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  The Flex of the Thumb

  James W. Bennett

  This book is dedicated

  to the memory of Chad Lobdell,

  an author dying much too young.

  Chapter One

  Looking back, it was clear how there were foreshadowing vibes even before there was ever a telling blow to the head. They weren’t the deep, chambered, transforming kind, nor were they long in duration, but they were there all the same. Nothing comes from nothing, in other words, certainly not the ever-widening circle of particular waves which serves to define the nature of the cosmos. What confluence of forces it was that framed a window on the universe along the inscape of Vano’s psyche? Who can say about these things?

  But Vano had vibes, for instance, the day of the senior class field trip to the Magic Mountain amusement park near Santa Clarita. A girl fell to her death from the Sky Chute. A few nearby onlookers were demonstrably shocked and traumatized, but park activities went right ahead with business as usual. Nothing missed a beat, or so it seemed to Vano. He felt resonant vibes from outside and from within, timbreing up from some deep and private, cthonic place. The sky seemed to shimmer with an orange hue.

  Vano recovered within a few moments, and was able to go about his business. That business included swilling down as much of Treece’s smuggled beer as possible, and finding a private place in the picnic grove for planking Ann-Marie Pillsbury, who had been hanging on him all day.

  There was also the time when Vano stood on the mound of the San Bernardino High School baseball field toeing the rubber. In the beginning, it was only a low ringing in his ears. And not precisely a ringing either, but more of a resonance like a tuning fork struck in a very low register, crescendoing before slowly dissipating. He turned away from his catcher long enough to stare up at the puffy California clouds floating slowly across their blue sky backdrop.

  As always, the crowd assembled to watch Vano pitch was overflow. The permanent bleachers were full, as well as a section of temporary seats. Two thousand people or so, standing, lined both foul lines and even filled in behind the outfield fence. The best seats, those directly behind home plate, were occupied by major league scouts who cradled their speed guns and charted Vano’s pitches.

  Felix Gomez, the Apple Valley catcher, approached the mound. “What’s the matter, Man? One more batter, okay?” As he spoke, he adjusted the sponges he used to reinforce his catcher’s mitt whenever Vano pitched.

  “It’s the ringing,” Vano told him.

  “Not the ringing, Man. Just one more batter.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s over now.”

  The relieved Gomez said, “Good. We’ve got a two-hour bus ride when the game is over. After that, I’ve got a date with Becky. I think I might get to hide the weinie, okay?”

  “You wish,” said Vano, shaking his head. “It was just an episode; I’m okay now.” He glanced at the final out, an undersized freshman with lots of pimples by the name of Scottie Wiggins, sent up to bat against his will. “Let’s just get the goddam game over with. I think I’ll throw this little shit a couple sliders.”

  “Oh Jesus Christ, what the hell for?”

  Vano was grinning with a malevolent gleam in his eye. “Maybe we can get him to load his pants; whatta you think?”

  “I told you what I think. Let’s just get the game over. You’ve struck out every batter with the fast ball, we don’t need to goof on this kid.”

  “Not every batter. One guy grounded out to first.”

  “You knocked the bat out of his hands,” Gomez reminded Vano. “What can I say?”

  By this time the home plate umpire was at the mound and out of patience. “What’s the problem, boys?”

  Gomez turned to the ump. “He wants to throw his fuckin’ slider.”

  “You watch your mouth with me,” said the umpire, whose name was Culpepper.

  “He wants to throw his freakin’ slider.”

  “That’s better. So what’s the problem?”

  “I can’t catch his slider,” explained Gomez. “He throws it 98 miles an hour and it’s got about a 15-inch bite. I can’t catch it even if it’s in the strike zone.”

  Briefly, Culpepper tried to imagine what a 98-mile-an-hour pitch could do to various parts of his anatomy if the catcher missed the ball. He said to Vano, “No sliders, kid. Now can we get on with it?”

  It didn’t occur to Vano that by dictating pitches, the umpire was exceeding his authority. He said, “Okay, what the hell; let’s get the goddam game over with.”

  Gomez pulled down his mask as he crouched low behind home plate. He gave Vano the sign, just the index finger, but wondered for the umpteenth time why he bothered giving signs at all. Was it a requirement? The umpire got down low behind him. The batter, Scottie Wiggins, stood as far from the plate as the rules allowed, and then some. With his eyes tightly closed, he rested the bat on his right shoulder.

  Vano went into his wind-up.

  The pitch was a blur with a 15-inch tail that exploded up and in over the inside corner. Into Gomez’ mitt like a rifle shot.

  Umpire Culpepper called strike one. “How do you catch that thing?” he asked Gomez.

  “I don’t really catch it, he just hits the mitt. It’s sort of like catchin’ a foul tip. Mostly luck.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  In the bleachers behind the screen, Vano’s father, Vernon, made a quick survey of the speed guns in his vicinity. They did not all register exactly the same. Some of them tracked the pitch at 112 miles per hour, while others had readings as high as 115. Vernon Lucas smiled. He dreamed of stocks and bonds, real estate holdings, and maybe even a modest island in the Carribean.

  Vano threw two more fast balls, same location, same velocity. The ump punched out the relieved Scottie Wiggins, who trailed his bat toward the dugout. The tell-tale moisture which darkened the inseams of his uniform trousers didn’t matter; he would live to tell about this day.

  Lying in the grass and chewing clover stems, the outfielders had to be told by the shortstop that the game was over. Vano left the mound and started shaking hands amidst a throng of well-wishers and back-slappers. It was another perfect game. He had faced the minimum, 21 batters, striking out 20. He never did get to throw his slider.

  In the parking lot, Ann-Marie honked and waved from behind the wheel of her yellow Geo convertible. Vano said to Gomez, “We’ll ride back with Ann-Marie. Go get Becky.”

  “If we don’t ride the bus we’re breakin’ team rules.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We could get suspended,” Gomez reminded him. “We could even get kicked off.”

  Vano’s reply was a scornful one: “They’re going to kick me off the team? Listen to it, Gomez.”

  “Okay, but what about me?”

  “They’re gonna kick my catcher off? I don’t think so. Go get Becky. Or, you can wuss out and ride the bus. It’s no skin off my ass one way or the other.”

  Gomez rode in the back seat with Becky. Vano slid behind the wheel. “Move over,” he said to Ann-Marie. Vano decided to drive roundabout by way of Grass Valley Road, along the rugged terrain which surrounded Miller Canyon. It was the long way north to be sure, but nobody seemed to notice. Ann-Marie was too busy explaining the financial aid package offered her by the Victorville Beauty Academy, while Gomez was locked onto his back seat schmoozing with Becky.

  Somewhere between Twin Peaks and the merger with highway 173, Vano pulled off the snaking road at a deserted sidebar. “Why are we stopping?” Ann-Marie asked him
.

  “Just follow me, everything’s cool.” Taking her by the hand, he led her around a large boulder configuration in the direction of a clearing in amongst some dense chapparal. When they were alone, he began untying the strings which secured her pink halter top.

  She offered some resistance, at first. “What are you doing, Vano?”

  “Duh. Let’s try twenty questions.”

  “But I was trying to tell you about my financial aid package. Aren’t you interested?”

  “Is that what it was?”

  “But don’t you want to hear about it?”

  “Ann-Marie, it’s time to cut to the chase. What do you think this is about?”

  Her breasts loosed in the high desert breeze, Ann-Marie folded her arms across her chest. Wasn’t it demeaning to be treated this way? Wasn’t Vano Lucas an arrogant bastard to assume that she was his for the taking?

  “What about Gomez and Becky?”

  “They’ll take care of themselves,” Vano assured her. By this time, he was unzipping his fly. “Take your shorts off, Ann-Marie; it’s time to get it on.”

  Ann-Marie had second thoughts about her second thoughts. If she wasn’t certain what the self-esteem factor in this equation was, there was one thing she did understand: life as the wife of Vano Lucas, soon to become a multimillionaire, would be immensely preferable to life as a checker at the Red Fox supermarket, her current position, or as a hairstylist/manicurist, which was her likely future position.

  With tears forming in her eyes, she nevertheless began removing her pink shorts.

  In the kitchen of the spacious Lucas condominium, the southern exposure opened on a vast and scenic mountain overlook. While Sister Cecilia, the housekeeper, prepared Vano’s breakfast of sausage, eggs, waffles, and toast, she sorted the mail. It was already mid-morning. She asked Vano if he had any plans for the day.

  “SSDD,” was Vano’s answer.

  “What do you mean by that, Vano?”

  “Same shit, different day.”

  “Please don’t use blasphemy,” said Sister Cecilia, who was saved and sanctified.

  Vano ignored the rebuke. For all he cared, blasphemy was some kind of off-speed breaking ball or circle change.

  Sister Cecilia gave Vano a flier of coupons from Domino’s Pizza. The rest of his mail she comandeered. There were 21 letters addressed to him, from professional teams, colleges and universities, newspapers, magazines, radio stations, and television networks. She took all of them to his father’s den where she secured them in a desk drawer. From the den came the sound of the phone tweeting and the answering machine kicking in.

  Vano ate his breakfast while Sister ironed her Salvation Army blazer. She worked the iron deftly between the brass buttons. With his mouth full, Vano complained that his life was boring. He said, “The old man won’t even let me pitch in one of the summer leagues.”

  “We’ve been through this before; he’s only trying to do what’s best for your future. And please don’t call him the old man. It’s disrespectful.”

  “My FATHer then. Is that better?”

  “Much better.”

  “My FATHer, my FATHer. It’s almost a month since I graduated, and all I get to do is run laps and work out in the weight room.”

  “Why don’t you play some catch with Gomez?”

  “I probably will, after supper. That’s some cool shit for sure.”

  “Vano, I asked you nicely about the blasphemy. Maybe when your father gets back from his business trip, you can ask him again about pitching summer baseball.”

  “Why? So he can shoot me down again?”

  “I know it’s hard,” she consoled. Wearing the blazer, she inspected her appearance in front of the sideboard mirror. She suggested, “Maybe you could get involved in some volunteer activities.”

  “Right. I think I’ll run right down to the V.A. hospital so I can empty some bedpans.” He looked at Sister Cecilia, now lifting her chest to smooth the wool lapels. He wondered what she might look like if she lost 10 or 20 pounds and didn’t wear such severe clothing. He wondered if she ever got horny or did her religion neutralize urges like that.

  Sister ignored his sarcasm and hung the blazer away in the hall closet. She told Vano, “I’ve been cleaning out the attic. I found some old scrapbooks with lots of pictures of your mother. Would you like to see them?”

  Scrapbooks? But he couldn’t think of anything better to do. “Sure. Why not?”

  She took Vano to the dark attic, where he immediately smacked his head on an exposed beam. Rubbing his head and swearing, he tried to ignore Sister’s protestations re his language. They began their examination of the photographs by looking at a shoebox full of snapshots of Vano’s mother, in no particular order. School pictures, some of her working in the garden, even a few candids from the wedding reception. They were odds and ends which Vano found mostly boring.

  But then there was the scrapbook with the paisley cover. There were some 20 pages or so of pictures which showed Vano’s mother with a lot of hairy, bearded people in hippy garb. The gathering place seemed to be a camp or conference center.

  Vano looked slowly at the scrapbook photos a second time, when suddenly the vibrations were upon him. Did they come from the blow on the head? Sister Cecilia was offering her interpretation: “I think these pictures go back to the sixties.”

  Vano spoke through the resonance: “Do you remember the sixties?”

  “A little bit,” answered Sister. “I graduated high school in ’72. It was a time of protest. It was called peace and love, but I’m afraid it was mostly all about drugs and immorality.”

  Vano couldn’t hear all of what she said because the vibes were too strong. The two of them were now looking at a series of pictures of Vano’s mother sitting beside a guy who looked like a holy man. He had flowing gray hair of shoulder length, and a pointed salt and pepper beard. His linen tunic had a squared neckline and plenty of beadwork.

  Vano’s vibes were like a reverberating gong. “Who is this person,” he asked, “who looks like a prophet?”

  “There’s no need to yell, Vano, not when I’m sitting right beside you.” Having lodged this mild complaint, Sister Cecilia attempted an answer to his question: “I don’t know who he is. He looks like a holy man, but the Bible teaches us to beware of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. He might have been some kind of occult guru. We can only hope and pray that he was a follower of Our Lord.”

  Vano heard very little of this. The resonance was too firm and not inclined to abate.

  The next thing he knew, he found himself behind the wheel of the Pulsar, his graduation present. Northeast on Highway 15, through a late-lifting fog and dissipating rings of resonance. He was on the way, though he may not have known it consciously, to Entrada College, a small institution of no reputation.

  The outdated baseball field at Entrada was in a condition of deterioration, and so was the coach, Rip Radulski. Vano sat on the dugout apron with Radulski, whose rheumy eyes bore witness to his drinking history.

  There were eight Entrada players shagging outfield balls and taking infield grounders in the hot sun. The school year was over and so was their season; they were merely working out on their own for summer league play.

  “Did I know you were coming for a visit?” Radulski asked.

  “Even I didn’t know,” said Vano. “I just had this sudden urge. Sometimes I get these vibes that I can’t understand.”

  Radulski, who was thoroughly familiar with Vano’s talent, said, “If I’da known you were coming, I could’ve made arrangements for the right kind of visit.” What he had in mind was the Garibaldi twins, who had tits out to here and a singular enthusiasm for menage a trois.

  Vano said, “You’re talking about an official visit, like an NCAA thing. I’ve never had one of those.”

  “You haven’t made any campus visits at all?”

  “Nope, none.”

  Radulski shook his head. “How many schools have contacted you?”<
br />
  “I’m not sure. I think it’s up in the hundreds. My old man screens all the college stuff. Sometimes lately I think about my mother; that’s what happened today. My mother went to college here.”

  “Entrada is your mother’s alma mater?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, all I know is she graduated here.”

  In his imagination, Radulski suddenly cradled a vision of his baseball team with Vano Lucas perched on the mound. This piece of imagery left him short of breath and very thirsty. “I’m going to need a snort about now,” he informed Vano. “Excuse me.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Radulski took a long, gurgling pull from a pint of Jim Beam. Then he asked, “Is anybody here with you?”

  “I’m by myself. If my old man knew I was here he’d probably come unglued.”

  “Your father doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “Nah. He’s in Houston on some kind of business. He always tells me not to waste my time thinkin’ about college. I’ll probably get a signing bonus between ten and twenty million before the summer’s over, so I guess I can see his point. I think school’s real boring, anyway. I hate homework.”

  Even though Coach Radulski could see Vano’s father’s point too, he had had that glimpse in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t resist some small gesture which might be in his own best interest: “You don’t want to overlook the value of a college education, though. It makes you a well-rounded person.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “That’s what they say. I could show you around the campus if you want. It’s pretty small, so it wouldn’t take long.”

  “Nah, that’s okay,” Vano told him. He was already growing weary of being here, now that the vibes were long gone. He looked out across the tacky, neglected playing field where the craters of stony turf were surrounded by tufts of lambsquarters, buckhorn, and other broadleaf weeds. He could imagine the measly crowds that probably showed up for Entrada home games.

  After Radulski finished another modest snort, he screwed the cap back on his bottle. “Would you like to throw a few?”