Smelling the Sky
A story of new friends, eager enemies, and two hungry tigers

 By Ben Clabaugh

Episode II

CHAPTER 1 

“Well, it was nice to meetcha, but I gotta get going.”  David waved, then turned and walked quickly back around the front of his house and into the open garage.   

David grabbed his bike and pedaled up the street, thinking.  If he found no friends and came home, who would know?  And if he did find some friends, then his friends’ mom could just give him a ride home.  His mom would be so happy he had found a friend, she wouldn’t even care he had broken the rules – maybe.  Any risk was worth not being stuck with Shelton all summer.

Man, what a weirdo, David thought as he pedaled past.  Shelton was where he had left him, ‘helping.’  He lifted a hand to wave, but David stared straight ahead, pretending not to see.

He came to the stop sign at the end of the street.  To his right, the ribbon of road rose and fell between rolling, pasture-covered hills.  Trees clustered in the low areas, and he could just make out an old-style stone and white clapboard farm house in the distance.    He had never been in that direction. 

He turned left and pumped up the hill.  At the top, the open pastures gave way to side streets lined with houses much like his own.  He was looking for a vacant lot or a park, anywhere there might be a bunch of kids.  As he rode, wind from passing cars buffeted him, forcing him off the asphalt and onto  a narrow strip of  hard packed dirt between the road and the drainage ditch.  He began to wonder if this was such a good idea. 

He came to an intersection and stopped, trying to decide which way to go.  Ahead and to the left, beyond a jumble of rooftops, he could just make out the large, round top of a water tower.  He checked traffic then went straight.  David zigged and zagged his way from street to street, heading, he thought, in the general direction of the water tower. As he made his way deeper into the neighborhood, the sounds of the busy street behind him faded, and the air felt closer.  The hum of his tires on the asphalt, the chattering of the bike’s chain as it swung against the chain guard, and squeak of his left pedal at the bottom of each down-stroke seemed amplified.  He saw no movement - no kids, no adults, not even any dogs. 

He stopped at another stop sign and wiped the sweat from his face.  The temperature had continued to rise, and David regretted not wearing a cap.  Squinting in the bright sunlight, he saw the water tower through a gap between two identical brown houses with bright green shutters.  Standing on his pedals, he raced around the next corner, skidding to a stop at the curb. 

The water tower stood at the far side of a field of mown grass.  The field stretched at least half a block in both directions.  A chain-link backstop was tucked in the shade of some large trees in the far corner of the field.  A couple dozen kids stood arrayed in the field or lounging in the shade, waiting a turn at bat.

Geez, these guys are serious, David thought.  They all wore actual baseball pants, either white or gray, and official-looking jerseys – not a pair of blue jeans or regular t-shirt in the bunch.  There were no umpires, and he saw several different colors of jersey, so he could tell this wasn’t any kind of official, league game.  He pulled his bike onto the grass to watch.  As he swung his leg over the seat of his bike, the metallic ping of an aluminum bat hitting a baseball drew his eyes skyward in time to see it arching upward in his direction.    

He could tell right away that  the ball would sail far beyond where the outfielders had been standing.  He thought he might be the only one that could get to it, but only if he moved fast.  David dropped his bike and took off  running.  

The ball appeared to jump and wobble as he ran over the uneven ground, but he kept his eyes glued to it.  Two things happened, then, at once.  First, he remembered he did not have a glove.  This would make it much harder to catch the ball.  On the other hand, if he did, it would be even more impressive.   They’d just have to let him play, heck, they’d beg him to play, then.

  Second, in his peripheral vision, he saw a blur of a blue and white jersey converging toward him. 

No way, he thought.  The ball was way too far over the kid’s head.  Why had he even bothered trying to go for it? 

The ball began its downward trajectory, and David pumped harder toward the place he knew it would land.  He could not risk taking his eyes off the ball, but the blue and white blur was growing.  David thought fleetingly of calling for the ball to warn the other kid off, but then didn’t.  Surely the other kid would either hear him coming and back off, or give up, or something.  Then, all thought ceased as he concentrated every ounce of his will on getting to the ball.  He just had to catch it.  Diving spectacularly, barehanded, coming out of nowhere, and catching the ball would be the kind of thing kids would hear about for weeks. 

“Yea, have you met the new kid?” one kid would say.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Man, you shoulda seen him.  He was awesome!”

He surged forward, using every last bit of strength.  The ball was close enough that he could see the stitching, spinning counterclockwise as the ball dove toward the earth.  He lurched, stumbling through a dip in the grass.  His left foot caught behind his right calf, and he pitched forward, twisting through the air like Superman with a flat.  He lunged.

Still could catch it, he thought, stretching his hands out toward the ball.  The roar of wind filled his ears, then was suddenly stilled by a loud, hollow thwock! that resounded through his skull.  Something large, hard, and heavy slammed into his side.  He crashed to Earth, rolling.  White and blue filled his vision.  Pain flared along his left side, and his head began to throb. 

He came to a rest on his back staring up into the clear blue sky.  The clouds danced and spun overhead.  He smelled grass, and his arms began to itch.  He gently probed the goose egg erupting from his temple where the ball had hit him, wincing as  pain jolted through his chest and ribs.   He could hear what sounded like the chatter of black birds, but none swooped overhead.

He lowered his hand, tucking his elbow against his injured ribs.  As the spinning slowed, the chatter of birds resolved into the sound of laughter.  David slowly propped himself up on one elbow and saw the kids from the infield streaming toward him.  Some staggered, clutching their sides and pointing, faces contorted in laughter. 

Suddenly he was slammed back down on the ground as a large shadow blotted  out the sun.  He looked up to see the blue and white jersey.  It was rumpled and untucked, and streaked with grass stains.    The left-fielder’s face was red, and bits of grass clung to his tousled, sun-bleached hair.  He stood with fists clenched at his sides. 

“You trying to kill me man?  That was mine.  Mine all the way,” he yelled, pointing skyward.

“I…,” David stammered, then coughed.  He was unable to catch his breath.

“Okay, fine,” the left fielder said, nodding as if coming to some sort of decision.  He stepped back and motioned David up.  “Well, get up, tough guy.  You wanted a piece of me.  Let’s go.” 

David shook his head trying to quiet the ringing in his ears.  He felt dizzy and disorientated and couldn’t quite find the right way to start a sentence, let alone finish one. 

“Come on, get up, ya wuss.  Let’s see you take a shot at me when I’m looking.”  The other boys had started to arrive and began to form a circle.  Sunlight lanced his eyes between the  shifting shadows, and David’s head throbbed harder.  He leaned forward, attempting to stand.  The earth spun beneath him, and once again, he heard the chatter of birds.  He wanted to stand, thinking maybe that would quiet them.  He rolled over onto his hands and knees, planted one foot under him, and hauled himself upward, his arms out for balance.  

The throbbing in his head kept pace with his thudding heart, and he wondered that his brains didn’t just leak out his ears.  Faces swam in and out of focus.  He blinked then squeezed his eyes shut.  He opened them and tried to focus. 

The left fielder stood before him, fists up in a boxer’s stance.  He thumbed his nose with one clenched fist.  The world behind him appeared to tilt and twist like the image in a flexible fun house mirror.  A spasm of nausea swept through David’s mid-section.  He bent double, clutching his stomach with both hands.    He heaved, and his mouth was forced wide as a great glurt of half-digested squares of Life cereal mixed with the unidentifiable remains of the previous night’s dinner arched out and down, splattering the ground and the left-fielder’s black cleats.    

A chorus of disgust erupted all around him, and the circle widened instantly. David stared at the black shoes with the bright white laces, stitched-on stripes, and globs of congealed toasted oat.  He felt the world begin to spin, and the shoes slid from view.  He landed on his knees, a poker of fire jabbing up through his ribs.   

“Geeeeezus, man, you see that?  You scared the puke out him,” a voice said, wheezy with disbelieving glee.  More laughter.  One cleated foot stamped and shook, splattering the grass with goo.  David stared stupidly at the remains of his breakfast, hoping that whatever this kid was going to do to him, he would hurry up and get it over with.  He fought down another spasm, wincing against the pain in his head and side.   

“Ugh, disgusting,” the left fielder said, then leaned in to whisper in David’s ear.  “I’d kick your pansy ass, but I don’t want to get puked on anymore.  You just stay away from me.  In fact, I see you here again, that’s it.  Comprend-day?”

“Yeah,” another voice chimed in, “This is our field.  Losers keep out.”

“Hey, it’s after eleven.  Let’s hit the pool,” someone else added. 

The left fielder turned and walked away, all the other kids falling in line behind him. 

David stayed on the ground, bracing himself with his hands on his knees.  He watched the kids gather their gear then disappear through a gate on a wooden fence behind the backstop.  His head still throbbed and his side felt hot, but the spinning had stopped. 

He sat, shaking his head, wondering at how quickly things had turned to crap.  One second he had a whole hoard of potential new friends.  He had struck the mother load.  Probably every kid near his age within biking distance had been here, and they had all seen what happened.  He would forever be the kid  that puked. 

He felt like his one chance to return to a normal life, to get out there and start over with a whole new set of people, people who knew nothing of what happened, was gone. 

As if things hadn’t already been bad enough, his parents had to go and move them here.  He hated them.  He hated himself, and he hated Shelton.  He hated Shelton most of all.  Because of him, David had forgotten his hat and his glove, and now Shelton was the only kid in the whole County, probably, who didn’t think David was a loser.  It was Shelton’s fault David would spend the summer alone, and Shelton’s fault he would be the new kid no one liked at school.

He glanced around at the empty field.  He tasted bile, and his throat ached with despair and frustration.  Blinking back tears, he mounted his bike.  He pedaled, legs pumping, tears coursing down his cheeks, grunting with the effort of holding back his sobs.  He knew if he let go, he would end up in someone’s front yard blubbering like a baby.  He hurtled through the neighborhood, turning right or left indiscriminately at each identical looking intersection.

A car horn blared.  David’s right foot slipped from the pedal, pitching him forward and cranking his handlebars left.  The bike veered out from under him, launching David into the air.  He landed hard on the street, making contact first with his outstretched palms, then his forearms and elbows, and finally with his chin and knees.  His teeth cracked together, the sound like a gunshot going off inside his head, and he felt a splinter of tooth on his tongue.  He rolled onto his back and lay still, his closed eyelids glowing bright orange against the sun.  Tires screeched and an engine roared as the car sped away.  He smelled burning rubber, and a cackle, like a hyena, wafted from the retreating car.  He felt as if his arms had been flayed, and his chin throbbed.  The asphalt was hot, and he began to feel like he was being roasted. 

He sat up and checked himself over.  Dirt and asphalt speckled the raw patched on his arms like pepper.  He gritted his teeth against the pain and felt a small crunch.  He spit the tooth fragment and gasped at the flare of pain the movement sent from his chin.  He stood slowly, surprised that he had apparently broken no bones.  He looked to his left and spotted his bike, relaxing in the shade of a tree in the front yard of a brown split-level house.  The front door opened a very small woman shuffled out.  Here hair was gray, and her face was so wrinkled David guessed she was easily 100 years old.

She wore a light blue and pink house-coat and half slippers that covered only the fronts of her feet.  She held a cane aloft over her head and shook it in the direction the car with the squealing tires had gone.  She stood a moment longer, gazing in that direction, the cane held high. 

David heard her muttering, “something-something, hoodlums.”  She noticed David as she turned, ducking suddenly, and brandishing the cane.  She inhaled as if preparing to shout, but then her watery eyes focused.  Her wrinkled mouth formed a silent “O,” and she lowered her cane.

“Oh,” she said with shocked look on her face, “Oh my.”  She reached out and began shuffling toward David.   

“Did they,” she started, “Did they hit you dear?” she asked, her voice raspy and cracking.  “Those varmints are always racing around, screeching their tires.  Gonna kill someone one of these days, they are, if they haven’t already.  My Lord.” 

David bent to pick up his bike, tensing his stomach muscles to keep from groaning. 

“No, I’m ok.  Just a little scrape,” David said through clenched teeth.  He swung his leg stiffly over the seat, feeling as old as she looked.

“Now don’t sass an old woman, boy,” she said, getting closer.  “Come over here and let’s have a look at you.”

David was tempted.  It felt like a long time since anyone had cared to look him over.  But he had no idea where he was, how to get home, and did not remember his phone number.  Then he looked into her watery eyes, saw the white crust of dried spittle on her chin, and his head was filled with the smell of a nursing home his class visited each year to sing Christmas Carols - a combination of ammonia, urine, mold, and decay.  He would never forget how some of the people just sat and stared at them, the look on their faces asking, “My God, who are you people, and why have you stolen my shoes?”

David shuddered and shook his head.  He sniffed cautiously - mown grass. 

“Thanks,” he called to her, putting on a brave face, “but I have to get home now.” 

He returned to the intersection where he had almost been run down, stopped, and looked back.  The old woman stood in the yard still, looking toward him, her hand shading her eyes.  David looked up at the street sign and sighed with relief.  Turning left would put him on 51^st street – and from there, he knew how to get home.