The Prospect, Eliot Parker [free ebooks for android .TXT] 📗

Olivia’s eyes matched Shane’s glance and she exhibited another wide smile. She did not speak.
“Shane my boy, you are here. Welcome to our home.” The boisterous voice was from Morton Mitchell, who had slipped into the room from the doorway to the living room. “Come on back here, I need to show you something.”
Olivia loosened the grip, and Shane sauntered behind the mayor. The living room was not spacious, but quaint. It featured an oak coffee table, two chairs and a couch. The mayor walked into the next room; the room Shane could not see from the foyer. Once inside, the pitcher was inundated with shouts of voices and bright flashes of light.
“I hope you don’t mind that I invited a few friends over before we eat. I didn’t think you would mind,” echoed the mayor over all the commotion. Shane blinked quickly and was greeted by three media reporters and a black microphone inserted inches away from his face.
The first man introduced himself as Larry Kimsome from WQBE radio in Charleston. Larry spoke in a deep, thoughtful voice. “Tell me Shane, you made it to the ABA All-Star game. You and Jason Rowan were the first two players to ever make it from Sheaville. How do you feel about that?
“Well, uh, great sir, I guess.” Shane was unaccustomed to doing interviews. The only media coverage he knew about was the stories from Frank Miller, Phil Rodney, or occasional stories from the Charleston Gazette. Shane wondered why WCHS-580 AM was not there.
“So, what has been the biggest key to your success?” Kimsome asked.
“Well, the success of my fastball and curveball have helped and I have received lots of defensive help from my teammates, uh Chaz Martinez, Harry Deitzler, and Ryan Head. That’s about it.”
Larry pulled the microphone away and abdicated a question to a newspaper reporter, presumably from the Charleston Gazette. The reporter was a heavy, balding fellow with a small, inward turning mustache. “Shane, what are your thoughts on the fight with the Charleston RiverDogs? The suspensions have not been handed down yet. Will that affect your teams run to the ABA title?”
“No sir, we are a….a talented team. Walter Mann has already talked to us about it. We will be fine.”
“Mayor,” inquired the reporter, “you have been instrumental in working with the Loggers and promoting them heavily. How proud are you about the success of this team and of Shane Triplet?”
Morton spoke confidently. “Well, I am delighted in the success of the team.” Shane was shocked as his face scowled and he faced the mayor. “The people of Sheaville love and support this team. It is my honor and responsibility as mayor to support this team in anyway I can.”
Olivia poked her head around the doorway, opened her mouth, and stuck her finger into the back of her mouth. Shane laughed and Olivia quickly vanished.
“Okay guys that is all for now. We will talk to you later after the All-Star break,” directed Morton.
The reporters marched out of the room and out the front door. The mayor patted his stomach with both hands. “Well, that went well, Shane. Let’s eat!”

XX
In contrast to the rest of the house, the kitchen was rather plain. The table was round and uneven, but it was decorated with colorful napkins and a beautiful center piece floral arrangement. Shane leaned to Chaz who was beginning to sit down.
Shane sat down next to Chaz and Morton and Olivia slowly made their way into the seats. “Before we begin, Olivia is going to say grace,” the mayor said. Chaz bowed and closed his eyes, understanding the normal protocol of the dinner prayer. Shane dipped his head, unsure of what to do next. I have never prayed before eating, he thought to himself.
“Dear heavenly father,” Olivia proceeded, “be present at our table lord; be comfort everywhere adored; in comfort’s bless we grant to to thee; to feast in paradise with thee; amen.”
Morton raced into the kitchen and brought back a pip ling hot pan of pre-sliced lasagna and sat it down in the middle of the table. “Dig in folks!”
Chaz, Olivia, and Morton frantically stuck unraveled the silverware and prodded the lasagna. Shane sat on his hands, not making a sound. Olivia scooped a generous square of the meal and slid it onto Shane’s plate.
“You can eat whenever silly,” she suggested. Chaz and the mayor had already devoured half of their squares as Shane cut into his, launching droplets of tomato sauce onto his gray sports coat. “Shit!” he exclaimed. Everyone’s forks stopped moving and the table fell silent. All eyes were focused on him.
“Uh, sorry about that.”
“So Shane,” interrupted the mayor. I worked with your dad a long time ago in Harlan Shea’s sawmill. Roger was a fine man, one of the best workers at the mill.”
Shane sensed that, like Olivia, Morton loved to engage people in a fencing of words contest over a pre-determined topic. Up to the challenge, Shane returned his verbal volley.
“Really? What did you do at the mill?”
“I was an electrician. I was responsible for keeping the power churning up there. It was quite a responsibility, but I loved it. Harlan paid me well too.”
“Then you ended up in politics because….”
“It was…a way to serve the public,” the mayor hedged. “When the mill closed down, I was not willing to leave the area. So, I figured the best way to give something back was to serve the people.”
Now halfway through the meal, Olivia and Chaz essentially had their noses buried in the food. Shane had not eaten, and the smell of the Italian dish was now making his mouth water incessantly.
“My dad loved to work at the mill,” Shane said, slowly cutting the lasagna. “At least that is what mamma says.” Morton Mitchell glanced at Shane through the tops of his eyeballs as the knife drove through the noodles vigorously.
Listening intently to the pandering and rambling of the mayor, Shane continued to mentally mull over the information. The pitcher found it odd that his mother had never mentioned Morton Mitchell’s name when discussing his father.
Chaz and Olivia focused squarely on the plates of lasagna in front of them.
“Shane, you should probably begin eating. Your food is going to get cold,” recommended Olivia, taking advantage of the first moment of silence. Chaz glared at his best friend, seeming relived that someone had enough courage to change the topic of conversation.
Shane could feel the muscles in his neck tighten as he swallowed. He nodded to Olivia appreciatively, and reached for his silverware, which was encased in a beautiful red cloth napkin, similar to the color of the lasagna sauce.
With his hand quivering, partly because of nervousness, he slowly tugged on one end of the napkin. This motion rolled the silverware towards the end of the table, and eventually the silver fork and knife reached the floor below.
Startled, Chaz stood up and blurted out, “Oh, let me get you some more.” Olivia responded with her own offering. “No, no, Chaz, you keep eating, I’ll get it.” Before either could move, Morton had already pushed his chair backwards against the wall and headed for the kitchen.
All Shane could do was feel droplets of perspiration trickle down his well-defined chest and seep out from his underarms. His face felt hot, yet singed with the common heat associated with embarrassment. Chaz leaned forward and shot a glare directly at Olivia.
“What is going on here?”
“How should I know, and keep your voice down,” she ordered.
“What’s going on here is pretty simple, really,” Shane added. “I am nervous as hell about sitting here in this suit, totally uncomfortable, and I just dumped the nicest looking fork and knife I have ever seen all over the floor.”
Chaz chuckled at Shane’s honesty, prompting Olivia to kick him in the shin underneath the table. She turned to scold Shane for his comments, but Morton Mitchell suddenly reappeared and gave Shane some more silverware, this time resting separately on top of the napkin.
Shane looked away, placed the napkin over his lap, and began diving into the lasagna. Slightly cooled, the piece of Italian cuisine was still soft and gooey. In a manner resembling a wolf consuming a helpless deer, he tore into the meal, shoveling generous helpings of noodles, cheese, and sauce into his mouth. His lips smacked with pleasure as dribbles of food slid down his chin and onto his suit pants, prompting Chaz Martinez to drop his head in disbelief and Olivia to smirk helplessly at her father as he systematically observed every movement Shane was making.
“This is good, really good,” Shane managed to say, although a full palate hindered his enunciation.
As Shane continued to eat, the phone rang. The mayor stood up, softly patted his daughter on the arm as he walked past her and went into the living room. From a distance, Chaz tired to discern what the mayor was saying, but all he could recognize was “okay.”
Morton left the living room and walked into the foyer of the house. He grabbed a Sheaville Loggers baseball cap and reentered the dining room.
Condescendingly, he stood above the seated guests, informing them that there had been a situation that occurred in town that demanded his attention. “John and Marge McCutcheon wrecked their car into a light pole a little while ago. They are okay but Phil and Frank are concerned that they will not have any power tomorrow for their stores. I will be back in a little while. Boy, old people cannot drive for anything!”
Shane quit binging long enough to hear the announcement. “Say, Chaz, why don’t you come with me,” inquired the mayor. Frank might need someone small to fit in the crawlspace in the back of the drugstore to check the electric wiring”
“Uh, well, I….”
“Great, I appreciate you volunteering.” With that said, the mayor walked around and grabbed the shortstop by the arm and yanked him upright. “Sir, I never really considered myself ‘small’….” Chaz’s voice faded and the front door slammed shut moments later.
As Shane’s attention focused back on the table, Olivia was already engaged with her customary tradition in the Mitchell home: clean up the dishes every night. For Shane, the whole procedure reminded him of what Jack Busby and his mother Joann participated in on a daily basis.
Olivia stacked the plates in one hand, the silverware in the other. The plates nearly covered her mouth. “You can help me if you want, Shane. Or you can sit there. Your choice.” Glad the dinner event was somewhat over, Shane followed her into the kitchen.
It was decided by Olivia that Shane would hand her the plates, and she would rinse them with warm water and place them in the dishwasher.
Shane removed his coat and placed it over the chair in the dining room. His shirt was blotched with sweat; an undershirt would have prevented it from happening. Nonetheless, Shane had very little experience washing dishes. Joann did not cook much and Shane normally ate, if and when he ate, at Ruth’s Diner.
“Sorry about tonight being such a disaster,” Shane said apologetically. “I think that if we ever go to dinner again that we should go to the diner or go to Charleston or something. It just seems that your dad and I do not communicate well.”
“You just have to ignore him most of the time,” Olivia responded, gently massaging the damp washcloth over a red stained white plate. “He is just who he is. I think that he has too much pride for his own good sometimes. But he is very passionate. He loves this town, loves his job, and…”