by Linda Holmes
“Sometimes.” Evvie smoothed the back of Rose’s hand with her fingers.
“I’m not going to be here for Christmas with my dad.”
“Maybe not the actual day,” Evvie said. “When you get back, though, you can have Christmas with him. And we’ll make those snowflake cookies again, and I need you to help me. We’ll keep it going. Christmas is not one day. It’s a whole thing. There are elves, and there are reindeer, and there’s ‘Jingle Bells.’ ”
“The Batmobile lost a wheel and the Joker got away,” Rose sang, and then she grinned at herself.
Evvie reached across Rose for a bottle of hand lotion on the nightstand. “You want a little?” Rose nodded, and Evvie put some in her own palm, then rubbed her hands and Rose’s together. “It’ll still be Christmas when you get back. I double promise.”
“I’ll get Fred a tie,” Rose finally said. “And then I only need something for Lilly and Dad and Mom, and my grandmas and grandpas.” She looked up at Evvie. “And you.”
“Aw, you’re the best,” Evvie said, putting her arm back around Rose’s shoulders. “Nobody’s better than you.”
AFTER ROSE WAS ASLEEP, EVVIE managed to crawl out of her bed and go downstairs to do the dishes. She had figured that she and Dean would talk about the article once he was home. But when he and Andy got back, they carried the girls to Andy’s car, Dean slipped into the apartment and shut the door, and that was it. There was not a kiss on the forehead; there had not been since Thanksgiving. She wondered sometimes if she’d imagined the whole thing.
She was still awake at two in the morning, too sweaty with the extra blanket on the bed and too cold without it. It was winter for real now, close to freezing, and as she lay in bed debating whether to get up and tweak the heat, she heard Dean’s truck start. Then she heard him turn it around in the gravel driveway, she heard the careful way he navigated around her car, and she heard him leave.
There were a lot of possibilities. It could be a drive to clear his head. Could be he had to go rescue a friend with a flat tire in the middle of the night. Could be nothing. But she turned onto her side and felt a little hitch in her back, and when she put her hand to it, it was like pressing the play button on a video of all the times she’d seen Dean rubbing and stretching out his right shoulder. He did it in her kitchen, and when they were walking in town, and when they were having dinner, and he did it when they sat and watched television together. Lots of possibilities for this, too. It could be a nervous habit. It could be an old injury or the cost of twenty-five years of throwing as hard as he could for eight months out of the year. It, too, could be nothing. But in her mind, she saw him throwing a ball until his shoulder ached, and she heard the wind outside. It made her think of when he asked about Dacey Park in winter.
She threw the blankets back and got up, switching on the light on the nightstand. When it was cold, she slept in a soft flannel shirt and checked boxers, so she left the shirt on and slipped into jeans and boots. Downstairs, she pulled on her wool coat and snatched the car keys from the hook by the door.
The Daceys had once owned the newspaper and a charming hotel in town when both businesses were in much better financial condition. There was one Dacey left in town now, and he worked at the bank. But the park that had been built for the Calcasset Braves still carried the family name. Evvie pulled into the parking lot, and at first, she thought she might be wrong. The field lights weren’t on; it looked dark, just as it should. But then she saw his truck, tucked up against one of the outbuildings. Evvie was relieved to know where he was, and worried that he was here, and a little impressed with herself for figuring it out.
She got out of her car and walked toward the field, and as she approached the entry gate, she heard the first metal clang that she knew was the ball hitting the fence behind the catcher who, of course, wasn’t there. She took a few more steps, and there was another clang, and then she heard him say, almost matter-of-factly, “Fuck.”
She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat and passed through the gate that stood open, where someone would normally take a ticket. She got closer to the field, and another ball hit the fence, and then she was there, along the first-base line, and she saw what he’d done. He had several big, boxy flashlights, practically floodlights, that he’d set in a line between the pitcher’s mound and the plate.
He was looking the other way. She watched as he reached into a bucket for a ball. His leg kicked, and his body rotated, and the ball flew in the dark, and then clang. She took a gulp of cold air and watched as it transformed into a white puff of her breath when she said, “Hey.”
He flinched, then he turned around to face her. He was breathing hard. “What are you doing here?” His voice sharpened when he asked, “What, did you follow me?”
“I heard your truck,” she said. “Then I…guessed.” She walked down to the break in the fence and made her way out onto the field, onto the winter-nipped grass where she’d only stepped twice: once when her school band performed before a game, and once when her Girl Scout troop was part of the presentation of the national anthem. She stood close to him.
“You guessed that I was at the closed minor-league baseball park at two thirty in the morning.”
“I figured you wanted to see for yourself where they ran the cereal-box races.” She pointed toward home. “Bree fell right about…there.” He smiled, but only a little. She looked around, as if there was something to see in the dark. “I didn’t know they didn’t even lock this place in December.”
“They do. But if you ask around and you promise not to break anything, you can find the guy with the key.”
Evvie nodded slowly. “I thought you were done with all this. I thought you were moving on and everything.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. If I did, I’d have told you myself.”
“You said ‘friends.’ You said you wanted to throw out our deal. You asked me about Tim, and the money, and my dad. I’m asking why you got out of bed in the middle of the night to throw baseballs at a fence and swear.”
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Friends? That’s what you think this is? This is private, Evvie. I haven’t been able to do anything without people breathing down my neck for a year and a half. Do I look like I want to talk about this right now?”
“Did I look like I wanted to talk about my dad?”
“I came all the way up here so people wouldn’t stalk me. If I wanted to talk about pitching, I could have stayed in Manhattan. I came here so I could not explain myself, so don’t ask me to, okay? I am fine. I truly don’t want to talk about this.”
She didn’t even know that she’d expected him to be happy to see her until he wasn’t. Now, realizing that she had followed him and it was the middle of the night, the awkwardness of it crept down her spine. It felt like a kind of involuntary cloning, where a copy of herself stepped away and stared. It saw this man trying to enjoy some solitude in the middle of the night and this crazy lady who showed up in her pajamas without being invited. She could think of nothing to say except “Okay, bye,” which she suspected would result in death by human combustion, attributable to humiliation. She felt frozen in place, unable to imagine even a graceful retreat. But then she noticed he was in only a long-sleeved shirt. “Hey, shouldn’t you have a coat or something? Isn’t this bad for your arm?”
“Yeah.” He paced back and forth in front of the pitcher’s mound. And then he repeated it: “Yeah, it probably is.”
She went over and put her hand on his elbow. “How can I help?”
He looked down at her hand, then met her eyes. “You help.”
“I want to help more.”
He chuckled and gave that shoulder another rub. “Yeah. I know you do. Honestly, I can’t feel the ball anyway.” He took off his glove and stuffed it under his arm, and he bent and flexed all his fingers. “It’s like I said ab
out pitching in the cold.”
She took her hands out of her pockets and put them on his. “Yeah, wow, your hands are freezing.”
He looked down and moved just his thumbs, pressing on her hands just barely, just enough for her to be sure he was doing anything at all. And then he nodded. “Okay. Let’s go home.” They gathered up the flashlights and the baseballs, and she got into her car and he got into his truck, and he followed her right back to the house, where they said good night.
As she got back into bed, Evvie kept thinking about that phantom catcher and kept hearing the ball clang against the fence. Pitching was something he’d been doing since he was a kid. There was only so much to it; he had the same body he’d always had. The same ligaments and muscles and joints. He had the same mind; he hadn’t forgotten anything he’d once known. Something had broken, and what was broken could be fixed. That was logic.
A FEW DAYS AFTER SHE TRACKED Dean down at Dacey Park, Evvie found a therapist in Rockland named Dr. Jane Talco, whose online profile said she treated anxiety, and who looked trustworthy in her picture. To fix a head case, she figured, you’d start with a head fixer.
When Evvie got there, the doctor was standing at her desk with her back to the door, and she turned with a legal pad in her hand. She was dressed casually, with a pair of glasses pushed up on top of her head. “Hi, there.”
“Hi, I’m Eveleth Drake, I have a two thirty appointment.”
“Absolutely, come in. Sorry, I was just pushing paperwork all over my desk.” She turned and extended her hand to shake Evvie’s. “I’m Jane Talco. Have a seat.”
Evvie sank into the couch, which was a little deeper than she expected. She smiled awkwardly, examining the placid artwork and the ominous box of tissues positioned on the end table beside where she was sitting.
“So what brings you into the office today?” The sound in the room seemed deadened, like they were in a blanket fort.
She wasn’t sure how this was supposed to start. Just jump in, she supposed. “Well, I need some help. I know people always say they’re asking for a friend, but I am asking for a friend.”
The doctor cocked her head. “Asking for a friend. Okay. Tell me a little more.”
“Well, I have this friend who used to be a professional athlete. Have you ever heard of the yips?”
“Steve Sax, right?”
“Right, right. My friend got the yips. And he retired. He says that he’s fine, but I don’t think he is. I’m trying to be a good friend. I know there’s a lot of research, and I wanted some expert advice in case it’s something like anxiety and I might be able to help.”
“Oh, interesting. Can I get some background from you so I know where you’re coming from, and then we’ll talk about this more?” Dr. Talco said. Evvie wasn’t wild about this part, but she figured the fact that she wasn’t being kicked out of the office suggested it might be worth staying, so she nodded.
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Are you in a relationship?”
“No.”
“Any kids?”
“No.” Good lord. This was like talking to Nana when she was still alive, only with fewer ceramic ducks on the shelves.
“Have you ever been married?”
Evvie shifted on the couch. “I was married until a little over a year ago. My husband passed away.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dr. Talco said, scribbling on her paper. “How are you doing?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess.”
“How long were you together?”
“Since I was fifteen.”
Dr. Talco nodded slowly. “That’s a long history.”
“It is.” Evvie cleared her throat.
“So in this last year or so, have you been physically healthy? How do you do with things like sleep? Do you sleep well?”
She thought about her bottle of ZzzQuil and the dreams about Tim pacing and yelling, which showed up every couple of weeks, even now. Sometimes he was in his white coat. Once, Dean had been there. She thought about lying on her bedroom floor in the dark, and about how much she missed lying on the carpet in the apartment. “Yes,” she said, “I sleep fine.”
“How are your energy levels? Do you feel like they’re normal for you?”
“Yeah,” she said. She sat up a little straighter.
“Have you had any kind of counseling or anything like that?”
“No. I’ve had a lot of help from friends and family. That’s been all I’ve really needed.” She started to roll the edge of her sweater in her fingers. “I don’t really want to spend all my time thinking about my husband and my marriage and everything. It’s just complicated. So I’m trying to get out of my head a little. That’s why I’d like to help my friend feel better.”
“What do you mean when you say your marriage was complicated? Can you talk about that a little?”
Evvie squinted at the doctor’s diploma on the wall. “No, not really. It was regular marriage stuff.”
“Regular marriage stuff, got it,” the doctor said. “How long have you known him? Your friend with the yips?”
“He’s my tenant, actually. He rents part of my house. He moved in a couple of months ago.”
“Got it.” Dr. Talco looked at her notes. “So, let me say this.” She fiddled with the end of her pen. “Sometimes, there are people who come into my office, and they say, ‘I’m in a crisis, I need therapy.’ But it turns out they want a friend more than anything. And I explain to them that therapy is different from friendship. For one thing, friends are free. You know, ideally. So I’m not a friend.”
“Okay. Are you saying you think I want to be your friend? Because I don’t think that’s what I’m asking. I mean…no offense.”
Dr. Talco smiled. “Nope. What I’m saying is that therapists aren’t friends, and friends aren’t therapists. And that means you can’t be a therapist for your pitcher.” Dr. Talco paused to see if Eveleth would get it and seemed to conclude she wouldn’t. “If he has problems and he needs support, then you can be his friend, which it sounds like you’re doing. But if he needs a doctor, he’s going to have to get one for himself. You aren’t going to be able to give him that kind of help, as his friend, if that’s the case, no matter how much I tell you about anxiety.”
“I don’t think that’s what I was trying to do.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Believe me, you’re not the first person who’s had this same idea. People come in and want me to fix a boyfriend or a girlfriend, or a parent, or a kid. And I give them the same bottom line I’m giving you.”
“Which is what?”
“That therapy is like a toothbrush. You can’t really put it to use for anybody except yourself.”
“So wait,” Evvie said. “You’re rejecting my application for therapy?”
She could tell Dr. Jane Talco came very, very close to laughing. But she didn’t. “I am not rejecting your application. In fact, I think there’s probably a lot we can do, and it might help you more than you think. But I’d want to talk about you. Losing your husband, especially at your age, is something that I think most people need a lot of help to handle. Complicated marriage or not. It’s not a bad thing.”
The bad thing, of course, was not the fact that she might well benefit from having her head shrunk so hard that it turned inside out. But what had curled Evvie into a ball on her bed, what had kept her sobbing into the shoulders of Andy’s shirts for almost two weeks after he brought her home from the hospital, was more like a bone-deep exhaustion than the grief the doctor seemed to want to unearth. And the last thing—the very last thing—she wanted was to talk about it.
She stood up. “Thank you for the advice. I promise I’ll keep your card.”
The doctor stood up, too, and extended a hand like she was going to put it on Evvie’s
arm, but she didn’t. “Hey. Can you hang around? At least finish up the appointment? I want to help if I can.”
“I don’t think so, but thank you for listening.” Evvie picked up her bag, put on her coat, and let the door of the office latch behind her. When she got into her car, she immediately took out her phone. This was a moment to text someone and tell them about the doctor who wouldn’t listen, who turned a professional inquiry into some Barbara Walters interview intended to make Evvie cry, as if she needed another person who was obsessed with asking her about widowhood. She sat with her phone in her hand, and she listened to the beginning of a slightly crispy, sleeting rain fall on the windshield. After a few minutes, she put her phone back into her bag and started the car.
ABOUT A WEEK BEFORE CHRISTMAS, tucked inside, away from an icy wind that now and then made the window frame rattle, Dean and Evvie were stretched out in his club chairs drinking straight bourbon. They were a couple of glasses in. He was slumped down, with his long legs on the coffee table, and she was sitting sideways, her knees bent over the fat arm of the chair, feeling decidedly fuzzy-headed. “Why do they have Christmas every single year?” she asked.
“Oh, boy,” he said with a smile. “Where’s this going?”
“I think it’s a very fair question,” she said, tipping the rest of her drink into her mouth and making the little kuh! noise she always did when she swallowed liquor. “Nobody has enough time for it. Nobody wants to go through the whole…” She waved the hand without a glass in it. “I don’t think they need to have it every year.”
“How often do you think?”
“Every four years, like the Olympics.”
“The Olympics are every two years now.”
“Okay, every four years like the Winter Olympics, you lawyer.”
“So that’s your Christmas plan. If you’re a four-year-old kid, no more Christmases until third grade.”
“It’ll be good for them. Some children are horrible. These are the simple truths of Eveleth World.”