Chapter 1Time was, on a summer afternoon in the northern Vermont hamlet of Kingdom Common, when Ethan Allen could walk completely around the rectangular village green and never be out of earshot of the Red Sox game on somebodys radio. Thats what E.A. was doing on the early afternoon of his eighth birthday. Hed started at the short south end of the green, where the Voice of the Sox was blaring out over Earl No Pearls portable, perched on the top row of the third-base bleachers beside the town ball diamond so that Earl could listen while he chalked the batters boxes and base lines for the Outlaws game that afternoon. The same resonant and, as it seemed to E.A. in those years, omniscient Voice was broadcasting the game from the dusty pickups angled diagonally against the long west side of the green across the street from the brick shopping block. Backcountry farmers in from the outlying hollows sat in their cabs with the windows down, listening to the play-by-play from Fenway while their wives did their Saturday marketing. As E.A. crossed over to the heaved blue-slate sidewalk in front of the stores, he could hear the Voice drifting out through the screen doors of the IGA, the hardware, the ve-and-dime, and the ofce of the Kingdom County Monitor, where Editor James Kinneson sat by the front window, typing and listening to the game. Since there was no local television station in the mountains of northern Vermont in those days, and no cable TV, every Sox fan in the village was listening to the game on the radio.E.A. stuck his head inside the newspaper ofce. "Hey, Editor."Editor Kinneson looked up and smiled. "Hey, Ethan.""I reckon were holding our own today," E.A. said, nodding toward the radio on the corner of the desk."So far," the editor said. "But you know us, Ethan. If theres a way to lose -""Well nd it," E.A. said, and ducked back outside.Editor James Kinneson always spoke to E.A. as if he were a man instead of a seven-year-old - as of today, an eight-year-old - kid. E.A. would give nearly anything to have it turn out that Editor K was the one. He knew better, though. He knew he might as well wish for the Sox to win the Series. It wasnt Editor Kinneson.He continued north along the brick block, with the buzz of the big Fenway crowd now coming through the screen door of Quinns Pharmacy. On the outside of the screen was what appeared to be a baseball. Actually, it was a baseball-size ball of cotton soaked with bug dope to keep away the ies. As E.A. approached, George Quinn II stepped outside in his white coat with his aerosol can and sprayed the cotton ball with a fresh dose of Old Woodsman. E.A. stared at him with his pale eyes. Hed seen the druggist eyeing Gypsy Lee when he thought no one was watching. He hadnt liked the way Quinn had looked at her."What are you staring at, E.A.?""You," E.A. said."Scat," George Quinn II said. Like a man shooing away a mangy stray cat, he gave the aerosol can a squirt in E.A Excerpted from Waiting for Teddy Williams by Howard Frank Mosher All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
