Free Lay that Trumpet in Our Hands by Susan Carol McCarthy Page A

doctor! Rocket Man McMahon has single-handedly
won
the game!”
    “Waa-hooo!” Ren would holler, tossing his glove high in the air, tipping his cap to the imaginary crowd.
    What’s he thinking now?
I wonder as the sound of Ren’s vigil echoes in my room.
BHH-DMM (pause) p f
. He’s not much of a talker, even on good days. Mother says he gets that from her side of the family. Oh, he can go on forever about baseball and his precious Brooklyn Dodgers. But when it comes to something personal, like “You missing Marvin, too?,” forget it.
    I asked Marvin once, “What’s the big deal about baseball, anyway?”
    He and Ren were taking a break, sitting in the shade beside the house.
    “Well, Ah’ll tell you, Roo,” Marvin replied, rubbing his chin. “Ah heard Red Barber say ‘baseball’s like life.’ His life, maybe. Not mine. Ah’d say baseball’s a bit of Heaven on Earth and Ah can prove it, too. Wanna see?”
    “Sure,” I said, sitting down beside him.
    Marvin drew a diamond in the dirt. “Looky here. If this is heaven, y’got to have the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, right? Well, the pitcher’s like God, standin’ highest on the mound, playin’ catch with The Son behind home plate. Backin’ God up is the Holy Ghost, the shortstop who’s all over the place. With me so far?” Of course I was. “Okay! Now, behind these three, there’s two bands of angels, three each: Cherubim on the bases, Seraphim in the field. Heaven on Earth!” He laughed. “But, Roo, wouldn’t be Heaven without a pearly gate and that’s right here,” he said, stabbing home plate. “And behind the gate is St. Peter hisself, dressed in a suit. Also called the umpire,” he said, as if I didn’t know.
    “Now, jus’ like Heaven, a batter comes knockin’ at the pearly gate, askin’ God and St. Peter, ‘Can Ah come in?’ ‘We’ll give you three tries,’ the two of them say. God loves threes, don’t y’ see—three around the mound, three bases, three outfield, three outs. So the batter tries his hardest, and his teammates try, too. But here’s the best part, Roo: Once you get in, you jus’ as good as anybody else. In Heaven, they don’t count the color of your skin, or the cut of your clothes, or whether your shoes are shined or not. In Heaven, a black man can out-hit, out-run, out-field a white man and live to tell about it. A black man, black as Jackie Robinson, can be picked Most Valuable Player, over hundreds of white men. That ain’t like life, Roo. That’s Heaven on Earth!” Marvin had grinned, and sat back satisfied he’d proved his point. Looking at me sideways, he’d flashed me his V-for-Victory sign which, for Marvin, meant
I know what I’m talkin’ ’bout
here
, or simply,
gotcha!
    Wait ’til next year!” Marvin promised Ren last October, after the Dodgers lost their pennant to the “Whiz Kids” from Philadelphia.
    Baseball’s next year begins today: Jackie Robinson’s a Cherubim on second base, Preacher Roe’s passing judgment on the mound, the fans are assembled in Ebbets Field and under the pines behind Tomasinis’ store. But Ren’s outside facing a big, blank wall. And Marvin?
    Marvin’s dead, Buhhhh-dummmm, gone forever, p f.

Chapter 11
    The month of April falls with the last of the orange blossoms into May. Armetta’s gone to work for Mr. and Miz Charles Clark in Wellwood. Miz Clark is the former Patsy Lee Berry, youngest daughter of the Wellwood Berrys, who are fine folks with no apparent Klan connections. Mr. Clark is from New Orleans and as nice as can be. The Clarks’ first child, Parlee Berry Clark, has just arrived and her parents need Armetta’s steadying hand.
    Ren and I continue our daily dashes to the post office but, to tell you the truth, I’m starting to think Mr. J. Edgar Hoover couldn’t care less about a cold-blooded murder in the middle of an orange grove.
    On a night in early May, Mother, Doto, Ren and I sit around the kitchen table attempting Pinochle. Under