A Window to Ebbets Field (standard:drama, 6695 words)
Author: TJC	Added: Apr 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3670/2373	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
This is a story about the surprising bond that grows between a dying old woman, rumored to be a voodoo queen, and a middle-aged man. Their friendship is born as a result of a mutual love for baseball. This is a story about life and death.

A WINDOW TO EBBETS FIELD 

The mindless prose was matched in its banality by the antiseptic smell
of the venue in which I was reading it.  The novel was standard stuff, 
nothing special, a typical tale of a misunderstood but sensitive cop 
solving a series of murders and falling for the beautiful woman who 
also happens to be the prime suspect.  We've all seen it before and 
seen it better.  This is not an easy admission considering I'm the 
author of the mediocre work.  Performing readings was part of the price 
one was forced to endure to become a successful novelist.  Not all 
readings took place in Borders book stores with the smell of coffee and 
chocolate, some, especially those done by unknown authors, took place 
in homes of assisted living otherwise known as rest homes where the 
background was the aroma of aged sickness and dying.  It was horrible 
and I couldn't wait to get finished and get the hell out of there.   As 
I read the chapters, the people gazed at me with varying degrees of 
attention ranging from sleep to disinterest to the hard stare of the 
ancient.  I sometimes felt as if the staring elders were trying to 
steal my youth.  Not that I was all that young, but my forty-three 
years easily made me the youngest person in the room that wasn't 
employed by the Creole Care Center.   I felt sorry for the employees.  
How could anyone stand to work in such a place?  When not writing 
undersold and rarely read novels, I taught History and English at a 
junior college outside of New Orleans.   On occasion, I'd also dabble 
into writing historical narratives about baseball; my true passion. 

Once I completed the agreed upon five chapters, I went among the ancient
audience and shook hands, nodded greetings, signed a few copies of the 
book, and desperately looked for the exit to make my escape. 

“Mr. Dawson?”  It was a young woman dressed in a pink nursing uniform. 

“Yes?” 

The girl, who was kind of cute with short blonde hair, struggled on her
words a bit before she managed to say that one of the residents wished 
to meet me. 

“Which one?” I asked as I scanned the room.  My agent had pounded it
into my head that until I was John Grisham or Stephen King, I couldn't 
afford to alienate any potential fan.  So even though I had no interest 
in chatting with some old coot, I really didn't have a choice.  “Who is 
it, Miss?” 

“It's Mrs. Lee, Mr. Dawson,” she said.  “She's in her room.  She didn't
come to the reading.” 

“Well, she's either very ill or by far the smartest resident in this
place.” I laughed but the young woman didn't seem to find it humorous. 

“She's quite ill with cancer, Mr. Dawson,” replied the nurse.  “She
could have come in a wheelchair, though, if she had wished to.  She 
just didn't want to.  She did, however, make me promise to ask you to 
come see her.”  The young woman looked around to make sure nobody was 
listening which made me stifle laughter.  It was quite obvious that 
nobody cared about what she was saying.  “She's a most disagreeable 
woman.  I assure you.  So believe me, you don't have to visit her.” 

“You know, I think she sounds fascinating,” I said.  “Lead the way.” 

The nurse shrugged and led me out of the reception room and down a long
corridor to the resident rooms.  The floor was a polished checkerboard 
tile and the walls were a bright yellow.  Typical hospital colors.  
When we arrived at the room, the nurse asked me to wait outside for a 
minute. 

As I waited outside the room, I could hear hushed voices talking inside
until a gravelly voiced boomed, “Get out of here now and send his ass 
in.” 

“You may go in now,” the young nurse said as she stalked off muttering
to herself.  I wasn't sure what was happening, but I went ahead and 
entered the room. 

“Byron Dawson, how the hell are you?” The woman was sitting in the bed


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