Remember the Time (25 page)

“Everybody did. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to tell you, but at the time I still felt like the walking wounded.” She smiled. “You were hard to get over, Mike Fitzgerald. But I finally did it.” Looking into his gray eyes, Allison saw the past, and wondered if he knew she was lying.

“I understand, Alli. It was a tough few years for me, too.”

“How’s his wife doing? It must’ve been very hard for her.”

He nodded. “You’re a good person, Alli. I know it’s not much, but I’m sorry for the way things worked out.”

She looked away for a moment, then said, “Did I hear that you moved back to Staunton?”

“Yeah. It suits me.”

Summoning up her courage, she casually asked, “Still dreaming the impossible dream?” His face didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m sorry, Mike. That was uncalled for.” She took a breath. “I’d better get back to Brian.”

“It was good seeing you, Allison. My best to you both.” He put out his hand and she took it.

Softly squeezing his fingers, she said, “I want to wish you all the luck in the world. I know what it’s like loving someone that much.” Her fingers trailed across his palm. “Merry Christmas, Mike.”

His dinner arrived, but his appetite had fled.
The impossible dream
. Yes, and it was time to wake up.

He’d gone back to his room and, with the television on, worked until the phone had rung. And now, replaying the conversation over and over again, he finally fell asleep. But instead of dreaming of Kate, he had a nightmare that had him locked in the suffocating tower room, surrounded by images of Paul, with a grinning Matt peering at him through the window. Mike struggled to get the window open, to get out, to breathe fresh air. When he finally picked up one of Paul’s trophies and shattered the window, Matt’s face disappeared in a shower of glass.

The image woke him. His heart pounding, his body drenched in sweat, he sat up in the huge bed and attempted to breathe normally. Rubbing a hand across his face, he tried to make sense of the dream. He told himself it was just a dream and wasn’t supposed to make sense, but he stole a look at the clock on the nightstand, just in case it wasn’t too late to call Sheryl. To make sure Matt was okay. The digital display read 1:45, and he picked up the phone.

Sheryl answered his call with a frantic, “What’s wrong?” When she heard his voice, and he assured her that nothing was wrong, that he just wanted to make sure everything was all right there, she said, “Are you nuts, calling at this time of night? God, Mike, I
hate
it when you do this.”

“Is Matt there?”

“Of course he’s here. Where else would he be?”

“You’re sure?”

She took a deep breath, trying to curb her annoyance. “Yes, Mike. He put on his jammies and I tucked him in myself. What’s this all about?”

“Nothing.”

“You wake me up at two in the morning for nothing?”

“Kate sounded a little funny when I talked to her. I was just wondering if Matt happened to say anything.”

“Kate again? I’m hanging up, Mike.”

“No, really, Sherry … did he say anything?”

“No, really, Mike … he didn’t. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t say anything else and go to sleep.”

Matt was startled when he heard the phone ringing in the middle of the night, but it quit and he assumed everything was okay. He listened, but didn’t hear his mother coming down the hall to tell him any bad news, so it must have been a wrong number. Just in case, he got up from his bed and checked to be sure his door was locked. Then he went back to poring over the scrapbook he’d “borrowed” from the tower room. Kate didn’t know he had it. It had been easy to sneak it out to his car while she’d gone to answer the phone.

There had been a scrapbook for every year that Paul had played baseball, all of them carefully, lovingly, pieced together. Matt chose 1984, the year his uncle had taken him to his first major league game. The year he’d first met Paul Armstrong.

Matt read every article, every clipping. He found the
San Francisco Chronicle’s
report on the game he’d attended in Philadelphia and read through it twice. He remembered the game like it was yesterday. The three-run homer, the single that scored the winning run, the amazing double play that got the team out of a one-out, bases-loaded situation. It was all there.

Matt moved on to a short magazine piece on baseball
card collecting. He couldn’t figure out what it was doing in the scrapbook, until he turned the page and saw Paul’s name highlighted in yellow. The article focused on rookie cards, and a small photo showed Paul holding his own card. The caption under the photograph read:
Giants great Paul Armstrong won’t give up his rookie card to just anyone. “I’m saving this for someone special.”

Matt smiled. The card, signed and framed, hung on his bedroom wall. It had been in one of his Christmas packages from Paul. His smile faded to puzzlement. The article had been published in the April edition. The season had just started, and Matt hadn’t met Paul yet. Mystified, Matt read the article through. He continued looking at the picture, as if it would give him some clue as to who Paul meant by “someone special.”

Getting off the bed, he went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. Lifting out the small box that held the six precious letters from Paul, he picked out the one from Christmas of 1988 and unfolded it. He knew them all by heart, and he found the line he was looking for immediately. Paul had written:
“I’ve heard my rookie card is worth a lot of money, so don’t trade it! I’ve been saving it for you for a long time and I think you’re old enough to appreciate it now.”

Matt’s eyes strayed to the framed card and squinted in concentration, and he became even more confused. He went back to the scrapbook and didn’t turn off his light till well past three.

Matt stood at the kitchen sink eating his second bowl of cereal.

“You’re up early. What’s the occasion?” his mother asked, smothering a yawn.

“I promised Kate I’d help her look for Homer,” he answered, rinsing out the dish.

“Oh. Kate. How could I forget?”

Her sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on Matt. “How come you never told me about Uncle Mike and Kate?”

Sheryl hid her surprise at his question, and simply said, “There was nothing to tell.”

“But he’s in love with her. Right?”

Sheryl nodded as she made herself a cup of instant coffee. “That’s old news, Matt. He’s been in love with her for a hundred years. And speaking of Kate—and God, when aren’t we?—was she okay when you left her last night?”

Matt’s defenses came up. “What d’you mean?” He could feel gooseflesh prickling his arms.

“I don’t know what I mean,” Sheryl said, her irritation at Mike’s late-night phone call still festering. “Your uncle called me in the wee hours and asked me if she was okay.” She plopped into a chair. “How the hell am I supposed to know?” she said to herself.

Matt didn’t think an answer was called for. He was wrong.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

His mother raised an eyebrow and speared him with her “don’t get smart with me” look.

Matt quickly answered, “Yeah. She was okay. Just upset about Homer, that’s all.” And not one to be swayed, Matt returned to the original subject, “So, does Kate feel the same way about Uncle Mike?”

“Why are you so interested?”

Matt shrugged. “I just can’t believe no one ever told me.”

Sheryl grinned at him. “And I can’t believe you never noticed. Mike can be about as subtle as a jackhammer when it comes to Kate.”

“Well,
I
never knew.” Ruffling his mother’s hair, he jokingly asked, “What else are you hiding from me?”

Sheryl elbowed him. “I thought you were going someplace.”

“Okay, I’m outta here.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head and took his jacket from the back of the chair. The phone began ringing, and he asked, “Want me to get that?”

“No. Get going,” she said, standing. “Hello?”

“Sheryl? Has Matt left yet?”

Speak of the devil
, Sheryl thought. “He’s on his way out the door.”

“Well, stop him. Tell him I found Homer and he doesn’t need to come over.”

Sheryl peered out the kitchen window. Matt was just unlocking his car door. Covering the receiver with her hand, she shouted for him. He looked up and then trotted back to the house.

“The search and rescue party is off. Kate found the dog.”

T
he knock on the door came at eight o’clock in the morning. Kate had just fallen asleep an hour before. It had been one of the worst nights of her life. She could remember only one other that had been as bad, and that was the never-ending night after Paul’s death.

The knock came again and the doorbell rang as Kate, practically sleepwalking, shuffled to the front door. She confronted a man in his early thirties and a young boy she assumed was his son. The boy, his eyes downcast, was holding a leash that was attached to Homer, who wagged his tail when he saw Kate.

“Homer!” she cried out, kneeling down to take the dog’s huge jaw in her hand. “Where have you been?”

“Mrs. Armstrong?”

“Where did you find him?” Kate asked, still petting the dog.

“We didn’t exactly find him, Mrs. Armstrong.” Kate looked up and the man was taken aback at the look of pain on her face. “I’m really sorry about this. You see, my son, Mark, was a big fan of your husband’s …” His voice trailed off as Kate closed her eyes for a moment. “Are you all right?” She nodded. “Anyway, we live on the next street. By the way, I’m Jim Hunter.”

What was she expected to do? Invite him in for a cup of coffee? Kate remained silent, and the man went on, obviously flustered.

“Like I was saying, we live over on Hancock, and Mark here saw your dog yesterday afternoon …” Despite the cold, the man was starting to sweat, as Kate vacantly stared at him. “Mark, tell her.”

The boy couldn’t have been more than ten years old and his eyes grew large with fright. Kate—despite being tired, hungover, and still in shock over the night’s events—sat down cross-legged in front of him and tried to smile. “Did Homer behave while he was visiting you?”

The boy nodded and then blurted out, “I’m really sorry, Mrs. Armstrong. I just wanted to play with him for a while. He wanted to play. I could tell.”

“Y’see,” the father continued. “Mark knew he was your dog. We didn’t know he had him until last night. Late.”

“Homer slept with me …”

“Mark hid him in his room and we discovered him when he started barking. But by that time it was too late to bring him over. We’re really sorry for any trouble we may have caused you.”

Trouble?
Kate thought.
Mister, you don’t know trouble
.

She held her hand out to the boy. “Thanks for taking such good care of Homer, Mark. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my fault for not getting the hole in my fence fixed, but believe me, I’ll have that taken care of this weekend.” Kate let go of his warm hand and struggled to stand. “If you’ll wait here, please.”

Kate returned a few minutes later holding a baseball cap. Handing it to the little boy, she said, “This was Paul’s. See? It’s got his name stitched on the inside. I think he’d want you to have it for helping Homer.”

The look of awe on the boy’s face made her turn away, her eyes suddenly hot with tears. “Come on, Homer.”
She bent to unsnap the leash. “Time for breakfast.” She thrust the leash out to the man and quickly went inside and closed the door.

Giving in to the anger she felt at the senselessness of what had happened, Kate leaned against the door, put her face in her hands, and began crying. Homer sat in front of her, head cocked to one side, watching.

Kate sat in the den Sunday morning, reddened eyes on the clock, watching the hands slowly push Mike home. Unknowingly, she picked at a ragged cuticle on her thumb until the pain filtered through and she looked down to see blood smeared on her hands, her jeans.

She sprang out of the armchair and tried to think what to do with herself. Nervous, unable to sleep the night before, Kate knew she couldn’t wait in the empty house any longer. She needed to think but the walls were closing in on her, and the right words that would explain her fall from grace to Mike were elusive.

He’ll hate us both
.

She didn’t know when he’d arrive. She only knew it would be too soon, because what could she possibly say to make him understand what had happened? Nothing. There were absolutely no words that would make the truth sound anything but repulsive.

God, she wanted a drink so badly. Pain gripped her stomach and the clock struck ten.

He’ll hate us …

She had to talk to someone. Tell the story out loud, as if that would make it seem a little less hideous. A little more justifiable.

“I am in
so
much trouble,” Kate said. And then, voice shaking, she told Julia everything. But she’d been wrong. It didn’t sound any less disgusting.

Julia, to her credit, remained silent during Kate’s admission. But when Kate finished with, “I need to tell
him,” Julia succinctly said, “Sugar, if you do, you’ll break his heart.”

“If I don’t, I’ll have to live with it for the rest of my life. I can’t do that, either.”

“You’re Catholic. Go to confession, Kate. God will understand, but Michael is human, and he won’t.”

She knew Julia was right.

You’ll break his heart
.

Kate walked out of the house. She spent the day driving through the valley, and out of habit ended up at the cemetery. She sat under the giant beech tree, bundled up against the cold, staring at Paul’s gravestone while the word “betrayal” lodged itself in a corner of her brain. And, like a cancer, it began to grow until it was all she heard or felt. She had betrayed everyone—herself most of all.

The sky was nearly dark when she got home. Mike’s truck was parked across the street, and the familiar sight made her heart stutter. But not with fear. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open her front door and stepped inside the silent house.