Out of Left Field

by Liza Ketchum

  Phone call: Cat in Baddeck, to Quinn on Digby Neck

  Hey, Quinn. You alone?

  Good. Remember that photo I told you about? When I taped it up last night, I found something written on the back. Mum’s handwriting. “P + V,” it says.

  You know, like you put on your notebook in junior high when you liked somebody?

  Okay, so it’s not a guy thing. Mum also wrote: “Halifax. Feb. ’76.”

  I’m not trying to “prove” anything—except that the guy is definitely not Dad.

  Quinn, Mum and this guy are not “just friends.” Mum’s looking at him the way you used to gawk at Racquelle—

  Okay, okay! I’ll never say her name again!

  Yes, 1976. I’m sure. Why?

  What do you mean, “do the math”?

  (Long silence.)

  Oh.

  (Long silence.)

  Shit, Quinn. That’s—

  God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think…

  Course I’ll send the photo. But maybe we should forget about it.

  Don’t hate me, Quinn.

  Quinn—you there?

  Manny Being Manny

  I scroll through names on my cell as I head downstairs, and push the Cora button. Uncle Leo answers on the first ring.

  “Brandon! How are you?”

  “Okay.” No one wants an honest answer to that question, even my favorite—and only—uncle. “Aunt Cora home?”

  “She’s teaching her Improv class at the community center. You could try her cell when she’s done, around seven. Any message?”

  “Just tell her I called. She been home today?”

  “Doesn’t look like it. What’s up?”

  “Nothing much. Gotta run.” I hate to B.S. Uncle Leo. He’s a good guy—never once offered himself up as a substitute dad. Marty calls him a mensch; rare praise. I check my phone. Not quite six. If Aunt Cora had seen her mail, Uncle Leo would have said something. I need to see her reaction.

  The trolley crawls toward me, so packed with fans the door barely closes. Damn—I forgot about the second Sox game. If Dad were here, he’d get into conversation with the fan wearing a Nomar shirt. They’d talk about this afternoon’s game, be best friends by the time we reach Kenmore. I stay quiet. The AC is broken and the car reeks of sweat. A preppy kid wearing a Stop the War button knocks into me. A guy with his Sox cap on backwards reads the Boston Herald as the train lurches forward. The headline screams about more American deaths in Iraq.

  Crap. Some of those dead soldiers must have kids. Are they cut off from reality, too? Last week the school counselor called me at home, asked if I’d like to speak to a “grief therapist,” or join some “grief support group.” She even talked about “the five stages of grief.” Like that was supposed to be comforting? And who would come into an empty school building in the summer? I was rude when I turned her down.

  No seats on the Orange Line, but at least I can breathe. The community center is a few blocks from the T stop. Dad and I came here last fall to pick Cora up, but I’ve never been inside. A Latina woman in the lobby peers at me over gold-rimmed glasses. “Too late to go in,” she says, when I ask for the Improv class.

  “That’s all right—I’m meeting my aunt, Cora McGinnis. I’ll wait outside.”

  Liar. The receptionist takes a phone call and the sound of voices lures me down the hall. I slip into the crowd at the back of the room. All eyes are on Cora and a boy in the middle of the circle. My aunt’s got a wooden block in her hand. She shoves it at the kid. “Come on,” she says. “It’s a beauty. Check it out.”

  The kid shifts from side to side, then yanks up his baggy pants before they slide off his hips. “I dunno,” he mumbles. He wears a do-rag like Manny’s to keep his dreads under wraps, and a Ramirez T-shirt. For a second my mind plays its cruel trick as a baseball conversation starts in my head.

  Dad: Get a load of that miniature Ramirez, will you?

  Me: What’s with Manny’s red shoes?

  Dad: It’s just Manny being Manny—

  Cut. I grit my teeth, focus on Cora. In full swagger mode, she points the block at the kid as if it were a gun. It’s the block shaped like a half arch. You can call it a gun if you’re desperate. Which Marty and I were, since weapons were forbidden at my house and his—even squirt guns. We made great Lego weapons when the grownups left us alone.

  Cora circles the kid. “What’s the matter—you chicken? The piece isn’t even loaded. How you going to be in our gang if you won’t touch a piece?”

  Now that is funny. Cora is a middle-aged piece herself, with her auburn hair, purple glasses, and skin-tight blouse. The kid reaches for the block and a man’s deep voice booms, “Hold it!”

  Aunt Cora and the boy freeze. A burly black guy with a crisp goatee steps from the back of the room. “What should Lionel do?” he asks.

  Hands shoot up. Aunt Cora glances around the room. She catches my eye but doesn’t blink. A wiry little girl with her hair in cornrows yells, “He should sass Cora, then go on home.”

  The black guy beckons to her. “Show us, Kadisha.”

  Kadisha strides into the circle and sets her fists on her skinny waist. “Don’t take that gun,” she warns. “Yo’ Mama be ma-aad wit you.”

  I swallow a laugh. I bet no one messes with Kadisha.

  Another boy raises his hand. “His friends gonna call him a sissy,” he calls out.

  “Show us,” the tall man says.

  The boy scrambles to his feet, grabs the block gun from Cora, and taunts the first kid, shoving the butt end at his face. “Yellow coward!”

  Aunt Cora steps aside. She gives me another quick look but she’s still a tough girl from the street who might have a knife hidden away. The improv goes on. Everyone cheers when Kadisha and the first boy turn on the second kid, jeering until he gives the block gun to Cora, handle end first, and slouches away.

  Class dismissed. Aunt Cora hurries over, grabs me around the neck, plants a smoochy kiss on my cheek. “Brandon! What are you doing here?” She beckons to the goatee dude. “Maurice: my nephew, Brandon McGinnis.”

  Maurice shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. Heard good things about you from Cora.” He touches my shoulder, quick and easy. “Sorry about your dad. I know it’s hard on you and your aunt.”

  “Thanks.” God, there’s sympathy everywhere. People mean well. But still…

  “What brings you here?” Maurice asks. “You an actor, too?”

  “I was in a school play once.” I catch Cora’s eye and we both laugh. “I was a mouse who slept in the corner.”

  Maurice raises his eyebrows. “Never too late to start. I’m sure you two need to catch up. Come early next time. We’ll pull you into the act.”

  “I’d never have Kadisha’s nerve.”

  Cora tucks her arm through mine when we’re out on the street. “This is a nice surprise,” she says. “What’s the occasion?”

  So she doesn’t know. “I need to show you something.” I take a deep breath. “Where can we talk?”

  She stands still a minute, thinking. “You hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Great. I know just the place.”

  *

  Aunt Cora’s favorite Greek restaurant is cool and quiet, with no TV, so no Sox distractions. Cora has called Leo, told him she has a hot date and he should fix his own supper. I’ve left a message on Mom’s cell. We order Greek salads, sodas, garlic bread. I pull the letter from my pocket. “You get one of these?”

  She shakes her head. “Looks official.”

  “It’s about Dad’s will. You’ll have one waiting at home.”

  She skims it. “This is pretty standard, Bran. It must sting, to see it in black and white—”

  I pick up my soda, set it down when the ice cubes start jiggling. “Check out Dad’s guest list. Notice anything odd?”

  “Guest list?” She squints, gasps. “Patrick McGinnis—Junior?” Her green eyes are intense. “What does this mean?”

 
; “Who knows?” I’m quiet while the waiter sets down our salads. “Sounds like Dad had a kid up there. Maybe I have a brother…or a half brother.” I take a deep breath.

  “And I could have another nephew?” Cora leans back against the banquette. “Bran, this will sound strange—but it could be wonderful.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” She blows her nose on her napkin. “It could mean there’s another piece of your father somewhere.”

  This is too weird. “So I’m ‘a piece’ of him, too?” If only I could bolt. The booth hems me in. “This isn’t turning out like I thought.”

  “I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.” Aunt Cora squeezes my hand. “You must feel…well—” She takes a deep breath. “Here’s the improv teacher telling the actor how he feels. I’ll start over. How do you feel?”

  My knee bounces under the table, spilling our sodas. “Confused. Betrayed. Pissed off.” I scrub the spill with my napkin, as if I could wipe away the bad news.

  Cora hugs herself. “It’s not like Pat to keep something this big a secret. Maybe it was news to him and he meant to tell you. After all—he wasn’t planning to die.”

  “Unless—”

  “You think he had a premonition?”

  “I don’t know if I believe that stuff. But according to Mom, there’s no mention of this—this Patrick ‘Junior’—in the will she has at home.”

  She frowns. “Pat wrote a new one?”

  “Apparently. And never told Mom.”

  “That’s terrible.” Cora steals a napkin from the next table and blows her nose again. “Has Margaret called the lawyer?”

  “Tomorrow. It was after hours when she got home.” I dig into my salad. I’m famished for the first time in days. The feta—salty and sharp—tastes great. I even gobble three slices of their crummy white bread. “You had no clue.”

  “None.” Cora gives me a sad smile. “I’m curious why we’re named in his will. Pat didn’t have much to give away, except his time and energy.”

  “And plenty of debt, according to Mom.” I stab the last olive.

  “Maybe he won the lottery and never told you. That’s the sort of secret my brother would keep. He could have been a Jesuit priest.”

  “Whoa.” I set my fork down. “Seriously?”

  “Not really. But your dad is—” She colors up. “God, I can’t stop doing that. He was such a decent man.”

  “Yeah. Did you ever think: if he hadn’t been so good, maybe he’d still be alive?”

  “It crossed my mind,” she says. “At his age, he could have cut back on night call for Social Services. But he wouldn’t abandon a family in crisis in the middle of the night. He was almost too good for this world. It’s why he couldn’t fight in a war.”

  “Guess he wasn’t as perfect as we thought.” I focus on my salad. I refuse to cry in public. When I can talk again, I say, “We need to find him.”

  “Who?”

  “The other Patrick.”

  “There’s no need for you to get involved. Leo and I—”

  “Sorry. This is my deal.” I push my plate away. “Pop will hate this.”

  “Does he have to know? After all, he is your mom’s father.”

  I jab the letter. “Pop is on the list. Odd, since he always blasted Dad about avoiding the draft and running off to Canada. Even called him a traitor.”

  She sighs. “Pat admired your granddad, even teased him a little. I think they reached a détente, or at least an agreement not to talk politics.” She signals the waiter for the check. “I have some things at home to show you. Old letters, a few photos from Pat’s time up north. I wasn’t sure if you were ready. Maybe we’ll find a clue there. Are you up for this?”

  “I guess.” Like it or not, the search is mine now.

  One-Run Game

  Uncle Leo’s out walking Dusty, their black Lab. Aunt Cora runs upstairs and I pace the living room. My cousins smile at me from every shelf and table. Janine, the knockout with Aunt Cora’s auburn hair, grins from a professional photo on the mantle. She’s around this summer, working on a documentary for her New York film school. Like my pal Marty, she stuck with me through the wake and the craziness back at the apartment. She’s a good egg, like a sister—only better; we don’t fight.

  Andrea, her blond twin, looks whiter than white surrounded by kids in South Africa where she’s volunteering this summer. She couldn’t fly back for the funeral but she e-mails me almost every day. A family photo takes center stage on the piano. Spare me. Too much happy togetherness.

  Dammit! All those years I wished for a sibling—I actually had one? And Dad never told me? Didn’t I say to him, age eight or nine, straight up: “I wish I had a brother.” And what was his excuse? Something like: “One’s the perfect number. Like a one-run game.” This is so frigging unfair.

  My elbow knocks over a small black-and-white photo propped up on the bottom shelf. I rub the dust off on my shirt. A kid in a Lone Ranger outfit grins at me: black eye mask, Stetson too big for his head, cowboy boots, chaps, even a holster with twin toy pistols. Is this Dad? Wearing guns? Sure doesn’t look like Uncle Leo.

  I grip the photo. Coming here was not a good idea. I’m about to bolt when Aunt Cora hurries downstairs, carrying an old shoebox. She stops cold. “Brandon—what happened? You look murderous.”

  “Sorry. It’s like a wave. Who should I curse? The guy who had a crisis at three A.M., or Dad for going in, or fate?” My toes tap out a rhythm on the floor.

  Aunt Cora pulls me down on the couch beside her. “Maybe you should come to an improv class. Channel that rage.” She gives me a nervous smile, like she’s afraid of what I might do next, and notices the photo. “Where’d you find that?”

  “Behind the piano. Is it Dad?”

  “Definitely. He was obsessed with the Lone Ranger. Drove our parents crazy. Hi oh, Silver, away!”

  I force a smile. “You’re good at that. Check out the guns. Some pacifist. I had to save up my allowance to buy my own squirt gun, for God’s sake.”

  “His four years with the Jesuits changed his life.”

  “At Boston College? But Dad left the church.”

  “I know. We all did, except for my mom. Pat followed the Berrigan brothers, the priests who came out against the war.” She sighs. “Those were crazy times. I was in high school; too young to understand what was going on.”

  Does that mean I’m too young to understand now? If so, too bad.

  Aunt Cora lifts the box. “You ready for this?”

  “I guess.”

  She pulls out a pack of letters, cinched with rubber bands. Dad’s messy handwriting scrawls across the top envelope. My throat feels tight. “They’re all from Dad?”

  “Yup.” She hands it over. “Back in the dark ages, people sent actual letters on paper.”

  My knee bounces. The packet feels like a time bomb. “Wonder if Mom has personal stuff like this at home.”

  “Ask her,” Aunt Cora says.

  “Sure,” I say. Maybe.

  “Here’s my old address book.” She opens a small, red leather book and flips to a page that says PATRICK at the top. “Look how many times your dad moved.” I squint at the list, scribbled in different colored inks, as Aunt Cora reads them off. “He crashed on Baldwin Street in Toronto for a few months. They had a support system for draft resisters there…some commune with ‘bus’ in its name…” Her finger trolls down the page. “Four addresses in Montreal, when he was in grad school. Then Halifax.”

  Halifax. The city mentioned in Dad’s will. “What was he doing there?”

  “He set up a private practice. In 1977 my dad—your other grandfather—got sick. President Carter pardoned the resisters, so Pat came home. He was in terrible shape; I assumed because our dad was dying. Now I wonder.” She gives me a long look. “Pat would never abandon a child. There must be some explanation.”

  He abandoned me! But that’s pathetic; Dad didn’t leave me on purpose. “Do hospitals keep bir
th records?” I ask.

  “Of course. We’ll do some sleuthing.” Cora grabs my arm. “Maybe he didn’t know he’d had a son? Maybe this Patrick, Junior was born after he came home? Maybe Pat found out before he died—and that’s why he revised his will?”

  “That’s a lot of maybes.” I feel tired, like after a swim meet, when you ache inside your bones. I struggle to my feet. “Sleuthing” with my aunt doesn’t appeal. I hold up the Lone Ranger photo. “Could I borrow this?”

  “No problem. Keep it as long as you like. Read the letters at home, when you’re not so tired.” She gives me a half laugh. “Who am I fooling? Grief is exhausting. You notice?”

  “Yeah.” The thought of my bed is suddenly appealing.

  Aunt Cora stows everything in the shoebox. “Take good care of this stuff. They’re all I have left from that time in our lives.”

  And what do I have? Dad’s beat-up baseball cap and his Sox jacket, too tight across my shoulders. His prize possession: the Jackie Robinson baseball card. Some photos. His favorite songs. A jumbled bag of memories. The sound of his voice on the answering machine—which Mom says we need to erase soon. Sometimes, I can hardly remember his face. That scares me.

  “One suggestion,” Aunt Cora says. “Read a few at a time. They’re like raw oysters—you can’t eat too many at once.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I hate oysters.”

  Second Inning

  Letter of December 5, 1969

  Dear Cora,

  When you get this, I’ll be over the border. I’ll lose my nerve if I say goodbye in person.

  I used to think it was sweet, being born on Valentine’s Day. Who knew that the Day of Love would end up as Numero 4 in the Draft Lottery? My induction notice will come any day.

  Dad says I’m a coward. Too bad. I can’t fight in this rotten war. If I were a better Catholic, maybe Father Finnegan would help me get CO status—but the government’s cracking down. No more grad school deferments.

  Dad told me to join the National Guard. He doesn’t get it. The lines for those slots are endless. You have to know the right people. Anyway, the Guard supports the war.

  Tell Ma not to worry. There’s a whole network up there. I’ve got phone numbers. Can’t say where I am or where I’m headed, except it’s cold as hell.