The Trophies Cutler Took Back From the Curb
My father was sitting up in his chair by the window that day, in a clean flannel shirt Lance had brought from home, with a blanket over his knees. His right hand lay in his lap. His left rested on the tray where I’d left Quentin Pelham’s cup.
Marty and Jerry Underwood went in first. They stood at the foot of his chair like boys called to the principal’s office, and Marty cleared his throat before he said, “Mr. Tate.”
“Marty,” Dad said.
“I wanted you to know the trophies are back in the window, sir. Every one.”
Dad looked at him. The words came slow, a coin at a time.
“Marty. Hollis. Nineteen. Ninety-one.” He caught his breath. “Bad. Ankle.”
“Jerry,” Dad said, turning his head. “Underwood. Wild.”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry said, laughing. “Walked 11 in one game.”
“Twelve,” said my father.
Luis Mendoza went in next with his father, and the old man took Dad’s hand and said something in Spanish, and Dad nodded as if he had understood every word. Quentin Pelham went in last. My father pushed the tin cup across the tray with one finger and said, “Window,” and Quentin carried it out in both hands like hot coffee he was afraid to spill. At the one-hour mark Gwen put her head in the door and said that was plenty, and Dad was asleep in his chair before the hall had emptied.
At four o’clock, when he had woken, a knock came at the doorframe, soft. It was Kyle and Shannon Reiter, with Mason between them.
They didn’t come in right away. Kyle stood in the doorway with his cap in both hands, and I saw my father look at him. He knew who it was. I saw him know.
“Mr. Tate,” Kyle said. “I’m Kyle Reiter. I bought your store.”
“I know,” Dad said. It took him a long time. “Kyle.”
“Sir, I owe you an apology. I took the trophies out of your window while you were sick. I put them on the curb. I didn’t know what they were. That’s not an excuse. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right.”
My father looked at him for a long moment, with those eyes that had been judging customers for 47 years.
Then he lifted his good hand off the tray, slowly, and held it out.
Kyle crossed the room in two steps and took it in both of his.
“Good,” my father said. His voice was barely there. “Window.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep. It.”
“Yes, sir. I promise.”
“Kids.” Dad moved his hand toward Mason, who was standing by the bed with his glove in the crook of his arm. Nobody had told me he’d brought a glove. “Name?”
“Mason, sir.”
“Mason.” Dad tried it again. “You. Play?”
The boy shook his head, embarrassed. “I’m not any good. I’ve never played on a team.”
“Good,” said my father, and a laugh moved through the room, because the boy’s face fell and then understood. “Best. Kind.” He tapped the tin cup with his finger. “Most. Improved.”
I don’t believe I have ever seen anything lovelier than that small, serious boy, holding a baseball glove too big for him, being told by an old man whose face still moved slow on one side that he was in exactly the right place.
The case went up three weeks later.