—Maniac Magee—
by Jerry Spinelli

Chapter 31

 

It was still dark when Maniac awoke on Christmas morning. Within an hour or two, the holiday would come bounding down the stairs and squealing 'round the tinseled trees of Two Mills. But for the moment, Christmas bided its time outside, a purer presence.

Maniac shook Grayson awake, but stayed the old man's hand when he reached to turn on the light. They bundled themselves and ventured into the silent night. Maniac carried a paper bag.

Snow had fallen several days before. In much of the town it had been plowed, shoveled, and slushed away; but in the park --- along the creek, the woods, the playing fields, the playground --- it still lay undisturbed, save for the tracks of rabbits and squirrels. Beyond the tall pines, stars glittered like snowflakes reluctant to fall.

They visited their tree. They stood silently, just to be near it, letting the magic of it drift over them. In the pine-patched moonlight, the Queen Anne's goblets looked for all the world like filigreed silver.

They walked the creek woods all the way to the zoo, meandering wordlessly throughout the snowy enchantment. As if by design, they both stopped at the same spot, above the half-submerged, rooty clump of a fallen tree. Somewhere under there, they knew, was the den of a family of muskrats. The old man laid a pine branch at the doorway. Maniac whispered: "Merry Christmas."

They visited the animals at the zoo, at least the outdoor ones, wishing them a happy holiday. The ducks seemed particularly pleased to see them.

By the time they came to the buffalo pen, dawn was showing through the trees. Before the old man finished saying, "Wanna boost?" Maniac was up and over the fence. If mother buffalo was glad to see the fence-hopping human again, she didn't show it. But Baby came trotting on over, and the two of them had a warm reunion. Before leaving, Maniac reached into the paper bag and brought out a present. "For you," he said. It was a scarf --- or rather, three scarves tied together. He wrapped them around Baby's neck. "Next year I'll get you stockings for your horns," he grinned, "if you have them by then." A final nuzzle, and he was back over the fence.

They headed back home as the town awoke. Breakfast was eggnog and hot tea and cookies and carols and colored lights and love.

As in all happy Christmas homes, the gifts were under the tree. Maniac gave Grayson a pair of gloves and a woolen cap and a book. The book did not appear to be as sturdy as the others lying around. The cover was blue construction paper, and the spine, instead of being bound, was stapled. The text was hand-lettered, and the pictures were stick figures. The title was The Man Who Struck Out Willie Mays. The author's name, which Grayson read aloud with some difficulty, was Jeffrey L. Magee.

Maniac, in his turn, opened packages to find a pair of gloves, a box of butterscotch Krimpets, and a spanking, snow white, never-ever-used baseball.

He was overjoyed. He rushed to the old man and hugged him. The old man put up with that for a second, then pulled away. "Hold on," he said. He went to one of the baseball equipment bags and reached in, tunneled down to the bottom, and came up with another package, this one wrapped crudely in newspaper. "Hiding this'n," he said. "Didn't know if you're the kinda kid sneaks looks."

Maniac tore it open --- and gaped helplessly when he saw what it was. To anyone else, it was a ratty old scrap of leather, barely recognizable as a baseball glove, fit for the garbage can. But Maniac knew at once this was Grayson's, the one he had played with all those years in the Minors. It was limp, flat, the pocket long since gone. Slowly, timidly, as though entering a shrine, the boy's fingers crept into it, flexed, curled the cracked leather, brought it back to shape, to life. He laid the new ball in the palm, pressed glove and ball together, and the glove remembered and gave way and made a pocket for the ball.

The boy could not take his eyes off the glove. The old man could not take his eyes off the boy. The record player finished the "Christmas Polka" and clicked off, and for a long time there was silence.

Five days later the old man was dead.