Mendoza's Return (4 page)

“Good for you. So, the nightmares stopped, too?”

“For the most part. I can still see my cousin drown
ing, but now I see myself diving in and saving her instead of standing by helplessly.”

“You were five years old when it happened, Melina.”

“I know.” And the impact of the experience had changed her life for years. She'd never spent a hot summer day in the river as a teenager. Never even splashed in a kiddie pool as a child.

Melina set down her water glass. “Why are you here?”

He didn't answer right away, as if gauging her mood. She knew how to keep her expression blank, even though she wanted him to leave. She didn't want to picture him in her house—or to give in to temptation again. Because no matter how much pain still lingered, she couldn't escape the attraction that was still there, powerful and tempting. She'd wanted to kiss him by the pool. Turning away had been close to impossible.

“I had a few questions before we meet with the Andersons tomorrow,” he said. “I would've called but I didn't have your number.”

“Yet you know where I live.”

“Some information is easier to obtain than others. I'm guessing you don't have a landline, that you use only your cell? Anyway, can you find out when the team is practicing again? And is there a way you could get me a team roster, as well?”

“I'll put my spies to work on it.” She crossed her arms. “Anything else?”

A few beats passed. “If this is making you uncomfortable, I can call you tomorrow at your office.”

She looked at the counter for a moment. She could so easily slip back into the part of their relationship that had worked so well—talking. At least until the very end. Until then they'd talked all the time, about anything and everything. She'd missed that so much, even the occasional argument.

“It's just weird, Rafe. I haven't seen you in all these years, and then…” She gestured toward the pool and their almost-kiss. “We need to keep it just business between us. So, do you have more questions?”

He slid his hands into his pockets, signaling something, but she wasn't sure what.

“In your professional opinion,
should
we be fighting for Elliot to play ball? Will he be able to do okay at it?”

“His having Asperger's won't prevent ultimate success, but it will take him longer to learn and he needs more intensive, individual work, which his father has been giving him.”

“For batting, you said. But what about the other skills, like catching and fielding?”

“I honestly don't know. I only know that he can't learn to be part of a team without
being
on a team. It's the socialization process that's hard. But, most important, Elliot wants to be part of it. He's enamored with the idea of playing ball. He says over and over that he wants to be with
them,
meaning the other kids.” Needing to do something, she set her glass in
the sink. “That drive, that need, can take him far. He just requires more help than the average kid to get there. And perhaps success might be measured a little differently than with other children, but doesn't he deserve that chance?”

“Are you sure you didn't go to law school, after all?” he asked.

She didn't appreciate the reminder, but she didn't call him on it. “I hope that means I've swayed you, because he needs an impartial advocate.”

“I'll let you know tomorrow after I've met him and his parents, and dug around a little more.”

When she didn't respond, he glanced at her kitchen clock. “I'd better get going. If you can get that info and fax or email it to me before we meet, I'd appreciate it.”

She nodded, then followed him to the front door, noting how he'd taken one last glance at the yearbook, in the same way she had with his trophy case in his office. He was holding back, just as she was, she realized. There were things that needed saying, and at some point they would have to be said.

But first things first. Elliot was more important than long-buried emotions. It wasn't like her to hold so much inside, but it was necessary this time.

She held the front door open as Rafe stepped outside. One safety light stayed spotlighted on the pool all night, even though a decorative metal fence prevented anyone from accidentally falling in.

“Did you get the material I left with your dad?” she asked.

“I've already watched the DVD several times. I wish it was more definitive.” He turned to face her. She was unable to read his expression. “Good night, Melina.”

Her throat closed. The way her porch light spilled onto him took her back to all the times they'd kissed good-night by her front door. She hadn't known disappointment then—or loss. She'd come to hate him since then for that.

And yet she wanted to haul him upstairs and make love with him.

She'd heard it said that there was a fine line between love and hate. Walking that tightrope between those two emotions was too risky, especially without a net.

“Good night,” she said, then shut the door, burdened with doubt that she could work with him, but knowing she had no choice.

For Elliot's sake she had to put her personal feelings aside for now.

For
her
sake she needed to lock those feelings away forever.

M
elina had just finished making the introductions the next day at Rafe's office when Elliot Anderson, who'd taken a seat on the sofa between his parents, hopped back up and rushed to the glass case on Rafe's wall. “Wow! Look at all the trophies, Dad. They're awesome!”

Steve Anderson sent a look of amusement to Rafe then followed his son, coming up behind him. He was a smaller version of his father, both sporting matching crew cuts.

Rafe joined them, grateful for the icebreaker of the trophies. “I see you're an Alex Rodriguez fan, Elliot. That's a cool jersey you've got on.”

“A-Rod, yeah. Number thirteen. First-round pick of the 1993 draft. He never went to college. The Seattle
Mariners signed him. Then the Texas Rangers. My dad took me to see him play but I was too little to remember. I got pictures, though. The New York Yankees got him now. His batting average is—”

“Not now, Elliot,” his father said. “We're here to talk to Mr. Mendoza.”

“I know. We looked him up on Google.” Energy and excitement burst from him. “Rafe Mendoza was a pitcher for Red Rock High School. His senior year his ERA was 2.28. His batting average was .432. He got forty-six RBIs and six home runs. He struck out 205 and walked forty-two. He went to college at the University of Michigan on a baseball scholarship. His ERA was—”

“Elliot,
this
is Rafe Mendoza.”

“I know, Dad. He had 362 at bats, and—”

“Would you like to hold one of the trophies, Elliot?” Rafe asked. Melina had told him that the best way stop a running commentary was to redirect him.

“Yes!” He bounced up and down. “Can I choose which one? I want that one,” he said, indicating the very large MVP trophy from Rafe's senior year at Michigan.

“How about one you can hold in your lap instead?” Rafe asked, pulling down a smaller but fancier trophy, one with brass pennants and other game paraphernalia replicas.

“Okay!”

“Go sit next to Mom,” Steve Anderson said.

Elliot ran to the couch, leaped into the air, turning at the same time, and plopped, grinning. He accepted the trophy and began to examine every inch of it.

Rafe moved his chair in front of his desk, removing the barrier that sometimes stifled conversation. “I hear you're a good baseball player yourself, Elliot.”

“My batting average is .754. That's higher than Rafe Mendoza. My dad is teaching me how to pitch.”

“Do you like to pitch?”

“Yes, yes, yes. But I like to hit more. My batting average is .754.”

“Can you catch fly balls?”

“Sometimes.” He seemed to be studying something in particular on the trophy. “I have to wear sunglasses. I like to wear sunglasses. I like to wear uniforms, too, like the other kids. I want to be on the team.”

“What's your favorite thing about baseball?”

“I want to be with the kids.” He stopped examining the trophy and looked at the prize case again. “I want pictures like that on my wall to look at all the time.”

There were several team photos in the case—Rafe's high school and college teams, all-star games, too. He understood Elliot's desire to be part of something that united people in a common effort, one that brought acceptance and camaraderie. Until Rafe had moved back to Red Rock, he'd been part of some
business teams in Ann Arbor, as corporate counsel. Going solo was taking some getting used to.

Rafe asked a few more questions, received enthusiastic and hopeful answers, then he wanted to speak to the parents without Elliot present. Melina offered to wait in the lobby with him, but his mother took him, instead, saying that her husband could speak for both of them.

“I've watched the video of Beau pitching to Elliot and hitting him,” Rafe said to Steve Anderson. “Did you have a better angle? Do you think it was intentional?”

“I don't know. He didn't throw really hard, but Elliot had a sore spot on his hip because of it.”

“How did Beau react after he'd hit Elliot? I heard what Beau said, but the video was being filmed from too far away for me to see his expression.”

“I was too busy trying to keep my wife from charging him to notice.” Steve Anderson smiled grimly. “She was seeing red.”

Unexpected protective instincts rose up in Rafe, too. Elliot deserved better. “What can you tell me as his parent about him joining the team? I need to know what my argument is.”

“Elliot learns from experience, not what people say, but by trial and error—not by being shown, but doing, again and again.”

“How does he deal with mistakes? Will it make him put the brakes on, or will he be able to just keep
going? Everyone goofs, and it's important to just keep on playing. Can he do that or does he freeze?”

“I can't give you just one answer,” Steve said. “He gets frustrated by different kinds of things. Those are lessons for him. We talk about it and try to work it out.”

Rafe looked at Melina. “In your opinion, could the experience hurt him in any way?”

“He's behind, but he's bursting with determination. This is his passion. He'll work harder than most, I'm sure. It'll be really good for him socially to be part of a team. Fitting in is important to him.”

“Honestly, Mr. Mendoza,” Steve said. “I don't think Bandero is going to give an inch. And since he owns the place, he's free to do whatever he wants. I don't want Elliot to be a topic of discussion around town, especially since we've just moved here and haven't even made friends yet. On the other hand, I want him to have a shot at doing what other kids do. There have been enough success stories to give us all hope.”

“I've known Beau since my own T-ball days, Mr. Anderson, and maybe you're right about him not budging, but there are other coaches and other teams. Let me see what I can do. Plan on going to the practice tonight, but just sit in the stands and watch.”

“We can't do that. Beau has a no-parents rule. Only players and coaches are allowed at the practices.”

Rafe didn't comment on the unusual rule. “I'll
call you after I've talked to Beau.” He stood. “That's some boy you've got, Mr. Anderson.”

“Steve. Thanks.” He hesitated. “Can we work out a payment plan with you?”

“This one's on me, one ballplayer to another,” Rafe said. “It'll be my pleasure.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff.

They all walked to the door together. When Rafe opened it, he saw Elliot standing at his assistant's desk. Vonda was giving him her complete attention.

“Beau Bandero,” Elliot said. “Third baseman for Red Rock High School. Batting average .620 in his senior year. Hit ten home runs, got forty-six RBIs, on-base percentage was .716. Got drafted by the Houston Astros. Didn't go to college, just like A-Rod. Called up to the majors in his second year. Played in the majors seven years until—”

“Son.” Steve interrupted him with a look of apology to Vonda. “It's time to go.”

Rafe shook hands with Steve's wife, Debbie, then he approached Elliot. From behind his back he pulled out a baseball and handed it to the boy. “This one's not to play with, okay? This one is to keep indoors. See this autograph? He was my favorite player when I was your age.” Rafe remembered the moment he'd had it signed, too, as if it were yesterday. “He was done playing ball, but he was still my hero.”

“Cal Ripken! Wow! It's Cal Ripken, Dad. The Iron Man. He played 2,632 games straight, and 3,001
games altogether. He had 11,551 at bats and 3,184 hits. In 2001 his salary was $6,300,000. In 2001 A-Rod's salary was twenty-two million. In 2001, Manny Ramirez made—”

Steve took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the door. “Time to go, Stat Man. Say goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Elliot said, but Rafe could hear him rattling off more statistics as they went down the hall.

Rafe invited Melina back into his office. They stood just inside his closed door. “What a great kid.”

“He is. I'm fortunate enough to meet a lot of great kids.” She cocked her head. “That was very nice of you to give him your Ripken ball. I know how much it means to you.”

“It'll be in good hands.”

She cupped his arm. “Thank you for doing this.”

Her touch made his breath go shallow. He didn't like it. Didn't want it. It complicated everything.

“I'm looking forward to it,” he said. “I think I've needed a change from my routine. Kind of nice to get excited about a case again.”

She gave him a look that seemed to remind him that his goal years ago
had
been to help those who couldn't afford good help. To fight city hall and win.

But “I'll be waiting to hear the results” was all she said.

 

On foot, Rafe studied the sports complex as he sought out Beau a couple of hours later. It was new, only two years old, Beau having built it as a tribute to himself, using money from a huge signing bonus he'd received from the Astros six months before he sustained a career-ending injury. The complex held four ball fields, with a snack bar and restrooms in the middle of the hub. All four fields were filled with boys and girls teams practicing.

Rafe spotted Beau and headed his way. After spending time on the phone with parents and coaches, Rafe had arrived ten minutes before practice started, but the boys were already limbering up. He'd learned that Beau coached and handled the day-to-day running of the complex. Apparently he micromanaged every detail, from choosing the snack bar food to chalking the lines to payroll, never giving anyone the chance to work independently or prove his or her capability.

To the question Rafe had asked most of the parents he'd called—“Why do you put up with him?”—came the most repeated answer, “There's no place else.” One woman on speakerphone with her husband had added, “We all hold our breaths when the lists come out, hoping for a coach other than Beau for our kids.”

But her husband said, “He teaches the skills.
Demands
the skill level be high. More than any other
coach, frankly. He's just got a big mouth and no tact.”

“He's made my baby cry several times,” his wife said.

“Which won't kill him, honey.”

So, the parents were divided, mostly by gender, and the coaches Rafe talked to were guarded, although one said he'd offered to take Elliot. Beau had turned him down.

Beau sent his team on a run around the field then stood waiting for Rafe to join him.

“It's been a long time,” Rafe said, extending his hand to Beau, who shook it reluctantly, as if expecting to find a gag buzzer in Rafe's palm. “How are you?”

“Can't complain,” Beau said. “Heard you were back.”

“Yeah. It feels good.”

“How's Melina? I haven't seen her in ages. We don't run in the same circles, you know.”

Rafe managed not to grit his teeth. Their breakup had been big news, but that was ten years ago. Just by moving home, Rafe had stirred the gossip fires anew. “She seems to be fine.”

Beau resettled his cap on his thinning brown hair. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses. “Something I can do for you?”

“I'd like to talk to you about Elliot Anderson.”

Beau's mouth tightened. “What about him?”

“I want you to give him a chance to play.”

“Oh,
you
want me to? Why should I?”

“Because he loves the game. He'll try harder than most of the other kids. Because every kid deserves a chance to shine.”

“Personally, Rafe, I don't like shiny kids. I like 'em covered with dirt from sliding into second or falling down as they catch a foul ball. That kid, Elliot, doesn't know one thing about playing ball.”

“He hits .754.”

“That so? Well, maybe if we had a designated hitter position, I could use him, but all these kids gotta play positions. All these boys have been playing ball for years, and they still got a lot to learn. He doesn't even know to run to first when he's hit.”

“About that…”

“Nope. That issue is dead. I didn't hit the boy on purpose. I'd never hit a kid on purpose. You leave that alone, lawyer.” He dragged out the last word like an obscenity.

“Coach Wagner is willing to take Elliot.”

“I know that. No. Is that clear enough for you? N. O. Rules are rules. Just like the army, we depend on rules. This is these boys' training ground for life. Life isn't fair, you know, Rafe? It just isn't. And this isn't about one kid but a team's worth of others who wouldn't get my full attention—
or
a teammate with the skills to help them win. I've got kids who come from San Antonio. You think it's because I coddle them? 'Course not. They come because I get results. I'm not a namby-pamby, soothe-their-fragile-little-
egos kind of coach, and my teams win. Parents and kids like to win.”

Rafe respected that—to a point. He tried a different tack. “You're saying you don't have faith in your ability to teach Elliot? To turn him into a winner?”

“Good one, Rafe. Good lawyering kind of language. Point is, I don't have time to work with him.” Beau's grin came slow and self-satisfied. “You just can't stand that I got to go to the show and you didn't. You're lookin' for glory through this kid since you didn't get it in the big leagues yourself.”

Rafe dug for patience. “What've you got to lose, Beau? Let the kid practice with the team.”

Beau rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. After a good thirty seconds, he said, “Maybe I could, Rafe. Maybe I could. If you're willing to follow my rules.” He leaned close. “I'm guessing you aren't gonna like them much.”