because of his allergies. He was allergic to pecans, eggplant, dogs, tomatoes, and spelt. She wasn't really sure what spelt was.
The plastic crinkled as he took out a tissue and passed it to her.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"About Albert?"
"No."
"Okay, then."
"Do you believe in, well, in the, uh, the 'little people'? You know."
" 'The little people,' " Jennifer T. said. It was not the question she had been expecting. "You mean…you mean like elves? Brownies?"
Ethan nodded.
"Not really," she said, though as we know this was not strictly true. She believed there had been elves, over in Switzerland or Sweden or wherever it was, and a tribe of foot-high Indians living in the trees of Clam Island. Once upon a time. "Do you?"
"Yeah," Ethan said. "I've seen them."
"You've seen elves."
"No, I haven't seen any elves. But I saw a pixie when I was like, two. And I've seen fer…some other ones. They live right around here."
Jennifer T. moved a little bit away from him on their log, to get a better look at his face. He seemed to be perfectly serious. The chill wind blowing in from the west again raised gooseflesh on her damp arms, and she caught the faint echo of the whistling she had heard before, coming from somewhere off beyond the trees.
"I'm skeptical," she said at last.
"You can believe the boy," said a voice behind them. Jennifer T. jumped up from the log and spun around to find a small, stout black man standing there. He wore a suit of dark purple velvet, with a ruffled shirt, and the cuff links in his shirt-cuffs were shaped like tiny baseballs. His ponytail was white and his beard was white and there was a kind of white fuzz on the rims of his ears. "You do believe him. You know he ain't lying to you."
There was something familiar about the man's smooth, dark face, his wide green eyes, the missing third finger of his right hand. She recognized him, in spite of the passage of many, many years, from a grainy, washed-out photograph in the pages of one of her favorite books, Only the Ball Was White , a history of the old Negro leagues.
"Chiron 'Ringfinger' Brown," she said.
"Jennifer Theodora Rideout."
"Your middle name is Theodora?" Ethan said.
"Shut up," said Jennifer T.
"I thought you said it didn't stand for anything."
"Are you really him?"
Mr. Brown nodded.
"But aren't you, like, a hundred years old by now?"
"This here body is one hundred and nine," he said, in an offhand way. He was eyeing her carefully, with a strange look in his eye. "Jennifer T. Rideout," he said, frowning, giving his head a shake. "I must be gettin' old." He took a little notebook from his breast pocket and wrote in it for a moment. "I don't know how," he said. "But somehow or other I done missed you, girl. You ever pitch?"
Jennifer T. shook her head. Her father had been a pitcher; he claimed to have been scouted by the Kansas City Royals, and blamed all his problems in life on the sudden and surprising failure of his right arm when he was nineteen years old. He was always threatening to show her "how to really 'bring it"' one of these days. She supposed she ought to welcome his attempts to share with her the game she loved most in the world. But she didn't; she hated them. She especially hated when he used baseball lingo like "bring it."
"I don't want to be a pitcher," she declared.
"Well, you sure look like a pitcher to me."
"Missed her for what?" Ethan said. "I mean, uh, well, who are you, anyway? Like, okay, I know you were in the Negro Leagues, or whatever.…"
"Most career victories in the history of the Negro Leagues," Jennifer T. said. "One book I have said it was three forty-two. Another one says three sixty."
"It was three hundred an' seventy-eight, matter of fact," said Mr. Brown. "But to answer your question, Mr. Feld, for the last forty-odd years I've been travelin' up and down the coast. You know. Lookin' for talent. Lookin' for somebody who got the gif' . Idaho. Nevada." He eyed Ethan. "Colorado,
The plastic crinkled as he took out a tissue and passed it to her.
"Can I ask you a question?" he said.
"About Albert?"
"No."
"Okay, then."
"Do you believe in, well, in the, uh, the 'little people'? You know."
" 'The little people,' " Jennifer T. said. It was not the question she had been expecting. "You mean…you mean like elves? Brownies?"
Ethan nodded.
"Not really," she said, though as we know this was not strictly true. She believed there had been elves, over in Switzerland or Sweden or wherever it was, and a tribe of foot-high Indians living in the trees of Clam Island. Once upon a time. "Do you?"
"Yeah," Ethan said. "I've seen them."
"You've seen elves."
"No, I haven't seen any elves. But I saw a pixie when I was like, two. And I've seen fer…some other ones. They live right around here."
Jennifer T. moved a little bit away from him on their log, to get a better look at his face. He seemed to be perfectly serious. The chill wind blowing in from the west again raised gooseflesh on her damp arms, and she caught the faint echo of the whistling she had heard before, coming from somewhere off beyond the trees.
"I'm skeptical," she said at last.
"You can believe the boy," said a voice behind them. Jennifer T. jumped up from the log and spun around to find a small, stout black man standing there. He wore a suit of dark purple velvet, with a ruffled shirt, and the cuff links in his shirt-cuffs were shaped like tiny baseballs. His ponytail was white and his beard was white and there was a kind of white fuzz on the rims of his ears. "You do believe him. You know he ain't lying to you."
There was something familiar about the man's smooth, dark face, his wide green eyes, the missing third finger of his right hand. She recognized him, in spite of the passage of many, many years, from a grainy, washed-out photograph in the pages of one of her favorite books, Only the Ball Was White , a history of the old Negro leagues.
"Chiron 'Ringfinger' Brown," she said.
"Jennifer Theodora Rideout."
"Your middle name is Theodora?" Ethan said.
"Shut up," said Jennifer T.
"I thought you said it didn't stand for anything."
"Are you really him?"
Mr. Brown nodded.
"But aren't you, like, a hundred years old by now?"
"This here body is one hundred and nine," he said, in an offhand way. He was eyeing her carefully, with a strange look in his eye. "Jennifer T. Rideout," he said, frowning, giving his head a shake. "I must be gettin' old." He took a little notebook from his breast pocket and wrote in it for a moment. "I don't know how," he said. "But somehow or other I done missed you, girl. You ever pitch?"
Jennifer T. shook her head. Her father had been a pitcher; he claimed to have been scouted by the Kansas City Royals, and blamed all his problems in life on the sudden and surprising failure of his right arm when he was nineteen years old. He was always threatening to show her "how to really 'bring it"' one of these days. She supposed she ought to welcome his attempts to share with her the game she loved most in the world. But she didn't; she hated them. She especially hated when he used baseball lingo like "bring it."
"I don't want to be a pitcher," she declared.
"Well, you sure look like a pitcher to me."
"Missed her for what?" Ethan said. "I mean, uh, well, who are you, anyway? Like, okay, I know you were in the Negro Leagues, or whatever.…"
"Most career victories in the history of the Negro Leagues," Jennifer T. said. "One book I have said it was three forty-two. Another one says three sixty."
"It was three hundred an' seventy-eight, matter of fact," said Mr. Brown. "But to answer your question, Mr. Feld, for the last forty-odd years I've been travelin' up and down the coast. You know. Lookin' for talent. Lookin' for somebody who got the gif' . Idaho. Nevada." He eyed Ethan. "Colorado,
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