Out of Left Field (4 page)

“Don’t panic,” Mom says. “I’ll give you a ride to work. I already called in sick. I need to see the lawyer.”

She’s right, I
am
panicked—but not about the pizzeria. Where’s the shoebox? Then I remember: I slid it under the bed last night after reading a few letters. Cora was right: you can only digest a few at a time.

She gives me a funny look. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m not awake.” I stand up, check the mirror. My face is as wrinkled as my pillowcase. “Guess I won’t get the Oscar nod.”

“You were out when I came in,” Mom says. “All the lights were on—and you didn’t twitch when I covered you up. Where’d you go last night?”

“Aunt Cora’s. I wanted to talk to her about the letter.”

Mom’s face collapses. “Was she shocked?”

“Yeah. But it was weird. First she hyperventilated—and then she was psyched. Like some part of Dad was still alive.”

“Bran.” Mom’s voice is gentle. “Don’t be hard on Cora. She’s in pain, too.”

“I know.” I crank the window open. The air is cool for a change. “How about we both have a sick day? It’s only fair.”

“Will Frankie dock your pay?”

“Yeah, but I’m not exactly his top employee. Could you call? Tell him I have stomach flu. That’s the last thing they want at a so-called
eating establishment
.” Good thing Mom doesn’t know what goes on in that kitchen.

She shows the hint of a smile for a change. “All right—but what about swim team?”

“I’ll probably go. See how I feel.”

“The exercise is good for you.” Mom stops at the door. Her eyes look pale—like faded jeans. Maybe her pasty skin sets them off. “I need to see the lawyer alone.”

“Sure.” Let her think I’m being cooperative. In fact, there’s something
I
need to do here. Also alone.

Mom hits the shower and I pick up my book for summer reading. I skim through the first few pages and toss it. Just what I need: a list of things soldiers carried in Vietnam. Of course, whoever made this list wasn’t thinking about me, or my dad’s secret past. I’d need an eighteen-wheeler to list the things I carry now.

I’m half asleep when Mom comes back in: hair styled, lipstick on, wearing what Dad called her blue Power Suit. “Wow,” I say. “Dressed for the lawyer?”

She picks up my book. “
The Things They Carried
? Why this one?”

“Not my choice. The English department doesn’t know Dad’s history.”

“It’s a wonderful novel—or memoir. Both. Is this a library copy?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Your dad loved this book. His copy is on the shelf by our bed.” She sets it down. “If I were you, I’d wait on this one. What else is on the list?”

“Can’t remember.”

In the past, she would have grilled me, but the rules have changed. Not sure if that’s a good thing.

“How about breakfast?” Mom asks. “Could I treat you to a bagel and coffee? Not as good as your bread, but still—”

“You’re on.”

*

One of the best things about this neighborhood: the bagels. Marty, who should know, says Kupel’s bagels are as good as any New York deli. That’s why I’ve never tried to make them myself.

The shop is noisy, with a long line. Mom grabs a tiny table while I get the food. We squeeze into the tight space where I sip coffee and lick cream cheese off my fingers. Mom tells me her plan for the day: lawyer, food shopping, maybe even a manicure. And an oil change on the Civic. No comment. Dad used to do it in our alley. Lucky we still
have
a car. “And I’ll go to the gym,” she says. “Routines help.”

“So Coach says.” Sounds like she’ll be gone all morning. Perfect. Mom buys a dozen bagels—“to tide us over until you feel like baking again”—and gives me a quick hug. “Promise you’ll stay home.”

“That’s where I’m headed.”

Marty calls as I wait at the light. “You at work?”

“Sick day.”

“Sure. All that traffic noise is outside your bedroom?”

“Something’s come up.” I wasn’t going to tell him—but hell, why shouldn’t I? Just because Dad had this big secret doesn’t mean
I
have to keep quiet. “Hold on.” I duck into the pharmacy where it’s quiet. “I have some weird news.”

“Go ahead.”

“Not on the phone. Maybe after practice.”

“Pool’s closed for a few days; nasty bacteria in the water. Coach left me a message—you’ll get one at home.”

“Great. Wonder what critters we swallowed yesterday.”

“God knows. Coach is looking for another spot. Meanwhile—we’re free.”

“So come over after your class.”

“Deal.”

*

At home, Maxine jumps off the kitchen counter. “Busted!” I lunge for her, but she streaks down the hall.

I set the Lone Ranger photo next to one of Dad and me at Fenway. We’re wearing our Sox caps, of course, and my favorite Mo Vaughn T-shirt dangles over my hips. I’m holding my mitt. We always go to the park early, for the pregame warm-ups—

Damn. I’m doing it again. We
used
to go to the park early…

I must be eight or nine in this photo, still in Little League—the same age as Dad in his cowboy outfit? Everyone has always said I look like Dad, but I couldn’t see it until now. Except for the Lone Ranger mask, Dad and I could be twins: same curly hair, brown eyes, lopsided grin, skinny frame.

The photos will make Mom cry—but that’s nothing new. I take a second look in my aunt’s shoebox. Dad looks like a scared, orphaned kid in the Polaroid taken after his buzz cut. In the second photo his hair has grown in and he sports a mustache. He’s with a tall, dark-skinned guy who holds a black-and-white-striped kitten. So Dad always loved cats. I turn the photo over. Dad’s scrawl says:
Ray, me, and Panda the kitten. Our Christmas present to each other
.

I read Dad’s letters again. No mention of Ray’s last name. I skim through a few more, but don’t find much. Dad talks about his jobs, friends he made in the anti-war movement (but no names)—and then, the letters get shorter. He refers to phone calls, so he and Cora must have chatted. No mention of a girlfriend, though one letter teases Cora, asks if she’s going to the prom.
Who’s the lucky guy?
Dad wrote.

I slide the box back under the bed. I can read the rest later. Right now there’s one thing I can only do while Mom’s out.

“Okay. Here goes.”

Topps Cards

I stick Dad’s old Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young album, “Déjà Vu,” into the CD player and jack up the volume. Maybe this will strengthen my nerves.

Wrong. Standing outside Dad’s closet gives me the willies. I pump myself up as if I’m about to swim freestyle in a state meet.
Come on, you can take that guy, you beat him by a half second in the last meet…

I open the door and kick Dad’s rank-smelling sneakers out of the way. “Nice, Dad.” I push his shirts and pants to the side. Not sure what I’m looking for—but here’s Dad’s old flannel shirt, the maroon plaid. Can’t help myself: I pull it close, breathe deep. It holds his smell and it’s worn to that perfect softness, like old jeans. I strip off my T-shirt and pull on the flannel. There’s a button missing halfway up. Typical. It always hung a little loose on Dad so it’s a perfect fit on me with my swimmer’s shoulders.

I stand on tiptoe, check out the top shelf. A jumble of sweaters and old baseball caps; nothing interesting. Didn’t he pull a box out of here at tax time? Yes, here it is, with a big sign in magic marker: TAXES, and bulging file folders, neatly labeled (Mom’s handwriting) year by year, with 2004 at the front. Poor Mom. Something else she’ll have to do on her own.

Behind the tax box is a carton labeled “PERSONAL.”

“Score.” I lug the box into my bedroom. It’s a mess of old bills, letters, and papers. Dad probably hadn’t touched these since we moved from Somerville. Two documents tied with ribbons turn out to be diplomas: his B.A. from Boston College and the other from high school. His framed diploma from McGill hangs in his official office.

Damn. Dad’s office. I sit back on my heels. Who will clean out all
that
stuff? As if I didn’t know. Maybe he stashed his Canadian secrets there.

Dubious. Dad always said he liked to keep things separate—and he never trusted the state computer system for privacy.

The CD wails: “I almost….cut my hair!” Crap. Now I know why Dad listened to this album. I swallow hard and begin digging. First to come up: loose snapshots of Dad and some other guys—dating from the ’70s, judging from the bell bottoms, beads, and goofy hairstyles. In one photo, Dad wears dorky Buddy Holly glasses. Wait ’til Marty sees these. “No wonder there are no girls in these photos.”

The title from our old VW is in here: the guy who bought it must have needed that. And a passport issued November 30, 1969. “Whoa.” I check the date on the first letter Cora gave me: December 5, 1969. “So he got this just before he left.” The picture swims and I wipe my eyes. Dad’s button-down shirt looks crisp; his scalp shows through the buzz cut. The pages that show travel to other countries are clean. Not even a Canadian stamp. Did he cross the border in some isolated place, without anyone knowing?

Nothing’s in order. I pull over my trashcan, toss old bills from Somerville days, and set the personal stuff on the end of my bed. The pile includes some letters Dad wrote to Mom in Colorado (
Colorado
?) with a Boston postmark from 1980. No way I’m opening those. I find a letter from my grandfather, who died before I was born, almost open it, then think of Cora. She should see it first. There’s a couple from Cora herself, sent to Dad in Montreal. I don’t open those, either.

A pack of old baseball cards sits on the bottom of the box, held together with a rubber band. What the—? I check the manufacturer.

“Sweet! Dad, you had Topps Cards and never told me? They’re worth a fortune.” I set them aside for later and notice an airmail envelope caught in the cardboard flaps. I hold it up to the light. The stamps are faded and a sticker across the bottom reads “
Air Mail/Par Avion
.” Dad’s handwriting is so neat I almost don’t recognize it. Someone crossed out the Canadian address with a thick black pen. “RETURN TO SENDER.” There’s a “Postage Due” notice stamped on the back.

The letter is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Martin. The “Return to Sender” scrawl covers the street address—but the town is Antigonish, Nova Scotia, Canada. Wherever the hell that is. The postmarks are hard to read, but the date on the Canadian side looks like 1977.

“The year he came home. Damn.”

Sweat trickles down my face, even though the AC is on. “Carry on,” Neil Young wails. “Love is coming…”

“Stuff it.” I hustle down the hall, turn off the music, and sit back against my pillow. My hands shake as I open the envelope. A small black and white photo flutters out, the cheesy kind you take in an old-fashioned booth. Dad wears a Red Sox baseball cap and the uniform of some pickup baseball team. I turn the picture over. “Hope you’ll be a fan someday,” Dad’s scrawl reads. “To Patrick, with love from Daddy.”

I swear, crumple the photo, and pitch it across the room. “
Daddy?
You were someone else’s
Daddy
?”

I strip out of Dad’s shirt and dress for a run, grabbing keys and iPod. I head for the reservoir, listening to my own playlist. No way I’ll let Dad’s tunes pop up now.

I’ve run around three times, the first rounds too fast, the last time dragging, when I realize I never read the letter. And I’ve left crap strewn all over the room. What if Mom comes back?

I streak home, causing some serious Masshole road rage as I dodge through traffic, and fumble for my keys in the lobby. Damn. Voices echo in the stairwell. “Who’s there?”

“Me, bro. I cut out early.”

“Marty?” I squint into the gloom. “Someone with you?”

“Surprise.” A woman’s voice.

I stump up the first flight. Two figures huddle on the stairs. Bright purple toenails peek from red sandals. “Janine? What’s up?”

“My mom said I should talk to you.”

So Aunt Cora sent her. My feet feel leaden.

“What a coincidence! We met by accident.” Marty sounds psyched. “She was buzzing your floor when I came in.”

“We were about to go out to lunch, talk about you behind your back.” Janine reaches for me, but I shake my head.

“Hugs later—I’m too sweaty. Nothing to eat here.”

“We’ll manage,” Janine says.

I open up and head for the shower, careful to stow the box and letters.

When I come out, the place smells as if someone actually lives here. They’ve found canned soup and doctored it up. Melted cheese drips from this morning’s bagels, and slices of lemon float in a pitcher of ice water. I could almost bawl—but I don’t, because Marty’s got his hat off. “Jesus, Mart—what did you do?”

“Shaved it. Leave Jesus out of it, okay?”

Our old routine feels oddly comforting: me, son of a lapsed Catholic (Dad) and a sometime Unitarian (Mom) meets an observant Jew (Marty).

“But why—”

“Dad laid down the law: no ponytail at college interviews. I decided to save him some money, shaved it off myself.”

My jaw is still down around my waist. I think of
my
dad’s photo, after he cut his own hair. “Man, you look—”

“Naked. It’s all the rage. And who knew my ears were so prominent?” Marty rubs his head with both hands, as if he’s washing it.

“It’s not the rage at the ball park.” Dad loved the Sox this year, with their long hair and beards, their whole “idiot” routine—especially Arroyo, with his blond dreads.

Janine grabs me from behind. “You guys sound like girls! Do I get my hug now?” She holds me tight for a second.

Marty opens his arms to her. “My turn?”

“You wish.” Janine points to the kitchen. “Soup’s getting cold.”

I watch them bring the food to the table. Janine’s got more hair than any of the Sox, even Damon. Her braid nearly reaches her waist and red curls escape around her face. She’s studying filmmaking, but my guess is she’ll star in movies someday—especially with Aunt Cora’s drama connections. She’s too gorgeous to be on the wrong side of the camera lens—but I shouldn’t think that way about my own cousin. Leave that to Marty.

We sit. I bite into the bagel, sip the soup—“Where’d you find cilantro?”—then notice they’re both waiting. I set the spoon down. “I forget something? Grace?”