Miraculous Persuasion One & Two

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Miraculous
Persuasion

(The Brick Mason Chronicles)

Ben F Burton III

Secret remedies and corridors abound
For He who holds the key and wears the crown
BFB 3

INTRODUCTION

When he was a child, the kids in the town of Red Clay, Alabama referred to him as “Brick Mason.” Seldom did they use "Brick," alone. but both names, with emphasis on the second syllable. They said things like, "How's it going, Brick Mason," and "Atta boy, Brick Mason," or “Yeah, he might be awesome, but he sure as heck ain't no Brick Mason.”

Brick's father, Jason, had no thought of being clever when he bestowed the unusual moniker. Neither did he nurture displaced resentment toward his late parents for assigning him a name that elicited snickers at elementary school roll call. In a vivid dream, before his son's birth, Jason beheld huge crowds cheering his son, "Brick Mason." By any measure, getting “Brick” affixed to a birth certificate would be a tough sell, if but for one reason. Jason's wife, Bathsheba, was not enamored of the name.
The senior Mason believed names create a predilection for success or failure. He did not want his son to trace his footsteps into the mines of Ishtooka Coal Company. Jason described his workplace environment as “subsistence level work in the bowels of hell.” Even if his dream was not biblical, perhaps the name would encourage his son to become an actual brick mason, with a solid income and, more importantly, longevity.
Most of Ishtooka’s miners began work in their late teens and were employed for the duration of their too often short lives. Those who did not die in mining accidents were considered lucky if they reached their fiftieth birthday, primarily because of dust inhalation. Over eighty percent of the miners smoked, greatly exacerbating the problem. The only time their lungs inhaled fresh, semi-clean air was when they were at home, asleep, or at Sunday church services. Those two activities were not always mutually exclusive. Jason and Bathsheba Mason were light smokers, who could stretch the life of one carton to the better part of a month.

As it turned out, Jason's concern over his child's name was unwarranted. Had Samuel Webster been introduced to Brick Mason before he completed his book on the English language, in all likelihood, he'd have deemed it necessary to invent more synonyms for the word “astounding.”

Regardless, mere words were insufficient to describe the boy, let alone define him. At birth, he weighed over eleven pounds and continued to grow like the proverbial weed for the entirety of his childhood. But, unlike most kids whose height and weight far exceed the norm for their age, Brick was dexterous. In fact, so nimble was he that accomplished gymnasts were in awe of his inborn adroitness. When Brick’s “natural” was pitted against anyone else’s “trained,” the end result was, predictably, an unnatural train wreck for Brick’s opposition.

By no means did the Brick Mason persona begin and end with physical prowess, for he possessed that rarest of couplings–nonpareil athleticism and an erudite intellect. Many of his contemporaries referred to him as “scary smart.” One of his teachers longed to test his mental acuity, strongly suspecting artful deception. A heavy dose of unreality awaited her.

Brick was grateful to God for his state-of-the-art mind and body, but did not enjoy the irksome attention it frequently generated. He preferred to play alone, away from the superlatives that were guaranteed to rain over him anytime he mixed it up with other kids, even those who were two or three years older than he. The competitiveness in his genes was superseded by the potential cost that could accrue if he humiliated his opponents.

Brick saw but one available option to help him mitigate that impasse, short of exempting himself from all competitive endeavors. Were he to coast, assume a halfhearted approach, it should be enough to level the playing field to the satisfaction of all but the most inept challengers. With high expectations, he gave his hypothesis a dedicated effort, trying his best to be his worst. But, a diamond in the rough is still a diamond. Brick's skill set was so highly evolved that a mere token effort on his part resulted in the same comment, “You win, Brick Mason.” In reality, stripping him of his inherent advantages would have little mattered, for most of his friendly adversaries were spent, psychologically, before the game got underway.

In an era when comic book superheroes were a relatively new creation, Brick Mason embodied their very best qualities, minus the fancy costume. In short, a more humble, unpretentious, easy-going, kindhearted child had never before strolled the dusty streets of Red Clay, Alabama. Yet, oddly, his altruism was the one character trait with potentiality to effectuate his undoing. If unchecked, selflessness can easily be taken advantage of by those cut from nefarious cloth. Further, winning, by necessity, begets losers. If a winner cannot bear the responsibility for creating losers, a moral dilemma develops. If that person is predisposed toward competitiveness, a hyper-paradoxical, moral dilemma is spawned. Brick wasted untold hours attempting to negotiate its persistent horns.

CHAPTER 1

The population in the quiet town of Red Clay was one short of the number of days in a year that sweltering Thursday evening in June. Excluding mine employees, by ten o'clock on week nights, almost all other residents and their children were fast asleep, the lone law enforcement officer, Sheriff Quanlee Pitts, among them. But, the citizens were about as concerned over a sleeping police force as visitors from Neptune. The sheriff, who held a degree in Criminal Justice from Crawford College, embodied the essence of a quiet, masculine lawman. Due to his presence, the crime rate in Red Clay was not merely low, but law breaking was unheard of, excluding jaywalking, which was notoriously out of control.
Sheriff Pitts doubled as Justice of the Peace. He also tripled as town pediatrician, inasmuch as he was certified to deliver babies. But, he held no lawful medical certificate, one authorized by the AMA, to authenticate his expertise. For over ten years, he was nursemaid to the town's doctor during births. In due course, that doctor accepted a more lucrative offer from a larger city, the neighboring Flat Mill. By default, Sheriff Pitts became the go-to guy for baby delivery, as Red Clay’s coffers were too depleted to entice another physician to the community. The town council took it upon themselves to draft a document which read, "Sheriff Quanlee Pitts is hereby certified to deliver babies within our city limits, unless and until we can find ourselves another bona fide doctor to do so." After a heated discussion, a show of hands made the writ law, by the narrowest of margins, four to three. The seven members signed it, including Sheriff Pitts, who rounded out his community service work as council chairman.
Red Clay was not atypical of most small, Southern towns of the early 1920's, notwithstanding the fact that the calendar read June, 1953. Asphalt was an anomaly to the area. Dirt roads were the rule. Hay maintained its ranking as the primary fuel used to operate the majority of conveyances in town. Of course, most locals never had an urgent need to go anywhere that could not be covered on foot. For some, the longest trip taken on any given day was to the outhouse. Indoor toilets were scarce.
Television would not invade the slumbering valley town many for years. One man bought a small set in Birmingham and placed it in his living room, for the sole purpose of declaring, with pride, “I own myself a brand new TV set!” By the time the television antenna was erected, the set would not play, and his original two year warranty had expired eight years earlier. Interference from the mountains encompassing the perimeter of the town made a tower a necessity, a luxury Red Clay could not afford at the time.

All day Saturday and Sunday, after church, the old town square was the busiest spot in the valley. In point of fact, the only activity seen most week-ends involved older men with sticks in one hand and knives in the other. Almost from the founding of Red Clay, the art of whittling had been a popular pastime, but few boys took up the craft after World War II. Conversation, though, was seldom in short supply along the square.

Red Clay got seriously busy on the last week-end of each month. That's when the flea market rolled in. For two days, the town square bustled, as people descended from far and wide to present their wares. Fresh honey, hand-made quilts, novelties, homemade preserves, paintings, curios, detailed whittlings, antiques, arrowheads, and plain old junk were among the offerings. But, a sign nailed to a tree in the center of it all put everything into perspective. Composed by Jason Mason, that sign read:

“The tiny line 'tween trash and treasure
Lies within the finder's mind
Which no one else can measure.”

Except for Sheriff Pitts, no Red Clay resident knew everyone in town, but “friend of a friend” was as distant a relationship as existed. If America was a melting pot, Red Clay was a high-speed blender. Racial prejudice was rarer than purple unicorns. No one wore color as either a badge of honor or shame. Skin tone, barely an issue since Red Clay's long-ago founding, fully dissolved when the town's original mayor, at his third inaugural address, made a unique request of the gathered citizenry. He said, “Anyone who had a hand in choosing your skin tone, please rise.” A solitary, fair-skinned lady, given to sun bathing, and sporting a deep, golden tan, rose to swarms of laughter. In Red Clay, one race was acknowledged, that of the human variety. A noticeable clannishness did exist throughout the citizenry at large, but only in a “One for all and all for one” kind of way. Newcomers were treated well, but those who tried to alter the status quo were, expeditiously, offered a sobering choice. They could get on board, or take their contrariness elsewhere–Flat Mill, perhaps.

Most of Red Clay's residents knew their genealogies for at least three generations. Quanlee Pitts, whose parents migrated from Africa before his birth, had no known roots. His parents neglected to mention particulars of their African relatives. Word had it, they descended of Kenyan royalty, but gladly relinquished social and political status in their homeland to bravely cross the Atlantic for a shot at the American dream. To fit in more readily, they even anglicized their last name from Pitteletos to Pitts. Their son was a sterling reflection of them, his skin a lustrous, deep black. Sadly, their dream went up in smoke one night when a gas leak caused a roaring house fire. It claimed the lives of the highly respected couple, though three-year-old Quanlee awakened and crawled through an open window to safety.
Quanlee became the epitome of a child raised by a village. Withal, his primary residence was inside the nurturing home of Jason Mason's parents, who adopted him less than a year later. Quanlee wore the Mason name with dignity for many years, but, at eighteen, he reverted to his given name to honor his birth parents. His legal name, Quanlee Roscoe Pitts Mason, was not altered. Quanlee was fifteen months older than his brother, Jason. The two bonded early. Far from flesh tone alienation, their light and dark physical differences actually strengthened their attraction, one to the other. As they grew, athletics was the glue that kept them virtually inseparable. At length, they became closer than most brothers, bound by sports, morals, wit, sensitivity, creativity, and love of singing. The most vital of their abundant commonalities was their Christianity.

Quanlee consistently stood at the top his class, academically. By the time he entered high school, he was prime college material. He excelled in sports, but athletic scholarships were hard to come by in his tiny hometown, especially for a Negro kid. Via academics, Quanlee earned a partial college scholarship, not nearly enough to cover all expenses. His adoptive father, Crawford Mason, made decent money as a foreman in the Ishtooka Coal Mines, and Mrs. Mason worked twenty hours a week in the five and dime. Still, their relatively meager savings could not meet the financial demands of college life. In Quanlee’s sophomore year of high school, the town organized a “Quanlee College Fund,” at Red Clay's lone bank, First National. The locals contributed whatever they could spare throughout the rest of his high school days. From these sources, and Quanlee’s paltry earnings as a busboy, they financed his three-year tenure in Flaming Rock, home of Crawford College. By attending summer classes and taking the maximum number of hours each quarter, Quanlee earned his Criminal Justice diploma in only three years, by which time, the funds were almost depleted. With the balance, Quanlee bought a motor cycle.

Jason and his wife, Bathsheba, traced their roots just three relatively short generations, to the arrival of their great-grandparents in Red Clay. Jason was half Caucasian, one-eighth Seminole, one-eighth Spanish, and one-quarter Scandinavian. Bathsheba was also one-half Caucasian, but was one-quarter Cherokee, one-eighth Negro, and one-eighth Oriental.

Even though idyllic race relations were taken for granted in Red Clay, matters of religion were not immune from debate. Typical dust-ups involved friendly ribbing betwixt equally divided Methodists and Baptists. Dunking versus sprinkling in baptisms drew many of the innocuous barbs. Whose hymn books had the best songs was another source of dispute.

Many rumors circulated through the years, offering speculation on the origins of Red Clay. The most prominent, and generally accepted, anecdote involved four spirited men, solid friends all, from the Charleston, South Carolina area. The quartet made a pact to search for a suitable location to establish a new town. One of the men was from the Bahamas and was black. Another hailed from the British Isles and was white. The third was from China, the fourth, a Native American. After a long, but uneventful, western journey, the four wanderers found what they deemed the perfect place for their settlement, but they could not agree on a name. They bandied ideas around for a spell, and finally settled on “Clay” as a part of the name, before deciding a color was needed to flesh it out. Unanimity on a color was more difficult. At length, they chose to draw lots. The winner would complete the name. The black man won. The man from China was partial to White Clay. The English man preferred Black Clay, and the Native American would have chosen Yellow Clay. It is written that the esprit de corps exhibited in that meeting was emblematic of the color blind society that followed. Be that as it may, every ounce of clay in the town happens to be red in color.

The four pioneers staked their claim, unofficially named the town, and built four small, log cabins. Once the homesteads were completed, they honed in on a far more important matter. Single men, in a place many miles from nowhere, with no known gold or silver mines, were bound to have trouble nudging the total population census from its current number of four. Though the valley fairly begged for human companionship, a picturesque landscape alone would not be incentive enough to lure other settlers to their hidden, backwoods acreage. The female pickings on their journey west were less than optimal. Indeed, they never crossed paths with a female of any stripe, married or otherwise. The four men headed west, determined to find proper wives, women capable of making Red Clay a respectable point-of-origin for industrious settlers.

Ten days of hard riding on their trusty steeds led them to a township near the banks of the Mississippi River. An inquiry at the local saloon, as to the availability of women in the area, garnered the four men directions to an enormous, two-story house on the outskirts of town. And, from that lone house, the mothers of Red Clay, common women all, were escorted into a spartan life of respectability.
A seventy-five-year-old preacher in a white, vested suit, derby-style cane in one hand, Bible in the other, performed a four-way marriage at the end of a long pier. His waist-length white beard flew to and fro in the stiffening breeze. The pier stretched a full hundred yards from shore, almost to the middle of the mighty Mississippi. No sooner did lips separate after the traditional kisses at the end of the nuptials, than an unearthly thunderstorm commenced. The octet of newlyweds sprinted from the pier, the parson, his bible thrust inside his vest, in pursuit. The nearest shelter was a lean to, of little relief in the horizontal rain. All wound up soaked. They stood, mouths agape. The raging downpour had to be a sign. The preacher called it “A wondrous signal from on high.” What it signified, no one had the slightest notion, nor did anyone feel impelled to speculate.

The storm over, the troupe purchased a rickety buckboard and set out for Red Clay. To a person, they believed, since Jesus had made an honest woman out of Mary Magdalene, they had no reason for trepidation viv-a-vis their less than Christian pasts. The “Original Eight,” as they were wont to refer to themselves, erected a sign on the main road near the outskirts of town, which proudly proclaimed their humble beginnings:

"If it's nobility you seek
Set sail for British shores
For this town grew of sweat and seed
From wanderers and whores
Who ply those trades no more”

Over the decades, the members of the Original Eight dwindled. The four men died first. Only one day after the last of the women left to join Mary Magdalene for her just rewards, the Red Clay Chamber of Commerce saw fit to uproot the sign. They relegated it to a basement closet in a storage area inside the Red Clay Historical Society. Many years later, Red Clay constructed a stately, brick museum. The new, forward-thinking committee was embarrassed to learn of the sign's fate. Immediately, they set about re-locating the town's lone man-made relic with direct ties to the Original Eight. Soon, they found an ideal spot, one more befitting the prized artifact. The sign was dispatched to the new museum, where it was displayed on a wall on the second floor, inside a far roomier storage area.
*
“Aaaaiiieee, God above, help me!” The screams from the Red Clay Medical Center were reportedly audible halfway to Flat Mill, twenty-seven miles distant. The Med Center, a converted pool hall, consisted of a sizable waiting room, sparsely furnished with four wooden chairs and a worn, flower-print divan. The divan engulfed anyone adventurous enough to fall into its spring-worn depths. In the rear was a full bath with taps for cool and cooler running water. A third room contained a gas stove, and was the hub of the facility. In it, the person in charge patched skinned knees, dispensed aspirin for various aches, or delivered babies. More serious ailments required a trip to the hospital in Flat Mill.

“There, there, Bathsheba, keep on breathing, girl. I know it's almost as bad as kidney stones, but the head is starting to protrude. Mercy me, that is one big dome!”

“Oh, such pain! Aw-aah! Why didn't someone tell me it would be so, uh, ohhh, umh, God. Uhh, it hurts so be-baa-bad.” Bathsheba rolled her head frantically, battling through the worst physical pain of her life. “No more children for me, ohhh, ever! The dickens with this birthin' crap! Ohhh, make it stop. Please, Quanleeee. Stop it!”

“Forget having more kids, honey. Right now, concentrate on getting the one inside you out here in my arms,” the sheriff went on, calmly. “We're almost there, sweetness. Your pain will decrease when the baby appears in my arms. Come on, now, breathe. Push as hard as you can. Scream loud as you want, Bath, but keep pushing like a John Deere tractor, you hear!”

Bathsheba's flawless, reddish-tan skin had wilted into sickly, pallid colorlessness. Pushing, she screamed until her lungs begged for oxygen.

“Yeah, now we're talking, sweetheart! Your little one will join us in no time. Be strong and have faith.” The sheriff raised his voice, as Bathsheba's grunts and groans became as noisy as they were frequent. Turning to the lady assisting him, he whispered, “Mrs. Edwards, have those towels and warm water ready, please. Bath looks awfully peaked. Pray it subsides once the infant passes through. I haven't the skills to perform any life-saving operation, and carting her off to Flat Mill is too risky.”

On the heels of yet another arduous push, followed by an excruciating groan, Bathsheba managed to force enough of the infant's massive head through her birth canal for the sheriff to grab hold. He tugged hard. A rush and a gush propelled the fetus to freedom.

“Got him, Bathsheba! Yes, him. ‘Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails’. Wha-hoo. Good job, girl. I'm proud of you.”
Bathsheba continued to suck oxygen heavily, a ghastly grimace on her face, her lips a thin colorless line, the inner portion of her ebony eyebrows curled upward, her high level of pain tolerance maxed out. Momentarily cataleptic, her eyes fixated on the yellow, nicotine-stained ceiling, as if relief might be hidden within one of the many cracks in its plaster. Her long, jet black hair was wet and matted to her face. A striking woman ordinarily, Bathsheba's shimmering, slanted, emerald green eyes were listless, her exotic face swollen and distorted. Her extraordinary, naturally high cheekbones were vanquished by the swelling around them.

Sheriff Pitts applied a firm slap to the posterior of the new arrival, whose expression begged the question, “What was that for?” Quanlee smiled and gently passed the newborn to Mrs. Edwards for clean-up. He turned to Bathsheba and took hold of her wrist to check her pulse.
“Your heart rate isn't bad, but your face is swollen like an over-inflated punching bag. Talk to me, little sister. The worst is behind you. So, how ya doing, Bath? Ya with me? Talk to me, sugar.” Bathsheba broke from her self-induced trance and responded in short bursts, inhaling copious quantities of oxygen with every other spoken word.

“Weak. Drained. Not good, Quan. Not good at all. What I went through was... is a, uhh, an ominous kind of pain. Ohhh downright deadly feeling. I have never come so near the valley of the shadow before. Um. Uhhh. It’s not quite as bad as now, but I still ache something awful. You've had experience in this room, so be honest with me, is this how I'm supposed to feel?!” The suffering in Bathsheba's voice was almost too gut-wrenching for the soft-hearted Quanlee to tolerate. Though he was tougher than whit leather if need be, when it came to his belovéd sister-in-law, he was as tender as a love song. She was the strongest, bravest woman in his world. Never had she been one to complain, and she'd had a gracious plenty of life's bumps and bruises. Difficult as childbirth can be, for Bathsheba to openly exhibit such agony, Quanlee knew her pain had to be unbearable. For the moment, Quanlee thought it best to use levity to cloak his concern.

“Bath, you gave birth to Paul Bunyan and Babe, petite as you are. I didn't expect you to have an easy time of it. Weighing it up, I think you feel exactly like you ought to. Kinda like death munching on a cracker on Tuesday morning, huh?” Quanlee's voice was far more delicate than his word choices. He gently wiped perspiration from Bathsheba's forehead.

“Uhhh. Do you know if Jason’s alright, Quan? He nearly 'bout passed out when my water broke.” In typical Bathsheba fashion, her overarching concern was for her husband, even as she lie in a most wretched state.
“Around the time of your first scream, I detected heavy-booted quick-stepping, and heard a door slam. I suspect poor ol' Jason’s outside sweating bullets and pacing to and fro under the streetlight at this moment. Guess he's on the listen for the sound of a crying baby.”

“Speaking of which, why is it so quiet in here? Where is my boy and why hasn't he cried?”

“He’s fine, sweet princess. He’s better than fine. Mrs. Edwards is doing a freshen-up on him in our luxury bathroom. The reason it’s so quiet? That boy has yet to make a clearly audible sound, and I gave him a pretty solid whack with my big ol' right hand. He's got more padding than most infants. Guess my slap wasn't enough to draw tears. But, was he wiggling and a-wagglin' like a wet puppy. Made some ornery faces at me, too. Heh-heh. That boy is definitely a keeper. He looks, well, he doesn't look like any of us, 'specially me.” Quanlee laughed aloud at his joke. In turn, Bathsheba grinned, weakly. “Honestly, he’s handsome as all get out, Bath. Seriously. He's the best looking kid I've ever delivered and I am not saying that because he's my nephew. Ya-hooo. ‘My nephew. Uncle Quan.’ Boy, could I ever get used to hearing that. Oh, Bathsheba, you'll be so proud when you see him. Excellent coloring. Speaking of which, your color is beginning to resurface. What say I go round up Jase, and the two of you can have a look at your little miracle. Well, let's make that big miracle, together, huh?”
“Sure. Bring in my big boy. Both of 'em. Based on what you say, Jason's gonna do an Irish jig soon as he gets a look at the size of him.”

Quanlee smiled. On his way out, he asked Mrs. Edwards to wait until Jason was in the delivery room before she presented the child.

Jason's nervous pacing had worn a twenty foot path through the uncut weeds and grass outside. At six-foot-two and two hundred pounds, he had the natural gait of a powerful, but agile athlete. Blue eyes, paler than Picasso’s most delicate pastels, narrow eyebrows, and longish, vanilla blond hair contributed to his slightly effeminate appearance. Some referred to him as a “pretty boy,” but never to his face, unless a sizable, friendly grin accompanied the gag line. His own grin, through slightly off-white teeth, came as easily as an Alabama spring breeze.

“Hey, Jason,” Quanlee spoke, evenly. “This way, bro. Double time. Got someone asking for you inside.” Jason inhaled deeply and held his fists close to his chest, bobbing them up and down, repeatedly. Any nervous energy expended throughout his agonizing wait, revisited Jason twenty-fold, accompanied by conflicting feelings. Unique excitement over the birth was tempered by sorrow for what his wife must have suffered.
From the delivery room, Quanlee called for Mrs. Edwards to come forth.

“Oh, my. My goodness. Wow," Jason exclaimed, after getting a look at the newborn. “Oh, gracious, Bath, you did good, honey. Good? Praise the Lord, you did amazing. He's a boy! Brought us home a bodacious, handsome son-of-a-gun, gal. May I get him from ya, ma’am?” said Jason, eagerly extending his arms to receive the baby from Mrs. Edwards.

“Careful, now” warned Mrs. Edwards. “He is a load and a half.”

“Whoa, I can see that, ma'am. Oh, look at the curly blonde hair on him. And the deepest blue eyes. Like the skies of late autumn. You know, I bet...” Jason paused and took a close look at Bathsheba. “Ohhh, me. Here, bro. Take hold of him for a sec.” As Jason passed the child to his brother and turned toward his unsightly wife, the crow’s feet etched around his eyes became more prevalent.

“Dear lord, Bath, are you alright, my darling?” Jason leaned in and placed a light kiss on his wife’s lips. She made no effort to pucker. “Goh-lay, sugar pie, you look like you've had a rougher go of it than I imagined, and I was doing some mighty powerful imaginin' out there. I'm so sorry, Bathsheba.” The deep pain in Jason’s whisper made clear what everyone present already knew. Jason's was the soul of an empath. “Hearing your screams liked to have killed me, darling. I ran outside because I felt so helpless. My goodness, Bath, your face is all swelled. You're a trooper. I love you, baby,” Jason whimpered, as he ran his fingers lightly through Bathsheba's still damp hair. Jason's jaws twitched,. His eyes grew full.

“I guess the worst of it is over now,” said Bathsheba. “I'll make it, but I'll also make you a promise in front of God and witnesses, Mr. Jason Mason. That's it. End of the game. You got me? Sorry, but no more kids can pass through this girl's uterus. I can't handle a pain-fest like this again. Ever! That's my stance and there ain't a thing can change it.”

“Hey, don't let it worry you, sweetness. I can’t bear the thought of you in such pain. Don't fret your pretty…” Jason paused, attempting to gather himself. As he stared at his wife's bloated facial features, a couple of tears broke loose. He shook his head, touched his thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes, exhaled through puffed cheeks, and forced a fraction of the smile that was, typically, standard issue on his genteel face. Quanlee pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Jason, who dabbed away the tears and blew his nose before continuing. “I'll make a solemn promise to you here and now, my darlin' wife. I will never again do anything which could cause you to get pregnant, honey.” It took a few moments for Jason to absorb the incongruity of his comment, versus his intention. He looked toward Quanlee, who leaned against the barren wall, quietly chuckling, his chest heaving, while he cooed the baby, who seemed to make sporadic eye contact. Quanlee met Jason's glance with a subtle grin.
“Well,” replied Bathsheba, curtly, “given my sentiments at present, that sounds like an extra fine offer, indeed. Still and all, I cannot promise that my intemperance on this particular matter will sustain me for the rest of my days.” Since Bathsheba's final scream, all utterances had been subdued. Her latest remark was met with silence–for three seconds, tops. Then, Mrs. Edwards and the men fell apart in unyoked laughter. “Oh, hush. Quit embarrassing me, now,” Bathsheba admonished, with a slight grin. “Is anyone aware that I recently gave birth to a kid whom I have yet to see?”

“Uh-oh, my bad, sweetheart. Here, Quan, let me get him back. Looky here, Bath. Here's your angel.” Bathsheba attempted to raise her torso, but immediately went prone, emitting a groan, tentatively placing her palms on her belly. She was sure something was wrong, but, never having given birth, she accepted it as punishment for man's original sin. Jason winced.

“Alright, darn it, that does it,” said Quanlee. “I know you're a strong girl, Bathsheba, but I will not take anymore of this foolishness. I shouldn’t have allowed you to talk me out of visiting the hospital once you got so dang big. We're gonna lay you out on the back seat of the squad car, turn on the light and siren, and haul tail over to the city, pronto.”
"Pffft,” Bathsheba scoffed at the notion. “The only commonality between you and 'squad' is a 'q,' Quanlee! A one-man 'squad.' Huh! I'll be fine, sooner or later. For now, I just wanna get down from this dang dime-store gurney and relax in my own bed, where I can hold my own baby. Everyone in here has held him but me, and I'm the only person with milk!”

“Let's give her a hand, Quan.” Jason passed his son to Mrs. Edwards.

Whereas the huge Quanlee had referred to Bathsheba as “petite,” she was actually 5'7” and weighed 130 pounds. That was her pre-pregnancy weight, anyway. Once the needle approached the one-fifty mark, she refused to step on the scale. Her Alpian cheekbones were a genetic gift from her Cherokee maternal grandmother, and highlighted an otherwise clear, soft, demure face. At worst, she was very attractive, but when she smiled, she became a ten, without a speck of Max Factor. Her smile earned added beauty points in that it provided luminescence to her Orientally-inclined, green eyes. Further, Bathsheba's smile revealed dazzling, white teeth and uncovered a dainty dimple on the upper right of her chin. In short, her smile was proof of the impossible. Such natural beauty was inconceivable. Below her elegant face, she was blessed with womanly curves in all the proper places. But, by the seventh month of pregnancy, those curves had begun to resemble a pup tent. Her naturally large C-cup breasts, now milk-engorged, were twice as hefty as before. At twenty-four, the very thought of life with the saggy skin of a woman decades older haunted her. “My figure's liable to be shot all to pieces,” she would say.
When the four of them arrived at the Mason home, Jason carried his boy inside and placed him in the same crib where he had once slept. Returning to the car, he locked arms with Quanlee, forming a makeshift chair. They hoisted the groaning Bathsheba and carted her to the bedroom.

“Ohm,” Bathsheba grunted, gutturally, as they deposited her on the bed. “Golly. No rest for the weary. Okay, Jason, uh, grab something for me to express milk for our son, would ya.” Hearing those words, “our son,” aroused chills in the thirty-year-old man, who had once feared dying before experiencing his fondest wish–that of becoming a dad.

“You bet, honey,” Jason said, and hustled from the bedroom.

“Bath, I don't know if you're aware of this, but, as a rule, a woman is not able to produce milk for two or three days after giving birth. Did the good Lord give you some sort of special dispensation?” asked Quanlee.
Bathsheba smiled, tepidly. “Oh, Quan, what fabulous wordplay! But, are you accusing me of normalcy? Honest answer? Yep, a special dispunsation. There might be a little colostrum left in there, but I do have milk. Don't ask me how. Think I just dreamed it up. Whew, I am so beat, I could sleep a week. That's why I want to have milk available for when the baby wakes. Let Jason handle it. Hmmm. I swear, I've forgotten what day this is.”

“Official date of birth for the little giant is Thursday, June 11.”

Jason returned, double boiler in hand. Quanlee looked away, grinning.

“Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind, Jason? What do you expect me to do with that great big ol’ thing? Do I look like a cow to you? Don't answer that! Go get me a bowl. A large, cereal bowl. A clean one, preferably.” Jason shrugged, left the room, and returned with a small mixing bowl.

“Oh, that'll have to do,” Bathsheba said and attempted to rise. “Double ouch, that smarts! Come on, guys, give me a hand here. I'm gonna need to be on my feet to get the milk flowing.” The two men carefully reached beneath her shoulders and lifted, slowly and gingerly. “Oh, shoot! Dang. Good lord. Alright, hurry and get outta here, y'all.” Like frightened kids, Jason and Quanlee hurried out, shutting the door as they exited.

“Oh, man, that hurts me. So, you gotta hit the mines tomorrow, bro?”
“Did, but, with this on the horizon, I had a fill-in on standby. Tell ya something, Quan, we're gonna need a proof-of-age document for that bundle of bodacious, boyhood beauty in the bedroom. Probably sooner rather than later, if he grows as fast out here as he did in Bath's womb.”

“Uhhh, I believe that document is called a birth certificate, Jason.”

“Yeah, well, I want to be certain it's authentic, as in, beyond question, unlike that baby delivering certificate you have hanging on the wall, thanks to your deciding vote. Oh, don't forget, we'll need to get it notarized.”
“You know what, little bro,” Quanlee said, in a sardonic tone, “I have a pipeline to a pretty good notary, and I hear he works cheap, too.”

“Oh, my word. I don't reckon there's anything you ain't, except a miner.”

“Or married,” said the sheriff, smiling. “But, thank goodness for that.”

“What! You've wanted to get hitched for years, man.”

“I meant the 'miner' part, Jason. But, hey, son, ain't you heared? It's a-gin the law fer a black man to murry outside his skin!” Quanlee was unable to emulate Southern black dialect. Not even close. But, when it came to the nuances of basic cornpone vernacular, he was very adept, though he toned it down on his infrequent trips outside Red Clay.

“Outside his skin!” Jason laughed lustily at the phrase. “Why, I didn't realize it was legal for a skeleton to get married anywhere, including New Yawk City. Hey, how 'bout, 'illegal outside his kin.' Yeah, now, we're talking West Virginnie. Heh, heh, heh. Good coal mining there, I hear. Bet they pay a dang site better than the cheapskates in these parts do.” Jason reached into his pocket for Quanlee's used handkerchief to wipe his suddenly runny nose. “You clown,” Jason muttered. “Anyway, we're talking Red Clay, by gosh. Alabama is a mere subsidiary.” The two men doubled over in laughter, loosing their tension from the evening's events.

“Hey, Jason, since that day we discussed years ago has come to fruition, let's not forget the oath we took.”
“Oh, sure, Quan. I mean, who could possibly forget our pact? The ol' ‘years ago’ oath. Yeah, buddy. Oh, spit it out, Roscoe. What oath!”

“Ahhh, how quickly we forget, Rumpelstiltskin,” Quanlee said, a flicker in his eyes. “Surely, you recall it? The one where each of us promised to keep our first-born son from real sports, like baseball and basketball, for four years, minimum.”

“Oh, my goodness, no. Hasn't the statute of limitations run out on that? Gosh a ’mighty, that's gonna be a tough one to stick with. Brick could turn into a world beater. Aw, well, we voted for it then. It's a good deal. No need to risk his getting burned out before it means anything. We'll stick with kid's stuff at first. Four years. Dang, that's a long time, though. Oh well. Hey, the 'Rumpelstiltskin' deal just now hit me. First born. Nice touch for a linear thinker, Quan. Heck, it even ties into 'murry outside his skin'.” The men chuckled, quietly. Having already vented, laughter suddenly seemed inappropriate given Bathsheba's condition.

“Say, Quanlee, I've meant to ask you this for I don't know how long. How do you, you know, you're see all of these women in a very personal way.” Jason fumbled his words, regretful that he could not un-ask the question. “Looks like it might get... I mean, do you? Ahhh, is it-”

"Jason, I can tell what you're trying to get at. I wish you had posed that question before my sister-in-law became involved, but I can positively assure you of this. Making babies and birthing babies are on the extreme, and I mean polar extreme, sides of the erotic spectrum.”

"Yeah, guess so, "Jason said, timidly.

“Hey, man, are you aware it's closin' in on to two o'clock? I'm pretty sure Bath will be fine, but I'll bed down in the spare room if you want.”

“Ha, won't be all that long before the spare room becomes the exclusive province of one big ol' Mason boy! Heh-heh. Naw, I appreciate the offer, Quan, but there's no need for you to do that. Besides, how do you plan to chase down criminals if you don't get your beauty rest?” Jason winked. “And, besides, you're four blocks away. Call you if we need ya.”

“Oh, I wrote down the time of the little guy's arrival, but we'll need to do the paperwork to make it official. I cannot wait to take him down to the feed store to get an accurate weight on him. I'll place my bet that he's on the far side of ten pounds.”

“Yep, he's a big dandy, for sure.”

Bathsheba called out from the bedroom. “Jason, I'm done. Come get it.”

“Coming, Bath.”
“Hey, one other thing, real fast,” said Quanlee. “How does it feel, having your very own child? Think on that, son. You are an actual father, now. You! Little Jason Mason. Can you believe it? Has it sunk in yet?”

“Oh, goodness, at first I was on a cloud. But then, I took a good look at Bath. That, pretty much, sucked the joy outta me. But, I'll say this. It is unique, Quan, from what little taste I got of it. When Bath said, ‘Our son,’ in there a minute ago? It sounded fanciful, more like a dream than real life. I don't know of any words to describe how incredible this deal is, ya know? 'Overwhelming' seems inadequate. It's just plain surreal.”

“Well, if you, my poetic brother, who has learned three new words a day for twenty years, have no fresh word to describe the impression, then, there is none. By the way, I've got dibs on teaching him to shoot buckets.”

“Oh, sure, how about you go ahead and yell 'shotgun' four years in advance! Fine by me. You murder me in basketball. Luckily, though, in exactly four years, buckets won't be in season. Good old baseball season, which will work out perfectly for me. I'll be happy as a clam when that day comes and I can play catch with my own kid. Oh, do I look forward to the time when I slip a glove on his little hand. But, you know what? I get the same thrill when I envision the two of you playing together. Mercy, bro. Simply saying that gave me goose pimples!”

“We've got tons of stuff to look forward to, Jase. Praise God. Okay, I'm off, then. See you tomorrow, uhhh, better make that today,” Quanlee said, and wheeled to leave.

“Night,Quan.”

CHAPTER 2

Jason Mason had been asleep five minutes shy of three hours when an unfamiliar noise roused him. He opened his eyes to total darkness. “Night light. Darn! Knew I'd forget something important,” he thought. Jason rose, then paused to get his bearings. He heard a rustling sound, trailed by a barely audible cry. Actually, it was less a cry than a babbling protest of dissatisfaction. Jason tiptoed his way in the direction of the crib.

“Hey, buddy,” Jason whispered. He groped gently for the end with a head, then brought the child to his shoulder. “C'mere. Let's go warm some of that sweet mommy milk for my boy. Whaddya say? Hmmm? And, let me get some sweet sugar on the way.” He kissed the baby’s cheeks, alternately, several times. “Um, that is some sweet sugar. Yessir. I’ll get your bottle out of the ice box, 'k, pwecious? God, thank you for him.”
To avoid startling the child by hitting the switch to the very bright kitchen light, Jason turned on the low watt, shaded lamp in the living room. He watched his son's face contort into crying mode, but what came from his mouth was a far cry from that of a newborn. It sounded more like the meow of a peeved kitten.
“Oh, Daboy’s hungry, aren't ya? Let me get your bottle heated, my beautiful, big guy.” The infant kept at his annoyed feline impersonation as the glass bottle heated. Presently, Jason removed the bottle of milk, shook a couple of drops onto his wrist, and declared, “That's the time. Not too hot. Not too cold. It's juuust right, Snow White. No, wait, that was Goldie. Your momma will read all of 'em to you in a few years. Me? I'll probably make up some stories as we go along. Here you go, champ.”

Never having gotten a close-up view of a baby feeding, Jason did not know what to expect. What occurred could not have been foreseeable, not even from the purview of a long-time professional baby feeder. Once the nipple was in the tyke’s mouth, he made far more sounds than should have been possible with a rubber nipple as his lone instrument. His lips sucked and gums chewed like he had been deprived of sustenance for days.
“Gotta ask Bath what this deal is when she wakes up,” Jason thought. "I'm no authority, but his feeding method strikes me as a bit peculiar.

“Whooo-weee, what were you doing down in that dark, little room, big guy? Did your mommy close the cafeteria on you? Looks like you made your jailbreak barely in the nick of time, huh? Poor thing's undernourished. Heh-heh-heh. Yeah, buddy. Would have been twice as big if Momma hadda fed him good and proper. Well, don't sweat it, daboy, this is not your last meal.” In less than six minutes, Brick drained the bottle. Jason was surprised by the degree of force needed to extricate the nipple from his child's mouth. “Hee-heeee. Got me a super special one right here. Look out world! Alrighty. Let's see here. I think we've reached that place where I put you over my shoulder and-”

Before Jason had transitioned his son into a burping posture, his small talk was interrupted by a very peculiar noise, not unlike the sound spawned by a flatulent cow. Flummoxed, he scanned the room, half-expecting to see a lurker in the shadows, squeezing a whoopee cushion, or some similar noisemaker. Moments later, he gave credit to the source of the sound, whispering, “My, my, my.” Then, he screamed, but only inside his head, “Look out world!”

The baby fell asleep before Jason reached the bedroom. Bathsheba's regular breathing indicated she was asleep, as well. Jason whispered, “See you in a bit, little one,” and gave his son's fat cheek one more kiss, before placing him in his crib. Ever so gently, he slid under the covers. Bedecked in the mother of all grins, Jason dropped off as easily as had his son.

Ten o'clock found the Mason family rousing, one after another. The thin, yellow curtains in the bedroom were several inches shy of complete window coverage. An intermittent summer breeze provided little relief from the sun's rays.

Bathsheba attempted to rise. That minor movement and her grim groan pulled Jason from a deep sleep. He propped his head on his elbow.

“Good,” Jason yawned, “ahhh, me. Good morning, sweetheart. Feel any better? If not, I hope you're no worse than last night.”

“I'd a sworn I was better, but when I tried to sit up a minute ago, ugh. Mercy, I have got to go to the bathroom. Guess you'll have to carry me.”

“No, sweat. Hey, let me use it right fast, and then I’ll take you. K?”

“Alright, but hurry. Seems like I haven't been in forever. I hope I haven't, that is. Run your hand down there and see if the bed’s wet,” Bathsheba said, and pointed between her legs.

“Nope, all good. It’s as dry as your famous burnt toast, honey.”

“Small favors,” she groaned, and lowered the back of her palm to her forehead. “Famous burnt toast. One time, Jason. Be sure to raise the seat.”

From the bathroom, Jason said, “Think, honey. We've shared a bathroom for three years. You ever found a wet seat? Nope. Why? Because I sit down, same as I have since the day I started living on my own. Less clean up needed.” Jason flushed the toilet. Stepping into the bedroom, he heard the infant, who had, once again, emitted the disgruntled cat sound.

“What's that noise?” asked Bathsheba.

“That, sugar-pie, is your newborn son. Evidently, there are tomcats in your lineage. I'll explain after we do our business.”
“Well, let's get a move on. I have barely seen my child.”

Jason grew alarmed as he approached Bathsheba. “Oh, honey, you look puny as a bent dandelion. Are you sure you’ll be able to sit on the toilet?”

“Well, I feel puny, but it's either that or soak the mattress.”

“Oh, me. Okay.” Jason leaned in and reached one arm under Bathsheba’s knees. With the other across her back and below her shoulder, he lifted.

“Ouchie. Ouch! Oh, I cannot believe how bad that burns. Dang!”

“No good. Let me put you down and get you something to tinkle in.”

“Uh-uh. Oh, God, let's hurry and do it while I have the nerve.” From the commode, Bathsheba groaned each time she attempted to squeeze her bladder. Jason waited in silence, haunted to be right back into the same disturbingly helpless predicament he'd experienced the night before.

“Look here, Jase, you can help me stand back up, but I'll walk to the bed. My entire midsection aches when you carry me. Help me over to the crib for a little peek, first.” Bathsheba's eyes moistened when she got a clear look at the perfectly formed infant. “Oh, he's so beautiful. Look at him, Jase. Uhhhh. Gosh, I'd love to hold him, but I'm gonna have to lie down, for now, honey.” Her words were staccato, her voice strained, laced in pain. She held onto Jason's shoulders, who slowly sank to his knees, as she took a seat on the edge of the bed. Cupping a hand over her mouth, she attempted to stifle a groan as she reverted to the one position that gave her some semblance of relief–on the flat of her back.
“Ahhh. Lordy me. I'll take care of him directly, but, for the moment, I don't know if I can kee-” Bathsheba's voice trailed off and she fell asleep. Jason touched his palm to her brow. She had a mild fever. Maybe she would sleep it off. He hated for her to miss out on the early moments in their son's life, especially since this was likely to be their only child.

“Come on, little buddy,” Jason whispered. “Mommy left us enough milk for one more feast. You ready to strap it on? Put on ya game face, now.”

The earlier feeding repeated itself, only this time Jason got to burp his son, who cut loose another resounding low-spittle belch, before conking out on Jason's shoulder. Jason’s damp hand informed him a fresh diaper was needed. He applied talcum powder, sprinkling it generously over his nameless son's escape hatches. Slowly and deliberately, he pinned on the diaper. “Not bad for a rookie,” he thought. In truth, his handiwork was a mess, so loose a fit that if the boy were held by his shoulders, the diaper would have plummeted to the floor, below a cloud of talcum dust.

Jason eased the baby into the crib. Then, he knelt by the side of the bed, stared lovingly at Bathsheba for several minutes before silently praying.

“God, please take the pain away from my wife. She needs to be able to enjoy this awesome experience. Watching her suffer is more than I can handle. Make it better for her. I ask in the name of my... Oh, sorry, how could I forget? Thank you, dear Lord, for our precious son. We will raise him right, in a good, Christian home. In Lord Jesus' name. Amen."

After a ninety minute nap, Jason rose and stepped into the small hallway, off the kitchen, to use the four-way party line telephone. He placed the receiver to his ear. As he had anticipated, two females were talking. He interrupted them, with, “Hey, that you Jimmie Sue?”

“This is Gladys on here with Mavis. Who's askin'?”

“Oh, hey there. How you ladies been? Jason here. I need to-”

“Why, hey there, Jason. How's Bathsheba?” asked Gladys.

“Elmo says you got a boy. How's the mom and baby?” Mavis echoed.

“Our boy is doin' extra fine, ladies, but Bath, well, it's been a pretty rough go for her. Hate to break in on you two, but I need to get hold of Quanlee to tell him the news. Shouldn’t take but a minute or three.”
“Oh, I apologize. You go ahead on, son. Jabber at you later, Gladys.”

“You bet, Mavis. Good luck, Jason. Don't hesitate to tell us, can we do anythang!”

“Will do. Thanks, ladies.”
“Quanlee answered, expectantly, on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Quan, it's me.”

“About darn time. A'ight, let's have it.”

“It's Bath, she-”
“Oh, God, what?”

“Now, hold on. Don't jump to conclusions before I've said anything. She's been hurtin' a lot. That, and sleeping. I helped her to the toilet this morning and, no sooner was she back in bed than she fell asleep, in mid-sentence, no less. Lord, was she in pain. It is tearin' me apart, bro.”

“Dang, buddy, it's not quite twelve o'clock, yet. I didn't get out of there ‘til two last night, so it’s not like Bath is pulling a Rip Van Winkle. Surely, you didn’t expect the pain to vanish overnight? Listen, I finagled some prescription pain medication earlier. Been waiting to hear from you so I could bring it over. Ordinarily, I'm against pain blockers, when the cause is uncertain. But, in all likelihood, it's... well, you know. I haven't tried to call. Didn't want to disturb y'all. Line's prob'ly been busy, anyhow.”

“No doubt. A'ight, then. Bring the pain stuff and the paper-work over. The baby ate and went to sleep two seconds after. Once he's awake, you can run him down to Purcell's for a weigh-in.”

“Right. Be there in a little bit. Oh, I would ask, but I'm sure, bad off as she's been, you haven't gotten into the name deal with Bath yet.”

“Gosh, no! But, we already discussed it weeks ago.”

“Yeah, but it was only make believe, then. That class has adjourned. With the brick out of the kiln, it is suddenly an issue, one which must be dealt with, carefully. A clear and present danger, if you will. Ha-ha.”
“Ehhh, you’re a barrel of laughs, Quan. See ya.”

Quanlee Pitts had gotten little shuteye, but he was accustomed to it, due to the many hats he wore. Still, people expected a lot from him and he knew that sleep deprivation was a portal to failure. He tended to slack off on his workout regimen when he was overly run down, and he was inwardly proud of his chiseled, six-foot-three inch, 220 pound body. Further, and most importantly to him, his intimidating physique often stopped trouble in its tracks, without his having to lift a finger. Given a choice, he preferred not resorting to man's basest primal instinct.

Though ultra-competitive in sports, Quanlee had never been desirous of challenging heights fully within his reach. Ruggedly handsome, his smile outshone a miner's lantern. Jason once pointed out Quanlee's inordinately small ears. Quanlee's response, “Lucky for you my tiny ears didn't hear that,” was indicative of his humor. While in college, he had an offer to do a screen test in Hollywood. A producer was impressed with his performance as the lead in the musical, Othello. But, Quanlee wanted no part of that scene, having not the slightest compunction to live the life of the rich and famous. Trading privacy for bucket loads of money was not worth the cost. Moreover, he had no passion to remain an actor. It was only a short-lived hobby. A life spent pretending to be other people struck him as a wasted life. He did love to sing in his deep, rich baritone, which modulated with perfect pitch and vibrato, but it, too, carried the inherent risk of celebrity. Had he been able to cut records and maintain anonymity, Quanlee would have jumped at the chance. He had no negative attitude toward wealth itself, only the trappings that too often accompany it.

At age thirty-two, Red Clay’s sheriff was at the precipice of an early mid-life crisis. Never had Quanlee engaged in a meaningful, romantic relationship. Further, he harbored a dark secret, one that might destroy his reputation in Red Clay, if word should get out. That very secret was what led him to take on more responsibility than three men could handle. Simply put, he reasoned that if he appeared too busy to have a social life, no one would question his lack thereof.

Shortly before one o'clock, Quanlee entered the open front door to the Mason home.

“Hey, Quanlee. Look, they're still asleep, so we’ll have to hang loose for a sec. Sure hope Bath wakes up first. I’ll need more milk. In only two trips to the trough, that kid scarfed up every drop she gave last night.”

“Gee, some appetite! Has Bath eaten anything at all?”
“Nada. Or, drank anything, either.”

Quanlee frowned, shook his head, and said, “Look, I don't want to jar her from sleep, but we definitely need to get a little nourishment in her. We'll see how she does on some pethidine. I cut the pills into quarters. Best to start out low dosage and take more, if need be. Trouble is, these things can kill an appetite. Tell you what, open the bedroom door and we’ll have a low volume conversation. Maybe we can bring her around without jolting her.” The suggestion worked. In short order, Bathsheba softly called, “Boys?” They padded into the bedroom.

Jason said, “Hey, sweetie. Quanlee brought you some medication, guaranteed to soothe what ails you. Want to try one?”
“You kidding? At this point, I'm game for anything that might allow me to sit up straight and hold my baby.”
“You wanna try to eat a little something beforehand? These pills may spoil your appetite,” Quanlee said.
“Got no appetite to spoil, so it won't hardly matter.”
“Here you go, then,” said Quanlee. “You won't need water to swallow it, but you need to take in some liquids. Jason, tote us some water in here. Uh, in a glass, not a double boiler.” Bathsheba smiled. “Look here, Bath,” Quanlee continued, “we’ve got to get some solid food in you soon, hungry or not.” Jason retrieved the water and held his wife's head up. She took several gulps in washing down the pill fragment. Immediately, a hush enveloped the room, as the men watched Bathsheba, expectantly.
Uncomfortable with the constant gawking, Bathsheba finally broke the extended silence. “What the dickens are you two doin'? Do I look like a sideshow freak? What? You think the pill won't work if you break the magic spell by speaking? My word! I've never had anything stronger than aspirin, so I ought to be able to tell if and when this teensy pill kicks in. You guys don't need to hold your breath, for heaven's sake.”

“Cut us some slack, Bath. Our minds are fixated on your getting better.”

“Jason nailed it,” echoed Quanlee. “It isn’t easy to engage in idle chit-chat when your concentration is heavily focused on one thing. If you want, though, I'll break into a few bars of “The Old Gray Mare.”
“Sounds good, Quan, why don't you go ahead and do... whoa there mule! I think your wait might be over, boys. Let me see.” Bathsheba rose gradually, using her elbow as a prop, to help her sit up, fully. “Well, if not for my bout with the baby, I'd have worried over my tummy ache, but this little bit of pain, compared to what it was, ain't no hill for a stepper.”

Quanlee and Jason bumped elbows, saying, “Yes!” simultaneously.

“Okay, hon, let's get you on your feet and see how it goes. Want to help me here, Quan?”
Once Bathsheba was fully upright, she rotated her head back and forth and noted, “Well, I’m kinda woozy, but it's a worthwhile trade-off. Y'all give me a hand into the living room and fill me in on all I've missed.”
By the time Jason informed Bathsheba of their son’s eating habits and the odd sounds he made, one of those very sounds emanated from the bedroom.

“Hear that? Our little kitten has awakened," said Jason.

"Great,” said Quanlee. “I'm sure he'll be hungry, but I wanna run him down to the feed store for a sec. I need to check his actual weight before he consumes a couple more pounds of milk. Y'all need to look over the papers I put on the coffee table. Sign both copies.”

“Blast it, Quan. I have yet to hold him. Now that I'm able to, you want to carry him off from here.”
“My apologies, Bath, but I’ve got stuff to do all afternoon, so I've gotta finish this soon. Won't take long. Back in a jif.”
“Oh, alright, then, but let me hold him long enough to put him in his bassinet.

”
“Look, baby, you already told us you're woozy,” said Jason. “I'll put him in your lap, soon as Othello returns. Begone, Quan. Not anon, now!”

Quanlee shook his head and stepped into the bedroom to retrieve the baby. When he lifted the infant, the soiled diaper stayed behind.

“Good night alive! It appears some joker didn't graduate from diaper application school,” Quanlee complained. He grabbed a dry diaper, applied it properly, and buckled the baby into the bassinet. Springing for the door, he said, “See y'all in a flash with the official weight of this booger.”

While Bathsheba reclined in the easy chair, Jason sat on the couch and opened the birth documents. At the top of the first page was a space for the baby's name. Jason’s pulse quickened. It had no choice. A surge in blood flow was required to supply a face rapidly exuding a deep crimson.

“What's wrong, Jason? You look like you've been hanging upside down on the monkey bars.”

“I wish,” Jason mumbled. “Uh, we need to talk, Bathsheba, cause here's the thing. You and I, well, you know, we never did reach a mutual resolution concerning a name for our boy. Obviously, we had to wait to make sure he was a boy. Since he is, I am more certain than ever-”

“Oh, go on,” Bathsheba interrupted, “surely, you don't want to name my precious child 'Concrete' or 'Boulder,' or whatever that silly name is.”

“Brick,” Jason corrected, meekly.

“Oh, yeah, ‘Brick.’ Why, isn’t that great? Sooo appropriate and fitting a name for a sweet newborn.”
“Aw, listen, honey. If you give it a chance, it’s such a solid name. And, besides, you can give him his other name. Whatever you like.”

“Okey-doke, then. How do you feel about 'Suzanne'?"

“Hey, come on, baby. Be fair, now.”

“Well, that's no worse than Brick. Think of what he'll be subjected to, Jason. Every time he makes a mental error, some smart aleck is bound to say, ‘You’re as dumb as a brick.’ Why not call him ‘Brick’ as a nickname? That way, we won't look like two yahoos for putting our X on a birth certificate with such an outrageous given name.”

“Well, you sure don't make it easy on me, do you, baby? The argument is over. Since you can't stand it, I can live without it. I was only there for the fun part of giving him life. After the anguish you've suffered, my fatherly rights are as weak as the first two little pigs' houses.”

“Wow, that was good, Jase. That third pig used bricks, right? Ha. You made me laugh and warmed my heart all in one stroke! Quan's magical pill has me floating in the clouds, so guess what? I'm gonna give in to your crazy self. I may regret it later, but, at least, I can blame the medication for muddling my senses. When he’s older and asks who stuck him with that nutty name, I'll point my finger straight at you and say, ‘There’s your huckleberry, son.’ As for me, I will call him by the name I chose–'Joshua'.”

“Great, sweetheart. Thanks. You won’t regret it. Promise! Might I also point out this fact. If you name him 'Joshua,' it will be reduced to 'Josh,' sooner or later. Ain't no way to mess around with 'Brick”. And, as I hope you're aware, I want him to do better than me, which, I know, ain't sayin' a lot. Originally, a brick mason would have been fine, but now that I've gotten a load of our kid, my expectations are way more ambitious than that. Like, for example, the next Babe Ruth.”

“OK, what say we call him 'Brick Bat',” Bathsheba said with a snort, as she lightly tapped her fists on her thighs.
“Hey, that's better than the Three Little Pigs. Wooziness hasn’t affected your keen wit. Super, I’ll fill it in, then. Brick Joshua Mason. There.”

Turning serious, Bathsheba said, “Jase, I don't want you to get upset over what I'm about to say, ya here? But, Daddy's name was Joshua.”

“Ohhh, baby, that's right. I apologize. How could I forget that was your father’s name? Gosh, this makes me look like an arrogant clod. That settles it, then. 'Joshua' it is. Honoring your father's memory is definitely more important than some idiotic name I picked out of the blue.”

“Darn it all. That's why I shouldn't have said anything. You get your feelings hurt so easy! I wasn't but five when Daddy died, and hardly have any memories of him, and you never even met him, so don't stew over it. You'd have loved him a lot. He was a huge baseball fan, especially of the Brooklyn Dodgers. He would have liked the name, ‘Brick.' If only that terrible disease hadn't gotten hold of him. So tragic, how Mom died of something so similar. On the bright side, her death is what brought me here from Bayou La Batre to live at Aunt Lurleen's. If not for that, you and I never would have met, baby. God works in strange ways.”

“That's pretty dead-gum strange, alright. Take away a kid's parents to alter her life? It’s sad to think that, at our age, we don't have a living parent or grandparent between us. Still, I would have found you somehow, Bath. I know I would. You’re my soul mate.” Jason’s voice developed a slight tremor. “I can't conceive of life without you beside me, darling.”

“Ohhh, you're mine, too, honey,” Bathsheba said, patting Jason’s thigh. “You will always be my knight in whining armor.” Jason laughed while he nodded in embarrassed agreement. Far from being offended by his wife’s whimsical irony, he was taken by her ability to wrap sweet nothings inside witty sarcasm, defusing the impact while making her point. Bathsheba had, long ago, made it clear how it moved her that he could not disassociate his voice from heartfelt sentiment.

“What makes it worse, my folks moved from here, when Mom was carrying me, to reduce the risk of early death, experienced by so many Red Clay residents.”

“That’s a classic American tragedy, honey. Listen, I’m so proud of you. Now may be a good time to share a secret, one I've never told you.”

“Why, Jason Mason, you mean to say you've been holding out on me? We have a pact never to keep secrets from one another. Come on. Share!”

“Well, not long after you moved here, I got my first good look at you. I was at the stop sign off the square, by Gibson's General, when you crossed the street, on your walk home from school. Girl, I got a skipping in my heart and a lump in my throat that wouldn't quit. Oddest involuntary response ever. So weird! And, I knew I couldn't tell a soul, not even my own brother. But, he figured it out when I started going to nearly every one of the girls' softball and volleyball games, something I hadn't done before. I mean, it's all well and good to support one's school, but you were jail bait, girl! I was forced to bide my time, scared to death you might meet someone and elope. I had to do something. Took some doing, but I found a reliable insider who kept me updated on your comings and goings.”

“What? Who!”
“Oh, it was... Lurleen.” Jason's straight face yielded to laughter, as he slapped his hands, gently, on Bathsheba's knees.

“Why, I cannot believe it. Aunt Lurleen! Huh, now that I think about it, I that might explain those funny looks she gave me every time I spoke of the handsome Mister Mason. Or, the sweet Mister Mason. Ha-ha-ha, I doubt I ever used your name without placing a pleasant adjective before 'mister.' I didn't know you were there to see me. Probably for the best. I'd have gotten the big head. Or, played terrible, more likely.”
“Well, it didn’t take long for me to get into the spirit of the competition. But you provided the inspiration.

You were the star of the team and only a sophomore. I never asked, but how come no schools offered you a ride?”

“A scholarship? Who told you they didn't?” Bathsheba tilted her head, evincing a haughty, nose-in-the-air look.

“You mean to tell me you did get an offer?”

“An offer? Nope. I had several, in both sports. All north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Turned 'em down and made my coach promise to keep mum on the subject for a full year after I graduated. I never gave her a reason.”

“Why, honey? You could have gotten a free education and been a star.”

“Because, I already knew what I wanted–who, anyway.”

“But, you didn't even know if I was interested at that time.”

“What, you think I'm not capable of enlisting the aid of a spy?"

“Wha... you, you're kidding. Who?"
“Promised not to tell. Quan would never forgive me if... Ooooh, bull!”

“Oopsy daisy! Truth serum in those pain pills, huh? Ha-Haaa! Don't worry, sugar, your secret is safe with me. Yep, get Roscoe involved if you want to maximize your chances for the best possible outcome. If he hadn't ratted me out, you might have accepted a scholarship, moved away, and fallen for someone else."

“Oh, come on! How could that happen when I was already head over heels in love?"

“Aw, you. You're never without a flame to melt my heart, are you, girl. But, what the heck took you so long to tell me this?”
“Oh, well, hmmm, let me think. I suppose for the same reason that you have, not once, made reference to your baseball career to me. If not for Quanlee, I might still be in the dark.”

“Baby, it didn't pan out. I’m not one for reminiscing over glory days and might have beens.”

“It didn’t pan out because you got hurt. Quan said you were the best he’s ever seen and you'd have been a star in the Big Leagues. Oh, well. Guess we're two peas in a pod, then. Say, Jase, since we've begun spilling some beans, tell me this, please. How come you waited over six months after I turned eighteen to ask me out? All you did was call every two or three nights, to keep me hanging on.”

“Why? Bath, if I went to courting you on your eighteenth birthday, people would have taken it for granted that I was already seeing you on the side. I wanted to tell you right away, but was afraid you might have loose lips.” Jason leaned in for a kiss. This time, Bathsheba puckered. Breaking the kiss, Jason continued, “But, they're not a bit loose. They're softer than silken rose petals soaked in Sunday morning dew. And, tastier than fresh honey on Frosted Flakes. Love you bunches, sweetheart.”

“And, I love you, my darlin', but Frosted Flakes! Good grief. Wow, just think, Jase. From here on, we have a son to share our love with. Can't get no better than that, can it? I wish Aunt Lurleen hadn't moved to Bay Minette so soon after our marriage. I'd give anything for her to have been here for the birth. Let's make a trip down there, soon as we're able.”

"Me, too. We're gonna have to load up one day and-"

“Yea-a-a, who-o-o-oooh,” Quanlee yodeled from the front yard, halting the conversation indoors. He walked inside, holding the fidgeting baby high, and yelled, “Guess!”

“Ten and seven,” said Jason.
“No clue,” said Bathsheba, “but his head is six pounds, minimum.”

“Eleven pounds and twelve ounces,” Quanlee revealed slowly, savoring each weighty syllable. “Here you go Bath. He's all yours.”
After accepting her child, Bathsheba was nearly overcome in the moment, for, in holding the baby close, she heard a voice say, in quiet reverence, “Rejoice, the child you hold will speak with the Divine.” She glanced at Jason, then Quanlee, for any sign of recognition, but she could tell they had not heard. To suppress excitement, and avoid looking nuts, she cooed the baby. The medication must have had her imagining things.

“Gosh, look at my boy. Quanlee. Not only were you not biased, you may have understated his brilliance. He surely is the cutest baby boy ever, in spite of his gargantuan size. He doesn’t have any of the uglies most babies are stuck with for the first couple of weeks. I'm amazed his huge, but adorable, head isn't smushed up somethin' awful. Just look at those golden curls! Oh, check out the dimples in the midst of his cheeks, just like Jase. He’s got mine and Gramma’s high cheekbones.” Bathsheba was close to tears. She gathered herself. With eyes moist, she added, “This child I hold will be special. Divinely so. I feel it. No, I hear it, deep in my soul.”

“I'm with you, sweetheart,” said Jason.

“Well, certainly don’t count me out,” Quanlee said, chuckling. “Oh, hey, before I forget.” Quanlee raised his right hand and formed a fist, index finger thrust skyward, a sure sign a warning was imminent. “I meant to to tell you this earlier. Bath? Those pills I gave you? They’re highly addictive, not for taking joy rides. I want you to be functional throughout this glorious moment. In a couple of days, though, if you still need pethidine to get out of bed, we will go to the hospital. Period.”

“I don't get it. What do you mean by 'taking joy rides'?”

“What you're experiencing. Gotten pretty spiffy, haven't ya?” Jason said.

“But, I would not dream of taking pills if I was my usual self.”

“Believe it or not, some folks do. They want to escape reality, same as people who drink to get drunk. Alright, we're clear on that. Here, let me grab the papers and get out of here.” Pursuant to a cursory look at the first page, Quanlee winked at Jason and grinned, widely. “Heh, I'm gone, you'ns. Holler if you need anything, at all.” Quanlee leaned his head in near the baby's face, placed a kiss on his nose, and said, “See you, Brick!

”
“Congratulations, Roscoe,” said Bathsheba, laughing. “In this moment, you have become the very first person to address my son, Joshua, by that other name. Jason still doesn't have the nerve.” Quanlee pumped his fist and left the house.

Bathsheba said, “Okay. It’s time for baby Joshua to eat. Oh, look, Jase. He smiled when I said that.”
“He might have, but you won’t. I told you how he lights into that nipple when I give him the bottle. If he behaves that way, you might get hurt.”

“Oh, phooey. If he had teeth, maybe. My angel would never hurt his mommy. Would he Josh?” A brief hesitation, and Bathsheba added, “u-ah.”

“A-ha, ha, ha, haaa” Jason laughed, waving his finger at Bathsheba.

“Bull, I did that on purpose. I just wanted to watch your reaction,” Bathsheba said. Her reddening cheeks suggested otherwise.
“Yeah, sure,” Jason ragged, but knew better than to press that issue. “You are welcome to go ahead and feed him, but don't say I didn't warn you. Maybe Joseph won't be as aggressive when actual flesh is in the mix.”
Bathsheba raised her pullover blouse to expose her left breast.

“Lordy mercy, Bath! You can't just up and do something, all willy-nilly, like that! Warn me before you expose yourself, okay?”

“Are you off your rocker, Jason? I oughta 'willy-nilly' you, nutbrain. You're too funny. What, you expect me to nurse him through my clothes?”

“No, but, I mean, gee whiz. You just plop it out there, when all I can do is stare. It has been a hundred and twenty-five days, after all.”

“Ahem, I haven’t counted the days, but don't make me your scapegoat. You're the one who was afraid of hurting our baby, even after all of the medical people said it was completely safe.” Jason rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, well, 'better safe than sorry.' Get cracking. I'll turn around.”

“You are so juvenile. You should be thrilled to see me feed our beautiful baby. Here you go, son. Time for din-din.” Moments later, Bathsheba's eyes bugged out, as she tried to jerk away from the suction. Brick had not merely fastened his lips very tightly around her large nipple, but he had grabbed her milk-laden globe with both hands.

“Jason, get him off of me. He's possessed!”

Jason leaped to the rescue, inserting his thumb into the boy's mouth, causing Brick to release the nipple. Brick continued to suck as Jason pulled him from Bathsheba. Brick's contented expression morphed into a scowl, when he became aware there was no nourishment in Jason's thumb. Meantime, Bathsheba began to hyperventilate.

“It's okay, darling. Relax. I've got him,. Hey, you alright?”

It took a minute for Bathsheba to resume regular breathing. “Yes, I'm better now, but that was creepy. The medicine prob'ly made it worse. Look, I didn't mean what I said.” Brick looked at Jason and fussed, but did not cry in typical baby fashion. The physical act of crying seemed to cause him more pain than whatever it was that displeased him to begin with.

“Sugar, I think you meant 'obsessed,' not ‘possessed.’ Excuse me a sec,” Jason said, and walked into the kitchen. He returned with the cereal bowl. “Hate to say it, but currently, we have no other options.”

“Apparently not. Let me get out of here so you don't go all toadie on me,” Bathsheba mocked, and walked to the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she reentered the living room with the half-filled container.
After trading off the baby for the bowl, Jason said, “Hey, I found a little funnel in the baby shower goodies. No more wasted milk.”

“I'm sure someone will be delighted over that,” said Bathsheba.

“Say, honey, do I need to heat this?”

“Nope. Since it's fresh outta the tap, it's good to go, but hurry. He's giving me all sorts of looks and not one of 'em says, 'I'm so happy, Mommy.' Is he Joshua? Uh-uh. That boy's hungry as a bear, isn’t he, huh?”
Jason walked in with the half-full bottle. “One-two-three and heeere we go!” Bathsheba inserted the bottle into the infant's mouth, and was once again shocked by his aggression. “What our boy is doing is kind of freakish, Jason. This ain't no typical baby in any way, shape, manner, or feeding form. Looky here. See how he tugs on the bottle his hands are? Pretty little pink hands. He'll be able to hold the bottle on his own pretty soon and that is not part of nature's game plan. He's draining this thing so fast, I can actually see the milk disappear. Time to burp him, if I can get him to turn loose. Let me get a diaper, Jase.” Bathsheba threw the diaper over her shoulder, held the boy there, and gently patted his upper back. Soon, Brick burped, softly, no diaper needed. His first dry burp.

“Uh-oh,” Jason said. “That explains the deafening belches each time I've fed him. I didn't know I needed to burp him, regularly.”
“Heck, if you don't keep close watch, he'll drain the bottle before you have a chance to burp him. I have never seen anything like it. We could charge people to watch this. 'Step right up. See the newborn ingest mass quantities of milk, before your very eyes'!”

“Hey, they might line up for miles, at that,” Jason said, giggling.

“My goodness, it’s already time for another burp before the home stretch. Hate to keep on and on over this, but we're talkin' unreal, honey!”

In short order, the bottle was empty. The ritual at the end of each meal was already Pavlovian–when Brick sensed every drop was expunged from the glass bottle, he promptly went to sleep. Bathsheba burped him one last time. He was asleep before she reached his crib.

In the living room, Bathsheba, intimacy in her voice, said, “Jason, I normally don't ask you to do anything like this, but I'd love to hear that sweet song you wrote and sang to me the night you asked for my hand.”
“Asked for your hand? Boy, you are seven sheets in the wind, huh?”

“Maybe so, but I was thinkin' over what Quan said, how certain people get high to escape reality, which is true, but they also do it to reduce inhibitions. Lots of times we say things when we are overcome by something as horrible as death, or, as wonderful as a newborn, things we would seldom say normally. Alcohol and drugs make it easier to revisit past feelings, without the roadblock of inhibitions. You and I never have a shortage of ‘I love yous,’ but I want us to be more open in every way. I want to live each day like it may be our last. Not withhold a single thing. You should never be embarrassed to recite a poem, or sing a song you've written. Certainly not to me. Who needs a special occasion? Any time you warble, it makes the day a very special occasion for me.”

Jason treasured Bathsheba's words. He enjoyed performing, sharing his personal feelings with her, through his lyrics and poems. But, invariably, she had to goad him into doing it.

“You know I'm reluctant to look like a showoff, hon, but I'm honored. And, as long as we've opened up, I may as well tell you; I have other poems you haven't seen. I’ve made it a point to hide my writings, rather than have folks think I'm a weirdo. Poetry does not fit the profile of a high profile athlete, particularly in a low profile town,” Jason said dryly. “I'll sing it for you, if I can remember it. Sho’ wish I'd learned to play guitar.”

“Your voice is an instrument, baby! Who needs music? If you've forgotten the words, I'll get the lyric from my hope chest. It's been there since you made me take it off the wall when we married, Mr. Modest.”

“Run get it, then. Oh, but first, have you picked up on anything odd?”

“Other than the baby boy who devoured Cleveland, you mean?” Bathsheba said, merrily.

“Nope. Neither of us has taken a smoke since the day before our boy was born. I was tempted to when I went outside while you labored, but it didn't feel right. I dunno. Selfish toward the baby or you, one.”
“Hey, Jason, you might as well go on and call him 'Brick.' Clearly, you'd love to. Referring to him as 'our boy' or 'the baby' ain't gonna cut it. I already told ya not to feel bad about Daddy’s name, baby.”

“Gotcha, Bath. You read me like a book. Thanks, honey.”

“Good. Now, as to our not smoking, I was not even aware of it. We only light up three or four times a day, anyhow. What say we keep it going? Cigarettes can't be good for you, no matter how springtime fresh all those billboards and magazines say they are. Plus, we don't need the expense. For now, Joshua’s milk is free, but once he gets on solid foods, he might eat us out of house and home. Hmm, reckon where that come from?”

“What? 'House and home'?” asked Jason.

“Yeah.”

“Heh, by me. It is a mite repetitive, now that you mention it.” Bathsheba smiled, reached out and thumped Jason's ear with her finger. Then, she did it again. Laughing, Jason carried on, “Seriously, it is funny how we use sayings like that, knowing what they mean, but not knowing how they came to mean it. Anyway, let's do keep it going. I’ll bet I can outlast you.”

“No way. You’re on, mister!” said Bathsheba.

When two people of strong constitution and competitive nature undertake a challenge, especially one of honorable cause, their mettle is often indomitable. Neither of them “lit up” again. Once in a while, Jason did bite off a plug of Old Mule chewing tobacco, always outdoors. He enjoyed spitting in the eye of his pretty boy image.

“Good deal. Alright, bring on the lyric and I'll take a shot.” Bathsheba hurried to her hope chest. The framed lyric was on top.

“Here you go, Jase.” Bathsheba handed him the song. “Give it all you've got. I want you to woo me, baby.”

Jason cleared his throat and said, “Here goes nothin’.”

Will You Marry Me?
By Jason Mason Feb. 14, 1947

It started as a simple, funny feeling
But over time it grew into a need
And now the time has come to lift my heel and go to kneeling
While praying for the answer that I seek

My father never even asked my mother
They had an understanding from the start
But our romance was unlike any other
I had to wait and watch you from afar

Will you marry me
Give me your heart and soul
I want to share the air you breathe
Eternally
And never let you go
Will you marry me

To pop the age-old question when the answer is uncertain
The hardest thing that I will ever do
Though I'm not worthy of the world's most gentle, lovely person
I have no choice, for all I want is you

Will you marry me
Give me your heart and soul
I want to share the air you breathe
Eternally
And never let you go
Will you marry me

My fate lies in your hands
My heart is making plans
Please, let me hear you say
"Baby, you're my man"

Will you marry me
Give me your heart and soul
I want to share the air you breathe
Eternally
And never let you go

“Oh, Jase, that was so beautiful. And you better believe it, baby, you are my man. That song would be a smash hit. I'm not just sayin' that, either.” The kiss Jason initiated went from a gentle peck to a passionate embrace before he broke it off.

“What's the matter,” asked Bathsheba. “I feel simply marvelous.”

“Sure you do, Bath, but it's the pill. If we start messin’ around, it might create more problems, once the effect wears off.”

“Then, I’ll take another one,” she protested.

“Look, I’m happy you'd want to, but, under no circumstances will I risk it. Have you already forgotten how severe your pain was just a little while ago? We can wait for a few days. Then, if you're game, look out, girl!”

“Yeah, you're right. It would be foolish so soon after giving birth.”

By Monday morning, Bathsheba's pain was manageable. She informed Jason as he got dressed for the seven to three shift.

“You're positive you can handle it?” You'll be alone all day with Brick.”

“I’m aware of that, but given the fact that I was unable to get to the bathroom just three days ago, I'd say I've improved a lot. Don’t stress out over me. I'll call Quan at the first sign of trouble.”

“Right. Later, sweetie. I love y'all.” Jason said, and left for the mine.

Bathsheba poured a cup of coffee and walked into the bedroom to check on the baby. Her last two steps toward the crib resulted in a reverse step of shocked disbelief. That act put a wave in her hot brew, spilling some to the floor. Her son was on his belly, sleeping. Twenty minutes earlier, she had placed him on his back, sleeping. She was sure Jason had not entered the room in the interim. Bathsheba hurried to the telephone.

“Hate to interrupt, y'all. Mavis is that you?”

“Nope, this here's Jimmie Sue havin' a word or two with Laura.”

“Gosh, you two sure got after it bright and early this mornin'. It's Bath.”

“Why, we was just discussing the arrival of Red Clay's newest member,” said Laura. “Hear he's a beaut. Y'all must be proud as punch, Bath.”

“More importantly, how are you doing, dear girl?” added Jimmie Sue.

“Aw, I decided I'd had enough, so I withdrew the welcome mat for every pain on earth. Thanks for asking. Oh, and, the baby's fine, too. I wanted to ask y'all something. Sounds crazy, I know, but tell me this. Can a three-day-old baby turn over from his back to his belly, unassisted?”

“Why, heavens to Betsy, Bathsheba, no!” exclaimed Laura. “They can't do that for a good twelve to sixteen weeks. Probably longer.”

“Are you sayin' your boy turned hisself over?” asked Jimmie Sue.

“Noooo! Curious is all. Jason said to be on the lookout for it. I knew it sounded crazy. I expect he was funnin' with me.” Bathsheba did not want people to think she gave birth to a true life Superboy. Jason had to have done it. There was no other possibility. Unless, that voice she heard...

When Jason got home that afternoon, Bathsheba asked if he had moved the baby. Jason’s answer of, “Uh-uh, why?” no longer mattered, for the seed was planted. Gossip-fueled folklore was already in the works. In a mere three days, the king-sized infant with angelic looks and supposéd unearthly powers had become the talk and toast of Red Clay.

The succeeding Sunday, a record number of parishioners turned out for services at White Clay Methodist Church. In a reprise of the Easter services two months earlier, twirling parasols of green, blue, and pink could be seen all along the town square. To no one's surprise, a majority of Yellow Clay Baptist's members chose to attend the Methodist services. The lone reason for this unprecedented development was Brick Joshua Mason's first official public appearance. When word of his baptism got out, everyone wanted to witness it. Rumor had it that, beyond his strength and exquisite features, the thirteen pound child possessed a mystical aura, which one could sense in his presence. Possible sources for the rumor were not plentiful. Excluding family, the only people who had been in Brick’s presence were Mrs. Edwards, and the three men gathered around the scales at the momentous feed store weigh-in. The expectations generated by such exaggerated gossip would have caused many a grown man to wither under the scrutiny. The ten-day-old source of the rumors, though, would, ultimately, unmask that hyperbole for what it was–an underestimation of the raw power, speed, endurance, intelligence, mystique, and sheer goodness of one Brick Mason.

Given that so few churchgoers were in attendance for Baptist worship, Parson Ponchuk, sheepishly, said a prayer and dismissed the members, encouraging everyone to attend the Brick event, as did he. By the time the Methodist minister entered the pulpit, every inch of his church was occupied. Kids sat in the aisles. The choir section, typically half-empty, was filled. The Mason family was nestled into a front row pew. Parson Brooks looked over the huge assemblage, raised both hands, and smiled.
“Brothers and sisters in Christ, praise the Lord. He does work in mysterious ways. The thing of it is, had He but shared His knowledge concerning this potential Baptist to Methodist conversion opportunity, I would have spent a great deal more time modifying my sermon!” Raucous laughter elicited by the preacher's statement was muffled, thanks to the mass of bodies, who absorbed the bulk of the echo. The parson continued.

“Now, I have not read the ordinances of our volunteer fire department, but, assuming they have any, I'd reckon we are breaking the majority of them here today. Naturally, I am aware of what brings nearly half of you into our sacrarium this glorious morning, but if you think I intend to open by administering the baptism and losing many of you, you'd better think twice.” More laughter rippled through the sanctuary. “I see Brother Ponchuk back there in the rear. We are part of the same team, yet neither of us has had a chance to see the other engaging in what God called us to do. And, at this very moment, I feel God calling on me to call on Pastor Ponchuk to join me onstage so that he might share a word with us.”
Applause was rare when services were in session, in the sanctuary of either church, but it trailed the Baptist preacher as he slowly excused his way to the front of the wall-to-wall contingent. He reached the pulpit, and extended his hand in a warm greeting with Parson Brooks.

Pastor Ponchuk delivered a stirring twenty minute oration based on the second of Jesus' great commandments, “Love Thy Neighbor as Thyself.”

In voluminous tones, the Baptist pastor concluded with, “And today, we are seeing a divine manifestation of the Golden Rule. Well-nigh the entire town has come out to witness their neighbors celebrate one of the most monumental acts in Christendom, the baptism of a newborn child.” Other than throats clearing, all was silent for several moments.

Parson Brooks stepped forward. “Thank you for your words of wisdom from our Lord, Brother Ponchuk. Rather than double sermonizing this gathering, I think I will hold off on preaching this week, since you have provided an ideal segue for me to perform the holy baptismal act. Plus, it's gotten hotter than blazes with so many folks squeezed in here. Will the Mason family step forward, please?” En masse, the worshipers shifted in their pews, vying for the best possible angle to view the proceedings.

“Now, before I begin, I want to ask all of you Baptist dunkers to refrain from taking pot shots when I go to sprinkling holy water on the head of this youngster.” The parson regretted his comment immediately. Instead of light chuckles, a half minute of uproarious laughter followed.

Parson Brooks leaned toward the Mason family and whispered, “Sorry for that.” His comment met three proud smiles. Brick was undisturbed.

Jason cradled his son, Quanlee, to his right, and Bathsheba, to his left. After handshakes all round, the preacher proceeded with the ceremony. “There is perpetual debate as to the proper time to perform a baptism. Since infants are unable to proclaim for Christ, some think it a superfluous ritual. I take umbrage with that concept, for, what we do in His holy name, anything to glorify or bring positive attention to our Lord, can only be for good. When this Mason baby does become of age, it is my fervent hope, my humble prayer, that he will declare his love for the Savior. Meanwhile, I welcome his parents, Jason and Bathsheba, and his uncle, Quanlee, to the baptism of their precious bundle of boy, Brick Joshua Mason.”

Parson Brooks accepted and held him to his shoulder. Then, facing the choir, the reverend dipped his hand into the ornate bowl of water and said, “Brick Joshua, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” As he spoke, he lifted his hand, sprinkling droplets onto the top of Brick's blond locks. That action got the infant's full attention. He awoke, moving his head from side to side on the preacher's shoulder, before enacting his usual routine. This time, the noisy laughter from the congregation garnered a wide-eyed stare from Brick. He scanned the audience, not in a cursory fashion, either, but, almost, analytically.

“There, there, son. You're fine. Glad you've come out to witness your own baptism.” More laughter ensued. The preacher passed Brick to Bathsheba. The choir rose to sing, “Praise Him From Whom All Blessings Flow." Parson Brooks closed the service after reciting the Grace Prayer.

The Masons remained below the pulpit long enough for everyone to offer congratulations and swoon over the infant. Brick seemed fascinated by so many different faces passing before him. Soon, though, hunger pangs overruled his captivation.

Bathsheba was in the living room, bottle feeding Brick, when she had an epiphany. “Jason, I may not be able to deliver enough milk doing it like this. Maybe we should try formula, if it doesn't cost an arm and a leg.”

“I agree, hon. I'll run by the store on my way home tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Bathsheba replied. Her conscience discharged a twinge of guilt, since the contributing cause for her concerns was not milk production. Bathsheba felt cheated. She longed for the mother and child bonding that occurs when an infant nurses. Besides, squirting milk into a bowl felt undignified. To compound her distaste for the process, her aim was inconsistent. She learned the hard way that ants were as eager to get at her milk as was her son.

The next afternoon, Jason stopped for formula and was pleased by the price. Pleasing him further, if the packaging was accurate, this formula provided the same nutrition as mother's milk. Jason had his doubts about the information as written, but made the purchase, anyway.

His parents were in the midst of formula preparation, when Brick awakened for what had become a six times per day feeding, every four hours, like clockwork. Bathsheba placed the bottle to his lips. Brick sucked for an instant, made a face, and turned his head.

“Uh-oh,” said Jason. “Spit the bit, did he? I kinda thought that might happen. We're gonna have to figure out a way to wean him, somehow.”

“Wean him? Uh-uh, babe. He ain't ready for meats and veggies, yet.”

“Not 'wean,' but we can mix a little formula with water and add it to your milk. Then, we'll increase the formula and hope he doesn't rebel.”

“Like the bullfrog in gradually warming water, huh?” Bathsheba smiled. “Jase, I believe you've hit on a great plan. Let's give it a try.”

Ultimately, the plan proved fifty percent successful. Inside of two weeks, Brick was consuming equal portions of milk and formula, but that was the limit. Any more formula and Brick would not feed.
“Oh, well, this will lighten my load by half, anyway,” said Bathsheba. “I can live with that.” The mixture certainly seemed to agree with the infant, for Brick grew heavier, longer, stronger, and more heavenly as the weeks and months passed, stretching into years.
CHAPTER 3

Very little had changed around Red Clay in the four years since Brick's birth. No businesses faltered, nor did any new ones open. The same was true of houses. The permanent population ebbed and flowed slightly, but broke even in the final analysis. Nine deaths, combined with a family of four who had moved away, were partially offset by eleven births. The arrival of a doctor and his wife accounted for the other two.

Bathsheba’s recovery from the birth was slow, necessitating a trip to Flat Mill's hospital, where she was told her child-bearing years were over. That revelation did not darken Bathsheba's spirit one bit. Unfortunately, weeks after her release from the hospital, her trademark vitality suffered. She never fully recovered the same vivacity, but hardly anyone picked up on it, for Bathsheba was a past master at hiding woes.

Jason and Quanlee's work routines did not vary, except for one cheerful exception. Quanlee happily relinquished his baby delivery job to the new general practitioner, Dr. Byron Tanner, known to all as Dr. Byron.

For the most part, Brick's preschool days were uneventful, which made them appear all the more notable. His parents were prepared for the usual pitfalls in child-rearing. The rod was not spared for fear of spoiling the child. Rather, spankings were unwarranted. Not even the dreaded "Terrible Twos" visited the Mason home. Jason and Bathsheba conferred with Quanlee and other confidantes, concerned they were too lenient in their parental duties. The day came when they set out on a crusade to discover flaws in their son's disposition. That mission was, in no way, successful, for Brick's minor foibles hardly warranted a gentle rebuke, let alone physicality. Unquestionably, he had plenty to learn, as all children do. But, he was a one trick pony of a million tricks. A single exposure to any of life's tenets became permanently engraved in his tractable mind.

Brick rarely experienced physical pain derived from either carelessness or ordinary bad luck. He was not immune to the general misfortune experienced by everyone else on earth, but he had the unearthly ability to stay one step ahead of potentially ill-fated, earthly confrontations. He went barefoot in summer months, yet never sustained a stone bruise or stubbed toe. On one unforgettable excursion, he did get nicked. But, that petty accident was relegated less status than a hiccup, given what happened seconds later.

In May, before his fourth birthday in June, Brick and his parents were picking blackberries in a wild patch off the main thoroughfare outside of Red Clay. From his knees, Brick reached for a berry and pricked his thumb on a thorn. The nick introduced Brick's blood to the open air for the first time in his life. Bathsheba looked on, her mind fluctuating between compassion and relief. She hated to see her son hurt, but she was relieved to discover his blood was not Martian green, as some seemed to believe.

Moments later, her relief turned to stark panic. Brick was casually sucking on the injured right thumb when his phenomenal peripheral vision revealed a timber rattler lurking in some weeds among the blackberry patch, less than a couple of feet away. He had never seen a live snake. He knew most snakes are harmless, but his inborn radar sensed bad intentions from the rattler. Without warning, the snake struck at his bare foot. Simultaneously, Brick's instincts took over. With the suddenness of a lightning bolt, he halted the three foot reptile in mid-strike. Brick grabbed the serpent below its head and locked his thumb and fingers tight.

“Bad snake, Daboy?” he asked, no hint of fear in his voice or eyes. Jason's pet name for his son was “Daboy,” as in “Daddy's boy.” Brick had picked up on it early. Daboy was one of his first spoken words. Jason had tried, unsuccessfully, to get Brick to stop using it when referring to him. Quanlee told Jason not to worry, for Brick would outgrow it, soon enough. Not only didn't Jason worry, eventually, he liked to hear his son call him that name.

“Awfully bad snake, Daboy,” said Jason. “Hang on tight, bub.” Jason was masterful at mimicking his young son's cool nonchalance, despite being rattled to the bone. Carefully transferring the writhing snake from Brick's hand to his own, he walked to his truck for a hammer. Pressing the snake's head to the ground, he gave it a taste of the steel claw. Turning to the on-looking Brick, he said, “Son, always try to avoid killing snakes, even poisonous ones. They do serve a purpose in God's creation, after all. But, along comes this creature with the gall to strike at my son without bothering to rattle. He's got no business doing that. It violates every rule of fair play. He's bound by law to warn you if you get too close. He knew better, the sneak.” Brick laughed at the idea of snakes following rules.

"He cheated like a sneaky snake, wight, Daboy?"

“Ha-ha. That’s a good one, Daboy. And, you’re sure right. Anyway, I didn't see it happen, so I have no concept of how that rattler's head wound up in your hand, but I can guarantee you this. You shocked the daylights out of that no account belly crawler. All I can say is, 'Nice catch, son'.”

“Thanks, Daboy. Uh-oh. Wook,” Brick said, pointing to the only end of the rattler that was not encumbered by a crushed head. “Isn't dat whaoh his wattle's p'osed to go, Daboy?” Jason stared at the missing rattle.

“Oops! Maybe he wasn't such a 'sneak,' after all. But, we're not going to let it bug us, buddy, and here's why. But, that snake could've crawled over to Old Man Gibson's General Store and bought a new rattle at a bargain basement price. So, no matter how you slice it, it's still his fault!”

Wearing an unstoppable grin, Brick said, “You sure are funny, Daboy.” So serene was Brick in the aftermath of the incident, he might just as well have been picking more blackberries as fending off a poisonous rattler.

Bathsheba watched the mind-numbing scene from start to finish. She still trembled long after it was over. Fortunately, the beginning and end were all but concurrent, leaving little substance for her to dwell on.

"Lord above, Joshua, you liked to have scared me half to death, baby."

"I'm sowwy, Mommy,” Brick said, softly. “I didn't mean to."

"Oh, no, no, son. You made the proper move by protecting yourself.” Bathsheba pulled Brick close to her breast. “I'd have been terribly upset if you hadn't. Goodness gracious, how did you do that? How? How?" Her whispered remark was strictly rhetorical.

Throughout his early, formative years, Bathsheba never called her son “Brick” and hardly ever called him “Joshua,” preferring pet names like “sweetie” and “sugar.” She worried it could lead him to identity problems. He was the centerpiece of her world. When Jason was at work she read him stories, many of them biblical. By age two, she had taught him the alphabet. Thereafter, when she read to him she pointed to each word as Brick looked on. Never did she sense in him an attitude of restlessness or boredom. He was happy to take on any lesson plan Bathsheba devised. She never doubted her son's prolific intelligence, but had no clue his IQ was in the furthest reaches of uncharted waters.

Jason, Bathsheba, and Quanlee doted on Brick for the entirety of his infancy. When his first step came at six months, it confirmed what the men already knew. Brick was a cinch to become a force of nature, athletically. Nevertheless, “A promise made is a debt unpaid” won out, as the men stuck to their word. Brick remained unexposed to team sports. A solitary day remained before the armada stored in Quanlee's attic could be put to use. Included in the four year supply of sporting goods were footballs, baseballs, bats, and gloves. Two grown men, with a wealth of experience as competitors in the largest venues in the athletic kingdom, grew tense, in anticipation of the big day. Bathsheba thought them silly, and said so.

“Good lands, have you boys entered your second childhood? You're getting all jazzed over the sports debut of a four-year-old hitting wiffle balls! Have you misplaced every marble you ever owned?” Bathsheba delivered her faux admonishment with sparkling eyes and a Cheshire grin.

The night before Brick's coming out party, Bathsheba baked pastries for the bash. “Jason, leave those cupcakes alone,” she scolded. “I'm already concerned we might not have enough without your gobbling the goodies fast as I can bake 'em. If everyone we invited shows up, we'll run out of refreshments before the 'Happy Birthday' song.”

“No more, hon. Promise. But, they are soooo yummy!”

“Isn't it time for you to get your son out of the tub?”

“Nope, it isn't. Hasn't been in there but fifteen minutes. He likes to play with his boats and army men a lot longer than that. I'll get him out shortly before time to eat.”

“Otah, men, time to cwoss de ocean,” Brick said, while piling several army figurines into his plastic boat. Brick loved to play, and it little mattered with what or whom. He could entertain himself for hours on end with a limitless arsenal–tomato cans to plant life. His creative mind let him breathe spirit into inanimate objects. One of his biggest kicks was racing his high-speed motor boats, more commonly referred to as "sticks," in the gutter after a rain. He liked it even better during a rain, when he was allowed to wear his Superman rain cap and slicker. The shower had to be devoid of thunder before Brick could don his favorite outfit. Brick rescued the winner of each race an instant before it vanished into the sewer, watching sadly as the loser made its way to wherever sewers led. He once had a stick win twenty races in a row, before placing a close second. Brick got soaked when he dived toward the sewer to save it, for he hadn’t the heart to part with it. He placed the four inch piece of wood in his toy box as a permanently retired champion. Thunderstorms were the time to race canned goods down an incline he'd construct in the kitchen, by propping the ends of two flat boards onto his ABC blocks. Tomato paste cans were fastest. He had a chest full of manufactured toys, but played with them infrequently. Too little imagination was required to pique his interest.

At age four, Brick had the size and finesse of a seven-year-old, an inordinately capable seven-year-old. He stood three-foot-ten, weighed fifty-one pounds, and was the only kid under seven years of age who played outdoor games, like chase, with older neighborhood kids. He took directions easily and learned games quickly. But, he was more than fun and games. Brick could read at a second grade level, almost two years before normal school age. A psychological versus educational conflict loomed.
For all Brick’s playtime, he had not yet swung a bat or tossed around any of the balls used professionally. That intentional oversight was about to change, in a mind-altering way. Two local sports legends would soon witness, compliments of young Brick Mason, what could only be categorized as an onslaught. And, even that was an understatement.

The sunshine-yellow hair Brick was born with had darkened a couple of shades, but easily qualified as blond. A thick profusion of ringlets adorned his sizable head. His were the kind of curls a mother hates to shear. Bathsheba adjudged it downright sinful to take scissors to such luxurious, bounteous locks. Not surprisingly, Brick's hair was longer than any boy's in town, though no one called him “Samson.” Invoking the name of the biblical hero was not an enhancement. Red Clay was home to Brick Mason. In a mortal world, no higher praise existed.

One anomaly remained intact–Brick had not yet shed tears, from either physical pain or sorrow. The closest he came to crying was when Bathsheba had strep throat. The pitiful sound of her raspy voice hurt him, deeply. He could not abide anyone suffering, his mother, least of all.

The childhood diseases of measles, mumps, and chickenpox were mere annoyances to Brick, and not so potent as to be tear-inducing. Far from dispassionate, his natural temperament was judiciously positive. On his fourth birthday, his acute sensitivity would manifest in an unlikely manner.
Shortly after noon, Sheriff Pitts made four trips to his attic to gather Brick's sports paraphernalia. The lot barely fit into the squad car's trunk. At one PM, he drove to Jason's home for the two o’clock party.
At ten minutes of two, Brick peered through the living room window and saw a boy on the sidewalk bearing a gift. He ran to the kitchen.

“Mommy, mommy, Bwuce is cahwing a pwesent!”

“Sure he is. Most kids bring presents to a birthday party, honey.”

“For meee? Oh, no, Mommy. I don't have him somp'tin.”

“That's fine, kiddo. People don't expect to be given presents when they attend a friend's birthday party. Besides, all of your guests get to enjoy ice cream and cake later. That's their present, plus all the fun they'll have.”
Bathsheba's words were lost on Brick. The concept of receiving gifts, without reciprocation, appalled him. He formulated an plan, one that turned the entire gift-giving process on its ear.

When six-year-old Bruce gave him a Bolo Paddle Ball, Brick said, “Fank you, Bwuce. Hold on for a sec,” and bolted to his room. There, he removed a shiny dump truck from his toy chest and presented it to Bruce, saying, "Sowwy, we forgot to wap it." That became his modus operandi with each present he got that day. The number of toys in his chest shrank to two. Not that it mattered, since Brick had an unlimited supply of canned goods and sticks at his disposal. The tally for the ten gifts Brick received from friends was less than eight dollars. He gave away five times that amount. His parents maintained silence, rather than try to explain why the axiom, “It is better to give than to receive,” did not apply in certain cases.

After an excruciatingly long, but jolly afternoon of refreshments and games like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, the party broke up at four-thirty. The men hurriedly ushered Brick's guests through the front door. Their sports abstinence vow over, the brothers were eager to check out Brick's expression when the treasure trove of athletic equipment was revealed.

Brick sat between Jason's legs in the patrol car as Quanlee drove to a large open field behind the old courthouse. When he saw the contents of the trunk, Brick was not particularly excited, since he was unfamiliar with most of the items. He looked beyond the first baseman’s pad and fielder’s glove, the catcher's mitt and mask, and the bat, to the rear of the trunk. He voiced enthusiast approval of what he saw, “Yea, balls!”

“Here ya go, Brick. Let's try on the top,” said Jason, displaying a jersey, part of a complete baseball ensemble. Brick tried to slip an arm through, but the sleeve was too small.
“Well, I'll be dogged,” said Quanlee. “I bought that uniform two years ago, and told 'em it was for a six-year-old. No sweat. You can swing in what you have on.” Brick wore a collared shirt, tucked into his shorts.

Jason and Quanlee gave Brick a two minute, crash course in the fine art of hitting, after which, the trio took their spots in the spacious field. No onlookers were around to witness Brick's premier dalliance into the plastic version of the game of baseball.

“You weady, Uncle Coo?” Brick asked, the excitement in his voice already at a fever pitch.
“I'm ready, Bricker,” Quanlee said, as he placed the plastic home plate on the grass. “Here we go, Jase. Just like old times. Hurl that rock to me. Chunk it to the mitt. Ehh, I mean hand, man.”
“Pitch me it now, Daboy.”

With an easy, underhand motion, Jason tossed the wiffle ball. Brick stood still. He showed no inclination to swing at the pitch, but, at the last possible instant, he uncoiled the bat and smashed a line drive that whistled past Jason's left ear. The velocity of the swing caused a clearly audible “swoosh” in the still air. The two men stared at one another in amazement.

Jason said, “A hard ball, an inch left, and I've got a belly full of teeth!”

“Had to be beginner's luck,” Quanlee insisted.

“Frow me some more, Daboy,” Brick said.

“Fine and dandy, Brick, but I believe Ill back up a tick before I do. Plastic might not knock my teeth down my throat, but it can sure sting.”

Jason threw five more pitches and Brick hit five more frozen ropes.

“Jason, come clean. I mean it. You two have been practicing on the sly, right? You broke our rule!”
“No way, bro! Brick, have you ever swung a bat in your life, son?”

“Uhhh, maybe about six times, Daboy.” Jason and Quanlee broke up.

“Maybe about six times, Daboy,” Quanlee repeated, and gasped for the air expended by his laughter.

“Man, I tell you what. I'm useless back here. If he's gonna tattoo every pitch, who needs a catcher? I'll take to the field. Let's go gather those balls. Hope they're not cracked.”

Once part two of “Assault with Plastic” was set to commence, Jason glanced at Brick and did a double take. “Whoa, now, what are you doing, son?” Brick had taken his stance as a left-hander.

“I want to twy it over he-ah, but frow a little bit hahdah, otah?”

Jason turned to face Quanlee, who shrugged and said, “Let him have at it. I wouldn't do a double-take if a pig flew by at this point.”

Jason abandoned the underhand motion. His overhand toss was high and away, not unhittable, but definitely out of the strike zone. Brick stood like a statue, the bat resting on his shoulder. After the ball hit the ground, Brick pounced on it and threw a strike to Jason.

“Are you kiddin' me?” Quanlee mumbled. “You can't do that. There's no way to envision the strike zone at his age!”

“My fault, son,” said Jason. “Let me give you a better pitch to hit.”

Thwack! Brick hit a high drive to the right side, soon replicated by five more clouts deposited to distant places around the grassy field. Jason strode to home plate and stepped off the yardage to the spot where the most distant ball rested, around a hundred and twenty feet from home.

“My, gosh. And to think this thick grass is preventing these balls rolling beyond a foot or two! Hang on, Brick,” Quanlee yelled, desirous of a private word with Jason. The men kept their voices down, no more than a twitch above a whisper.

“Jase, level with me, man. I mean, Brick's performance is like someone straight out of a dang science fiction movie. My eyes see it, but, I swear, every fiber of my brain and soul tells me it’s impossible!”
“Don't look at me. See these red marks on my arm? I've already pinched myself twice, wondering if it's a dream. I can't figure out how to handle it, what to say to him. Or, whether to say anything. Guess we should give him a little praise, but I don't want him to get all full of himself.”

“Full of himself? He's four years old, today, for crying out loud!”

“Uncle Coo,” Brick yelled, interrupting the expressive, but otherwise low-keyed conversation, “will you pitch it to me? Daboy frows too soft, for cwying out woud.” The men's jaws went slack.

“Tell me he did not repeat what I just said,” Quanlee whispered, even more softly. “He's never used that old saying before, has he?”

“Not that I'm aware of. Coincidence,” Jason whispered, softer still, cupping his hands around his lips.

“Had to be. Either that or he reads lips.” The two men looked in at Brick, who smiled and wiggled his eyebrows.

Jason relinquished the pitching duties to Quanlee, who threw the ball half again as hard as had Jason. That change changed nothing. Over the course of the next hour, Brick continued his mind-boggling barrage. Not once did he swing and miss. He did mishit a handful of infield pop flies. After each Jason interjected good-natured barbs, like “Pop-ups are putouts,” and “Ehhh, your mama wears combat boots.” Brick invalidated each sarcastic jibe with another dozen hot line drives.

“Man, oh, man. What a blitzkrieg. That's it. Time to call it quits for today,” Quanlee announced, as Jason rounded up the balls.
“Aw, come on Uncle Coo, pitch six mo-ah to me. Pwease?”

“Wish I could, Brick, but my arm is shot. And, anyway, you have pulverized these balls into submission. They're beginning to resemble crumpled notebook paper. We'll break out a tub of rubber-coated balls and a real bat next time. Whacha say, champ?”

“A weal bat made of biggah stuff?” Brick asked, wide-eyed and smiling.

“You betcha. After this absurd hitting clinic, I think you're ready to take on the wood,” said Quanlee.

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