Third Strike (4 page)

“What happened to him?”

“They started him off back in Double A the following spring, trying to keep the pressure off him, let him find his groove again. He had a good arm, a good history, and they figured, give him more seasoning, he'd be a decent big-league pitcher. But after a few months down in Scranton or Wilkes-Barre or wherever he was, he couldn't get anybody out, so he went down to Single A, and after that they sent him down to an instructional league in Florida so they could work on his mechanics. But, of course, his problems had nothing to do with the mechanics of his arm and everything to do with the mechanics of his head.”

“He was washed up, huh?” said Evie.

I nodded. “It's a pretty sad story. Kind of the opposite of the American Dream. A year after Larry Bucyck walked in the winning run in Anaheim, the Sox let him go, and nobody picked him up. I talked to him about pitching in Mexico or Japan, maybe, but he was cooked, and he knew it. He didn't even want to try it.” I shook my head. “Fact is, he was relieved. He hated baseball. Then a year or so after he left baseball, I did his divorce for him. His wife got custody of the two kids, the house in Sudbury, their investments, and Larry got the shack in Menemsha. I could've done better for him, but that's how he wanted it.”

“Guilt, huh?” said Evie.

“Guilt, self-loathing, you name it. I was pretty worried about him. Whenever I was on the Vineyard after that, I'd make a point of dropping in on Larry, but it was pretty clear all he really wanted was to be left alone. He was trying to simplify his life, which I certainly respect, had no need for a lawyer, didn't seem to want a friend, even, or at least a friend who remembered that game against the Angels in ninety-one. After a while, well, a man who seems uncomfortable around you, you don't hear from him for a while…”

“You stop worrying about him,” Evie said. “When did you last see him?”

“I would've said a couple years ago, but I guess it's closer to five or six. One summer when I was down fishing with J.W. It was pretty clear to me that I made Larry uncomfortable. He couldn't wait for me to leave.”

“What happened to his wife and kids?”

“Far as I know, he hasn't seen them since the divorce. He has visitation rights, I made sure of that, but he just went to the Vineyard and stayed there. Last I heard, Marcia—that was his wife's name—she'd remarried and moved to Vermont. I guess the kids—there was a boy and a girl—would both be out of high school by now.”

“That's harsh,” said Evie, “giving up your kids like that.”

“I argued with him, of course,” I said, “but it's how he wanted it. Larry figured when they got old enough to understand, they'd hate him as much as he hated himself. He thought they'd be better off if nobody, including themselves, connected them to the choke artist who gave away the ninety-one playoffs.”

Evie shook her head. “That's terrible. It was only a stupid baseball game.”

“Try telling that to a Red Sox fan.”

E
arly that afternoon, while Joshua and his pal Jim were scrambling around the tree house, I walked up to the box at the end of the driveway and got the day's mail, which didn't amount to much but did include the week's edition of the
Vineyard Times,
which comes out on Thursdays. I wanted to get the
Times
's take on the explosion, but the accident had happened too late the previous night for the story to make the paper. This meant that the
Vineyard Gazette,
which came out on Friday, and whose editorials almost always supported positions opposite those of the
Times,
would get the scoop and a temporary edge in the ongoing Vineyard newspaper duel.

I walked back down to the house, checked to see if both boys were still intact in spite of their swinging around in the big beech tree, and reread the strike stories in earlier editions of both island papers. Some of these reviewed the reasons for the strike, none of which were unusual: wages, job security, working conditions, benefits, and the like. Other stories were nostalgic recollections of the last ferry strike, in the spring of 1960, which I remembered hazily as a time of high adventure because it had been my first time across Vineyard Sound on a fishing boat. Other stories focused on the effects the strike was having on the local citizens and visitors. Some of these stories were comic, some were maddening, and some were quixotic. The editorials of both papers attempted to take the high ground, expressing sympathy for all involved and offering unctuous hopes that a just and rational solution to the conflicts would be quickly found.

As usual, the letters to the editors ranged politically from the hysterical, union-hating, right wing, to the hysterical, union-loving, left, with much pontificating on both sides, but little light to shed on the causes of the strike and few sensible proposals for its resolution. These letters seemed to bear out a study that I'd read about that indicated pretty clearly that partisans, no matter how intelligent they might otherwise be, responded to political issues emotionally and not rationally.

No surprise there. The only new information I had gotten from the study was that emotion was reflected by activity in one area of the brain, and reason was reflected in another area. I'd wondered if that meant, as I sometimes suspected, that free will is an illusion and that we are wired to act the way we do. It was a concept I didn't like at all, and refused to accept, even in the face of evidence that I might be wrong.

Was my refusal a choice? Or was I wired to refuse?

Did the editorial and letter writers have a choice about their views, or were they just writing what they were biologically predestined to write?

It was the old free-will issue that I'd never resolved to my satisfaction. Facing this dilemma, I'd decided to act as though I had a choice in my actions even if I in fact had no choice but to decide I had a choice.

There madness lay, but I ignored it.

By and large, both papers seemed glad that so many private boats had come to the island's rescue, even as both recognized that in the long run the Steamship Authority offered the only viable lifeline between the Vineyard and America. Reflecting classic island xenophobia, both editors also wanted to keep the Commonwealth of Massachusetts out of the matter. Better to sink beneath the sea than trust Beacon Hill to act responsibly.

I saw no solution to the strike other than whatever would be hammered out during the endless meetings between management and labor. Sooner or later, I was sure, a new agreement would be reached, and when it was, it would have both supporters and detractors venting their opinions in the island papers.

Meanwhile, an explosion had nearly sunk one boat, and a man was dead.

I put aside the newspapers, got a Sam Adams out of the fridge, and went outside to a lawn chair. The August sun was hot, and the beer tasted just right.

Joshua and Jim were crouching on the rope bridge between the beech and the oak, shooting make-believe arrows at make-believe enemies, apparently playing
Tarzan and the Leopard Woman
. It was a good game—much better than pushing buttons on some electronic gadget.

As I was finishing my beer, Zee's little Jeep came down the driveway and parked beside the Land Cruiser. Zee and Diana got out, both looking unhappy. Zee pointed at the boys in the tree, and Diana seemed to cheer up a bit.

“Stay where you are, Jeff,” said Zee. “We'll be right back.”

They went into the house and a few minutes later came out again. Diana headed for the tree house, and Zee, carrying two bottles of Sam, came over and sat on the lawn chair next to mine. She gave me one of the bottles and took a drink from the other.

“I invited Mary over to play with Diana,” she said, turning her bottle in her hands, “but Mary didn't want to leave her mother. Gloria is almost hysterical. She can't believe that Eduardo is dead. She says he would never use violence of any kind. She says something terribly wrong happened to him.”

I thought that wives don't always know as much about their husbands as they think, and vice versa.

“How's the little girl?” I asked.

Zee looked down into her bottle, then took a sip. “She's afraid to leave her mother because something might happen to her, too. Her father left the house and now he's dead. She's afraid that will happen to her mother if she leaves her.”

I thought about how I'd felt when my mother died. I was four and my sister Margarite was two. Later I learned that my mother had been the victim of a fast-moving cancer, but at the time all I'd known was that she was gone and wasn't ever going to come back. I'd been lonely and nervous for a long time, even though my father, suffering even more than we children were, and destined never to remarry, had made a deal with the fire department so he could stay home with us for a while.

“Tell Mary he's asleep,” I said. “Tell her that he feels fine and will see her later.”

“I want you to help Gloria,” said Zee.

I was startled, because Zee usually doesn't approve of my getting involved in matters that might include a component of violence.

“How?”

Zee's dark eyes lifted and looked into mine. “Gloria's heard the speculation about Eduardo, that he killed himself when he set off that explosion on the
Trident
. She says he never would have tried to blow up a boat, that he was a pacifist. She says it's hateful for people to be saying such bad things. She says she can live knowing that he's dead, but that she can't stand the things people are suggesting. I want you to find out what really happened so she can find some peace.”

Other people, knowing that I'd once been a policeman, had sometimes asked me to make informal investigations for them. But Zee never had. I said, “I doubt I can learn anything that the police can't learn.”

Usually, that was an argument that Zee used when I was tempted to stick my nose in other people's business. But this time, she shook her head.

“Gloria says he wasn't the kind of man who would ever damage anyone or anything. I believe her. I want you to find out the truth.”

“The police will be looking for that,” I said. “Detectives will come down from the mainland to help. They'll want to know everything—who did it, where the explosives came from, why. Everything.”

“I believe Gloria,” said Zee. “I want you to help her.”

I looked at her and saw suffering in her face. She was a nurse, and though she was tough enough to calmly tend terrible wounds that would paralyze most of us with horror, she had the classic characteristic of her profession—she was a born caregiver. She couldn't look at human or animal pain without trying to do something about it. As with most of our strengths, her tenderness also made her vulnerable.

I tried one last argument before giving in to her sorrow and concern. “Look,” I said, “if I go out there, there's no telling what I'll find. I may find out that Eduardo Alvarez wasn't the saint his wife seems to think he was. What then? Do you think Gloria Alvarez is going to feel better knowing that her husband was just what people think he was—a guy who got blown up by his own bomb?”

“That's not what you'll find.”

“You can't be sure.”

“Gloria is sure of Eduardo,” she said, “and I'm sure of Gloria.” She looked at me, and my will was drawn into her eyes like Breachan into Corryvreckan.

“All right,” I said. “But I have to have some place to start. I need to talk with Gloria.”

She put out a hand and took mine. “I told her that you'd want to do that. She's expecting you.”

“You know me better than I do,” I said, and I felt a rueful little smile flit across my face. “Tell me where she lives.”

Gloria Alvarez lived in a small house off Wing Road in Oak Bluffs. In spite of the mansionizing that's happening all over the Vineyard, there are still lots of small houses in every town. Most of them are getting along in years, but a few are still being built. The Alvarez house was one of the aging ones, but it was neatly kept and its yard was well-tended. There was a wooden swing set beside the one-car garage and a middle-aged Ford sedan in the driveway. Another car of similar age was parked at the curb.

I parked mine behind the Ford and went to the door. The woman who opened it was too old to be Gloria Alvarez. Sadness seemed to ooze out around her, seeping from the house like an invisible fog.

“I'm J.W. Jackson,” I said. “I'd like to speak to Mrs. Alvarez.”

“I'm Sarah Martinez,” said the woman. “Gloria is very tired. Are you a friend?”

“My wife is her friend. Mrs. Alvarez is expecting me.”

“She's had a terrible shock.”

“I know.”

She paused, then nodded and stepped back. “I hope you can be brief. This is a terrible day for all of us. George and I have known Eduardo and Gloria for years.”

I went in and followed her to a small living room. The windows let in a lot of sunlight, but the room seemed dark. A young woman sat on a couch with a girl about Diana's age. The girl had yellow hair and brown eyes.

“Mr. Jackson is here,” said the older woman.

The woman on the couch lifted her eyes to me. “Zeolinda said you'd come. Thank you.” Her voice was exhausted by sorrow.

“I don't know if I can be of any help,” I said. “But I'll try. I need to know where to start asking questions, so I'll need some information.” I nodded toward the girl. “Should we talk in private?”

The child put her arm around her mother's arm and pulled herself closer.

Her mother looked down at her and said, “No, we can talk here.”

I looked into the girl's angry, confused eyes. “Perhaps Mrs. Martinez can take Mary for a walk.”

Gloria shook her head. “No. Mary wants to stay here.”

“All right. Tell me about your husband. I know he was a union man, working on the ferries, and I know you don't think he caused the explosion on the
Trident
.”

Gloria's voice was small but firm. “He would never have done such a thing. He didn't like all this fighting and trouble. He wanted the strike to end quickly so he could go back to work with George and the others. Something bad happened. Someone blew up that boat, but it wasn't my Eduardo.”

“Why do you think he was there, then?”

She lowered her eyes. “I don't know. He was supposed to be working in the restaurant.”

“What restaurant?”

“The Wheelhouse, in Edgartown,” she said. “He got a job there in the kitchen to bring in some money while the union was on strike. He cleaned pans and cleared tables. The college boys had quit and they needed help, so Eduardo worked there nights.”

It was a familiar phenomenon for college kids to get summer jobs and swear they'd stay until Labor Day but then bail out in mid-August so they could have a couple of weeks of party time before heading back to school.

“What work did your husband do on the boats?” I said. “Was he an engineer? Did he work on the engines?”

“No. He knew nothing about engines. He was an able-bodied seaman. He worked hard.”

“Did he have any conflicts with his boss, or anyone else he worked with?”

She shook her head. “No. He was on strike, but even the managers liked him. He was a very gentle man.” She touched a damp kerchief to her eyes, but it did little to block the tears.

I pushed on. “Did he have any special friends? I'd like to talk to them, if he did.”

“My husband was his friend,” said Mrs. Martinez. “George worked with Eduardo for years.”

“Your husband is a union man?”

She nodded. “Yes, and proud of it. He's a bosun, but it's the same union.”

“So he's on strike, too. I'd like to talk with him later.”

“He had nothing to do with this explosion business,” said Mrs. Martinez, “so you'll be wasting your time if you want him to talk about that.”