August. The last two weeks of dead heat have stripped the ground of moisture, have baked the earth and bleached the sidewalks. In the city there’s a dusty feel, a matchbox about to ignite as stray newspaper and garbage floats listlessly down the street. A matronly African woman fans herself from the balcony of her apartment. Her potted plants lie gray and wilted in the sun. A faint breeze blows around corners of skyscrapers but brings no relief. The thermometers read 98 in the shade.
It’s game day, and Skye Millar and Fox Rowlins have come to the city to watch the Little Bears play the Red Birds. It’s a double header and both teams are tied for first. The game doesn’t start till late afternoon. They’ve been walking for ten blocks, starting at the lake, up Wilmont, past Monroe and Adams.
“So my first car,” Fox continued, “was a Chevelle. My dad and I had a deal. If I paid half he’d pay the other half. I usually had to work odd summer jobs, got a paper route, and saved. He helped me buy my letterman’s jacket, and was going to buy my first baseball glove, but I wanted a special first baseman’s glove and that was extra, so he said I’d have to cover the difference.”
“When was this?” Skye asked. He’d walked in silence mostly, listening as the older man talked.
“Oh, back in the ‘50s,” Fox said. “Those were better times. Even though I lived in the city, we knew our neighbors. There were tons of kids my same age, in the same grade, so we’d play baseball in the summer or go to the local pool, or ride bikes.” He paused to pull out a handkerchief and wipe his face. They waited at an intersection for the light to turn green, then crossed, the street, along with thirty others.
“And it was nothing for someone else’s parents to scold you,” Fox continued. “They were watching each other’s backs.” Fox smiled, remembering something. “There was this one time. Me and Mike Sullivan went to climb the water tower. Mike got halfway up and chickened out, but I made it to the top. We weren’t hurting anybody, we just wanted to see what was up there. So anyway, there was a platform and a guard rail up at the top, and I walked all the way around it, and when I looked at my house about a couple blocks away there was my dad in the front yard, watering the lawn. I was so scared he’d look up and catch me, so I climbed down as fast as I could.”
“What would he have done?” Skye asked, intrigued despite the heat.
“He woulda tanned my hide!” Fox laughed. “No, you didn’t mess with my dad. He was strict, but fair.” With that, the story ended and Fox and Skye walked the next two blocks in silence.
“Let’s go somewhere cool,” Skye said to Fox, pulling out a napkin he’d saved from Starbucks earlier in the morning and wiping his forehead. He hadn’t remembered sweating this much since he’d run the half marathon in May.
“Okay,” Fox said, the heat hushing even him to silence. Large wet pools were forming under his armpits, and even for a big man, Fox was sweating a lot. Sweat had dripped down his forehead, past his gray bushy eyebrows, and off his nose for the last twenty minutes. While he’d been talking he intermittently wiped his forehead and waved his arms. Now his handkerchief was stuffed in his front pocket, saturated; he had stopped fighting the constant drip.
They stepped into an Indian restaurant called the Klay Pigeon on the corner of Fulton and Wabash; cool, filtered air instantly washed over them. “That’s better,” Fox grunted, and they found a booth by the window. Soon a server with a nametag that read “Fouad” greeted them, filled two large glasses with water, and handed them plastic menus.
They both ordered the curry chicken and potatoes, and started in on a plate of pita bread and hummus.
After their meal arrived they ate for a few minutes in silence. “There’s nothing more American than baseball!” Fox said, expansively, finally breaking into conversation once more.
“Sure,” Skye replied, only he wasn’t really listening. Outside the window, men and women in business suits were walking by, carrying newspapers and briefcases over their heads. In the sky overhead dark, angry storm clouds rolled in, piling on top of each other. As the people walked by, several glanced nervously at the upward, then picked up the pace. Skye could imagine the swish swish of their slacks and skirts whining like an accelerating electric engine building charge. Other than that, it would be eerily silent.
Then, the clouds broke and the storm came. First, fat drops fell intermittently on the sidewalk and window panes, like bird droppings without the mess. Soon the drops started falling harder, faster, and the sidewalks were turned from a sun baked white to a dull, glistening gray. Small white hailstones the size of bb’s began to plink against the window and ground. The streets now were empty, save for a man or woman scurrying for cover, or too brave or stoned to notice the pelting ice.
A minute later the hailstones were the size of marbles, mothball white with an occasional streak that looked like dull glass. Skye wondered if there were any that looked like cat’s eyes. That would be funny. God came down to play marbles on a Thursday in August. God wins the game, with marbles that look like cat’s eyes. Or clear paint balls. No one wants to play because the marbles hurt and God’s too good of a shot. Gotcha. You’re dead.
Across the table, Fox let out a low whistle between his teeth. “This don’t look good,” he whispered, wiping grease and sauce from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Think the game’ll get rained out?”
“Don’t know,” Skye shrugged, and continued to watch the falling hail.
The sidewalks were now covered white, like giant sized vanilla Dippin’ dots, the kind that smacked and splattered dangerously against the glass. Fouad stood next to the table, a carafe full of water in hand, mesmerized by what was transpiring on the other side of the window. “No good,” he whispered. “No good.” Skye turned his head briefly and saw Fouad’s olive skinned face blanching white. Maybe this was more serious than he thought.
The hail had grown to stones the size of golfballs, then baseballs, and the windows shuddered and shook. Lightning fell from the sky, and thunder crashed hard enough to make one’s teeth ache. Skye could smell something burning, an electrical smell, and then the wailing siren of a firetruck broke through the pelting sound of a thousand horses on the windows. The sky had grown progressively darker and day had become night in the space of twenty minutes. The firetruck roared past, its red lights flaring in the dark, followed by the intermittent red and blue of a police cruiser, their sirens fading once again.
The hail had stopped, and in its place was the steady beating of a hard rain. Fouad inhaled deeply, and Skye realized he must have been holding his breath. He looked down at Fox and Skye and laughed nervously, refilling their glasses with water from his carafe.
