Mornings for Miriam

When your heart is broken, your heart is opened.

Short Story Fiction

Word Count: 4,502

Mornings for Miriam

Note to the reader: Some parts of this story are my own recollections; others are from third parties. The bulk of accounts, however, were gained in interviews with the children, themselves. I have no doubt as to the veracity of their accounts, as they were both participants and eye witnesses, and their stories agree on all but the most minor of particulars.

“What position do you play?”

“Uhm, I don’t know yet, but I wanna pitch.”  Sam thought he was answering his friend, Bryan, but Bryan just pointed to someone standing a little behind him that he hadn’t seen.  She was very small even for an eight year old. “Oh, hi,” he said and just stared. There weren’t any other girls in the Little League he had just joined. His entire second grade class had also joined but he didn’t remember any girls during tryouts.

“I’m Miriam,” she said quickly.  “I’m gonna play second base. Wait and see.”  Her hat was too big and all Sam could see was a tumble of black curls under her hat. Dark eyes glinted with excitement for the first day of practice.

Bryan paired off with Sam to play catch, forcing a third friend, Jason, to partner with Miriam, which didn’t lighten his mood. He spent his practice scowling.  Sam watched Miriam out of the corner of his eye, prompting Bryan to ask,

“You just moved here, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yeah, last week,” said Miriam.  “You’re Bryan and you’re Jason,” nodding his way, “and you,” looking at Sam a little longer, “you live across the street from me.  You’re Sam.”

Sam nodded shyly, Jason scowled, and again, Bryan took his cue.  “How do you like your house?”

“It’s great! I’ve got my own room, finally, and we just got a dog. He’s called Memo, so I don’t forget to feed him,” she laughed and Sam smiled quietly.  “And we have a pool! You should all come swimming sometime!” and smiled directly at Sam.

Practice ended and the three boys gathered up their things and headed home.  The league made it a policy to put neighborhood friends together on the Same teams for first time players in sort of an homage to the old city neighborhood teams we coaches had played in when we were young.  Miriam was new to their neighborhood and now ran up to walk home with them.

Jason scowled again but Miriam ignored him and walked between Sam and Bryan, answering Bryan’s many questions but always looking in Sam’s direction. Sam wasn’t talkative that day but he listened to every word. Miriam was another name for Mary, he learned, and she could speak three languages: English, French and Farsi, which was her first language.

“What’s Farsi?” asked Jason. He didn’t like knowing he didn’t know some things.

“My family is Persian. Persians speak Farsi.”

“So, where’s Persia, then?” now annoyed he didn’t know two things that afternoon.

“Persia doesn’t exist, anymore,” she explained, “It’s called Iran now.”

“So, you’re not American?”

“I am, too, American!” she answered sharply and gave Jason an angry look.

“Hey, chill, Dude,” said Bryan. Bryan liked using the words his older brother used. Bryan was the only one of the three boys who had older brothers and took every opportunity to remind them of that status. Jason had three older sisters, which he blamed for his bad moods, and Sam had one of each, which his parents thought contributed to his shyness, since neither one seemed interested in what he had to say.

“Everybody’s American,” added Sam, quietly.

Miriam beamed.  “That’s right!” she cried and then composed herself when Jason scowled. Sam elbowed Bryan in the arm to elbow Jason to mind his manners.

“Ow!” and both boys rubbed their injuries.

“Anyway,” Miriam sassed, “I’m gonna play second base. What positions do you guys play?”

“Bryan plays third base and I’m the shortstop,” Jason boasted.

“...and Sam plays first base because he’s the tallest and he’s left-handed and that’s a plus,” added Bryan.

“...and we both pitch,” Jason said, indicating Bryan and himself, grinning broadly. It was the first time Jason had smiled that day.

“Sam’s gonna pitch, too,” Miriam announced, far too prematurely for Sam’s comfort.

“I said I wanted to pitch,” correcting her.

“Sam can’t pitch,” objected Jason, “he’s left-handed.”

“Vince is left-handed, too, and he’s the best pitcher in school. They’re called ‘southpaws’,” Bryan reminded Jason, correcting him in his turn.

“Yeah, but that’s because his Dad and older brother coach him,” Jason persisted, remembering his three sisters.

“Vince practices a lot, too.” added Sam quietly.

Miriam looked hard at Sam. “Sam’ll pitch. You’ll see.”

It was now April but already too warm and dry, as if September had come, refusing to let go of the hot California sun still left to it. The team was 2 and 2 for their early season and seemed likely to continue splitting their games for the rest.

By this time, the four of them had become close, largely due to Miriam’s efforts. She always invited the boys to go swimming at her house on the weekends and got them help train her new dog, ‘Memo,’ which she committed to memory, as in, “Remember to feed the dog! Remember to take the dog out, Miriam!” her father would shout. But his favorite was, “Remember, Miriam! Don’t let that dog chase the squirrels near the pool! He might fall in!”

Her father loved Miriam, his only child, and wanted to teach her to be responsible with her dog.  “Remember, Miriam,” he would tell her every night at dinner, “if you can take care of your dog, who will be more loyal than almost anyone you meet in life, you’ll always be trusted by other people. It’s hard work,” he added for emphasis, “gaining people’s trust. You have to believe in them and be loyal, too, just like Memo is loyal to you.”

She also tried to teach the boys French and Farsi.    Jason tried but struggled so much with pronunciations that he always sounded like a lost tourist and became frustrated. Miriam encouraged him and Jason kept trying. That was something that all the boys appreciated about Miriam �" she never gave up on them. On the other hand, Bryan was less hard on himself, wondering why they couldn’t just skip half the lessons and learn ‘Frenchie’ instead.

It was Sam who learned the most quickly. He never tired of listening to Miriam speak and he always watched her in fascination. He wanted to impress her with how hard he tried because it meant a lot to Sam what Miriam thought of him. Miriam was impressed and so was Memo. The dog began sitting in Sam’s lap every time he practiced with Miriam. Memo gave Sam confidence and soon enough, the boy became rather fluent in both languages.

The school day had just ended but Miriam wouldn’t get up from the stand of trees in the schoolyard. Sam stood over her, his hand reaching out to her dark hair that fell across her face, hiding the tears escaping down her cheeks. She hugged her small frame tightly against an invisible blow.

“Please, don’t cry, Miriam,” poor Sam pleaded. He simply didn’t know what he could say to halt her sobbing. It happened so quickly he almost thought he hadn't seen it all. By the time he had faced down Miriam’s tormentor, she’d already sunk to the ground crying. He’d been too slow running to help her and didn’t stop the bully from accomplishing his aim of humiliating the much smaller and younger girl. He didn’t protect her and the guilt stung him.

“Thanks, Sam,” Miriam said softly. Her tears were drying a little and she could force some words. “Thanks for sticking up for me.” Her chin rested on her drawn up knees and she stared out at the yard playing the episode over in her mind. “I wish I was a boy like you,” she whispered, “I would have beat him up.” Sam knelt next to her. Several quiet minutes passed and then they both stood up together and started walking home in silence. At the first corner, Bryan and Jason fell in on either side of them to guard them.

Miriam began to spend more time with Sam. She would only play catch with him, although always near Jason and Bryan, who were also fast friends. During those sessions, she’d make the boys practice their language skills in tandem with their game of catch because, she told me, when she started playing second base with them, they’d have to have their own secret language for the games, in order to win.

“She’s right, you know. Put her at second base,” said Rich, the league president and close friend of mine.

“Where you been?” I asked.

“Oh, walking to and fro upon the Earth,” he answered. Rich loved the few Bible verses he knew and would use them frequently without regard to their relevance. “She’s smart and quick; besides, she keeps those three in line for you,” indicating the rest of my infield. I pointed out we already had a second baseman.

“You did have a second baseman but now you don’t,” he countered. “Michael’s family is moving. His mother just called.” Rich smiled. Besides being league president, he was also manager of the league’s best team. He’d been predicting a championship, if they became lucky enough to play us. Now, it seemed, he wanted to help us get there.

“You got the smartest kids,” he said, “and they’ll take you far if you let them.”

“How far?”

“Well, not far enough if I can help it.”

I took Rich's advice.  I always took Rich' advice. So, for the next two weeks Miriam played second base and did rather well. She gave her best efforts and the boys began following her lead. Sam was especially proud of her because their teammates responded. Even Jason got over his initial suspicions about a girl playing the infield and began to compliment her. Sam knew that was high praise and told her so. “You ought to be captain,” he told her.

“Can a girl be captain?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?”

Miriam concentrated on that for a moment then went back to one of her favorite subjects. “When do you think they’ll try you out for pitcher, Sam?” Sam blushed in embarrassment. He knew where Miriam was headed and raced to cut off her next question before it was asked.

“I haven’t really asked the coaches yet,” he said quickly.

“But Sam! The season is half-way over!” she protested.

“Well, I’m not as good as Bryan and Jason.” That was weak and he knew it. Miriam pounced immediately.

“I bet you are!” and she paused a moment then ran off calling behind her, “I’m gonna tell them!”

“Miriam! Wait!”

We were talking shop amongst ourselves, as baseball coaches will. Frankly, there were too many of us and it took long whiles for us to reach decisions. Rich was aware of our struggles and often offered his opinions.

“Sam should pitch!” shouted Miriam as she ran into us near the batting cage. Before Sam could stop her she repeated her declaration, “Sam should pitch! You need one more pitcher and Sam should be it!”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” observed Rich.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I said.

“Hey, she was right about playing second base.”

“Yeah! I was right before and I’m right again!” Miriam could yell quite loudly for such a small child. I grimaced at her volume but shooed her away.

“Miriam, we’ll talk about it later, ok?” and then I looked at Sam. “Sam, do you want to pitch?” He just toed at the ground in front of him but it distinctly mimicked a pitcher toeing the rubber. Of course, he wanted to pitch.

“Fine, we’ll get him practicing. Now, both of you get back to work. We’ll start tomorrow.” After they ran back, Miriam was practically skipping, as she chanted, “Sam’s gonna pitch! Sam’s gonna pitch!” I gave a look to Rich and said, “I’m just indulging them. Nothing will come of this.”

“Surely not,” but he left with a parting shot, “but have faith, brother!”

Sam practiced with me the rest of the year and we let him pitch our last game. It wasn’t a stellar performance but not entirely Sam’s fault. Our team made plenty of errors that cost us the game; and so, our season ended. We lost our first game in the playoffs and Rich’s team won the championship, as he had predicted. We bid goodbye to the kids and reminded them that we’d all be back next season and would have a better year. And everyone believed us, especially Miriam.

“We’ll practice all winter,” she told Sam.

The rest of the summer was very hot. The way I heard it, Miriam and Sam used to swim almost every day together after practicing for the coming season. Very often, Bryan and Jason would join them. As the days grew from hot Summer to cooler Autumn, it became Sam’s custom to run over to Miriam’s house after her father had gone to work and jump in the pool before Miriam even came outside from breakfast. Sam would grab hold of Miriam’s hand whenever they walked down the street together, ‘to protect her,’ he told her, ‘and keep her safe.’ But Miriam didn’t believe him because he often held her hand when they were just standing or sitting next to each other. Sam wasn’t even aware he did that but it suited Miriam just fine.

One school-day morning in October, when Summer had truly ended, Sam was a little sluggish getting out of bed. He practically had to force himself to the kitchen.

“I’m cold,” he said absently at breakfast.

He was late to Miriam’s because he’d decided there wasn’t enough time for swimming and so got dressed, instead. He walked slowly to the gate. “It’s so cold,” he said to himself. At the far end of the pool several squirrels were scampering up and down a tree and chattering wildly. It startled Sam just a bit. He looked toward the house but as his eye passed over the pool deck he saw Memo dripping wet and crouched near the pool’s edge with his nose practically in the water. Memo was trying to understand something by sniffing at the water's edge. Sam crept slowly to her so she wouldn’t be frightened and then stopped suddenly. He crouched to his knees next to the dog and looked into the water.

Miriam was lying motionless at the bottom of the pool.

The Coroner later said that Miriam had tripped and knocked herself unconscious before slipping into the pool to drown. The police report noted her dog was soaking wet and must have jumped into the pool chasing something. The officer surmised that Miriam fell attempting to catch her dog.

The sad truth of funerals is that only some can say goodbye, while others bleed forever. Miriam’s family poured out their grief in the most painful tears and curses. I could not bear it and left the reception early but not before every one of their faces looked straight into mine. Her mother sobbed uncontrollably and was not to be comforted by anyone. Her father cried silently, his fists balled up in desperate rage.  The face most haunted was Sam’s. He was pale and stared constantly at Miriam’s father, knowing the father’s grief.

Within weeks, Miriam’s family had listed their house and moved. There was no more barking across the street or Miriam shrieking in delight or her father admonishing her about something, anything. There seemed a constant breeze through the yard that blew across the street where it would find Sam’s window in the morning and moan softly. On such mornings, Sam would awake convinced Miriam was waiting for him to go swimming, practice pitching, or just sit together with her dog and watch the squirrels play in the trees. All those impressions went by so quickly Sam wondered if he had dreamed that whole terrible day. But each day, he would wake and be reminded of everything.

On the first Friday after Thanksgiving, a car pulled up in front of Miriam’s house. Sam saw it from his bedroom window and knew it for her father’s car. Her father sat in the car all day, staring at the house. Sam’s parents and a few of the neighbors came out to offer their sympathies and share his grief but, after a while, they left him alone with it. Sam watched him and wondered why Miriam’s father was not at prayer because that was their day. The next four Fridays were the Same. Miriam’s father parked in front of the house in the evening and stared throughout the call to prayer. Sam watched him every Friday evening from his bedroom window. The dead leaves of autumn scraped in tumbled gusts across the street.

Between Christmas and New Year’s Mr. Homsi did not park in front of his old home. Sam was half relieved but still sorry he hadn’t come. He had seen and heard Miriam’s father cry hard every Friday for a month. He felt sorry for Mr. Homsi and hoped he would feel better someday but he knew the man never would. Sam saw that Mr. Homsi was old now and that his sorrow had made him so.

It was unseasonably warm in January. So much so, that Sam was outside practicing his pitching when it should have been too cold to be outside, at all. He had Samed a strike zone in chalk against the garage door and threw a tennis ball at it and the ball would bounce back to him so he could throw again. He thought he was getting more accurate, too, and hoped it would be good enough to ask to pitch in the coming season. All of a sudden, when the ball should have landed in his hands, a small dog grabbed it and ran off a short distance. It was Miriam’s dog, Memo, holding the tennis ball firmly in his mouth and staring in defiance, daring Sam to chase him.

“Where did you come from?” he asked nervously.

“She’s always liked you,” answered Miriam’s father from behind. “Miriam always said so.”

“Hi,” Sam answered shyly but he’d been frightened by Mr. Homsi’s sudden appearance. The old man looked exhausted, his eyes dragged by dark circles, his face deeply lined. In two months, he had aged a life.

“I want you to take her, Sam. Please take the dog. I cannot bear to have her, anymore.” He bent over at the waist and dug his nails into his bare, bent knees, breaking the skin and darkening it with bits of blood. Sam saw his torso convulse with sobs but he heard nothing. The old man didn’t shed any tears or cry out; he just fought with his suffering.

“Ok,” said Sam and then they both said their words gently together, “Ok.”

Sam’s mother rushed from the house where she’d been watching and put her arms around Miriam’s father. “Oh Ephraim, Ephraim,” she said, wiping her own tears; tears that should have been his. “Please come inside. Oh, my dear friend, please come inside.”

“She was my only daughter, my only child, and He took her from me,” he moaned, “why did God steal her from me?”

She could not answer.

“He took her from me!” and finally his sobs had him doubled over on the ground.

An hour passed before Sam’s father came home and found his wife with her arm around their friend. Sam sat a little distance away, holding Miriam’s dog and watched the old man in his grief. Sam’s father gently raised Ephraim to his feet and lent him his strength. “Let me take you home, Ephraim. Let me take you home.”

That was the last time Miriam’s father visited their old house. It remained unsold for many weeks and passed through several realtors’ hands. Occasionally, Sam would walk over to the front steps of the house with Memo because he missed Miriam so much. He hoped to see her, somehow, or hear her, somewhere, in the back yard. But the dog would not go near the house and whimpered at the curb when Sam looked inside. Eventually, Sam stopped going there, too, but he kept his dog nearby, always. It rained the rest of that winter.

Spring came and baseball returned and so did Sam’s friends. Memo followed Sam to practice and retrieved all the balls they hit or missed. She’d scamper about the practice field and cause some commotion but the boys all liked her. At Jason’s suggestion we made her our team mascot. It was the first time I saw Sam smile again.

Halfway through the season Sam finally got his nerve up and asked the question I was expecting. “I’d like to practice pitching, Coach,” he told me.

“I heard you’ve been practicing all winter,” I said. “A little dog told me.” Sam smiled at the joke. “Tell you what, we’ll get you your own catcher.”

“But I’m still the third baseman and a pitcher, aren’t I?” Bryan demanded when informed of his new position.

“Sure, you are,” I said, “but a new pitcher needs someone he can trust.” So the two of them got to work.

“Sam, look!” Bryan whispered loudly and stood up from his catcher’s crouch so quickly that Sam lost his concentration and threw wildly to the side, almost hitting Jason, who stood in the batter’s box pretending to be a hitter. “Hey!” he cried, sprawling to avoid the pitch.

“Hush, Jason!” Bryan whispered harshly. “Look, Sam,” he pointed behind Sam. The three boys hadn’t seen him since his expulsion from school the year before. Miriam’s tormentor, Scott, had been reassigned to another school and Sam, himself, suspended, following their fight over Miriam. The boys had heard all sorts of reports about him, none of which they could prove but most of which they believed. Scott had become wild, they were told by friends, who had heard from other friends, and was always in a fight with someone. He had even attacked a teacher during class and had been truant more times than he’d been at school. His father beat him and his mother drank too much and didn’t care about him and there were all other manner of rumors circulating…and believed.

“Is that?” whispered Jason

“Yeah,” said Bryan.

“I thought he was supposed to stay indoors, like house arrest,” Jason whispered.

“Jason, be quiet,” said Sam while he continued to look at Scott. The two of them locked eyes. Finally, as Scott turned aside and walked away he called out, “Where’s your little girlfriend?”

Sam was on him like a shot, knocking the bigger boy down and wildly throwing his fists at Scott, who struggled to get a grip on Sam’s arms. Scott jerked his body convulsively and knocked Sam off. He reached for a large rock nearby and raised it over his head to smash in Sam’s face but missed his aim and the stone just scratched at Sam’s temple. Before he could strike again Bryan and Jason had wrestled him away from Sam who stood up ready for another round.

“You better stay away!” shouted Scott, backing away unsteadily. “better stay away! I’ll get you!” and stumbled quickly off before his threat had to be redeemed.

Sam was frozen in place, staring silently and blindly after him. He didn’t move until Scott had disappeared over the rise and then went straight back to the pitching rubber and waited for his friends to take up position again.

The day was clear. Our first playoff game was against the Reds whose roster now included Scott, their oldest and best pitcher. They were the home team so we took the field, first. I gripped Sam by the shoulder before letting him go to his position reminding him to concentrate and not let anything or anyone distract him from his job, especially Scott. Sam nodded and walked out to the mound.

Frankly, I was more surprised by the reaction of the spectators. It seemed we had been able to keep Sam’s first pitching start a complete secret quite by accident. Two of the boys’ fathers were at the dugout gate when I turned back around, followed by Rich, who hadn’t known Sam would pitch but seemed very pleased at the choice.

“Coach,” said one parent, “has Sam pitched before? Did I miss something?”

“No, this is his first outing,” I said.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” interrupted the second, “their team hits the ball pretty well.”

“They hit the hell out of the ball,” Rich answered for me in support, “and they’ll hit it tonight, too,” he continued, “but not very far.”

Rich had watched me practice with Sam over the previous weeks and knew my strategy, although he hadn’t really believed I’d risk it. “What’s he got besides that lazy fastball?” he’d ask. “Everything looks like batting practice speed.”

“It ain’t batting practice speed,” I told him. “It’s much slower.”

Scott was Sam’s opposing pitcher. As our second hitter Sam faced Scott in the first inning. Scott’s first pitch was a little wild outside so Sam stepped closer to the plate for the next pitch. The second one sent him sprawling as it whizzed close by his head. Sam dug in his heels even closer to the plate in defiance and faked a bunt, drawing ball three. In frustration, Scott sailed his next pitch over his catcher’s head and walked Sam. Our players then began to taunt Scott from the bench knowing his temper would get the better of him. By the end of the half inning we were ahead 1-0, thanks in part to Sam’s smart base running and Scott’s wildness. It was the only runs Sam would need.

For the rest of the game Sam was nearly perfect. All but three outs were ground balls. He pitched like the old time knuckleballers: the ball would seem to float like balloons, just begging to be hit and then fall across the plate where the batter could only catch a piece of the pitch and dribble it back to Sam, where it was turned into an out.

When it was all over his teammates whooped and hollered and patted Sam on the back so hard and often they almost knocked him down for joy. He earned the game ball and that’s what finally made him beam in happiness. But soon enough, the euphoria was over, the players went home with their parents and their congratulations; Sam tarried a bit, looking out at the groundskeepers tidying up the field under the old Klieg lights. Sam contemplated the game ball for a moment then turned and walked home.

Memo had run out ahead of Sam as they near his house dashing across the cul-de-sac to Miriam’s house, no longer for sale.  The dog was barking happily and chasing the mockingbird who darted in and out of Memo’s lunges just out of the dog’s leaps.  Sam sat on the curb facing the house and watched quietly. At once, the bird noticed Sam, flew out of Memo’s reach onto a low-lying branch of her front yard tree, spreading its wings wide.  Sam and Memo sat still and waited for long seconds.

And then, the mockingbird began to sing.

END