Out of Left Field Page 5

  I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes of kneading. The dough was starting to respond. “They’re both nourishing,” I said. “Bread and baseball bring people together.”

  “Ah,” Dad said. “The romance of it all; the poetry. Baseball and beer; bread and wine.” We’d both stopped counting; we were having fun.

  “You only need five ingredients,” I said. “Flour, salt, yeast, oil, water.” I raised my fingers, encased in flour. “A bat, a ball, some kids, a few gloves, a grassy field.”

  “Grass is nice,” Dad said. “But not necessary.” I waited for him to launch into one of his hard-core rags to riches stories, like Pedro using a plastic milk jug for a mitt when he was a kid in the DR. Instead, Dad ran his hand over the dough. “And here’s the result: smooth and soft as a worn, oiled mitt.” He stood up, stretched. “How about a walk while it rises?”

  I don’t remember what I said, because Dad coughed, as if he were choking, and his face darkened. I jumped toward him, ready for the Heimlich we’d learned in Coach’s CPR class, but he shook his head, smiled, and reached for a glass of water. He gulped it down and clutched his chest. “Just heartburn,” he said, when he could speak. “Nothing serious.”

  He turned away, but not fast enough. I saw terror in his eyes. Then it passed.

  I must have gone through the regular routines after that, but I don’t remember. It was a bad batch; the bread never rose, and I had to throw it out—like a shutout you wish you hadn’t watched to the bitter end.

  Rain Delay

  We return to our routines after Mom’s trip to the lawyer: our jobs, and swim team for me, but my heart’s not in it. I’m relieved when the meet is over; even more relieved when Coach sends me a disapproving look but doesn’t call me in for a pep talk. Marty waits outside the locker room. He points at the front door. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  My grandfather stands in the entryway, shoulders hunched under a wet slicker. Pop twists his cap around in his hands as if he’s lost and afraid to ask for help. Tufts of white hair stick up in every direction.

  I glance at Marty. “Sorry. Rain check on that coffee?”

  “Sure. Call me.” Marty pulls on his windbreaker, high-fives Pop from a distance, and takes off.

  I hurry over. “What’s up, Pop?” As if I didn’t know. I’m still winded after the last race. “Hope you didn’t see my feeble freestyle—I sucked.”

  “Don’t use that word,” Pop says. “And fourth isn’t so bad.” He peers up at me and frowns. “Since when are you taller than I am?” Before I can answer, he says, “Stupid question.” He points to the street. “The van’s outside. I need some coffee. You can drive me to the bakery and explain why you’re avoiding me.”

  No use arguing. Mom may have returned his phone calls, but I certainly haven’t. Still, he shouldn’t be so grouchy. After all—Pop’s not the one with the surprise sibling.

  Traffic is snarled and we’re both quiet. The clutch shudders as I shift into third gear. “Transmission going, Pop?”

  He grunts. “Maybe. The van’s almost as old as I am. Your mother wants me to downsize. Says I don’t need a van since I’m no longer a working electrician. But where would I keep my gear?”

  “You can’t sell this rig, Pop! It used to be my playroom.” From the time I was a little kid, I was fascinated by the inside of Pop’s van. I loved the cubbyholes bulging with wires and plugs, weird gadgets and shiny tools. It’s not so organized as it used to be, but it still looks like the electrical aisle in the hardware store where Pop works part-time now. “I can’t imagine you in a regular car. Although if you’d like to go car shopping, we could stop by the Audi dealer, see what he’s got.”

  “Dream on,” Pop says. “They’ll have to bury me in this thing.” He sets a hand on my arm as we idle at the light. “Sorry. That was a careless thing to say.”

  I shrug. The wipers swipe at the rain as I maneuver the van into a parking space. Pop shuffles through the puddles and I hold the bakery door for him.

  The place is mobbed and steamy. “Coffee for me. Buy yourself a decent snack.” Pop hands me a crumpled ten and stumps to a corner table, clearing the way with sweeps of his cane as if he’s blind. I slop Pop’s coffee when I set everything down. “Sorry.” I grab extra napkins to mop up the spill, wedge myself into a seat, take a bite of the elephant ear and uncap my juice before I finally meet Pop’s eyes. “Guess I know why you’re here.”

  “Your father’s craziness. I’m mad as hell.” He turns his washed-out blue eyes on me. “Aren’t you?”

  No matter how pissed I am, there’s no way I’ll trash Dad in front of Pop. I crumple my paper plate. “It’s confusing.”

  “Not to me,” Pops says. “Bad enough he betrayed his country—now he’s betrayed you and your mother. How can you not be angry?”

  An older woman at the next table cocks her head at me as if to ask: You okay? I nod at her. “I’ll be eighteen soon,” I tell Pop, keeping my voice low. “If I join the Marines and go to Iraq, will that make you happy? Will you stop ragging on Dad then?”

  Pop draws back, stung, but I don’t care. The bakery is suddenly too hot and steamy with people in wet shirts and jackets. I push back from the table. “Meet you outside.”

  I shouldn’t leave an old man in the lurch. But crap—he’s still giving Dad grief, after all these years? I unlock the passenger’s door and wait. Pop holds up customers in the doorway while he pulls on his slicker, then marches to the car, his cane splashing in the puddles. I help him in. When I’m settled in my seat, I turn on the car and adjust the mirror, avoiding his gaze. I play with the gearshift until I finally get it in reverse but Pop sets a hand on my arm. “Wait.”

  I shift into neutral, keeping a light touch on the accelerator. It’s clammy in this metal box. “Listen, Pop—”

  “Hear me out.”

  I glance sideways, long enough to see that his face is red under his cap. “Sure, Pop. I’ll listen. But only if you promise—and I mean promise—you’ll never ever mention Dad and the Vietnam War again. He’s dead, okay? He can’t defend himself. Vietnam is over. Now we’ve got Iraq, a war that’s just as stupid.” I breathe deep, afraid of saying something I’d regret. The windshield steams up. I turn the fan up high, switch on the wipers. “Can we go now, please?”

  “Not yet.” Pop keeps his grip on my arm. I shrink from his hand and a random thought hits me: how did he manage delicate electrical work with those stubby, thick fingers?

  “You’re right: that war is history. I’m sorry about your dad, believe me. He was a good father. And your mother loved him to pieces.”

  So did I, but Pop doesn’t seem to understand that. “I should get home.”

  “One request. Look at me, please.”

  His blue eyes are piercing from under his bushy eyebrows. I can’t meet his gaze for long.

  “Promise you won’t go off on a wild goose chase, searching for some guy who may not even exist. It would break your mom’s heart.”

  “Mom’s heart is already broken. So’s mine.” In fact, it feels like I’ve got a concrete block sitting on my chest, but I keep that to myself. When I can finally breathe, I back carefully out of the spot and pull into traffic. The streets are choked with rush hour traffic.

  We’re almost at Coolidge Corner before Pop speaks. “Sorry I upset you. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “About Canada? Don’t worry, Pop.” I keep an eye on the light as I downshift. “My job barely pays for an occasional latte. I haven’t bought a ticket to Halifax.”

  Yet.

  Number Retired

  Perfect timing: Marty comes over Sunday afternoon just as Mom goes out the door to walk with a friend. “Ships passing,” Mom tells Marty. “You two going out?”

  “Maybe later,” I say.

  “I’ll bring back ingredients for soup. Fresh bread would taste good.”

  I send her a look: Don’t force it. “I don’t bake on Sundays.”

  She pulls on a sunha
t and disappears. Marty gives me a nudge. “I miss your bread, too.”

  “Lay off. Listen, I could use your help.”

  The dimple in Marty’s cheek deepens. “The beginning of our search?”

  “Something like that.” I head down the hall.

  Marty draws up short outside my parents’ bedroom door. “Mind if I wait out here?”

  “You think he’s going to haunt you?” I sweep my arms to take in the bed, the dresser, the photos. “I live with this every day. I went into his closet, for God’s sake, and you can’t take a few steps inside the room?”

  “Hey, man. Chill.” Marty slings an arm over my shoulder for an awkward moment. “What are we looking for?”

  “Dad’s prize possession.” I stand in front of Dad’s dresser, nearly hyperventilating, and yank open the small drawer where he kept his change. Loose pennies and quarters are mixed up with buttons from old political campaigns, including a Stop the War button he wore recently. I scoop up the buttons and dump them on top of the dresser. “Where is that thing?”

  “Look at these.” Marty sorts through the buttons. “McCarthy, Bobby Kennedy—McGovern—and your dad was a Deaniac?”

  “For a while.” Finally, I feel the soft cloth wedged in the back of the drawer. “Found it. Let’s get out of here.”

  We sit on my bed. The plush velvet bag, tied with a drawstring, covers a tooled leather case, hinged on one side. I hand it to Marty. “Open it.”

  Marty gives me a puzzled look, then unhooks the latch and holds it to the light. “Oh. The famous card.” He squints. “Sweet! That’s Robinson’s signature? Must be worth a fortune. The Sox retired Robinson’s number, didn’t they?”

  “Everyone has. Rivera’s the last one wearing 42. When he retires, the number’s gone for good.” I take a deep breath. “Dad left this, in his new will, to—my so-called brother.”

  Marty gapes. “You’re kidding.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “That—that’s obscene. I can’t believe Mr. Magoo would do that to you.” He folds the case and drops it in my lap as if it’s contaminated. “Maybe we should reconsider. Do you really want to find this guy? He doesn’t deserve the card.”

  “Exactly.” I set the case on my knees. A black velvet mat surrounds the photo of Robinson in his Brooklyn Dodgers uniform. His powerful arms are outstretched. “Looks like he just hit the ball over the fence,” I say.

  “He was your dad’s favorite player, right?”

  “Yeah. Dad’s hero. He even saw Robinson play when he was a kid. Dad was obsessed with Robinson’s stats. Lectured me about Jackie’s sportsmanship. Robinson never lost his temper on the field, even when racists yelled the N word during games.” I run my finger over the velvet. “Some kids in a group home gave the photo to my dad years ago, when he stopped working there. They knew he loved Robinson.”

  Mom dragged me to that party. I was fourteen and a brat; I whined about going. People gave speeches about Dad; kids in foster care got up to talk. So did a Vietnamese refugee who was mopping floors until Dad discovered he was a trained scientist and found him a job in a bio-tech firm. Dad was embarrassed by all the attention, and when the kids gave him the card, he cried. I was ashamed—because it had never occurred to me to thank my dad the way these people did.

  Too late now.

  Marty nudges me. “Hey—you okay?”

  “Sorry. I was spacing out.”

  “Your mom’s right—we should go outside, take a run or walk to the movies, sit in the AC and relax.”

  “I’ll be okay. Someday.” I slip the case into the velvet sack and set it next to Dad’s photo on my night table. “If you want a run, go ahead. I need to go into my dad’s computer, see if he was looking for the kid before he died.”

  “I don’t know—aren’t we invading his privacy? And your mom’s?”

  “I won’t look at Mom’s stuff. But I might need your help, if Dad was tricky with a password or something. Wait here.” Before Marty can stop me, I return to Mom’s room for the laptop and clear a space on my desk. We’re quiet while it hums, beeps, and plays its start-up tune: the first notes of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

  Marty hoots. “No way. How’d he get that one?”

  “Who knows. Check out his screen saver.” Dad’s favorite photo of Fenway at night slides into view. It shows the lights coming on with the sun going down. Marty peers over my shoulder as I scroll through the files. Mom and Dad had separate folders. I click on Dad’s. His folders are labeled with initials and acronyms that make no sense. There’s one marked “Clients”—no way I’ll open that one—and another with my mom’s name.

  “Uh-oh.” Marty points to a file with my initials.

  “Skip it.” I open the folder marked “Personal,” and immediately feel guilty. There are e-mails from Cora and from friends. I recognize some names, not others. I close the folder and glance at Marty. “This is too weird. Maybe we should quit.”

  “Hold on.” Marty points to a folder in the middle of the list. “N.S. Could that be Nova Scotia?”

  “Score.” I slap him five. “See—told you I needed your smarts.”

  “It’s not smarts, Bran. I noticed and you didn’t. Check it out.”

  I grip the mouse and open the file.

  From: Ray Graham

  Subject: Hello, old buddy!

  Date: June 30, 2004

  To: Patrick McGinnis

  Hey, pal—

  I can’t believe you found me. Pretty clever, to go through the alumni grapevine. I didn’t know they’d give out e-mail. Damn—it’s been too long.

  Good to hear you’re doing well. I’d love to meet your wife and son. Come on up! I was in Halifax for years, working for a mental health agency, but Priscilla got sick of the city. We came to Yarmouth a few years back. I stuck out like a sore thumb at first but folks are used to me now. We have a big garden and space for guests if you want to visit—unless it’s too painful.

  Yes, the girls are grown. Mindy’s in school in New Brunswick and Alix works in Digby. She’s getting married this fall. Time moves on. I’ll send some photos next time.

  About your question: I haven’t heard a thing about V since you left and they disappeared. I assume you tried the McGill route for her, too?

  Time for bed but I wanted to tell you, right away, how good it is to hear from you.

  As we used to say: Peace.

  Your buddy,

  Ray

  *

  From: Ray Graham

  Subject: Hello, old buddy

  Date: July 1, 2004

  To: Patrick McGinnis

  Me again. I searched online and found plenty of Martins listed in Antigonish—but not the ones you asked about. You’ve probably tried that already. Needle in a haystack, eh? I wonder if her parents are even alive. How about hiring a detective? I know you tried that before, but it might be easier, now that the Internet knows everything about us. I could ask around, get the name of a good agency.

  It’s funny: I always thought you’d be the one to stay in Canada and I’d go home and face the music. You’d laugh at how I love this country. I fly the maple leaf, sing O! Canada! I’ve even become a hockey fan. (Don’t worry: I still keep track of the Mets.) Stay in touch—

  Ray

  *

  From: Ray Graham

  Subject: Where are you?

  Date: July 15, 2004

  To: Patrick McGinnis

  Hey, old buddy—where the hell are you? Hope things are okay. It’s been a while since your last post. Did you find anything? Got something that might interest you. Give me a buzz. I’m around most nights except Mondays, when I’m on call. Someone always flips out at three A.M. You know the drill.

  Let me hear from you soon.

  Peace—

  Ray

  Fourth Inning

  Out of Left Field

  “You’ve got to call the guy!” Marty jabs the screen. “Look—his number’s there.”

  “Not now.” I scr
ibble the number down, close the folders, shut off the computer. The walls are closing in on me again. “Gotta get out of here.” I return the computer to Dad’s desk.

  When I come back, Marty’s holding his cap. “Your wish is my command.”

  How to say this? “Mart, this may sound harsh—but there’s something I need to do alone.”

  “No problem.” He claps his hat over the buzz cut. “Long as it’s not some girl you haven’t told me about.”

  “You wish.” I see him to the door. His slumped shoulders show he’s hurt. Dammit. I almost call him back, but I can’t. This is more important.

  I’m on the Green Line before I admit where I’m headed. I get off at Kenmore, walk across the bridge with Turnpike traffic whooshing below, and turn onto Yawkey Way. The Sox are on the road but Gate A is open. A wiry guy with an old-fashioned handlebar mustache sits at the ticket booth. “Need tickets?”

  “I’d like to go in, sit a while near the Pesky Pole.”

  “Tours are over for today.”

  “I know my way around. Been coming since my first birthday, but I’ll pay for a tour ticket if you’ll let me sit for a while. I won’t stay long.”

  “Nostalgia trip?” When I nod, he releases the turnstile. “Stay off the field and sit where I can see you. Anyone asks, say Tony let you in.”

  “Thanks.” I trudge down the ramp into the concrete bowels of the walkway behind the seats. My first time here on an off day. The silence is weird. No crush of people waiting in line for beer or hotdogs. No guys hawking French fries; no warm pretzel smells. I hurry past the red and white signs until I reach section 93. I stop at the top of the ramp like we always do—

  Did. Like we did.

  I breathe deep. Fenway’s magical, even in the quiet. The first sight of that green expanse, glittering in the sun, never gets old. Last time here, a few months ago, we sat beyond the Pesky Foul Pole. I scoot into the fourth row up—better than our usual spot—open a seat in the middle and sit. Wait. And listen.

  Nothing. The hum of traffic in the distance. Hammering behind the bleachers.

  This is crazy. As crazy as Mom thinking Dad has turned into a talking cardinal. Maybe we’re both nuts.