Out of Left Field (9 page)

She’s been grilling me.

Weird questions. Like: “Why does Quinn want to go to Puerto Rico in August? Is he hiding something?”

Right. And she wants to know if your breakup with Racquelle has put you into a severe depression. “Do you think he needs meds?” she asks.

I’m serious. As if I’m a shrink. She’s losing it.

I didn’t tell her anything. Said you needed a change, your buddies wanted to cheer you up.

Soon. I’ve got the key to the safe deposit box but—

Never mind; here she comes. Ta.

No mo’ Nomah

Breakfast is cold cereal and bananas. Who cares what you eat after the reprieve I got yesterday? Fingers crossed that Cora gets the same good news.

I check the sports page for the first time all week and nearly fall off my stool. “Look at this. The Sox trade Nomar! Unbelievable! Is this insane—or brilliant?” I jump to my feet, clutching the paper—

And then I remember. “Shit! Dad, you should
be
here! This is cataclysmic!” I throw the paper to the floor and stomp on it as if I’m some stupid cartoon character. Maxine jumps from the windowsill and streaks down the hall. “God dammit—this is so frigging unfair!”

Mom hurries into the kitchen, her neck a mottled red. She grabs my shoulders and presses, hard—harder than I knew she could. “Sit down,” she says.

“Whoa.” I obey and sink back onto my stool. “Mom, listen.” I point to the paper, spread out across the floor. “I know you don’t give a damn about the Sox—but this is the biggest news since—since—”

“Bran.
You
listen to me.” Mom crosses her arms over her chest. She’s in full teacher mode, about to chastise a student who has pushed past her limits. If I weren’t so wound up, I’d be glad to see this side of her again.

“After I came to,” Mom says, “when you were in the waiting room, the doctor said he has no doubts about your health.” She takes a deep breath. “But he wants you to lay low until the blood tests come back.”

“Meaning?”

“Nothing strenuous. No temper tantrums. And no swim team for a few more days. He said work at the pizzeria is okay—as long as you take it easy.”

“That’s it for the team. I’ve been AWOL too often.”

Mom frowns. “Surely Coach will understand. Anyway we can’t risk—if anything happened…” She rummages in her purse and pulls out an envelope on fancy hospital stationery. “The doctor gave me this letter. Show it to Frankie and Coach.” She fixes me with her No Nonsense look. “I have enough on my plate until we hear about Cora. Don’t give me anything else to worry about.”

“Fine.” It’s
not
fine, but what can I say? “Call me when you have news.” I leave before she can give me any more advice.

*

Frankie actually seems nervous having me around. “You won’t keel over on me, will you?”

“I feel great,” I said. “Put me at dishwasher. Nothing strenuous about that.”

I slip into the alley on break. I’ve carried Tony’s card in my wallet since that day at Fenway Park. He picks up on the first ring, and when I start to explain who I am, he jumps all over me.

“Brandon! Of course I remember. God, can you believe the news? The phones are going crazy, talk radio is bananas with ‘no mo Nomah’ chatter. What do you think?”

I grin. The guy actually wants my opinion? “I liked Nomar’s routines for a while,” I tell him. “All his little OCD rituals were funny when he could hit. But lately—seems it’s all about Nomar, never about the team. And I like Cabrera. My dad would say he’s a blue-collar player who never misses a game.”

“Clearly your dad was a smart one,” Tony says.

“He knew baseball.”

Tony digests that, then says, “So what about it? Want me to save two playoff tickets for you? You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Fantastic.”

“If we end up as the wild card—who’d you pick for the playoffs?”

How does Tony know I miss talking about this stuff? “Dream scenario?” I say. “We play Oakland first. We can beat the Twins—but it would be sweet to cream the Yankees, after the nightmare of Aaron Boone.” I omit Dad’s obscene moniker for Boone.

“I’m with you on that one. Nothing like revenge.” Tony takes my e-mail, phone number and address, and tells me my tickets will be in the mail—“When, not
if
, we’re in the playoffs. And stay in touch. It’s good to chat with someone who’s paying attention.” His voice deepens. “My brother and I used to shoot the breeze about the Sox until he passed, last year.”

“Damn. I’m sorry.”

“Me too. It was a long, crummy death. Talking baseball helps me forget.”

“No kidding.” Now there’s no excuse. I’ll have to read the sports page again, turn on the games.

Back inside the pizzeria, the smell of cheese, oil and garlic assaults me, but today, I can handle anything. It’s only later, when the skin on my hands looks ancient from so many dishes, that I think about my so-called brother in Canada. Who may have a time bomb ticking in his chest. I’ve been so focused on Cora’s side of the family—and myself—that I forgot about the mystery guy. I keep a close eye on the clock.

“See you tomorrow,” I call to Frankie.

“Be careful.” He tosses the dough into the air, his signature salute. I give him a thumbs-up as it lands in his outstretched hands.

*

Coach reads the letter and rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Come back when you get the all clear. I’ve given your spot to Tarcher. I had no choice, with your no-show status. You’ll have to work your way off the bench.”

Unbelievable. No sympathy whatsoever. This goes in the Be Careful What You Wish For category. I didn’t want pity, did I? Never mind. We’re both being honest. “Sure, Coach.” I leave before I say something I’ll regret. I’d go nuts on the bench. And I have more important things to do.

It’s All in the Stats

There’s a note from Mom on the kitchen counter: “Call when you get home. I’ll be back at six with cold soup,” signed with a smiley face. Perfect. This gives me lots of time.

No messages on my cell. Damn. Why is Cora taking so long? Maybe my own workup took longer than I realized. I leave a message on Mom’s phone, tell her I’m still breathing, and spend the next few hours getting methodical, like a real detective. I jot down questions, dates, and Ray’s phone number in a blank notebook, then search online for information about men who went to Canada to escape the draft. There were border crossings around the Northeast, including at Niagara Falls. Is that where Dad went? It’s close to Toronto. In his farewell letter to Cora, Dad said he was cold—but it was winter; he could have been anywhere. Dad always said a ball player’s history was “all in his stats.” No stats for Dad. I’m groping in the fog.

I learn about a book a guy wrote back then, called a
Manual for Draft Age Resisters
, and request a copy from inter-library loan. A lot of guys who ran away were almost my age. If they had a draft now—what would I do?

I study Dad’s e-mails. He deleted most of his Sent file, except for the week before he died. Weird. Marty might know how to recover them, but he’d probably say it wasn’t kosher. Dad sent nothing to Ray in his last days on earth—but would Ray have Dad’s messages to him? Only one way to find out. Am I ready for that?

I read through the rest of Dad’s letters to Aunt Cora, which are in order; Cora must have sorted them before she gave me the box. In Toronto, he made bread for everyone who lived in his house, bought clothes at a place called The Cosmic Egg (seriously?), went to hear Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and Gordon Lightfoot at some club.

Joni Mitchell? I take a break, search for her albums on Dad’s shelf. “Blue” plays as I follow Dad’s journey on to Montreal. That’s where he meets Ray Graham, adopts a kitten, gets his degree in social work at McGill. By the time Dad lands in Halifax, Joni is singing
Cary, get out your cane
, and Dad’s letters to Cora are short. The Canadian version of Dad sounds like the guy I knew—working in a group home for boys, running a private practice—except that he was homesick, and worried about his own father, who was dying.

Of what? Heart disease?

I jot down a few questions:
Ask Aunt Cora re Granddad’s death
. And:
Where did Dad meet girlfriend? Did Cora know about her?
Dad doesn’t say much about his parents—except, in one early letter, he writes:

Cora, it stinks that the FBI came snooping. Sorry you were there alone. I’m sure you handled it okay—but don’t ever let them in unless Mom and Dad are home.

The FBI was looking for Dad? Did that mean my grandparents were in trouble, too? If only I could call Dad at work, ask him what the hell was going on.

As the years pass, Dad’s messages dwindle to birthday cards. I do the math: my aunt would have been in college then. Maybe, since Dad had a steady job, they were talking on the phone more—or she stopped saving his letters—or both. At the bottom of the pile I find an actual Western Union telegram (now
that
is ancient history), addressed to my aunt in New York City, and dated February 2, 1977. The telegram is in capital letters, as if Dad was shouting:

HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY STOP COMING HOME FRIDAY STOP WARN MOM AND DAD STOP LOVE PAT STOP

The buzzer sounds as I close up the box. Marty. He trudges up the two flights and collapses on the couch, out of breath. “Perfect timing,” I tell him. “I could use your skills. What’s up?”

“Killer practice,” he says when he can talk. “Coach put Tarcher in your spot, told us you can’t swim for health reasons. I thought you were okay.”

“Hope so. The doc said no practice until the blood tests come back clean; another day or two. Coach is following the rules. He said I’d have to work my way back from the bench. I’d rather quit.”

Marty sits up straight. “You
serious
?”

I glance at my watch. “I’ll do what I need to do. Listen, Mart—Mom will be home soon. I have to phone Ray in Canada, tell him the situation is urgent. You can give me moral support.”

“Hold it. You can’t leave the team. You’re the one who persuaded me to join—remember?”

“Sure. That’s because I knew you’d be a star; better than I could ever be. Now can we call this guy?”

He shrugs, starts to say something, clams up.

“What?”

“I’m sorry about your dad; believe me. But you can’t give up. You said yourself:
I forget everything when I train
. And we swim together. Who will I hang out with?”

“Tarcher, Bromley. They’re okay.” Now
I’m
pissed. “Look: you know I’m sluggish in the pool these days. And since I found out about this possible brother,
nothing
makes me forget. I gotta solve this thing. You with me, or not?”

“I guess.” He fidgets, then gives me a long look. “You’re not a quitter, man.”

“Right. That’s why I need to make this call.” I pick up the portable phone. Marty hesitates, then follows me down the hall.

I close the door. “Sorry to let you down.” When he doesn’t answer, I study the number. “This is weird. What’ll I say?”

“Tell him who you are, why you’re calling. What have you got to lose?”

“Not much, since Dad’s dead. Hey, want to try? You’re better at cold calls.”

“It’s your deal.”

“Right.” I punch in the number. Six rings, seven. The answering machine comes on, a man’s voice. I’m about to quit when a woman answers. “Yes?” She sounds annoyed.

I swallow. Marty kicks my foot. “Is Ray—is Mr. Graham there?” God, I sound stupid.

“We’re having dinner,” she says.

“I’m sorry.” I check my watch. Dinner at 5:30? “I can call back.” And then, because Marty nudges me again, I tell her, “It’s important.”

A man’s deep voice rumbles in the background. “Find out who it is.”

The woman’s words are muffled. She must have her hand over the receiver. It sounds like she’s complaining. The man says something I can’t hear and the woman comes back on. “He’s not on call tonight,” she says. “Who is this?”

Now or never. “Brandon McGinnis,” I tell her. “He knew—my dad.”

Long silence. Then his voice, a deep baritone. “Ray Graham here. How can I help you?”

Marty circles his hand, telling me to speed things up. I clear my throat. “Hi, Mr. Graham. I’m Brandon McGinnis. Your friend Patrick’s son.”

A long, empty pause makes my palms sweat. Finally, he says, “No kidding. I thought your dad had dropped off the face of the earth.”

Perfect description.

You Threw Me a Curve Ball

“Where are you?” Mr. Graham asks.

“At home. In Brookline, Massachusetts,” I finally say.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Graham asks.

It still catches in my throat. “Yeah. My dad died a few weeks ago.”

He’s quiet a long time. “Mr. Graham? You there?”

“I am. That’s awful news.” His voice sounds like one of those fake computer voices. “What happened?”

“He was in a car accident in the middle of the night. His heart stopped.” I don’t know how to go on. “I’m sorry. Maybe it was dumb to call you.”

“Not at all.”

What’s with this guy? He’s not helping me here. Marty taps his watch. Mom could march in any minute. “The thing is,” I say, “we just found out—about his other kid. The one he had in Canada.”

“Hoo boy.” Mr. Graham sighs. “How long have you known?”

“A few days. It was—Dad made a new will before he died.” I bumble on, determined to get through this. “We don’t know where he lives or anything. And I know—I mean, I shouldn’t have done this, but I read the e-mails you wrote to my dad last month. That’s how I got your number. It looks like you were helping Dad search. Did you find anything?”

“Hold on.” It sounds as if Mr. Graham is blowing his nose. When he comes back on, his voice is quiet, tense. “I don’t mean this to come out wrong,” he says, “but are you connected to Victoria in some way?”

I swallow a curse and almost hang up, but Marty grabs my arm. “Stay cool,” he says. “Tell him why you need to know.”

“Is someone with you?” Mr. Graham asks.

“My best friend Marty.” What the hell. “Look, I’m sorry you don’t believe me. I can send you the obituary. And I’ll forward your e-mails back to you. I have a picture of you and my dad with your cat, Panda. I also found a letter my dad wrote to this Victoria person, after she disappeared with their kid. And—”