Mudville Read Free

Moundville.
    According to local stories, one of the soldiers sent to protect the trading post learned the game directly from Abner Doubleday at Fort Sumter and was transferred up here a few weeks before the Civil War started. I don't believe that any more than I believe that Doubleday invented baseball. Still, I wish I could see those old games, which were played with bats the players carved themselves and a ball made out ofhorsehide wrapped around sawdust—one that wouldn't go a hundred feet if Barry Bonds gave it his best rip.
    I'm not that much into history, except when it comes to baseball.
    Both of the twins have fallen asleep on me, so I can barely move, and my left arm is asleep. I know we're nearly home, though, because the rain picks up, spattering the windshield of the SUV. Sure enough, a moment later the famous sign flashes by, reading “Welcome to Moundville,” with the letters
o
and
n
crossed out. The town has tried every kind of plastic cover and paintproof coating, but vandals always find a way to cross out those two letters.
    Steve groans and pulls the brim of his cap over his eyes. I know just how he feels.

Well, Mudville is a good name for it. Twenty-two years of rain have destroyed the grass and killed all the trees. Most of the topsoil has been washed away, exposing the gray clay underneath. I suppose, given enough time, the muddy clay will wash away, too, and Moundville will be left clinging to a pile of granite.
    There's less joy in our Mudville than the one in the poem. Maybe mighty Casey struck out, but at least those guys got to watch a baseball game.
    We pull into the driveway of my house, a long rambler with sheets of heavy-duty plastic arced over the roof like the protective wings of a mother bird. That's my dad's rain proofing. Most of the houses in Moundville have it, and the ones that don't aren't suited for living in. From the air, Moundville probably looks like so many misshapen igloos on a bank of filthy snow.
    We all say “Goodbye” and “Thanks” and “See you soon,” and eventually I grab my bags and climb over Shauna and out of the car. I hustle up the walk like it's a base path but still get pretty drenched.
    “I'm home!” I drop my bags by the door and use my hand to squeegee the water off my head. Then I step out of the foyer into the living room and stop dead in my tracks.
    There's a kid about my own age stretched out on the couch, watching television. He's wearing a flannel shirt andcorduroy pants, even though it's over eighty degrees out. One of his loafers is held together with duct tape. He's tanner than anyone I've ever seen, and his hair hasn't been cut in a long time.
    So there's my dad's surprise, I think. I don't know what it means, though. Maybe some homeless people he knows are visiting from out of town?
    “Still raining?” the boy asks, seeing how wet I am.
    When I get a better look at him, I see his face is a mess of scar tissue on the right side. His ear is unnaturally pink, and I realize it's a fake one.
    “It's been raining for over twenty years,” I tell him. “It never stops.”
    “I know. I was kind of kidding.” So he's a comedian, too. I should ask him who's on first.
    “I'm Roy,” I tell him. “I live here.”
    “Hey. I'm Sturgis. I live here, too. As of about”—he looks at the clock on the cable box—“two and a half hours ago.”
    “Huh?”
    “I'm like a foster kid. Your dad didn't tell you about me?”
    “Nah, but it's good,” I say, as though I'm used to coming home and finding the living room strewn about with new siblings. “Where are you from?”
    “Between here and Sutton,” he says, which is funny. I don't think there
is
anything between here and Sutton.
    “So where's my dad?”
    “In the kitchen making dinner.”
    I shudder and know I'll miss the excellent camp food I've gotten used to.
    The kitchen looks like a small tornado has tried to make a spaghetti omelet. There's something boiling on the stove, and the counter