squirrels with nuts. We hide them away, and bitter though they may be, we feed on them. If you’re careful, you can follow a squirrel to his cache. The same was true for Sid, I thought. So I became his shadow.
In the morning, he would breakfast with Sister Eve and Emmy and me, then drive off in the red DeSoto and be gone until noon. What he did in that time was something he kept secret.
I asked Whisker about it, and he shrugged and said, “Always goes off like that somewhere. Never thought to ask where. His business.”
I meant to make it mine.
We’d been with the Sword of Gideon Healing Crusade—Whisker told me Sid had given it that name because it sounded “kinda manly and holy and promising and comforting all in one big appetizing helping”—for well over a week when, on a morning we were all free of chores, a bunch of the men, young and old, put together a baseball game in the meadow near the tents. Whisker joined in, and I was surprised to see that even with his spindly arms, he swung a pretty mean bat. They put me in the outfield because they figured I couldn’t do much damage there, which was all right by me.
There was some argument in the beginning over which side would get Mose. By then, everyone in the show had seen the grace in Mose’s every movement. He was a young lion, sinuous and powerful, an otter in his easygoing playfulness. Everyone liked Mose and everyone wanted him on their team. Albert was another matter. My brother could be dark and brooding sometimes, and although he worked magic with engines and such and could jerry-rig any kind of contraption, he claimed a disinterest in athletics. I figured sitting on the bench at Lincoln School had soured him on the risks associated with taking part in organized sports. He declined at first to be a part of the game that day. But the sides were uneven without him, and cajoled mostly by Mose, he finally gave in. Like me, he was exiled to the outfield.
Our side was up to bat when I noticed Sid watching the game. He was usually gone in the mornings, so this was unusual. But his red DeSoto was parked near the tents, and I figured that at some point he’d take off on his mysterious business. The game was going hot and heavy, and Mose came to the plate. The women who helped with the crusade looked on and cheered, and Mose gave them a big grin in reply. Then he pointed toward left field, indicating that was where he intended to hit the pitch, and he signed, Home run. Just like Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, I thought.
Dimitri, the big Greek cook, was pitching for the other side. He had arms like rhino thighs and hurled the ball so fast and hard that Tsuboi, who was catching, gave a little cry each time it hit the thin pocket of his old glove. Dimitri threw twice, and Mose let both pitches fly by without a swing. On the third pitch, Mose split the air with his bat, and the crack of it against the horsehide was like a gunshot and the ball went sailing, a diminishing white dot in the blue sky above left field. Sid, like everyone else, was mesmerized—by the hit itself, by the endless flight of the ball, and by the sight of Mose running the bases with all the power and grace of a colt in the Kentucky Derby. This was my chance.
I slipped away and slid into the red DeSoto, onto the floor in back, drew the folded blanket off the seat, and lay it over me. It was stifling hot, but I didn’t have to wait long before I heard Sid open the driver’s side door. He settled himself behind the wheel and we took off. He drove, I reckoned, for more than half an hour before pulling to a stop. He killed the engine and got out. As soon as his door closed, I sat up and peeked through the window. We were in a city, parked alongside a curb in front of a line of buildings, storefronts and offices. The nearest city I knew of was Mankato. I watched Sid stroll down the sidewalk, a brown leather satchel in his hand. He paused, set the satchel down, lit a cigarette, then continued on.
I left the DeSoto and followed