early age, was one of the few 7^th graders who hung out with the 9^th graders, who were the oldest kids at our school. By the time we entered 8^th grade in the fall, his 9^th grade friends had moved on to the high school, which meant he was not only hanging out with the Sophomores, but the Juniors and Seniors, too.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said to her boy.

“I’m hanging out with Jake and the guys.”

“Will you be home for dinner?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll put a pot of spaghetti in the fridge, you’ll just have…”

By the time Mrs. Fitzpatrick finished her sentence, Andy was out the door and piled into a car with kids Mrs. Fitzpatrick never met. However, she never questioned Fitzie’s lies, she just buried herself in her own problems. Chief among them was Mr. Fitzpatrick. The separation was all but finalized. I could only assume it was because Mrs. Fitzpatrick didn’t want to make waves there, either, even when things started to come apart at Andy’s house.

“Where’s Andy?”

“I’m not sure, I think he’s out with the guys.”

“Which guys?”

“Byron, Jake, and Lee, of course.”

“No he’s not.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not ‘hanging out with the guys’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I just drove by the Johnson’s. Everyone was there – except Andy.”

“Drew,” pleaded Mrs. Fitzpatrick, “can you go look for him?”

 “Where, exactly, do you think I’m going to find him? He could be anywhere for all we know.”

Mrs. Fitzpatrick gasped.

“I’ll look for him,” reassured Mr. Fitzpatrick.

He drove around Mt. Adams for an hour. While he did, Mrs. Fitzpatrick called everyone’s parents. She began with Mrs. Johnson.

“Victoria, I just called to see if Andy was there.”

“No, he’s not. We haven’t seen him in quite some time.”

“That’s impossible. He said he was there.”

“I assure you, we haven’t seen him around here tonight. Hold on for a second, while I check with the boys.”

Mrs. Johnson came out to the garage and grilled us about Andy while Mr. Johnson watched. We gave her the details of how he’d picked up a new group of friends from high school, but we didn’t say anything about the type of kids he hung with these days.

Even though Mrs. Johnson was as tough as her Mr. Johnson when it came to parental interrogations, we still weren’t going to snitch on Fitzie. When she finally quit asking questions, we followed her inside and listened in on the rest of her conversation with Andy’s mom.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick?”

“You know you can call me Maureen.”

“Okay…Maureen…the boys said Andy’s out with some of his friends from high school.”

“That’s simply impossible.”

“I assure you, it is possible. They boys just said so.”

“Oh, yes…yes, you’re right. Thank you for your help.”

When Fitzie finally showed up at home late that night, his father had already gone back to his apartment in mid-town, leaving his mother to deal with it alone. Mrs. Fitzpatrick was an emotional wreck.

“Andy, where did you go tonight?”

“I was out with the guys.”

“Which guys?”

“You know – Byron, Lee, and Jake.”

“I spoke with Mrs. Johnson tonight. She said you weren’t with the guys.”

“What does that dumb woman know?”

“Andy!”

“I was out with the guys.”

Fitz slammed the door to his bedroom and locked himself inside. He turned his stereo as loud as it could go and turned off the outside world. It put his mother in tears.

With Mr. Fitzpatrick gone, she didn’t have anyone to turn to – so she turned to my mother.

“Trixie?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Maureen…”

There was a long pause as my mother tried to figure out that Maureen was Andy’s mother. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Fitzpatrick ran in the same social circles as Andy, so they had almost completely lost touch with him.

“Oh, Maureen…I’m sorry, my mind was someplace else.”

“Can you and your husband help me?”

“I guess we could try.”

“Andy’s just been getting angrier with me ever since his father moved out. I don’t know what else to do.”

“I don’t know what we could do…”

“Maybe you could keep an eye out for him?”

It was more of a plea than a request. My mother agreed, but that turned into several separate interrogations from each of our parents.

“How is Fitzie?” mom would ask casually as I came home from school.

“What kind of people is Andy getting involved with these days?” asked Mr. Heinz as I watched the Reds’ game in the living room with Lee.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, however, were all business. To make matters worse, they acted as a team. They always acted as a team.

“Is Fitzie doing drugs?” asked Mrs. Johnson.

It was a simple ‘yes or no’ question, but we all felt it was specific enough for us.

“We don’t know,” said Byron.

“Are you doing drugs?”

“Of course not,” Byron answered indignantly.

“Andy lies to his mother. What would stop you from lying to us?”

“Daddy…” pleaded Erica.

“Mr. Johnson?”

“Yes, Jake?”

“We’re not sure what he’s doing. He’s pulled away from us completely. The only time I ever see him is in Natural Science class, and he sits on the other side of the room.”

“Who are these high school guys?”

I shrugged.

“You must know what type of things they’re into…”

Byron cleared his throat as he stared down his father.

“What?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“Remember Bond Hill?”

“Of course I remember Bond Hill.”

“I almost got tied up with the wrong crowd. Guys like Bobby Campbell.”

“So it’s guys like that punk Bobby?”

Byron shrugged.

“Tell me…”

“I’m not really sure. I just know they do drugs.”

“You’d better not hang out with them.”

“I’m not.”

“That goes for all of you …”

Mr. Johnson scanned the room with his pointer finger.

“Robert.”

“I’m serious, Victoria.”

“Put your finger away before someone gets hurt.”

Mr. Johnson’s gaze shifted to his wife.

“Robert, you’re getting out of hand. You have two children who are very responsible and Jake’s got parents who are involved, too. Maureen is dealing with Andy alone.”

“Who?”

“Maureen Fitzpatrick: Andy’s mother.”

“Oh, right,” stammered Mr. Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson was always the one to rein in Mr. Johnson whenever he became too demanding. She was also the one who’d take matters into her own hands when it came to ‘fixing Fitzie’ – as well as other matters close to the heart.

“Jake! Lee!” she called from the kitchen window, “are you interested in staying for dinner?”

“What are you having?” asked Lee.

“Meatloaf!”

Mrs. Johnson gave a laugh as soon as Lee wrinkled his nose.

“It’s very good meatloaf,” she said..

“Probably the best you’ll ever eat,” added Byron.

“What’s in it?”

Mrs. Johnson disappeared from the window opening and appeared at the back door. Then, she came out onto the back porch and motioned for us.

“Please come here,” she said.

So we did.

“Normally, I use ground beef, bread crumbs, celery, onions, and ketchup.”

“I don’t like onions at all,” said Lee.

“I can make substitutions. What would you boys like?”

“Mushrooms,” said Lee.

“Can you add some carrots?” I asked.

“I can add whatever you want.”

“How about peanut butter?” asked Lee.

Mrs. Johnson tapped a long thin finger against her lips as she paused for a moment.

“I could add peanut butter, but how do you think it’ll taste?”

“Fantastic,” said Lee.

“How about you, Jake?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Byron?”

Byron shrugged.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Mrs. Johnson made a peanut sauce for her made-to-order meatloaf. The peanut sauce formed a sweet, nutty crust that I’d never had before or since. Indeed, it was fantastic. I’d bragged about it to my mom and forced her to get the recipe from Mrs. Johnson.

“Hello, Byron, is your mother there?”

There was a long pause at our end as Byron informed my mother that his parents were gone. Erica was gone, too.

“Oh.”

She sat down.

“I didn’t hear any ambulance. Is she alright?”

My mother sat quietly in her rocking chair for a moment as she cradled the phone in her hands.

“How long ago did they leave? Why don’t you leave your parents a note and come on over?”

Within moments, Byron arrived at our front door.

“Come in, dear.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Jolley.”

“You poor, poor child, would you like something to eat?”

“I’m full of meatloaf.”

“Silly me, of course you’re full. You just ate dinner. Would you like a glass of juice?”

“Do you have milk?”

“Of course,” said my mother.

She quickly served the milk glass to Byron. She asked if he needed anything else. He said no.

“If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”

My mother brought out sets of blankets and pillows as the night dragged on; she was looking for anything to keep her mind busy. The phone rang just before we nodded off to sleep.

“Hello, Robert. Yes, Byron’s here. How’s Erica doing?”

“She’s as good as can be expected. Can you and Craig look after Byron for a while?”

“We’d be glad to help.”

“I’ll stop by in the morning after I get a chance to talk to the doctor.”

“Whatever it takes,” said my mother.

“Thanks, Trixie.”

My mom came over and gave Byron a bear hug after she hung up the phone. Then, she prepared a bed on the couch and told Byron he’d be staying in my room.

I quickly fell asleep on the couch, only to be awakened in the middle of the night.

“Psst…Jake.”

He shoved me on the arm.

“Wake up, Jacob.”

I was groggy as I rose from sleep.

“What time is it?”

Byron glanced at the grandfather clock.

“Quarter after three.”

“Go back to bed,” I urged him.

“I’m not tired. Can I crash here?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Byron stretched blankets across the floor beside the couch and curled himself on the floor. Now, in the darkness and silence of 4 a.m., I found it impossible to sleep, too.

“Do you know what’s wrong with Erica?”

“She’s got heart problems.”

“Is that part of your disease?”

“No,” said Byron, “not all people with sickle cell have heart problems. It’s called Acute Chest Syndrome.”

“Is she okay?”

“I’m not sure. She’s in and out of the hospital all the time, but she was like that even when she was a baby.”

“It must suck,” I said.

“Yeah, it must.”

While we sat in the living room, bathed in dim blue moonlight, Erica lay in the bright lights of the hospital while her mother sat next to her. Mrs. Johnson had already given a pint of blood in case Erica needed a transfusion. Now, she sat next to Erica, applying fresh compresses every so often and gently massaging her shoulders. Erica’s breath was raspy as she took deep breaths of air through her oxygen mask. It was like a breath of cold winter air after a brisk jog – tiny crystals crackled inside her lungs with each deep breath. It was both invigorating and excruciating.

Erica’s coughs were liquid and raspy.

“Baby,” whispered Mrs. Johnson, “are you alright?”

Erica nodded.

“Just relax and take little breaths. Give your body time to heal itself.”

Erica breathed in and out, exhaling in long, slow breaths. It felt like a steel vise was pressing on her ribs. Still, she concentrated on breathing slowly, as her mother ordered. It helped – if only a little.

Mr. Johnson woke from his uncomfortable position in the waiting room chair and headed to Erica’s room. Victoria was still awake, watching over her little angel.

“Vic,” said Mr. Johnson, “why don’t you go home and rest?”

“I’m fine for now. Maybe you should go home and rest for a bit.”

“Maybe just a bit,” he said.

He leaned down and kissed his wife and daughter on the forehead before heading home. Even though he arrived in front of the house right at sunrise, he didn’t have any problem falling asleep. In fact, he collapsed right on the living room couch, his legs and arms flailing carelessly off both ends. The old man must have been three feet longer than the tiny couch.

It wasn’t long after daybreak when everyone at the Jolley house rose to greet the day. My mother was first up, and she was in the kitchen fixing a tower of flapjacks. When she was finished, she came into the living room and stood at the end of the couch. Her feet were just above Byron’s pillow.

“Boys?”

We remained dead to the world.

“Boys, get up…”

She waved the plate just below our noses until one of us finally came to life.

“Breakfast is ready.”

We hadn’t slept well all night, but it was nothing a hearty breakfast and a long, hot shower couldn’t fix. We got ready and decided to head to the hospital. Unfortunately, when we got there, Byron and I had to stay in the waiting room. While we did, my mother visited with Erica and her mother.

“How are you holding up?” she asked Mrs. Johnson.

“I’m tired, but good.”

“Good,” said my mother, “Where’s Robert?”

“He’s at home resting.”

“Why don’t you go home and I’ll take over?”

“I’m fine,” Mrs. Johnson insisted.

“You look worn out. Your eyes are dark and swollen.”

“I need to stay here with Erica.”

“Alright, but don’t be afraid to call on me whenever you need me.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

We left the hospital without Mrs. Johnson or Erica. Byron went home for a bit, but returned to my house when Mr. Johnson had to split his time between work and the hospital. Meanwhile, Mrs. Johnson spent every available moment by Erica’s side. She couldn’t donate blood for a second transfusion, but she could be there – and for Erica, that was more than enough.

“Erica, I’m going to the cafeteria. Do you need anything?”

“Can you get me some line Jell-O?”

“You get lime Jell-O at least two times a day. Aren’t you getting sick of it?”

Erica shook her head.

“Alright then; your wish is my command.”

It took another week of bed rest for Erica to get healthy once again. Mrs. Johnson made sure to spend every spare moment at Erica’s side.

With all of Mrs. Johnson’s time devoted to her daughter, all of my mother’s time was devoted to caring for Byron and me. That left Mrs. Fitzpatrick to fend for herself.

“Andy, I will not stand for you sneaking out with your friends. Go to your room, you’re grounded!”

“Fine!” shouted Andy.

He responded as he always did: by stomping up the stairs and slamming his bedroom door behind him. He turned up the stereo and tuned his mother out.

She figured it was settled until she went to check on him a few hours later. His bedroom window was open and his bedroom was empty.

She turned off his stereo and went to the window. She closed it, locked it, and drew the curtains.

 Then, she went downstairs and waited for Andy’s return.

.