Out of Left Field

by Liza Ketchum

  “Then what?”

  “I gave her my first name; nothing else. I decided to call back at night, when her parents might be home. No one answered so I left a message. I may have done something stupid.”

  “Why?”

  “I said I was a friend of Patrick McGinnis, left my first name and phone number.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What Vic did was a crime. The RCMP paid no attention, treated your dad like dirt because he wasn’t Canadian.”

  “RCMP?” I hate to sound ignorant.

  “Sorry. Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The ones with the funny hats and tall boots. It’s probably too long after the fact to prosecute Vic, but I’ll bet she’s freaked that we’ve found her. And who knows what your—your so-called brother knows. This may come as a total shock to him.”

  Join the club. No way I’ll feel sorry for the guy. “You get a call back?”

  “A few minutes later, so they must have been screening the calls. A man left a threatening message. Said I should be careful about harassing them, unless I want my past to catch up to me.” He clears his throat. “I assume it was Granger Blanding. I met him a few times in the old days. He knows damned well I was AWOL in the Sixties. Like I said: no pardon from Carter for my sins. And the Mounties hated us.”

  “People still care about that stuff?”

  “I hope not. Still, I don’t dare test it.”

  Maxine jumps from her perch and twines around my ankles, in case I’ve forgotten it’s her dinnertime. “I’m sorry, Mr.—I mean, Ray. Will you get in trouble?”

  “Hope not. We’re obviously opening old wounds, but the medical situation makes things urgent. I’m afraid we need a third party—a lawyer, or someone who can act as a go-between. And I should probably talk to your mom.”

  He’s right, but I hate to admit it. “She’s not home. And we’ve got company.”

  “Bran?” Janine knocks, pokes her head in. “You have tarragon someplace?”

  “Cupboard over the stove. I’ll be right out.”

  “Sorry,” Ray says. “Listen, let’s talk again later—or tomorrow. I didn’t mean to interrupt your party. Is it your birthday?”

  “They’re celebrating my test results. Everything came back negative.”

  “Fantastic! You should have told me right away. Listen, I’ll sign off.”

  “No, wait. You could be right about a lawyer. The autopsy says Dad did have that disease. Do you happen to remember what day this other—Patrick—was born? And where?”

  Ray’s quiet a moment. “The main hospital in Halifax. It was the fall of ’76 but I’m not sure of the date. I remember I was at a conference at McGill. Maybe…” I hear keys clicking in the background. “I bet I can figure it out, not to the exact day, but close enough. I’ll e-mail you. You’ve thought of everything. Sure you’re not a detective yourself?”

  “Positive. Gotta go.”

  “Promise you’ll talk to your mom, tell her what we’ve found so far.”

  “Okay.”

  “Peace,” he says, the way he signs his e-mails. I toss the word back at him, but peace isn’t what I feel. More like chaos. My ears are ringing but it’s got nothing to do with the music, the chatter, the clang of silverware and china coming from the kitchen. I hesitate in the hall. Why should I care who finds the guy?

  But of course I know. If this guy does exist—he’s my brother. And Dad would want me to do this. To hell with Victoria and her threats. No time to waste.

  Win or Lose on the Road

  The talk jumps around the table at dinner. Uncle Leo and Pop get involved in a heated conversation about electrical work on the Big Dig, which they have strong—and opposing—opinions about. Aunt Cora tells Mom about Kadisha, and Mom says a kid from last year’s fourth grade class is already writing plays, and could the two girls meet? Janine wants to put both girls in the movie she’s shooting this summer. Me? I savor the juicy chicken, the tangy blend of wine and baby onions, and toast Leo with my fork. He sends me an Italian fingertip kiss in return.

  As Leo serves seconds, Cora holds up her hands. “Listen. I hate to throw cold water on this celebration. But don’t we need to find Pat’s other—son—if he exists, and warn him about this disease? That’s what Pat would want.”

  For a second, the hum of the fridge is the loudest sound in the room.

  Pop breaks the silence. “Pat’s not here to make those decisions now,” he says.

  Mom pours herself another glass of wine. She catches my warning look and slops wine across the table. Janine hops up to help her, I tear pieces off the paper towel roll, and everyone tends to the spill. “You see how I feel about this,” Mom says.

  Leo lifts the wine bottle, but Mom shakes her head and covers her glass. “I’ve had enough.” Her neck is red; not a good sign.

  Pop’s eyes blaze under his shaggy eyebrows. “Margaret—let Pat’s family deal with his skeletons. This mess has nothing to do with you.”

  I raise my voice. “Pop, aren’t you forgetting something? I’m part of Dad’s family, too.”

  The room goes bananas and everyone talks—or shouts—at once. I back away, toss the wet towels into the sink, and fume. The comments fly back and forth like balls in a tennis match.

  “Pat had a bad disease! The boy could die!” (Aunt Cora)

  “That’s not our business.” (Pop)

  “How can you say that about my possible cousin?” (Janine)

  “Wait a minute—let’s not fight.” (Uncle Leo)

  “Who’s fighting? This is life and death we’re talking about here.” (Janine)

  “Please…” (Mom, begging)

  My heart—supposedly healthy—rips along. I pound the counter with my fist, rattling the pots and pans. “Listen up!”

  Silence. I take a deep breath. Then another. I hand Mom some tissues and hold onto her shoulder. “Pop’s right. It’s not his problem, or Mom’s—but she is my mother. This issue is mine. The fact is, there’s a guy in Canada who could be related to some of us.” I turn on my grandfather. “Who knows, Pop. Maybe you’ll get your wish and he’s already dead—”

  Pop flinches as if I’ve slapped him. “Brandon. I never said—”

  I ignore him. “The autopsy makes it real. If this guy is alive, we have to find him. And while everyone else has been fussing around, I’ve made some progress.”

  Maxie jumps off the windowsill and rubs against my ankles, purring. I pick her up, stroke her fur until I stop shaking. “I’m not used to making speeches.”

  “You’re doing great.” Uncle Leo stands up, slings an arm around my shoulders. “Sit down. Tell us what you’ve found.”

  I perch on a stool with Maxie purring in my lap, and tell them almost everything: about Dad’s and my e-mails with Ray; about the woman in Baddeck. I leave out the threatening phone call to Ray—no need to send Mom into orbit—and no way I’ll tell Pop that Ray was AWOL from the Army. “Ray’s helping me figure out when the kid was born,” I say. “We’re close.”

  “The Great Brain at work.” Janine winks at me.

  “Ray wants to talk to you,” I tell Mom. “He says Dad was a great guy. His hero.” My voice breaks.

  Pop gets up and clomps down the hall to the bathroom, slamming the door. “Sorry,” I say to Mom.

  “Leave him alone,” Uncle Leo says. “Your granddad has his own demons. And he’s looking out for your mom.”

  This is getting too weird. “Look. Ray wants us to hire somebody—a lawyer, a mediator, someone. That’s okay with me. But I have one request.”

  Everyone waits. Water runs in the bathroom, so I make it fast. “Let me keep on with the search. I’ll share whatever I find with the lawyer, or whoever it is. And Mom, I’ll pay you back for the long distance calls. Bottom line: no matter who locates the guy, I talk to him first. Agreed?”

  Cora and Leo exchange a look. “That seems fair,” my aunt says.

  “There’s one problem.” Janine pushes her hair back from her f
orehead. “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

  The room is silent for the first time all night. I take another deep breath. “I thought of that. But it’s urgent, like the doc told us a few days ago. And that’s why—” I glance at Mom. “I was busy at the library today. I put a hold on an Air Canada reservation from Boston to Halifax. I have enough money in my savings to buy a one-way ticket. If I still have a job when I come home, I’ll work extra shifts to pay you back for the return trip.”

  “Don’t tell me you plan to drive all over Nova Scotia by yourself,” Pop calls from the hallway.

  “I’m too young to rent a car. Trouble is—this guy could be anywhere. It might be a wild goose chase.” I take a deep breath. “Mom—I assume you’re out, with your job. Besides—it’s too weird.” She nods. I look around the table. “Any takers?”

  Silence.

  “When would you leave?” Aunt Cora asks at last.

  “Depends on schedules. I reserved a seat for next Friday. That gives me a week to track the guy down.”

  “Improv finishes on Wednesday.” Aunt Cora shares a quick look with Leo, who nods. “I’m in,” she says.

  “I wish I could go,” Janine says, “but we’re filming all next week.”

  “That’s okay.” And it is. I don’t need extra company. My knees bounce so hard the dishes rattle. “You all made a great feast, so I’m cleaning up. But stay tuned. I should have more news soon.”

  Hours later, when the kitchen sparkles and everyone has left, I remember that Marty wanted this to be our search. I’d rather go with Mart than my aunt, anytime—or would I? Maybe this one needs to stay in the family.

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

  Quinn? Hold on, I’m outside… You hear me?

  More weird stuff’s happening… A guy phoned, asked for Mum. Actually, he wanted Vic Martin. I said wrong number.

  I know: dumb me forgot her maiden name. Anyway, he claimed he knew her in college.

  Exactly: McGill. I asked, was he looking to buy a house, and he said no. Asked me to tell her Ray called, “a blast from the past.”

  Really! So retro. I wondered if it was the guy in the photo but that was V plus P, not R—unless we read it wrong.

  No last name, restricted ID. Weird, eh?

  I gave Mum the message, didn’t think much of it. Even teased her, asked was he another old boyfriend. She flipped. Gave me the third degree; had me go over it a hundred times—

  Okay, not a hundred. She and Dad went upstairs for a hushed conference, then called me into their room. “Catriona,” Mum says. You know you’re in trouble when she uses your official name. “I want you to screen all calls. And if that Ray person phones, don’t speak to him.”

  Quinn—should I be scared? She friggin’ doesn’t want me to answer the phone.

  How should I know who he is if she won’t tell me? She made me swear I wouldn’t call you, so don’t let on that you know.

  Watch that older brother tone. If you’re so worried, why don’t you come home?

  *

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

  Quinn, listen. That guy Ray called again, while Mum was out showing a house.

  I’m screening calls like a good girl. But he left a message and I recognized his voice right away—

  Course, I’m sure. Don’t I play the fiddle by ear?

  If anyone’s “touchy,” it’s you, Quinn. Want to hear what he said, or not?

  He’s searching for a guy named Patrick someone—McGinnis, I think.

  “V plus P.” Exactly.

  Mum flipped OUT. White as a sheet. She erased the call, didn’t even take the number. But I wrote it down before she came home.

  Sure, hold on…

  Got it?

  One other thing. Mum gave me “the look”—you know the one, eh? She warned me, no matter what, don’t tell Dad. She’s pissed. Left nail prints on my arm.

  Too late. Dad came home first and he’d already heard the message. Called the guy back in his study.

  No luck, though I tried to eavesdrop.

  Ray? He sounds okay. Friendly, in fact. Still, it freaks me out.

  *

  From: Ray Graham

  Subject: Your dad

  Date: August 2, 2004

  To: Brandon McGinnis

  The Internet is amazing. The conference I attended was October 29-31, 1976. Your dad called me with the news. I’m not sure of the exact day. Your dad wasn’t at the birth; in fact, he was upset because Vic only told him when it was all over. If it’s any consolation, your dad and Vic had already broken up when she discovered she was pregnant. It was never meant to be. Still, your dad took full responsibility for the baby. He planned to help raise him. They picked his name together. Her disappearance never made sense.

  If you like, I’ll call the hospital, ask for birth records for those dates—unless you’d rather do it yourself. Let me know. There can’t be too many kids named Patrick McGinnis born on those three days.

  But YOU are healthy! Fabulous. If only your dad were here, we could all celebrate together.

  Peace,

  Ray

  Hit for the Cycle

  My cell rings as I’m dressing for work the next morning. It’s Tony from the ballpark. No pleasantries: “Been on the Expressway lately?”

  “Uh—no. I’m usually on foot or stuck on the Green Line. Why?”

  “You know the ‘Keep the Faith’ billboard? They took Nomar off, replaced him with Big Papi. It’s another sign the tide is turning. We’ll reverse the curse yet.”

  I grin. “I’ll check it out.”

  “Must be good luck. We need some of that with the long grind ahead.”

  “Hey—we did okay last night.”

  “You can say that again. And we all hope Wake wins, pitching on his birthday—hold on a sec.” Tony’s voice gets muffled for a few minutes. “Sorry,” he says. “Delivery guys. Hope you don’t mind my calls. Thought you might like to talk baseball now and then.”

  “Definitely. I really miss arguing with my dad over who reads the sports section first.”

  “Bet you wish you could still have those fights.” Tony’s matter-of-fact, not maudlin. I like that.

  “No kidding. My mom tries to look interested, but she’s not into the game.”

  “Know what you mean. My brother and I talked baseball all the time, even after he moved west. It’s not the same since he passed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. People tell you it gets easier. That’s B.S. Fact is: you never stop missing them when they’re gone. We’ll stay in touch.” He hangs up before I can say goodbye.

  Mom pokes her head in my door. “Who was calling so early?”

  “Tony. The guy from the ballpark. My ‘grief counselor.’”

  She actually smiles. “Any chance he’d take me on?”

  “Maybe—if you’re interested in Pedro’s ERA, Big Papi’s on-base percentage, Derek Lowe’s meltdowns—etc.”

  “Could be time I learned.”

  She’s out the door with no mention of Nova Scotia or last night’s dinner. Tony gets double points for distraction.

  *

  The time difference between Boston and Halifax works in my favor: I can make calls before my shift at Frankie’s. Thanks to the Internet, it’s easy to find the number for the main hospital in Halifax. I use the landline. I’ll pay Mom back somehow. The hospital operator transfers me to Medical Records. When a woman answers and I ask about boys born on the dates Ray gave me, there’s a long silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Sorry,” the woman says. “Didn’t you call yesterday with the same question? And again a week ago?”

  The skin prickles on the back of my neck. “No, ma’am. Why?”

  “Never mind—it’s just a funny coincidence.”

  My mind shifts into overdrive. “Actually, I bet it’s not. What date was he asking about, do you remember?”


  “Why, sure—because it was October 31st and the man said something about how this wasn’t a trick-or-treat joke.”

  “Did he give you his name?”

  Papers rustle. “No. There was something strange about his records…Wait: his name began with a Q. I remember because that’s unusual. He was from Digby, I think, or Digby Neck…Excuse me a minute.” Her voice breaks up, as if she’s put her hand over the mouthpiece.

  Digby Neck? Sounds like a bizarre tropical disease.

  Another woman comes on the phone, her voice brisk. “Good morning. I’m the Medical Records supervisor. Ms. Malone is new, so she doesn’t realize that she’s passing out confidential information. Could I help you?”

  Damn. I plunge in, giving her an abbreviated version: that I’m looking for a lost sibling because of an inherited disease our father had. “It was fatal,” I tell her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “But what makes you think that the person who called us yesterday is the man you’re looking for? He was someone who needed a copy of his birth certificate.”

  “It’s a hunch.” I take a deep breath. “Listen. If you don’t believe me, I can have my cardiologist call you.” (My cardiologist. How weird is that?)

  Papers shuffle again, along with muffled voices. The supervisor comes back on. “Here’s what we have. There were two boys born at the end of October. One was a preemie, born October 30th, with both parents listed. Last name Martinez…”

  Was his first name Pedro? Bet she wouldn’t appreciate the joke.

  “The other situation is a bit unusual. There’s no father listed for the baby boy, weight 7 pounds 10 ounces. He was born in a normal delivery to a Victoria Martin of Antigonish on October 31st.”

  My palm is so sweaty I have to switch hands. I hardly dare ask the next question. “What was that baby’s name?”

  “Patrick.”

  “Yes! That’s the one!”

  “Hold on,” she says. “There’s a penciled note saying that the name is temporary.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It happens now and then. The parents—or the mother, in this case—had to put something down before leaving the hospital. If she changed the name later, she’d go through a legal process with the records office. But perhaps they kept his name after all.”