Out of Left Field

by Liza Ketchum

  I scrub my head, but it doesn’t help: my thoughts are still scrambled.

  “Excuse me, Mister—I’m afraid I don’t know your name.”

  “McGinnis,” I tell her. “Brandon McGinnis. My father’s name was Patrick. This guy may be my brother—half brother.”

  “I’m confused,” she says.

  “It’s complicated.” And I don’t plan to explain. “Did the guy leave his phone number?”

  More muffled talk. “Ms. Malone says no,” the supervisor says. “Anyway, that really is confidential information.”

  “Look. You guys work at a hospital, for Pete’s sake. The heart disease that killed my dad is congenital.” (Points to me for remembering that word.) “The main symptom is instant death. My dad didn’t get treatment in time, so he’s dead. If his son has it, do you want to keep us from finding him?”

  “Let me think.” Finally, her tone shifts.

  I glance at my watch. I’m running out of time. “Do you have caller ID? Did my number show up?”

  A pause; then: “I see what you’re saying. Let me put you on hold.”

  Muzak comes on, interspersed with recordings about staying healthy, smoking cessation, weight loss, yada yada yada. Finally the supervisor says, “Sorry to take so long; we get a lot of calls. I found one from Digby Neck. No name, but here’s the number.”

  “Fabulous.” I write it down, ask her to repeat it, just in case.

  “Are you healthy?” she asks.

  “I am. Let’s hope the same will be true for my—brother.” That word catches in my throat like President Bush’s famous pretzel, but never mind. I thank her profusely.

  I dial the Digby number before I know what to say. When I get the guy’s voicemail, I panic and almost hang up; then grab pen and paper and listen to a deep voice.

  “Hello,” he says. “You’ve reached Quinn Blanding, Captain of the Little Blue. To make a reservation or to inquire about our famous whale watch and puffin tours, press One. To leave a personal message for me, press Two. Smooth sailing!”

  What a dork! I snap my phone closed and pace the room until the shaking stops. “Blanding Blanding Blanding! That’s him! Wait until I tell Ray!” I hit redial, follow the instructions and jot down the information. I pull out Dad’s Canadian Atlas. Digby Neck is in Nova Scotia, on the water. I check the mileage. It seems like a long way from Halifax until I realize the distance is in kilometers, rather than miles. On my third try, I leave a message that I’d like to reserve two seats on a whale watch for next Saturday. I put it under Cora’s name and number.

  I call my aunt; get her voicemail, too. “Hey, Aunt Cor—we’re signed up for a whale watch in Digby, Nova Scotia, next weekend, with a guy named Quinn Blanding. He might call you to confirm. If so, don’t give anything away. He may be the one.”

  I grab wallet and keys and run down the stairs. I’m supposed to be grieving—so why do I have my energy back? It feels like I’ve hit for the cycle. Well, almost. I still have to find the guy. But at least I’m getting somewhere.

  From: Brandon McGinnis

  Subject: the search

  Date: August 4, 2004

  To: Ray Graham

  I think we’ve found him. Quinn Blanding of Digby Neck, N.S. Born on Halloween 1976 in Halifax. (Maybe he’s a zombie.) Check out the website for Bay of Fundy Whale Watch and Puffin Tours. Quinn Blanding is the captain. Must be the official-looking guy at the wheel. Can’t tell who he looks like under that cap.

  My aunt and I fly to Halifax next Friday morning. We’ll drive to Digby that day and take the whale watch Saturday. I figure I’ll just show up, see what happens.

  Gotta run—

  Brandon

  *

  From: Ray Graham

  Subject: the search

  Date: August 4, 2004

  To: Brandon McGinnis

  Brandon, it sounds as if you’re on the right track. Any chance I could meet you and your aunt on Friday evening? Digby’s not far from Yarmouth. It would mean a lot to me. If you like, I could hang around, be available the next day, in case you need anything. Things could get dicey. Just wondering.

  Peace,

  Ray

  *

  Phone call: Cat to Quinn. Freeport, Nova Scotia

  Quinn? Cat here.

  No, I’m not home. Where the hell are you?

  Rosa’s Café? Cool. Look out the window. Can you see Little Blue?

  I know it’s dark. Come outside, you idiot. Never mind why, just come out on that deck.

  Look towards the boat…that’s it…

  See the white shirt waving?

  I’m here! Hurry up. I’ve got what you asked for and then some. Besides, the traveler’s locked and I need to use the head.

  *

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

  Mum, Quinn here.

  Yeah, Cat’s fine. She took the bus…

  Course you were worried. Calm down. She’s okay; just hungry. We fixed that.

  I’ll put her on after you answer some questions.

  “Watch my tone”? Frankly, Mum, you’ve got some nerve. And before you get all huffy, you should know something. I’ve got my birth certificate here. Make that two. Certificates.

  Funny thing, eh? Two boys born on the same day, same time, same hospital, same weight. Same mum, different names. Thing is, one boy had a dad, the other didn’t. I got an illegitimate twin you forgot to tell me about?

  How’d I get it? Not “it,” Mum. “Them.” That’s my business. And don’t blame Cat. She only did as I asked. Except for the bus trip.

  Mum, it’s not a crime for me to have my own birth certificate. I’m an adult, in case you forgot—

  So hang up. That’s fine. Maybe Dad can answer my questions. That is—if he is my dad.

  What kind of answer is that?

  Seriously, Mum, what’s this all about?

  Mum?

  You there? Mum?

  Sixth Inning

  “[Baseball] breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.”

  —A. Bartlett Giamatti, The Green Fields of the Mind

  Play Ball

  From the moment Aunt Cora and I leave Boston on the early flight to Halifax, I’m all business and efficiency. I read the guidebook on the plane, help Aunt Cora retrieve the bags and wheel them to the rental car, pick up maps and an information guide, help my aunt navigate our way out of Halifax. Once we’re zipping along the Trans Canada Highway, Cora jolts me back to reality.

  “The journey begins.” She shoots me a quick look. “I hope we’re doing the right thing, to show up with no warning.”

  “We’ve got a reservation on the boat so he knows we’re coming. Sort of.” I try to make it sound like a joke. Fat chance.

  Dad always told me to trust my gut. All week long, as I stood in line for my fast track passport, dealt with Frankie, tried to explain myself to Marty, and worked (without success) to calm Mom’s nerves, I convinced myself that Blanding would hang up on me if I called first. Truth is, I want to see the guy before I talk to him.

  “Have you thought about what you might say?” Aunt Cora asks.

  Can she read my mind? “Maybe it’s like your class. We’ll call it Whale Watch Improv.”

  Cora laughs. “Good idea.” She points at the dashboard. “Only eleven, and we don’t meet your dad’s friend in Digby until—when?”

  “Six-thirty.”

  “Great. We have time to make some stops. Your dad took me on this drive when I was in college, back in the Dark Ages. It will bring back memories—if you don’t mind.”

  “I might need some coffee. That early alarm was brutal.”

  “Take a nap. If I remember right, it’s farms and forest for a while. I’ll wake you in time for the good stuff.”<
br />
  When she does, I drift up from a dream about Dad. I try to hold onto that fleeting image of his face—did I actually see it?—until I remember I’m in a rental car, in Canada. We pull into a town full of Victorian houses that Mom would love.

  “Wolfville,” Aunt Cora says. “I thought we’d stop for a meal—and then go out to the Bay of Fundy.”

  I try to make conversation over lunch, but my stomach rebels and I can only nibble at the terrible white bread sandwich. We drive to Margaretsville, a village on the water, and walk out on the docks. Empty sand stretches away from the shore for miles, with blue water in the distance. “The highest tides in the world,” Aunt Cora says. “Check this out.” She points over the side of the dock.

  I look down. A row of boats sits about fifteen feet below us, stranded in the mud. “That’s crazy,” I say. “You can only go out when the tide’s high?”

  “Wild, isn’t it?”

  I take some photos for Mom, though my heart’s not in it, and follow Cora out to a small lighthouse called “Guardian of the Bay.” Maine must have looked this way years ago, before the tourists came. I stare at the wet, gleaming sand. There’s not a boat in sight; no one on the beach, no sign of life. “What happens when the tide comes in?”

  She points to the guidebook. “They say you can’t outrun or outswim the current.”

  That spooks me. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Cora gives me a worried look, but I can’t explain. Instead, I make bland conversation in the car, keep up with the map and guidebook, pay attention to the scenery. I have to admit, the Annapolis Valley is gorgeous. Irrigation ditches bisect rolling green fields that stretch to the water. Wooden churches tower over tiny villages. Who fills them on Sundays?

  When we reach the Annapolis Basin, Aunt Cora pulls over and reaches for the guidebook. “There’s a historic garden nearby that I’d love to see…”

  “I don’t know…” The sight of fishing boats reminds me that the whale watch is tomorrow. Scenarios I didn’t consider flash through my head: Blanding will freak. He’ll call me a lunatic or send me packing. He’ll demand proof. What the hell was I thinking? That I’d tell Quinn Blanding who I am, explain he could die any minute—and then we’d go out on his boat like ordinary tourists? Mom was right. I should have let my aunt and uncle figure this out. I wipe my palms on my jeans. “It’s time to play ball. Let’s go to Digby. Find the B and B; wait for Ray. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  *

  Cora crashes in her room while I explore Digby. The town is all about scallops. Every restaurant advertises fresh scallops, and the docks bristle with the masts and flags of the scallop fleet. No wonder Dad loved this place.

  Brochures for whale watch and puffin tours fill one whole kiosk at the Information Center. I find Blanding’s flier right away. A note in small print says to call early on the morning of a watch, to check on weather and tides. I stuff the brochure into my pocket and walk along Water Street, wandering out one wharf after another. I breathe in the smell of diesel and spoiled fish, until I glance at my watch: 5:15. Damn: I never set it ahead. It’s actually 6:15 here.

  I work up a sweat jogging back to the hotel, and find my aunt in the parlor. She stands in the middle of the room beside a tall, slim black man with close-cropped hair turning gray at the temples. He has a beat-up backpack slung over one shoulder. He sucks in his breath and smiles.

  “Brandon McGinnis,” he says, in the warm voice I recognize from the phone. He extends his hand. “I’d know you anywhere. The spitting image of your dad.”

  Caught Looking

  I’m a holdout on the scallops at dinner, but the fish special with home fries is crisp and salty. Even the bread is good at this place. I dig in while Ray and Aunt Cora talk a mile a minute, as if they’ve known each other forever—though they never met when Cora used to visit Dad. (“Too dangerous,” Ray explains. “Your dad didn’t want the FBI or the Mounties to bother Cora.”) They compare notes on raising two daughters and talk about their jobs, but circle around the subject of Dad.

  I interrupt. “You and Dad lived together a long time, right? What did you guys do, when you hung out?”

  “We were in grad school in the early years,” Ray says, “serious about our studies. We assumed we’d have to support ourselves up here forever—which was true, in my case.” He sips his coffee. “But we went to movies, watched baseball in bars—your dad couldn’t stand it that I was a Mets fan—and looked for pretty girls, of course. Once we got to Halifax, we were working hard; me for social services, your dad in his own practice. He got into the whole Acadian thing, the music, the culture. I spent time in clubs, trying to find folks who look like me.”

  “Were you both political?” Aunt Cora asks.

  “Pat was. I had to keep a low profile, being AWOL.” Ray studies me. “What’d your dad say about these new wars?”

  “That they were wrong.” I push the last bits of fish around on my plate.

  “Pat got us involved in that protest before the war started—the one where people had candlelight vigils all over the world—when was it?” Aunt Cora asks.

  “March. During spring training,” I tell them. At least I remember that much.

  Cora and Ray get excited and compare notes; apparently they both participated with their families. What I remember was that I begged off, saying I had too much homework—which I did. But still: that was a flimsy excuse.

  Dad was angry at me: a rare event. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” he said.

  “Let him make up his own mind,” Mom said.

  “Fat lot of fun that is,” Dad told her.

  “Pat—this isn’t your war,” Mom said.

  “They’re all my wars—and yours. And Brandon’s,” Dad had said then.

  I return to the present when Cora cups my hand. “Your generation is lucky. No draft.”

  “We wouldn’t be fighting two wars if we had one.” Dad’s line pops out before I knew I would say it.

  “So you take after your old man’s politics, too,” Ray says.

  “I don’t know.” I squirm. Dad criticized me for being apolitical. Truth is, I just don’t pay attention. “I’m nervous about tomorrow. Could we go back to the B and B?”

  “Of course,” Ray says. But I can’t meet his eyes as I pull on Dad’s Sox jacket. He hurled a fastball by me. I got caught looking.

  *

  We huddle in Aunt Cora’s room where Ray hands me a packet of letters. “Pat wrote me some over the years. And we talked on the phone now and then. My wife and I made photocopies, so you can keep the originals.” He points to a card addressed to Cora and me. “A note from my wife Priscilla, for later.”

  He pulls a small photo album from his backpack and flicks through the plastic pages. “After you and I talked the second time, Priscilla found this on our shelves. It’s pretty random—but I did find pictures of your dad and me, and one of Pat with Vic—hold on.” As he turns the pages, I see Ray with a big ’fro, guys raising beer bottles in a toast, photos of dramatic coastlines. Cora looks over his shoulder. Am I ready for this?

  “Here it is.” Ray turns the album to face me. The photo is an old Polaroid, the color fading. Dad smiles at the blond woman beside him. Dad’s hair is long, the curls brushing his collar. His smile is polite—but that’s it. The woman stares at something in the distance. They’re not touching.

  “They don’t look like a couple,” Aunt Cora says. “Maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.”

  “You’re right. Vic was already gone.” Ray pulls the photo from its sleeve and turns it over. “For some reason, I wrote the date on this one. Pat and Vic, April ’76.”

  My aunt counts on her fingers. “She must have been pregnant, if the hospital record is right.”

  “That’s what Cilla and I figured.”

  I study the photo again. “Could I keep this? I might need it tomorrow.”

  “It’s yours,” Ray says. “I’ve got pictures of your da
d that mean more to me. Besides, Vic only brought him pain.”

  When I slip the picture into my pocket I find the whale watch brochure. “We’re supposed to phone first thing in the morning to check on the weather and tides. It says the boat sails out of Freeport. Where is that?”

  “On Digby Neck.” Ray touches my shoulder. “I don’t want to intrude—but it could be a tough day. I could drive you out there. I’ll give you plenty of space.”

  Cora glances at me, eyebrows raised. I nod. I want this man with the warm smile to stick by us. “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” Ray says. “It’s an honor to do this for you—and your dad.”

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

  Dad? Hi. I just wanted to tell you I’m fine.

  Sorry you’re pissed.

  I didn’t plan to take off like that. I didn’t know what else to do.

  Don’t blame the bank guy. I forged your signature.

  Sure. If my music career doesn’t pan out, I can take up a life of crime.

  Kidding, Dad! Can’t you take a joke?

  I said, I’m sorry. Listen, Quinn’s really upset. How come you guys won’t tell him what’s going on?

  What do you mean, “When Mum comes back”? Where is she?

  Are you serious? She didn’t leave a note or anything?

  Give me a break; there’s no way Mum would ever “copy” me.

  Okay, Dad, okay. Did you call the police?

  No? What if she’s in trouble, eh?

  Touché.

  Not now. I’m crewing for Quinn until school starts again. I’ll be home when you guys clean up your mess.

  More Wins than Losses

  A lonely foghorn keeps me awake most of the night—or maybe it’s just plain fear. I should never have called home before trying to sleep. No answer from Marty (is he avoiding me?) and Mom sounded small and far away, although she wished me luck. She was clueless about the Sox game. I could call Tony, but Mom warned me that international minutes cost a fortune.

  Still, it must be some sort of good omen that we’re playing the Rays and driving with a nice guy named Ray. Right?

  The thick fog and clammy air give me a good excuse to wear Dad’s Sox jacket. I phone the whale watch number and listen to another cheery recording. “Weather forecasts predict the fog will burn off. Come at eleven for today’s tour. We’ll catch the high tide. See you then.” Blanding’s voice is hearty, like some cliché of a ship captain. I hate him already. What the hell was I thinking?