Haunted Canada Page 8

  It was the bottom of the third inning when Dad and Ian returned to find Donny waving his pennant and shouting, “Yes. Yes. Yes!”

  “So, I take it we’re doing okay,” Dad said, pushing aside Batista’s poster so he could sit down on the couch beside Donny.

  “Don’t move … uh, I mean, could you please leave this here, Dad?” Donny asked nervously, propping the picture back against the cushion beside him.

  Suddenly, he shouted, “Don’t you dare, you little creep!”

  Ian had been reaching toward one of the cards on the coffee table. He pulled back his hand as if stung.

  “Sor-reee,” Ian drawled. “I just wanted to read about Klein’s numbers, that’s all.”

  “They’re not numbers, idiot,” Donny lashed back. “They’re stats. And you wouldn’t understand them anyway. You don’t know anything.”

  “That’s enough, Donny,” Dad interrupted icily.

  “But, Dad, Klein wasn’t up to bat yet,” Donny rattled on defensively. “You can’t touch his card when he’s not up to bat. There, see what Ian did,” he added, pointing to the television. “See? Klein just struck out. He brought him bad luck, right?”

  “Ian didn’t do that, Donny. But you did plenty. It’s apology time, mister.”

  Feeling trapped, Donny mumbled grudgingly, “I’m sorry.”

  Dad sighed, “Now, fellas, what do you say we all sit down and enjoy the rest of this game?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ian bounced over and snuggled up beside his father. Mr. Adams patted the space on his other side and said, “There’s plenty of room here for you, too, Donny.”

  But Donny didn’t see it that way. It won’t be any fun watching the game with you, he thought. You just don’t understand. Nobody does.

  Aloud, he said curtly, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Then he picked up his cards, grabbed his poster and headed for the basement.

  His mother opened the back door just as he reached the top of the stairs.

  “Wait, Donny. What was all that shouting about?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Donny grunted.

  “Well, it was a pretty noisy nothing. And where are you going with all that stuff?”

  “Downstairs, to watch the game on Grandpa’s old TV. Or isn’t that allowed?”

  “Oh, it’s allowed, but it doesn’t sound like much fun. Where’s your dad, and Ian?”

  “In there,” Donny said angrily, pointing to the living room. “They wrecked everything.”

  “Now where have I heard that before? Let me think,” Mrs. Adams said. “Could it be someone named Donny who said it when …?”

  She got no further.

  “Can I go now?” Donny interrupted.

  “Sure, but tell me, have I missed something here? I thought baseball was supposed to be fun. You don’t seem to be having too much fun these days, Donny.”

  “Well, I will if I can get back to the game,” he snapped, and started down the stairs.

  Most of the basement was just that — a basement. But one corner had been set aside as a play area. There was a square of carpet on the floor, an old recliner and two lawn chairs to sit on, shelves for toys, a coffee table much the worse for wear, and the TV set Grandpa had left behind when he gave up his apartment and drove off to Florida in a new motorhome.

  Donny switched on the TV and tuned in the game. He propped the Batista poster in front of the coffee table and flopped into the recliner. Leaning forward, he arranged his cards according to the starting lineup. He jammed his pennant into the space beside the chair’s pop-up footrest, and settled back to watch. The way I want to, he thought. The way I have to, a faint voice whispered at the back of his mind. He quickly tuned this out and concentrated on the game.

  With no one around to bother him, he was free to wave, cheer, hold up cards, cover his eyes, even stand on his head if that’s what it took. This is great, he thought.

  And, when the Condors came from behind to win in the ninth, he decided not to watch baseball upstairs again.

  Before the next game, Donny headed for the basement to prepare. Remembering the winning formula he’d used on Thursday, he turned on the TV, propped up his posters — Calvin Green’s as well as Batista’s — positioned the chair, sat down, arranged the starting lineup, and jammed the pennant into place.

  We’re ready, he told himself. This is going to be fun. He checked his watch. Five minutes to go. It occurred to him that this was just enough time to make some popcorn.

  Leaving his cap behind on the chair, he whipped upstairs, put a bag of popcorn into the microwave, set the timer and waited impatiently for the buzzer to sound.

  Then he raced back downstairs, put his cap back on and settled into the recliner. “Let’s play ball,” he announced as the players took to the field. The Condors won handily.

  Then, just when it looked as if the team and Donny were doing everything right and the Condors might actually take their division, things started going terribly wrong.

  The team set out on a twelve-game road trip and lost five in a row. Desperately, Donny tinkered with his rules for bringing off a Condors’ win until he could barely keep track of them. He became a boy possessed as the preparations before each game escalated into a frantic race to get everything done in time.

  He was also worried that something he’d done had caused the string of defeats. Was the popcorn all gone when Batista loaded the bases and threw the lollipop that Feliciano had drilled high over the right-field wall? Should he eat it more slowly the next time, or should he forget it altogether? Maybe that would do the trick.

  As the next game approached, Donny realized he was in trouble. His eyes blurred as he turned on the TV, and his hands trembled as he tried to organize the Condors’ cards into their starting lineup. I can’t take it anymore, he suddenly found himself thinking. He threw down the cards, slumped into the recliner and closed his eyes.

  His head was spinning.

  This is too much. I don’t care, he thought. No, I do care. The Condors have to win. They just have to. But Ian was right … and so were Mom and Dad. This is crazy, he thought. It isn’t fun anymore. It’s become a nightmare, a nightmare that has to stop.

  Donny opened his eyes. But the real nightmare had just begun.

  On the coffee table, the starting lineup was neatly arranged. His posters were propped up on both sides of the TV. The pennants were in place, too, and his T-shirt was draped over the arm of the chair, with his cap balanced carefully on top of it. Everything was set up, ready for the game to start — but he hadn’t done any of it.

  His heart began to pound. He reached for his cap, ready to heave it across the room. But he couldn’t. Instead, he felt his hand moving toward his head. Like a zombie following its master’s orders, he put on his cap, flinching at its touch. This favourite of all his treasures had become a thing of horror, something that made his skin crawl.

  Terrified, Donny tried to fling himself out of the chair. I have to get out of here, he thought. But he couldn’t move. An invisible force threatened to crush him each time he tried to push himself up.

  Desperate, he opened his mouth to scream for help, but no sound emerged. Finally, he stopped struggling and collapsed limply in the chair. The game started. Through no choice of his own, he began to watch.

  His last clear thought was that he hadn’t made the popcorn. After that, everything blurred. He could see the TV and hear the announcers’ voices, but the picture and the words were hideously distorted.

  Donny was terrified. He felt trapped in a kind of waking-dead zone where nothing made any sense … until two familiar words finally pierced the horrible blur.

  Donny latched onto them like a drowning swimmer clutching a life preserver. He forced himself to focus on the familiar syllables. “Cracker Jacks.” Then, an entire line echoed in his head — “I don’t care if I never come back … don’t care if I never come back … don’t care … care … care.”

  But I do care, he screamed silently. I want t
o come back. Suddenly, Donny realized that he could hear again — and see. On the TV screen, the crowd was on its feet, roaring out the words to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  Donny felt weak with relief. Without thinking, he reached up to scratch his head. As his hand touched the brim of his cap, the full impact of what he’d just done hit him. He’d moved on his own. Slowly, he lowered his arm and leaned forward. Then he carefully pushed himself out of the chair.

  To reassure himself that the nightmare had truly ended, he ran a quick reality check. He focused on the screen, where a chart listed the runs, hits and errors for the first eight innings. He was able to read it and understand what it meant.

  It showed that the Condors were behind by two runs. Too bad, he thought. He tensed, waiting for the frantic feeling that he had to do something to make his team win, but it didn’t come.

  He steadied himself against the coffee table and stepped away from the chair. Still nervous, he glanced back at the television. Farley, the Condors’ star reliever, was winding up. The ball burned across the outside corner of the plate and Carter, the Falcons’ slugger, was history.

  Donny found himself hoping that the Condors would pull the game out of the fire when they got up to bat. Then he caught himself. It was bad luck to think of winning, wasn’t it? No, it was bad luck only if you said your team was going to win when they were leading, not when they were behind. Besides, you had to say it out loud to jinx them. That’s what Dad said, anyway. He said all baseball fans knew better than to jinx their team that way.

  With this thought, Donny began to smile. One or two superstitions were okay. That was part of the fun of baseball.

  He switched off the TV, picked up his pennant and headed upstairs, hoping he’d find Dad or Ian watching the game in the living room. He still wanted to see the bottom of the ninth, but it would be more fun if he could watch it with somebody.

  THE EMPTY PLACE

  Mom pointed to the large hawk soaring above the cottage. “Look, Kit. Isn’t it beautiful?” Kit glanced skyward.

  “So what?” she said sullenly. “It’s just a bird.” She turned her back and began to walk away.

  “Kit? Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.” Kit kept walking.

  “Hold on, Kit. It’s nearly lunchtime. I want you to stay close to the cottage for now.”

  Kit took two more steps, then stopped as her little brother, Eugene, dashed out of the bushes beside the cottage. He came straight at her, arms outstretched.

  “Hey, Kit, look what I found.”

  Carefully, he uncupped his hands. But not carefully enough. A bumpy brown toad leapt out just as Kit bent down to look.

  “You brat,” she hissed, jumping back.

  “But, Kit, I never did it on purpose. Come on. Help me catch it again, will you?”

  “You wish. Catch your own stupid toads — and keep them far away from me.” Kit turned on her heel and stomped away.

  “You’re no fun anymore,” Eugene yelled as he headed back behind the cottage, hot on the trail of the escaping amphibian.

  His words pierced Kit with a guilt that nearly stopped her in her tracks. She knew she was acting like a jerk, but this knowledge just made her angrier — with herself and everybody else.

  Tears stung her eyes. She hadn’t asked to be included in the family’s vacation at the cottage. In fact, she’d begged to stay behind in town, where she could watch TV, hang out with her friends and have some fun.

  Kit kept walking. She wanted a space of her own, away from the rest of the family. She started to jog, then broke into a run.

  “Kit, wait,” she heard her mother call. Kit ignored her and kept running until she reached the cover of a nearby willow grove.

  From her vantage point under the drooping branches, Kit watched her parents walk back to the picnic table and sit down. Eugene was already seated, getting a head start on the sandwiches.

  “Guess who’s missing from the happy holiday picture?” Kit muttered angrily. They’re just fine, she thought. They can have lots of fun without me.

  Turning away, she began to work her way through the willow branches. When she broke through to the other side of the grove, she took a deep breath and took off across the vast expanse of meadow that lay before her.

  Kit ran and ran. She ran until her breathing was so harsh and shallow that she could run no more. She slowed to a jog, but finally had to stop. Gasping, she bent over, hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath.

  Gradually, the pounding in her chest lessened, and the pain in her side eased. She straightened up slowly and looked back the way she’d come. Far off, to the right, she could still see the dark outline of the woods ringing the lake, but she could barely pick out the cottage and the willow grove beside it.

  Not far enough. I can still see it, Kit thought, and decided to keep going. “Until I don’t have to see anyone or anything,” she said aloud as she set off once more, this time at an easy jog.

  She had no idea how long she’d been running when she started to pay attention to her surroundings again. The first thing she noticed was that the sun was no longer directly overhead. She could still feel its powerful rays on the back of her neck and shoulders, but it was definitely lower in the sky. Her lengthening shadow told her that.

  Glancing down, she realized that the ground had changed, too. The soft meadow grasses were gone and, underfoot, dried weeds and withering wild strawberry plants crunched and crackled.

  The sun’s cooking you too, she mused, looking at the brown and red leaves clinging to a sandy patch of ground before her. Suddenly, a quick shadow streaked across her path. Kit turned and squinted over her shoulder into the sky.

  Oh, it’s you, she thought as she picked the large black hawk out of the sun’s glare. Who invited you along? Go back to my mother. She’s the bird lover, not me. Aloud she added, “This is my spot. Mine, you hear.”

  The realization that she had actually shouted these words left Kit feeling more than a little foolish.

  Thank goodness no one is around to hear, she thought. But the words had struck a memory chord. Kit stopped walking and looked around again.

  Hey, maybe this really is my place, she thought, recalling the game she’d invented when she was little. She flopped onto the ground, thinking that she might finally be able to win it here.

  Kit stretched out and began to move her eyes in every direction while keeping her head perfectly still.

  “Nearly,” she said, sitting up and yanking at a tall clump of chicory that had managed to survive the heat and sand. “Sorry, but you have to go,” she announced. Then she lay back down and looked around again.

  That’s better, she thought. This place has definite possibilities. Then she saw the hawk again.

  “Go away,” she ordered. “This is my place. You’re wrecking the game.”

  The hawk lingered briefly, suddenly swooped lower, then soared high and faded into the cloudless sky.

  Finally, Kit thought. Nobody and nothing. I’ve finally found my empty place.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the summer six years ago when she’d started her search for this place. That year, her family had spent their vacation at her uncle’s farm. One day, lying on the roof of the cowshed with her cousins, Kit had found herself staring into an empty, clear blue sky. She had lain outside many times before — flat on her back on the apartment balcony, in the wading pool at the park, and even in the schoolyard. But this time was different.

  This time, nothing, absolutely nothing had broken her view of the sky — no birds, no branches, no awnings, not even a hydro pole or telephone line. Suddenly, she’d been overwhelmed by the vast emptiness.

  This is fun, she’d thought. It’s like being all alone in the middle of nowhere, even though I’m really not. It felt good, being in the empty place she’d just discovered.

  Keeping her head still, she’d let her eyes wander to the left. Still nothing. Once again, all she could see was blue. When she’
d looked to the right, though, a tall tree had intruded into the blueness. Then two crows had risen squawking from the garden, flying directly into view, and the spell had been broken.

  But the excitement of that moment had lingered. Several times that summer, she’d searched for a place where she could lie down, look up and around and see nothing but sky. It became a kind of game for her. She’d flop down, cushion her head with her hands, and try out a new place. But, no matter where she tried out the view, something — a tree or a bird or a single power line — always got in the way.

  There was no point even trying on cloudy days. She would not allow the smallest wisp of white to drift by. That was against the rules, rules she’d come up with after that time on the cowshed roof. Only the sun was allowed. She couldn’t look right at it anyway, so it didn’t count. But anything else would break the spell cast by the emptiness.

  When her cousins began to tease her about lying around all the time, just staring at the sky, she quickly learned to seek out her empty place only when she was alone. She came close sometimes, but she never did find it that summer.

  When she returned to the city, thoughts of her summer quest faded. Once, in the winter, she had tried again at the park, after an unusually heavy snowfall. The sun was shining brightly and the park was blanketed in white. She lay down in the snow and looked all around but, try as she might, she could never eliminate the nearby high-rises from the picture. No matter where she went in the park, she could still see at least one.

  The next summer Kit gave up her search. She was lying with two of her friends on the teeter-totters in the park. The three of them were just lying there saying nothing, staring up at the sky.

  When she asked them if they ever tried to find a place where they could see absolutely nothing but the sky, they looked at her as if she had grown antennae. “You’re nuts, Kit,” one of them had said. Embarrassed, Kit had vowed never to think about the stupid game again.

  But here she was, two years later, absolutely spellbound because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, in sight. This is amazing, she thought. Nothing and nobody. Just what I wanted. I wonder how long it will last.