“I know. You’re not smart enough to be manipulative.” She gulped down the rest of the scalding coffee while he wondered about that compliment. “Now get your ass out of here so the greatest baseball player and the greatest singer in the history of the world can put her makeup back on.”
The stage lights were like stepping onto the surface of the Sun. Ian shouted into the earphones to get on; she crushed the plugs with her heels. In the twenty-foot perch directly overhead, Schrage bounced up and down like an ornery child.
The audience stomped their feet. Her band waited, sax, pianist, bass guitar, drums; her old group The Pinholes always knew when she’d start. These folks couldn’t be blamed for thinking five minutes of anticipatory noise was enough. She’d know the right moment.
Behind the thick purple curtain, Mooshie tilted her head to catch the faint waves of sound. It could’ve been building for miles; Kenuda had preened that traffic was stalled for hundreds of miles and he’d rescued everyone with his portable roadside screens. He and that bitch Annette deserved each other.
The sounds congealed, there, she could make it out. One word, two syllables. Out of the darkness, Schrage limped forward, panic on his bleeding face; he’d fallen the last five feet.
“For the love of Grandma’s earlobe, will you please get out there?”
Mooshie smiled innocently. “But I was waiting for my director’s cue.”
Ian nearly swallowed his tongue. Mooshie skipped on stage into the deafening roar of Da-ra, Da-ra.
“Hello America.” She flipped her hair from front to back. “What did you say?”
“Dara,” they yelled.
“What?” She held out the microphone.
“Dara!”
“What?”
“Dara, Dara, Dara,” the chant erupted.
“All right. Now I’m going to feed you.”
She exploded through the Mooshie sizzler Drill My Heart, followed by the Dear Drops ballad and then the number one tune Boil My Blood Baby.
“Think you got my temperature
Do you now
When all you got
Is blood that don’t boil
I need real loving
Yes I do
When you’re up to it
Give me a cue
‘Cause until now
You’re nothing but a speck.”
Mooshie flung the blonde wig into the crowd, which went insane, tearing for a piece. Puppy nearly fainted. Not tonight, Moosh.
Mooshie fluffed up her short black hair and the crowd went nuts again, screaming themselves hoarse. It wasn’t until the music quieted that they all became aware of the faint whirring of a ‘copter, suddenly hovering above the stage.
Grandma’s legs dangled girlishly over the edge, white socks rolling down over her neat purple sneakers. She waved at Mooshie.
“Hi,” she paused meaningfully, “Dara. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Grandma’s eyes drilled into Mooshie, frozen as if all her ligaments were sewn together.
“Grandma,” Mooshie finally managed.
The crowd roared for a couple minutes before Grandma shooshed them like they were misbehaving before bedtime.
“Are you enjoying yourselves?” She waited for the shouts to die down. “I won’t take up much time because we have a baseball game to play.” Grandma understood their suddenly silent anxiety. “Which is wonderful and why I’m here.”
She wiggled back and forth, trying to find a comfortable place.
“I love you all very much.” Grandma brushed off the “we love you too” responses. “That’s why I want to apologize. I made a mistake once. I let my anger at what wrongheaded, but sincere Americans believed, to cloud my judgment. Baseball represented an America I didn’t understand, an America I never really knew. A strong America. A leader. The leader. Baseball above all else represented that. A time of glory, freedom, a different world where problems could be solved by a game of catch in the backyard. I thought that world was gone. Some ways, it is. But what I destroyed was passion and love and respect for tradition. All the themes The Family represents are captured in baseball. It’s part of this country. That with one swing of a bat you can change everything.”
Grandma paused. You could hear a pin drop across America. “I destroyed something very special and I’m sorry.”
The silence continued because no one knew what to say.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Mooshie said quietly and “thank you Grandmas” rippled back into the night, softly, as if the last words before going to sleep.
Lenora smiled faintly.
“You’re going to have your baseball back. This isn’t the last season. Let’s hope there’s a hundred more.”
The ‘copter drifted up and stealthed. Now the crowd murmured, unsure what just happened.
You cunning bitch. You’re a genius.
“Didn’t you hear what she said?” Mooshie yelled. “This ain’t the last baseball season.” The crowd started screaming. “There’s gonna be baseball all over the country.” The shouts got louder. “They’re gonna rebuild all the parks. Right? Right? RIGHT?”
Puppy ran onto the stage and hugged Mooshie, joined by Kenuda. America shouted itself hoarse.
• • • •
EMBARRASSED, ZELDA DIDN’T know what to do with the green daisies. Annette took over the domestic situation.
“They put together such a nice layout and don’t give you a vase?” Annette briefly re-arranged the lumpy sofa and chair a little further apart, straightening the coffee table and frowning at the wobbly floor lamp. She marched into the kitchen area, ready to issue citations, and rummaged through the nearly empty cupboard before triumphantly brandishing a tall chipped glass which she filled with water.
“I knew there had to be something.” Annette balanced the daisies in the glass, muttering about no scissors to cut the stems and spending another minute deciding where the flowers should go. She settled on the end table next to Zelda’s narrow, unmade bed. Sighing loudly, she made the bed, fluffed the pillow and sat on the lumpy chair, two girlfriends catching up except for Zelda’s desire to cut Annette’s throat.
“How are you?” Annette asked brightly. “Not a bad place for a prison. You’ll be out of here in no time.”
“Is that what you’re told?”
“I just assume you’ll say where the brat is and be done with it. She’s not even yours so why protect her?”
Zelda’s mouth curled viciously and Annette continued on in a cheerful tone.
“I’ve been okay, thanks,” she said as if Zelda had done more than glare.
