Incident on Ten-Right Road

by Randall Silvis

  “Michael,” she said, and laid a gloved hand against my cheek and leaned very close. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

  Her perfume was something warm and natural, lighter than musk but immediately dizzying. Her breath smelled of cinnamon.

  She kissed the corner of my mouth, then drew away only slightly and said, “I’m Brady’s fiancée. Michelle.”

  “Michelle?” Only then did it occur to me that Brady had never told me her name. “You’re kidding.”

  “You see how strange it is? Michael... Michelle? It’s as if we’re... connected somehow.” She kept one hand on my cheek, the other on my waist.

  My legs were weak. “Should we sit down?” Then, remembering, “Where’s Brady?”

  “He won’t be joining us until later. But this is better, don’t you think? We can get to know each other now.”

  My life seemed suddenly distant, a shadow out there somewhere, watching from behind a corner. “I need to be at the station soon. In fact I should have left for work five minutes ago.”

  “Can we walk?”

  “It’s eight or nine blocks.”

  She let her right hand drop to her side and wove her fingers between mine. “Let’s walk.”

  I could not remember the last time I had held hands with a woman. Despite the thin gloves the heat of her hand came through, the energy in it. Her fingers were long and graceful and they held my hand as if they owned it.

  “I’m sorry about the mix-up,” she said.

  “What mix-up is that?”

  “Brady told me we were to meet you for drinks at 6:00. Then, at 4:30 or so, he suddenly remembered that it might have been 5:00.”

  “It was 4:00.”

  She grimaced and shook her head. “Let me ask you something. Has Brady always been so... unfocused?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well...” she said. Then, a moment later, “Oh, never mind.”

  I did not feel comfortable talking about him like this in his absence. So I said nothing.

  “It’s just that, for a man his age, so successful, he sometimes seems, I don’t know... scatter-brained? He forgets appointments, ignores other ones, and then he blames somebody else or makes up a silly excuse. And the way he drinks. He drinks an awful lot, Michael.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “A little over three months. We’ve been living together for five weeks now.”

  “He’s in love,” I said.

  She laughed softly and squeezed my hand. “I would hope so.”

  “What I mean is…. Sure, he was always a rich kid, an only child, so sometimes he tended to be a bit self-absorbed. But to his friends.... I never had a more generous or loyal friend. And punctual. He used to drive me crazy he was so punctual.”

  “So you think that what’s been happening lately is an aberration?”

  “My guess is, he can’t believe his good fortune in finding someone like you. It would make me nervous too.”

  She bumped me with her shoulder. “Do I make you nervous, Michael?”

  “What I mean is, the luck of it. The miracle of falling in love.”

  She held my hand closer to her body, against her hip. “It’s a fairly common miracle, don’t you think?”

  My heart was racing and I felt short of breath, though our pace had not been brisk. I found it difficult to look at her without squinting. She filled my field of vision with a brightness, a glare. The rest of the world was dark and blurred around her edges.

  “This is where I work,” I told her.

  She turned to face me and laid a hand against my chest. “Can you get off later? Join Brady and me for a drink?”

  I nodded toward O’Hanlon’s across the street. “Nine o’clock. But I won’t be able to stay long.”

  “Pretend we haven’t met,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s so excited about introducing us to one another. He’ll be awfully disappointed if he finds out that we met like this without him.”

  “Then why did we?”

  “For me,” she said. “Later will be for him.”

  I was troubled by the speed of my heart hammering against her hand. “How will you explain this arrangement to meet at O’Hanlon’s?”

  “I’ll tell him you called and left a message at the hotel.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to trick him like this.”

  “Really, it’s better this way, you’ll see.” A moment passed; she looked almost sad. “The friendship you two have is so very special. I want us, you and me, to be good friends too.”

  I should have told her then that Brady and I had spoken by telephone only once or twice in the past several years, and that even when we had been roommates at the Chi House he had never stood so near that I could feel the heat of his body going into mine, he had never made my mouth go dry nor filled my brain with clouds as she was doing, never reduced the world to a blur of shadows.

  All I could think to say was, “We’ve known each other a long time.”

  She touched a finger to the corner of my mouth. “I envy him,” she said.

  * * *

  For the next three hours I watched the clock tick. I was short-tempered with a petulant Fleming, I flirted brazenly with Allison and even with one of the assistant producers, a mousy girl of 22. Allison, married and with two small children, responded with a bemused look, but the assistant producer giggled and blushed and then kept smiling at me every chance she got. In short, I embarrassed myself. Watching myself was like watching an oafish brother but not knowing how to tell him how foolish he looks.

  O’Hanlon’s was quiet at 9:00 in the evening, a handful of unmarried or unhappily married businessmen lingering over their drinks, watching the television above the bar. I stepped inside and saw Brady and Michelle at the table farthest from the door. They were sitting side by side facing the door and already smiling when I came in, but it was Michelle on whom the light from the table’s candle fell, her eyes and smile that claimed most of the room’s muted glow, so that Brady appeared almost dark beside her and insubstantial.

  He stood and came striding toward me, hand stretched out. “Damn it’s good to see you, Mike. Damn it’s good.” There was something about the way he squeezed my hand, a feverish quality that put me on guard.

  He threw an arm around my shoulder and steered me to the table. Michelle smiled up at me but said nothing. She was wearing a white flowered dress with a high collar, the dress peppered with primroses, and her short white gloves. I could smell her perfume and was already lightheaded from it.

  By now Brady was rubbing his hand between my shoulders, briskly up and down, too nervous to stand still. “Sweetheart,” he said to her, “this is the man himself, this is my old buddy Mike. My best damn friend in the whole damn world.”

  She held out a hand to me. I took it softly and felt the pull of it deep inside my chest, felt my breath snag on her smile. “I’m so glad to finally meet you,” she said. “I’m Adrianna.”

  Brady missed my flinch of confusion but she did not. Her smile flickered at the corners. Her eyes laughed.

  “Adrianna Morgan,” Brady said. “My Addie. The most beautiful woman in the whole damn world.”

  “Damn is his favorite adjective,” she said. “Especially when he’s been drinking.”

  I did not know how to react to the name change, whether to consider it a harmless joke or something else. She kept smiling at me and did not look away.

  I realized then that I was still holding her hand, and let go of it, and turned to Brady. “You mean to tell me you’ve been drinking? And in a bar, no less?”

  He laughed, too loud, and slapped me on the back. “Damn right, and so are you. Sit, sit, I’ll get us some drinks. Beer for you, right? You know they don’t even have table service in this joint? You have to order at the freaking bar.”

  Jim O’Hanlon, son of the original owner, was watching Brady from behind the bar. I pushed Brady toward his chai
r. “It’s on me.” He started to protest but I shoved him down.

  At the bar I said, “Whatever they’re drinking plus a ginger ale for me, please.”

  O’Hanlon gave me a smile and went to work. In his late forties, not a big man but, like his father and three brothers, as dignified as a deacon. “So how’s life this evening?” he asked me.

  “Sorry about my friend over there.”

  “You might ask him to turn it down a notch or two.”

  “He’s nervous is all. Introducing his fiancée to me.”

  O’Hanlon handed me a ginger ale. “Is she what’s got him so nervous?”

  “He wants us to like each other, I guess.”

  “But not too much?” He set two martini glasses in front of me and filled them from the shaker.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Women that beautiful are more trouble than they’re worth,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  “I’d never go near a woman that beautiful.”

  “No?”

  “Just don’t ever tell my wife I said so.”

  I laid a couple of tens on the table and grinned at him and picked up the drinks.

  I sat with Brady and Adrianna for a while and we laughed and everybody seemed to be relaxing a bit. Then Brady drained his glass. He pointed to mine, still half-full, as he stood.

  “I can’t. I have to go back to work.”

  “A quick one,” he said, and went to the bar.

  The moment he had his back to us she reached across the table and took my hand. “Are you angry?” she said. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

  “You caught me by surprise.”

  “It was just a little joke, spur of the moment. I didn’t even think about it when I did it. It was almost as if—”

  “It’s all right. Let’s just forget about it now.”

  “The thing is, when I first saw you and felt that connection, that… Michael, Michelle, it’s just how I felt, it’s… do you understand what I mean?”

  I looked down at her hand gripping mine, the ridges of her knuckles through the thin glove, bones so fragile and small.

  “I wanted us to have something in common right from the start.”

  “We have Brady in common,” I said.

  “Yes but that could work against us. Don’t you see how it might?”

  Off in the distance was Brady’s voice booming. I turned to the bar and he was leaning over the counter, shouting at O’Hanlon, who stood there with both hands resting lightly on the edge of the counter, his face unreadable, eyes not even blinking.

  Adrianna took my hand in both of hers. “I’ll always tell you the truth about important things, Michael. I swear I will.”

  I felt mildly disoriented and drew away from her and pushed back my chair and went to the bar and put a hand on Brady’s shoulder. “What’s going on, pardner?” My voice sounded high and tight.

  “I’m trying to teach this nimrod how to mix a proper martini. But he’s either too stubborn or too stupid to learn.”

  I squeezed the tendon in Brady’s shoulder until he winced. “Walk me across the street,” I said.

  “We’re going to have another drink first.”

  “Walk me across the street, Brady.”

  Something wilted in him then and his body sagged beneath my hand. We turned back to the table and I said goodnight to Adrianna, then Brady and I went outside and stood at the corner and waited for the light to change. When it did, neither of us moved.

  Finally I said, “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

  “I know,” he said quickly. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to go inside and apologize to the bartender for being such an ass. Then I’ll give him a huge tip. Then Addie and I will leave.”

  I turned to look at him. “What’s going on here, Brady? This isn’t like you at all. You don’t behave like this.”

  He blinked and watched the traffic. He had something he wanted to say but could not express it. Only a part of it could be articulated. “You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had,” he said.

  I tried to make a joke of it. “Christ, that’s pathetic.”

  He didn’t laugh. “You’re the only guy who didn’t hang out with me because of my money; who didn’t expect me to pick up the check every time. You’re the only guy who would tell me when I was being an asshole.”

  “You didn’t used to be so good at it.”

  Finally, he smiled. He also looked as if he might cry. “Can we get together tomorrow? Just hang out a while and talk? Just you and me?”

  “I’d be disappointed if we didn’t.”

  He nodded but did not say anything.

  “I gotta go, Brady. They’ll be waiting for me in editing.”

  He nodded again.

  I crossed against the light and went to the station’s front door and turned to look back. He was still there, standing where I had left him. He waved a hand at me.

  I went upstairs then and before going to editing I got a coffee and went to the window and looked down on the street. Brady was still there on the corner, hands in his pockets now, his back to O’Hanlon’s. He looked like a man who was trying to decide which way to run.

  * * *

  Next day I waited around my apartment until nearly 2:00, telephoning Brady’s room every 15 minutes or so. Finally I left word with my doorman that I would be back by 4:30. I was going to tell Salandro today that this would be the last visit for a while, that I had to go out of town. I did not feel good about lying to the boy but he had to pull himself up out of his morass and he was not likely to do it if I kept climbing down there with him.

  It was a warm gray day, quiet—one of those overcast days when the heat and dull light have either a mellowing or a depressing effect on people. Me, I just wanted an uneventful afternoon that did not get my stomach acids boiling.

  At first I thought Salandro was not in the stadium that day; his usual box was empty. I did not know whether to be worried or relieved. Then I spotted him way up in the nose-bleed section in right field, sitting there with his skinny legs spread wide and his elbows on his knees, leaning forward like a man peering into the abyss.

  He did not even say hello when I climbed up and sat beside him.

  He said, “I worked all my life to get into this ballpark. And at the end of this season they’ll start tearing it down. PNC Park. What kind of a name is that?”

  “Your life is just beginning. I wish I had your possibilities.”

  He wasn’t listening. “They say you’ll be able to hit a homerun into the river. Four hundred seventy-nine feet from the plate to the water.”

  “More likely into somebody’s boat.”

  “I could’ve been the first one to put a ball in the river from the new ballpark,” he said. “I could’ve done it.”

  His tone was angry and he was challenging me to refute him. But all I wanted was to make my goodbyes without inciting a riot. He hadn’t ruined baseball for me but in the future I was unlikely to hunger again for the same intimacy with a player, to ascribe to him virtues he was not likely to possess. I would enjoy the game from a distance, as a sport, nothing more.

  We sat there without talking until the sound of voices floated toward us over the grass, voices broken and hollow off the stadium metal. I knew Brady was the cause of it before I even saw him striding through the gate near the third base line, Addie on his arm and a groundskeeper hurrying along behind them. Brady and the groundskeeper kept shouting at one another but Addie seemed unperturbed by the noise. She was wearing a pale blue sheath dress and her legs and arms were bare and the short white gloves appeared to glow against the backdrop of artificially greened grass. I did not like the way my breath caught in my chest at the sight of her.

  Salandro was smiling. “Some fans won’t take no for an answer,” he said.

  “Those aren’t fans,” I told him.

  But he was already on his feet and waving to them.
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  Brady turned to the groundskeeper and pointed up at us. The groundskeeper said something, then turned and went back through the nearest gate.

  Salandro started down the stadium steps.

  “It’s just my drunken friend,” I told him. “You don’t need to go down there.”

  With his good hand he held his broken arm against his chest and galloped down the steps, over 300 pounds pummeling the metal stairs, every step like a cannon shot into an empty well. Finally I made myself get up and follow him.

  On the last step above the grass Salandro paused. He pulled a baseball card and pen from inside the sling and scrawled his name across the card. He was probably carrying a whole pack of rookie cards and had been waiting for an opportunity to autograph one. Then he stepped down and handed the card to Addie. She looked at it and turned it over and then Brady took it from her hand and said something laughing and Salandro’s good hand closed into a fist around the pen and I hurried to get down there to them.

  They were standing nose to nose when I reached them. Brady was smirking and Salandro fuming and Addie was off to the side with a fingertip to her throat and a look of mild surprise on her face. The baseball card was on the ground at Brady’s feet.

  “But what the hell kind of a name is that?” Brady was saying. “Are you Cuban or Puerto Rican or what? Habla ingles, amigo?”

  I grabbed Brady by the arm. “Knock it off. His family is from Texas.”

  Brady kept smiling at Salandro. It was the ugliest smile I had ever seen. “That explains it then.”

  “Explains what?” Salandro said.

  “All those refried beans. It explains why you’re such a big tub of guts.”

  Salandro lunged forward and swung his cast against Brady’s chest and knocked him backward. Brady stumbled but did not fall and just before he charged into Salandro he cut a quick look at Addie. Then he lowered his head as if he meant to tackle Salandro, but the pitcher stepped neatly to the side and clubbed him once on the back of the head and Brady went down on his face in the grass.

  Brady lay very still with one cheek to the turf. His eyes were open but he did not try to get up.