Out of Left Field Page 4

  “Shaved it. Leave Jesus out of it, okay?”

  Our old routine feels oddly comforting: me, son of a lapsed Catholic (Dad) and a sometime Unitarian (Mom) meets an observant Jew (Marty).

  “But why—”

  “Dad laid down the law: no ponytail at college interviews. I decided to save him some money, shaved it off myself.”

  My jaw is still down around my waist. I think of my dad’s photo, after he cut his own hair. “Man, you look—”

  “Naked. It’s all the rage. And who knew my ears were so prominent?” Marty rubs his head with both hands, as if he’s washing it.

  “It’s not the rage at the ball park.” Dad loved the Sox this year, with their long hair and beards, their whole “idiot” routine—especially Arroyo, with his blond dreads.

  Janine grabs me from behind. “You guys sound like girls! Do I get my hug now?” She holds me tight for a second.

  Marty opens his arms to her. “My turn?”

  “You wish.” Janine points to the kitchen. “Soup’s getting cold.”

  I watch them bring the food to the table. Janine’s got more hair than any of the Sox, even Damon. Her braid nearly reaches her waist and red curls escape around her face. She’s studying filmmaking, but my guess is she’ll star in movies someday—especially with Aunt Cora’s drama connections. She’s too gorgeous to be on the wrong side of the camera lens—but I shouldn’t think that way about my own cousin. Leave that to Marty.

  We sit. I bite into the bagel, sip the soup—“Where’d you find cilantro?”—then notice they’re both waiting. I set the spoon down. “I forget something? Grace?”

  Marty frowns. Janine clears her throat. “Mom was upset last night. Said you had something to tell me.”

  “Your words to me exactly.” Marty taps his fingers on the table. “It better be good. I cut out of class early.”

  Like Marty needs extra math credits. I take a deep breath. “Okay. Here goes.”

  Three Strikes and You’re Out

  I give it to them straight, without much detail. Janine’s eyes are glassy and Marty picks at a stray thread on the place mat. It’s quiet for a long time. A siren wails outside. The cat stares out the window from her perch near the plants. The end of her tail twitches.

  “A real conversation stopper,” I say.

  “No kidding,” Marty says. “Lots of people have half brothers and sisters, but not secret ones. I can’t believe he never told you.”

  “It’s pretty intense. Two shocks in a month.” My knee slips into bounce mode again. “Mom went to the lawyer’s today. Let’s hope she doesn’t come home with another surprise.” Janine and Marty exchange a glance. “You guys thinking the way I am? Bad luck comes in threes? As in: Three strikes and you’re out?”

  “Maybe it’s not a disaster.” Marty fakes a smile. “You could end up with an annoying sibling, like the rest of us.”

  Marty says that, but we both know he’d lay down his life for his little sister Rose. And of course Janine and Andrea are tight—they’re twins.

  “I did the math,” I tell them. “He could be late twenties. I might have nieces or nephews.”

  “Uncle Brandon,” Marty says. He’s trying to cheer me up, but it doesn’t work.

  Janine hasn’t said a word though she’s the chatty twin. She looks wilted, like someone just punctured her lungs. I nudge her. “Go on.”

  She bites her lip. “Bran, that’s awful. You found out from a court notice? How could he do that to you and your mom?”

  “He didn’t exactly plan to die.”

  She winces. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I guess I’m thinking—it doesn’t sound like something Uncle Pat would do. I loved your dad.”

  “We all did. Who knew he had skeletons in his closet? Now I’m digging in that closet for clues. Literally.”

  “And?” Marty’s hazel eyes look huge. Must be the shaved head.

  “I found a bunch of letters from when he lived in Canada. I haven’t read them all yet.” I look at Janine. “Your mom gave me some letters, too. He wrote her a lot, when he first ran away. No e-mail back then.”

  Janine nods. “Mom told me she’d passed them on.”

  Marty jumps to his feet, jabbing his bagel at me. “Let’s get this straight. You’ve got a half-brother somewhere, maybe in Nova Scotia. Wherever the hell that is. It sucks that Mr. Magoo didn’t tell you about him. Too late to worry about that now.”

  Janine cocks her head. “Mr. Magoo?”

  “Old joke,” Marty says. “When I was little, I couldn’t say McGinnis. I called him Mr. Magoo and it stuck. He didn’t seem to care.”

  Now Marty’s eyes are red. He coughs. “So the question is: What are we going to do about it?”

  “We?”

  “Sure. This sounds like a job for the G.B.”

  I force a smile. Janine looks up from pouring more water. “Another inside joke?”

  “Sorry. ‘G.B.’ is the Great Brain. You and Andrea didn’t read those books?”

  “Afraid not. Maybe because neither one of us is a great brain.”

  “Debatable. Marty and I read those books over and over, and then pretended we were in them. Maybe they’re guy books. We fought over who would be the Great Brain.”

  “And?”

  “No contest.” I nod at Marty. “He’s third in our class.”

  Marty blushes, and for the first time in weeks, I laugh out loud. “What’s so funny?” he demands.

  “Your scalp. You blush all over your head.”

  Marty scowls, grabs his Sox cap, and pulls it down low.

  “You guys,” Janine says. “A couple of adolescents.”

  “Can’t help it.” I shrug. “We’re not adults.”

  “Yet.” A wicked light flashes in Marty’s eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten—you’ll be eighteen soon.”

  “So?”

  “So, you’ll be old enough to drive to Canada.”

  “Who’s driving to Canada?”

  “We are, you dolt. How else are we going to find the guy?”

  “Whoa,” I say. “We can’t just take off for Canada. Whose car would we drive? Besides, who says I want to find him?” But I do. Don’t I?

  Marty glances at Janine. “You have a car?”

  Janine raises an eyebrow. “Nope. And I’m making a film this summer.”

  “Perfect. The trip could give you great material.” Marty tears a bite from the bagel. “Right, Bran? Between the three of us, we could track this guy down.”

  “I have a job.” Of course, Marty knows I could leave the pizzeria anytime. “We have no clue where this guy is. Canada’s kind of big.”

  Janine clears her throat and gives me a long look. “Bran—maybe he doesn’t want to be found. What if he doesn’t know you exist? That could be a shocker for him, too.”

  I’m supposed to feel sorry for this guy? The buzzer sounds. “Saved by the bell,” I say.

  Mom’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Help me with the groceries?”

  “Coming.”

  I turn to the others. “Mom doesn’t know about my dad’s letters.”

  “Gotcha.” Marty joins me on the stairs. “Muscles and brains to the rescue, Ms. Magoo!”

  Third Inning

  Letter of March 25, 1977

  Victoria:

  Read this before you burn it.

  I’m wondering who you are—not just where you’ve gone. What were you thinking? First you accuse me of planning to kidnap our son—and then you disappear. I’d never take a child away from his mother. I’m not that cruel. I’m a social worker, in case you forgot. How could you do this to him? You’ll screw him up for life.

  You knew I had to see my dad before he died. I made it in time to say goodbye, heal some old wounds. Not that you care. But who said I planned to stay forever? We could have found a way to raise our child, even on both sides of the border.

  Whatever you think, it’s not about Granger. If you found someone you love, good for you. Y
ou and I were mismatched from the beginning. Having a kid wasn’t part of our plan. But that’s not Patrick’s fault. Now you’ve kidnapped our baby, like a common criminal. I thought you were better than that.

  I’m sure you heard I was up there last month, looking for you. I talked to the CRMP, tried to press charges, but they shrugged, called me names, told me to give up, go back where I belong. Guess the Mounties still hate us resisters.

  I’m furious but I’d never hurt my son. At least let me talk to him once in a while. When he’s old enough to appreciate it, give him this photo, tell him who I am. You owe it to him.

  When I counsel kids in trouble, it always goes back to some deep wound in the family. Don’t do that to our kid, Vic. Because he is that. Ours. Like it or not.

  Pat

  Number 42

  Dad’s letter to his old girlfriend burns me up. This must have torn him apart big time. I don’t get it. Parents who kidnap kids get in serious trouble. Sounds like Dad had no rights up there.

  This is a job for a real detective and a smart lawyer, not two kids pretending to be the Great Brain. It doesn’t take Marty’s math skills to figure out the kid was born at the end of 1976, if he was an infant in March of ’77, when Dad wrote the letter. So he’s twenty-eight now. A grownup. Why spoil the guy’s life?

  Or mine.

  Still, if I have a brother—I need to know who he is. Don’t I?

  I lie on my back and try to relax, but my legs twitch and cramp. The soft click of computer keys comes from the next room. Mom’s been in there since we put the groceries away, planning tomorrow’s class for the teachers in training. So far, she’s said nothing about her trip to the lawyer.

  The computer. How could I be so dumb? I swing my legs over the side of the bed. If Dad put this kid into a new will—was he looking for him online? I need to check his searches. I feel like pounding the walls. Dad has gone AWOL just when I need him most.

  Mom taps on the door. I shove Dad’s letter under the pillow but leave the box on the bed. Enough secrets. “Come in.”

  Mom surveys the room. Her skin is drawn tight over her cheekbones. She looks like a celebrity with a bad facelift. She reaches over to me, fingers Dad’s shirt. “An oldie but goodie. I’m glad it fits you.” Her eyes fix on the box. “Find anything?”

  “These are yours.” I hand her the bundle of letters Dad wrote to her. “Why Colorado?”

  She sits beside me and sets the bundle gently on her knees, as if the letters might explode. “I’d already signed on to teach in an Upward Bound program in Colorado when we met.”

  “You guys found each other after a Sox game—right?”

  Her gaze goes far away. “I was in a bar with my girlfriends. He was his usual rabid fan self. Sparks flew. It helped that the Sox had won that night. We had two dates before I left for Colorado. He wrote me constantly out there. He was ardent—so excited about life.”

  Mom stands, picks up the Lone Ranger photo, holds it next to the one of Dad and me. She sucks in her breath. “This is your dad? But—”

  “I know. We could be twins, at least when we were kids. Sorry.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  I shrug. “Maybe you’d rather not be reminded.”

  “Bran.” She tousles my hair in the way that usually drives me nuts. Today, I don’t mind. “You’re Brandon,” she says. “Your own self. Besides…” She sets the picture down. “I can’t believe he never told me. We didn’t keep secrets from each other. I loved that about Pat. There was always a sad place I couldn’t reach—but I assumed it was about the years he lost with his family.”

  My knee bounces. “Since we’re not hiding things: I found a letter Dad wrote—to the kid’s mother.” I slide it out from under my pillow. “Sounds like she disappeared with the baby and Dad couldn’t find them. Want to read it?”

  Mom looks sick. “No thanks. That’s horrible. No wonder—”

  “What?”

  “Pat always got so worked up over kidnap cases, when one parent stole a child from another—” She sinks onto the bed beside me. “I just remembered something. Right before the accident, Pat asked me to take a personal day. Said he wanted to talk to me about something. I had it all set up. I thought he was feeling romantic, or maybe he had decided on early retirement…Maybe he planned to tell me about this.” Her face is pinched. “That’s the worst thing, Bran—so much we’ll never know.” She grips my hand. “We’ll get through this somehow.”

  “Hope so.” I let her hold on. We both need the lifeline. “What did the lawyer say?”

  “Not much. Pat visited the lawyer’s office the week before he died to write a new will. The lawyer we used was on vacation, but Pat wanted it done in a hurry, so he met with whoever was free.” Mom plucks lint from my blanket. “The lawyer pitied me, that I didn’t know about this will. It was humiliating.”

  “Pity sucks. Coach is like that, too. I see it in his face: ‘Poor Brandon.’ Especially when I screw up. I actually wish he’d just yell at me.”

  “Did you go to practice today?” Mom asks.

  “Canceled. Lucky for me.” I don’t tell her the pool’s contaminated, or that I’ve been swimming like an old tugboat. She has enough to worry about. “So let’s hear the bad news. Did Dad win the lottery, leave everything to this stranger?”

  “Not exactly.” Mom goes to the window and looks out, as if there’s something new to see out in the courtyard. “The latest will is almost identical to the one I have here except that it includes Pop—a surprise. And there’s this strange addendum.”

  I wait.

  “You’ll hate this.” Mom takes a deep breath and faces me. “There’s a sealed letter to Patrick, Junior, ‘last known address,’ etc., just as it was written in that Probate document. The letter stays with the lawyer. But Pat actually wrote that he leaves his other—son”—she stumbles over the word—“his Jackie Robinson baseball card.”

  “What the hell!” I jump to my feet. “But that’s—”

  “I know. His prized possession.”

  This room is too small. Now I do need Cora’s class—except I might hurt someone. “Marty was right.”

  “What do you mean?” Mom looks like a forlorn kid, but I can’t comfort her now.

  “Bad luck comes in threes,” I say. “So this has to be the end. Right?”

  She doesn’t answer. “Right?” I demand.

  “The lawyer asked a strange question,” Mom says at last. “She wondered if Pat had mentioned any medical concerns.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Just that he was so eager to revise his will—and he seemed intent on finding this other child—young man—soon.”

  My voice is croaky. “Nothing else?”

  “His love for us. I have a copy of the will in my room if you want to read it.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Don’t be bitter,” Mom says. “We had your dad. He was a wonderful husband and father. This boy—man—lost out.”

  “That’s not my fault.” I join her at the window, crank it open. “I don’t get it. Why now? Dad leaves Canada, never sees the kid again—at least, as far as we know—and then suddenly, after almost thirty years, decides to find the guy?”

  “I wondered about that, too. And also…” Mom’s voice trails away. A cardinal lands on the branch of the oak tree and cocks his head, checking us out with one beady black eye.

  “Your dad loved the cardinal’s song,” Mom says, her voice gone soft. “He said it reminded him of the woods behind the house where he grew up.”

  As if he’s heard her, the bird bursts into song. “Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!” A chill slides down my neck.

  “He’s trying to tell us something,” Mom says.

  “The bird?”

  “No,” she says. “Your father.”

  Phone call: Cat in Baddeck, to Quinn on Digby Neck, Nova Scotia

  Hey, bro. Okay to talk?

  No news. I searched everywhere. Even looked in your baby book—
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  You’ve never seen it? In the den, behind the sofa. You were a cutie. A towhead. She did a book for me, too. Embarrassing. I was bald forever.

  Hey, you don’t like my hair, don’t look at it. Anyway, something odd. Your book begins when you’re old.

  Not ‘old’ like you were in school, but already crawling and standing up, wearing your little overalls. No infant pics.

  I guess. Maybe they were too wiped out or too poor—

  You’re right. Too young for sure. And too old when I came along. What were they thinking?

  Awww. Don’t go mushy on me now. But my book starts on Day One. Fingerprints, even a footprint and—get this—a copy of my birth certificate. From Halifax.

  Who knows? Maybe I was just a cuter baby. Or maybe you were adopted after all. Even though you do look like Mum…

  Get out. You wanted a sister?

  True. You’re holding me in a few pics. Looking almost proud.

  Course I want kids someday. What’s that got to do with anything?

  Quinn, where have you been the past few years? Plenty of lesbian couples have kids. But first, like I said, I’d be happy to find someone to date.

  Enough. Sorry I came up empty on the birth certificate. You’ll have to bite the bullet, ask her to go to the bank. If that’s where it is.

  Dunno. Weird about Antigonish, eh? If you weren’t born there—where did you come from? Mars?

  Shutout

  “Making bread is like playing baseball.” That’s what I told Dad, a few weeks before he died. It was a Wednesday and he’d come home early. Didn’t say why. I was kneading a heavy lump of dough, twisting and folding, making counterclockwise turns, tucking in the loose ends.

  “How?” Dad’s eyebrow cocked.

  “It takes a long time. Just like some baseball games.”

  “That’s one way.” He lifted his forefinger, counting. “What else.”

  “You don’t know how it will come out. And it’s messy.”

  “Two, three. And?”

  “You can’t rush it. And you need strong hands.” I was making a big batch, four loaves, and the dough was sticking. “Bread and baseball are best on a warm day,” I told him.

  “That’s stretching it,” Dad said. “But it’s true: weather affects how the ball moves when it’s pitched or hit.”