Bill

Bill

By R. L. Peterson

We were like brothers, Bill and I, that summer of 1951, before Dr. Salk’s polio vaccine saved millions of kids from the lethal force that struck silently, relentlessly, quickly, leaving its victims grotesquely paralyzed, or dead. For four decades, bewildered authorities responded to this unseen, unannounced menace by shuttering movie theatres, closing public swimming pools, limiting large gatherings, even suggesting to use only distilled water to drink or wash in; that nature’s call should be answered in outdoor toilets until this vicious enemy was conquered.

Polio was of no concern to Bill and I. We were too busy playing baseball—weekly league games where Bill often struck out the side without allowing a meager foul ball, and hours of imaginary games on the empty lot next to his house. Inseparable, and invincible, certain someday we’d play for our beloved St. Louis Cardinals and win the World Series, it was baseball in morning dew and afternoon’s burning sun until stars twinkled in the evening sky. 

Bill’s mother closely adhered to public health authorities’ suggestion that youngsters should rest an hour every afternoon to protect them from polio’s relentless attack. “I’ll whistle when I’m up,” Bill would say as he shuffled off in response to his mother’s call. “I wanna work on my curve.” 

Bill was thirteen, tall and lean. I was eleven, short and stocky. Most mornings I was up with the sun, to pull perch and bluegill from a gurgling stream that twisted through the hills near my Missouri Ozarks home. An empty stringer meant going hungry that day unless my brother and his trusty .22 rifle plinked a squirrel or two for supper’s stew.

I had wood to chop, green beans to weed, water to carry before I was free to play. Bill would wait in the shade of the tall oak in front of our ramshackled shanty, slamming a baseball into his glove, until at long last, I was free. We’d run to our carefully laid out ball diamond where Bill would fire his roll-off-the-table curves and singing fastballs until my hand grew swollen in my mitt and fireflies blinked against an ink-black sky.   

A PK—preacher’s kid—Bill’s thatch of brown hair, snapping black eyes and knock-your-socks-off-smile caused young ladies to go weak-kneed. Grown men watched with envy when Bill went into his graceful windup and fired his almost unhittable pitches.  

My tattered jeans and worn sneakers didn’t bother Bill when we traveled to nearby towns for Saturday afternoon games. His only concern was that I’d dig his curves from the dirt and hang on to his zipping fastball. In our pretend games, I’d smash ninth inning home runs and Bill would strike out Musial, Ruth, and Robinson to win the game. “We’ll be big leaguers someday,” he’d say. His dreams were my dreams.

I yearned for a family like Bill’s, where his sister Naomi ironed blue jeans and polished his shoes, a mother who served fried eggs and homemade biscuits for breakfast, a father home at night, hands washed, hair combed saying grace before the meal. The fifty-cent piece Bill earned when he mowed a neighbor’s yard went into his pocket, though he gladly shared his wealth with Naomi. When I hoed Mrs. Hafner’s onions, staked her tomatoes and filled her wood box with kindling and firewood seven nights a week, the dollar she dug from her purse went to Dad, sometimes for food, but most often for beer—his thirst was unquenchable.

One warm July night, Bill and I slept under the stars, sharing a single blanket, dreaming of fancy cars and grand houses befitting the big leaguers we were sure we’d be. The next morning, Bill’s fastballs had extra pop and his curves hooked like a bull’s horns. Bill made a face and disgustedly tossed his glove in the air when his mother called him in for his afternoon nap.

Later, we chased fly balls until the evening shadows forced us to the porch where Naomi poured Kool-Aid. Whippoorwills called. A barn owl hooted. Bill assured me that the Cardinals would sign me even if I couldn’t hit because he’d insist that he could only pitch to me. Then, he stood up, stretched, laughed, and fell face down in the grass.

Naomi and I laughed at his antic, thinking he was play-acting, but the scree of his lungs told a different story. Naomi yelled, “Mom, Mom!” I lifted his stiff body onto the porch. His father ran for the car. Stunned and fearful, we loaded Bill onto his mother’s lap, his hair tousled, face pale, his breath shallow. I’m sure she held him close and spoke loving words to him all the twenty-seven long miles to St. Mary’s Hospital in Jeff City.

I was too scared to cry when Bill fell helpless but as Naomi and I sat on the front porch and a broken moon climbed in the sky, our sobs came freely. “He looked so small laying there,” she said. “Tell me he’ll be okay.” I mumbled meaningless words of comfort, but two days she cried and beat my chest when she learned that polio had robbed her of her brother. My baseball-playing buddy was dead, he never regained consciousness after his fall.

A week after his funeral, my body aching, my voice hoarse, I knocked at his family’s front door. Naomi ushered me in. Bill’s mother, her face tear-stained and swollen, pushed me away when I reached for her hand.

“Get out! Get out! You killed my Billy.” Her fists hammered my head and shoulders. I was stunned. Why would I kill my wonderful friend, Bill?

“You played ball with him when he should have rested. He’d come in wet with sweat from running after the balls you threw. Your filthy jeans and dirty feet carried the germs that killed him. Billy was destined to do great things. If someone had to die it should have been you, not my sweet Billy. Get out.”

Naomi, surprised, led me to the yard. “Momma’s not been herself since Billy’s passing.”

From inside the house came the voice of Bill’s father. “Repent, woman, repent. That raggedy-assed orphan didn’t kill our Billy. It was God’s will our boy died, a warning for us to live a more righteous life.”

I could not hear her reply. Naomi pushed me gently toward the gate.

* * *

Five days later, I knocked again, desperate to tell Bill’s mother how much I missed him. Their house was dark. A peek through the living room window showed empty rooms. My inquiry to the next-door neighbor was answered with a vague, “Moved to California, from what I was told.”

How I longed to crouch behind home plate once again, see Bill’s smooth wind up, watch his arm flash forward, hear his fastball hiss toward home plate, the batter standing frozen, completely flummoxed by the speeding ball. Bill would snatch my return throw from the air, smile his sly grin and motion for the next victim to step into the batter’s box.

As the years passed, I came to agree with Bill’s mother—I’d caused Bill’s death by catching his pitches when he should have been resting. If I’d said ‘no’ when he wanted to work on his curve, he’d be alive today. For seven long years my heart hardened with these thoughts.

Bourbon, or alcohol of any kind, became my daily friend, dousing pain, yet somehow I graduated high school and escaped to the Marine Corps. After boot camp, I was stationed in a Central California town, where the space race and war preparations created thousands of high-paying civilian jobs.

I often wondered, Does Bill’s family still live in the Golden State?

That question was soon answered. The Base Exchange was open on Wednesdays to the Pacific Missile Range Headquarters’ civilian employees. I went to buy razor blades. A pretty girl with a thatch of brown hair and black eyes that reminded me of someone I should know, peered at my name tag.

“I grew up with a boy with your last name. You from Missouri?”

“Hello, Naomi.”

She grabbed my hand. “I’m glad to see you, Pete. We came here so Dad could start a church, but he died before it was built. Mom and I live in Oxnard. She’s not well, but she’ll want to see you. She wants to apologize for how she acted toward you after Billy’s death. Would you come visit, please?”

The next Saturday afternoon I rang their doorbell. Naomi led me to her mother. The years had wrinkled her face, robbed the color from her once black hair. Her hands shook. Tears streamed down her papery cheeks as her watery eyes sought mine. Her voice a whisper, she pleaded, “Please forgive me. You loved Billy as I did. His death changed both of our worlds. I put my anger and hurt on you after his funeral. That was wrong. You had nothing to do with his death. It’s part of the mystery of life. Billy said he could dream with you, that no matter how hard he’d throw, you could handle him. I was un-Christian in my actions toward you. I was angry Billy died and jealous he loved you. Please forgive me.” 

Hot tears flooded my face. The guilt I’d built up over the years gave way to golden memories of imaginary games where Bill struck out Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Ted Klusewski, and we brought home the World Series trophy.

I returned to base that evening feeling light, carefree, and cold sober. I forgave Bill’s mother for her actions, and in the process forgave myself. I was free.

The next day the mystery of life emerged again. On the bulletin board, a flier gave dates for tryouts for a base team being formed. Could I still hold on to hopping fastballs and dig curves from the dirt as I did on that empty lot in the Missouri Ozarks? 

“Fire it in here, Billy. This guy couldn’t hit dirt if we gave him two tries. Rock and fire, Billy. Rock and fire.” Maybe, just maybe, a young man with a strong right arm will smile down on me and we’ll once more be two kids playing the game we love.

R.L. Peterson served at American embassies in three countries as a Marine. His work has appeared in over seventy-five publications. His novel, Leave the NIght to God (Regal House Publishing), is due out in November.

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