Andre Dubus: Selected Stories (18 page)

She came into the kitchen that morning of the final game, late morning after a late breakfast so he would eat only twice before pitching, when he was already—or still, from the night before— concentrating on his twentieth win; and the pennant too. He wanted that: wanted to be the pitcher who had come to a third-place club and after one season had ridden away from a pennant winner. She came into the kitchen and looked at him more seriously than he’d ever seen her, and said: ‘Billy, it’s a terrible day to tell you this but you said today was the day I should pack.’

He looked at her from his long distance then focussed in closer, forced himself to hear what she was saying, felt like he was even forcing himself to see her in three dimensions instead of two, and said: ‘What’s the matter, baby?’

‘I’m not going.’

‘Not going where?’

‘San Antonio. Flint. I’m staying here.’

Her perspiring face looked so afraid and sorry for him and determined all at once that he knew he was finished, that he didn’t even know what was happening but there would never be enough words he could say. Her eyes were brimming with tears, and he knew they were for herself, for having come to this moment in the kitchen, so far from everything she could have known and predicted; deep in her eyes, as visible as stars, was the hard light of something else, and he knew that she had hated him too, and he imagined her hating him for days while he was on the road: saw her standing in this kitchen and staring out the screen door at the lawn and woods, hating him. Then the picture completed itself: a man, his back to Billy, stood beside her and put his arm around her waist.

‘Leslie?’ and he had to clear his throat, clear his voice of the fear in it: ‘Baby, have you been playing around?’

She looked at him for such a long time that he was both afraid of what she would say, and afraid she wouldn’t speak at all.

‘I’m in love, Billy.’

Then she turned and went to the back door, hugging her breasts and staring through the screen. He gripped the corners of the table, pushed his chair back, started to rise, but did not; there was nothing to stand for. He rubbed his eyes, then briskly shook his head.

‘It wasn’t just that you were on the road so much. I was ready for that. I used to tell myself it’d be exciting a lot of the time, especially in the big leagues. And I’d tell myself in ten years it’d be over anyway, some women have to—’

‘
Ten
?’ Thinking of the running he did, in the outfield on the days he wasn’t pitching, and every day at home between seasons, having known long ago that his arm was a gift and it would last until one spring when it couldn’t do the work anymore, would become for the first time since it started throwing a baseball just an ordinary arm; and what he could and must do was keep his lungs and legs strong so they wouldn’t give out before it did. He surprised himself: he had not known that, while his wife was leaving him, he could proudly and defensively think of pitching in his early thirties. He had a glimpse of the way she saw him, and he was frightened and ashamed.

‘All right: fifteen,’ she said. ‘Some women are married to sailors and soldiers and it’s longer. It wasn’t the road trips. It was when you were home: you weren’t here. You weren’t here, with me.’

‘I was here all day. Six, seven hours at the park at night. I don’t know what that means.’

‘It means I’m not what you want.’

‘How can you tell me what I want?’

‘You want to be better than Walter Johnson.’

From his angle he saw very little of her face. He waited. But this time she didn’t speak.

‘Leslie, can’t a man try to be the best at what he’s got to do and still love his wife?’ Then he stood: ‘Goddamnit who
is
he?’

‘George Lemoine,’ she said through the screen.

‘George
Lemoine
. Who’s George
Lemoine
?’

‘The dentist I went to.’

‘What dentist you went to?’

She turned and looked at his face and down the length of his arms to his fists, then sat at the opposite end of the table.

‘When I lost the filling. In June.’

‘
June?
’

‘We didn’t start then.’ Her face was slightly lowered, but her eyes were raised to his, and there was another light in them: she was ashamed but not remorseful, and her voice had the unmistakable tone of a woman in love; they were never so serious as this, never so threatening, and he was assaulted by images of Leslie making love with another man. ‘He went to the game alone. Sometimes we talked down at the concession stand. We—’ Now she looked down, hid her eyes from him, and he felt shut out forever from the mysteries of her heart.

All his life he had been confident. In his teens his confidence and hope were concrete: the baseball season at hand, the season ahead, professional ball, the major leagues. But even as a child he had been confident and hopeful, in an abstract way. He had barely suffered at all, and he had survived that without becoming either callous or naive. He was not without compassion when his life involved him with the homely, the clumsy, the losers. He simply considered himself lucky. Now his body felt like someone else’s, weak and trembling. His urge was to lie down.

‘And all those times on the road I never went near a whorehouse.’

‘It’s not the same.’

He was looking at the beige wall over the sink, but he felt that her eyes were lowered still. He was about to ask what she meant, but then he knew.

‘So I guess when I go out to the mound tonight he’ll be moving in, is that right?’

Now he looked at her, and when she lifted her face, it had changed: she was only vulnerable.

‘He has to get a divorce first. He has a wife and two kids.’

‘Wait a minute.
Wait
a minute. He’s got a wife and two
kids?
How
old
is this son of a bitch?’

‘Thirty-four.’

‘God
damn
it Leslie! How dumb can you be? He’s getting what he wants from you, what makes you think he won’t be smart enough to leave it at that? God
damn
.’

‘I believe him.’

‘You believe him. A dentist anyhow. How can you be married to a ballplayer and fall for a dentist anyhow? And what’ll you do for money? You got that one figured out?’

‘I don’t need much. I’ll get a job.’

‘Well, you won’t have much either, because I’m going over there and kill him.’

‘Billy.’ She stood, her face as admonitory as his mother’s. ‘He’s got enough troubles. All summer I’ve been in trouble too. I’ve been sad and lonesome. That’s the only way this could ever happen. You know that. All summer I’ve been feeling like I was running alongside the players’ bus waving at you. Then he came along.’

‘And picked you up.’

He glared at her until she blushed and lowered her eyes. Then he went to the bedroom to pack. But she had already done it: the suitcase and overnight bag stood at the foot of the bed. He picked them up and walked fast to the front door. Before he reached it she came out of the kitchen, and he stopped.

‘Billy. I don’t want you to be hurt; and I know you won’t be for long. I hope someday you can forgive me. Maybe write and tell me how you’re doing.’

His urge to drop the suitcase and overnight bag and hold her and ask her to change her mind was so great that he could only fight it with anger; and with the clarity of anger he saw a truth which got him out the door.

‘You want it all, don’t you? Well, forget it. You just settle for what you chose.’

Scornfully he scanned the walls of the living room, then Leslie from feet to head; then he left, out into the sun and the hot still air, and drove into town and registered at a hotel. The old desk clerk recognized him and looked puzzled but quickly hid it and said: ‘Y’all going to beat them New Iberia boys tonight?’

‘Damn right.’

The natural thing to do now was go to Lemoine’s office, walk in while he was looking in somebody’s mouth:
It’s me you son of a bitch
, and work him over with the left hand, cancel his afternoon for him, send him off to another dentist. What he had to do was unnatural. And as he climbed the stairs to his room he thought there was much about his profession that was unnatural. In the room he turned off the air conditioning and opened the windows, because he didn’t want his arm to be in the cool air, then lay on the bed and closed his eyes and began pitching to the batting order. He knew them all perfectly; but he did not trust that sort of perfection, for it was too much like confidence, which was too much like complacency. So he started with Vidrine, the lead-off man. Left-handed. Went with the pitch, hit to all fields; good drag-bunter but only fair speed and Primeaux would be crowding him at third; choke-hitter, usually got a piece of the ball, but not that quick with the bat either; couldn’t hit good speed. Fastballs low and tight. Change on him. Good base-runner but he had to get a jump. Just hold him close to the bag. Then Billy stopped thinking about Vidrine on base. Thing was to concentrate now on seeing his stance and the high-cocked bat and the inside of the plate and Lucky’s glove. He pushed aside the image of Vidrine crouching in a lead off first, and at the same time he pushed from his mind Leslie in the kitchen telling him; he saw Vidrine at the plate and, beyond him, he saw Leslie going away. She had been sitting in the box seat but now she walked alone down the ramp. Poor little Texas girl. She even sounded like a small town in Texas: Leslie Wells. Then she was gone.

The home run came with one out and nobody on in the top of the third inning after he had retired the first seven batters. Rick Stanley hit it, the eighth man in the order, a good-field no-hit third baseman in his mid- twenties. He had been in the minors for seven years and looked like it: though trimly built, and the best third baseman Billy had ever seen, he had a look about him of age, of resignation, of having been forced—when he was too young to bear it well—to compromise what he wanted with what he could do. At the plate he looked afraid, and early in the season Billy thought Stanley had been beaned and wasn’t able to forget it. Later he realized it wasn’t fear of beaning, not fear at all, but the strain of living so long with what he knew. It showed in the field too. Not during a play, but when it was over and Stanley threw the ball to the pitcher and returned to his position, his face looking as though it were adjusting itself to the truth he had forgotten when he backhanded the ball over the bag and turned and set and threw his mitt-popping peg to first; his face then was intense, reflexive as his legs and hands and arm; then the play was over and his face settled again into the resignation that was still new enough to be terrible. It spread downward to his shoulders and then to the rest of him and he looked old again. Billy wished he had seen Stanley play third when he was younger and still believed there was a patch of dirt and a bag and a foul line waiting for him in the major leagues.

One of Billy’s rules was never to let up on the bottom of the batting order, because when one of them got a hit it hurt more. The pitch to Stanley was a good one. Like many players, Stanley was a poor hitter because he could not consistently be a good hitter; he was only a good hitter for one swing out of every twelve or so; the other swings had changed his life for him. The occasional good one gave the fans, and Stanley too by now, a surprise that always remained a surprise and so never engendered hope. His home run was a matter of numbers and time, for on this one pitch his concentration and timing and swing all flowed together, making him for that instant the hitter of his destroyed dream. It would happen again, in other ball parks, in other seasons; and if Stanley had been able to cause it instead of having it happen to him, he would be in the major leagues.

Billy’s first pitch to him was a fast ball, waist high, inside corner. Stanley took it for a strike, with that look on his face. Lucky called for the same pitch. Billy nodded and played with the rosin bag to keep Stanley waiting longer; then Stanley stepped out of the box and scooped up dust and rubbed it on his hands and the bat handle; when he moved to the plate again he looked just as tense and Billy threw the fast ball; Stanley swung late and under it. Lucky called for the curve, the pitch that was sweet tonight, and Billy went right into the wind-up, figuring Stanley was tied up tightly now, best time to throw a pitch into all that: he watched the ball go in fast and groin-high, then fall to the left, and it would have cut the outside corner of the plate just above Stanley’s knees; but it was gone. Stanley not only hit it so solidly that Billy knew it was gone before looking, but he got around on it, pulled it, and when Billy found it in the left-centerfield sky it was still climbing above James running from left and LeBlanc from center. At the top of its arc, there was something final about its floodlit surface against the real sky, dark up there above the lighted one they played under.

He turned his back to the plate. He never watched a home run hitter cross it. He looked out at LeBlanc in center; then he looked at Harry Burke at second, old Harry, the manager, forty-one years old and he could still cover the ground, mostly through cunning; make the pivot—how many double plays had he turned in his life?—and when somebody took him out with a slide Billy waited for the cracking sound, not just of bone but the whole body, like a dried tree limb. Hap told him not to worry, old Harry was made of oiled leather. His face looked as if it had already outlived two bodies like the one it commanded now. Never higher than Triple A, and that was long ago; when the Bulls hired him and then the fans loved him he moved his family to Lafayette and made it his home, and between seasons worked for an insurance company, easy money for him, because he went to see men and they drank coffee and talked baseball. He had the gentlest eyes Billy had ever seen on a man. Now Harry trotted over to him.

‘We got twenty-one out to get that back for you.’

‘The little bastard hit that pitch.’

‘Somebody did. Did you get a close look at him?’

Billy shook his head and went to the rubber. He walked the fat pitcher Talieferro on four pitches and Vidrine on six, and Lucky came to the mound. They called him Lucky because he wasn’t.