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Southpaws
Robert Conover |
It was Paul's first Christmas without his right arm.
He sat in his mother's car fidgeting abstractedly with the column-mounted box her friend Tony had devised so that Paul could negotiate the shifts with his left hand. Tony was ingenious in that way. He wondered if his Mom would marry him. She deserved something good in her life after everything else, including his own accident last Christmastime.
Freakish, that was the way to describe it. Paul had gone shopping for presents and had forgotten his gloves on the car's console. He had reopened the door and was reaching in when the minivan skidded, fishtailed on the thin layer of ice in the parking lot. The door slammed closed. His arm had all but been amputated.
Paul thought about it now as he sat behind the wheel in front of the Sentinel Building. The accident was why he was here. The bitterness crept back momentarily, only to be dislodged by the image of the shards of morning sun on the sill of the Veterans Hospital. He was there in that pristine little room because they dealt with stuff like that. He could see the shards once more. They gripped the window sill like clutching fingers as the dawn came up.
Eight-thirty. Mr. Epstein should be in.
Paul took the self-elevator up to the fourth floor. There was no receptionist and too many empty desks in empty cubicles. A man he recognized from his postage-stamp picture on the Sports-page stopped.
"I'm Paul Drury."
"Mr. Epstein is expecting you," the man said pleasantly. His name was Carson Daly. At least that was the name on his column byline.
Daly directed Paul to Mr. Epstein's corner office. It was large but not large enough for all the newspapers and proofsheets stacked and scattered about on the chairs and floor. Mr. Epstein, a tall man who looked like a former athlete, rose from his desk, extended his left hand.
Paul shook it it with his left.
"Ahh! A southpaw!" Mr. Epstein laughed. "I'm partial to lefties. I wanted to be the next Sandy Koufax. Once struck out sixteen Marsden High batters in a seven-inning game. Even got a full-ride scholarship to U. of Cincy where Koufax pitched. In my sophomore year my arm went--"
He stopped short, seeming to notice Paul's empty coat sleeve for the first time.
Paul had been thinking about his own stint on the junior varsity as a middle reliefer in his sophomore year. He had not been able to strike out a single batter in his limited mound-work. Just the same, to be unable to try out for the varsity last spring had been even more painful than taking Megan Greer to the Prom in a tuxedo jacket with one working sleeve.
"Tell me about the poster," Mr. Epstein broke into his thoughts.
For the first time, Paul had noticed his Christmas poster on the easel by the window. Sun peering over the indigo horizon. The Star of Bethlehem. The shards of golden light on the Veterans Hospital window ledge.
"I really like it," Mr. Epstein was saying. Funny, Paul thought. The Christmas star. And Mrs. Husain, his Art teacher, felt the same way about it.
"It says hope to me," Mr. Epstein remarked as he studied the poster. Hope. It was the last very word Mrs. Husain had used to describe it.
Paul, sitting now, attempted to explain about the stay at the Veterans Hospital that had inspired his creation of the poster; about his regimen of re-training to write and to draw with his left hand; about the mixed media he used, the charcoals, pastels, even markers.
Mr. Epstein leaned across his cluttered desk, handed Paul a check with the Sentinel's masthead reproduced in miniature at the top-left.
"Sorry, it's only for five hundred." Mr. Epstein seemed sadder that the statement warranted. "Last year, first prize was one thousand. Last year we didn't have as many vacant desks or an invisible receptionist."
"Is everybody off for the Holiday?" Paul inquired, failing to make the connect.
"For the holidays and beyond," the editor leaned back resignedly. "Ten years ago our circulation was 353,000. We're down to one-third of that now. Why else would the Sentinel demote its Publisher to Editor-in-Chief?"
Abruptly, Mr. Epstein seemed to shake his melancholy.
"So what are you going to spend the half-a-G on?" he wanted to know.
"I haven't really thought about it, Mr. Epstein, but I'll probably use it to buy art materials and..." Paul's voice trailed off.
"And what? That's alot of art materials," the editor grinned warmly.
"There was a pitcher my Mom's friend Tony told me about," Paul said, looking at the trophy on the credenza behind Mr. Epstein. It was a baseball, actual size, bronzed and mounted on an engraved pedestal. "He played with one arm."
"Abbott, Angels," Mr. Epstein nodded, added quickly: "A southpaw."
"I was thinking," Paul resumed his out-loud reverie, "I'd buy myself a baseball mitt-- a lefthander's mitt. The one in my closet belonged to someone else."
"In another time, another league." Mr. Epstein's look, too, was faraway.
Paul was with him. They were jogging laps in the distant outfield.
Nothing had been lost from last Christmas.
In the summery brilliance everything had been gained.
He rose, managed: "Thank you, Mr. Epstein."
The editor nodded, smiled. "Your poster will be splashed across two-thirds of the Sentinel's front page tomorrow morning," he said. "The world's madness will have to ride the pine for twenty-four hours."
Outside, the day continued to cast its seasonal gray, but as he engaged Tony's magical left-handed gearbox, Paul Drury knew that he was whole again.
He sat in his mother's car fidgeting abstractedly with the column-mounted box her friend Tony had devised so that Paul could negotiate the shifts with his left hand. Tony was ingenious in that way. He wondered if his Mom would marry him. She deserved something good in her life after everything else, including his own accident last Christmastime.
Freakish, that was the way to describe it. Paul had gone shopping for presents and had forgotten his gloves on the car's console. He had reopened the door and was reaching in when the minivan skidded, fishtailed on the thin layer of ice in the parking lot. The door slammed closed. His arm had all but been amputated.
Paul thought about it now as he sat behind the wheel in front of the Sentinel Building. The accident was why he was here. The bitterness crept back momentarily, only to be dislodged by the image of the shards of morning sun on the sill of the Veterans Hospital. He was there in that pristine little room because they dealt with stuff like that. He could see the shards once more. They gripped the window sill like clutching fingers as the dawn came up.
Eight-thirty. Mr. Epstein should be in.
Paul took the self-elevator up to the fourth floor. There was no receptionist and too many empty desks in empty cubicles. A man he recognized from his postage-stamp picture on the Sports-page stopped.
"I'm Paul Drury."
"Mr. Epstein is expecting you," the man said pleasantly. His name was Carson Daly. At least that was the name on his column byline.
Daly directed Paul to Mr. Epstein's corner office. It was large but not large enough for all the newspapers and proofsheets stacked and scattered about on the chairs and floor. Mr. Epstein, a tall man who looked like a former athlete, rose from his desk, extended his left hand.
Paul shook it it with his left.
"Ahh! A southpaw!" Mr. Epstein laughed. "I'm partial to lefties. I wanted to be the next Sandy Koufax. Once struck out sixteen Marsden High batters in a seven-inning game. Even got a full-ride scholarship to U. of Cincy where Koufax pitched. In my sophomore year my arm went--"
He stopped short, seeming to notice Paul's empty coat sleeve for the first time.
Paul had been thinking about his own stint on the junior varsity as a middle reliefer in his sophomore year. He had not been able to strike out a single batter in his limited mound-work. Just the same, to be unable to try out for the varsity last spring had been even more painful than taking Megan Greer to the Prom in a tuxedo jacket with one working sleeve.
"Tell me about the poster," Mr. Epstein broke into his thoughts.
For the first time, Paul had noticed his Christmas poster on the easel by the window. Sun peering over the indigo horizon. The Star of Bethlehem. The shards of golden light on the Veterans Hospital window ledge.
"I really like it," Mr. Epstein was saying. Funny, Paul thought. The Christmas star. And Mrs. Husain, his Art teacher, felt the same way about it.
"It says hope to me," Mr. Epstein remarked as he studied the poster. Hope. It was the last very word Mrs. Husain had used to describe it.
Paul, sitting now, attempted to explain about the stay at the Veterans Hospital that had inspired his creation of the poster; about his regimen of re-training to write and to draw with his left hand; about the mixed media he used, the charcoals, pastels, even markers.
Mr. Epstein leaned across his cluttered desk, handed Paul a check with the Sentinel's masthead reproduced in miniature at the top-left.
"Sorry, it's only for five hundred." Mr. Epstein seemed sadder that the statement warranted. "Last year, first prize was one thousand. Last year we didn't have as many vacant desks or an invisible receptionist."
"Is everybody off for the Holiday?" Paul inquired, failing to make the connect.
"For the holidays and beyond," the editor leaned back resignedly. "Ten years ago our circulation was 353,000. We're down to one-third of that now. Why else would the Sentinel demote its Publisher to Editor-in-Chief?"
Abruptly, Mr. Epstein seemed to shake his melancholy.
"So what are you going to spend the half-a-G on?" he wanted to know.
"I haven't really thought about it, Mr. Epstein, but I'll probably use it to buy art materials and..." Paul's voice trailed off.
"And what? That's alot of art materials," the editor grinned warmly.
"There was a pitcher my Mom's friend Tony told me about," Paul said, looking at the trophy on the credenza behind Mr. Epstein. It was a baseball, actual size, bronzed and mounted on an engraved pedestal. "He played with one arm."
"Abbott, Angels," Mr. Epstein nodded, added quickly: "A southpaw."
"I was thinking," Paul resumed his out-loud reverie, "I'd buy myself a baseball mitt-- a lefthander's mitt. The one in my closet belonged to someone else."
"In another time, another league." Mr. Epstein's look, too, was faraway.
Paul was with him. They were jogging laps in the distant outfield.
Nothing had been lost from last Christmas.
In the summery brilliance everything had been gained.
He rose, managed: "Thank you, Mr. Epstein."
The editor nodded, smiled. "Your poster will be splashed across two-thirds of the Sentinel's front page tomorrow morning," he said. "The world's madness will have to ride the pine for twenty-four hours."
Outside, the day continued to cast its seasonal gray, but as he engaged Tony's magical left-handed gearbox, Paul Drury knew that he was whole again.
