Out of Left Field (18 page)

“It’s not wrecked.” Marty’s eyes are wet, too. “Just—different.”

“Like everything in my life. And you’re right: I’m not the same. Maybe I’m a selfish bastard. I didn’t realize I was blowing you off.” I shiver.

“You cold?” Marty asks.

“Nah. I just realized: I went AWOL myself, on this trip to Canada. Like Dad. I’m really sorry, man. I mean that.”

“Thanks. And I don’t have a clue what it feels like to lose a father. Luckily,” Marty says.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

I lean against a big old oak for support. The rough bark rubs against my T-shirt. “It’s not pretty. First, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” I tick off my thoughts, one by one. “Every day, I wake up thinking of something I need to tell him—or ask him—before I remember he’s not here.” I raise another finger. “When the doctor told me my heart was fine, I laughed, because a broken heart hurts like someone sliced it open with a knife.” I’m near tears again but I keep going. “Something scary: The first time I saw the Bay of Fundy and heard that you can’t outrun the tides, I imagined I could walk in, let it sweep me out to sea—but I knew it would kill my mom.”

Marty winces. “That would be shitty for me, too.”

“Thanks. And here’s the worst thing—though it sounds petty: This could be the year, for the Sox. If we make it all the way, Dad won’t be here to see it—or share it with me.” I’m blinking back tears again. “Enough with the list.”

“Damn,” Marty says. “You know—maybe
I’m
pissed that your dad died, too.”

I start to give him a stupid half-hearted guy hug—but he pulls me into a real one. We separate and walk quietly along tree-lined streets. The August heat shimmers on the pavement.

After a while, I glance at him. “Mind if I ask a heavy question?”

He shrugs. “Go ahead.”

“You believe in God?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure.”

“But you’re observant.”

“I like the Jewish traditions, the ceremonies.”

We cross another street, pass gardens in bloom, a man pruning his shrubs. “One more dumb one,” I say.

Marty nods. “Go on.”

“What happens after we die?”

He stops, plants his feet, looks me straight in the eye. “Are you kidding? Even our rabbi can’t answer that question.”

I laugh. “If the smartest guy in my class is clueless, I actually feel better.”

“Excuse me.” A woman clears her throat behind us. She’s walking a little champagne poodle with a pink bow on its head. We step aside as the poodle prances past.

“She looks like she’s been to the beauty parlor,” Marty says.

The woman turns around. “She has. Isn’t she pretty?”

“You bet.” We speak in unison. Marty raises his hand for a high five. I slap him one. “I don’t want to lose you, man.”

“You won’t.”

“Need to get home?” I ask him.

“In a while.”

“Then let’s keep walking. Tell me about life on this side of the border.”

Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck, to a mobile phone in Brookline, Massachusetts

(Sound of throat clearing): Hello. Uh—is this Brandon?

Okay. So…em…Quinn here. Quinn Blanding. Tried to get Cat to make the call, but she refused.

Matter of fact, I do have news. You can keep that baseball card.

You guessed it. Genetic testing says we’re not related.

I know; thank God, eh?

Sorry I was such a bastard. You threw me for a loop, shook up the family big time.

That’s okay. We knew something was up when Cat found two birth certificates. Easier to blame it on you.

Too soon to tell. I guess Mum and Dad’ll be all right. Mum’s been high maintenance all her life and Dad doesn’t seem to mind. At least I can get a passport now.

Maybe Cuba.

Yeah, Canada’s cool with our traveling there. Your rules are crazy. But I’ll wait until winter. The fog’s quit at last.
Little Blue
goes out every day.

Yeah. We see whales, puffins, seals. Too bad you missed that.

So listen. Thanks for fishing Mum out of the drink. In spite of her hissy fits I’m glad she’s still around.

(pause)

Em…I was—pretty rude…about your dad’s passing. That’s harsh—even if he wasn’t my father.

Guess Cat told you baseball’s not my thing. Now, if your dad had left me a signed Wayne Gretzky card…

Can’t say I’ll call again, but you’re welcome. Ta.

Reverse the Curse

Quinn’s call puts me on edge. His voice was shaking. Must have taken him a while to work up his nerve. It’s almost midnight here; even later in Digby. He actually did sound sorry—and relieved. No surprise. This was a glitch in his life. Kind of a big one, for a few weeks, but now it’s over. He can travel to Cuba; his business is booming; his family will survive.

I should be happy, right? Once I’d met Quinn, my maudlin dreams of a lost sibling evaporated. I’m glad we’re not related. So why do I want to howl like a wolf?

Because I had a project, a goal. Now it’s just grim reality.

I toss and turn, listen to music on my iPod, but thoughts zing around in my brain like an old-fashioned pinball machine. I get up and send a simple e-mail to Ray, Cora, Leo, Janine, and Marty:
Quinn is a Blanding not a McGinnis. Thanks for all your help. Talk soon. Love, B.

I lean out the window. The AC chugs from the apartment downstairs even though the air feels cool on my face. Moths do their drunken dance in the streetlight. I picture Dad getting the same talk from the cardiologist that I did, a few weeks back. Dad must have freaked when he heard it was congenital. For the thousandth time, I’m pissed that no one pushed Dad to do the surgery right away—

But Ray was right: Dad wanted to take care of us first;
us
meaning Quinn (aka Patrick) and me. He’d want to make sure we were okay before he went under the knife. The doc told us the surgery was risky, complicated. I can just imagine it: Dad bargaining, in his mind: he’d tell himself he’d take a few days to find his so-called son, rewrite his will, get me into the doctor, make sure I’m okay—and
then
he’d do the implant. Because surely Dad wanted to live—didn’t he? After all, his mantra was the same every morning since spring training: “This is the year. The year we reverse the curse.”

I riffle through the pile of photos and letters on my desk and find Dad as the Lone Ranger. In spite of the silly mask, his eyes look trusting. He was an innocent kid, before war made him grow up and move away. Before some woman named Victoria screwed him over.

Poor Dad. He died thinking he had another son, a kid he never knew—whose mother was supposedly Victoria Martin, the Witch. All those years, he never knew the truth. Ray’s probably right: easier for Dad to lock that memory up, pretend the kid didn’t exist. Until suddenly, he needed to save him: the way Dad wanted to rescue everyone—except himself.

“Dad,” I whisper. “Where are you?”

I breathe. In. Out. Close my eyes. Listen.

He answers.

I swear. If that means I’m like one of his clients, the ones who hear voices: fine. I listen, every cell in my body on high alert.

Bran. I’d give anything to be here with you. I didn’t want to die. I’m so sorry. Be good to your mom. She’s an angel. And hey. Now I’m gone, you’d better cheer twice as loud for the Sox. Follow the dream
.

Clear as anything, I hear what he said every night before I closed my door, including his last night on earth:
Love ya. Don’t ever forget it
.

Believe me, Dad. I won’t.

*

A lonesome church bell chimes once. This is ridiculous. I need to
do
something. I pull on a T-shirt and sweats. No sound from Mom’s room. I close the hall door, cross the living room. Maxine winds herself in and out of my legs, almost tripping me. I shoo her away.

I turn on the small light over the stove and ease the cupboards open softly, as if I’m robbing the place. I lift lids from the bins, line up my ingredients. Flour. Oil. Yeast: I check the date; still viable. Can’t find honey; brown sugar will do. Powdered milk, ground ginger. Water trickles over my wrist until it’s the right temp: not too hot, not too cold. Fill a cup, sprinkle yeast on the water, feed it a teaspoon of sugar and a pinch of ginger, set it aside to proof.

This was Dad’s routine. He learned to bake bread in Canada. Baking bread at the Yellow Ford Truck, where draft resisters hung out, was the only thing Dad ever talked about from his years up north. And one rainy afternoon, when I was thirteen and bored, he decided it was my turn.

I stand on a stool to reach my big bread bowl down from the top of the cupboard, careful not to make a sound. It’s dusty. I rinse it out and wait for the yeast to bubble. This was Dad’s favorite part. “Amazing,” he’d say. “Those ugly beige grains. Give them warm water, a little sugar—and they come alive. You could feed the world.”

“Whatever you say, Dad,” I whisper now. I measure five cups of warm water into the bowl, set the flour bins on the counter. The yeast sends up one small bubble, then another. I add this mix, and the flour, to the water to make a sponge. Usually, I’m noisy as I scoop flour from the bins, but tonight I’m slow, methodical. I alternate wheat flour with white, add sugar and milk powder, and beat it with a wooden spoon.
Sloop doop; sloop doop.
Dad’s recipe—now mine, with alterations—comes from a Zen cookbook, so worn out we’ve patched it twice with duct tape. I’m into the Zen of keeping quiet as I stir up the “beatable mud”—Dad’s favorite cookbook phrase.

After one hundred beats I cover the bowl with a damp dishcloth and set it on the pilot light. I doze on the couch. Maxine joins me under the blanket and snarls when the phone alarm wakes us. I’m up fast to stir the dough down and add the oil, salt, and the rest of the flour. Things are serious now. I stir with my hand as the dough takes shape, and finally turn it out onto the butcher block counter. It’s still sticky. I clean my fingers with the rubber spatula, scrape out the bowl, and begin to knead.

Twist, fold, push. I’m pressing as hard as I can without pounding the counter.
I’m so sorry, Dad. Sorry we didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell us?

The dough is still gooey; it won’t help to bawl on the mix. I rub my nose on my sleeve, add more flour, watch the clock as I work. Twist, fold, push, add flour. Twist, fold, push.

God, this feels good. Why did I quit? I pummel the doctor, pummel Victoria Blanding, pummel that dread disease. Forget Aunt Cora’s improv class: I should make bread every day.

After twenty minutes, the dough glistens. I grease the bowl and set it in the warm spot again. I snooze for another hour, jump up to punch the dough down—gently now—and doze until it’s time to oil the bread pans, shape the dough into loaves, and watch them rise.

The beep-beep of the stove timer wakes me an hour later. The fragrance of hot bread fills the apartment and Mom stands over me, wearing a crooked smile. “Brandon, the timer’s going off. Have you been up all night?”

“Pretty much. I caught some sleep on the couch.” I stumble to the stove, grab the oven mitt and pull out the pans. The bread is golden, all four loaves perfectly rounded. I can’t help feeling proud. “I’m ravenous. Is it morning?”

“Close enough,” Mom says. “Have a shower. I’ll make coffee—and we’ll have a feast. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed that smell.” She ruffles my hair and reaches for the coffee. I hold her back.

“Mom. There’s good news for a change.”

She pulls her robe tight around her. “Oh?”

“Quinn called late last night. He’s—he’s not my brother.”

Mom goes very still. “Your poor father,” she whispers. “All those years, he thought—”

“I know.” I raise the shade, open the window. The sky glows red behind the oak tree. The courtyard is quiet.

“Listen,” Mom says. “Hear it?”

“Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!” The cardinal settles on the branch outside the window and pours out his song. Mom props her elbows on the windowsill. “We hear you, Pat,” she says.

Who knows if Dad is speaking to us or not? As Ray said:
Whatever works
. I head for the shower. I know what I need to do.

Phone call: Brandon in Brookline, Massachusetts, to Cat on Digby Neck, Nova Scotia

Cat? Brandon here.

Yeah, great news for sure. I’m glad Quinn called.

Listen: I have a favor. You know those jigs you were playing on
Little Blue
?

Right, that crazy day. Any chance you remember the tunes?

“Lark in the Morning”…“The Rakes of Kildare”… Hold on, I’m writing this down.

We have a few of MacMaster’s albums, but not that one.

You would? Hey, that’s great. I’d much rather use your version, if it’s not a pain to send it.

Doesn’t matter. What I’m doing’s not “professional” either.

This might strike you as weird—but could you send a photo of you and Quinn?

No, not an art project. I’m not sure what to call it. What’s your e-mail?

Got it. Thanks. Really. You guys don’t owe me a thing.

I said: Forget it! I needed that swim to clear my head.

Okay. See ya.

Can You
Believe
It?

It takes me a few days to pull things together. I study the Sox schedule for next week. We’re away, in Toronto, for three games; the last one on a Wednesday. Perfect.

I call Pop, check it out with Mom, send an E-vite to Marty and my aunt’s family—and call Tony. “CAN YOU
BELIEVE
IT?” he bellows, before I can say anything.

“You sound exactly like Castiglione! You should go into radio broadcasting.” We talk about last night’s game before I issue the invite. “It’s an off night.”

“I’m honored,” Tony says. “What can I bring?”

“We’ll jinx it if I tell you what I really want.”

“As in: We talk World Series tickets, we invite the Curse?”

“Exactly. So don’t bring anything. And it’s casual.”

*

The stuff piles up on my desk, bedside table, and window ledge. Cat sends the songs and I start a file in the computer. I go through family albums when Mom’s not home; Leo helps me on their end without asking why. Pop shows up at the pizzeria and slips me what I need; our détente seems to be holding. I spend hours at the copy place, scanning everything, and on Monday I call Marty. He comes over to help me set up my PowerPoint, as if our fight never happened. Mom’s at a meeting, so we lay everything out on the dining room table. When Marty opens my file and scrolls through the images, he shakes his head. “It’s a tear jerker.”