The Mine (15 page)

"You know more than you think," Joel said. "Trust me."

"Merci."

Joel settled into his seat and thought about the woman to his left. Grace Vandenberg wasn't just a looker. She was a thinker – and probably as smart as a whip. He'd stand in line to hear her speak, in any language, seven days a week, so long as she didn't ask questions about him. Joel saw nothing to gain by discussing his past – not now, anyway – so he attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction.

"What about you, Grace? What did you do in high school?"

The question brought a chill to Row 12 as Grace turned pale and Tom and Ginny looked away. Game sounds that had been little more than background noise suddenly took center stage. Joel knew he had stepped in something, probably something big, but he didn't know what. He tucked away the talk and waited for a break in the storm.

Ginny watched Grace try to make eye contact with her inquisitor and watched her fail. She grabbed her friend's hand and turned to address the newcomer.

"Grace accomplished quite a lot in school, Joel. But she was too busy earning a full-ride scholarship to participate in any extracurricular activities. She got straight A's at Westlake High. Did she tell you that?"

"No, she didn't." Joel stared into left field as he digested that morsel. Beyond the fence more than a hundred fans gathered to watch the game on Tightwad Hill. "Westlake, huh? I passed the school my first day here. How did you like going there?"

"It was all right," Grace said, recovering slightly. "I went there only a few months and didn't have the opportunity to do much except graduate."

"I see. Well, there's nothing wrong with winning a scholarship."

Joel closed his eyes for a few seconds and tried to guess how often he had passed the composite photo of the Class of 1938 in four years at WHS. He could not believe that they had attended the same school. The coincidence left him excited, numb, and strangely ill at ease. Sensing that this was not Grace's favorite subject, he moved on.

"Would you like something more to eat?"

"I think I would," she said.

"Let's get something then. Let's go for a walk."

* * * * *

Joel took his time guiding Grace from the right side of the stadium to the left. After buying two boxes of caramel corn, he gave her a tour of the concourse, the team museum, and an outer walkway that divided the box seats from the cheap seats. He provided running commentary every step of the way.

"You know a lot about this place for someone who's never been here," she said.

"That's because baseball stadiums are all the same. It doesn't matter if they're big or small, fancy or plain, or host major league teams or minor league teams. The trappings are all the same. So are the people who attend the games."

Grace stopped at a wide spot on the walkway, put a hand on the thick steel railing, and turned her head. She stared at Joel.

"Is that so?"

"It is."

Joel looked at her face and chuckled.

"You don't believe me."

"I most certainly do not."

"OK. Let me elaborate."

Joel put a hand on Grace's shoulder and directed her attention to a pair of middle-aged men in gray suits a few rows behind home plate. They took turns speaking, nodding, and moving their hands around.

"You see those two? I'll bet you anything they're talking dollars and cents instead of balls and strikes. They're here to conduct business because baseball games are the best business venues around. Don't get me wrong. They'll stand at the right times and cheer along with everyone else. They might even say disparaging things about the other team. But in between pitches, they'll trade stock tips and negotiate deals."

"You're sure about that?" Grace asked. "You're sure they aren't talking about their wives or children or perhaps their summer vacations?"

"Oh, yeah," Joel insisted. "They're talking business. I'm sure of that. That's why they left their wives at home. The wives would only screw things up."

"Screw things up?"

"In a manner of speaking," Joel said. "The wives would mean well, of course, but it wouldn't be long before they'd insist that their husbands invest in modern art or skin creams or some other nutty . . ."

Joel stopped when he glanced at Grace. He needed only a second to see her folded arms and white-hot glare and realize that he had overstepped. He wasn't talking to Adam at a bachelor party. He backtracked quickly.

"You're right, though. Most of these people don't come here to discuss business. Most talk about personal matters. Baseball is great family therapy. In fact, if you're looking for a real domestic situation you need only to look up there."

Joel casually pointed to a party of four about ten rows up in their section. A stern-looking man of thirty, his frowning wife, and their twin sons, who appeared no more than six, followed the action on the field with varying degrees of interest.

"I know they're not talking right now, but that family's easy to figure out. The boys are having fun. This is probably their first baseball game and everything is exciting and interesting because it is new. They have never seen this many people in one place and have never heard this much noise. And they're happy because their usual routine on a Saturday night is a bath, a story, and a quick trip to bed. Who wants that?"

Grace smiled.

"And the boys' parents?"

"Oh, they're even easier. The man had planned to take their sons to the game by himself – a boys night out, if you will. But he and the missus had a little spat this morning and she insisted on coming along. They haven't resolved their differences, as you can see, and will continue to ignore each other at least until the seventh-inning stretch. Then the boys will fall asleep and Mom and Dad will put them on their laps and realize that the poker game last night and the unpainted kitchen are pretty unimportant in the grand scheme of things."

"And you know all this simply by looking at them?"

"Absolutely," Joel said. "The same thing is going on right now at a thousand other games in a thousand other towns. It's what baseball's all about."

* * * * *

Grace wondered whether there were enough dump trucks in Seattle to carry Joel's social observations to the proper destination. But she made no attempt to disrupt his discourse or counter his commentary. She loved listening to his baloney.

When they reached the edge of the bleachers on the third-base line ten minutes later, they put their hands on the railing and gazed at the fans on Tightwad Hill. Some sat on lawn chairs, while others rested on blankets. A few stood or walked around. All enjoyed minor league baseball for free.

"What a bunch of cheapskates," Joel said.

"That's rather harsh. Maybe they don't have enough money to see the game."

"That's not the point, Grace. Baseball is a business that depends on ticket-paying customers. If everyone sat out there the team would go bankrupt and no one could watch any game. They're undermining the franchise. The police ought to hose down the lot of them or at least make them buy a few bags of popcorn."

Grace sighed, shook her head, and then looked at the hill, where a few teenagers chased a foul ball that landed in a clump of weeds. Two scrapped for the ball before one retrieved it cleanly and held it high over his head.

"You have to admit they're pretty clever," she said. "They get all the foul balls and home runs. All they have to do is wait."

"Have you ever gotten a foul ball?"

"Never. But then, I've been to only three games."

"I think I can change that. But we'll have to stay here for a bit."

Grace shook her head.

"No. Let's go."

Grace wanted to return to their seats and their friends. Though she had no problem listening to more of his blather, or even actually watching the game, she wanted to do so while sitting down. She was tired of standing.

Joel compromised and talked her into staying an inning. He said it would only be a matter of time before a right-handed batter put a ball within their reach.

He was right. A few minutes later a San Francisco slugger sent a hanging curve high over their heads. The deep fly hooked just left of the foul pole and bounced off a rock into the parking lot. Within seconds Joel went through the railing, down the bleachers, over the fence, and out of the stadium.

"What are you doing?" Grace shouted.

"I'm getting you a souvenir!"

Two boys and a girl from Tightwad Hill also saw the ball and got the jump on Joel, but the time traveler made the most of a superior vantage point. He saw where the ball rolled and headed straight for a shiny black sedan. In no time he pulled the object from behind a front tire, held it up, and smiled at Grace.

Apparently not content to win graciously, Joel waved the booty at his juvenile competitors and strutted like a bandleader as he returned to the stadium. When he reached the fence, he looked up at Grace and tossed the ball into awaiting hands.

"For you, my lady."

She put the ball in her purse and then watched Joel attempt to scale an eight-foot fence. The spectacle proved more entertaining than any game. For nearly a minute Joel paced frantically along the smooth-sided barrier. He searched for handgrips and footholds but found slick, useless steel. The useful stuff was on the other side. When he threw his hands up, Grace laughed.

Serves you right.

Just as Grace began to feel sorry for her hero and dig out his ticket, she glanced toward the knoll and saw the three ball-chasing kids bicker among themselves. The boys yelled at each other for losing the prize and at the younger girl for getting in their way. Unable to fend for herself, she began to cry and drifted away.

Grace stared at the girl for a moment and then raced down the bleachers to a spot closest to the outfield wall. She called out to the youth. Dressed in denim overalls, the girl turned around and walked toward the well-dressed woman until she was within voice range. Grace dug the ball out of her purse and tossed it near the child's feet.

"Take it, dear," she said. "You deserve it. And don't let the others get to you. Boys can be dreadful at times."

The freckle-faced redhead hesitated for a moment, as if suspecting a trick, and stepped tentatively toward the offering. When Grace smiled, the girl picked up the ball, flashed a toothless grin, and ran to her mother screaming about her new find and new friend.

* * * * *

Grace waved at the girl and then hurried back up the bleachers to Joel's departure point. When she arrived, she found him in the immediate company of a burly man in a stadium security vest. Neither appeared particularly happy.

The bouncer, who doubled as an usher for paying customers, spoke first.

"This guy says he's with you."

Grace walked up to Joel, closely inspected his appearance, and wrinkled her nose a few times, as if offended by an odor. She smiled and turned to the authority figure.

"He is clearly mistaken. This man is obviously a cheapskate trying to undermine the franchise. You should hose him off and wash him of his sins."

Joel stared at Grace with wide eyes.

Are you freaking kidding me?

Joel started to speak but stopped when he saw more trouble approach. A tall Seattle policeman, wielding a baton, arrived on the scene just as the inning ended and the crowd turned their way. The cop wore the face of a man who had not yet had his dinner.

"What's going on here?"

"I just nabbed a gate crasher. He climbed over that fence," the usher said. "You can even see the crate he used to get over the top."

"I have a ticket, Officer. I have every right to be here," Joel said. "I jumped out only to get her a foul ball. Tell him, Grace."

"Well?" the policeman asked.

"That may be the case," Grace said, putting a finger to her lips. "But I'm not certain. It all happened so fast. One minute he was standing beside me. The next he was looking under parked cars. He said this place was good for business."

Joel turned white and closed his eyes.

The cop looked at Joel.

"Is that so?"

"I did nothing but chase a ball into the lot," Joel said, emphasizing the nouns. "As God is my witness, that's all I did."

"It doesn't matter," the security man said. "You don't have a ticket in hand. No ticket, no admission. You're going back out."

"You want some help?"

"I think I can handle it from here, Officer."

"Suit yourself."

The usher grabbed Joel by the elbow and ushered him forward.

"Let's go, buddy."

As the policeman departed and returned to his post near the home team's dugout, the security man slowly guided Joel through a crowded walkway toward the grandstand and the first available exit. Grace, smiling at the accused, followed closely behind.

Joel glanced over his shoulder at the blonde. He couldn't believe she had abandoned him like a feral dog. He had risked his neck getting that ball. Talk about ingratitude. He remembered something Adam had told him their freshman year.

Trust no woman.

But as the usher and Joel approached the exit, Grace put her hand in her purse and pulled out two slips of paper Ginny had given her at the gate. She rushed forward.

"Excuse me, sir," she said. "It seems I've made a terrible mistake. I have his ticket right here. I found it in my purse. I'll gladly claim him, if it's all the same to you."

Grace showed the man the stubs. He examined them, scowled, and handed them back. The college senior smiled and batted her eyelashes.

"You're on the wrong side of the stadium. I suggest you return to your seats."

"We will, sir," she said. "Thank you."

The bouncer shook his head, released Joel, and walked away.

Joel stared hard at Grace.

"Why did you do that?" he asked. "I could have gone to jail."

"I thought your attitude needed a tune-up," she said. "Cheapskates are people too. They just have fewer pennies in their pockets."

The comment broke Joel like a twig. He looked at Grace and saw a disarming smile and gently scolding eyes. How could he get mad at that? How could anyone?