Out of Left Field (17 page)

Mom blurts out, “We won last night.”

“WE!” Leo and I chorus together.

“What’s with their hair?” she asks.

Leo and I howl with laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Mom demands.

“Nothing, Mom. I’m just impressed that you noticed.” My cell rings and I grin. “Tony—what’s happening?”

“You home?” The roar behind him is intense.

“On the Pike. We just passed the park. What’s the score?”

“We’re ahead! It’s happening; you can feel it. Ya gotta believe.”

“I do, man. Don’t worry. I do.”

*

Work is a nightmare. I could jump out of my skin. The smells of hot oil, dusky oregano, and overcooked tomato sauce make me gag. I’ll barf if I ever see another slice of pizza. And I’m clumsy as hell. I spill a giant root beer float, jostle tables as I sweep, and jam the cash drawer when I make change.

“Take a break,” Frankie says. No sympathy. Who can blame him?

I stumble out the back door into the parking lot and perch on the metal fence in the shade. It’s all I can do not to bawl.

Dad’s never coming back. Duh. I knew that. But for some reason, I
really
know it today. I’ll never be able to ask the questions that boomerang around in my head; questions I couldn’t ask Mom in a million years. Like: how do you know you’ve found the right girl? How do you avoid dating someone—never mind sleeping with her—like Vic, the Ice Queen? Do guys wake up hard every day, until they die?

And how about the tough questions. Like: How did you cope with warring families at three in the morning when you’d rather be home in bed? Did you actually
like
coming to my swim meets or were you just being nice? Were you still disappointed that I quit playing baseball? Why didn’t you tell me about Patrick frigging
Quinn
Blanding?

There are questions no one can answer, that make me want to howl: Where is Dad now? Is he bathed in that white light people claim they see when they have a sudden death experience? Or did he evaporate, fly into a black hole? Mom and I never talk about this. Maybe we fear the answer.

Crap. This is beyond depressing. I shiver in spite of the heat, close to despair. But Frankie saves me in his annoying way when he pokes his head out the back door and waves me back in.

*

I blow off practice. That’s probably it, between Coach and me, but I’ve missed too many days, too many meets. He’s got no choice but to bench me until fall. I’d rather stay in shape by running and, except for Marty, who else do I want to see?

Marty. Something’s weird. He hasn’t called me back or answered my e-mails; not like him. I check my watch: he’ll be on the way to practice. Instead, I punch #4 on my cell (Pop’s number) and invite myself over. “That’s okay, I’ll walk,” I tell him, when he offers to pick me up. “I need the exercise.”

Pop’s apartment smells musty and the place looks wrecked. Pop gives me a quick hug but avoids my eyes. “I’m making iced tea,” he says.

“Want help?”

“No thanks. Get comfortable.” Like I’m some out-of-town guest. Maybe I am—I haven’t been here in months.

The living room is more cluttered than I remember. The old AC unit moans. Mugs with coffee dregs sit on every surface, and water rings mar the end table next to Pop’s stained armchair. I peek into the kitchen: a disaster. Dirty dishes make a Pisa tower in the sink; open tin cans and half-empty soda bottles and piles of newspaper cover the counters. Is Pop losing it? I watch to make sure he takes clean glasses from the cupboard before I peruse his bookcase.

Pop’s photo gallery—a random collection of black-and-white and color photos in dusty frames—lines the shelves on both sides of the television. A faded wedding photo of Pop and Bess, my grandma, sits next to a picture of Mom, Dad, and me. I must have been about ten, and I’m dressed in full Sox regalia: hat, shirt, mitt. This was before I quit Little League. I pick up the photo and find another one behind it, propped against the back of the shelf. Four guys in Army uniforms—cocky as hell, arms around each other’s shoulders—mug for the camera.

“You found my crew,” Pop says behind me.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” I point to the guy wearing glasses. “Where were you?”

“England,” he says. “The day before D-Day. Last time we were all together.” He sets the iced tea down, takes the photo, rubs it on his sleeve to clean it.

“What were you doing there?”

“Same thing I’ve done all my life—electrical work. But I was wiring more important things than dishwashers and wall plugs. They called us the ‘blue collar boys.’”

I grin. “That’s what Dad called everyday ball players. The ones who do the work and never complain. The ‘dirt dogs.’”

Pop grunts. “So I’m a dirt dog?” He looks pleased. “Have a seat.”

We sit side by side on the sofa. Pop sets the military photo on the coffee table. I clear my throat. “You were part of D-Day? I didn’t know that.”

“You never asked.”

Ouch. “Sorry. Who are these guys?”

He points, left to right. “Gus. He’s in New Jersey. Does auto detailing, specializes in antique cars. We talk now and then. Zeke—he was wounded, shrapnel in the leg, but he did okay. Moved to California, married, had a passel of kids. We’ve lost touch since Bess died.” Pop pushes his glasses back, touches the third guy’s face. “Leonard. We called him Lenny. My best buddy. He didn’t make it.” Pop’s voice breaks as if it happened yesterday. “Buried in the D-Day cemetery, under the Star of David.”

“He was Jewish?”

“Yes. An observant Jew, and mad as hell. Fighting against the damned Nazis who incinerated his people. We didn’t know the half of it until the camps were liberated.” Pop turns on me. “They call it a ‘good war.’ There’s nothing ‘good’ about war, Brandon. But we knew what we were fighting for.”

I don’t like where this is headed. “Have you been back?”

“To Omaha Beach? No. Always meant to go; never could. Too busy making a living, raising your mom. And I was afraid—” He sets the picture down and stares at his feet. “I worried that a visit could bring it all back. My work was on board the ship that day, but I still saw things, heard things, I never want to experience again.” He shudders.

“Sorry, Pop.” I pat his knee. “We could go together.”

He takes off his glasses, as if to see me better. “Where?”

“To France. You, me, and Mom. After I pay Mom back for my Canadian ticket, I’ll save up for another one.” That is—if Frankie doesn’t fire me first.

Pop looks off into the distance. His chin trembles. “I’ll think about it,” he says at last. “How was your trip?”

“Complicated.”

Pop’s laugh sounds like a dry cough. “I’ll bet,” he says. “Feel like telling me?”

“Sure. But before I forget—I have something for you.” I grab my backpack and pull out Dad’s copy of
The Things They Carried
, complete with its fluttering sticky notes. “I finished reading this on the plane. It’s Dad’s copy. It’s interesting to see his comments. It helped me understand—how he felt about the war.”

Pop flushes. “I thought we were through with this subject.”

“We are. But I realize—I didn’t know my dad.” I almost say:
I don’t know you, either
.

“Sure you did,” Pop says. “As much as we know anyone. You know he loved you.” He takes a deep breath. “I have many regrets, Brandon. No one should lose a father as young as you are.”

“Thanks, Pop.” My throat is thick. When I can speak, I say, “Tell me—what was it like in England? What did you guys do over there?”

He talks. I listen, while the room fills with ghosts and shadows.

Phone call: Cat in Digby, Nova Scotia, to Brandon in Brookline, Massachusetts

Brandon? Hey, it’s Cat—from Canada.

I’m good. You?

This is weird, isn’t it—us talking?

Yah. Quinn’s fine. Saw the cardio guy Monday, test results excellent. No sign of heart trouble. Healthy as a horse, the doc said.

Relief, eh? Thought you should know.

He tied one on with his buddies last night; had a wicked hangover this morning. Guess he was more worried than he let on.

No, not yet. First they’ll test my dad and Quinn’s saliva, see if their DNA matches.

I know: gross. If not—Dad says they’d need something from you, since your dad’s not…

Yeah, you’re right. If Dad and Quinn don’t match then…you’re automatically related. Still: you and Quinn, half-brothers? Seems unlikely.

Quinn? He’s pissy. Who can blame him, eh? His girlfriend ditched him before all this started, so he wasn’t a happy camper to begin with.

Yup, still on the boat. I like it. Gives me time to practice my fiddle, when I’m not coiling lines or swabbing the deck or answering dumb questions from tourists.

Amazing, actually. We saw an Atlantic right whale yesterday. One of the rarest creatures on the planet.

Huge. Came up out of the fog, right near
Little Blue
. Scared the bejeezus out of the gray-hairs.

That’s it, I guess. Except—you said your dad had left Quinn something…

Okay, okay; left it to Patrick Junior. Whatever—whomever. What was it?

“It’s private!” That’s a good one. Listen, my dad’s a lawyer, so we could see the will if Quinn turns out to be…

I see. So he gets the crown jewels if he’s related to your dad, a lump of coal if he’s not.

Try me. I’m not as dumb as you think.

Jackie Robinson? Wasn’t he that famous black ball player?

See? Told you I’m not a pinbrain.

A baseball card? How lame! He must not have thought much of his supposed son. And Quinn’s a hockey nut like the rest of Canada. Forget I asked.

Sure, we’ll tell you what happens. And you can call me—unless it feels too weird. Just remember: no cell coverage when we’re out in the wicked waters of Fundy.

You too. See ya.

Pitcher’s Balk

I finally reach Marty after practice the next afternoon. “Hey, it’s Brandon.”

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t call back.”

“Everything okay?”

Long silence. Finally, he says, “We need to talk.”

“What’s up?”

“Not on the phone. Peets at four?”

*

Marty waits at a window table, drinking an iced coffee. He nods but doesn’t say anything. I buy a juice and pull up a chair. “So—spill it.”

He twists the plastic cup between his hands. I wait. Finally he meets my eyes. “You’re healthy, but you’re not at practice. Did you plan to tell me you’d quit the team?”

Damn. My palms are sweating. I set the juice down. “I didn’t exactly quit. You know the rules: miss too many practices, you’re benched.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re off the team.”

“No. It means I sit while you guys swim. I can’t stand that.”

“So how come Coach nags
me
, asks why you’re a no-show?”

“Sorry, Mart. I’ll call him if it makes you feel better. Frankly, I’ve had a few other things on my mind.” Sarcasm: I can’t help it.

“Okay. I get that. But I’m supposed to be your best friend. And
you’re
the one who talked me into joining the damned team. Remember? You said it would be so great to train together, take the bus to meets, stay in shape.”

His eyes look too big in his face—is it the buzz cut? And since when did he start shaving? Guess I
am
out of touch.

“You’re different now,” Marty says.

Unbelievable. “You’d be
different
too, if your dad checked out.” My knee bounces and I knock over my juice. I grab some napkins, mop up the mess and point to the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

He follows me outside. We stride to the parking lot out back and perch on the fence at a safe distance from each other. “Mart, I’m sorry you’re pissed—”

He puts his hand up like a traffic cop. “Hear me out. It sucks about your dad. Big time. You know I loved the guy. But you pulled me into the search for your so-called brother. It was like the old games we used to play, except this time, it was the real thing. I was ready to quit that stupid math class, buy a ticket—and then I find out you’re traveling with your
aunt
. That hurt. You leave these tantalizing messages, without any detail, and expect me to be all excited about your discoveries.”

I stare at him. “What’s going on? We getting a divorce or something?”

“I don’t know.” Marty’s voice shakes. “When’s the last time you asked what
I’ve
been up to? Do you know I screwed up the final test in that math class? That I met a foxy girl who only wants to be ‘friends’? That my sister’s night terrors wake me at three in the morning?”

I hold my head. It feels ready to burst. When I look up, I see red. Literally. The world is a flaming, bloody red. Marty’s buzz cut is on fire; so is the tree behind him, the pavement, the line of cars in the lot. I want to break something or punch someone: a tree, a window, even Marty—

I spot a rock—baseball size—grab it. Pull back my arm, kick my leg up like a pitcher ready to hurl—

“Bran, stop!” Marty grabs me, twists me around, and nearly knocks me off balance. He shoves my right arm up my back. “Are you nuts? Drop the stone.”

Small and wiry as he is, the guy is strong. I can’t get out of his grip. I do as he says and stagger to the railing where I lean over and retch. The pavement is black again, the railing silver, the tree beside me an ordinary brown.

A car pulls up and an older guy rolls down his window. “You boys all right?”

I wave at him. “Fine,” I croak—except that my shoulder hurts like hell.

Marty nods. “His dad died.” As if that explains why he had me in a hammerlock.

The guy waits a moment, scowling, before he drives off. I sink onto the fence, bury my head in my hands—and bawl. Big, sloppy sobs. Mart sits beside me, slings an arm across my shoulders, and hangs out there until I’m done.

“Man—I’m sorry,” Marty says. “You looked ready to murder someone.”

“Yeah. A car window. Fat lot of good that would do.” I wipe my face with my T-shirt. It comes away covered with snot. “Wow. Thanks for forcing me into a balk. I literally saw red. Weird. It’s bad enough Dad had to die. If his death wrecks our friendship—that’s the friggin’ last straw.”