Fast-Pitch Love

by Clay Cormany

  Chapter Forty-three

  At about two p.m. the following Saturday, Jace stood on the doorstep of the Ealy home, his index finger poised above the doorbell. On the drive over, he spent a lot of time thinking about Stephanie and Sylvia — mostly Sylvia. He considered asking her to come with him. After all, her nine-one-one call helped save Carson’s life as much as the CPR. But recalling that Sylvia and Carson didn’t like each other, he decided against it.

  Jace noticed Carson's faded red convertible in the driveway and realized he still didn’t like the guy either. So what if he saved his life? That didn’t make them bosom buddies. He pressed the doorbell and heard a muffled chime followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Jace guessed Mrs. Ealy would be large, like her son, but the woman who opened the door was not much more than five feet. "Hi," he said. "I’m Jace Waldron."

  "I’m Lorraine Ealy," said the woman, smiling. "It’s so nice to meet you in person, Jace. Come on in."

  Jace stepped inside and followed Mrs. Ealy through a short hallway and into the living room. Except for being rather small, the living room looked pretty much like any other. There was a fireplace with a mantel and a green sofa with a magazine rack on one side. Across from the sofa was an entertainment center with a television and VCR. A lounge chair, floor lamp, and china cabinet completed the living room furnishings. It seemed ordinary in every way except one — the walls were covered with photographs. Some appeared to be rather old; a few were even in black and white. But all were framed, hung, and aligned. Not one was tilted even slightly, and the spacing that separated each photo from its neighbor appeared to be calculated with mathematical precision.

  His interest in history drew Jace to the black-and-white photos. The first one he viewed showed a bespectacled man in his twenties wearing a World War II-era army uniform with propellers on the lapels. Sensing his interest, Mrs. Ealy came to his side. "That’s my father," she said. "He served in the air corps during World War II."

  Jace nodded. "I recognize the uniform," he said. "My grandfather was also in the air corps." He moved his eyes to another black-and-white photo. This one showed Mrs. Ealy’s father, casually dressed, sitting at a table with a woman whose dark hair was styled in the puffed-up swirls that were popular with women in the nineteen forties.

  "That’s my dad and mom at a restaurant they went to after getting engaged," Mrs. Ealy said. She pointed to a third black-and-white photo. "And there they are on their wedding day."

  "These photos remind me of my grandparents," Jace said. "Same type of clothes and hairstyle."

  The whole wall resembled a photo album — a family tree on plaster. Jace’s eyes darted ahead and fell upon a color photo of a tall man holding a little boy. He guessed the little boy was Carson and the man was … "Carson’s father," Mrs. Ealy said, answering his question before he asked it. He was a foreman for a construction company."

  "I can see where Carson gets his size," said Jace.

  Mrs. Ealy nodded. "Sad to say, there aren’t that many pictures of him with his dad. Bill died of lung cancer just after Carson turned seven."

  "I’m sorry."

  Mrs. Ealy pursed her lips together, as if recalling the pain of her loss. "I wish I could blame cigarettes, but the fact is Bill never smoked one his whole life. It was just one of those things."

  Jace scanned some of the other color photographs that followed, hoping to find something in them that would allow him to change the subject. Many were of Carson, and though his age varied from one to the next, nearly all showed him wearing some kind of sports uniform. Baseball, basketball, soccer, and of course football — he apparently tried them all. One even showed him holding a lacrosse stick.

  "I guess Carson’s been a good athlete his whole life," said Jace.

  "Yes," Mrs. Ealy replied. "He’s always been bigger than other kids his age, so it was natural for him to be interested in sports."

  She paused, as if speaking suddenly became difficult for her. When she resumed, her voice seemed strained, and tears welled in her eyes.

  "Three colleges were on the verge of offering him football scholarships. Three colleges where he could have continued playing the game he loves so much. And then this. What did the doctors call it?" She fell silent for a moment as she tried to remember the words.

  "Oh yes — 'a cardiac rhythm disturbance resulting in anoxic brain injury.'" She spat out the words as if they were poison. "My son's played dozens of games without anything worse than a few bruises. He’s been through physical exams and x-rays and EKGs and nothing gave the slightest hint of anything being wrong with him. It’s like a bolt of lightning struck him on a clear day."

  Jace bit his lip before he spoke. "Mrs. Ealy," he said. "I’m afraid the bolt of lightning was me."

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "I mean the whole idea of having a race before our fight was mine. If Carson hadn’t been trying so hard to finish the two miles, he might still be okay."

  Mrs. Ealy shook her head. "That’s not true, Jace. The doctors said this heart disturbance would have happened sooner or later. It was like a ticking time bomb inside his body. It wasn’t a question of if it would explode but when. And if you hadn’t been there…"

  Mrs. Ealy let her voice trail off. Jace remained silent. He felt certain that anything he said would add to her anguish. Fortunately, she changed the subject this time.

  "Where did you learn CPR?"

  "My sister needed to learn it for a Girl Scout badge in first aid," he answered. "We practiced it together so much that I kind of learned it along with her."

  Mrs. Ealy put a finger on her chin, as if remembering something. "Oh, I meant to ask you, would you like some pop or maybe iced tea or lemonade?"

  The question made Jace realize how dry his mouth felt. Stress did that — made a guy feel parched even if he didn't move a muscle.

  "Just a glass of water, please," he answered.

  Mrs. Ealy went into the kitchen, which adjoined the photo-filled living room. While she was gone, Jace swept his eyes across the photos one more time. It had been so easy to put down Carson. He was a moron, a Neanderthal, a monster — a cross between King Kong and Homer Simpson. But now the photos changed everything. There was nothing surprising about them. He knew Carson had parents and grandparents, and had once been a little boy. But somehow the photos made those basic facts meaningful, gave them flesh, blood, and feeling. Somehow, they made Carson more than just another dumb jock.

  Mrs. Ealy returned carrying a large glass of water with several ice cubes floating on top.

  "Here you are," she said, handing the glass to him.

  "Thanks." He took the water and gulped it down. The cool liquid felt soothing as it flowed across his tongue and down his throat. He emptied the glass and handed it back to Mrs. Ealy. She took it and breathed deeply. For a moment, she seemed lost in thought, as if weighing the impact her next words would have.

  "Would you like to see Carson?"

  Ten minutes ago he might have recoiled at that question, but now...

  "Okay."

  They went through the kitchen and down a hallway that also had photographs on the walls along with one or two framed paintings. She stopped in front of a door that stood slightly ajar and knocked.

  "Sweetheart, you have a visitor."

  From inside the room came a squeaking sound of wheels moving. "All right," a voice responded. It was Carson’s voice, of course, but it sounded as if he were far away.

  Mrs. Ealy looked at Jace. "Go right on in."

  Jace hoped his host would come with him, but the instant he put his hand on the doorknob, she started back down the hallway toward the kitchen. He hesitated for just a second and then went inside.

  ****

  In the center of the room was an unmade bed with a large blown-up photo hanging above the headboard. It showed Carson, his blue-and-white football jersey stained with mud, bulldozing into an opposing player. On the walls surrounding the bed were fram
ed clippings from the Ridgeview News and the Ram Courier, all trumpeting Carson’s gridiron glories. "Sophomore lineman saves game with QB sack" read one. "Ealy named to all-conference first team" read another.

  To the right of the bed stood a patched-up bean bag chair and a large dresser with miniature NFL helmets strung above it on the wall. On the dresser’s surface were several football team photos flanked by bobbleheads of Troy Aikman, Reggie White, Howie Long, Lawrence Taylor, and other big-name players. Among these items were a pair of sunglasses, some loose change, and a folded piece of paper. Two large barbells lay at the base of the dresser, surrounded by clumps of dirty clothes that looked like miniature forts.

  On the left side of the bed was a nightstand with a lamp and a clock radio, and in front of the stand, Carson sat in a wheelchair with a pillow behind his head. He wore a red robe with a t-shirt underneath. In his lap lay a scuffed-up pee-wee football. Even impaired, he still made a formidable sight with his long muscular legs extended and his well-defined chest that looked as solid as stone. But his face betrayed his struggles over the last several days. Carson's skin was pasty, and dark rings hung under his eyes. His hair was unkempt and a stubbly beard ran from one ear to the other. He stared at Jace for a minute or more without speaking, and during that interval, Jace tried to get a sense of what the big guy felt. Suspicion? Jealousy? Resignation? Perhaps all three.

  "What are you doing here, Waldron?" Carson asked.

  "Your mom invited me over."

  "Why?"

  "I’m not sure. Maybe to thank me for saving your life."

  "Hmph," he snorted. "Sounds like something she’d do. Well, you’ll get no thanks from me."

  "Should I have let you die out on that track?"

  "Maybe you should have. I’m as good as dead now anyway."

  "That’s crazy. You’ve got a good chance to walk again."

  "Walk again? Walk again?" Carson wasn’t shouting and yet somehow the room seemed filled with his voice. "Oh that will make everything better, won’t it? Those colleges begging me to play football, they’ll just come crawling on their hands and knees once I can walk again." Carson’s voice dripped with bitterness, but something told Jace it wasn’t aimed at him.

  "Go read that letter over there," Carson said, pointing to the piece of paper that leaned against a framed photo of last year’s Ridgeview High School football team. Jace picked up the letter and read it.

  Dear Carson:

  I hope this letter finds you on the road to recovery from your recent accident.

  Strange choice of words, thought Jace before he continued reading.

  However, it is my understanding that the accident resulted in you losing, at least temporarily, the use of your legs. Given the delicate and uncertain nature of your health, and the likelihood that you will miss your final season of high school competition, I cannot hold out much hope that my college will be able to offer you a football scholarship. I say this with regret, as you were a player of great promise.

  If your physical condition improves to the point where you think you might be able to play football again, please let me know and I will arrange for our team physician to give you a physical and make an assessment of your fitness for playing.

  I wish you a speedy recovery and a successful senior year at Ridgeview High.

  Sincerely,

  Walt Sheridan

  Athletic Director

  Jace put the letter back on the dresser.

  "That’s just the first one," said Carson, scowling. "The others will be close behind."

  "I’m sorry," Jace said. "But there’s more to life than playing sports."

  "Easy for you to say," Carson retorted. "Are you planning to get into college on some kind of cross-country scholarship?"

  "No."

  "So you don’t know what you’re talking about, do you?"

  "I guess not." Jace realized it was useless to argue with Carson, and it was just as useless to stay in this room and add to his misery. "Sorry I bothered you," he said, moving toward the door. His hand grabbed the knob and had the door half-open when Carson’s voice rang out once more.

  "Got a date with Stephanie tonight?"

  Jace knew the bitterness was directed at him this time. He remained facing the door for a moment. Then he pivoted around and stepped toward the chair-ridden athlete. Carson glared at him, his face a mask of anger and frustration. Before Jace could react, Carson grabbed the pee-wee football and hurled it through the air. It plowed into the bobbleheads like an artillery shell, sending them flying in every direction. Troy Aikman’s head hit Jace in the leg and then spun around on the floor like a detached propeller. When it stopped, Jace picked it up and twirled it with his fingers. Then he looked at Carson.

  "I haven’t even seen Stephanie in two weeks, much less taken her out."

  "I don’t believe you."

  Jace shrugged. "I don’t care what you believe. It’s still true."

  The bitterness on Carson’s face began to be replaced by puzzlement. He opened his mouth, but no words came out right away. Finally, he asked, "Why not?"

  Jace answered quickly. "Because I don’t think I want to go out with her anymore. I’d rather go out with her sister."

  If Jace sprouted wings and flew out the window, Carson could not have looked more stunned than he did now. Again his mouth opened, but several seconds passed before he spoke.

  "You’d rather go out with Sylvia? You must be crazy, Waldron! Why Steph’s so much –"

  Carson stopped mid-sentence and for a moment seemed lost in thought. "Come to think of it, Sylvia did look pretty good there at the stadium. Still, she’s not in Steph’s league. No girl around here is. But if you don’t want to go out with her anymore, then why did we run that stupid race?"

  "Because you challenged me — remember? And there was no way I could back down. I knew I couldn’t beat you in a brawl. You’re twice my size. The only thing I could do was try to wear you out in that footrace before the fight."

  "Not a bad idea," Carson replied. "We never run more than a mile in football practice."

  "That’s what I figured." Jace paused. "There’s more to it than that, though. I just don’t think Stephanie and I are cut out for each other."

  The dumbfounded look, which had faded from Carson’s face, returned.

  "What do you mean you’re not cut out for each other?" he blurted, staring at Jace. "She’s the best-looking babe in the whole school."

  "Yeah, she is," Jace answered, frustrated by Carson’s one-dimensional view of Stephanie. "But I need more than that."

  "Like what?"

  "Like someone who enjoys the same things that I do, who wants the same things in life, and who spends time with me because she cares about me — not because of who I am."

  Carson continued to stare at him, and Jace wondered if maybe for the first time in his life, the big football player was making a genuine effort to understand someone else’s point of view.

  "And it works the other way, too," Jace went on. "I want to make my girlfriend’s life happy, too. I want to help her get rid of her problems and make her dreams come true."

  "Sounds like a stupid fairy tale," said Carson.

  "I guess it does," Jace admitted. "But even if it doesn’t turn out the way you want, you can still grow closer together just by trying to make it happen."

  "In my case, it doesn’t make any difference," Carson lamented. "No girl is going to want to go out with me now that I’m a cripple."

  "But that’s my whole point. If a girl didn’t like you because you were crip — in a wheelchair why would you want to go out with her? Why would you spend even ten seconds with anyone who felt that way about you?"

  Carson remained silent, and Jace wasn’t sure if the big football player didn’t know how to respond or just didn’t want to. He held up Troy Aikman’s detached head for Carson to see.

  "That was a nice throw. Maybe you should’ve been a quarterback."

  "No way. I used to eat qu
arterbacks for dinner," Carson snarled. Then his chin fell to his chest, and his shoulders drooped. "But I guess they don’t have to worry about me anymore."

  "Don’t think about quarterbacks or about Stephanie or even college right now," Jace said. "Just get better."

  "Easier said than done," Carson replied.

  "But you’ll do it," Jace said, as he pulled the door open again. "Good luck."

  Just before he left, Jace tossed the little head back onto the dresser. It rolled over the letter from Mr. Sheridan and came to rest against a photo of Carson holding a trophy in one hand and giving the number one sign with the other. He closed the door behind him and headed down the hallway, glancing at the photos on the wall one more time.

  Jace passed through the kitchen and went into the living room, where Mrs. Ealy sat on the sofa, reading a magazine.

  "Thank you for inviting me over," he said, pausing by the front door. "I’m glad I came."

  "I am, too," said Mrs. Ealy, rising to join him at the door. There was an inquisitive expression on her face, and Jace realized that she probably hoped to get some kind of feedback on his visit with her son.

  "I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Ealy. Carson and I will never be close friends," Jace said. "But I don’t think we’ll be enemies anymore."

  "Good."

  "And now I better be off. There’s somewhere else I need to go."

  Mrs. Ealy moved forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you," she said.

  Chapter Forty-four

  As he stared at the oscillating lawn sprinkler on the Thornapples’ front yard, Jace tried to make sense of his thoughts and feelings. He knew he was at the end of his journey with Stephanie and, he hoped, about to embark on a new one with Sylvia. He felt at peace about his choice. It boiled down to one simple fact: he enjoyed being with Sylvia more than Stephanie. Sylvia put him at ease, made him feel confident, relaxed, and happy. With Sylvia, he had nothing to prove. With Stephanie, something always went wrong. Maybe it was just bad luck, but she also made him feel uncomfortable and unbalanced. And no wonder. To Stephanie, he was an escape route from Carson.