Suder by Percival Everett

her clothes and runs out.
    I pull my britches on and step up to the deck and see the woman who was with me running down the pier. Sid is doing pushups and two real-made-up women are watching him.
    â€œHow many is that, sugar?” Sid asks one of the women.
    â€œTwenty-something,” she says.
    Then as Sid is holding himself up, arms stiff, he vomits.
    â€œMaybe you should stop,” says the other woman.
    â€œNaw,” Sid says and continues to do pushups. He does about four more and his face is coming really close to his mess. Then he passes out and plops facedown into his vomit.
    The women look at each other and frown and then pick up their things and leave the boat. I watch them as they stagger away down the pier and along the waterfront. Then I check on Sid. I’m afraid he might drown in his puke, so I roll him over and pull his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe his face.
    Sid comes to. “How many was that?” he asks and then he passes out again.
    I toss a blanket over him and then I climb back down into the cabin and go to sleep.
    We played church-league baseball. Martin and I were teammates on the First Calvary Baptist Bulldogs. Bud and Ma came to watch us play the Bethel A.M.E. Tigers. Daddy had to work. I was glad Bud had come, but it sorta turned my stomach to see Ma in the stands, with all the other parents, wearing her heavy coat. It was ninety-five degrees.
    The first time Martin stepped up to bat, Ma ran down the bleachers and to the high fence behind the catcher. Her fingers grabbed the chain-link fence like she was a caged animal. She yelled at Martin. “You pull on yourself, Martin!” She moved along the fence. “You’re a disgusting person, Martin! My son, the pervert!” Martin looked ahead at the pitcher. “Clench that bat, Martin!” Ma shouted. “Wrap those nasty fingers around it. Is that how you hold it, Martin?”
    Martin swung wildly at three pitches and was out.
    â€œYou’re out, Martin! You’re out! Now you can do it on the bench!”
    Bud came down and grabbed Ma and pulled her back to the bleachers.
    Then I came up to bat. “Come on, Craigie!” Ma screamed. I slapped the ball into an empty spot in left field and started for first. All of a sudden I realized that I wasn’t alone on the baseline. Ma was beside me. “Come on,” she said, “hurry up, move it.” I stopped running and looked over at Mr. Jeffcoat, the manager of our team; his face was in his hands. I looked at Bud and he shrugged his shoulders. The left fielder held the ball and looked on. Ma was at first base now, yelling for me to come in. I trotted on to first. The umpire asked Ma to leave the playing area. She nodded and walked back toward the bleachers.
    On her way to the stands, Ma stopped at the Bulldog bench to yell at Martin. “Your brother got a hit, Martin. Why couldn’t you? Does the hair on your palms make the bat slip?”
    Martin got up and ran away. I just stood with my foot on first, my hands resting on my knees and tears rolling down my face.
    Soon the game was going again. I tried to endure the embarrassment, but I failed. As soon as our side was out, I slipped away and ran home.
    Martin was lying facedown on his bed, crying, when I walked in.
    â€œAre you okay?” I asked.
    He sat up quickly and glared at me. “Just go away. Why don’t you and Ma just go away?”
    â€œI didn’t do anything.”
    â€œLeave me alone.” He ran out of the room.
    I stretched out on my bed and looked at the ceiling. I tried to hate Ma, but I didn’t understand enough to hate her. I was just confused. I wondered if the fact that I didn’t hate her meant that I was crazy.
    That night we sat around and listened to Bud play the piano. Daddy and I really enjoyed it, but Martin seemed annoyed. He was upset about the game and not thrilled at all by Bud Powell’s presence.
    â€œPlay that