Nicole Lea Helget - The Summer of Ordinary Ways

The Summer of Ordinary Ways

The Summer of Ordinary Ways

NICOLE LEA HELGET

Borealis Books is an imprint of the Minnesota Historical Society Press.

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2005 by Nicole Lea Helget. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to Borealis Books, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102-1906.

Stained Glass 2005 Jennifer Wendinger. Used with permission.

The Minnesota Historical Society Press is a member of the Association of American University Presses.

Manufactured in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the Ameri-can National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

International Standard Book Number 0-87351-543-9 (hardcover)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Helget, Nicole Lea, 1976

The summer of ordinary ways / Nicole Lea Helget.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-87351-543-9 (hardcover : alk. paper)

E-book ISBN: 978-0-87351-701-0

1. Helget, Nicole Lea, 1976 Childhood and youth.

2. Children of alcoholicsMinnesotaBiography.

3. Farm lifeMinnesotaAnecdotes.

4. SummerMinnesotaAnecdotes.

5. MinnesotaBiography.

I. Title.

CT275.H526A3 2005

362.2928097768092dc22

2005010516

A version of Stain You Red was rst published in Speakeasy, Winter 2004. A version of The Summer of Ordinary Ways was rst published in Blue Earth Review, Winter 2004.

A line from Paul Zimmers Confession, Curse, and Prayer. 1983 by Paul Zimmer, is used with permission.

For my sisters

For Isabella, Mitchell, and Phillip

The Summer of Ordinary Ways

SUMMER 1983

SUMMER 1993

SUMMER 1984

SUMMER 1982

SUMMER 1985

SUMMER 1988

SUMMER 1984

SUMMER 1988

SUMMER 1983

SUMMER 1982

Let nothing cruel stir in my blood again.

PAUL ZIMMER, Confession, Curse and Prayer

The Summer of Ordinary Ways

Stain You Red

(SUMMER 1983)

Dad crouched, slack knees to his chest, in front of the barn wall with his mitt and told me to pitch him a few. He punched a st into his glove, pointed two ngers down, then opened his hand, wiped the sign away, and pointed just one nger down. A fastball.

Put her right here, he said.

He had set down a beer can in front of him, home plate, and positioned a wooden bat in Annie Jos hands, the fading name, William Helget, burned on the barrel of it. He pointed at a spot in the grass where she should stand and told her not to move, not to swing, and to hold the bat high. It almost toppled her.

Choke up, he said.

I wound into a pitch and released the ball to him with all the force my fty-pound frame could gather. The ball slapped his glove.

Nice one.

He tossed it back in an easy way. I threw a few more. Strikes. Then a pitch missed, and ew up and outside the strike zone Id mind-outlined above the beer can, bending in on Annie Jos body, but Dad caught it without compromising his stance, pulled it quick into the center of him.

Thats how you get the strikes called. The umps look to where the ball sits when they make the calls. Its the catchers job to pull em in.

I know, Dad.

I know, too, Dad, Annie Jo said. I do, Dad, I know.

You just hold that bat up, Annie-Goat. Nice and high so Colie doesnt hit your elbows. Shes wild sometimes.

I threw again. Annie Jo swung and foul-tipped the ball back into a barn window.

Goddamn it, Dad said. I told you not to swing. He stood, cast down his glove, and grabbed the bat from Annie Jo, who cowered beneath him. She was four.

He pointed at the window with the bat. Do you know how many fucking ies are going to get in there? Do you? Put this shit away. Hurry up now. And quit your goddamned crying. I cant stand it. It goes right through me.

He lobbed the bat at her feet. She knew not to move.

Colie, you pick up that glass there and dig in the wood pile. Find a piece of plywood to cover that window. Fuck. Goddamn it. Useless, completely useless.

He turned from us and headed for the barn.

Dad was thirty-one. He was tall and lean with Bohemian, colored dark with Sioux Indian from his mother Alvinas sidea bunch of lost gypsies and buffalo eaters, he called them. His father, Leon Helget, was thick with German blood and passed on his tumbling speech and throaty voice to his seven sons, including Dad, who was just one up from the bottom, but bossy as an oldest child or an Indian chief. And thats the name Dads brothers gave himChief. Dads long legs bowed at the knees from his years crouching behind home plate and against a cows belly for the milking. He walked with his hands on his hips like he was operating those loose legs from there.

Dad said three major league teams scouted him his senior year of high school at Sleepy Eye St. Marys. In 1972, two Boston Red Sox agents, sipping coffee and eating slices of schmeirkuchen, pushed a creased stack of papers across Grandmas kitchen table at Dad. He signed to a Triple A contract while Grandpa, who mostly spoke Low German, sat silent and crossed his arms tight against his overalls. Grandpa had a farm place and land ready for Dad, and he didnt see the sense of his son running all over Gods creation when there were perfectly good ballparks around here. But Grandma had warned him to keep his mouth shut and told him that baseball was Dads chance.

Youre an old fool, Grandma said, and I dont like that goat language in this house. Goat-herders, thats where you come from.

Goddamn gypsy, Grandpa spat.

Dad signed the contract and prepared to leave the following winter for spring training. He said no to the Cincinnati Reds and the Minnesota Twins and proposed to his girlfriend, Marie, after she graduated from high school, and in their Sleepy Eye Herald Dispatch wedding announcement it said, Marie Haala was Homecoming Queen at Sleepy Eye St. Marys and William Helget catches for the Boston Red Sox organization, which is currently in spring training in Winter Haven, Florida. The couple will reside there.

Dad and Mom lived in Winter Haven while Dad practiced, played, and traveled with the team. Mom hated the heat and the cockroaches and the wives of the other players. A year into their marriage and Dads baseball career, the doctors induced a labor and delivered Mom of a dead baby, which they whisked quickly away. Mom never thought to ask the sex of it, though Dad always said it was a son and his name would have been Nicholas because he liked the way Nick sounded over the loud speaker of a ball eld. Nick Helget.

When she became pregnant with me, Mom insisted she be near her family in Minnesota. Grandpa Helget readied the farm place, and Mom moved onto it and waited for Dad. She had me in March of 1976, and Dad made it to my birth but left the next day to go back to spring training. Grandma Helget said wives should be with their husbands, said the farm place could wait. She packed up Mom and me and drove us back to Florida, back to the heat and the cockroaches and the other players wives, and stayed with us until we were settled.

The Red Sox released Dad in 1977. They said he couldnt hit, though they liked that he was a switcher. They said his knees were bound to give soon. They patted him on the back and said he called good pitches, said they liked the way he signaled the outelders, too. They liked how he knew which way the ball was going if the batter got a hold of it. Amazing. Youve got good instinct for baseball, son. You should go home and coach your little girls softball team when the time comes. You can turn in your uniform and keys at the eld house. Heres your commemorative bat. Isnt that nice? Its got your name burned in it. Cost the outt a buck or two. Keep the cap and send us your new address, why dont you. Keep in touch.