Out of Left Field

by Liza Ketchum

  Hope you like the Polaroid. Dad will be happy I finally cut my hair. Thought I should be presentable at Customs.

  Any chance you could take Bandit? Greg will keep him for a while, but his girlfriend hates cats. And Bandit likes you. Sorry to miss your play next week. You’ll be great. I’ll be there in spirit. You’re the best.

  Love, Pat

  *

  Letter of December 21, 1969

  Dear Cora,

  I’m safe. Good folks here. They run a store called the Yellow Ford Truck. Hippie gear, beads, long skirts—your kind of place. Tell Ma I have a warm bed and a place to eat Christmas dinner. It will be strange without you. I don’t dare call but I’ll be thinking about you.

  Did you pick up Bandit? I can’t stop thinking about that cat. It made me feel like a grownup, choosing my own pet for my first apartment. Scratch his chin for me. And PLEASE WRITE to the P.O. Box above!

  Love, Pat

  *

  Letter of February 2, 1970

  Dear Cor—

  Happy Groundhog Day! I don’t think they celebrate that up here. Too many months until spring.

  Sorry I haven’t written. Things are looking up. I’m in Montreal. I came after Christmas to get a degree in social work. The school will take my BC credits. I start classes this summer. Meantime, I’m working in a home for disturbed boys. (And no, I’m not a patient, although Dad thinks I’m off my rocker.) The job will help me get legal here.

  I met this great guy Ray, who needed a roommate. Here’s a photo of the two of us. (Ray’s situation is complicated, so keep the photo to yourself.)

  I owe you one for adopting Bandit. Maybe his crooked ear will win Ma over. Meanwhile, the old U.S. of A. looks strange from this side of the border. And it’s lonesome here. Come visit. We could go to the Shakespeare festival in Ontario, eh? (I’m ‘talking Canadian’ now.)

  I hope to have my own phone before long. Until then—

  Love from your big bro, Pat.

  *

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

  Hey, Cat. You home alone?

  Good. Listen: sorry I was harsh the other day. I’m not over the breakup. But it’s more than that. This whole thing is beyond weird.

  Yeah, got the photo. Looks like Mum and this guy were an item, unless he’s some long-lost cousin. Not sure what this means. Maybe she got the date wrong?

  Not like her, I know. Anyway, there’s more. My pal Dexter and I have been looking at airfares. Cheap tickets to Puerto Rico and Cuba.

  I know it’s hot down there. Exactly what I need. Gotta get out of the fog and this funk.

  Not an invitation. Sorry. I need a passport. Twenty-seven, and I’ve never been out of the country.

  Well, I know you haven’t—but you’re only fourteen—

  Okay: fifteen! Will you listen up? I need my birth certificate to get a passport.

  Right. Not something I carry around in my truck. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the thing. I asked Mum—

  Uh-huh. So you heard her hissy fit. Maybe Dad’s right about hormones.

  Seriously, Cat. Asking for my birth certificate doesn’t seem like an odd request. You hear Mum cross-examine me, asking why I need to go to the States?

  As if. Why would I head that way? Our money’s worthless and their crazy government doesn’t tempt me. I’ve heard lines at the border are nasty since 9/11.

  Yeah, Mum was beyond weird, eh? Claims she doesn’t know where she put the birth certificate, maybe the safe deposit box, she won’t have time to look the way business is booming, yada yada yada.

  Like the world is rushing to buy homes in Baddeck. And like she’s ever misplaced anything.

  Listen up. Dexter says it’s simple: Call the hospital where you were born, ask them to search their records, they’ll send a copy.

  Antigonish. At least, that’s what Mum always told me.

  Will you pay attention? There is NO record of me at that hospital. Nada. Zip. They even took my phone number, searched again, called me back. No Quinn Blanding born on my birthday. In fact, the woman said it was an odd week: only three babies born, all on the same day, all girls.

  Very funny, Cat.

  Come on, Cat. Someone’s lying. I need to figure out who—and why. So do me a favor: Take a look in the files when Mum and Dad are out.

  Try the tall metal set, in Mum’s home office.

  Don’t know. Maybe under my name? Or something obvious like “birth certificates.” She’s probably got one for you, too. You know how anal Mum is; her files are super organized. If they’re at the bank, I’m out of luck.

  Thanks. Maybe I’m paranoid, but it makes me wonder about that photo. It’s almost like I was never born. Or maybe they lied about my birth date? I’m tied in knots over this thing.

  No, I’m not mad at you, Cat. Just confused as hell.

  I’m on the boat all day, waiting for the sun to shine, so use the cell. And whatever you do, don’t let Mum know what’s up.

  You’re right: I owe you, sis. Big time.

  Pregame Warm-Up

  “Brandon, wake up. We overslept.”

  Mom jiggles my feet. She’s still in her robe. I sit up fast and swing my legs off the bed.

  “Don’t panic,” Mom says. “I’ll give you a ride to work. I already called in sick. I need to see the lawyer.”

  She’s right, I am panicked—but not about the pizzeria. Where’s the shoebox? Then I remember: I slid it under the bed last night after reading a few letters. Cora was right: you can only digest a few at a time.

  She gives me a funny look. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m not awake.” I stand up, check the mirror. My face is as wrinkled as my pillowcase. “Guess I won’t get the Oscar nod.”

  “You were out when I came in,” Mom says. “All the lights were on—and you didn’t twitch when I covered you up. Where’d you go last night?”

  “Aunt Cora’s. I wanted to talk to her about the letter.”

  Mom’s face collapses. “Was she shocked?”

  “Yeah. But it was weird. First she hyperventilated—and then she was psyched. Like some part of Dad was still alive.”

  “Bran.” Mom’s voice is gentle. “Don’t be hard on Cora. She’s in pain, too.”

  “I know.” I crank the window open. The air is cool for a change. “How about we both have a sick day? It’s only fair.”

  “Will Frankie dock your pay?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not exactly his top employee. Could you call? Tell him I have stomach flu. That’s the last thing they want at a so-called eating establishment.” Good thing Mom doesn’t know what goes on in that kitchen.

  She shows the hint of a smile for a change. “All right—but what about swim team?”

  “I’ll probably go. See how I feel.”

  “The exercise is good for you.” Mom stops at the door. Her eyes look pale—like faded jeans. Maybe her pasty skin sets them off. “I need to see the lawyer alone.”

  “Sure.” Let her think I’m being cooperative. In fact, there’s something I need to do here. Also alone.

  Mom hits the shower and I pick up my book for summer reading. I skim through the first few pages and toss it. Just what I need: a list of things soldiers carried in Vietnam. Of course, whoever made this list wasn’t thinking about me, or my dad’s secret past. I’d need an eighteen-wheeler to list the things I carry now.

  I’m half asleep when Mom comes back in: hair styled, lipstick on, wearing what Dad called her blue Power Suit. “Wow,” I say. “Dressed for the lawyer?”

  She picks up my book. “The Things They Carried? Why this one?”

  “Not my choice. The English department doesn’t know Dad’s history.”

  “It’s a wonderful novel—or memoir. Both. Is this a library copy?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Your dad loved this book. His copy is on the shelf by our bed.” She sets it down. “If I were you, I’d wait on this one. What else
is on the list?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  In the past, she would have grilled me, but the rules have changed. Not sure if that’s a good thing.

  “How about breakfast?” Mom asks. “Could I treat you to a bagel and coffee? Not as good as your bread, but still—”

  “You’re on.”

  *

  One of the best things about this neighborhood: the bagels. Marty, who should know, says Kupel’s bagels are as good as any New York deli. That’s why I’ve never tried to make them myself.

  The shop is noisy, with a long line. Mom grabs a tiny table while I get the food. We squeeze into the tight space where I sip coffee and lick cream cheese off my fingers. Mom tells me her plan for the day: lawyer, food shopping, maybe even a manicure. And an oil change on the Civic. No comment. Dad used to do it in our alley. Lucky we still have a car. “And I’ll go to the gym,” she says. “Routines help.”

  “So Coach says.” Sounds like she’ll be gone all morning. Perfect. Mom buys a dozen bagels—“to tide us over until you feel like baking again”—and gives me a quick hug. “Promise you’ll stay home.”

  “That’s where I’m headed.”

  Marty calls as I wait at the light. “You at work?”

  “Sick day.”

  “Sure. All that traffic noise is outside your bedroom?”

  “Something’s come up.” I wasn’t going to tell him—but hell, why shouldn’t I? Just because Dad had this big secret doesn’t mean I have to keep quiet. “Hold on.” I duck into the pharmacy where it’s quiet. “I have some weird news.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not on the phone. Maybe after practice.”

  “Pool’s closed for a few days; nasty bacteria in the water. Coach left me a message—you’ll get one at home.”

  “Great. Wonder what critters we swallowed yesterday.”

  “God knows. Coach is looking for another spot. Meanwhile—we’re free.”

  “So come over after your class.”

  “Deal.”

  *

  At home, Maxine jumps off the kitchen counter. “Busted!” I lunge for her, but she streaks down the hall.

  I set the Lone Ranger photo next to one of Dad and me at Fenway. We’re wearing our Sox caps, of course, and my favorite Mo Vaughn T-shirt dangles over my hips. I’m holding my mitt. We always go to the park early, for the pregame warm-ups—

  Damn. I’m doing it again. We used to go to the park early…

  I must be eight or nine in this photo, still in Little League—the same age as Dad in his cowboy outfit? Everyone has always said I look like Dad, but I couldn’t see it until now. Except for the Lone Ranger mask, Dad and I could be twins: same curly hair, brown eyes, lopsided grin, skinny frame.

  The photos will make Mom cry—but that’s nothing new. I take a second look in my aunt’s shoebox. Dad looks like a scared, orphaned kid in the Polaroid taken after his buzz cut. In the second photo his hair has grown in and he sports a mustache. He’s with a tall, dark-skinned guy who holds a black-and-white-striped kitten. So Dad always loved cats. I turn the photo over. Dad’s scrawl says: Ray, me, and Panda the kitten. Our Christmas present to each other.

  I read Dad’s letters again. No mention of Ray’s last name. I skim through a few more, but don’t find much. Dad talks about his jobs, friends he made in the anti-war movement (but no names)—and then, the letters get shorter. He refers to phone calls, so he and Cora must have chatted. No mention of a girlfriend, though one letter teases Cora, asks if she’s going to the prom. Who’s the lucky guy? Dad wrote.

  I slide the box back under the bed. I can read the rest later. Right now there’s one thing I can only do while Mom’s out.

  “Okay. Here goes.”

  Topps Cards

  I stick Dad’s old Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young album, “Déjà Vu,” into the CD player and jack up the volume. Maybe this will strengthen my nerves.

  Wrong. Standing outside Dad’s closet gives me the willies. I pump myself up as if I’m about to swim freestyle in a state meet. Come on, you can take that guy, you beat him by a half second in the last meet…

  I open the door and kick Dad’s rank-smelling sneakers out of the way. “Nice, Dad.” I push his shirts and pants to the side. Not sure what I’m looking for—but here’s Dad’s old flannel shirt, the maroon plaid. Can’t help myself: I pull it close, breathe deep. It holds his smell and it’s worn to that perfect softness, like old jeans. I strip off my T-shirt and pull on the flannel. There’s a button missing halfway up. Typical. It always hung a little loose on Dad so it’s a perfect fit on me with my swimmer’s shoulders.

  I stand on tiptoe, check out the top shelf. A jumble of sweaters and old baseball caps; nothing interesting. Didn’t he pull a box out of here at tax time? Yes, here it is, with a big sign in magic marker: TAXES, and bulging file folders, neatly labeled (Mom’s handwriting) year by year, with 2004 at the front. Poor Mom. Something else she’ll have to do on her own.

  Behind the tax box is a carton labeled “PERSONAL.”

  “Score.” I lug the box into my bedroom. It’s a mess of old bills, letters, and papers. Dad probably hadn’t touched these since we moved from Somerville. Two documents tied with ribbons turn out to be diplomas: his B.A. from Boston College and the other from high school. His framed diploma from McGill hangs in his official office.

  Damn. Dad’s office. I sit back on my heels. Who will clean out all that stuff? As if I didn’t know. Maybe he stashed his Canadian secrets there.

  Dubious. Dad always said he liked to keep things separate—and he never trusted the state computer system for privacy.

  The CD wails: “I almost….cut my hair!” Crap. Now I know why Dad listened to this album. I swallow hard and begin digging. First to come up: loose snapshots of Dad and some other guys—dating from the ’70s, judging from the bell bottoms, beads, and goofy hairstyles. In one photo, Dad wears dorky Buddy Holly glasses. Wait ’til Marty sees these. “No wonder there are no girls in these photos.”

  The title from our old VW is in here: the guy who bought it must have needed that. And a passport issued November 30, 1969. “Whoa.” I check the date on the first letter Cora gave me: December 5, 1969. “So he got this just before he left.” The picture swims and I wipe my eyes. Dad’s button-down shirt looks crisp; his scalp shows through the buzz cut. The pages that show travel to other countries are clean. Not even a Canadian stamp. Did he cross the border in some isolated place, without anyone knowing?

  Nothing’s in order. I pull over my trashcan, toss old bills from Somerville days, and set the personal stuff on the end of my bed. The pile includes some letters Dad wrote to Mom in Colorado (Colorado?) with a Boston postmark from 1980. No way I’m opening those. I find a letter from my grandfather, who died before I was born, almost open it, then think of Cora. She should see it first. There’s a couple from Cora herself, sent to Dad in Montreal. I don’t open those, either.

  A pack of old baseball cards sits on the bottom of the box, held together with a rubber band. What the—? I check the manufacturer.

  “Sweet! Dad, you had Topps Cards and never told me? They’re worth a fortune.” I set them aside for later and notice an airmail envelope caught in the cardboard flaps. I hold it up to the light. The stamps are faded and a sticker across the bottom reads “Air Mail/Par Avion.” Dad’s handwriting is so neat I almost don’t recognize it. Someone crossed out the Canadian address with a thick black pen. “RETURN TO SENDER.” There’s a “Postage Due” notice stamped on the back.

  The letter is addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Martin. The “Return to Sender” scrawl covers the street address—but the town is Antigonish, Nova Scotia, Canada. Wherever the hell that is. The postmarks are hard to read, but the date on the Canadian side looks like 1977.

  “The year he came home. Damn.”

  Sweat trickles down my face, even though the AC is on. “Carry on,” Neil Young wails. “Love is coming…”

  “Stuff it.” I hust
le down the hall, turn off the music, and sit back against my pillow. My hands shake as I open the envelope. A small black and white photo flutters out, the cheesy kind you take in an old-fashioned booth. Dad wears a Red Sox baseball cap and the uniform of some pickup baseball team. I turn the picture over. “Hope you’ll be a fan someday,” Dad’s scrawl reads. “To Patrick, with love from Daddy.”

  I swear, crumple the photo, and pitch it across the room. “Daddy? You were someone else’s Daddy?”

  I strip out of Dad’s shirt and dress for a run, grabbing keys and iPod. I head for the reservoir, listening to my own playlist. No way I’ll let Dad’s tunes pop up now.

  I’ve run around three times, the first rounds too fast, the last time dragging, when I realize I never read the letter. And I’ve left crap strewn all over the room. What if Mom comes back?

  I streak home, causing some serious Masshole road rage as I dodge through traffic, and fumble for my keys in the lobby. Damn. Voices echo in the stairwell. “Who’s there?”

  “Me, bro. I cut out early.”

  “Marty?” I squint into the gloom. “Someone with you?”

  “Surprise.” A woman’s voice.

  I stump up the first flight. Two figures huddle on the stairs. Bright purple toenails peek from red sandals. “Janine? What’s up?”

  “My mom said I should talk to you.”

  So Aunt Cora sent her. My feet feel leaden.

  “What a coincidence! We met by accident.” Marty sounds psyched. “She was buzzing your floor when I came in.”

  “We were about to go out to lunch, talk about you behind your back.” Janine reaches for me, but I shake my head.

  “Hugs later—I’m too sweaty. Nothing to eat here.”

  “We’ll manage,” Janine says.

  I open up and head for the shower, careful to stow the box and letters.

  When I come out, the place smells as if someone actually lives here. They’ve found canned soup and doctored it up. Melted cheese drips from this morning’s bagels, and slices of lemon float in a pitcher of ice water. I could almost bawl—but I don’t, because Marty’s got his hat off. “Jesus, Mart—what did you do?”