by Guy Franks
When Ron finished talking, Shake told him to track down Speed and get set up with everything he would need.
“That guy still around?” chuckled Ron. “Wasn’t he in Bristol?”
“Yep. Every year I cut him off at the roots, but he keeps growing back like a thorn bush.”
“I’ll find him,” said Ron as he got up from his chair. He extended his hand to Shake. “I really appreciate this, Shake,” he added with a hint of emotion in his voice. “You don’t know what it means to me.”
“I think I do,” replied Shake as he pressed back against Ron’s strong handshake before letting him go. Shake knew what he was thinking because it was the same thing he would have been thinking. It was the same thing every fading star thought about who was holding on, looking for one last hurrah: “this is my second chance and anything can happen.” In a minor league player’s mind, call-ups are just a phone call or an injury away. And once it comes, old legs become new again and anything is possible. True hope is swift, and flies with swallow’s wings.
A tap at the door brought in Mike Faust. His trainer looked worried.
“What’s up, Mike?”
“You’re gonna have to scratch Rosecrans.”
“Why’s that? Here—have a seat.” Shake waited for his trainer to take a seat. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s got an infection with a fever. He needs to go on antibiotics.”
Shake waited for more but didn’t get it. Shit, here we go again, he thought. Next he’ll clear his throat and look away. “Why?”
Faust cleared his throat and looked away. “He got an injection in his hip,” he said finally. “Somehow it got infected and now he can’t run without pain.”
“Injection for what?”
“He says he went to the doctor to get a B-12 shot and a couple days later the site got infected. We’ll start him on antibiotics today and he should be feeling better in a few days.”
“So he’s out for the series?”
“Yes. But he should be good to go for Glens Falls.”
“All right,” said Shake more to himself than to Faust. He needed to go tell Ron Deer he would be starting today. He would also talk to Rosecrans himself. Get the straight scoop. He knew some players took B-12 shots but he had never heard of anyone getting an infection from it. He suspected that there was more to the story than Faust was giving him, which was becoming a habit with this guy, and it irritated him. The players swore by him, so maybe he just needed to make things clear. “Anything else,” he asked Faust.
“No,” Faust replied as he got up to leave.
“One more thing. It would help me a lot if you would give me a full report on a player without all the questions. Give it to me straight, from top to bottom, and don’t leave anything out.” Shake paused for a split second as a quote from the Bard occurred to him. Maybe it didn’t fit the situation (as Dane had accused him of)—after all, he was talking about thoroughness and not honesty—but he went ahead and said it anyway: “No legacy is as rich as honesty.”
Faust cleared his throat before answering: “Will do. Sorry. My mind’s pre-occupied with a lot of crap and this infection thing came out of the blue. But I hear you.”
“Fair enough,” said Shake. He got up and followed his trainer out the door and went looking for Ron Deer. Before he found him he ran into Rex Lyon. As predicted, all past craziness was forgotten and the old man was pretty much back to normal. Shake found him more subdued lately, and he had also lost about ten pounds which gave him a gaunt look in the face.
“First team to wear numbers on their backs,” said Shake, starting the game.
“The Yankees,” replied Rex with a wane smile. “Too easy, Glover. Why was Ruth’s number three?”
“Numbers went by batting order. Ruth batted third.”
“Right. Weren’t you a second baseman?”
“That I was.”
“So was John Dillinger.”
Shake laughed at that. He could see that the old man was trying to make a joke, which was encouraging. “What’s your point?” he kidded back and then added, “Where’s our boy Orson?”
“Not here. He’s off on ‘personal business’.”
“’Personal business,’” repeated Shake sarcastically. “There’s no personal business on game day. What’s with that? You need to train that boy better.”
“Yeah, I’ve been too easy on him.”
“I doubt that,” said Shake with a chuckle as he put his hand on Rex’s shoulder. With that he continued his search for Deer. He found him setting up his new locker and told him the news that he’d be starting and batting sixth. Deer smiled a big smile and hurried out to batting practice.
Some miles away in the small town of Newington, Orson parked in front of a nice house and got out of his car. This was the address Rose Porter gave him. Rose Porter—Balt’s twin sister. Orson knew that Balt had a sister but it was only after talking to her on the phone that he learned she was his twin. That conversation had taken place two days ago, and it had been over a month since The Kiss in the parking lot of the golf club. He had left message after message for Balt but never got a response until two days ago when Rose called him back.
In their phone conversation, he learned that Balt was in L.A. for the summer and wouldn’t be back home until late August. Rose was very apologetic about the whole thing and wondered if she and Orson could get together to “talk about her brother.” Orson happily agreed. Anything to get him closer to Balt made him happy. Her first spot of free time was on game day but Orson didn’t care and set the date. They agreed to have him pick her up at her house (the same one Balt lived in) and then go for a bite to eat.
He walked up the steps but the door opened before he got to it and Rose stepped out to greet him. “Hi, Orson,” she said cheerfully. “Right on time.”
“Hi, Rose.” They shook hands. Orson was struck by how much she looked like her brother. “A pleasure.”
“The café is two blocks down and around the corner. We can walk from here.”
“Sounds good.”
They walked shoulder to shoulder along the white sidewalk, past manicured lawns, making small talk until they reached the café where they sat down at a table across from one another. Orson studied her face and found much to his liking. She had the same brown eyes as her brother, the same nose and mouth, and her neck line was remarkably the same. But there were differences. She was not near-sighted and didn’t wear black-rimmed glasses. In addition, she wore a touch of make-up including lip rouge that made her lips look velvety. Her thick brown hair was long, past her shoulders, and she wore it parted on the same side as her brother’s hair. He smiled at that. Her fingernails were also long and painted with a dark pink nail polish. All in all, Orson found her quite lovely.
They talked easily over dinner, and this is what Orson learned about Balt: he was in L.A. to pursue his career and working hard to break down barriers in sports journalism. Orson wasn’t sure what those barriers were since Balt was neither black or a woman or anything else other than a white male but Rose didn’t expound on it. If the boundary was the fact he was gay, she didn’t mention it and Orson didn’t dare bring it up at this point—though he secretly suspected that was it. She said Balt had spoken to her numerous times about him, and she knew about his position with the Kingsmen and his golf game. The mention of golf gave Orson momentary hope that the conversation would lead to that day in the parking lot—that her twin brother had confessed The Kiss to her—and she was here to act as a love broker. But she didn’t pursue it any farther.
Instead, something else was occurring. He was sure of it. She was coming on to him. It was the tilt of her head, the tender touch of his hand as she emphasized a point, the lilting laugh at one of his jokes. It was all there and he was quickly becoming dead sure of it. At first he doubted it, then came disbelief followed by a growing
fear as he recognized the inevitable trap. He had done nothing to lead her on or encourage it but it didn’t matter. She seemed determined, and with her determination his fear grew. He didn’t dare shut her down. That might risk making an enemy and losing Balt in the process. He couldn’t flirt back for obvious reasons. He was in love with Balt, not his sister. The whole thing was another one of his conundrums and it gave him a stomach ache to think about it.
During desert she made an effusive point about how much she was enjoying his company. Maybe they could do it again, she said. Orson couldn’t hide his confusion and looked very much like a little leaguer who’d just seen his first curveball. His befuddlement brought a look of disappointment on her face.
“Yes, I’d like that,” he said, recovering his composure.
“When?”
“Well, uh, let me get back to you. I have to check my schedule,” he said lamely, and as he said it he knew it was lame and that she’d push back and that he would agree to a date.
“Are you traveling with the team after Sunday’s game. No? Good. Let’s meet for dinner after the game.
“Sounds good.”
Orson could see that she was pleased, and they finished their desert in relative quiet. She was certainly forceful and liked to have her own way, he thought. He had to admit he found that attractive. This admission troubled him and he quickly turned that line of thought off like a light switch. It just caused him confusion. Thankfully the bill came and he paid it.
It was a beautiful summer night in Connecticut and they walked leisurely back to Rose’s house. She set the pace, which was more a stroll than a walk, and talked about baseball. She was a big Kingsmen fan. When they reached her door, Orson stuck his hand out for a handshake and she took it, pulled him close, and kissed him on the cheek. He caught a hint of her lovely-smelling perfume and guessed it was “Beautiful” by Estee Lauder
“See you Sunday,” she said happily.
“Sunday,” repeated Orson. “Looking forward to it.” And he turned around and walked back to his car, slowly confronting the truth that, yes, goddammit, he was looking forward to it. How strange, he thought, to be one of two minds, like a child’s toy that winds and unwinds.
17
CHAPTER
Touching this vision here,
It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you.
Hamlet
The Kingsmen took two out of three against the Glens Falls Tigers and moved down to Albany-Colonie to take on the Yankees in a four game series. Dane waited until after the Saturday day game to take a cab out to Our Lady of Angels Cemetery.
First he had dinner with his roommate Greg Rosecrans. Greg was frustrated and wanted to talk about the game. They had lost a close one 2-1 and Manager Glover had taken Greg out after his second at bat and put in Deer. He wasn’t so much frustrated at Deer (the guy could hit), or for Deer at getting thrown out at second in the ninth (on a play he could have made standing up), no, he was frustrated at Glover for taking him out. Yeah, he admitted, he wasn’t hitting as good since he came back from his hip infection, but a hitter needed time to get his swing back—his timing back—and Glover wasn’t giving him that time. He kept pulling him and putting in Deer.
Dane listened to Greg rave on. He liked Greg or, more accurately, he liked to hear Greg scheme and rationalize and complain. Strangely it made him feel better about himself in the same way, he imagined, a plain-looking girl felt better about herself by hanging out with her fat and ugly best friend. He laughed at that analogy and Greg asked him what he was laughing at and he quickly replied, “Nothing. Thinking about something else.”
Greg was also frustrated with their trainer Mike Faust, and he decided to open up this can of beans and give Dane the straight scoop (confirming what Dane already suspected). His hip infection had come from a steroid shot, and whether it was a mistake or just plain negligence Greg wasn’t sure, but he was sure he didn’t trust Faust anymore. If he couldn’t trust Faust anymore where was he going to get “juiced-up” and get his edge back?
“Certs me,” said Dane while thoroughly enjoying his perfectly roasted pork loin.
Greg continued to talk and vent his frustrations through dinner. Dane thought about asking Greg to accompany him to the cemetery as a form of diversion but then thought better of it. Greg was already depressed and a visit to a cemetery would probably just make him more depressed. They said their goodbyes and Greg went back to the motel room.
Dane called a cab from the restaurant and got to the cemetery at dusk. On the way he picked up a bottle of Crown Royal—his father’s favorite—and kept it wrapped in a brown paper bag. He found his father’s tombstone on a long sloping hill next to other like-sized tombstones and sat down Indian-style in front of it. He twisted off the cap on the Crown Royal and took a long drink. The whiskey was warming and smooth with a hint of caramel at the end of it.
How to start, he wondered? He was skeptical of the afterlife and had never put much store in communing with the dead. Yet he knew people—sober, intelligent people—who believed in angels and spirits and swore by their existence. There were a lot of things in this world that couldn’t be, and never would be, explained by science. It came down to Pascal’s Wager, he figured. Since nothing could be proved one way of the other, he chose to take the gain that came with believing in an afterlife, at least for now. But there was another thought that occurred to him that he liked even better: maybe by talking to his dead father he was really just talking to that part of himself that was his father. Even at a minimum, that was better than nothing.
“Well, dad,” he said in a low whisper, “here I am. Didn’t think I’d make it, or maybe you did… I brought you some Crown Royal, you’re favorite. Crown Royal on the rocks—that was your drink, right? We kept a bottle in the house after—for years—and I used to sneak drinks from it as a teenager until mom caught on and poured it out… I’m guessing you know I’m playing professional baseball. Second base. Got a good contract and hope to make it to the bigs next year. We’ll see… Remember when we used to play catch? I used to hound you to hit me grounders. You weren’t very good at it but you did it anyway. Thanks for that. It helped. And at least you got to see me play little league… I went back to get my Masters in Philosophy. That should make you happy. Maybe someday I’ll teach like you. At the moment it doesn’t quite fit in with my chosen profession. There’s not much need for Kant in the batter’s box. Though I got a coach who’s kind’a philosophical. He’s big on Shakespeare. Quotes him all the time. You’d probably get a kick out of him. I know mom would…
“Kierkegaard was your guy, right. I read one of your papers on him that I found in your stuff a few years back. Did you really buy into that ‘knight of faith’ crap? I guess you didn’t. In the end you didn’t or else you wouldn’t have offed yourself. When you closed the garage door and started the car, where was Kierkegaard then? You should’a gone with Socrates or Robeck. That would have made more sense… So why’d you do it? I haven’t been able to figure it out, so give me a clue. Just one clue, that’s all I ask. If you couldn’t stand being married to mom then why not get a divorce? I don’t remember lots of fighting. Just silence between you. But mom doesn’t talk about it… Did you love her? Did you love her and she didn’t love you back? Maybe that’s it. You loved a woman who didn’t love you back but you couldn’t stop loving her so you lived in misery until you couldn’t take it anymore. How terrible…
“No, I don’t think that’s it. Too romantic and not your style. I think it comes down to something else, something deeper and darker… It was a philosophical question you answered. And what was the question? You knew it better than most. You knew the fundamental question—why or why not commit suicide? That is really the one and only philosophical problem to solve. Suicide. Is it worth living life or not? That was the fundamental question of philosophy you answered by closing the garage door. It wasn’t worth living. Finito.
Done. It was an aesthetic choice. A philosophical choice. Any maybe there’s nobility in that…
But I forgive you… It took me a long time to get here but I forgive you. Whatever your fucking reason was I forgive you… I love you, dad… I know you loved me. You told me lots of times and I won’t doubt it… Remember when we went to the Yankees game with mom and we left her to go look around. We found the monument to Lou Gehrig and you stared at it for a long time. I looked up and saw tears on your face, so I started crying too and you kneeled down and wiped my face and told me it was all right… Well, it’s all right…”
Dane put his head down and sobbed quietly. His speech had been punctuated by long pauses, and in those pauses he had drank from the bottle of Crown Royal. He was drunk now. He stopped crying and lifted his head up, wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeves, and laid back on the grass using the half empty bottle as a pillow. His mind was clear and calm and in a minute he was asleep.
“Wha?!” he cried, coming up on his elbows.
“Dane.”
“Who’s that?”
“Dane.”
Dane frantically looked around him. Behind his father’s tombstone, in the starlit darkness, he saw the vague outline of a man. The shadow was just standing there. “Who’s that?”