Catching Baby Moses

By Anthony Barbera

It begins when 13-year-old Norton Ryder and his friends meet for their Saturday sandlot football game. It's 1985 in Duram, California. The lot they play on is claimed as private property by Mary Carver, the town slumlord. "Haggy Mary," as she is known, has devised a means for finally keeping the "little S---s" off her land. She's doused the dry grass with gasoline. When the flames roar across the field, it's only the beginning of the trouble to come, for her gardener, Percy Hawkins, is looking on in horror. As it turns out, it's dangerous to mentor a thirteen-year-old runaway teenager, especially when you're an NFL football star and murder is involved!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Full Grace Publishing
• Release date: Apr 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781419677717

Anthony Barbera

Anthony Barbera interestingly began his career writing music for films and commercials. Earning his B.M. in Music Composition from North Carolina School of the Arts University, he then went on for his masters in composition at the University of Massachusetts. Winning numerous accolades and awards for his music composition, he placed first at the BMI National Music Awards, where the North Carolina Symphony Orchestra performed his “Two Songs for Soprano and Orchestra on Poems by Rilke.” And yet, during that time, Anthony’s passion for literature and writing was just getting started.  After being asked to direct a collection of ambitious teenagers in writing and acting in their first film for the Sonoma Film Festival—that was it, he was hooked. His novels, in order of publication, are, Catching Baby Moses, The First Rains of October, and Jonah In the Time of the Kings. Assurity, his 4th novel, and a space thriller is complete and awaiting release. His screenplays include: An American Psalm, Catching Baby Moses, and Assurity.

Book preview

Novels by Anthony Barbera

Jonah In the Time of the Kings

The First Rains of October

Catching Baby Moses

Assurity

Dedication

For my mother, who encouraged me to read when I didn’t want to—and then inspired me to write.

Even a child is known by his doings; whether his work is pure, and whether it be right. _Proverbs 20: 11

Part One

Unraveling

Chapter 1

IT WAS SATURDAY MORNING. Norton Ryder stood shivering on the icy country road, waiting for his friend Cappy. Norton fidgeted with his baseball cap and stomped his feet, trying to keep out the cold. The hilly, tree-lined road was rolling and steep, shiny underneath a blanket of wetness. It wasn’t raining; it already had the night before—in torrents.

Norton folded his arms across his chest, watching as Cappy eased the front door shut and tiptoed down the stone walkway, away from his sleeping house. Compared to other kids his age, Norton was on the small side. Most people thought he was twelve, but he was almost thirteen. He wasn’t short, just slight, his face remarkable, all of his features pleasantly matched, and then everything poured in on those dazzling blue eyes. He was a gracefully handsome boy.

Norton watched Cappy lope across the frosted lawn. Cappy glanced at his watch as he passed through the arched doorway of the hedge.

Hey, you’re late, Cappy said, It’s 7:05.

Swirling his baseball cap front to rear Norton slapped Cappy on the back, mesmerized yet again by his friend’s appearance. Cappy Price had turned thirteen on Wednesday, but he already looked fifteen. He was endowed with freckles and ginger-colored hair, coloring only the Irish can have. Cappy was big—not fat—just big-boned, wide, solid, and Irish. Not that thin, wiry type like Norton.

Are your parents still sleeping? Cappy asked, as they turned and hustled down the slick street.

Yeah, my dad is, Norton replied. I think my mom left for the gym already.

Do you ever ask your parents before you leave? I mean, you just go home whenever you want to, don’t you?

Norton shrugged.

Cappy stopped and put his hands on his waist. Crap, I wish I could do that. I gotta ask permission just to take a piss.

Norton reached up and snatched a floating leaf that had released itself from one of the poplar trees lining the twisting road. Then the two hustled up a knoll and down the other side, following the brightly painted yellow line that glistened in the middle of the dark, wet asphalt road. It was fall in Northern California, the leaves drifting into deep colorful piles along the roadside.

The boys cut off the road and jogged down a narrow rocky path that opened into an abandoned fruit orchard. Frost had settled over the ground as they hurried across the moist path. No one had taken care of these trees in years. Although they were starting to split and crack, if you happened by in early summer, at just the right time, a jewel of a plum or a peach might be sitting there waiting for you. Nearing the end of the meadow, the boys arrived at a fence.

Hey, catch this, a voice yelled.

A football flew over the fence. Norton leaped and plucked it out of the air just as the precocious face of Donny Bertoli peered over the top. The rest of his body soon followed and dropped with a thud.

Hey man, what’s up? Bertoli joshed, giving Cappy a friendly shove. Cappy didn’t appreciate Bertoli all that much, plus he was always freaking late. When they played football together, they were always on opposite teams, which didn’t help either.

Bertoli wrapped a powerful sleeveless arm around Norton’s neck, What’s up, Nordy? Bertoli was one hundred percent Italian. Italian-American, that is. He had onyx black hair, olive skin and was as thick as a tree. He was also the toughest of Norton’s friends and wouldn’t take crap from anybody, especially the older boys.

Continuing down the wet path, Cappy looked at his watch, turned, and said, Hey, Bertoli, you’re on time for once. Is that a first?

Hell no, shut up junior, Bertoli laughed, "I had to promise my pop I’d a get all of da-wirk a-done as soon as I get-a-home, or they wouldn’t let me leave." They all laughed. Donny loved making fun of his father’s Italian accent.

The Bertolis owned the largest dairy farm in Duram, and Donny, boastful as he was, took every opportunity to remind the boys that it was also the richest dairy in all of Duram. The boys therefore reciprocated by reminding Donny that it was also the only dairy farm in Duram. With three daughters and only one son, Papa Bertoli, gave Donny the work of a small Italian army. Papa Bertoli was old school—manual labor. The result: If you visited the Bertolis, you worked with the Bertolis; and if you worked with the Bertolis, you ate with the Bertolis. If you ate with the Bertolis— you ate like you had never eaten in your entire life. Mrs. Bertoli’s cooking was resplendent. Two of her delightful daughters already owned a reputation for culinary mastery. Gnocchi, ravioli, mostaccioli, tortellini, and veal scaloppini were mere child’s play. These girls had a handle on all the Italian dishes, and then some. Thus, the Bertolis never lacked for help or company. Between the girls and the food, the place was an Italian Grand Central Station. It was Norton’s favorite.

The Bertolis’ farmland stretched over forty acres and spilled from Old Duram onto the outskirts of New Duram. Everyone in town assumed that one day the farm would turn into lots, the lots into houses, and the houses would make the Bertolis rich. Abundantly. Naturally, as far as Norton was concerned, he was the friend of a future millionaire. It was only a matter of time, or so it seemed.  

Jaunty with anticipation, the three boys arrived at a waterless creek. Hustling down the path, they crunched through the gravel of the creek-bed and ran up the far bank.

Cappy was breathing hard, his thighs burning as he strained up the riverbank. Hey Bertoli, Cappy rasped, did you...did you get the field lined yesterday?

Yep, right after school, man. Ricky and I stopped on the way home...you called him, right?

I called him, he’ll be here, Cappy said.

The boys bolted up another incline; Norton wondered who would be paired with Ricky Jones today. Black, bow-legged, and faster than a jackrabbit, Ricky was one of the quickest kids in Duram. At twelve years old, he had unbelievable moves. Whenever the four boys picked teams, Norton and Ricky (the speedy boys) almost always had to be on opposing teams, what with their speed.

As the three jabbering boys slowed to a fast walk, Norton put his finger to his mouth, C’mon, you guys...shut up! If Haggy Mary hears us on her property, she’s going to call the sheriff again.

I’m sick of that old bag, Cappy said. Haggy thinks she owns the whole stinking town.

She does, Bertoli snickered. My pop says she’s been alive a hundred years and has stashed every penny she ever made, right in her house. He pointed, spit, and continued. He calls her the daughter of the depression. Says she probably caused it—she’s such a shrew.

What the heck does that mean? Norton asked.

Bertoli grabbed the ball from Norton. You got me, man, it must be Italian. I don’t understand nothing, my old man says.

At least your old man talks to you, Norton said. That was what Norton couldn’t forgive how his father never had time for him. Never asked him how school was going, never helped him, or even asked if Norton wanted to learn to fish. His father was either home too late or too tired. Norton could count on one hand the number of times his father Jeff had ever played catch with him, helped him to be a better ballplayer and stuff like that. Even Mr. Bertoli seemed more interested in Norton than his own father did.

Next, the boys crossed a small wooden bridge connecting the orchard and the rear of Mary’s property. Raking leaves under a large sycamore was the tall and willowy Percy Hawkins. He’d raked most of the leaves into piles and was scooping them up, dumping them into a large rusty incinerator. Percy took a pack of matches out of his plaid shirt pocket and struck a flame, cupping it in his dark elongated hands. The flames flickered thin volleys as the leaves quickly ignited.

The smoke from the burning tree leaves tingled Norton’s nose as they approached and gestured to Percy. No one knew exactly where Percy lived, but they saw him almost every Saturday morning doing yard work for Ms. Mary Carver, known to the boys as Haggy Mary. Percy turned his back, bent over to pick up another pile of leaves, scanning the horizon to see if Ms. Carver was still outside, or inside her house peering out a window. Still bent over, he motioned behind his back for the boys to hurry across the property. Secretly, the boys scampered along the edge of Mary’s property for their Saturday morning football game.

To Ms. Carver, the boys were trespassers. Sometimes Mary would embark upon an expunging campaign against them. When she did, she usually sought the aid of the sheriff. However, there was ongoing friction between Ms. Mary Carver and the City of Duram, and thus between Mary Carver and Sheriff Ellie Slaughter. According to the City of Duram, the vacant lot where the boys played football was not Mary Carver’s property at all but belonged to the City of Duram.

Mary Carver had maintained for years that her father, Dodson P. Carver, was the original and rightful owner of the property in question. In 1958 he had deeded the parcel to Mr. Charles Lee. But Mr. Lee died without relations, and in 1964 the property lawfully reverted to the State of California. However, right before the transfer was to take place, Mr. Carver filed a wrongful purchase claim, maintaining that Mr. Lee never properly and rightfully paid him for the property. As the facts unfolded, the city learned that Mr. Lee was, in fact, a paid employee of Mr. Carver and that perhaps the legality of the entire transaction was in question.

Unfortunately, before the case could be heard at the county courthouse in Santa Rosa, Dodson P. Carver himself died. The small property fell into a quagmire of legal wrangling, for which neither side was prepared to pay the cost to win. The property sat without ownership for years, each side proclaiming to be the rightful owner. It settled into a war of attrition—one that Mary Carver, with every bone in her body, was adept at fighting. So when she took vengeance on the boys for playing football on her lot, they represented an enemy acquired long-ago.

With the ears of a giant elephant, Haggy Mary could hear the crunching steps of the boys heading across her backyard and sneaking onto the ball field right under her nose.

Chapter 2

DANK AND CHILLY, IT was perfect football weather. The fruit tree-lined field ran at a slight downgrade and was covered with white frost. The boys pretended it was snow—real football weather. The field was about fifty yards long with a wooden goalpost made from large apple tree branches sitting at either end. Raked clean of rocks, uneven and slanted, there wasn’t a straight line in sight.

After Ricky arrived, they flipped a coin, two on two: Cappy and Norton versus Bertoli and Ricky. Even teams. Norton dipped his head and glared off to the left at Cappy, who was playing quarterback. As the receiver, Norton was focused and serious. Cappy dropped back to pass and was immediately rushed by Bertoli. Norton slanted left, across the field, as Cappy let fly a spinning spiral. Norton stretched and miraculously grabbed the pass, streaking toward the left sideline. Ricky Jones took a good angle, and leaping onto Norton’s back knocked him out of bounds near one of the cherry trees.

Back at the line of scrimmage, Cappy picked himself up and yelled at Bertoli, Hey dip-shit, you didn’t count.

Bertoli sprung up, getting right in Cappy’s face. Cappy, I don’t want to hear you whine every stinking play, like last week. I counted, okay!

Try counting to three thousand before you cross the line, okay, Cappy turned and argued back.

Low lying tule fog was creeping up the field from the creek as the two stood bickering in the center of the field. Running back, Norton skidded into the center of the two and grabbed them, Will you guys shut the hell up! You want Deputy Dork down here again?

Chapter 3

OAFISH DEPUTY MILT LANCASTER pushed the office door open, smacking it against a protruding counter. Slamming the door behind him, he strode past three ancient wooden desks on his way toward Sheriff Ellie Slaughter’s office in the back.

The Duram Sheriff’s Office was a long thin rectangle, its dingy entrance being more of a storage room than a functioning office. The City of Duram had initially bought the space from the Borden’s Milk Company, years back when they had retail outlets. The same old wooden desks, now considered antiques, still sat unused in the front office.

In contrast, Ellie’s office, at the far end of the long room, was clean, well-organized, and bright. It was enclosed by waist-high glass, allowing her to keep an eye on the large force of one deputy under her command. Built into the wall behind her were white shelves full of books, all very neat and tidy. As haggard, ready-to-retire Milt entered the office and hovered over her, Ellie peered up from her paperwork.

What is it, Milt, what’s up? You’re all out of breath.

Milt leaned over the desk. El, those kids, they’re at it again, he wheezed. They’ve got Mary Carver all worked up. She just called—says they started playing football on her lot at the butt crack of dawn...woke her up, again!

Sheriff Ellie Slaughter chuckled as she urged her 5’3" 165-pound frame up from behind the desk, shuffling over to the coffee maker. She was thirty-five and wide indeed. Truly, that contrasted with her gorgeous face, which was both bright and lovely. She looked at her watch and grabbed the pot from under the Mr. Coffee.

Criminy sakes, Milt...the woman thinks she owns the whole county. Ellie shook her head as she poured a fresh cup of coffee.

She does, Milt laughed, most of it anyway.

The town had elected Ellie sheriff out of pure necessity. Her husband Raymond, having served as sheriff for fourteen years, died suddenly of a massive coronary. In a special election for sheriff, only one other candidate’s name appeared on the ballot beside Ellie’s: Milt’s. The town elected Ellie. She was well thought of in Duram. Besides, she needed the money.

Milt, those kids are just playing football—not robbing a Quick Stop, for God’s sake. Besides, Mary Carver doesn’t own that field—the city does.

El, that’s been in dispute for years.

Ellie set the sugar canister down. For crying out loud, Milt, there’s nowhere else for those kids to play. What are they supposed to do? Tell me that.

Milt caught his breath and straightened up. I’ll tell you this, that Ryder kid, Norton—he’s got a mouth on him. The kid’s a weirdo. Somebody should have put a licking on that boy.

Ellie squinted as she took a sip of her coffee. What do you expect? He’s got no supervision. Half the time, he’s wandering around by himself. Ellie pointed her cup at Milt. You never liked him anyway.

You can talk about it ‘till the cows come home, El. No one spanks their kids anymore...so what you get is a bunch of juvenile delinquents running all over the joint.

Ellie shook her head. Look, I’ll take a ride down and have a talk with those boys, see what I can figure out.

NORTON AND CAPPY BROKE huddle on about the thirty-five-yard line, as Bertoli and Ricky approached the line of scrimmage opposite them, not revealing who would rush. As Cappy barked the signals, he pulled back from the line of scrimmage, and Norton swung around the back. Cappy got the lateral off just as Bertoli clobbered him again—but it was too late. Norton tore around right end cutting upfield. Downfield, four older boys, emerged from the foggy mist and came to a standstill along the sideline: Mark Chandler, Lanny Johnson, Mickey Wells, and Carl Stovich.

Breaking loose around the right end, Norton sprinted down the sideline. Outracing Ricky, he looked back and raised the ball in the air, celebrating an obvious touchdown. On the sideline, taking one step forward, Mark Chandler thrust his arm out. He hooked Norton in the neck, clothes-lining him midair. Norton flipped and spun backward. First, his head slammed against the ground, and then, out came a loud groan as he grabbed his neck, writhing and thrashing in agony.

Further upfield, Cappy swore, Get the hell off me, Bertoli! Didn’t you see what just happened to Nordy?

Cappy vaulted up as Bertoli rolled off him, and they both sprinted downfield together. Norton was laid out on the ground holding his neck in anguish while Ricky knelt down beside