by Linda Holmes
“I was kidding.”
“So you don’t want to get back to pitching.” She turned around and sat down. Then she reached under the table with her foot and pushed out the chair opposite her.
Dean sat. “I don’t understand the question. You know what happened. It’s not a question of what I want. This is how it is now. I’m okay with it.”
She tapped the side of her mug with her fingers. “Why do you go out in the middle of the night and pitch in the cold? Why did I find you out there throwing at nothing like a crazy person? What are you doing out there?”
“Well, you found me out there because you followed me,” he told her in a tense, measured tone. “You found me out there because you got out of bed at two o’clock in the morning in your pajamas and drove around looking for me. I mean, maybe we should talk about that. You want to explain why you’re driving around in the middle of the night looking for clues like you’re on fuckin’ Murder, She Wrote?”
“I’m trying to be your friend. I’m trying to understand. You tell me you’re fine—”
“Look, sometimes it feels good to do something normal. You have a ballpark, I don’t have a job. When I got here, I didn’t know anybody except Andy. I like fields. It feels familiar, that’s all it is. You’re making too much out of it. I’m not going to be able to explain how it feels that I can’t pitch, no matter how many times you ask me.”
“What about pinecones?” she asked. “Do you like pinecones? Is that familiar?”
Again with that same look. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw you out there, picking up a pinecone off the ground and pitching it at the fence over and over until you blew it up. Do you do that everywhere? Do you walk around throwing things? Is that why you rub your shoulder? Because you can’t stop throwing at nothing until you hurt yourself?”
Dean fired back, but not quite the way she thought he might. “What’s with you and Andy? Why haven’t you been meeting up on Saturdays?”
She shook her head like she had water in her ear. “What are you—what does that have to do with anything?”
“Who knows you?” he asked.
Eveleth stared back at him. Am I going to faint? Because that would be weird. “What do you mean, ‘who knows you’?”
“You want to be my friend, you want to ask me about things you saw when I didn’t know you were looking, but who knows you? I don’t. Andy doesn’t, your dad doesn’t. I’m thinking your husband didn’t. I live in your house, and you say we’re friends, but I don’t think I have the first fucking clue what’s going on with you. Now you want to quiz me about what happens in the middle of the night? Forget it. You want me to deal with my shit, you know what I say? You first.”
She felt her pulse in her head. She looked down at her cup and saw that the fingers resting on its handle were shaking. She stood up and walked over to the upper row of cabinets. She swung one open and took out one of the china plates with the little yellow flowers. The ones that looked like they’d be at home in a dollhouse. She turned back to Dean and held it vertically so he could see it.
“It’s a plate. What?”
She lifted the plate until it was about even with her forehead, then, without taking her eyes off him, she opened her hand and let it fall. Time seemed to catch for an instant, the way a word catches in your throat before you say it. But when the plate hit the ground, it exploded with a percussive glee.
Dean jumped in his seat. “What the fuck?”
“I live here,” she said. “Right? I live here. My dishes. That’s what you said. You said if I don’t want them, I should get new ones.” She turned back to the cabinet and took out a cereal bowl. This time, she didn’t drop it—she flung it at the tile floor, where the pieces broke harder, skittered farther.
He didn’t say anything. He just stared.
She took down another plate. Used both hands. For some reason, when this one hit the ground, it didn’t break. She threw it right—threw it wrong—and it landed flat, and it survived. She bent down, picked it up, and looked at him.
“I get it,” he said, holding up one hand. “You don’t have to break them. I get it.”
She pulled her arm back and plowed the plate into the side of the kitchen table, where most of it broke away, leaving her holding a piece in her hand. She dropped it on the growing pile by her feet.
“Eveleth, Jesus,” Dean said, standing up and pushing his chair back from the table.
She turned around and took the rest of the plates—the other six—down in a stack, which she set on the counter. She broke them, one by one, smashing some against the counter or the table before letting them land on the kitchen floor, and Dean stood and watched with his arms folded. She threw one while she thought about the time Tim called her an idiot when she couldn’t find her keys, and the bits of it slid and skidded across the kitchen floor until they were under the refrigerator and beside the dishwasher.
When they were all dashed to pieces—every plate she’d ever eaten dinner on at nine thirty at night after she’d given up on Tim coming home, every plate she’d put in front of him for his birthday breakfast with a candle in a stack of French toast—she stopped. She was hot and dizzy and her heart was pounding, and Dean was still silent. Then he walked toward her, kicking broken dishes out of the way, clearing himself a path to where she was standing. He got right next to her, until she recognized the smell of his laundry detergent.
He reached behind her, over her shoulder, and she wondered if she was about to feel his hand on the back of her neck. Fortunately, before she could close her eyes or otherwise behave like a person transparently hoping to be kissed, she saw that he’d pulled down a bowl, which he finished off with a snap of his wrist—a snap that had once been worth many millions of dollars a year.
In a movie, they’d have wound up laughing, and maybe even tickling each other. There would have been joy in it. But they just stood by her sink and smashed eight dinner plates, eight cereal bowls, and eight salad plates. When he handed her that last plate, she held it straight out in front of her, almost reverently, and she uncurled her fingers and just let the weight of it not rest in her hand anymore. The plate broke into such little pieces on the floor that it stopped being. The sound crested and stopped, and then they were alone together, standing on a little tile island in a sea of broken yellow flowers. She lifted her left hand to push a scraggle of hair away from her pink face, and he cringed. “Ah, you’re hurt.”
It wasn’t a surprise that surrounding herself with shards of broken dishes had given her a cut between two of her fingers. It was more surprising to confirm, as she turned her hands over, front and back, that there wasn’t more blood. She ran her hand under cold water and washed it, and Dean got a clean paper towel and pressed it to the cut. “I’ve got it,” Evvie said, taking over, but he put his hand on top of hers.
“Make sure you press down,” he said. “It’ll stop.”
He was so tall that she should have anticipated the sheer size of his hand, but how stumpy her fingers looked under his made her chuckle. “You have paws like a Great Dane puppy,” she murmured.
“Yeah. You know, they still do some things well,” he said.
She looked up at him. There was a little scar over his eyebrow. Almost definitely, she figured, it was the result of having been hit with a ball. A cut must have opened up. Maybe he had been little, like she’d been when she fell on a piece of glass and got four stitches in her knee. Maybe not. For as long as it took to blink, she could see herself in her mind, fastening a bandage over his eye.
He peeked under the paper at the cut. “I think you’re going to live.”
Evvie kept looking at his hands, and she slid her eyes up his arm to his shoulder. In there somewhere. In there somewhere, was the answer. “You should teach me how to pitch,” she said.
He laughed. “What?”
“What for?”
“So I’ll know how it feels to pitch.”
“What for?” he repeated.
She shrugged. “So I’ll know how it feels not to pitch.”
He nodded slowly. “But you know that I can’t actually pitch myself. You know that’s sort of my thing.”
“I know. But you can teach me how to.”
“How good are you trying to get?”
“Let’s say…to where I wouldn’t be laughed off a Little League field.”
Dean squinted. “What age group?”
She thought for a minute. “Twelve-year-olds.”
“They’re pretty good by the time they’re twelve,” he cautioned. “Don’t overcommit.”
“I want to learn.”
He smiled, just a little. “Okay. You want to start now? I assume you’re a righty, so that hand won’t be a problem.”
“No, just someday. I have stuff to do today.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Anything good?”
She leaned on the sink. “Clean the kitchen and shop for dishes.”
ONE THURSDAY IN EARLY APRIL, Evvie was up in the bedroom packing away her winter sweaters when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw Andy’s picture with a text: Can we do Saturday breakfast? Sorry we’ve been missing each other. Lots going on, but it would be great to see you. Relief instantly lowered her shoulders an inch.
Ever since they’d talked about the night that Tim died, he’d felt far away. He had this new girlfriend, he had kids, he was busy, he had work. But she couldn’t quite convince herself he wasn’t angry that she had let him try to soothe, for weeks and for months, an injury she didn’t exactly have. She’d seen him a few times, and it had been distressingly cordial. She’d pulled out her phone to text him over and over, but she hadn’t.
When a few minutes had passed, she reached into her pocket again for the phone. Hey!! Great to hear from you. I’d love that, yes. Been missing you a lot.
She heard back right away: Me too! OK if Monica joins?
She assured him that this was fine, and that she was looking forward to it, which she didn’t quite mean.
She took out her phone again and texted Dean. The good news is I’m having breakfast w/Andy on Saturday.
He came back: & the bad news?
And before she could answer, her phone vibrated again. Bringing the gf?
She sent him back the emoji with the tense, grimacing mouthful of teeth. The one she always thought of as Mr. Okaaaaay.
Still glad you’re going, he answered. It’ll be ok. She’s great. Promise.
She sent him a yellow heart. All the hearts were different to her, shaded and pleasantly oblique and sent in a language only she spoke—which maybe meant it wasn’t a language, just a diary hiding in plain sight. The yellow heart was for gratitude.
* * *
—
Evvie got to breakfast first on Saturday, and it was finally getting to be spring, so she sat at their table with her coffee and turned her face toward the big window with her eyes shut, letting her cheeks get warm in the sun. She turned at the sound of Andy laughing as he guided Monica into the booth across from her. “Hey, sorry we’re running late,” he said.
“No problem at all,” Evvie said. “It’s good to see you.”
“You, too,” Monica said with a smile. “I appreciate your letting me barge in on your tradition. I know it’s a special thing.”
“Hey, I’m glad Andy could make the time.” No, no, no, that’s not what I meant to say. “The more the merrier,” she added, which didn’t sound right either. This made her 0-for-2. “I recommend the blueberry pancakes, even though Andy is a sucker for the ham and cheese omelet.”
“Oh, believe me, I know,” Monica said.
Just then, Marnie came by the table. She set down a cup with a teabag in it and a little pot of hot water in front of Monica. “Good to see all of you here together!” Marnie said. “Food order’s in for all of you, be a few minutes,” she said as she filled Andy’s coffee cup.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d been coming here, that was dumb,” Evvie said, straightening the napkin in her lap. Andy was looking at his phone.
“Andy’s a creature of habit,” Monica put in on his behalf. “I wanted to tell you, by the way, we drove by your house the other day and I couldn’t stop talking about how great-looking it is. I think your porch is glorious.”
Eveleth laughed. “That’s very nice of you. You should come sit on it sometime.” She squinted. “That came out weird.”
“No, not at all. Please come sit on mine, too, although it’s considerably less attractive.” Andy reached over and threaded his fingers through Monica’s.
“How’ve you been, Ev?” he asked.
She reached for that rope. Really reached for it. “I’ve been good. I finally watched some of The Americans, by the way.”
He smiled. “Was I right about it?”
“You were, you were.” Evvie nodded slowly.
“You don’t think it’s ‘propaganda’?” he asked, his eyes flickering over to Monica’s.
“Oh my God,” Monica broke in, rolling her eyes, “I’m sorry I didn’t like your show. Talk to Evvie. She liked it.” She playfully yanked her hand away, but Andy kissed it and then pulled it, clasped in his, somewhere under the table. “He is a baby about television.”
Eveleth smiled. “I know. How are the girls?”
“Ah, they’re good,” Andy said. “Their mom is marrying Fred, by the way.”
“Holy shit,” Eveleth muttered. “She’s finally marrying him?”
“Fortunately, the girls like him all right these days. It would be way dicier if they didn’t. It’s one of the reasons we waited a couple months before they met this one.” He tipped his head to the side.
“Oh, so you have been getting to know them,” she said to Monica.
“I have,” Monica said. “They’re great. But you know that better than I do. They’re not happy it’s been so long since they got to spend time with you.” Her eyes flicked toward Andy, and his answered, a little.
A couple more silences, a couple more volleys of nothing, and Marnie brought the food—Eveleth’s pancakes, Andy’s omelet, and something for Monica that looked like a veggie scramble. She did seem like a veggie scramble kind of person—very sensible. Very healthy. Not some cottage-cheese showoff, just a person who was more grown-up than anyone at the table who might be eating, for instance, pancakes.
They ate and talked: Eveleth and Monica talked, and Monica and Andy talked. And when most of the food was gone, Monica excused herself. “I’ll be right back,” she said, bumping Andy’s shoulder so he’d get up and let her out of the booth. When she was gone, Evvie picked at a blueberry on the edge of her plate. “She seems amazing.” She rested her chin on her hand and looked at him. “It’s good?”
He smiled. “It’s so good, Ev. I mean, it’s still early. But yeah, she’s great, I’m happy. And I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I’ve been, you know. I’m trying to be a good boyfriend. Weekends are busy, it’s been a lot. I felt bad. I was afraid you’d think I was upset about the thing we talked about at your house, about the suitcase and everything.”
Evvie felt her cheeks get pink. “I wondered, yeah.”
“I’m sorry. I admit it blew my mind a little bit. I don’t know.”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” she said. He laughed nervously, with one narrow strip of his voice, and Evvie felt so sharply the distance that had opened that there was a stinging in her eyes and her throat got slightly tight and, just, no. She coughed instead. “Dean’s going to teach me how to pitch.”
“Oh, really?” Andy laughed. “It seems like you guys are having fun.”
She knew it was an opening; the right time to talk about the go sign and the dishes. But those things, for now, were her only secret that faced forward instead of backward. If she told, it would shatter the slight mischief of it, like drinking bourbon from a coffee mug. Besides, she couldn’t think of a single thing he could say in response—go for it, be careful, tell me everything—that she’d know how to answer. So she said, “You were right; it’s nice to have the company. It keeps me from sitting around by myself.”
“Just don’t try to fix him. I know how you are.”
“How am I?”
“You’re very…caring. Literally. You took care of your dad, you took care of Tim, you took care of me when Lori left. I just don’t want you to take in strays for the rest of your life. You’re the kind of person who winds up with a two-legged dog that you pull around in a cart.”
“That’s not a kind of person.”
“It’s absolutely a kind of person. It’s a person who ends up running a doll hospital and putting tiny little toothpick splints on birds with broken legs.”
“Well, I promise I will not open a doll hospital.”
“What do you think you do want to do?”
She put a strand of hair behind her ear. “Work. Or maybe school. I don’t know. I’m thinking about it. Nona’s been sending me messages; she’s got a new book. You know how much I love to work with her.”
“That would be fantastic,” Andy said, sitting up. “I just think you should have something.” She could see the precise moment he heard himself say it. “I don’t mean you don’t now. I mean something that would be fun and great and different.” They looked at each other.
At that moment, Monica appeared beside the booth and pushed on Andy’s shoulder, so he scooted in to make room, still looking at Eveleth, still wondering exactly what had happened. “Did I miss anything?” Monica asked.
“Nope,” Eveleth said. She picked up the check that Marnie had slipped onto the table and stood up. “I’m going to get this. It was great to see you guys, though.”