Field of Blackbirds - Clayton Jeppsen & Lindsey Jeppsen (me reader txt) 📗

ten minutes. And hey, grab my Dodgers hat, will ya?”
When Mr. Beckly turned around to confirm his last request, Reed was already a smear in his own trail of dust. Mr. Beckly wiped sweat from his brow. He would have to admit that he too, had been looking forward to this day.

It was the bottom of the 9th. 6-4 Dodgers. Don Sutton had pitched seven shut-out innings. Then they brought in the new reliever from triple-A, who walked his first batter and gave up a triple and two home-runs.
Reed looked up at his dad, who just finished the last bite of his peanut butter and honey sandwich. Reed, only on his second bite, had admired the fact that his dad was a big man. What kid didn’t? It gave him hope that one day he might be just as big.
The crowd roared as Steve Howe closed the game at 6-4 with a fastball right over home plate; Bob Boone, ‘caught lookin’.

Mr. Beckly requested one of his favorite meals, spare ribs and sauerkraut with potatoes. Gracie already had two handfuls. One of them she tossed over her shoulder. Reed and Reddin were laughing.
“Don’t laugh guys. It just encourages her.” Mrs. Beckly scolded.
Mr. Beckly was also caught with a smile on his face. Reed filled his mom in on all the details at the dinner table. She wasn't really a baseball fan, but you know how moms act like they're into anything just because you are. Mrs. Beckly tried to keep up with the terminology at least.
“Did Don Sutton strike anybody out with that mean slider of his?” she asked.
Mr. Beckly looked at her and smiled. He was still crazy about her, just as he was when they first met, fourteen years ago. Mrs. Beckly had soft, wavy blond hair. Her skin was also soft, but tan, which was why Mr. Beckly thought it looked so beautiful under a white summer dress.
Reed was still counting on his fingers. “Yeah, he struck out four batters, I think.” he answered, glancing over at Mr. Beckly to confirm.
Reddin played with his food like he always did. “Can I go with you next time, Daddy?” he asked.
“We need to get you a hat, Reddin. And you’ve got to learn at least three of the players’ names. But you can come with us next time.”
Mr. Beckly went into the kitchen to help his wife with the dishes.
“Thanks for taking him today, Tom.” she said, scraping a plate over the disposal. “It's all he's been talking about lately and it was actually a nice break for me too.”
“Good,” said Mr. Beckly. “Did you get all of your running around done?” With a facetious grin, she hinted, “You should do that more often. He really does look up to you, you know.”

Something on TV caught Reed’s eye, Channel 3's evening news. Germans from East Berlin were trying to escape into West Berlin, scaling the Wall at night. Lately, Reed heard a lot about the Berlin Wall on TV. And his parents also spoke of it from time to time. Reed never really thought much about it until now. It didn’t mean much to him until now. Oddly, he was glued to the TV.
“Reed,” Mrs. Beckly called out from the kitchen. “What are you watching?”
When she went in to check, she saw Reed captivated by what he was watching. His eyes were fixed. It was footage of a young boy, who couldn't have been much older than Reed. He’d been shot and was lying dead in the street gutter. A communist Russian Soldier stood over the boy holding a rifle. He was also casually smoking a cigarette. Reed saw the look in the soldier's eyes. It said he didn’t care about what he’d done. No one cared about the boy. No one tried to help him. No one came to see if he was still alive. No one even bothered to cover him up. Where was the boy’s family? Where was his mom? Reed tried to imagine what the boy could have possibly done to deserve that.
By now, Mr. Beckly had also walked into the room. President Ronald Reagan, who had been newly elected earlier that year, began talking about all the atrocities committed at the Berlin Wall. He said he was going to be Russia's worst enemy until the Wall was torn down and communism was gone forever. So many Americans praised him for it. So many East Germans hoped he could deliver that promise.
Mrs. Beckly told Reed to turn the channel. “You don't need to be watching things like this.” she said.
Reed walked outside onto the front porch. When it was hot outside, you could hear bullfrogs out in the yard. Reed would throw rocks until the chirping stopped. When Mr. Beckly walked out on the porch he saw Reed just sitting on the bench swing. He still had that look of curiosity and disbelief on his face.
“No frogs out tonight?” Mr. Beckly asked.
“I don't know.” he answered, looking down at the tip of his shoes.
Reed still had his baseball cleats on. He’d insisted on wearing them to the game. His Dodgers cap was also back on his head, a little crooked of center.
“It was a good game today wasn't it?” Mr. Beckly tried redirecting the boy’s thoughts.
“Yeah,”
“Mom says we should go more often.”
“Really?” Reed looked up.
“Yeah, and I think we should too.”
Mr. Beckly sat down next to Reed on the swing.
“Dad,” Reed asked, “Why do people kill each other?”
“The picture of that boy bothered you, didn't it?”
Reed just looked down at his shoes again. “He looked like my friend Ryan. But I know Ryan doesn't live in Germany. He lives over by the school.”
How was Mr. Beckly supposed to explain to an eight-year-old why people kill? He wasn't sure himself there was a right answer, at least one that an eight-year-old would buy. He doubted there would be justification in Reed's eyes. Mr. Beckly had always taught Reed to resolve his problems in ways other than fighting.
“Reed, sometimes there are really bad people, who do really bad things, even kill people, good people. But Reed, that little boy didn’t deserve to die.”
Reed looked up at Mr. Beckly, squinting out the glare of the bright porch light. “I hate that Russian man, Dad. I hate him.”
Now, Mr. Beckly knew they had just sunk a few inches deeper in the soil of perplexity.
“Reed, hate is a very strong word. It is hate that causes people to do those bad things. But I understand how you feel, Son.”
Reed leaned into his dad's side. He didn't want him to see he was crying, but Mr. Beckly already felt the wetness on his arm.

After Mrs. Beckly finished the dishes, she put Reddin and Gracie to bed and joined the boys out on the swing. Reed had fallen asleep. Mrs. Beckly pulled him over to her and laid his head in her lap.
“I hope they get things resolved over there Anna. It’s horrible what’s happening to those families. That boy shouldn’t have been left there like that.”
“I know Tom. I know.”
Mrs. Beckly looked up into Mr. Beckly’s dark firm eyes. She reached and moved her hand over the stubble on his chin and then rested her fingers gently on his soft lips. “You are a good man Tom; you always feel so much for others. I’ve never doubted why I married you.”
“I thought you only married me because I gave good foot rubs.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, “Thanks for reminding me. My feet are throbbing.”
Mr. Beckly chuckled low in his chest and then paused. “It's just that, I know what kind of hurt war brings. I know what happens to people who live through it, and unfortunately, those who don’t. There is so much going on in the world right now. Reagan sounds like he wants to go to war with the Soviet Union and I think it’s going to be messy. Reed’s going to be a fine young man; I just hope he'll be prepared for it all.”
“He will be, Tom. You’re his dad.” Mrs. Beckly ran her fingers through Reed’s hair. “I just hope he forgets about that little boy. I know it bothered him.”
Reed would not forget that boy, lying in the street. It would haunt him for some time. And he would not forget the look on the man's face that killed him.


************

Milan Italy, 1981

It was 7:00 a.m. when Marcielli entered the market square. Church bells caught his attention. He was late again. Pigeons flew from the bell tower, as if the sound was something foreign to them. ‘Duomo,’ the famous gothic cathedral, the church looked old. Marcielli even wondered how old. It seemed sturdy, but tired. Every crack was another sin belonging to some poor soul. Every mark or shade of gray was another's pain, fear or disbelief. Religion was redundant and boring to Marcielli. He never really believed. He saw a priest walking along side two nuns toward the church. Marcielli stopped. A bizarre feeling swept over him, ‘Duomo’ was staring at him, pleading with him. Marcielli began to feel guilty for what he had done.

Three Day's Earlier. . . . ,

Senior Dantis, stood at the front of the class. He just finished reading aloud Luciano’s poem. It seemed