Painting the Black (4 page)

By the time we reached Issaquah the bread and juice were gone; the sun was just coming up; the air was crisp and clear. Little birds were jumping from branch to branch, singing up and down. Best of all, there were no other cars at the trail head.

Far Country Creek is a pretty decent hike. About a half a mile into it you come to Licorice Fern Wall, this amazing bank of ferns and moss that's got to be a couple of hundred feet high. You can feel the moisture, the incredible dampness. A quarter mile past that is Trog Swamp, another place that makes you feel the whole world is one moist sponge and that millions of little green plants are coming to life around you.

Beyond Trog Swamp the hike becomes a climb. Not a tough one, but it's uphill enough so that you notice. I kept expecting my ankle to give me some trouble, but it loosened up instead of tightening.

We climbed past the falls, and then up Marshall Hill. De Leo Wall is at the very top. From there you can see all the way to Tacoma, but it's spooky too. The drop from the wall is 600 feet, and after being in a wet forest, all that open air and sky makes you dizzy.

Once we reached the top, we sat against the buttress drinking the water from our canteens. A peaceful tiredness overtook both of us. So much air; so many mountains.

Then my father had to spoil it. “Have you thought about what you're going to do after next year?”

It's a question he asks all the time. I knew what he wanted. I knew what both my parents wanted. They wanted me to go to a four-year college, as they had. But I hadn't studied hard enough to get into a good school. Besides, I didn't know what I'd do at college anyway. There was nothing I wanted to study, nothing I wanted to become.

“I'll probably work part-time somewhere, and maybe take a class at Shoreline Community College. I'm not really sure.”

“That's a good plan,” he said, his voice flat.

I stood. “We might as well head back.”

On the hike down we met lots of people. Some of them walked right by us as if we weren't there. Those I didn't mind. But others would want to stop and talk about how great it was to be away from people.

Things got worse when we reached the car. On the drive home we ran into a construction project on the I-90 bridge. All the traffic funneled down to one lane. I had an old Beatles cassette in the tape deck. As we inched forward, my father started humming along with it. His humming really grated on my nerves. I wished he'd either sing or keep quiet. As the minutes crawled by, I felt as if I was serving time in prison. I didn't want to be in a car inching along the freeway with my father. I wanted to be on the baseball diamond playing catch with Josh.

When traffic came to a complete halt on the west side of Mercer Island, I felt like screaming. My father opened a park service map and laid it on his knees. “We haven't been to Mount Wilsey in a long time. How about we go there next week?”

I couldn't do it anymore.

“I sort of feel like taking a couple of weeks off,” I said.

He looked over at me, startled. “Something wrong? Didn't you enjoy yourself today?”

“Today was fine,” I replied. “I just feel like a break.”

“But why? There must be some reason.”

“Why do I have to have a reason?” I said, my irritation breaking out with a vehemence that surprised me. “I just need a break.”

There was a long pause. I could feel him staring at me, puzzled by my outburst. Traffic started moving again. Finally he nodded. “Sure, Ryan. Whatever you say. You tell me when you want to hike again.”

When I finally pulled into the driveway it was nearly one o'clock. My father and I hadn't spoken for half an hour. “I'm going to make myself a sandwich,” he said curtly. “You want one?”

“No thanks,” I answered, even though I was starving.

Five minutes later I was at the Community Center with Josh. There were softball games going on both diamonds, so we had to throw along the sidelines. But that was okay. I was where I wanted to be.

Josh and I settled into a routine. Every morning we'd stretch. Then I'd run a mile or so with him and wait while he finished up. After that we'd toss the baseball around.

The first week Josh threw hard every day. I think he was afraid I was going to disappear, and he wanted to make sure he got as much out of me as he could. But once he knew I was in for the long haul, his routine changed. Most days he'd throw easy, not much more than a simple game of catch. Then, unless one of us had work to do—which wasn't too often—we'd hang out together in the afternoons.

It was peculiar how that worked out. I'm the Seattle guy, so you'd think I'd be the one showing him the city. But most of the time Josh decided what we were going to do. I'm not complaining: he picked good stuff. We went to Seattle Center, took in some Mariners games, walked University Avenue, saw the loggers climb hundred-foot trees at the fair in Enumclaw. But it was almost always his choice. Even on the days when we started out doing what I wanted, we somehow ended up doing what he wanted.

I wasn't the only one who went along with him. He had a manner about him, a breezy way with everybody that made things break his way over and over—especially with girls. Once we were down at the Key Arena the day of a Pearl Jam concert. Between us we had about five bucks. But about an hour after the concert started, he spotted a youngish female security guard by a back entrance. “Come with me,” he said, a light in his eyes, and I followed.

The amazing thing is he never even asked her to let us in. He told her he was new to Seattle. It turned out she was born in Palo Alto, and pretty soon the two of them were talking about the boardwalk at Santa Cruz, hanging out at Great America, and rock concerts at Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.

“So I suppose you want to see this concert?” she asked.

Josh acted surprised, as if it was the last thing on his mind. “Sure. I guess.”

She looked around, then stood aside. “Go ahead. Just do it quick.”

We were by her like a shot, and we stepped inside the arena just as Pearl Jam took the stage.

Stuff like that happened all the time. He talked us onto the little golf course at Greenlake when we had no money. He got us into the IMAX theater with ripped ticket stubs. And I swear that every time we got ice cream at the Häagen-Dazs by Greenlake, the girl who scooped it gave him more than she gave me.

As far as I was concerned, everything about those weeks was perfect. But every once in a while I'd sense that for Josh something was missing, something wasn't quite right. One day when we were down at the Pike Place Market it came out.

“You know any girls who like to have some fun?” he asked, and the way he said “fun” made it clear he wasn't talking about going bowling with them.

You read about high school kids having sex. The newspaper makes it seem like that's what guys my age all do, or at least what they're all trying to do.

Well, I'm not. Not because I'm some virtuous guy who's not interested. I notice the girls at Crown Hill High, girls like Celeste Honor. I watch as they move in their little summer tops pushed out by their nice round breasts. I fantasize all sorts of things. But actually having sex with a girl . . . that scares me. I'm just not ready for that. It didn't scare Josh though. I don't know how I knew that, but I did.

“A lot of girls hang out down at the beach at Golden Gardens,” I told him. “I've never really spent much time there myself, but if you want to go . . .”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

So the next day we went.

There's an old brick building down by the beach. They have a teen activity center there, but as far as I know the only activity is standing in line to buy the junk food they sell. We bought a couple of Cokes and sat on a driftwood log. Not much was going on. A couple of volleyball games, little kids playing in a creek that feeds the Puget Sound, people throwing sticks to dogs.

“This is different for me,” Josh said.

“What is?” I asked.

“Not knowing any girls. Down in San Jose everybody knew who I was. Nice-looking girls would just come up to me and talk all the time. I wouldn't have to do anything.”

There was nothing I could say to that. Never once has some nice-looking girl tried to pick me up.

When the Cokes were gone, Josh nodded toward a spot down the beach where three or four groups of girls were sunbathing. “Do you know any of them?” he asked.

“I know who some of them are,” I said, “but I don't really know them.”

He stared for a little longer. “You want to go talk to them, maybe sit with them? You know what I mean.”

I knew exactly what he meant, and a total panic came over me. The only girl out there I could have talked to was Patti Englert, but she was just a friend. She would have laughed in my face if she thought I was trying to make a move on her.

I took a deep breath. “You can if you want, but I wouldn't get anywhere with them.”

“Come on. Don't sell yourself short.”

I looked at my feet. “Really,” I said. “Go ahead. I don't mind. I'd just hold you back.”

He looked at the girls for a little while longer, then stood. “That's all right. Let's get out of here.”

For the rest of that day I couldn't shake the feeling that I was a total loser, that I was letting him down. The next morning, when we were cooling down after we'd thrown the ball around, I gave him an out. “Look,” I said, “you don't have to hang out with me. I'd still catch for you even if you, you know, if you . . .” I got all balled up and didn't finish.

He punched me playfully in the shoulder. “No way, Ryan. I like doing stuff with you. You're different from the friends I had down in San Jose, but that's okay. You're good for me. You keep my nose clean. I need that, because I don't want to mess up. I'm going to be the biggest phenom to hit Seattle since . . .” He stopped. “Has Seattle ever had any phenoms?”

I thought for a second. “Fred Couples comes from here.”

Josh screwed up his face. “You mean the golfer?”

“Yeah. He's the biggest star from around here.”

He smiled.“Well, okay then. I'm going to be the biggest phenom since Fred Couples.”

As if to prove it, the next day he turned it up a notch. His fastball was popping, his curve was biting, and everything was on the corners, right on the black edge of the plate. It was exciting catching him, even though I still had the feeling he was holding something back. I didn't know what, but something. Finally, sweat dripping down his face, he waved that he was finished.

We sat down under a big oak tree to rest. The breeze was cool, and it felt good on my face. Josh looked at me. “You've got soft hands,” he said. “Really soft hands. You should think about playing baseball again. As a catcher, I mean. Teams are always short on catchers.”

My face went bright red. He was saying exactly what I'd been secretly thinking.

In a way it was a crazy idea. Squatting down in the dirt for two hours—that was the worst thing in the world I could do to my ankle. But in another way it made perfect sense.

Catchers don't have to be fast. They don't have to hit much. They have to have good hands, a good arm, and be willing to do the dirty work. Josh said I had good hands, my Little League coach had said my arm was strong. I was willing to do the dirty work.

“I don't know,” I said. “I haven't played in a long time.”

He shrugged that off. “I'm not saying you'd be All-League. I'm just saying you could probably make the team. We had three catchers on last year's team, and the third one wasn't as good as you. You should try out, unless there's something else you're into.”

“No. I'm not really into anything. But trying out for the first time as a senior,” I said. “Nobody does that.”

Josh laughed. “That's what I'll be doing.”

“It's different for you. You've been playing. But me . . .” I shook my head. “I don't know.”

“Suit yourself,” Josh answered. “But I don't see why you won't at least try out. You don't want to be a nothing, do you?”

He got up then, and I trailed behind him. But for the rest of the day his question kept playing itself over in my mind like one of those stupid jingles on the radio.

When I was alone in my room that night, I thought of the gung-ho kids at Crown Hill, the top students like Monica Roby. This would be the year they'd be hauling in scholarships to schools like the University of Washington or Cal Berkeley. Eventually they'd become lawyers and doctors and professors, and they'd drive fancy cars and live in fancy homes.

And I thought of the losers—the baggy-pants, drug-taking, gang types. Even they knew more about what they wanted from life than I did. They'd wangle some job in a wrecking yard or down on the waterfront or driving a taxi. Or maybe they wouldn't work at all; maybe they'd sell drugs or steal. On weekends they'd get stoned or drunk and ride around on their Harleys with other guys just like them. They'd have two wives and five kids and live in ramshackle houses with broken refrigerators on the side lawn, but they'd be themselves, exactly themselves.

Me? I didn't know what I wanted, or where I fit. While other kids had been finding out who they really were, I'd gone through my years at Crown Hill High like a hamster, popping my head out of my hole just long enough to scurry through the school day before racing back to my safe little room in my safe little house with my safe mom and dad. When I finished Crown Hill High, it would be as though I'd never been there.

I went to the window, and looked across at Josh's house. He'd left his mark on his school down in San Jose, and he'd do it again at Crown Hill High. He'd do it everywhere he went his whole life. He'd put himself on the line.

I remembered what he'd said.
You could be a catcher.