The Prospect - Eliot Parker (top 10 novels .txt) 📗

all of that crap that ball club has been feeding you about ‘making it big.’ It won’t happen. It is the curse of Sheaville.” Joann’s foot began to tap against the faded wooden kitchen floor. Her lips twitched and her face became red, but with each sentence spoken, she gulped another portion of whiskey.
“I will make it here. I am a prospect, just like anyone else. I am here to make it, not to stay here forever. Mama, you made the sacrifice for me coming back here. And I am going to make it for the both of us…you wait and see.”
“You have your daddy’s optimism. It always believed Sheaville would prosper. Hea.” Joann started wobbling in her chair and she scraped the chair legs against the floor, lifting herself upward using her wrists to a standing position. The top portion of her waitress uniform, already sagging, continued to spill off her shoulders. Her once covered breasts were now exposed and her uniform fell towards her waist. “Your daddy was not an honorable man, Shane. You speak of him as if he were a saint. He was a no-good mill man who did what he wanted when he wanted.”
“That is not true!”
“It is!” Joann screamed. Shane’s head jerked backwards violently as his nose caught the burning smell of alcohol that blanketed Joann’s words. “I bet you didn’t know that he had some girlfriends. Oh yes. Roger got around…and around and around and around.” Joann began waving her index and middle fingers at her son.
The effects of the alcohol were taking their toll on Joann. Her body was swaying back and forth and her speech was becoming slurred and unrecognizable. As she continued talking, the sweat continued to form on her forehead. The young pitcher was unsure what to do, but he raised his hands and placed them on his hips, ready to catch Joann Triplet in case she fell forward.
As Shane considered how to respond to the things Joann was repeating, the phone in the living room rang. Joann turned abruptly towards the living room, which was next to the kitchen and then looked back towards Shane.
“Mama, we need to get that. It might be the team. We are leaving for Lexington tonight.”
She eyed him disdainfully. All Shane needed for her to do was walk into the next room and answer the phone. Then he would grab the whiskey bottle and discard the contents. At least a lack of alcohol might calm her down.
Joann slid slowly alongside the table. By now the phone was on its second ring. Instinctively, Shane was waiting for her to clear the entranceway. Once Joann was around the corner, he would have the glass bottle and hopefully have his mother under control.
Eventually, Joann stumbled into the living room. While she picked up the phone, Shane took the bottle in his hand and pushed the table backwards with his hands, almost jamming it into the refrigerator. But the spare chair that Joann used as a foot-stool was jutting outwards, and Shane ran into it on his way towards the sink.
He slipped as his knees scraped against the tile floor, getting sliced by an edge of upcoming tile. Blood began oozing from his knees and the bottle of whiskey shattered into the floor. Now the kitchen floor of the Triplet home was a mixture of broken glass, blue bits of a dinner plate, and blood stains. The room resembled a war zone. When Shane stood up, his mother was standing in front of him. She looked possessed and he was uncertain what she would do or say.
Joann grabbed Shane’s arm and slung him into the next room. Spinning around, yet keeping his balance, he moved forward and walked directly towards her. This time, Joann had a spatula in her hand and she struck Shane across the face. He winced in pain as he was spurned sideways, facing the telephone on the table. She assaulted him again, this time striking him on the back of the neck, dropping Shane to the floor until he was resting on his two gashed knees.
His blood soaked knees stained the faded pastel-blue carpet and he rolled over facing his mother. She knelt in front of him and grabbed her son’s cheeks and pulled him close. Touching nose to nose, she hissed, “My boy, my sweet, beautiful baby boy. My boy, the baseball star.” She then stuffed her mouth against Shane’s lips and began kissing him heavily.
Sore and bleeding, Shane was motionless. Joann broke the kiss and stared at her son. His blue eyes were hollow and his face was sunken and suddenly clammy. “My beautiful boy,” repeated Joann. “Mommy doesn’t want you to be late for the game.” Her eyes widened as she licked her lips.
“You had better hurry, the bus is ready to leave without you.”

VIII.

The empty and scared white bag lay on the concrete front porch of the Morton’s House on 806 Central Avenue. Olivia’s watched read 9:45 a.m. For her, time seemed endless. After delivering copies of The Charleston Gazette for more than three years, she should be used to the feeling of exhaustion. However, the more she delivered, the worse the feeling became.
She dumped herself into the wicker chair on the front porch. The chair cushion felt soft and comfortable against her aching calf muscles. She lowered her red baseball cap over her eyes in hopes of catching a quick nap. Certainly college would not be this exhausting, she often told herself.
Morton Mitchell opened the screen door to the front porch and stepped outside. It was raining in Sheaville and the late spring rains had been forecasted for several days, yet fittingly the skies chose Friday to quench the Earth, at least Sheaville’s part of the Earth.
“Tired, sweetheart?,” asked Morton condescendingly.
Olivia was tired and in no mood for her father’s normal patronizing remarks, so she wiggled in her chair attempting to get comfortable. She wanted to make sure he understood that she had no plans of moving anytime soon.
“Just think, it’s all worth it once the paycheck comes at the end of the month,” Morton said decisively. “I know how much you like going to the bank and filling out that deposit ticket.”
“Yea, but it’s the 30 or 31 days of work that get to me,” she retorted sheepishly.
Morton shook his head and his daughter’s reasoning. He was busily trying to button the sleeve cuffs on his butterscotch dress shirt. After what happened at Ruth’s Diner, he was going to make sure that no stain would be distracting on his clothing, should a staining happen again.
“I still do not understand why you make me have this newspaper route daddy?” asked Olivia. She wiggled the toes in her white sneakers as she awaited his response. Although Olivia knew what she was asking for when she posed the question, something inside her hoped the response would be different. It wasn’t.
“This job teaches you two things my dear…accountability and responsibility. Having to get up at 4 a.m. everyday teaches you responsibility, riding your bike all over town is good exercise, and collecting subscription fees from customers teaches you good intrapersonal skills. Not to mention, having you out there is good public relations for my office.”
“Somehow, it all comes back to politics,” Olivia responded, waving her feet back and forth.
“I just wish that newspaper you delivered wasn’t so liberal,” added Morton.
Indeed, The Charleston Gazette was a liberal newspaper, and everyone in Sheaville knew it. Olivia can remember discussing the newspaper in her newspaper class at Sheaville High School. The class got her interested in journalism and after being a reporter and editor for four years, she decided to go to Marshall University in Huntington and major in Print Journalism. That was always one advantage Olivia understood about being a newspaper carrier. After college graduation, maybe the Gazette would consider her for a full-time position. Delivering the news was much different than reporting the news though.
“It’s amazing that I can get elected as a Republican in such a Democratic region, but that is the essence of being a good politician. Take a look at the front page of the regional section today, Olivia.” He walked over to where Olivia was sitting and strung the front page out in front of her. He could not tell if she was paying attention, but she rose up in her chair, which was a pretty good sign she was looking and listening. “Read that.”
He pointed to a story in the lower right hand corner of the newspaper. The headline read:

Sheaville Mayor Successful in Balancing Budget

“See, that is good for me. I am up for re-election next year and voters remember these types of things.”
“Actually,” Olivia concluded, “the only reason they include Sheaville in the paper at all is because we are in their delivery area. Trust me dad, newspapers are not necessarily altruistic ventures.”
“Always a pessimist,” Morton responded.
Olivia now realized that she was not going to get any peace and quiet as long as her father was on the porch. He would be going to work soon, but soon could not come fast enough. She sat upright in her chair and she pulled off her cap. Her auburn hair was woven in a bun, which rested tightly on the center of her head. “Hey, I heard the Loggers are on a long road trip,” she inquired.
“Yep, something like that.” He continued rustling pages of the newspaper scouring each page for news. “Since when did you become interested in the Loggers?”
“Well, I met on of the players yesterday. I think that is the first time I ever had a conversation with one of them.”
Morton’s lip twitched. “You’ve met some of the players before, when you were little. You just do not remember it.” Morton Mitchell loved to fondly recall the past. He loved to talk about the way life used to be. Olivia was usually involved in past stories in some manner, primarily because Morton did not tell a story that did not have her in it.
“Well, I met him as I was going into town to get a new bike reflector. He was a little odd, but he and Chaz know each other, apparently.”
“Which player is it?”
Olivia paused thoughtfully for a moment, staring at her hands as she twiddled her thumbs. “Shane somebody.”
Morton, now finally looking at his daughter instead of the newspaper classifieds noticed her eyes roaming around the porch, not fixated on any particular object. “Well, you and everyone else in this town seem to think that he is going to put Sheaville on the map because of his talent. Well, I am here to tell you that it will not happen. Mark my words.”
“Daddy, I didn’t say anything about what he was or was not going to do playing baseball. I just told you that I met him,” Olivia stated, trying to incorporate factual evidence into the conversation. “He seemed okay. A little distant, but I figure if Chaz knows him, then he must be okay.”
“Chaz is a good boy,” noted Morton. “Follow his lead and he will never steer you wrong.”
“Maybe, maybe not, it just depends on how you look at things,” Olivia replied. “Shane really was confused about not knowing that Chaz was staying with us. When he found out, he was really….
Morton Mitchell, listening attentively since Olivia mentioned Shane, erupted. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE KNOWS CHAZ LIVES WITH US!” His voice was loud and words shot out of his mouth as his cheek bones swelled and his hands were flapping against one another.
Olivia was startled out of her seat, stood upright, and faced her father, wondering what she had