Home Field (23 page)

She sprayed hot water into a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal. With a gloved hand, she placed it onto the dish rack, along with two nearly empty mugs, and then sent the rack on its way down the conveyor belt toward the Hobart. She'd worked so efficiently that she had a couple of minutes of downtime before the next tray came down the pike. As she stood there in the steamy, bleach-scented air, she thought of how nice it would be
to just take a pill and feel happy again. If it was truly possible, she wanted to try it.

D
INNER AT
J
OELLE'S
again. Dean sat on the front porch steps with a postprandial beer, watching the sky begin to grow dark. He could hear Robbie's and Bry's high voices mixing with Megan's and Jenny's inside the house. They sounded happy. The boys wanted to stay overnight again, and he couldn't think of why they shouldn't. Nicole would be shocked by how laid-back he was being; they used to fight about how often to come here, the gist of their argument that she wanted to visit more often than he did. But there was another layer, the sense of obligation that she couldn't admit to feeling. The sense of guilt she clung to, as if her life was disappointing to her family. Dean couldn't understand it, didn't want to try anymore. He wanted to hold on to the morning, the joy of seeing Megan crossing the finish line, exhausted and exhilarated. At dinner she'd looked like a different girl, with her hair down and her bangs curled, wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. An ordinary girl.

The front door creaked open, and he turned to find Joelle. She had a beer in hand, a rare sight.

“Can I join you?”

“Of course.” Dean moved over even though there was plenty of room. “Beautiful night.”

“It sure is. Nice and clear. I might take the kids stargazing down at Mom's. She has the best view.”

“Thanks for letting them stay over tonight,” Dean said. “They always have fun.”

“Oh, it's my pleasure! It's a nice way for me to see the boys every week. And I'm glad we're getting along.”

“Me too, Jo.”

“No, really. I'm not just saying it. I've been thinking about this a lot, praying on it. I have to admit, I was mad when Megan went to your practice. And then Ed took your side. I felt like I was trying to maintain a commitment to Christ, and my whole family was against it. I said to God, ‘Why did you put me in this position? Why did you give Megan this talent for running?' And then I realized it was so that she would go to you, and so our families would come back together. Doesn't that make perfect sense?”

“It's a nice story.”

“It's more than nice! I mean, look at Bryan—he's getting so close to God's light. I see it in his little face and it makes me so happy that he's found that comfort. Have you noticed a difference in him?”

“Sure, maybe,” Dean said. It was unbelievable to him that Joelle could not see how self-serving her theories were. What kind of petty god gave a shit if Dean and his sister-in-law were getting along? He recalled a book about Christianity that Stephanie had received as a present upon her confirmation, a book geared toward teenagers and their particular theological concerns. It was called
If God Loves Me, Why Can't I Get My Locker Open?
How he and Stephanie had laughed at that title! It became a joke, whenever they encountered something trivial and annoying.
If God loves me, why can't I open this CD case? If God loves me, why are we out of Rice Chex?
God, he missed his daughter. He even missed her silences.

“I worry about Robbie,” Joelle said. “He seems anxious.”

“He's dealing with some tough stuff.”

“Is he still seeing the school counselor?”

“Yeah, he is.” Thoughts of Laura came rushing in and Dean stood up. Joelle probably thought he was embarrassed about Robbie. Fine, let her think that. He couldn't sit here, talking about his kids while secretly wondering what Laura was doing now, if she was with Tim, if she was alone, if she was thinking about him.

He and Joelle went inside, where they found the kids playing Sorry. Ed was watching the Orioles in the playoffs and he invited Dean to stay, but Dean begged off, saying he'd watch from home, where he could fall asleep in front of the TV.

His car was frigid, his steering wheel cold to the touch. He felt like driving somewhere far away, but when he started the engine, he saw he was low on gas. He headed toward Sheetz, and on the way he saw the neon light of Coach's. At the last minute he pulled into the crowded parking lot.

The bar was full of Orioles fans and for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, Dean felt content to be part of the group, staring up at the green field glowing on-screen. But the game was a slow one, with no one getting any hits. His beer started to taste warm, and then he spotted See-See's mother in the crowd. She caught his glance and came over to say hello, surprising him with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. Her perfume was like honeysuckle, and she was wearing an Orioles baseball jersey, the cut of the shirt somehow flattering to her breasts. She looked cute, but his attraction to her was complicated by the fact that, in the bar's dim light, he could see her resemblance to See-See. She started talking about the race, saying how much fun it had been, how it was a great way to start the weekend, how from now on, she was going to go to all the meets, no matter how much See-See protested.

“Where's See-See now?”

“What, you think I bring her to the bar with me?” Karen laughed. “She's at a friend's house, that's all I know. I don't ask too many questions at her age.”

“My daughter's in college, but for all she tells me she could be on the moon.”

“At least she made it to college. See won't let me see her applications, she won't even say if she's going to apply. I'm hoping this running thing will motivate her, like maybe she could run on a team?”

“I could talk to her, if you want.”

“Oh,
could
you?” Karen leaned closer, her honeysuckle perfume filling the space between them. “That would be so great. I think she would listen to you.”

“I don't know much about college running, but I could make some calls.”

“You don't even have to do that. If you could just get her to take the idea of college seriously, that would be such a big help. I haven't set the best example. I never finished my degree.”

“That doesn't matter,” Dean said. “She's a good kid.”

“I'm so glad you see that. Some people get the wrong idea about her, with her hair and earrings and her clothes. I tell people, that's how kids are dressing these days, it doesn't mean anything. But it wasn't like this when we were young. I mean, I wanted to be pretty, you know? And the music I listened to was pretty, too. It had its darkness, of course. But it was
melodic
. I don't understand the music she listens to, I don't understand her jokes, I don't understand why she's always sarcastic. And I don't understand how I'm suddenly out of the loop. I mean, we were cool when we were young, weren't we?”

“I don't think I was. I was just a jock.”

“Oh, you were a popular guy, I can tell. Maybe you were a little serious. But girls like that.”

Her flirting disarmed him. Was this his life now? Going to bars and chatting up the mothers of kids he taught? She was wrong; he hadn't been that popular. When he looked back on his high school years, all he could remember was football practice followed by evenings alone with his father. His dream then was to be a part of a big family. He loved being on a team. Anytime anyone extended an invitation, he took it.

“Let me get the next round.” See-See's mother pointed to his half-drunk beer. “Same thing?”

“I actually have to go,” he said. “My boys . . . they're at their aunt's.”

“Oh, okay! Well, next time!” She seemed unfazed. She was used to being single, used to living outside of family lines. He didn't want to learn to be like her; he had a dread of that life.

He stepped in a puddle in the parking lot, and the odor of wet leaves came wafting up, mixing with the cigarette smoke he could now smell on his jacket. When he got into his car, he had the strange feeling that Nicole had recently been in it. He turned the radio up as he headed toward Sheetz, as if trying to scare off the ghost. But it wasn't a ghost, exactly. It was the memory of her physical presence, a kind of phantom-limb sensation. He couldn't shake it, even when he arrived at the gas station and the inside of the car was filled with the bright lights above the pumps.

The kid behind the register was unknown to him. Dean bought gum, a box of condoms, and a scratch-off lotto ticket.
Play when you're feeling unlucky,
Geneva once told him. Outside,
at the pay phone, he called Laura. He didn't expect her to pick up, because she spent her weekends with Tim. That was her life. This was his. He listened to the rings, counting them. He thought about going to church the next day. He wanted to be around people who were trying to be good, even if they were hypocrites. Three rings. Four rings. Laura's answering machine picked up. He shouldn't leave a message, Tim might overhear. The machine beeped and he said “Hello?” like he wasn't sure he had the right number. And then Laura's voice.

“Dean? Wait—let me stop the machine.” There was a shuffling sound. “Oh my God, I'm so glad you called.”

“What's the matter?”

“I broke up with Tim. Last night. I didn't tell him about us.”

“What happened?”

“Don't worry, it doesn't have to do with you. I mean, it does. But I needed to do it anyway.”

“I'm not worried,” Dean said. Instead he felt a gut-level relief that she was no longer sleeping with anyone else. He hadn't realized how much it was bothering him. It was like he could love her now, if he wanted to.

“Are you alone?” she said. “Can I come over?”

“I'm already out,” he said. “I'll come to you.”

S
TEPHANIE SAT ON
a worn-out futon couch in the basement of the Arts House, waiting for the ecstasy to kick in. She was nervous but optimistic. Gabe had convinced her of the drug's goodness. He had done it several times, and he described it as a “big warm hug.” Gabe seemed like someone for whom nothing bad could ever happen and so, by some transitive property, the things he recommended could not be bad for others. He
had already checked in on her twice, refreshing her vodka and orange juice.

The drug had already begun to work on Raquel, who was sitting next to her, rubbing the futon's striped canvas upholstery. She didn't seem much different, except for the fact that she was now enjoying the band, which she had previously deemed “sloppy.” Stephanie was slowly noticing that Raquel, for all her wildness, was actually quite intolerant of things that seemed messy or unplanned.

“Do you feel it yet?” Raquel asked. “Do you want to dance?”

“Not yet,” Stephanie said. And then she felt something, a delicious relaxation spreading throughout her body, like the feeling of dozing off, those precious milliseconds when her anxieties slipped out of view, just before sleep overtook her body and mind. Except sleep didn't arrive. Instead she stayed in the velvety slipping phase, the little party worries—about her clothes, about the music, about the time—skittering away. It was a contentment that reminded her of something specific, a memory that she couldn't quite grab hold of. Certain smells came to her. Warm smells of grass, hay, dust; cool smells of water, plant life, and mud. She remembered riding a horse, the trees above her, a cool tunnel of shade. She remembered the sun on her arms. The bone-deep relief of being finished with high school. Of moving away from her mother. Slowly, the day came into sharper focus, with names and dates: June, Juniper, the muddy creek . . .

And then, like a stubborn hook finally catching the latch, the rest of the memory fell into place.

Stephanie turned to Raquel. “This is a terrible drug. How do we stop it?”

“What do you mean? You're feeling it? How do you feel?”

Stephanie shook her head. “I can't. You have to stop it. How do we stop it?”

“It's supposed to feel good. It doesn't feel good?”

“You're repeating yourself,” Stephanie said. A horrible clarity was coming over her, mixed with overbearing anxiety, anxiety whose cause was at first obscured but then became plain. There was something, she realized now, that she had worked hard to avoid, but now that the drug had rapidly cleared all the stupid shit that had distracted her up to this point, that thing had come forward, it had center stage, it had the microphone, it was asking her, what did Robbie see? And it kept asking her and asking her, what did Robbie see, what did Robbie see,
what did Robbie see?
And she was forced to imagine that thing that Robbie must have seen: her mother's neck in a noose, her mother's body stretching toward the floor, her mother possibly struggling at the last minute, possibly changing her mind, as so many suicide victims—she had read—were known to do. And what the funeral home had done to fix her mother's neck and face was a kind of dark sorcery she didn't want to think about. And what poor Robbie had witnessed, she didn't want to think about, and why he had gone to the barn in the first place, she didn't want to think about, and how close he had gotten, she didn't want to think about, and if he had looked at her face, she didn't want to think about.

“Please, please, you have to stop this drug.” Stephanie took Raquel's hands, as if to keep her on the sofa. “You must know a way. What if I throw up?”

“You can't, it's in your blood,” Raquel said. “Come on, let's dance, you'll feel better.”

“You don't understand. It's not affecting me in the right way. I'm having a bad reaction. Maybe I'm overdosing. Maybe I'm getting brain damage. Have you ever heard of anyone having this reaction?”

Raquel shook her head. Her expression reminded Stephanie of a babysitter she'd once had, who'd watched the boys when Robbie was potty-training and didn't know what to do when Robbie couldn't make it to the bathroom. She almost began to tell Raquel about this babysitter, but the clear part of her mind told her to stay focused on the task at hand, which was to get the drug out of her system.