Lights Out (5 page)

‘Sorry,’ Jake said. ‘I—’

‘I called you three times right after that game against the Astros. The one you went oh for five and struck out three times.’

Jake squinted, as if trying to remember, but he knew exactly what game Antowain was talking about.

‘Right,’ Jake finally said. ‘The pitcher had good stuff that day.’

‘Bullshit,’ Antowain said. ‘The Pirates scored seven runs that game, knocked the starter out of the box in the fifth. It was only you looked like you was swattin’ flies up there.’

‘So I had a bad game.’

‘You had a bad
month.
I saw your other games too. You were pulling out with your shoulder on the off-speed stuff; your timing was all messed up. That’s why I called you - was gonna give you some pointers.’

‘Thanks,’ Jake said, ‘but that’s why we have a hitting instructor on the team.’

‘Your damn hitting instructor didn’t stop you from hitting two fifty-eight in September, one forty-two with runners in scoring position. See, I know all your stats. Your average dropped seventeen points that last month. You only had one homer, nine RBIs. That’s pitiful.’

‘What the hell are you talking about? I had my best season ever. I ended up at three fifty-one. I won the freakin’ batting title.’

‘That satisfies you?’

‘Why shouldn’t it satisfy me?’

‘You could’ve hit four hundred, you set your mind to it. You got the same problems you always did - you don’t stay focused; you quit when your team gets too far ahead or too far behind. Just ‘cause your team’s out of the race, you don’t show up to play no more.’

‘I don’t need this shit.’ Jake tried to get by, to go downstairs, but Antowain wouldn’t get out of his way.

‘And how ‘bout all them strikeouts?’ Antowain asked.

‘I only struck out, what, eighty times this year?’

‘That’s too much for a guy who only hit twenty-two homers. How come you don’t have your power numbers up? You got the height; you got the extension. You could’ve hit forty homers this year if you just went to the gym instead of the nightclubs. Yeah, I read the papers - I know how you been gallavantin’ ‘round town with the ladies.’

‘The papers lie,’ Jake said, thinking that he’d never heard his father use the word
gallavantin’
before.

‘And how come you only had twenty-seven doubles?’ Antowain went on. ‘Guy with your speed should’ve had thirty-five at least. You don’t hustle outta the box, that’s why. You just stand there, watching the ball, just like you did in Little League.’

‘So let me get this straight,’ Jake said. ‘I put up awesome numbers this year, I’m probably gonna get MVP votes, and that’s still not good enough for you?’

‘You’re not reachin’ your potential.’

‘Bullshit. Nothing I do’s ever good enough for you. If I had a year like Babe Ruth or Barry Bonds, you’d still find something wrong with it.’

‘You can always do better.’

‘See? And you wonder why I don’t return your calls.’

‘You just don’t wanna listen,’ Antowain said. ‘You think you got all the answers.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Jake said, and he pushed by his father and went downstairs.

The party was still going strong; there seemed to be even more people in the house. Jake was scanning the room, looking for Christina, when Donna Thomas came over and said, ‘Having a good time, honey?’

‘When Christina comes I’m outta here,’ Jake said, glancing at the
NO NEW MESSAGES
display on his cell phone, wondering why nobody was getting the fuck back to him.

‘Come on,’ Donna said. ‘You have to stay until at least eight o’clock. People want to see you.’

‘People always want to see me,’ Jake said.

He went outside and the crowd gave him a thunderous ovation, as if he’d just slammed a game-winning homer. As he signed some kid’s glove, the crowd pressed closer to him, jostling for position. It was mostly kids with their dads, but there were a lot of other adults there too, including reporters and photographers from the
Post
and the
News.
And, of course, there were also a lot of girls, screaming, ‘I love you,’ and ‘Will you marry me?’ or just screeching the way girls always did when they saw Jake. He had groupies in Pittsburgh, and in most other cities, and he had been on the cover of
Teen People
twice.

Jake posed for pictures with the girls, and most of them kissed him on the lips, blushing, as if this were the biggest thrill of their lives, which it probably was. Most of the kids asked him to sign only a ball or a baseball card, but others had brought bats, balls, gloves, cards, yearbooks, eight-by-tens, and other shit for him to sign. They told him that he was their favorite player, that they wanted to grow up to be just like him, and about ten different people said to him, ‘You rock.’ Although Jake remained polite, smiling for the cameras, signing everything, he knew that most, if not all, of these people were full of it. The ones wearing
THOMAS
24 jerseys and Pirates caps were the biggest phonies. Seriously, how many Pittsburgh Pirates fans could there really be in Brooklyn? Most of the stuff he signed today would probably wind up on eBay.

As Jake continued signing, reporters interviewed him, and he told them how much being a role model for kids meant to him, and how flattering it was for him to get so much attention from the hometown fans. Tomorrow all of this would pay off when the articles ran about how Jake had tirelessly signed autographs for hours and how unselfish athletes like Jake Thomas were an endangered species.

A pretty, light-skinned girl who kind of looked like Halle Berry handed Jake an eight-by-ten glossy, the one where he was wearing the short-sleeved Van Heusen linen shirt, with his arm muscles bulging. Jake asked her what her name was, and she said Jasmine. While he signed the picture,
To Jasmine, love always, Jake Thomas,
Jasmine told him that she had a poster of him hanging up in her room.

‘You do?’ Jake said, as if this surprised him.

‘Yeah, I look at it every night before I go to sleep. Can I get a picture with you?’

Jasmine squished up close to him, wedging her head under his armpit and putting an arm around his waist. She was wearing Tommy Girl, which reminded Jake of what’s her name in Denver, and also that girl in San Francisco - Donna, or Debbie, or Diane, or something with a
D.

Jasmine’s friend snapped the picture, and then Jasmine said to Jake, ‘If you ever wanna, like, go out and have some fun sometime, here’s my number.’

Jasmine handed him a folded-up piece of paper; then she kissed him on the lips. The crowd oohed as Jasmine winked at Jake and walked away with her friend.

Someone brought out a chair for Jake to sit on, and he continued signing until the sun began to set. Then he heard a familiar voice call out his name. Even in Gap boot-cut jeans, some old brown leather bomber jacket, and kind of ratty, out-of-style long hair, Christina was a goddess. She was a natural beauty, the type of girl who could look great without trying, who could throw on dirty laundry and look awesome, and Jake remembered why he’d gone so nuts for her in high school and why she was going to become Mrs Jake Thomas. Okay, so maybe he’d have to polish her up for LA - hire her a stylist, encourage her to lose a few LBs - but then she’d be perfect.

As Jake headed toward her, the crowd parted to let him pass and he imagined all the great press the wedding would get -’Superstar Marries High School Sweetheart,’ ‘Jake Thomas Weds First Love,’ ‘Beauty and the Best.’ He’d probably be able to renegotiate his Nike and Pizza Hut contracts, get on a Wheaties box.

When Jake reached Christina he lifted her up, holding her like that for a few seconds to let the photographers get their pictures, and then put her down and laid one on her. Now he knew he was making the right decision. If he married somebody else he’d never know if the girl just wanted to be with him for his wallet and his image - because he was Jake Thomas. But Christina had known him before he was Jake Thomas, or at least before the name Jake Thomas meant anything. Of course, he’d make her sign a prenup in case the marriage fell apart, but it was still good to know that their love was real.

‘I missed you so much, baby,’ Jake said.

He kissed her again. She must’ve started smoking cigarettes, because he felt like he was sucking face with an ashtray, but for the first time all day, he was glad he came home to Brooklyn.

On East Ninety-fifth Street, Ryan pulled into a spot and put the car in park, bopping his head to the beat of ‘Candy Shop,’ one of his favorite 50 Cent joints. He listened to the whole song; then, timing it exactly with the last lyric, he shut off the CD player.

As he walked up the sidewalk, a kid, maybe ten years old, pulled up next to him on a dirt bike and mumbled something Ryan couldn’t make out, but he knew it was an offer to buy drugs. Ryan shook his head, and the kid said, ‘Fuck you then,’ and rode away.

Christina and her father lived in a small two-story, two-bedroom house. It could have been much nicer than where Ryan lived - there was a front yard, it was on its own lot, and there were a lot of trees on the block - but the place wasn’t kept up. It needed a paint job desperately, gutters were hanging down off the roof, siding was missing, and the lawn was mostly weeds.

Ryan rang the doorbell, then heard slow, creaking footsteps. Seconds later, Al Mercado opened the door, smiling, but when he saw it was Ryan, his usual bitter expression returned.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I thought it was gonna be Jake.’

Ryan entered the house, breathing in the odor of must and mildew, which probably came from the old carpeting. As always, the house was dark and the shades were drawn.

‘Christina’s upstairs getting dressed,’ Al said, and then he settled back onto the couch and stared at the horse race on TV.

Ryan was about to say something when Al raised one hand, making the
stop
sign, and continued to stare intensely at the screen.

Ryan couldn’t believe that one of Al’s sperm had helped to create Christina. If Ryan didn’t know Al, if he just passed him on the street, he would’ve figured he was some sick, homeless nutcase. Al was bald except for some gray hairs he combed from the back of his head over the top. He had a scraggly gray beard, wore old, dirty clothes, and he usually looked filthy, like he didn’t bathe. The funny thing was, Al was a bright guy. For years he taught social studies at Hudde Junior High. Christina claimed her father was different back then - he took care of himself and dressed better; you could actually sit down and have a conversation with him. Then Christina’s mother died when Christina was nine, and Al had a breakdown. It got so bad he had to take a leave of absence from work, and Christina’s aunt Mary had to come live with them for a while because Al was so depressed. Al went back to teaching the next year, but he still hadn’t recovered. Then, as he was leaving school one day, crossing Nostrand Avenue, he stepped into a pothole, fell, and broke his hip. Even though he made a full recovery, he got one of those crook lawyers to claim that he was experiencing pain and emotional distress and worked out a hundred-thousand-dollar settlement from the city. Then he got a doctor to say that teaching was impossible in his condition, and he went on disability. Instead of putting away money for the future, he pissed it away on poker, horses, and weekend junkets to Atlantic City. Within a couple of years all of the money from the settlement was gone, and now he was living on his monthly checks and the money Christina brought in. Meanwhile he spent just about every day parked on the living room couch, watching the racing channel and gambling on his OTB phone account. Ryan hated the way Al used Christina. He was always hassling her to set a wedding date with Jake, probably because he figured that Jake would give him more money to blow at the track. After tonight, the old man was going to be in for a pretty big shocker.

Ryan stood to the side, near the staircase, waiting for Christina as the race continued. Al didn’t say a word, still focused on the TV, and then suddenly stood up and started screaming at the top of his lungs, ‘Stick ‘im! Stick ‘im! Stick ‘im! Come on, stick ‘im! Stick ‘im, you fuckin’ munchkin! Stick ‘im!’ Then Al just stared at the screen again, until the announcer said, ‘Divine Lady holds on by a head!’ and Al screamed, ‘Goddamn piece of shit! What do you think the whip’s for, to put up your fucking ass? The whole fuckin’ race he doesn’t lift the fuckin’ whip. Fucking cocksucker!’

‘Did you win?’ Ryan said, just to bust balls.

Of course Al didn’t catch on to what Ryan was doing, and said, ‘That horse gets up I get the exacta
and
the double. Was paying a hundred and change. Fuckin’ munchkin can’t use his goddamn whip. Un-fuckin’-believable.’

Al settled back down onto the couch, muttering curses.

‘Ryan!’ Christina called from upstairs.

‘That you?’

‘Yeah,’ Ryan said.

‘Come on up!’

Ryan went up the narrow, creaky staircase and met Christina on the landing. Her hair was wet and she had no makeup on, but she still looked great in jeans and a little light blue top - the same blue as her eyes. Over the past few years she’d gained some weight, maybe fifteen, twenty pounds, mostly below her waist, but Ryan thought that the extra weight made her even sexier. She had wavy light brown hair that used to be shorter, but she’d grown it out, and now it went halfway down her back. As Ryan approached her his stomach muscles tightened, his back heated up, and his palms began to sweat. He didn’t feel as awkward as he did as a kid, when he couldn’t even speak to her, but he still felt nervous.

Ryan smiled, then kissed her. As usual, it felt great to hold her close and to smell her hair, which today smelled like a strawberry lollipop. He let go of her and ran his hands down her back, settling them on her great J.Lo-esque ass.

Ryan pulled away slightly, staying maybe an inch away from her face. Looking into her eyes that seemed to have little lights in them, especially when he and Christina looked at each other, he whispered, ‘I missed you so much.’

‘Me too,’ she whispered back.

They continued making out; then Christina pulled Ryan along the hallway into her room and closed the door behind them. The stereo in her room was on - Enrique Iglesias - and Ryan pushed Christina back against the door and started kissing her neck, his hands moving up under her top, then over her small, firm breasts. She had a bra on, but he could still feel her nipples against his palms. She moaned softly as he kissed the spot that drove her crazy, where her neck met her jaw near her ear. He continued to caress her breasts with his left hand while his right moved to her waist and unbuttoned her jeans. Then, as he pulled down the zipper, Christina said, ‘We can’t.’

‘Why not?’ Ryan said, grinding his hips up against hers as he continued kissing her neck with his half-open mouth.

‘Not with him right downstairs,’ Christina said.

‘We’ll be quiet,’ Ryan said. ‘I promise.’

He finished unzipping her jeans and moved his hand against her panties. She let him touch her for several seconds, then pushed him back slightly. ‘We can’t - seriously.’

Ryan backed away and Christina zipped her jeans.

‘I’m sorry,’ Christina said. ‘I didn’t mean to get you all worked up, but you know how I get. I just can’t do it with him in the house.’

‘Come on,’ Ryan said. ‘His eyes are Krazy Glued to that TV. You could set the house on fire and he wouldn’t know what was going on.’

‘Sorry, Ry, I really am, but I just can’t.’ Christina sat down at the makeup table and started putting on her blush.

‘I’m so sick of all this sneaking-around bullshit,’ Ryan said.

‘You think I’m not?’

‘So what’re we gonna do about it?’

‘What do you mean? I’m breaking up with Jake tonight.’

‘So when can we start acting like a normal couple?’

‘Right away .. . I guess.’

Ryan watched Christina fake-smile to push up her cheeks while she put on her blush. Now Iglesias was singing ‘I Have Always Loved You.’

‘You mean that?’ Ryan asked.

‘Mean what?’

‘That after tonight we can be a normal couple.’

‘Of course I mean it.’

‘So after tonight we don’t have to have car sex anymore? We can start doing it in our beds whenever we want, even when our parents are home?’

Still facing the mirror, Christina opened a lipstick. ‘Well, not after
tonight.’

‘Then when?’

‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’

Christina pursed her lips, finished applying her lipstick, then said, ‘I don’t know, okay?’

‘Come on, I want a date,’ Ryan said. ‘A week, two weeks, a month, six months, a year . . . ?’

‘After we get engaged.’

‘So let’s get engaged tonight.’

Remaining deadpan, Christina looked at Ryan’s reflection. ‘You’re joking, right?’

‘Why would I joke about that? You don’t need a ring to get engaged. I’ll give you something else - my school ring or something. You can wear that till I get you a diamond. Come on, let’s just do it. That’s what you want, right?’

‘Of couse that’s what I want.’ She stood up and went toward her dresser. She opened a jewelry box and took out a necklace.

‘So then what’s the problem?’

‘There’s no problem,’ she said. ‘I just don’t wanna rush right into any .. . I mean, wouldn’t it be more romantic if we waited -you know, built up to it?’

‘I’m not talking about getting married - I’m just talking about getting engaged.’

‘Let’s not talk about this now.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m nervous enough already about tonight.’

‘Why does talking about getting engaged make you nervous?’

‘Can you just stop it?’

‘Stop what?’

‘Look, we can’t get engaged that fast, all right? I mean, how’s that gonna look?’

‘Look to who? To Jake?’

‘To everybody.’

‘So you’re not even gonna tell him about us tonight?’

‘No. I mean, I don’t know. I mean, maybe, but—’ ‘But what?’

Christina went through her jewelry box again and took out a pair of silver hoop earrings.

‘I’ll see how it goes.’ She held up the earrings to her lobes, looking in the mirror. ‘I mean, we don’t want to cause a whole big scene, right?’

‘He’s gonna find out about us eventually,’ Ryan said. ‘Why not just get it over with?’

Christina made a face and put the earrings back, and then took out the pair of diamond studs that Jake had bought her.

‘Because,’ Christina said. ‘I mean, what’s the point in making him think that .. . or get angry about .. . I mean, I don’t want to hurt him - I just want to break up with him.’

Christina put in the first stud.

‘You have to wear those earrings, huh?’

Christina looked in the mirror.

‘What difference does it make which ones I wear?’

‘None, I guess.’

‘Fine.’ She removed the stud, then put the pair away and took out the hoop earrings. ‘You don’t want me to wear them, I won’t wear them.’

‘You can wear whatever you want.’

‘Can you stop getting so fucking angry at me?’

Ryan shook his head and went toward the window, which looked out on the street. That drug-dealer kid was still riding up the block and back on his bicycle.

‘Look, I’m sorry, all right?’ Christina said. ‘I’m just scared, that’s all. I mean, this isn’t easy for me. Me and Jake’ve been together a long time and . . . Can’t we just stop fighting?’

Ryan remained facing the window. The song had ended, and for a few seconds the only noise was the faint sound of Al screaming at the TV downstairs. Then the next song came on.

‘Please,’ Christina said.

Ryan didn’t budge.

‘Pretty please. With sugar on top . . . and cherries . . . and pickles . . . and anchovies . . . and peanut butter . . . and broccoli. . .’

Ryan finally turned around, smiling. Christina came over to him and kissed him softly on the lips.

‘I love you so much,’ she said, ‘and I can’t wait till we can be together all the time.’

‘If you really love me,’ Ryan said, ‘will you turn this shit off?’

Christina laughed, then went over to her dresser and picked up a hairbrush. She held it up to her mouth like a mike and started singing along.

‘Mercy, mercy,’ Ryan said, playfully trying to grab the brush.

Christina sang some more. Laughing, Ryan finally grabbed her hand and pulled her back toward him. He kissed her a few times, running his fingers through her slightly damp hair. He pulled back and said, ‘I’m the one who should be sorry, taking everything out on you. It’s just all this Jake-coming-home shit - it’s driving me crazy.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

‘Today at work nobody would shut up about it. And all the guys - they want to bring in crap for Jake to autograph.’

‘Dr Hoffman wants me to get him an autographed bat. And my cousin Brenda called last night - her daughter wants a signed picture of Jake to bring into show-and-tell.’

‘You know what’s gonna be great?’ Ryan said. ‘A few days from now we’ll be able to walk around, go to the supermarket or the deli or wherever, and we won’t have to hear his name every two seconds.’

Glancing toward the mirror, Christina said, ‘You messed up my lipstick.’

Ryan pulled her back toward him and started kissing her again, harder, and then he moved his right hund swiftly down along her stomach, then under her jeans.

‘Down, boy,’ Christina whispered.

‘Come on,’ Ryan said, ‘just this one time.’

‘We shouldn’t.’

‘Please.’

Christina was moaning, breathing faster. Then she said, ‘You promise you won’t make any noise?’

Ryan guided her back down toward the bed and unzipped her jeans. As she pulled them, and then her panties down, he took his sneakers off quickly, then his jeans and boxers. Christina lay on the bed with her legs apart, waiting for him. Ryan knelt down over her, suddenly feeling too good. He forced himself to think about a big pile of shit, his father’s ear hair, rats crawling through sewers, Osama bin Laden, roadkill, but it was hopeless. He ejaculated in several weak spurts onto the bedspread.

‘Damn it.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Fuck. It’s just that we were trying to do it so fast and—’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Shit.’

‘Stop it.’ Christina moved a few strands of hair away from Ryan’s eyes. ‘We would’ve had to be too quiet anyway.’

‘We always have to be fuckin’ quiet.’

Christina kissed Ryan; then he started going down on her. Christina leaned back, letting Ryan go on for several seconds, and then she said, ‘You don’t have to do that.’