A Window to Ebbets Field (standard:drama, 6695 words)
Author: TJC	Added: Apr 10 2005	Views/Reads: 3672/2373	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.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

set in the upright position and wore a pale green robe with the bed 
sheets covering her up past her waist.  Her small frame hardly matched 
the power of her voice or bearing.  “I'm Georgia Lee,” she said as she 
extended her hand. 

“It's a pleasure,” I said as I walked over and shook her frail hand. 
Her grip was stronger than I would have guessed.  She wore her short 
gray hair simply over her wrinkled and scowling face.  From the hoods 
of her eyelids peered a pair of bright, blue eyes.  They portrayed a 
sharp intelligence. 

“Liar,” she said.  “Pleasure my ass.  Sit down.” 

The room was quite nice, at least for one in a rest home.  A clean blue
carpet covered the floor and there were a small table and two chairs 
and a tan recliner chair to the side of her bed.  There was a large 
window, but any view it gave was covered by the closed white curtains.  
She had a small television sitting on a four-drawer dresser.  
Everything appeared to be state of the art and modern except for what 
looked like an old wooden box under the table that was about the size 
of a microwave oven.  Assorted simple prints of landscapes adorned her 
walls.  There were several air fresheners about giving the room a 
better fragrance than the rest of the care center. 

“So what can I do for you, Mrs. Lee?” 

“Georgia,” she said.  “I'll call you Byron.” 

“That'll be fine.”  I sat up in the chair with my elbows on my knees, my
hands folded.  “I'm sorry you're ill.  Hopefully soon you'll feel 
better.” 

“I'm not ill, Byron, I'm dying.  Big difference.” 

I wasn't sure how to respond.  The woman was unnerving me to the point
where all I wanted was to find out what she wanted and get out of her 
room. 

“Your novel sucked,” she said, coughing.  She took a cup from her side
table and spit it into it. 

I nodded without reacting.  “At least you read it,” I said finally. 

“Read it?” she laughed.  “I did no such thing.” 

“Well, okay...” 

“I can take one bite of a sandwich and know right away if it's shit. 
Get my meaning?” 

“A fine metaphor.  Is this why you asked me here?  To tell me my work
sucks?”  My patience was wearing thin.  The nurse had been right; she 
was a disagreeable old bag. 

Her eyes stared at me with the brightness of headlights. "You write
baseball books too, Byron.  I love baseball and I think that you do 
too.” 

“Yes I do, but the novels sell a little better.” 

“Money should not be the reason one pursues art.” 

“Tell that to my three ex-wives.” 

The old woman laughed heartily and smiled at me.  It was a warm and
friendly smile. 

“Kids?” 

“Two boys. Both are adults now.” 

“Same mothers?” 

“Different mothers.  My first two wives.” 

“At least you escaped one without children,” she laughed. 

“Georgia, what is it you want of me?”  I wanted to get to the point and
end this visit. 

After smiling and nodding her head she said, “I want you to write about
baseball.  It's what your best at.  One should do what they're best at, 
don't you think?” 

I nodded my head and just let continue. 

“The Southpaws was a wonderful book.  I couldn't put that down.” 

“You read The Southpaws?”  It was a book I'd authored a few years
earlier that detailed the history of left-handed pitchers in the Major 
Leagues.  It had done fairly well, but its appeal was limited.  For me, 
though, it was a labor of love.  The old woman was right about my 
loving baseball. 

“I loved it.  Whom would you say was the best lefty of all-time?” 

“It's hard to compare eras, but I think one couldn't go wrong with
Warren Spahn, Sandy Koufax or Randy Johnson today.  We also shouldn't 
forget Lefty Grove or Steve Carlton.” 

“We had decent success against Spahn but he was great,” said Georgia. 

“We?” 

“Brooklyn.” 

“You're from Brooklyn?”  My interest peaked.  “I've always loved
Brooklyn Dodger history,” I told her.  “That's funny when you consider 
I can't stand the Los Angeles Dodgers.” 

“The Los Angeles who?” she asked with a smirk. 

“Exactly.” 

“Tell me, why do you dislike Los Angeles?  You're not from Brooklyn,
your bio on The Southpaws lists you as growing up in Chicago.” 

I nodded and said I was from Chicago but then went into my usual rant on
the difference between the old Brooklyn Dodgers and the Hollywood 
version of the franchise.  It was my opinion that the old Brooklyn team 
represented the common man, especially against the New York Yankees.  
It was a ball club beloved by a neighborhood like a small town embraced 
its high school team.  Once in southern California, however, the 
Dodgers embraced Hollywood and glitz and glamour.  In no time they 
became the west coast version of the Yankees and played with an aura of 
superiority as if they did the rest of the league a favor by being in 
it. 

Georgia Lee and I began to exchange life stories.  Suddenly I was
enjoying my visit.  I told her I'd grown up outside of Chicago and 
loved Wrigley Field and the Cubs much the same way she'd felt about 
Brooklyn and Ebbets Field.   After my third marriage ended, I'd decided 
to get a fresh start as well as get away from the cold weather by 
coming to New Orleans.  Georgia's path to Louisiana was a bit 
different.  She'd been born in 1939, the only daughter of middle class 
parents.  They had picked ‘Georgia' for her name from the state they'd 
honeymooned in and as the place she was conceived.  From the start 
she'd been rebellious and constantly in trouble.  That was something I 
could easily picture.  Aside from boys, all she cared about was the 
Dodgers.  When she graduated high school in 1958 her Dodgers were 
moving out west and she found herself married to a young manager of a 
fish market. 

“Byron, I tried to be the good little wife, but it wasn't in me.” 

“You were young.” 

“I was bored to fucking tears, kid.”  She coughed and again spit into
the cup.  Then she opened the small drawer on her night stand and 
pulled out a photograph and handed it to me.  “Not bad, eh?  Believe me 
I never had any trouble getting a man's company, if I wanted it.” 

It was a photograph of a young Georgia Lee. She was strikingly beautiful
with short blonde hair, wearing a tight red dress and a black hat.  The 
photo was taken along a city street somewhere.  It almost looked like 
Marilyn Monroe, but it was Georgia Lee.  She had been a  woman that 
absolutely oozed sexuality. 

“Beautiful,” I said.  The same eyes gleaming in the photo were staring
at me now. 

She'd left her husband in 1961 and met a woman who'd gotten her involved
in the news business, not long after she went from copy-girl to 
reporter.  Over the years she worked for several papers around the 
country but was continually refused the chance to write sports. 

“I was good at it,” she said with a smile.  “But they were never going
to give a woman a chance.  It's better nowadays, but oh well...... I 
was working for a paper down here when I quit for good.” 

“What about the loss of income?” 

She waved me off.  “They weren't paying me for shit.  I did manage to
scrape together some dough to buy an old bookstore in the French 
Quarter and made a good living.  I was a damn good businesswoman.” 

“You never thought about home?” 

“My home was wherever I was.”  Georgia Lee then looked away with a far
away gaze.  “I do think about Brooklyn, though, and about Ebbets Field. 
I loved it there.  No place in the world ever made me so happy.” 

“My best memories are of Wrigley Field and the Cubs, so I think I can
understand.” 

“Big difference, Byron,” she snapped.  “Wrigley and the Cubs are still
there.  Ebbets Field is gone.....and soon....I'll be gone too.”  She 
returned her gaze to me and smiled sadly.  “Oh enough of this crap.  
See that box under the table?” 

I nodded. 

“Pick it up and open it, would you?” 

After getting up and putting the box on the small table, I pulled on the
clasps which freed the snaps with a sharp pop.  I looked back and saw 
she was smiling and so I lifted the top and found what the locals 
called a voodoo altar cloth.  There were also some runes- pieces of 
bone with symbols etched into them- along with a copper amulet of a 
woman.  I picked up the amulet because it was shiny and new.  It felt 
heavy. 

“You're into voodoo I see.” 

“I dabble.  More of a hobby and a way to keep the staff and other
residents here from bugging me.  That's the afterlife goddess, 
protectress of the dead.  Figured having it wouldn't hurt.” 

“I don't know much about voodoo, Georgia.  Why are you showing me this?”
 Georgia Lee was an old white woman that I'd never have guessed she was 
into voodoo.  I was  uncomfortable. 

“Voodoo is not something to fear,” she said as if reading my mind. “It's
more about passion, pleasure and prosperity than it is about spells and 
magic.” 

I nodded and put the amulet back with the other items. 

“Lift the top tray out and put it aside.  I wouldn't have you look in
there to see voodoo trinkets, you dolt.” 

Georgia's personality could switch gears like a well-oiled machine.  One
minute we were talking about baseball and becoming friends and the next 
she was calling me names. Clenching my teeth I decided against playing 
into her barb, after all the woman was dying.  I put the tray of voodoo 
materials on the table.  Lower half of the box revealed items of 
altogether different nature. 

“My god,” I said.  “This stuff is amazing.” 

“I thought you might find it interesting.” 

There were baseball cards galore; all Brooklyn Dodgers.  The years
ranged from 1941 through the mid 1950's.  A 1956 Jackie Robinson that 
looked brand new.  The 1952 Duke Snider was immaculate.  There were 
also a dozen or so scorecards, including one from the 1947 World Series 
game in which Yankee pitcher Bill Bevens nearly threw a no-hitter only 
to have broken up by Cookie Lavagetto in the 9th inning. 

“I was only eight years-old when I scored that game,” said Georgia Lee. 
“You know, I can still see the ball screaming off Cookie's bat.  It was 
wonderful.  Looked like a no-hitter for the Yankees but his hit drove 
two runs to win it for us.” 

“I've seen film of it,” I said.  “It must have been something.” 

“We still lost the series, though.  Then nine years later Larsen did
manage to no-hit us.” 

“It was a perfect game.” 

“Yeah, let's not talk about it.” 

“You guys took in ‘55, though.” By now I was holding two first editions
of classic baseball books.  The Boys of Summer, Roger Kahn's brilliant 
narrative of the Brooklyn Dodgers, and The Summer Game, a collection of 
baseball essays by Roger Angell. Both were among any baseball fan's 
must-have-reading-list.  The two copies in my hands were both signed by 
the authors. 

“You could write like those Roger fellas,” Georgia said.  “Forget the
damn novels and write about baseball.” 

“I'm honored you would even compare me to these two-” I stopped when I
saw a copy of The Southpaws saying there.  She'd said she'd read it, 
but for her to keep it in this box gave me a feeling of legitimacy in 
some way. 

“I'm sure you won't mind signing that third book in there,” she said. 
“Right?” 

I shook my head and picked up the book and wrote a quick ‘Best wishes,
Byron Dawson.' I also added, ‘Love Dem Bums.'  ‘Bums' was the term of 
affection Brooklyn fans used for their Dodgers. 

“See the hat?” 

Again I nodded, picking up a blue Dodger hat.  Under the bill it had a
signature. 

“You've heard of Preacher Roe, I trust?” 

“Of course.” I let my fingers play with the embroidered B on the front
of the cap. “He was a fine pitcher.” 

“He was my favorite player.  He signed that hat and gave it to me in
1951.  It's probably my most prized possession in all the world.” 

“1951, huh?”  The year the Dodgers blew a 13 game lead to the Giants
culminated by Bobby Thomson's homer to win the pennant. 

“Yeah.  That takes the sting out of what happened to end that year.” 

“Georgia, this is a fine collection,” I said as I placed the items back
into the box.  “I really am honored you have my book in there.”  After 
carefully placing the tray with the voodoo items back into the box, I 
closed it and replaced it back under the table where she had it.  She 
was looking at the covered window, but her gaze told me she was looking 
into some distant time or memory.  The last thing I wanted to do was 
intrude on her thoughts, but her eyes looked sad and so I walked over 
and gently touched her shoulder. “Thank you.  I mean that.” 

The old woman smiled up at me and placed her hand on mine.  “As one's
mortality begins knocking at the front door, I think it must be natural 
to listen for the echoes coming from the back door, don't you?” 

“I suppose it is, yes.” 

“Would you mind terribly coming back to see me sometime?  Maybe talk
some baseball?” 

“I'd like that,” I replied.  Suddenly I was seeing another side of
Georgia Lee.  She seemed  quiet, lonely and in need of friendship.  
“You're an interesting woman, Ms. Georgia Lee.” 

“Yeah?  Don't even think about making me some worthless bimbo in one of
your stupid novels.” 

Did I say ‘quiet?' I thought to myself with a smile.   “You wouldn't
want to be in one of my novels?” 

“Hell no.  You need to write about baseball, understand?” 

“Okay, okay,” I laughed.  “Perhaps on my next visit you and I can go
over some ideas.  How's that sound?” 

“I think I'd better help you, yes.  Now get rolling.” Georgia Lee
clicked her remote and was watching televison went I left her room. 

After exiting her room I walked down the long corridor toward the
reception room.  In my head I was going over my schedule so I could 
figure out a good time to come back when I was approached by a young 
man with red hair in a powder blue pants and shirt.  He was an orderly 
of some sort and he had a peculiar look on his face. 

“Mister?” 

“Yes?” I stopped and watched him stride up to me quite close. 

“You have to be careful with her,” he whispered. 

“I do?” I said to humor him. 

He nodded.  “She's a witch.” 

After thanking the boy for the warning, I walked away with a smile on my
face.  I thought of the voodoo items in the box and remembered Georgia 
saying she dabbled in it to spook the staff a bit.  It appeared to be 
working.  Following that initial meeting with Georgia Lee, I began 
visiting every week or thereabouts depending on my schedule.  She made 
me laugh with her crotchety old woman act because I now knew her 
personally and felt she was just a lonely woman who was trying to 
convince the world she could still handle herself and anything life 
threw her way.  More than anything else, we sat around and talked about 
baseball.  We had long discussions on who is a better pitcher, Sandy 
Koufax or Randy Johnson, whether Babe Ruth was better offensively than 
Ted Williams, and the merits or lack thereof of the designated hitter.  
She was an insightful and entertaining woman so at night I found myself 
writing about our conversations, especially those that ended up being 
about Brooklyn and Ebbets Field.  She wanted no part of me taking notes 
during our conversations, so my powers of memory had to suffice.  Her 
eyes would just light up when discussing the games she saw and the many 
characters around the old ballpark such as Hilda Chester, a woman who 
regularly sat in the centerfield bleachers and rang a cowbell 
incessantly, and the Dodger Sym-Phony as they were called. They were a 
crazy bunch of men that went around playing their instruments poorly 
but whom the fans just adored.  In no time at all, she had become a 
wonderful part of my life.  All the while, however, her health 
continued to deteriorate.  I wanted to get her something special to 
brighten her days and I found it at a local gallery. 

The lithograph was brilliantly colored.  It was Ebbets Field as seen
from the lower grandstand along the first base line, just up from the 
box seats.  It depicted a bright sunny afternoon with the Dodgers 
battling the Philadelphia Phillies.  Jackie Robinson was batting and 
the sizable scoreboard, which jutted out five feet from the rightfield 
fence,  indicated Brooklyn led 2-0 in the 5th inning.  The Schaefer 
Beer sign could be seen in bright red as could the yellow Abe Stark 
sign which challenged batters to “Hit it here and win a suit.” Carl 
Furillo, the Dodger right fielder when Georgia was a girl, was said to 
be an expert at keeping enemy batters from ever collecting that prize.  
I purchased the print and couldn't wait to present it to my new friend. 


Georgia's eyes welled up with tears as she held the lithograph.  “It's
like a window to Ebbets Field,” she said as she reached out and took my 
hand.  “Thank you, Byron.” 

“It's my pleasure,” I said.  I put the picture on the floor against the
wall.  “I should see if I can get someone to put it up for you.” 

“I'll have someone do it later,” she replied.  “That was a wonderful
gesture and I won't ever forget it.” 

“Georgia it's nothing.  I've loved our visits and I wanted to get you
something special.”  I wasn't sure she heard me, though.  She was 
staring off into space again as she did every so often.  This time, 
however, it appeared more that she was thinking about something rather 
than revisiting an old memory.  “Georgia?” 

She snapped out of it and looked at me with a serious gaze through
suddenly dry eyes.  “Byron, are you writing anything?  I mean are you 
working on something baseball-related?” 

“Yes, I've started to do some preliminary work on a project.”  I hoped
she wasn't going to ask what it was about.  I never discussed projects 
that were in progress, not even with my agent. 

“Good.  Very good.”  A smile crossed her lips slowly and she looked back
at the lithograph before returning her gaze to me.  “Good things are 
ahead of you, Byron.  I just know it.” 

“I could use some good times,” I chuckled. 

“Could I trouble you for a favor?” 

“Of course.” 

“I assume you know St Louis Cemetery number one?” 

I nodded.  It was the oldest of the famous New Orleans cemeteries.  Old
family tombs brought in thousands of tourists each year.  It was there 
that the worlds of history, culture, death and voodoo intersected 
better than any other place in the city. 

“Then I assume you know of the crypt belonging to Marie Laveau?” asked
Georgia. 

“Yes,” was all I said, suddenly not feeling good about where she was
going.  Marie Laveau was a New Orleans legend.  She'd lived in the city 
during the early 19th century and was well known in her time as a 
voodoo queen of great power.  It was Laveau that brought holy water and 
incense to the voodoo religion long before the Catholics adopted both 
for themselves.  Many stories of strange experiences had been reported 
at her tomb: Ghostly sightings caught on film, sudden changes in 
temperature, even tales of voices being heard from inside the stone 
crypt. 

“I want you to buy a dozen roses, assorted colors, and leave them at her
grave.” 

“What?” 

“Too many people leave offerings after the request has been granted, but
it is far more effective to leave an offering before as a gesture of 
good will.” 

“What request?”  I shook my head.  “I'm not a believer in this sort of
thing.  I'll feel stupid and it kind of gives me the creeps too.” 

“I also want you to take along a knife and carve an X into the stone,”
she said, ignoring my question and statement.  “There are several 
carved into the crypt wall by others, so just find an empty spot.” 

“Why are you asking me to do this?” I wanted no part of this.  There was
no chance, though, that I'd refuse.  The woman was dying and this might 
be a form of a last request. 

“Because I'm asking her for a service,” she replied finally.  “A favor. 
In fact, two favors. One for you and one for me.” 

“I don't need a favor.”  I looked at her, our eyes locked.  Finally I
broke the stare and spoke quietly.  “If you really need me to do this, 
I will.” 

“I do.”  She smiled and took my hand.  Once again we looked into each
other's gaze.  “Then later, after the wish is granted, if she so 
desires to grant me this, I will need you to go back and carve a circle 
around the X.” 

“Oh come on, Georgia-” 

“Will you do it or not?” she snapped. 

“Yes, yes I'll do it, but I think this is all nonsense. Like I said, I'm
not much of a believer.” 

“What do you believe in?” 

I shrugged.  There wasn't much spiritually that I took much stock in. 

“I believe enough for both of us,” she said in a kinder voice.   “It's
quite important to me, Byron, and it's vital that you circle the X once 
the wish is granted.” 

“Okay, I carve an X into the stone and when you tell me she came through
for you I'm to go back and carve a circle around it.” 

Georgia Lee suddenly burst into a type of maniacal laughter that
startled me.  I tried to interrupt her but she kept on laughing.  Only 
when an orderly entered the room did she stop. 

“Get the fuck out of her,” she yelled at the man. 

“I wanted to make sure-” he started to say. 

“Out!” 

The orderly quickly disappeared and I stood there dumbstruck.  “Are you
okay, Georgia?” 

“Yes,” she said.  “These people just annoy the hell out of me.” 

“That's not what I meant.” 

“I know, silly.”  She coughed and spit into her cup.  “Byron, you need
to open your mind.  Anyone ever told you that?” 

“You've lost me.  What are you talking about?” 

“I'm asking Marie Laveau for a favor to be granted, but her answer will
not come until after I die.”   Her eyes pierced into mine.  I felt a 
chill slide up my spine.  My lack of faith in such things paled in 
comparison to Georgia Lee's belief in their legitimacy. 

“How will I know....if....”  I couldn't even say it. 

“You'll know,” Georgia said with a beaming, happy smile.  “You'll know.”


The following afternoon, around dinner time, which would cut down on the
tourists as fall between the day and night tour groups, I took a simple 
white vase of a dozen roses of assorted colors to the gray, stone crypt 
of the legendary Marie Laveau.  Most of the offerings already there 
were put off to either side of the structure and so I placed them to 
the side with the other flowers, burning candles and little figurines.  
It was the next part of the agreement that I was the most leery to 
perform; carving an X into the stone.  There were several all over the 
crypt, some circled some not.  After looking around to make sure nobody 
was looking, I carved the letter into an open spot on the front facing 
with my small pocket knife.  At no time did I hear any voices, feel any 
temperature change from the comfortable early November breeze, or see 
any ghostly images.  That said, I was still relieved my task was done 
and I could head home. 

A few days later I was back at the Creole Care Center to visit my
friend.  Georgia Lee was not at all well, I was told by an attendant in 
the lobby. 

“Can she have visitors?”  I asked. 

“Yes,” the young man said with a nod.  “There's someone in with her now.
 I just know you have come several times to see here so I thought I'd 
let you know she's near the end.” 

I felt bad inside.  I'd always known the end would come for my friend
but hearing this still shot through me like a blade to my heart.  Then 
it struck me that he'd said someone was in with her.  I'd just assumed 
I was her only visitor. 

“Is it family or a close friend?” 

The man shook his head.  “I've never seen him before.  In fact, other
than you she never gets visitors, until today that is.” 

“Perhaps I should wait and see her later?” 

It was then that an immensely tall black man came walking down the
corridor toward the lobby.  He was dressed in black from head to toe 
except for a gator claw necklace around his neck.  His head was clean 
shaven and he had a solemn, elegant look to his face. 

“That's the guy who was visiting her,” the young man whispered.  “Some
say he's a voodoo priest.” 

I paid little attention to the attendant because I was struck by what
the large man was carrying.  It was the Ebbets Field lithograph I'd 
purchased for Georgia.  For some reason, though, I didn't ask him about 
it.  I don't think it was fear, really, but uneasiness.  This feeling 
was exaggerated further when the man suddenly gave me a small smile and 
nod before he walked out of the care center. 

“Do you know him?” asked the attendant nervously. 

“I've never seen him.”  I came out of my shock and then looked at the
young man.  “May I go see Georgia now?” 

“Of course.” 

Georgia had the gray look of death to her face.  Only her blue eyes
appeared alive to me as I walked up to her bed and held her frail hand 
in mine.  She was hooked up to some sort of machine with a clear mask 
over her mouth.  The room permeated with the sterile smell of medicine. 


“Is there anything I can do?” I asked. 

Her expression clearly indicated to me that there was nothing anyone
could do.  She then motioned for me to lean over her.  As I tilted my 
ear to her face, she lifted the mask from her face. 

“Never come back,” she whispered.  “Please go.” 

I looked into her eyes and could see how serious she was.  She wanted me
to leave and never come back.  “I want to stay with you through this.  
You've become special to me.” 

Georgia Lee shook her head slowly and took a deep breath through her
mask.  She let go of my hand and reached into her gown and lifted out 
the protectress of the dead amulet that was around her neck.  It was 
the same one that had been inside her box.  She rubbed it gently with 
her fingers as she looked up at me. 

I was desperate to change the subject.  “Who was that carrying out your
Ebbets Field picture?” I asked in a gentle tone.  “You are going to 
pull through this.  Please don't start giving everything away.” 

Again she lifted her mask and whispered into my ear.  “He's doing me a
special favor.  Now please honor my last request and leave me.” 

I stood up straight and paced around the room.  Something was telling me
not to leave.  If I left, she would die.  I just knew it.  I wanted 
Georgia Lee to live and keep on living.  Anger filled me.  “You will 
not die.  Fight, Georgia!” Her sympathetic gaze was my only answer. 

“I wish you could have seen Ebbets Field,” she said in a weak voice, but
I could hear her clearly. 

“I do too.” 

“It was so beautiful and so much fun.”  Georgia got a pained look to her
face and put the mask on her face again. 

“Are you okay?  Should I call the nurse?”  I pressed the red button next
to her bed to call the nurses' desk.  “Someone come to Mrs. Lee's 
room,” I yelled. 

Georgia Lee was smiling and again lifted the mask.  “Write about
baseball, Byron,” she whispered.  “Don't forget to circle the X.” 

“Yes, yes, don't talk now.”  Behind me I could hear a nurse come in and
she immediately checked the machine. 

“You don't tell me what to do, you dolt,” she said with a slight laugh. 
I laughed and cried at the same time. 

Georgia Lee never spoke again. 

I offered to make the funeral arrangements, but the staff at the care
center informed me that Georgia had made arrangements to have her body 
donated to the medical school at Tulane University.  She had no family 
anywhere and so the staff gave me the box she'd kept under her table.  
Though I couldn't bring myself to open the box,  I was still honored to 
have it.  Eventually I would open it up and give some light to the 
treasured items of Georgia Lee.  The feeling of loss was over me like a 
blanket.  I missed her.  Writing was impossible.  Nothing would come to 
me, and when I tried to write about my conversations with Georgia I 
would break down.  “Hell, I didn't really even know her,” I'd tell 
myself, but it didn't matter.  Somehow she'd become someone I loved and 
now she was gone.  Work was impossible too.  I took a short leave of 
absence from the college to get my head together. 

Two weeks after her death there was a knock on the door of my apartment.
 Through my peep hole I saw the tall man who had left Georgia's room 
with the lithograph.  He again was dressed in black and wore the gator 
claw necklace around his neck.  My stomach was suddenly in knots as I 
opened the door. 

“This is for you,” he said.  Only then did I notice a large, flat
package in the shape of a picture leaning against his leg. It was 
wrapped in brown paper and probably 24x36.  He held it up and handed it 
to me.  It felt heavier than a standard picture. 

“Is this the Ebbets lithograph I gave Georgia?” 

“Not quite,” he said with a slight smile.  He then turned and walked
down the hall before he stopped and spoke to me again.  “By the way, I 
wouldn't put the glass on unless you're alone.”  After a wink he 
disappeared down the hall. 

Inside my apartment I placed the package flat on my table to gently tear
at the paper wrapping.  The tear revealed the scoreboard at Ebbets 
Field and soon the entire stadium was before me from a vantage point of 
the lower grandstand, a few rows up from the box seats.  It was nearly 
the same view as the lithograph except this was an oil painting done in 
impressionist style.  There was no signature mark in reference to the 
artist. I had no idea who had painted it, but I suspected it was the 
man who'd dropped it off.   The panorama of colors was brilliant.  The 
green of the grass, the kaleidoscope of ads adorning the outfield walls 
and scoreboard, the Dodgers in blue and white in their defensive 
positions while a red and gray clad batter readied himself at the 
plate.  Lifting the painting, I looked on the back for some sort of 
identifying mark but all I found was a pane of thick glass set in a 
groove on the rear of the frame.  I thought about what the tall man had 
said.  I wouldn't put the glass on unless you're alone.  There were 
grooves on the front side of the frame as well, and though as a rule 
oil paintings were not put under glass I lifted the pane through the 
grooves and set the painting flat so I could slide it into the front 
grooves.  It wasn't easy, the grooves were barely wide enough to take 
the glass, but eventually I got it to slide down into position.  As the 
glass covered the strokes on the canvas I felt my blood go cold. 

“My god,” I said aloud.  My body began to shake with both thrilling
exhilaration and terrifying fear.  Ebbets Field was alive with 
movement.  It was like a color film, no even more than that, like I was 
there looking through a window.  It was Stan Musial at the plate for 
St. Louis and he hit the ball to right but it was run down by Carl 
Furillo who then threw it in to Jackie Robinson at second base.  
Preacher Roe was on the mound waiting for the ball.  The stands were 
filled with fans. There was no sound, but in every other way I felt as 
if I was there.  “How can this be?” 

The phone began ringing.  I ignored it but it kept on. My machine was
off so unless they hung up it would keep ringing.  Without taking my 
eyes off the window, I reached over and picked up my portable phone.  
The caller ID said it was my agent, Jack. 

“Byron, I've got great news,” he said excitedly while I while stared at
the image in the frame. 

“Byron?  You there?” 

“Yeah,” I said finally.  In the box seat section I saw a flash of blonde
hair and a red dress.  My heart began racing. 

“HBO Sports just called me,” he said.  He waited for me to say something
but I was smiling at the smiling face of Georgia Lee looking up at me 
from her seat.  She was turned in her seat and gazing at me with 
knowing eyes.  “Did you hear me?” 

“Yes, that's great.....HBO?” 

“They do first rate sports documentaries and they want the rights to The
Southpaws.” 

My world was spinning.  I could see Georgia Lee, young and beautiful,
smiling up at me and blowing me a kiss while my agent was in a euphoria 
about one of my books. 

“They will have Liev Schreiber narrate it and they want you to write it
for them.  Byron, this is the big break.  This is it!” 

“It's great news,” I said.  Georgia waved to me and smiled a knowing
grin as if she knew exactly what was happening.  She then turned back 
to watch the game. 

“That's not all of it, Byron,” said Jack.  “They want to know if you
have anything else sports related?” 

“I'm working on something,” I told him.  “It's about Ebbets Field.” 

“Hasn't there been several things done on the Brooklyn Dodgers?” 

“This will be about the park, the neighborhood and some of the memorable
people who went there.” 

“Like who?” 

“Like Hilda Chester, the Dodger Sym-Phony, and a woman named Georgia
Lee.” 

“I think I've heard of the Chester woman, so when can you get it done?” 

I started laughing as happily as I had in a long time.  “Soon.  I'm
working on it, Jack.” 

“Good.  Congratulations, Byron.” 

I slid the glass out of the frame and the picture was once again an oil
painting.  If I wanted to see Georgia, though, I knew where I could 
find her.  It was best to let her have her time in the sun without my 
intrusive eyes, or so I felt.  Besides, I had writing to do, and a task 
to be performed at the cemetery- carving a circle around the X on Marie 
Laveau's tomb. 

TC 


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