The Ha-Ha

by Dave King

  In general, I’m more able than people expect, but I steer clear of statements beyond yes and no, and I’m not confident with instructions. But I’ll lend moral support, so I grab my glove and head for the outfield. And Robin’s got things under control. “Guys, this is Howard. Who’s gonna be coaching with me. Now the hard thing about catching’s keeping your eye on the ball, okay?” I stifle a smile, and she says, “Well, it’s true.”

  Robin has everybody toss a tennis ball straight up and snag it when it comes down. “Reach for the ball, people! Don’t wait ’til it bonks you on the head. A little higher now.” One delicate blonde girl isn’t doing much, and Robin crouches behind her. “Hold your glove up, hon, not down, so it’s ready.” She gives a toss and guides the girl’s hand, and I wish I could tell her about stopping and trapping. Robin says, “Now push yourself, babe. Take a chance on success, ’kay?” A tubby freckle-faced kid loses his ball in the sun, and I chuck it back at him. His eyes flicker over my scar, and I contemplate getting a cap.

  When it comes to throwing, though, I see why I’m here. Robin doesn’t have Sylvia’s classic ball-in-the-dirt throw—she gets some lift. But she stands stiffly and employs only her arm. I think she knows this is no example to set, because she keeps glancing at me, and at last I step up. Waving the kids to follow, I shake out my shoulders. I’m like a mime up here, but at least I’m good at it. I’ve been a mime for years. I think of that salesman demonstrating the pivot, and I turn sideways and plant my foot. Placing my hands at my sternum, I move slowly through the entire motion, letting my body follow my arm. The kids watch closely. No one’s told them why I communicate as I do, so they gape unself-consciously. I do the slo-mo again, and miraculously, they do it with me; then I just throw the ball, using the motion I’ve used since childhood. Ryan’s over with the batting group, at the edge of the far infield, and I get him in my sights and send the ball out as far as I can. As it lofts into the sky, the freckled kid goes, “Whoa!”

  I’ve always had a decent arm, but this time even I’m surprised. Could be the loosening up. Certainly there were guys who hurled grenades farther and faster than I ever could, and I bet most of these kids’ dads throw as well as I. And it’s only a tennis ball, and these are grammar schoolers. Still, the ball lands squarely at Ryan’s feet, and he picks it up and sends it back with a grin, getting it just over halfway here. The freckle-faced kid charges off, elbows pumping, and when he heaves it back, I catch it in my glove. I feel a funny little tearing sensation where I cut my hand, but I give a thumbs-up: darn nice throw, buddy. After this, we practice throwing until Ed calls for a switch. I haven’t even discussed aim.

  “I suspected you’d have a knack for this, Howard,” Robin says as a new group straggles toward us. “You know, a lot of guys throw just like girls.” She goes through the slow-motion movement again, then laughs goofily and asks how to place her fingers on the seams. Damned if I know. But I do think we might train her out of her bad habits, and though I never considered a career in teaching, I bet I’d have been good at it.

  Halfway through the morning, we gather again. Ed and the big girl redivide the crew, distributing older and younger kids, boys and girls, athletes and stumblebums. Ryan’s chosen opposite the blue-haired boy, and the two knock fists as they step off to their separate groups. Ryan’s team heads for the bench, and the big Asian boy steps up to lead off. He taps some imperceptible mud from his sneakers, and Ed Mesk stands behind the plate to call balls and strikes.

  The Asian kid’s set to go when I realize something. It’s an obvious point, and as I walk to first, I’m even chuckling to myself. Two gestures, the spread arms for safe and the punch for out. How difficult could it be? I take my position and put my hands on my knees, and Ed nods at the big girl to go ahead and pitch. For a mime, umpiring might be the world’s easiest job.

  32

  MY PLAN WAS to swing by Home Depot, then build a new porch planter. But by the end of the game I’m too happily wiped to think about chores. With no midfield umpire, I’ve spent six innings running between first and second, and my T-shirt’s soaked with perspiration.

  Ryan’s winded, too, but mostly he’s ravenous. His big moment was an RBI double, and he really scrambled down the baselines, giving a small superstar performance—head down, phony exertion—though the throw in was pretty wild. Next time up, he got to first on a dropped catch, but after that he fanned, spinning around so hard he nearly toppled over. He stomped off, throwing his batting helmet at the backstop, and I gave him a look that said mind your manners. But even with the strikeout, he’s a lefty who connects, and this gets him noticed. Coming home after his double, he hit the plate with both feet, and the husky Asian catcher was there for the high five; when the game is over they walk off the field together. The other kid’s explaining something to Ryan, and as they pass the big girl she calls out, “Nice game, guys.”

  “Juliana Mesk,” Robin murmurs in my ear. “I guess she always dreamed of coaching, and the local Little League was filled up with dads. So her pops cooked up this thing.” She bites down on a carrot stick, and I realize how hungry I am. Ryan’s elbow-deep in a potato chip bag, and two yellow triangles cling to his lips like tiny moths. I brush them off, and he gives me a grin.

  The birdish woman hollers for her car pool to hop to it, but I’m now indifferent to her validation. Ed Mesk calls out, “I’ll have a game schedule soon, guys, but in the meantime . . .” He hands out dark blue Mister Luster Kleen T-shirts, and with a flurry of skin the kids all change, the tall girl slipping behind a minivan to shimmy into hers. “I’m gonna order Snakes shirts, too,” Ed announces. Ann and Robin are unpacking a picnic, and Ann offers Ryan half a PB&J. He takes a huge bite, then gives a look of revulsion. I take a nibble: salt-free peanut butter. I better get him out of here before he eats a tree.

  When I first came home injured I did a lot of speech and re-adjustment therapy down here on the south side, and I’m thinking about a little rib place that wasn’t too far away. In those days, I wasn’t yet driving again, though my license was still valid, and I was much too self-conscious to take a bus. My dad and mom both worked, but Dad arranged for shorter hours on a six-day week, instead of five, to get me to my appointments. Neither of us had yet accommodated what had happened, and those were long, sad drives for me and my dad. Sometimes we’d spend the whole time with tears streaming down our cheeks, then turn away to wipe our eyes before I went for my sessions. Dad would wait in the car. When I came out I’d be hungry, and though he was expected at Hanran’s Men’s Wear in the afternoons, often he’d blow off work for an hour or two, or even the whole day. He and I would go to this little joint and eat ribs and drink beer, and we’d sit at a patio table, saying nothing and watching the cars through a tall, wrought-iron fence. Eventually we began hanging out at this place on a regular basis, and this was the beginning, I think, of several things: my forsaking the therapy industry for self-medication, and Dad losing his job. But by the time that happened, none of us—not even my mom—cared enough about anything to give his firing a thought.

  The rib place is still there, to my astonishment. The glass-fronted counter area with one narrow table and the small concrete side patio with six tightly packed picnic tables: all unchanged. A middle-aged woman shows no surprise when I point to the menu items, and I wonder if it’s possible she’s the same big-Afro’d girl who worked here in the old days. Her hair is straightened now and going gray, and when she brushes an eyelash from her cheek I see she has lightning bolts drawn on each long nail. She asks if we want corn on the cob, and Ryan says, “We want the works!”

  The woman cocks her head at the Indians cap. “You into the tribe?” He nods. “That Omar Vizquel is one sexy man,” she says, then grins and heads for the kitchen. “Be right out.”

  We choose a table on the patio. Another family’s already eating, and a toddler in a fancy dress takes an interest in Ryan. She stares at him until he says, “Boo!” then she laughs raucously and stomps off, slappin
g her skirt with her palms. The counter lady brings us our lunch on paper plates, and Ryan digs in, getting the first stain on his Mister Luster Kleen shirt. For a few minutes we don’t speak, and out on the street the cars keep going by, just as they did years ago. Sometime in my second or third year of recovery I began to drive, and Dad could have returned to his regular work schedule if he’d wanted, but he didn’t do that. For years, right until I gave up on therapy, he preferred to ride along with me, never coming in, always sitting in the car. I suppose remembering all this should make me blue, but the fact is I was grateful for my dad’s companionship on my terrible appointments, and those slow-paced afternoons are among the happier memories of a dark, dark time. In such small considerations was my sanity forged, and I’ve always liked the ribs here.

  “Hey, Howie,” Ryan says, and I turn from the street. “How’d you like my double?” When it happened, early in the game, it didn’t seem appropriate to express too much pride, so now I nod wildly. Best doggone hit ever! Ryan beams, then says, “We had a good team for not knowing each other before. Here’s who I think’s the best players, okay? Jeremy, Elizabeth, Shawn, and that kid who—I don’t know his name.” I nod. I don’t know any of the kids’ names myself, but I take a bit of my short hair between my fingertips and rub it inquiringly. Ryan goes blank. I look around until I find a bright-blue stripe on a paper cup, and I point at the stripe, then at my hair again, and when he gets it, he grins. “Oh, that’s Shawn. He’s eleven,” he says. “Some guys are multitalented, but I think he really wants to pitch. His hair looks pretty cool on him, but if it was me I don’t think I’d do it blue. Yellow, red, maybe, with my coloring. Think I should be a pitcher?”

  I’ve been considering something since Ed Mesk mentioned pitching, but I’m not sure how to put it into words. I try out, “Na,” but this just sounds like my old catchall, and no one knows I call those guys Nit and Nat. I say, “Ha—” and then, with an effort, “Haw-suh,” but I’m not transmitting. “Haw-suh,” I say again, then one more time. It’s a hard name to say. Ryan looks patiently at me, but I can’t get any clearer, and at last I give up. The day’s too nice for such hard work. We’re finished eating, and I spread out a paper napkin and draw a diamond on it in barbecue sauce. Ryan adds the little upside-down U of the pitcher’s mound. I dig in my pocket and set down coins for each of the players, and this is how we discuss the game. A sparrow arrives and picks at something under the table, and I move a nickel from second to third. The sun shines down. The other family troops out, a thin man with a moustache carrying the toddler, and I pantomime throwing the helmet, then wink to let Ryan know I’m just joshing. He says he wanted to see how it bounced. He crumbles corn bread for the sparrow, and the bird’s dazzled by the fluttering crumbs. It smacks its beak and begs for more, and no one’s in any hurry to leave. I go inside to buy another beer and a Sprite for Ryan. The radio’s playing an Al Green tune that was popular when I was here last.

  I’m at the counter when I hear a sudden shriek, and as I turn to look, Sylvia rushes through the restaurant. Sylvia? But when I step to the patio, I see it’s true. There she is, kneeling in the corn bread crumbs, her arms tight around Ryan’s neck. She’s laughing and crying and rocking him back and forth on his bench, and Ryan’s saying, “Mommy, oh, Mama, I missed you so much!”

  It’s not so surprising that she’s here. The dry-out place is only five or six blocks away, and the house where she’s living must be close by, too. But at the same time, it’s a coincidence, and as I stand in the doorway I know my bad luck has returned. Out on the sidewalk, the flat-faced older woman from family day peers through the wrought-iron fence. She and I nod grimly at each other.

  Sylvia’s crying. “What are you doing here? Oh, let me look at you, my big, tall, handsome boy!” Ryan’s telling her he had a big hit and scored a run. Neither listens to the other until at last Sylvia says, “But honey, are you by yourself?”

  Ryan puts on an are-you-crazy look and points. “Howie’s right there.” Sylvia turns, and she’s beautiful. Her skin, so sallow a week and a half ago, is a healthier color now, and her thin face is nearly the oval of our teenage years. I catch my breath—irresistible reflex—but after the phone calls and the catastrophe of family day, I don’t know what my greeting will be. I stand in the doorway, struggling to remain expressionless.

  “Howie!” Sylvia puts her arms around my chest. “Did I run right past you?” I’ve got the beer and the Sprite, so I can’t hug her, and as she lays her head on my shoulder, I hold the cups away from our bodies.

  “How’s that eye?” she says. “You never answered my . . . Never mind.” Furrowing her brow like a school nurse, she peers at me. “Still a little green there under the lid. Ryan, love, did Howie tell you how he hurt his face?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she calls to the woman outside the fence. “Mary Ellen, Mary Ellen, come on in! I want you to meet Ryan. And you know Howie—dear, dear friend and my first high school beau. Sit, come on and join us for a moment while we catch up!” The woman comes in reluctantly, saying they shouldn’t stay. I think I catch her eyeing my beer, and it strikes me this place may be out-of-bounds. But Sylvia says, “Come on! It’s Ryan!”

  Mary Ellen whispers something I don’t catch, and Sylvia murmurs back. “I can’t go without you,” Mary Ellen says. More whispering, then a glance at me. “Perhaps you gentlemen would come with us.”

  But Sylvia bridles at this. “Ten minutes. Ten, okay? God, I just don’t want to take them to that rathole. This is my boy, and I want to be out in the world!” Sighing pointedly, she says, “Howie, do you suppose there’s coffee here?”

  I look at Mary Ellen. “Black,” she says. Sylvia?

  “Well, sure, why not? Maybe . . . lemonade? Here, let me.” She takes a little purse from her big shoulder bag, but I wave her off: I’ve got it. I set my beer on the seat where Mary Ellen won’t have to look at it, and Sylvia calls after me, “Pink lemonade, if they have it.”

  The place doesn’t serve a lot of coffee, and it’s a minute before the counter woman understands what I want. I don’t even try pink. When I get back to the patio, Mary Ellen’s sitting stiffly at the end of the table, and Sylvia has Ryan’s baseball glove on. She’s holding her hand out as if assessing a manicure. “Howie, this is a beautiful glove. You shouldn’t have.” I set the lemonade and the coffee on the table and pantomime swinging a bat, and she says, “A double. He told me. Funny, I’ve always found team sports so dull, but—here, Howie, sit by me.”

  Sylvia’s always been able to recast her emotions at will. When we spatted in high school, she made me suffer before abruptly forgiving me, and today she’s intent on keeping things friendly. She mentions the disastrous family day only to tell me that Big John, on leaving the facility, sent me his best, and she makes no inquiries about the phone calls. Instead, she’s extravagantly affectionate, not just with Ryan, but with me, too, reaching out to stroke his cheek or touch my arm as she speaks. I’d chalk this up to the dry-out program’s sensitivity training, but Mary Ellen sits ignored over her Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  This I recognize, too. Sylvia’s always had an aversion to losers, and with each confidence she draws a tight circle around Ryan and me. Mary Ellen grows drabber by the minute. But I’m just glad the loser’s not me, and when a smile gets me nowhere with Mary Ellen, I give up. One thing no one expects from me is small talk.

  At last, Mary Ellen announces she can’t stay any longer. Sylvia says brightly, “No? Well, I’ll be back before too long. Cover for me, can you? I just want to savor these guys a little . . .” Then, with no wasted words, she draws the circle closer. “Ryan, baby, I’m so thrilled Howie’s is working out for you. I knew it would. Who else could I trust with—and how about Laurel! Who sounds, the little I’ve talked to her, like a real—a levelheaded gem. So that’s one resolution for when I get out of this damn program, is to get to know Laurel and some of these other . . . And did you visit Mercy Convent, baby, visit Howie at work? Did you see the
Contemplation Garden?” She takes our hands, and it’s the moment to tell of my break with Sister Amity; but the moment passes. “Because you lead such a life of mystery, Howie! I just think it’s shocking how long since I was invited for a visit, or that I never met Laurel or these marvelous young men.” She looks at me squarely, and her brown eyes glitter. “I’m grateful you have good people in your life who care for you, because if anybody deserves a bit of love . . .” And though I’m more familiar than I wish with Sylvia’s palaver, I can’t resist something bold. I put my arm around her.

  I don’t squeeze her or pull her against me, but I place my hand at her waist, where I can feel her slim hip bone through the fabric of her skirt. And with this, I’m done for. From worrying that my luck had changed I’ve gone to sitting in the sunshine with the woman I love. Woman and child! And Sylvia doesn’t shift aside or run to the ladies’ room or employ any of a million crude tactics for escape. She simply allows me to hold her while she talks to Ryan, waving a persistent yellow jacket from her lemonade, asking about homework and weekends and baseball, shooting me a wry, almost seductive glance at the mention of Ms. Monetti.

  The yellow jacket lands on the rim of my cup, and I let it stay. Drink your fill, brother! These are good times! I’m aware now not just of Sylvia’s perfect hip, but of her soft shoulder brushing my chest each time she leans forward, and of the sweet, clean fragrance of her hair. I’m aware of my own developing hard-on, too. When the yellow jacket’s gone I sip my beer, drowsily celebrating the sunshine and the buzz, and drifting from memories of getting drunk here all that time ago to thoughts of high school, when I kept my arm around Sylvia for two solid years, to a gauzy fantasy of being here right now—today!—as a family unhampered by injury or sadness, a threesome just out in the daylight for lunch. In the dream I’m dreaming it’s not that I can’t speak, but that I’m the dad, and I’m silent the way we dads are, drinking my beer as I smell Sylvia’s hair and keeping the secret of my dick plump and tingly under the table. I keep it secret for later, when it will be us two.