Read Online Summerland by Michael Chabon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Chabon
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colored elastic bands, Ethan found a magnifying glass his father had given him for his eleventh birthday. Mr. Feld was a passionate collector of both stamps and rocks. (He also wove a pretty decent pot holder.) Ethan climbed back into bed, pulled the blanket up over himself, and, with the help of the glass, began to read the introduction.
"The first and last duty of the lover of the game of baseball," Peavine's book began,
whether in the stands or on the field, is the same as that of the lover of life itself: to pay attention to it. When it comes to the position of catcher, as all but fools and shortstops will freely acknowledge, this solemn requirement is doubled.
Peavine, Ethan learned, was a ferisher from a region of the Summerlands that, as Peavine put it, "brushed up to" Troy, New York. He had learned the fundamentals of his position during the summers of 1880, '81, and '82 by secretly observing the play of a catcher for the Troy Trojans, a human ("reuben," was Peavine's term) named William "Buck" Ewing. "These summers spent at the shoulder of the cool and elegant Buck," Peavine wrote, "as fine a reuben as I have ever encountered, in the dusty green bowl of Trojan Field, remain among the happiest memories of all my long, long life." When an outbreak of the gray crinkles devastated Peavine's native mob, he had wandered west and taken up the mask, mitt, and chest protector for a mob of ferishers living at a place called Snake Island "an easy leap from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho." It was here, playing for the Snake Island Wapatos amid the cottonwoods and wildflower glades of the seventy-two-team Flathead League, that he had first begun, in his words, "to grasp the fundamental truth: a baseball game is nothing but a great slow contraption for getting you to pay attention to the cadence of a summer day."
"Eth?"
There was a knock at the door to Ethan's bedroom. He slid the book under his pillow and sat up as his father opened the door and poked his head into the room.
"Breakfast is…" He frowned, looking puzzled. "Ready."
Ethan saw that he had neglected to dispose of the magnifying glass. He was clutching it in his left hand, with absolutely nothing around him that he might plausibly have been using it to examine. Lamely Ethan held it up to the window next to his bed.
"Spider," he said. "Really tiny one."
"A spider!" said his father. "Let me see." He came over to the bed and Ethan passed him the magnifying glass. "Where?"
Ethan pointed; his father leaned in. A circle of empty air wavered in the watery lens. Then, to Ethan's surprise, a face emerged, grinning a yellow-toothed grin. A gray face, with a gray mosquitostinger of a nose, equipped with a twitching black set of wings. Ethan's tongue seemed to swell in his mouth; he could not utter a sound. He watched in horror as the creature winked at him , waiting for his father's cry of alarm.
"I don't see any spider," Mr. Feld said mildly. He stood up again and the horrible grin vanished; there was nothing at the window but misty Clam Island morning.
"The wind must have blown it away," Ethan said.
He climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of underpants under the extra-large Hellboy T-shirt he slept in, and followed his father out to the kitchen, to confront the weekly sadness of flannel cakes.
His father set a tall stack in front of him and then sat down with a stack of his own. They were enormous things, Mr. Feld's flannel cakes, each nearly the size of the plate itself, and there were invariably five or six of them that Ethan was expected to eat. During the week Ethan fixed his own breakfast—cold cereal, or an English muffin spread with peanut butter. This was necessary because Mr. Feld stayed up till all hours in his workshop. This in turn was because the nighttime was when Mr. Feld felt the most inventive. Or so he said. Sometimes Ethan suspected that his father simply didn't like to see the light of day. When Ethan got ready for school or, now that school was out,
"The first and last duty of the lover of the game of baseball," Peavine's book began,
whether in the stands or on the field, is the same as that of the lover of life itself: to pay attention to it. When it comes to the position of catcher, as all but fools and shortstops will freely acknowledge, this solemn requirement is doubled.
Peavine, Ethan learned, was a ferisher from a region of the Summerlands that, as Peavine put it, "brushed up to" Troy, New York. He had learned the fundamentals of his position during the summers of 1880, '81, and '82 by secretly observing the play of a catcher for the Troy Trojans, a human ("reuben," was Peavine's term) named William "Buck" Ewing. "These summers spent at the shoulder of the cool and elegant Buck," Peavine wrote, "as fine a reuben as I have ever encountered, in the dusty green bowl of Trojan Field, remain among the happiest memories of all my long, long life." When an outbreak of the gray crinkles devastated Peavine's native mob, he had wandered west and taken up the mask, mitt, and chest protector for a mob of ferishers living at a place called Snake Island "an easy leap from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho." It was here, playing for the Snake Island Wapatos amid the cottonwoods and wildflower glades of the seventy-two-team Flathead League, that he had first begun, in his words, "to grasp the fundamental truth: a baseball game is nothing but a great slow contraption for getting you to pay attention to the cadence of a summer day."
"Eth?"
There was a knock at the door to Ethan's bedroom. He slid the book under his pillow and sat up as his father opened the door and poked his head into the room.
"Breakfast is…" He frowned, looking puzzled. "Ready."
Ethan saw that he had neglected to dispose of the magnifying glass. He was clutching it in his left hand, with absolutely nothing around him that he might plausibly have been using it to examine. Lamely Ethan held it up to the window next to his bed.
"Spider," he said. "Really tiny one."
"A spider!" said his father. "Let me see." He came over to the bed and Ethan passed him the magnifying glass. "Where?"
Ethan pointed; his father leaned in. A circle of empty air wavered in the watery lens. Then, to Ethan's surprise, a face emerged, grinning a yellow-toothed grin. A gray face, with a gray mosquitostinger of a nose, equipped with a twitching black set of wings. Ethan's tongue seemed to swell in his mouth; he could not utter a sound. He watched in horror as the creature winked at him , waiting for his father's cry of alarm.
"I don't see any spider," Mr. Feld said mildly. He stood up again and the horrible grin vanished; there was nothing at the window but misty Clam Island morning.
"The wind must have blown it away," Ethan said.
He climbed out of bed, pulled on a pair of underpants under the extra-large Hellboy T-shirt he slept in, and followed his father out to the kitchen, to confront the weekly sadness of flannel cakes.
His father set a tall stack in front of him and then sat down with a stack of his own. They were enormous things, Mr. Feld's flannel cakes, each nearly the size of the plate itself, and there were invariably five or six of them that Ethan was expected to eat. During the week Ethan fixed his own breakfast—cold cereal, or an English muffin spread with peanut butter. This was necessary because Mr. Feld stayed up till all hours in his workshop. This in turn was because the nighttime was when Mr. Feld felt the most inventive. Or so he said. Sometimes Ethan suspected that his father simply didn't like to see the light of day. When Ethan got ready for school or, now that school was out,
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