Out of Left Field Page 7

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Afraid not. And it’s inherited—fifty percent chance I might have it, too. So they rushed me to the hospital.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve had every test in the book. Things look good so far. One more test and I’ll be off the D.L., ready for a normal life. Whatever that means.”

  Marty whistles. “Your dad knew?”

  “Sounds like he found out right before he died.”

  “He never told your mom?”

  “They had a lunch date scheduled for the day he… We think he planned to break the news then. He made an appointment for me—but…” I can’t talk straight. He checked out instead, is what I’m thinking.

  “Wow. So that’s why Mr. Magoo wanted to find his—other kid. To warn him.”

  “Must be.”

  “It’s up to us now,” Marty says.

  I shiver, even though heat shimmers on the pavement. “What if it’s already too late?”

  “Young guys die of it, too?”

  “Remember Reggie Lewis?”

  “You’re kidding. That’s what he had?”

  “They think so.”

  “Man, I’m glad you’re alive.”

  “Me too. Don’t go maudlin on me.” I grin like an idiot.

  Marty jolts me out of my trance. “Did you call your dad’s friend in Canada? It’s even more urgent now.”

  “Ray? You’re right. But not tonight. They poked and prodded and nearly bled me to death. I’m whooped. And my aunt’s here with her family.”

  Shit. My aunt. What were we thinking? My cousins? I nearly drop the phone. “Gotta go. Call you soon.”

  I don’t wait for his reply. I push through the revolving doors. My family is huddled around Cora as if she’s a quarterback calling a play—but her skin is pale under her freckles. It’s obviously hit them too. My uncle yanks Cora to her feet, grabs Janine. Mom stumbles after them. “Leo, I’m sorry!” Mom whispers. “I was so focused on Brandon, I didn’t think—”

  Leo doesn’t answer. His shoes squeak as he pulls Cora and Janine toward the elevators.

  My aunt tries to twist away. “Leo, wait. Won’t the office be closed?” My uncle doesn’t break his stride. The elevator door closes behind them. Mom lists to the side and I catch her under the elbow, guide her into her seat.

  “I should have called them right away,” she whispers.

  “It’s okay, Mom. Cora will be okay. The twins, too.” No choice. They have to be.

  *

  Hours later, I’m too exhausted to sleep. The lights of a passing car cast thin beams across my ceiling. Mom’s asleep—I checked to be sure—but I can’t relax. Cora will see the doc first thing in the morning; nothing we can do until she’s had the same battery of tests. The twins escape the tests if Cora is okay. Mom and I wore ourselves out with questions we couldn’t answer: Why didn’t the doc ask Dad—or Mom—if he had siblings? Why didn’t Dad think of that himself?

  Now it hits me, full force. “Crap!” I sit up in bed and punch the headboard. He could have lived.

  I throw off my sheet and stand in the middle of the room, as if I had someplace to go. While we waited for test results, the doc opened up a plastic heart and put the pieces back together like a Rubik’s cube. I was wishing for a translator for some of the terms he tossed around, and I interrupted him with a rude question: “Could you have saved him?”

  The doc looked like I’d slapped his face. Kept his eyes on me though; I gave him credit for that. “It’s possible,” he said. “I recommended he have a defibrillator implanted. A tricky surgery that would have changed his quality of life forever.” More throat clearing. I glanced at Mom. She was frozen in her chair.

  The doc faced her straight on. “He said he’d talk to you about it and bring you in right away. He made that appointment for you, son. I wish—”

  Son? Forget it. Only one man calls me that name.

  Mom and I waited while he clicked his ballpoint pen open. And closed. Open. Closed. No way we’d let him off the hook. “Maybe he didn’t realize how urgent it was,” the doctor said at last. “Maybe I didn’t either—since he’d lived so long without major symptoms.”

  Now, I think of that scene in the kitchen a month ago, when I was making bread and Dad doubled up, coughing. Was that a sign? I pace the room like the tiger at the Franklin Park Zoo. “Goddamn it!”

  “Bran?” Mom’s voice is faint on the other side of the wall. “You okay?”

  “Sorry! Bad dream.” Mom must think I’ve gone over the edge. Maybe I have. I clutch my head, but two words ring inside me like a gong. If only. If only. If only I’d bugged Dad when he had that fit, made him go to the doctor. Or told Mom; bugged her until she made him go. If only the doctor had kept Dad in the hospital, given him the surgery right then. If only Dad had told us!

  If only we could bring him back.

  Fifth Inning

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

  Hey, Quinn. I can only talk a minute. I’m waiting for Mum outside the market.

  She’s been grilling me.

  Weird questions. Like: “Why does Quinn want to go to Puerto Rico in August? Is he hiding something?”

  Right. And she wants to know if your breakup with Racquelle has put you into a severe depression. “Do you think he needs meds?” she asks.

  I’m serious. As if I’m a shrink. She’s losing it.

  I didn’t tell her anything. Said you needed a change, your buddies wanted to cheer you up.

  Soon. I’ve got the key to the safe deposit box but—

  Never mind; here she comes. Ta.

  No mo’ Nomah

  Breakfast is cold cereal and bananas. Who cares what you eat after the reprieve I got yesterday? Fingers crossed that Cora gets the same good news.

  I check the sports page for the first time all week and nearly fall off my stool. “Look at this. The Sox trade Nomar! Unbelievable! Is this insane—or brilliant?” I jump to my feet, clutching the paper—

  And then I remember. “Shit! Dad, you should be here! This is cataclysmic!” I throw the paper to the floor and stomp on it as if I’m some stupid cartoon character. Maxine jumps from the windowsill and streaks down the hall. “God dammit—this is so frigging unfair!”

  Mom hurries into the kitchen, her neck a mottled red. She grabs my shoulders and presses, hard—harder than I knew she could. “Sit down,” she says.

  “Whoa.” I obey and sink back onto my stool. “Mom, listen.” I point to the paper, spread out across the floor. “I know you don’t give a damn about the Sox—but this is the biggest news since—since—”

  “Bran. You listen to me.” Mom crosses her arms over her chest. She’s in full teacher mode, about to chastise a student who has pushed past her limits. If I weren’t so wound up, I’d be glad to see this side of her again.

  “After I came to,” Mom says, “when you were in the waiting room, the doctor said he has no doubts about your health.” She takes a deep breath. “But he wants you to lay low until the blood tests come back.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Nothing strenuous. No temper tantrums. And no swim team for a few more days. He said work at the pizzeria is okay—as long as you take it easy.”

  “That’s it for the team. I’ve been AWOL too often.”

  Mom frowns. “Surely Coach will understand. Anyway we can’t risk—if anything happened…” She rummages in her purse and pulls out an envelope on fancy hospital stationery. “The doctor gave me this letter. Show it to Frankie and Coach.” She fixes me with her No Nonsense look. “I have enough on my plate until we hear about Cora. Don’t give me anything else to worry about.”

  “Fine.” It’s not fine, but what can I say? “Call me when you have news.” I leave before she can give me any more advice.

  *

  Frankie actually seems nervous having me around. “You won’t keel over on me, will you?”

  “I feel great,” I said. “Put me at dishwasher. Nothing s
trenuous about that.”

  I slip into the alley on break. I’ve carried Tony’s card in my wallet since that day at Fenway Park. He picks up on the first ring, and when I start to explain who I am, he jumps all over me.

  “Brandon! Of course I remember. God, can you believe the news? The phones are going crazy, talk radio is bananas with ‘no mo Nomah’ chatter. What do you think?”

  I grin. The guy actually wants my opinion? “I liked Nomar’s routines for a while,” I tell him. “All his little OCD rituals were funny when he could hit. But lately—seems it’s all about Nomar, never about the team. And I like Cabrera. My dad would say he’s a blue-collar player who never misses a game.”

  “Clearly your dad was a smart one,” Tony says.

  “He knew baseball.”

  Tony digests that, then says, “So what about it? Want me to save two playoff tickets for you? You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “If we end up as the wild card—who’d you pick for the playoffs?”

  How does Tony know I miss talking about this stuff? “Dream scenario?” I say. “We play Oakland first. We can beat the Twins—but it would be sweet to cream the Yankees, after the nightmare of Aaron Boone.” I omit Dad’s obscene moniker for Boone.

  “I’m with you on that one. Nothing like revenge.” Tony takes my e-mail, phone number and address, and tells me my tickets will be in the mail—“When, not if, we’re in the playoffs. And stay in touch. It’s good to chat with someone who’s paying attention.” His voice deepens. “My brother and I used to shoot the breeze about the Sox until he passed, last year.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. It was a long, crummy death. Talking baseball helps me forget.”

  “No kidding.” Now there’s no excuse. I’ll have to read the sports page again, turn on the games.

  Back inside the pizzeria, the smell of cheese, oil and garlic assaults me, but today, I can handle anything. It’s only later, when the skin on my hands looks ancient from so many dishes, that I think about my so-called brother in Canada. Who may have a time bomb ticking in his chest. I’ve been so focused on Cora’s side of the family—and myself—that I forgot about the mystery guy. I keep a close eye on the clock.

  “See you tomorrow,” I call to Frankie.

  “Be careful.” He tosses the dough into the air, his signature salute. I give him a thumbs-up as it lands in his outstretched hands.

  *

  Coach reads the letter and rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Come back when you get the all clear. I’ve given your spot to Tarcher. I had no choice, with your no-show status. You’ll have to work your way off the bench.”

  Unbelievable. No sympathy whatsoever. This goes in the Be Careful What You Wish For category. I didn’t want pity, did I? Never mind. We’re both being honest. “Sure, Coach.” I leave before I say something I’ll regret. I’d go nuts on the bench. And I have more important things to do.

  It’s All in the Stats

  There’s a note from Mom on the kitchen counter: “Call when you get home. I’ll be back at six with cold soup,” signed with a smiley face. Perfect. This gives me lots of time.

  No messages on my cell. Damn. Why is Cora taking so long? Maybe my own workup took longer than I realized. I leave a message on Mom’s phone, tell her I’m still breathing, and spend the next few hours getting methodical, like a real detective. I jot down questions, dates, and Ray’s phone number in a blank notebook, then search online for information about men who went to Canada to escape the draft. There were border crossings around the Northeast, including at Niagara Falls. Is that where Dad went? It’s close to Toronto. In his farewell letter to Cora, Dad said he was cold—but it was winter; he could have been anywhere. Dad always said a ball player’s history was “all in his stats.” No stats for Dad. I’m groping in the fog.

  I learn about a book a guy wrote back then, called a Manual for Draft Age Resisters, and request a copy from inter-library loan. A lot of guys who ran away were almost my age. If they had a draft now—what would I do?

  I study Dad’s e-mails. He deleted most of his Sent file, except for the week before he died. Weird. Marty might know how to recover them, but he’d probably say it wasn’t kosher. Dad sent nothing to Ray in his last days on earth—but would Ray have Dad’s messages to him? Only one way to find out. Am I ready for that?

  I read through the rest of Dad’s letters to Aunt Cora, which are in order; Cora must have sorted them before she gave me the box. In Toronto, he made bread for everyone who lived in his house, bought clothes at a place called The Cosmic Egg (seriously?), went to hear Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and Gordon Lightfoot at some club.

  Joni Mitchell? I take a break, search for her albums on Dad’s shelf. “Blue” plays as I follow Dad’s journey on to Montreal. That’s where he meets Ray Graham, adopts a kitten, gets his degree in social work at McGill. By the time Dad lands in Halifax, Joni is singing Cary, get out your cane, and Dad’s letters to Cora are short. The Canadian version of Dad sounds like the guy I knew—working in a group home for boys, running a private practice—except that he was homesick, and worried about his own father, who was dying.

  Of what? Heart disease?

  I jot down a few questions: Ask Aunt Cora re Granddad’s death. And: Where did Dad meet girlfriend? Did Cora know about her? Dad doesn’t say much about his parents—except, in one early letter, he writes:

  Cora, it stinks that the FBI came snooping. Sorry you were there alone. I’m sure you handled it okay—but don’t ever let them in unless Mom and Dad are home.

  The FBI was looking for Dad? Did that mean my grandparents were in trouble, too? If only I could call Dad at work, ask him what the hell was going on.

  As the years pass, Dad’s messages dwindle to birthday cards. I do the math: my aunt would have been in college then. Maybe, since Dad had a steady job, they were talking on the phone more—or she stopped saving his letters—or both. At the bottom of the pile I find an actual Western Union telegram (now that is ancient history), addressed to my aunt in New York City, and dated February 2, 1977. The telegram is in capital letters, as if Dad was shouting:

  HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY STOP COMING HOME FRIDAY STOP WARN MOM AND DAD STOP LOVE PAT STOP

  The buzzer sounds as I close up the box. Marty. He trudges up the two flights and collapses on the couch, out of breath. “Perfect timing,” I tell him. “I could use your skills. What’s up?”

  “Killer practice,” he says when he can talk. “Coach put Tarcher in your spot, told us you can’t swim for health reasons. I thought you were okay.”

  “Hope so. The doc said no practice until the blood tests come back clean; another day or two. Coach is following the rules. He said I’d have to work my way back from the bench. I’d rather quit.”

  Marty sits up straight. “You serious?”

  I glance at my watch. “I’ll do what I need to do. Listen, Mart—Mom will be home soon. I have to phone Ray in Canada, tell him the situation is urgent. You can give me moral support.”

  “Hold it. You can’t leave the team. You’re the one who persuaded me to join—remember?”

  “Sure. That’s because I knew you’d be a star; better than I could ever be. Now can we call this guy?”

  He shrugs, starts to say something, clams up.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry about your dad; believe me. But you can’t give up. You said yourself: I forget everything when I train. And we swim together. Who will I hang out with?”

  “Tarcher, Bromley. They’re okay.” Now I’m pissed. “Look: you know I’m sluggish in the pool these days. And since I found out about this possible brother, nothing makes me forget. I gotta solve this thing. You with me, or not?”

  “I guess.” He fidgets, then gives me a long look. “You’re not a quitter, man.”

  “Right. That’s why I need to make this call.” I pick up the portable phone. Marty hesitates, then follows me down the hall.

>   I close the door. “Sorry to let you down.” When he doesn’t answer, I study the number. “This is weird. What’ll I say?”

  “Tell him who you are, why you’re calling. What have you got to lose?”

  “Not much, since Dad’s dead. Hey, want to try? You’re better at cold calls.”

  “It’s your deal.”

  “Right.” I punch in the number. Six rings, seven. The answering machine comes on, a man’s voice. I’m about to quit when a woman answers. “Yes?” She sounds annoyed.

  I swallow. Marty kicks my foot. “Is Ray—is Mr. Graham there?” God, I sound stupid.

  “We’re having dinner,” she says.

  “I’m sorry.” I check my watch. Dinner at 5:30? “I can call back.” And then, because Marty nudges me again, I tell her, “It’s important.”

  A man’s deep voice rumbles in the background. “Find out who it is.”

  The woman’s words are muffled. She must have her hand over the receiver. It sounds like she’s complaining. The man says something I can’t hear and the woman comes back on. “He’s not on call tonight,” she says. “Who is this?”

  Now or never. “Brandon McGinnis,” I tell her. “He knew—my dad.”

  Long silence. Then his voice, a deep baritone. “Ray Graham here. How can I help you?”

  Marty circles his hand, telling me to speed things up. I clear my throat. “Hi, Mr. Graham. I’m Brandon McGinnis. Your friend Patrick’s son.”

  A long, empty pause makes my palms sweat. Finally, he says, “No kidding. I thought your dad had dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Perfect description.

  You Threw Me a Curve Ball

  “Where are you?” Mr. Graham asks.

  “At home. In Brookline, Massachusetts,” I finally say.

  “Is something wrong?” Mr. Graham asks.

  It still catches in my throat. “Yeah. My dad died a few weeks ago.”

  He’s quiet a long time. “Mr. Graham? You there?”

  “I am. That’s awful news.” His voice sounds like one of those fake computer voices. “What happened?”