If you were born just after the big war in the Tensaw delta, where the wetlands of the Alabama river rage into the Tombigbee river like a thousand thunderstorms, you’d know Bottle Creek, which is in actuality a circle-shaped inlet, with fingers creeping off into every direction, surrounded by a roundel of cottonwoods so large and old that you would think they have been drinking from these waters since before there was civilized man, or man at all, or even before the cottonwood and water ever was.
You would be a boy. And you would learn early on in your life about the summer rituals of boys in this timeless valley. And in grammar school you would meet all the other boys, and George. You would love baseball to death. You would play it every chance you had, which was all year because winters were hot and summers were scorching and you were too young to care about heat or that thing called humidity. You’d see your dad fixing cars and tractors in your oversized garage, the only one in the whole valley. You’d see the sweat rolling down his rusted wrench handles and dotting the sidewalk. And on Sunday mornings, every single one, you’d see scores of saturated armpits long before service ever began, and you’d learn about the world and your place in it from a friend’s mom who liked to wear a low cut sundress that exposed her burnt chest, beaded with sweat and sprayed with dark freckles.
When you had begun grammar school you would finally be invited to the ritual at the Old Man’s candy store. In truth, it was called Dan’s Candy, and he wasn’t that old, just old enough to have missed serving in the big war, but he’d be Old Man Dan to you all the same. And every summer when school let out and the clock began ticking for each boy to age into another grade in three months, you would race to the store with the other boys, and Old Man Dan would hand you a small sack, and he’d tell you to have at it.
And there you would find George. Always, he’d be the first boy there. Even that year you took classes early so that the others left school later than you, and you ran like a mongoose to the candy store dreaming of having the first pick. You’d find George in school uniform, completely dry, sitting on the floor of the shop and talking to the Old Man as if they were equals. And sure they weren’t equals, you knew that—because George would ask questions to the Old Man like what his favorite sandwich was—but George had a way about him, and that way compelled the Old Man to play along and to respond in seriousness. You’d see the Old Man turn his head down, and look away from George, and begin telling him about his wife’s cooking. You wouldn’t think anything of it then, but you’d see George stand up from the floor and approach the Old Man, and instead of watching any more you’d duck into the taffy aisle and be amazed by all the different colors.
And after you’d have your sack of candy you’d wait to eat even a single one. You would wait until you arrived at Bottle Creek. The ground would be covered over in sheets of white cottonwood flakes like an Alabama snowstorm. As you walked your shoes would drag that snow into piles and the wind would whisk the flakes away. You’d see all the other boys there. And you’d play baseball in that snow.
George would come down, usually last. And the game would halt. You and all the other boys would ask him to be on your team. He didn’t have the build of a good ballplayer but he made everyone else better, or so you’d imagine because George would never play. Instead he’d sit with the other boys that didn’t get on either team and they’d all share his candy and some small part of you would wish you weren’t playing either. But only a small part. You’d do this every summer until you graduated high school. You’d hear rumors from older boys that George played with them once and could throw the ball all the way across Bottle Creek. You’d feign incredulity but down inside you’d be awed.
After graduating high school you’d move to another town, or to Mobile. One night you’d find yourself watching television like every man had to do, and you’d watch the people dressed in suits on the screen, and there’d be a band playing, and the whole thing would be a grand ceremony. You’d see them draw a ball. You’d see May 20th and you’d run through the rolodex of friends and family birthdays in your head. And you’d know for sure, damned sure, that you know someone with that birthday, but you cannot think of the name. And either way the slippery guilt would move through you.
Many years later you would pass through the old valley. You’d hike into Bottle Creek. Your son would have his ball and glove too. You’d watch the boys playing again. You’d observe the cottonwood flakes floating through their bodies. You’d see Gravy Gary Gabel catch a flyball. And Ken Quan hit another home run. And Jason Jacaruso throwing his glove at some grammar school kid for pestering him in the outfield. Then there’d be George sitting down, surrounded by kids both younger and older than him. You’d see sky darken and the light change along the creek like an unknowable storm had rolled in high above. You’d hear the sudden snap of thunder like a bomb but see no lightning. Then some boys would blacken and they’d fade and evaporate into a pile of cottonwood flakes, and the other boys would stand there, scratching their heads because half the basemen just disappeared and they know they just saw Ken hitting a deep fly but he’s gone and the ball with him and where’d the catcher go. You’d look at sidelines, on the field of white downy flakes, and look for George, but see only a pile of undistributed snow.
