The Sweet Spot

by Joan Livingston

  “You with somebody?” he asked.

  “A buddy of mine. His old lady tracked him down, and he had to get home. You know how it is.” His boot heels scraped the floor. “Speaking of which, I should give Sharon a call and tell her I’m on my way. I didn’t think it’d take this long.”

  Buddy nodded.

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “Catch you later.”

  Walker went to the payphone near the restrooms. Buddy was out the door, but Walker lingered. The cruiser’s blue lights flashed through the restaurant’s windows when it left the lot. He knocked on the women’s room door.

  “Edie, Edie, you can come out now,” he whispered.

  The door opened a crack.

  “You sure?” Edie asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, Buddy’s gone. He didn’t see a thing.”

  She slipped out. She bit her lower lip.

  “Oh, Walker.”

  “It’s okay. Our order will be here soon. We’ll head on back after we’re finished.”

  Walker smiled, but he didn’t feel happy.

  Finished

  Walker killed the engine in front of Edie’s house.

  “How about I come in for a while?”

  Edie reached for the door handle.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Your little girl ain’t here.”

  “Walker, I’m thinking none of this is a good idea. I mean us.”

  “Baby, I told you I’m sorry about today. I promise I won’t do it again. Honey, I’ll make it up to you.”

  Her chin was up.

  “Walker, what the hell are we doing? You’re married. You’ve got two boys. You got a business and a house. You’re not gonna leave any of that for me. We won’t ever be together. Never.”

  “Don’t you worry about any of that. I’ll work things out.”

  “What about your parents? What would they say about you and me? They’re only nice to me cause of Gil and cause I have Amber. They’d blame me for breaking up your marriage. So would the whole town.”

  “Who cares about my parents or the town?”

  “Who cares? I do. I dunno if we love each other enough for it to last all that. Let’s be honest for a change.”

  “Honest?”

  “That’s right.”

  She had the truck’s door open. He went to grab her arm but held back when he saw the expression on her face. She pushed the door shut and marched across the grass to her porch. Cats scattered quickly from her path. She didn’t turn once.

  “Come back, baby,” Walker said.

  He saw her through the kitchen window. The light was on. She stood in the middle of the room. Walker’s chest rose and fell. She wasn’t returning. He backed the truck slowly from the driveway. Its headlights stretched over the dirt road. The engine cycled. Walker waited to see if she changed her mind, but she didn’t.

  Another Load

  Harlan Doyle motioned to the movers who carried his drafting table and a chair through the kitchen door.

  “Same place where you put the tools,” he told them.

  The driver told Harlan he got lost trying to find Doyle Road until he backtracked to the general store, where a friendly woman gave the crew coffee on the house and drew him a map. Harlan figured the friendly woman was Edie.

  The phone company said it would send someone out, maybe Wednesday, but he had no water yet. Getting the well’s pump to work was going to cost him more than he figured. At least, everything he owned would be inside this house. He was making progress.

  Harlan took the steps down from the porch. He got closer to the van, and after his eyes got used to the darkness in its box, he saw the movers were more than two-thirds done. The load mostly contained his tools and some lumber he couldn’t part with, black walnut and English elm. The few pieces of furniture he owned, like the Mission-style bed he built, were unloaded already.

  He heard the whirr of bike tires, and when he leaned toward the side of the truck, his neighbor’s daughter was near the end of the drive. He remembered her name was Amber. He saw her playing in her front yard or at her great aunt’s, and whenever he drove by, the girl watched his truck pass. The last time she gave him a timid wave.

  He stumbled alongside the van until he was about four feet from the girl.

  “Hello, I’m Harlan. Harlan Doyle. Your name’s Amber, right?”

  She slipped from the bike’s seat, so both feet were planted on the ground. She fingered the plastic tassels hanging from the handle. Gold paint covered the bike’s metal, even its spokes.

  “Uh-huh, that’s my name. Amber Lucille Marie St. Claire.”

  “Well, Amber Lucille Marie St. Claire, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a gold bike like yours before.”

  Her lips formed a tiny smile. Amused was the word that came to Harlan’s mind. He recognized the same smile from her mother.

  “Poppy painted it for me. He brought it home, you know, from the place he works.”

  “Your grandfather did a fine job on your bike.”

  She checked the fenders.

  “Yeah, he did.”

  Amber stared. He knew she couldn’t help it. Nobody could.

  “I’m glad you stopped by,” he told her.

  “You have a lot of stuff.”

  Amber still checked him out. She didn’t have so much of her mother’s features he could say she looked like Edie, but the expressions were similar, and she had her blue eyes.

  “Mostly tools though. I’ll need them to fix up my grandmother’s house. Do you want to see inside?”

  “I can’t. Aunt Leona’s supposed to be watching me until my Grandma Marie comes to get me. I didn’t have school today. The teachers are doing something. Aunt Leona told me I could ride my bike, but she wouldn’t want me to go into a stranger’s house.”

  “I guess I am a bit strange.”

  She giggled.

  “That’s not what I mean. I didn’t tell her where I’m going. I don’t want her to get mad at me. I better go.”

  “Okay, maybe I’ll see you soon.”

  She squeaked out a “bye” before she pedaled the bike forward and made a half-circle back from where she came. Harlan limped toward the house. The movers were coming for another load.

  Play Ball

  Leona sat in the front seat of Edie’s car, giving her niece pointers on their way to her first home game. Her aunt knew softball better than anyone else, and she might have made a smart coach, except she would have argued too much with the umps and made the players cry. Her aunt played when she was young until she ran off to marry her first husband. She always played infield, and her favorite was third base, Edie’s position. Only someone with a strong arm and quick reflexes could play third, Leona often said, and in that regard, Edie was just like her aunt.

  “You’ve gotta be more patient at the plate,” Leona told Edie. “You need to watch the ball.”

  Edie had her eyes on the road, but she kept nodding and saying, “Yes, Aunt Leona,” so the woman would be certain she was paying attention. An “uh-huh” or a “yup” wouldn’t do for her aunt.

  “I hear the pitcher on the Wilmot team is just a young thing, so give her a real mean face to rattle her,” Leona said. “Like this.”

  Leona lowered her brow until her eyes were slits. She pressed her lips so tightly, they were like red blisters ready to burst. Edie started laughing.

  “Aunt Leona, I can’t do that.” She glanced in the rear-view mirror at Amber. “You okay back there?”

  Amber blinked.

  “I’m fine, Ma.”

  Amber sat there quietly ever since Edie picked her up at Fred and Marie’s house.

  “You have fun at your grandparents?” Edie asked. “Did you get to eat lots of ice cream and go shopping as usual?”

  Amber giggl
ed.

  “I did.”

  “What did Marie get you this time?” Edie asked.

  “A bicycle. A two-wheeled bicycle. It’s bright red. She let me pick it out.”

  Edie glanced sideways at Leona.

  “You were going to get Amber a bike for her birthday,” Leona mouthed.

  Edie nodded.

  “Really?” she asked her daughter. “How come we didn’t bring it home?”

  “Grandma says it’s for me to use only when I visit her and Grandpa.”

  Leona twisted in her seat.

  “Sounds like she’s trying to buy you off, kid.” She winked. “But you know your Ma and I love you the most.”

  Amber giggled and kicked her feet.

  “What about Poppy?” she asked.

  Leona snorted.

  “Him, too.”

  Amber had been coming to these softball games since she was about eighteen months, plunked in a stroller behind the bench or on Edie’s lap. She remembered holding Amber, her fat arms and legs flexing like pistons, her body rigid while she howled to eat. Birdie, their coach then, quipped, “Loud fans. Just what we need to rally this team.”

  Leona wore a white visor with Conwell Women embroidered in blue on the front so her red hair poked up like sparks over the top. Vera passed out the visors at practice yesterday. Edie snagged one for Leona, who snatched it eagerly from her hand.

  “Makes me look like one of the team,” her aunt had said as she stuck the visor on her head. “What do you say?”

  “Like one of the team, Aunt Leona,” Edie repeated.

  The old woman’s mouth formed a big, red smile.

  Edie found a parking space close enough to the field, so Leona wouldn’t have to walk too far. Amber carried a folded aluminum lawn chair while Edie held Leona’s arm. Her aunt’s bones were so twig-like and jumpy, it was like squeezing a cat.

  Edie nodded to Amber.

  “Why don’t you bring Aunt Leona’s chair to her favorite spot? You know where.”

  “Okay, Ma.”

  They neared the home bench. Vera lifted her eyes from a clipboard and frowned at Edie.

  “You’re almost late,” she said. “I was gonna put somebody else in at third.”

  Leona grunted loudly.

  “Eh, Vera, you can blame it on me,” she said. “It takes longer for us old broads to get ready.” She raised a wrinkled hand toward the field. “Is that your daughter over there? She’s a big girl. I bet she’s a hitter like her ma.”

  “Yeah, she is,” Vera said. “She plays ball in high school.”

  It was slow going over the soft, uneven ground, but Edie got her aunt to her chair. Leona liked to sit to the right of the home bench, so she had a clear view of third base.

  “This is just fine, honey.” Smiling at Amber, Leona lowered herself onto the chair. “It’s a nice night for softball.”

  “Sure is,” Edie said. “Just enough of a breeze to keep the bugs away.”

  Edie trotted back to the car for her equipment bag and cleats. Most of the girls were already practicing, gabbing so loudly Vera stuck two fingers in her mouth to break them up with one sharp whistle. Edie tied the laces of her cleats with double knots and arranged the visor on her head. She found Birdie’s daughter, Patsy, who still played centerfield with the team, and the two of them began throwing a ball in easy lobs to each other.

  Edie loved the team’s home field at the Conwell Rod and Gun Club, a nice combination of rusty, red soil for the diamond and crisp, green grass. The outfield bordered a cornfield, where at the start of the season, the stalks rose in nubs through the soil. The corn grew as the season progressed. At the end, tassels topped the ears, and they were close to picking.

  Birdie used to come here during the afternoon on game days to tend to the ball field. He raked the diamond, and if it was dry, he wet it with a hose to keep the dust down. On the weekends, he loaded his mower onto the back of his pickup to cut the grass. Now the highway crew took care of the field.

  “How’s your dad?” Edie asked.

  “He’s hanging in there,” Patsy said. “It really bothers him he can’t coach this year. He doesn’t even wanna come to the games.”

  “Oh” was all Edie could muster.

  The team had lots of family even without Birdie. Vera played first, and her cousins, both divorced, were at shortstop and second, and the three women could execute the best double play in the league. Robin, who was in her thirties, had been catching for the pitcher, Gloria, for years. Gloria wouldn’t have anyone else because Robin, her second cousin, held her mitt so steadily, her strikes dropped in its center like fat eggs on a skillet. Their leftfielder, who had bad timing to have a baby in the middle of the team’s short season last year, was back. The new girls, including Vera’s daughter, played the two other spots in the outfield. Birdie always tried to work everyone in each game. Not every woman could start, but they all played. Vera said at the team meeting a few weeks ago she would do the same.

  Patsy grunted when Vera yelled for infield practice, and the players took their places, so she could hit to them. Edie was in perfect fielding position when Vera chopped one her way. It took a tough hop in front of third, but she played it off the bounce. Edie fired the ball across the diamond to Patsy, who was filling in at first, and savored the smart pop it made in the pocket of her glove.

  “Nice snag, Edie,” Leona shouted.

  Leona took a small pad from her purse, so she could keep track of the score. Although one of the players on the bench kept the official book, her aunt said it helped her stay in the game. Besides, she didn’t trust the old geezer who ran the scoreboard. Sometimes he got confused, so the score could say something like 57 to 33. That’s when Leona would yell at him, and one of the players would have to go over to help him get it right.

  Their fans showed up for the home opener between Conwell and the team from Wilmot. Typically, only one or two husbands came because most played in the men’s league. Some boys who were friends with the high school girls were here, plus a slew of retired people and some relatives who sat in lawn chairs along the sidelines. Leona joked with the men who brought coolers for their beer. Her aunt bragged she always drank free on softball nights.

  The top of the order for the Wilmot team went down one, two, three with pop-ups to the infield. The batters tended to hit that way when Gloria was in top form. Her pivot foot touched the rubber as her right arm swung back then forward before she released the ball in a perfect arc to home plate.

  Now Gloria paced behind the sitting players, her black glove tucked beneath her arm. She nodded at Robin, who chewed on the loose rawhide of her catcher’s mitt.

  “How’s he calling ’em tonight?” Gloria asked.

  “About as good as he ever does,” Vera answered for Robin.

  Robin’s mouth got rubbery and wide as she let out a horsey laugh. In all the years Edie knew the woman, she hadn’t uttered one clever statement. She left that to her teammates.

  “That bad, eh?” Gloria squinted at the stands. “Anybody know that guy watching our game? I’ve never seen him before.”

  Vera glanced over her shoulder.

  “The one with the messed up face?” she asked. “Isn’t that your new neighbor, Edie? He’s come into the store.”

  Edie turned. Harlan Doyle sat alone in the stands. He grinned when she raised her glove.

  “That’s him all right. His name’s Harlan Doyle. He’s Elmira Doyle’s grandson. He’s fixing up her house,” she said. “Nice guy.”

  “What the hell happened to him?” Vera asked.

  “He said he was in an accident.”

  Edie paid attention to the game. The pitcher from Wilmot was having a control problem. The Conwell Women’s shortstop, frustrated by the lack of opportunities, swung at a cheap one, hitting a fly to the leftfielder. Her team
mates groaned.

  The team’s new baby was asleep in her carriage safely behind the bench. Only Robin didn’t have kids, and Gloria’s were grown. For the most part, the kids got along. But sometimes a couple of the boys fought, or a kid got hurt, or a crying baby wanted to be held. Those sitting on the bench took care of things while their moms were on the field. Edie always gave the players’ kids free penny candy whenever they came into the store. She glanced toward the playground, where Amber hung around some of the younger kids. Later, she would sit on the Conwell home bench.

  Patsy was up, so Edie rose, slapping her hand against Gloria’s as she took her place in the on-deck circle. She stood with her legs apart, her bat resting on her shoulder. Patsy was tight at the plate, but she managed to get a hold of one, so she had an easy run to first.

  Aunt Leona clapped.

  “Come on, Edie, it’s more fun with two,” she yelled.

  On the first pitch, Edie hit the ball way beyond the reach of the leftfielder, a home run in this park.

  Conwell clobbered the team from Wilmot, typically the league’s doormat, so Vera put the new girls in early. On the last out, the Conwell Women jogged off the field, slapping gloves and shrieking.

  “Meet you all at the Do,” Vera told her teammates.

  “What for?” Robin asked.

  “Jesus, we’re gonna take Gloria out for her birthday,” Vera said.

  “Gee, I forgot.”

  “That’s why I’m telling you all.”

  Edie went for the bag she stowed behind the bench and went to Leona. Amber waited with her. She smiled for her daughter.

  “You won,” Amber said.

  “Yeah, we did.”

  Leona clasped the arms of her chair as she pulled herself up.

  “I don’t think Wilmot produces too many able-bodied women,” she said. “Their pitcher’s arm was so skinny, it was a miracle she could throw.”

  “She fooled us some of the time,” Edie said.

  “What about the umpire? What kind of man dyes his hair black like that? I bet it wipes off on his pillow. His wife better be careful, or she’ll get some on her face.”