The Truth (7 page)

Now

“Why'd you stop?” Derek asks.

“Well, I…I figured you know this part. It was you behind me. It was when I met you.”

He stares at me, and for the first time, he actually smiles. “I'd be interested in hearing your impression of me. Don't worry. You're not going to hurt my feelings. Just don't lie,” he adds, his smile dropping only a little.

Then

“Chris? Chris Russo?”

Who is it this time?
I turn back, irritated.

I don't recognize the guy facing me. About my age, I guess, maybe a year older. He definitely doesn't go to Maple-Braden High. Maybe the Catholic school; otherwise, why would he be here at one of our Little League games if he lives in another township? I notice he has two broken teeth in front, one each on top and bottom.

“May I talk to you a minute?” he asks. His voice is rough, raspy, like he needs to clear it. There's a noticeable scar on his neck, near his Adam's apple, so maybe there's actually something wrong with his voice. Besides his broken teeth, I notice his nose looks crooked, like he broke it and it didn't heal straight. Looking more closely, maybe he's older than I first thought.

“This will only take a minute.” He doesn't even try to clear his throat, though he does take a second to swallow, which seems difficult.

The White Sox take the field, Devon trotting out to his position at first base. “Look,” I say, “I really have to—”

“My name is Derek Brannick.”

Hearing that last name makes me stop. I stare at him, my mouth still open.

“Caleb is—was—my brother.”

Everything else seems to disappear for a moment. Again, I can see his name and face in the paper. Caleb
Brannick
. The article had only mentioned his mother. No mention at all of a brother.

Christ, what do I say? “I…I'm sorry…”

He puts his hand up. “I'm not here for that,” he says. “Actually, I'm not sure why I'm here. I just…” Another swallow. “I know this seems weird. But…can you and I talk? Please? I know you can't now. Not here. Another time. I hadn't seen my brother in a long time. You were literally the last person to see him…”

I glance around the field and bleachers. Nobody seems to be looking in our direction.

“I have questions,” he says. “That's all. You see, I'm trying to figure out why he…why Caleb would…”

Behind me, I hear the umpire shout, “Play ball!” The game's starting, but I remain riveted to this spot. I can't move; I'm
afraid
to move.

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I shouldn't be… You want to watch your brother play.” He gives me a hesitant smile, accenting his broken teeth, before looking out at the field. “Your brother's the big kid out there, right? Bigger than all of them? Strong? Hits all those home runs? Devon, right?”

When I don't respond, he says, “I don't mean to freak you out. I heard people in the stands talking. Some of them were saying they hoped he hits a couple today. This is a big game, right? First round of the playoffs?” Again he swallows. “Caleb never played baseball. Soccer was his game. Well, not
his
game; he played it a little bit when he was younger. Not as talented an athlete as I'm hearing your brother is, but I still liked watching him play back then.”

This whole thing feels surreal. He doesn't want an apology; he wants to talk. What does that mean? At least there are a lot of people around. If he was thinking of trying something…

“Look, I'm really sorry about what happened,” I tell him. “I wish I could—”

“I told you,” he says sharply, his voice sounding like the inside of his throat had been rubbed with sandpaper, “I'm not here for that!” He starts to cough but manages to cut it off. Then he notices my reaction and says, “I didn't mean to raise my voice. Look, I shouldn't have come here. This isn't the right place. You shouldn't have to… Here.” He pulls from a pocket what looks like a business card. “This is just something I picked up in a grocery store. But I put my name and cell phone number on the back. Here, take it.”

I pull it from his outstretched hand reluctantly. On the front is an advertisement for Clip Clop the Clown, available for parties, with a phone number and email address. But on the other side is another phone number, handwritten in pen.

“It's up to you, okay?” he says reluctantly. “If we can just talk some time. Please. Call me. If you don't want to…then don't. I'll understand. I will. At least I can say I tried.” As he turns, he looks back and motions at the field. “I hope Devon has a good game. Hope they win.”

Before he gets too far, I call out, “Hey!” He stops, looks at me. “Do you go to one of the other schools around here?”

“I dropped out a while back.” He gives me a crooked smile. “You're wondering how old I am, aren't you? I'm seventeen.” He shrugs. “I look beat up, I know.”

“I didn't mean…” But actually, he's right. I was wondering. I hold up the card. “Maybe I will call.”

“I'd appreciate it.” He turns and walks toward one of the field complex exits, shoulders slumped, head down.

I look again at the card with his cell phone number on it. I can hear Detective Fyfe's voice in my head telling me,
What are you doing? Throw it away!
Instead, I stick it in my jeans pocket.

Now

Derek seems about to say something, but his voice catches, followed by that awful coughing. When he's finished, he leans back and sighs. Shakes his head in frustration. “Damn it,” he says, “this voice of mine.” He fingers the scar on his throat. “You noticed this right away, huh? It happened in prison. Excuse me, ‘juvenile detention.'”

Did he just say
prison
?
I didn't think I could feel any more scared, but hearing him say that sends fresh chills through me.

“A couple of kids decided they didn't like me,” Derek continues. “Beat me up. Doctor did his best with the surgery, but I still ended up with permanent damage to my vocal chords. Still haven't been able to get used to talking like this. I'm seventeen and I sound like an old man.” He coughs again. Lets out a breath. “Focus,” he tells himself. The garden shears pull away, and I try not to breathe too obvious a sigh of relief.

“I guess you have a right to know,” he says. “It's been a couple months since I got out. While I was in there, this counselor took interest in me. Still don't know why. He talked to me a lot about the importance of forgiveness. Not about people forgiving
me
for what
I
did. And, believe me, I've done stuff. He talked about forgiving those who hurt
me
. My father and mother mostly. He said that's why I was so angry all the time. He said if I was going to move forward, I had to forgive them.

“It didn't make a lot of sense to me. I'm not sure I get it now. But he would tell me I needed to forgive for
my
sake, not my parents. My anger controlled me. Made me…do things. He said if I could stop blaming them, then I could start taking responsibility for my own actions and start forgiving
myself
. That's what he told me. Sounds stupid, doesn't it?”

He looks at me. “I know I look like crap. Drugs and alcohol and prison'll do that to you. Those things adults tell us we shouldn't do—they're right. I look at you, a year younger than me, and I think,
Did I ever look like that?
People look at you and they see someone with a whole life ahead of them. They look at me, they see someone who screwed up big time, and if I died tomorrow, nobody would care.”

Why is he telling me this? I keep quiet.

After a moment, he says, “When I finally got out, I wanted to make up for the mistakes I'd made. Well, one very bad mistake. I had to fix what I did to my little brother. I'm not sure I care about the rest. I had to get him out of our parents' house.

“It's clear you care about your brother. Your father died, and you stepped up. Well, I used to watch out for my brother. Our parents sure didn't. But when I reached fifteen, I couldn't take living there anymore, and I…left. Left him there with
them
. Our parents. He was only eleven years old. Defenseless. I was always better at dealing with them than he was. It must have been awful for him. And I knew what they were doing to him with me no longer home. But I still stayed away. Thought only of myself. Ended up in juvenile detention right after I turned sixteen. Did over a year.”

He stops, takes a breath. “A few months before my prison term was scheduled to end, Caleb came to see me. By himself. It's the only time anyone from my family visited me while I was in there. He told me how bad it was. The worst it had ever been. Said he was thinking of running away. I told him if he could just stick it out four more months, I'd come get him and we'd go somewhere together, away from them. I told him to hang in there, that it was going to be all right. I actually said that.
It's going to be all right.

“When I got out, they actually released me to my mother. Turns out Dad had left, said he didn't want to be living with an ex-con. I figured that was a good thing. But
Caleb
was gone too. Paper said he'd run away, but she'd kicked him out. Figured good riddance. And good riddance to me too. She wanted me out ASAP. She needed a ‘fresh start.' Can you believe that?
A fresh start
. I can understand her not wanting anything to do with
me
. But Caleb, he didn't do anything wrong. I'm sure of it. That day he came to see me, he was still the same sweet kid he always was, despite everything. Not like me at all.

“I looked for him. But I had no idea where he was. There was no one to take him, no real friends. All we'd had was…each other. He had to be living on the street, and I tried to find him, I did. But it was hard, and I told myself I had to get…situated somewhere first, make sure I had a place to bring him to. It took some time, finding someplace that would work for both of us. But I did it. I even got a decent job. But I still couldn't find him.

“And then I read in the paper…in the
paper
…that he's been killed…” Derek stops again, his voice faltering.

I wait, but he says nothing. He stares but not at me.

Finally, he sighs, and his gaze shifts to me. “I didn't want to do this to you. But put yourself in my shoes. How would you feel if your brother was suddenly dead? You'd want to know why. You'd want to know everything. I've listened to you so far, and I think…there's something I'm missing. Or something you're not telling me. If that's true, if you're leaving something out…”

I hold my breath. Waiting. Preparing myself. Imagining how it would affect my life to live without a finger or two. Because no way am I going to tell him…

“Go on,” he says abruptly.

Then

A crack of the bat makes me turn and hurry back to my seat. The opposing team, the Blue Jays, have already made a couple of outs by the time I sit down next to Mom.

“Where've you been?” she asks.

“Talking to Terry.”

“I saw him with his parents five minutes ago.”

“I was talking to other people too.” I'm definitely not going to tell her about my conversation with Derek Brannick.

“He look all right to you?” Mom asks, talking about Devon.

He's in position at first base, bent at the knees, glove extended, the way coaches over the years have taught him. I look for that familiar intensity he gets in his eyes when he's playing.

“He's fine,” I tell her. I glance back over my shoulder. I see Matt and the others leaving the complex. So much for staying to watch Devon play. I see no sign of Derek Brannick. I feel better that he left, but my heart is still pounding. I turn back and find Mom staring at me.

“You all right?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I lean forward to focus on the game.

The Blue Jays make their last out. Bottom of the first, Devon comes up, batting in his usual cleanup spot, with two outs and Brady on first base. First pitch looks like it might have been a little outside, but the umpire calls it a strike. Devon lets the next two pitches go by as well. A ball, then another strike. Finally, he takes a swing at a ball above his head and misses. Strike three.

“It's okay, buddy,” I call out to him. “You'll get it next time.”

He takes his glove out to first base, throws grounders to the other fielders while the pitcher warms up. I watch him carefully. He seems okay now.

Top of the fourth, it's still scoreless. The Blue Jays have two outs with a runner on third, but all the White Sox have to do is get the out at first to end the inning.

Which is what it looks like they're going to do. The second baseman grabs the ball grounded to him. Throws it to Devon at first.

It's an easy toss. Right there. And Devon drops it. Clinking off his glove, it lands at his feet. Runner safe. Devon scoops the ball into his glove, head down, while the other team in their dugout and Blue Jays fans in the stands cheer.

The inning ends with the score 1–0.

By the end of the fourth inning, I'm convinced something's wrong. This isn't just Devon having a bad game. He's up third in the inning, and after Brady and the batter following him get on, Devon walks to the plate with runners on first and second and nobody out.

He swings and misses at the first two pitches. Halfhearted swings. Neither pitch was over the plate.

On the next pitch, he hits a weak grounder to the pitcher, and the Blue Jays get a double play at second and first.

Mom stirs next to me. “Just not his game so far, is it?” I watch Coach Neville talk to Devon in the dugout.

By the time we get to the bottom of the sixth inning, we're behind 5–0. Our last chance. We're near the bottom of our order; two batters, then the top of the order will come up. Terry, as usual, is sitting next to me at this point, muttering under his breath.

The Blue Jays bring in a new pitcher. I recognize him. He's good, throws hard.

This kid usually throws strikes, so it's obvious he doesn't have his best stuff when he walks our first two batters. Soon the White Sox have done it again, kept the inning going so that Devon comes to the plate representing the winning run. The score is 5–3 with runners at second and third. One out.

Devon lives for these moments. He loves the challenge.

I watch him carefully, study his body language. He seems okay. Focused. Maybe talking to the coach helped.

I can feel the White Sox fans in the bleachers stirring. Excited. Some people shout encouragement to Devon. Kids have gathered on the other side of the outfield wall, as usual, anticipating a home run.

Take a deep breath
, I try to tell him mentally.
You don't have to hit a home run. Just keep the rally going. Even a ground out would bring in a run.

As Devon sets himself, I see the catcher move his glove outside.
Way
outside. The first pitch hits the glove. Ball one. The catcher might as well stand up as they do in Major League Baseball. The second pitch is just as far outside. They're intentionally walking him. The other team's coach would rather put the winning run on base than face Devon in this situation.

The third ball goes by. Three balls, no strikes. I lean back, frustrated. Mom looks at me. “They're doing that on purpose,” she says. “Can they do that?”

“Sure they can,” I mutter angrily. At least the White Sox will have the bases loaded with only one out.

The pitcher looks at the runners. The catcher extends his glove again. Devon waits to take his walk.

The ball comes down a foot wide of the plate.

And Devon swings. Misses.

I can't believe it. What was he thinking? Maybe he's frustrated too. Wants to get the big hit. Figured he'd try one swing. Now he'll let the next wide one go by.

But he doesn't. Even though the ball is even more outside. He swings. Misses by a lot.

Full count. What's going on?

Devon. Take the walk.
Except maybe they're not going to walk him now, not with two strikes on him. Maybe they'll give him a pitch to hit. Is that why he did it? Force them now to try and get him out? Give him one pitch he can drive?

I try to see Devon's face, get an idea what he's thinking.

His face has no expression. Blank.

Devon waits, bat ready. The pitcher takes in a deep breath, exhales, brings his glove to his chest, checks the runners. This time the catcher's glove does not move outside.

The sound in the stands has grown muted. Everyone knows what Devon is capable of.

The pitcher winds up. Releases the ball.

It comes straight down the middle of the plate. A perfect pitch to drive. I can see the catcher doing everything he can short of jumping across the plate to grab it before Devon swings.

But my brother lets it go by. The sound of the ball slapping the catcher's glove fills the air.

“Strike three!” the umpire calls.

White Sox fans groan while Blue Jays fans cheer. I hear Terry whisper in an unbelieving voice, “How could he let that go by?”

Devon turns away from the plate. His body language reveals nothing.

But for just a brief moment, he looks up into the stands. At me.

His eyes are narrow. Gray slate. His brow is furrowed. I've seen that look on his face two other times in his life.

The last time was during the previous game, as he went barreling home from third, against his coach's orders, and slammed into the catcher.

Only now the expression is directed right at me.

I hear Mom let out a deep sigh and say, in a low voice, “He just doesn't have it today.”

I don't respond. I'm still watching Devon, now sitting at one end of the dugout, away from his teammates.

The rest of the game ends quickly.

But not in the way I expect.

Maybe the pitcher is so ecstatic over striking out our best hitter in that situation—especially when he was trying to walk him—that he let his guard down. Our next batter, on the very next pitch, a kid named Jake Holohan, makes the first home run he's hit this year count big time, sending it sailing over the right field wall. And just like that, the game is over. Final score: White Sox 6, Blue Jays 5. The White Sox will be moving on to the next round of the playoffs.

The Blue Jays walk off the field, dejected. Jake's teammates mob him when he reaches home plate. The last one to join them is Devon.