A Prayer to Be Named Later
A Prayer to Be Named Later
By Jon Fain
Reverend Conrad believed in routine. He was awake by six, and after reading through the Bible he kept on the nightstand, out of bed a half-hour later. His breakfast was always the same: orange juice, light toast, and a soft-boiled egg. In season, he would work in his flower garden for an hour or so. At noon, Mrs. Bemis, his housekeeper, would serve him the meal that would be his largest of the day.
Unless the weather was bad, even in winter, the Reverend would then take a walk along the beach. By the time he returned, the mail would have arrived, and, after looking through it, he would work on that week’s sermon, or other church business. Later, Mrs. Bemis would come into his study, ask him if there was to be anything else, and tell him what she had left for his supper. After she left, he would have the rest of the evening for reading, contemplation and the occasional favorite on TV. The days, weeks, and months passed by.
Around the middle of February, Reverend Conrad had the misfortune of slipping on the ice that coated the steep steps of the church, falling and breaking his elbow. The injury was painful, and his doctor’s strong prescription left him fogged, and unable to preach for a full month. Mrs. Bemis fussed over him, battling on one occasion a severe winter storm to see to his needs.
The Reverend’s recovery was slow. By the time the first signs of spring arrived, he was anxious to move outdoors. He planned to expand both his garden, and his daily walks along the shore.
One day, in late April, it was too raw for the Reverend to take his normal constitutional. Instead, he remained in the living room, in front of his old wood stove. Mrs. Bemis had the habit of leaving the television on while she cleaned, and so Reverend Conrad spent the morning in the warm bath of TV game shows. He was startled out of his quiet snoring by one of her entries into the room.
“Beg pardon for disturbing you, Reverend,” she said, as he shuddered awake. She placed a pair of letters on the table beside him. She was a close-mouthed New Englander, whose family had lived in that part of Connecticut almost as long as Reverend Conrad’s.
His reading glasses had fallen into his lap, and he rubbed the lens with a tissue before he put them on, glancing bleary-eyed at the TV and its jumble of bright color.
The first letter was from his daughter, and he read it aloud to his housekeeper. Jennifer gave a happy rundown of her household: her husband’s new job, her young son’s impatience for Little League to begin, the antics of their dog and cat. Reverend Conrad and his daughter had grown closer in the years since his wife’s passing. He put the letter aside, to re-read in private before he retired that night.
He picked up the other envelope that had come; his address was typed neatly on the front, a return address was on the back. When he slit it open with his penknife, a light green check fluttered out.
Reverend Conrad saw that it was made out to him personally, for the amount of $4.57. The address on both the check and the envelope added to the mystery. It was from someone, or perhaps some organization, whose initials were “FBL.” There was only a post office box for a return address, from Cooperstown, New York.
“Your dinner’s just about ready, Reverend,” Mrs. Bemis said on her return, from the doorway.
“That’s strange,” he said.
“Been happening like that almost ten years now.”
“No, no, this letter … just a check. But from … here, come take a look.”
“I got gravy I got to tend to—”
“Please come here for a moment.” Mrs. Bemis was so scrupulous about minding her own business it was a chore to converse with her sometimes.
She took the check when he held it out to her. She turned it over once, then handed it back.
“Got your name on it,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“I realize that, Mrs. Bemis. But why would someone from New York send me money? And why that odd amount? It surely must be some mistake, some other Reverend Conrad, perhaps….”
“Here in Lester?” Mrs. Bemis said. “I don’t see that. Maybe that’s a check somebody sent for the new addition.”
“Yes, perhaps. But why would anyone out there care about our church?”
“Could be an old parishioner of yours, Reverend, somebody who used to enjoy your sermons sending you what they can. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
After Mrs. Bemis hurried out to deal with her gravy, Reverend Conrad wondered about the check, but over the next few days forgot it. The church steering committee had finally given the go-ahead for the parsonage to be painted, and Reverend Conrad served as de facto supervisor, sitting in a lawn chair by the house to watch the men work. He also had that week’s sermon to prepare, and there was a rummage sale for charity that Saturday. And he couldn’t forget that young couple who were getting married; he had set aside an evening for their chat.
He was taken by surprise then late one afternoon, when the check fell out from large stack of magazines and papers he was sifting through on his desk. Curiosity piqued again, the Reverend sat down to pen a brief note, in which he raised the same questions he had asked Mrs. Bemis. He wrote the New York address on the envelope and gave the letter to his housekeeper, with the rest of his outgoing mail.
It was less than a week before he got his reply.
Dear Reverend Conrad,
It was good to hear from you! I hope you had a relaxing off season. The fans anticipate you are going to be fully recovered from your injury by Opening Day. Certainly, with your wicked wing back in the starting rotation, the Ants are odds-on for yet another championship!
Pete Monroe
Commissioner
FBL
Reverend Conrad considered this bizarre note, which answered none of his questions. He was now certain, however, that this man had confused him with someone else: a baseball player, of all things! He explained all this in a second letter to Mr. Monroe, sending back the check as well.
The weather turned warm for that part of the year, and after the painters finished their work on his house, the Reverend’s grandson Billy took a bus down from Boston to spend a few days. Mrs. Bemis fixed up Jennifer’s old room, and fussed over the boy. For the Reverend’s part, he took Billy along on his walks on the beach, and together they examined tidal pools, collected shells, and watched the grand variety of birds. Whether it was the bracing salt air, or Billy’s contagious enthusiasm, Reverend Conrad felt more invigorated, and youthful, than he had in a long while.
When they were not by the shore, Billy spent most of his time throwing a rubber ball against the detached garage, running around and catching the rebounds. He had brought his glove with him, a brand new catcher’s mitt that seemed outlandishly oversized for the boy. The Reverend had Marvin, the church sexton, come by with a large piece of plywood that the other man placed up against the back of the building, to save the old shingles from Billy’s exuberant throws.
“Throw some to me, Grandpa?” the boy asked on the last afternoon of his stay, as the Reverend passed by on the way to his garden.
“No, no, I don’t think so, Billy.”
“Please? I’m a catcher … on my team. And I need to practice. I need someone to throw to me!”
Reverend Conrad examined the rubber ball Billy gave him: white, with raised rubber stitching like a baseball, the paint cracked and peeled off in places to show a dirty gray beneath. Billy ran what seemed to be too far, near the old apple tree where one end of Mrs. Bemis’s clothesline was tied. Billy turned, and squatted down, and held up his big, tan glove, so that Reverend Conrad could only see the top of his head.
“Hey hum it here, chuck it in here, Grandpa,” Billy said.
Reverend Conrad took off his jacket, and laid it down on the lawn. He had never been one for sports. His father, also a minister, had forbidden him to play them as a boy. He was sure he would not be able to reach Billy. Starting his throw, he remembered his recently damaged elbow, and hesitating, just flicked the ball forward.
The ball flew effortlessly out of his hand, cracked into Billy’s glove with a smack. It bounced off it, and nested in the tall grass.
“Wow!” Billy yelled. He threw the ball back, got down into his crouch, and smacked his fist with his glove.
“Hey, hum it here Grandpa thatababy way to throw that pea!”
Reverend Conrad straightened his arm, flexed out his elbow; he felt no pain at all, and was both surprised and pleased. He tuned in to Billy’s verbal encouragement. With a short wind-up, emulating the athletes he had seen on TV, he threw the ball as hard as he could.
The ball became nothing but a blur of white. It smacked into Billy’s glove with such force it stuck there, and knocked the boy over as if he were an empty can.
The minister hurried to his grandson, but before he could reach him, Billy was on his feet, trying to pry the rubber ball out of his glove’s deep webbing.
“You throw harder than my dad even! Can you throw a curve?”
“Reverend Conrad!” shouted Mrs. Bemis. She’d left her basket of wash by the parsonage’s back step and hurried over to them. “Billy, are you all right?”
“Did you see that? Did you see?”
“I most certainly did,” said Mrs. Bemis, turning her attention to the boy’s playmate. “I hope you didn’t hurt yourself with this foolishness. Thankfully, you didn’t harm the boy, but what about your… Reverend Conrad?”
He examined the ball. It was strange, the pleasure one got from such a simple act. Look what he had been missing for sixty-odd years!
In the days after Billy left, the Reverend’s flower garden did not receive its customary attention. Instead, through the mornings, and then again, after his noontime meal, he could be found hurling the ball against the plywood board. In time, the spot he had paced out to throw from wore down to brown earth. One day, he split the board with a pitch. He had the lumberyard deliver another.
On a Sunday morning in late June, the sun sparkling colored light through the church’s stained glass, Reverend Conrad talked about jealousy for a little more than twenty minutes, then ended his sermon with the forceful demand he be allowed to pitch for both teams in the upcoming softball game at the church’s annual 4th of July picnic. Before anyone could react to this, Reverend Conrad was leading the by-now stunned congregation through—like it was a hymn—“Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
And if anyone had thought it was all a playful joke, they learned otherwise a few days later on the holiday afternoon. Even casual spectators were amazed at the minister’s youthful vigor, his pitching prowess. Even underhand, he threw faster than anyone had seen. One church member, a prominent dentist, who also happened to be the major contributor to the building fund, smashed his bat against the backstop after he had been made to look especially foolish. It was a 0-0 game, all the food was gone, and everyone but the players and their immediate families had gone home, when Reverend Conrad grooved one to Marvin, the sexton, who connected for a game-winning home run.
As the summer wore on, Reverend Conrad became more removed from both his congregation and his housekeeper. A “fact-finding” expedition of ladies from the church visited Mrs. Bemis one day, looking to discover the reasons for their minister’s bizarre behavior. She could only serve them coffee and cake, and listen with them to the thuds against the garage.
She didn’t tell them that other than playing with the ball, he became animated only when the mail arrived, and then only if he received something from his correspondent in New York. He had gotten a large envelope once, but Mrs. Bemis had not seen what was in it. She tried to get a glimpse of the letters he began to get each week from this person, but the Reverend kept them locked in his desk.
It got to the point where she considered handing in her resignation, as much as the thought pained her. He barely touched the food she prepared, did not remark on any of her work, did not even seem to care she was there. After ten years, she deserved better.
She took on the Reverend’s role in the parsonage’s flower garden, even though it was too far gone to produce any of its past glories. She had almost grown used to the steady cadence of the ball hitting against the nearby garage while she worked.
“Mrs. Bemis,” Reverend Conrad said to her one afternoon, a cool one, which anticipated summer’s end. “I believe I’ll take a walk by the beach.”
“Why, Reverend,” she said, standing up, brushing dirt from her knees. “That’s … that’s wonderful. A fine idea!”
“Yes … need to clear my head.” He started to say more, but stopped.
Mrs. Bemis watched him walk away. It seemed as if he had grown twenty years younger since the recent winter, when she had nursed him back to health. He was a bit thinner, but not unhealthily so. It was his mind she worried about. A return to his routine could be nothing but a good thing. She went into the house to wash up, and put together something special for his supper.
The housekeeper went into the study after she finished in the kitchen. The draperies were drawn in front of the windows, and she opened them, to let in the afternoon’s last light.
A stack of papers lay on the Reverend’s desk; it was only when she saw the manila envelope, did she realize where, and who, they were from. She turned on the desk lamp, and looked at the mysterious correspondence in the big envelope. There were twenty mimeographed pages stapled together, that she picked out, and started to read.
THE OFFICIAL RULES OF THE FBL
Welcome to the Fantasy Baseball League! The rules of this game have been carefully designed to reflect actual major league averages. Some of the rules will probably seem confusing. The game is, in fact, quite simple. All that is needed to play is one pair of dice. An ordinary nine-inning game can be completed in nine minutes…
Mrs. Bemis was confused by this rulebook; she knew something about baseball, her youngest son had been a high school player, and she had gone to some of his games. But this! Every roll of the dice meant something, something different according to score, base runners, number of outs, what inning. There were charts, descriptions, drawings. Sometimes only one die was cast, adding to the possibilities. Mrs. Bemis skimmed through all this as if it were written in a foreign language. There were rolls for home runs, hit batsmen, walks, strikeouts, double plays….
She found a typewritten letter, dated from the beginning of the summer. She put aside the collection of rules.
Dear Reverend Conrad,
Many thanks for your letters! I apologize for any confusion. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the FBL, I tend to forget everyone else isn’t too! I have invented this game because I love baseball. In the FBL, I have a seven team league with whom I play a 150 game schedule each year. To make matters more exciting, I scan through telephone books from all over the country, to find names for my players, to make it more real. I then can keep detailed stats for each game and player. As for the check: this is your share of championship money from the Ants’ stupendous season last year! I charge myself ten cents admission for each game I play, and it really adds up!! I then divide it among the winning team, and send out checks to all the kind people whose names I’ve “borrowed.” You’re the first one who didn’t just cash it!
Mrs. Bemis glanced through the other letters that had arrived that summer. There were pages and pages of baseball standings and statistics, all handwritten, apparently made up by this man and his game. Needless to say, it disturbed her, that Reverend Conrad’s name was prominent.
The doorbell rang, startling her. Dusk had fallen outside. She came away from the desk lamp’s glow. She hurried through the house, and opened the door to two policemen standing on the front porch.
“Ma’am.”
“Hello, Mrs. Bemis.”
The younger one, Gordon, had grown up with her son. As a boy, he had played in her yard, ate dinners, or spent the night at her house. Mrs. Bemis had seen the other officer around town, a tall, thick-necked man, directing traffic, or speeding down the road with flashing lights.
“I’m afraid we have…”
They helped her to the chair in the front hallway, brought her a glass of water. When they asked their questions, she answered as best she could, trying to be accurate about the time the Reverend had gone for his walk.
It was probably an accident, although they would continue to investigate. It looked like Reverend Conrad had slipped on the rocky prominence revealed by low tide. The fact that someone had discovered the body away from the rocks was probably because he had crawled away for help; disoriented from the blow to the head, he had gone in the wrong direction, into the now-rising tide of the ocean itself.
Jennifer and her family arrived for the funeral and to settle the Reverend’s affairs, and the two women were a comfort to one another. Jennifer cried often, but Mrs. Bemis only once; not at the cemetery, but later that day, when Billy began throwing his ball against the garage. His mother, understanding how unlikely events could bring on tears at times like these, made him stop.
It was a week after the Reverend’s family had left, that the housekeeper returned to the parsonage. The church had yet to find a new permanent minister, but the officials wished her to remain in their employ, at least for the time being. Movers were arriving that day, to remove that last of Reverend Conrad’s personal possessions that his family didn’t want. Then Mrs. Bemis would begin to get the house ready for his replacement.
On one of those days, Mrs. Bemis went out to the road to check the mailbox. In the kitchen, sorting through the flyers, other advertisements, and more personal letters or sympathy that she would forward to Jennifer, she discovered an envelope with familiar writing.
Perhaps it was something in the tone, the haunting casualness of this person, who saw nothing wrong in forcing himself into the lives of others. She shouldn’t have opened it, should have burned it or thrown it away. Of course, it wouldn’t have changed what had been written, what had been done. If she did, indeed, remain on her knees after dropping the letter after reading it, she wasn’t the first, and certainly would not be the last, to utter a prayer, when face-to-face with the unknown.
Dear Reverend Conrad,
I don’t know how to tell you this, but as you well know, statistics don’t lie. You remember, in one of my letters, how I described the rolls of the dice that lead to your arm injury last year?
You may in this case want to refer to the rulebook, page 13. Believe it or not, in one of the season’s last games, I rolled a “2.” Then (with a single die of course), a “4.” This meant you (the batter at the time, because no DH!) were struck by a pitch. I then cast both dice, to determine, as I had to do last year, the extent of your injury. Doubles were rolled, which meant once again you were hurt, and had to leave the game. Then, unbelievably, “12” was rolled three times in a row, which means, if you’re still with me….
As stated in the FBL rules, the odds of a potential death in dice baseball are precisely 60,466,176 to 1.
You can, I’m sure, imagine my surprise!
Sincerely,
Pete Monroe
Commissioner
FBL
Jon Fain’s recent publications include short stories in Little Death Lit and King Ludd’s Rag; flash fictions in The Daily Drunk and Reservoir Road Literary Review; and micro fictions in Scribes Micro Fiction, Six Sentences, and Blink-Ink. His story, “Local Heroes” can be found in The Twin Bill’s Issue 3. He lives in Massachusetts. Twitter @jonsfain
The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.