“A whole season,” Biddy said.
“Jesus Christ. If you’d been reading all this time, you’d be a Ph.D.” He sat on the bed, leafing through the pile. “What are these K’s? Strikeouts?” Biddy nodded. “And what does this mean?”
He looked over. “Out stealing third.”
“Well, I gotta hand it to you, guy. Biddy Siebert and his magic violin. Some imagination. Look at this: batting averages, half-year statistical leaders — is there anything you don’t have in here? When you want to, you can make things up with the best of them. But listen: think maybe we can cut back the number of games eventually, Commissioner?”
“I’m not playing now.”
“No, I mean when the season starts.”
“It doesn’t bother anybody.”
“It bothers me. Jesus Christ, there’s a thousand things you could be doing in the summer and you’re up here throwing Doug DeCinces out at second base.”
Biddy looked down.
“C’mon. This next year let’s give it a rest, okay? I bought you the book about airplanes. Learn about airplanes. Or find another interest. At least cut back on this stuff. Otherwise I’ll flush every pair of dice in the house.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, the reason I came up here was to tell you I got a surprise for you. So keep tomorrow after supper free.”
“Okay.”
His father made a face and sat farther back on the bed, dissatisfied.
Biddy sat at the desk and put the box scores away. He sharpened a pencil.
“How do you like that book?” his father said.
“I like it a lot.”
“You sound like it.” He lay back with a noisy intake of breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Gettin’ old.” He remained in that position for some few minutes, annoying Biddy for some reason, and finally said, “You seen Ronnie lately?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason. He’s just never around. Poor Cindy’s always looking for him.” He stretched, Biddy watching. “He’s always going somewhere. Probably got something going on the side.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I’m just talking to myself.” He got up, rubbing his eye, and stopped by the door. “Listen, forget I said that.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” He started down the stairs only to lean back into view. “Your mother’s making hot dogs again for supper. C’mon down.” He straightened up out of sight and continued down the stairs. “Don’t start any trouble. All your mother needs to hear is more of this ‘I’m not hungry’ stuff.”
He waited until his father reached the bottom and then pulled the heavy Flight book over, intending to open it but losing interest and settling, finally, on resting his chin on top of it, and staring out the window at the Frasers’ house next door.
He called Teddy Bell and told him to come over that night and bring his gun. Teddy owned a Winchester Special Edition BB gun and snuck out of the house periodically late at night to shoot out streetlamps or torment cats.
One o’clock, Biddy said. Wait for him in the driveway at one o’clock.
He went to bed at ten — he had school the next day — and crept down the stairs at one, easing out the front door. Teddy was wandering nervously back and forth beneath the kitchen window.
“Where’s the gun?” Biddy whispered.
“It’s in the bush,” Teddy said. “What do you want to do?”
“C’mon.” Biddy crossed to the garage, reaching down for the door handle and pausing before edging it up a foot and a half.
“What’re you doin’?” Teddy whispered.
“It’s too loud. It’ll wake everyone up.” Biddy crouched at the black opening and gestured through it. “Get in.”
Teddy slithered under and Biddy followed.
“Grab that end,” he said in the darkness, holding part of the ladder. The moonlight flooded through the garage-door windows. “Set it by the door. I’ll slide out and you hand it to me.” Teddy nodded, impressed by the amount of planning, and together they edged the long aluminum ladder under the door and straightened up.
“Get the gun,” Biddy said, and carried the ladder, swaying back and forth with the danger of a huge noise if it struck anything, around to the back of the garage, and set it gently against the roof.
Teddy returned with the gun. “What’re we doin’?”
“Shh,” Biddy said, climbing.
From the roof much of the surrounding area opened up, became visible. The big maple blocked the view in one direction, its branches reaching to touch the shingles, but they could see clearly in all other directions, and between the Frasers’ house and another they had an unencumbered shot at Prospect Drive.
“How’s your wrist?” Biddy said.
“All right,” Teddy said. “This is cool.”
“Let me see.” Biddy took the gun. “Is it pumped up?”
Teddy shook his head. Biddy pumped it up. He leveled it toward Prospect Drive and sighted along the barrel. A car went by, flashing over the gunsight in the distance.
“Whaddaya gonna do?” Teddy said.
Another went by and he squeezed firmly, the sound an echoing burst of air. There was a sharp metallic pang in the distance.
“Oh, God.” Teddy flattened against the rooftop. “Did they stop? You’re nuts.” He giggled.
Biddy pumped it again.
“Don’t pump it up too much,” Teddy said. “You’ll bust it.”
He leveled at the sound of another approaching car and fired when it crossed the barrel. The sound of the impact on the door rang off the houses in the darkness and the car pulled over immediately.
“Oh, God,” Teddy said. “Get down.”
They waited, chilly against the rough surface, but the car remained silent. Finally, Biddy poked his head over the edge. The driver had come all the way down the Frasers’ driveway. He ducked back and put his finger hard to his lips.
“Goddamn kids,” they heard, and Teddy’s eyes widened at the proximity of the voice.
Biddy edged the barrel up again. The driver was walking back to the car. He leveled the barrel, sighting along the spur of the gunsight into the man’s black back, and whispered, “Pow.” The man turned off the driveway, got into the car, and drove away.
“What were you going to do if he came after us?” Teddy said. “You’re a maniac.”
“Someone’s coming out,” Biddy said. Teddy rolled closer and peered over the roof beside him. Mr. Fraser appeared on his back porch, in a bright yellow fisherman’s raincoat and hat, with a garbage can in his hands.
“What’s he doin’?” Teddy whispered.
“Taking out the garbage.”
“At one in the morning?”
They watched him cross the lawn.
“He had the can in the house?” Teddy whispered.
“Looks like it.”
Mr. Fraser stopped to rest halfway down the driveway. The can was apparently heavy.
“What’s he doing in a raincoat?” Teddy said.
Biddy looked up at the sky. It was absolutely clear.
Teddy shook his head. “This whole neighborhood is nuts.”
“Get down,” Biddy said. He lifted the barrel over the top of the roof and squeezed off a shot at the garbage can.
Mr. Fraser shrieked and dropped it on the pavement.
They both shook in their efforts to prevent the laughter from bursting out, making little nasal noises. Mr. Fraser circled the can in his raincoat and gingerly picked it up by the handles again.
Biddy aimed swiftly and squeezed off another shot and again the can rang supernaturally and again Mr. Fraser dropped it with a cry. He backed away as if something dangerous were inside about to get out. He stood eyeing it for a few moments and then looked around, wiped his mouth, and swept the can up, hustling it over to the garage, his hat lofting off in the exertion. The hat lay like a piece of litter on the lawn in the moonlight.