Out of Left Field

by Liza Ketchum

  Ray stands up. “Redstone said his other guests had cancelled—but maybe someone’s looking for a room.”

  The bell sounds again, insistent. “I’ll get it.” I can’t see much through the rippled glass, just a shadow outside the door.

  Cat Blanding stands under the porch light. “Hey.” She holds up my envelope with the photos. “You left these on the table. Thought you might want them.”

  “Thanks.” I take the envelope and we stand there stupidly, neither one of us speaking. Finally, Cat says, “Smells like garlic. You having dinner?”

  “Italian takeout.” And then—because it’s what Dad would do—I ask her in. “There’s plenty left. Want some?”

  “Sure. I’m starving.” Cat follows me down the hall into the kitchen where Ray and Cora are cleaning up. “Hey,” she says again. “I’m—well, I’m sorry about everything. Especially since you rescued my mum. Quinn’s just—”

  “Upset. Of course,” my aunt says. “We’ve given him a terrible shock. How about some dinner?”

  Cat nods. “If it’s not too weird having me here. I haven’t eaten all day.” She digs into the lasagna, eats one slice of garlic bread, then another. “Excuse me for being a pig.” She wipes her mouth on a napkin. “Listen. Quinn knew something was wrong. He just couldn’t admit it.”

  “Did Ray’s calls tip him off?” I ask.

  “No. I started it,” Cat says. “I found that picture of Mum with—em—your dad. Then Quinn decided to take a trip; he needed a passport. When he asked Mum for his birth certificate—it’s a long story.” Her face turns pink under her freckles. “I forged a signature and weaseled my way into our dad’s safe deposit box. Found two birth certificates, so Quinn was already acting squirrelly. It’s pretty weird for all of us, eh?”

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “I didn’t know anything about this—until my dad died.”

  “That’s crappy.” She glances at Ray. “You freaked Mum out when you called. Me too. I thought you were some weird stalker.”

  “I apologize,” Ray said. “My anger got the best of me. I never forgave Vic for the way she treated Pat.”

  Cat stiffens. I expect her to leave in a huff but instead she breathes deep, eats some salad, drinks her milk. Finally, she says, “I guess that’s between you guys.”

  Ray laughs. “You’re wiser than your years, young lady.”

  Cat looks at me. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. How’d you find Quinn, anyway?”

  I explain how I poked around in Dad’s computer, found Ray, called the medical records department at the hospital and persuaded the woman to give me Quinn’s number.

  “So you’re a sneak, too. That’s one small thing we have in common,” Cat says. “Even though we’re not related,” she adds quickly.

  “Right. That’s one thing we can be sure of.”

  Cat glances at the clock on the wall. “Damn—it’s late. I took off when my dad showed up at the clinic. Way too intense, with him and Quinn in the same room. But they’ll let Mum out soon.”

  “Where will you all stay tonight?” Aunt Cora asks.

  “Mum and Dad will crash at Quinn’s apartment. He and I can sleep on the boat.” Cat doesn’t move. We’re so quiet we jump when the grandfather clock chimes.

  “I’d better go.” This time Cat does stand up. “Could I use the phone?”

  “Sure,” Ray says. “There’s one at the front desk.” He laughs. “Look at us: acting like this is our home.”

  When Cat reappears, she says, “They’re nearly done at the clinic. Dad’s just signing Mum out.”

  “Could I give you a ride?” Aunt Cora asks. “It’s a long walk in the dark.”

  “Well—sure. If it’s not a pain.” Cat twists the ring on her index finger around and around. She’s just a kid. Her family’s a mess, thanks to Dad—and to me. “I’ll come along,” I tell her.

  “I’ll stay here, man the fort,” Ray says. “They won’t want to see me again.” He shakes Cat’s hand. “Good luck. You’re a strong kid; so is your brother. You’ll get through this.”

  Cat shrugs. “Hope you’re right.”

  Follow the Idiots

  Silence rules. I sit in back, feeling numb. As Cora said, the search for Quinn was the perfect distraction. Kept me busy, so busy I could almost forget Dad died. I shiver. Reality is as cold and dark as the Bay of Fundy.

  We make the final turn. “There they are,” Cat says. “You can let me out here.”

  Aunt Cora ignores her and drives up to the entrance where Quinn stands in the shadows. His mom is under the light, leaning on the man beside her.

  Cat thanks us both, quickly. I hand her a scrap of paper with my cell and e-mail scribbled on it. “Hey. Let me know if Quinn’s healthy.”

  “Sure.” Cat pockets the paper and leaves.

  The man—who must be Cat’s father—taps on the window and beckons to me. I groan. “Here goes.” I climb out and try to study Blanding without staring. He’s a nondescript sort of guy with a second-day beard, brown eyes behind glasses, hair thinning on top, about my height. He startles when he sees my face in the light. We shake hands.

  “Granger Blanding. Thanks for saving my wife.”

  I shrug. “No problem. Quinn and Cat were right there with the boat. Lucky I didn’t know how cold the water is.”

  Mr. Blanding gives me a weak smile. “You look just like your dad. He was a good man. I’m sorry about his death—and for what happened in the past. Vic and I—”

  He turns to his wife and now I understand that cliché about eyes that shoot daggers. I almost feel sorry for the guy. He looks scared of her: for good reason. Blanding clears his throat. “I wish I could apologize to Pat for what we did in those crazy days. Quinn is my son. No matter what the blood tests show.”

  Quinn stares into the distance, as if he were on Little Blue, watching for whales. I’m speechless. Aunt Cora rescues me by introducing herself. “We’re sorry for the upset.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mr. Blanding says. “We appreciate your concern. Quinn will see a cardiologist first thing on Monday. The doc here gave us a name. I doubt they’ll find anything, but we’ll check it out.” He touches my aunt’s shoulder. “It’s a shame about Pat, eh? He and I—well, things were nasty in the end. We had some good times, listening to Acadian music, before Vic and I got together.” He beckons to Quinn. “Son—you need to apologize to these folks.”

  Son. That word still makes me shudder.

  Quinn doesn’t budge.

  “Quinn—” Mr. Blanding warns.

  I wave them both away. “No problem. Good luck with those tests.” I won’t say what I’m really thinking: God forbid we’re related.

  As I head for the car, Victoria—who hasn’t said a word so far—leans toward me. “Your father wasn’t much of a swimmer,” she says.

  What the hell does that have to do with anything? “My mom is. She started me young.”

  “Then please thank her for me.” Her voice is raspy as sandpaper.

  “Sure thing.”

  And that’s it. Cora starts the car. The moment we’re out of sight of the clinic, we both burst out laughing.

  “Holy Toledo,” Cora says. “What a cold fish. She thanks your mom, not you, when you’re the one who saved her? Can you imagine your dad with that woman?”

  “No way. Thank God Mom stayed home.”

  We’re both quiet. Cora turns to me at the next red light. “What are you thinking?” she asks.

  “Something weird. If Victoria hadn’t disappeared—Dad might have stayed in Canada…”

  “I was thinking the same thing! I wouldn’t know your mom—the sister I never had. Even worse: you wouldn’t be here.” Cora squeezes my knee. “Who could imagine we’d be grateful to Victoria Martin for anything.”

  For my life. How bizarre.

  *

  It’s tough to say goodbye to Ray the next morning; tougher than I thought. I thank him a million times. “I never would have found Qui
nn without your help.”

  “Mixed blessing, wasn’t it. Let’s hope he’s okay.”

  “I wish you could come to Boston.”

  “So do I.” Ray gives me a sad smile. “But I’ve made my peace with all that.”

  “Keep an eye on the Sox. Dad thought this was their year.”

  “You telling me to give up on the Mets?”

  “I warned you—we don’t talk about the Mets at our house.” I wince. There it is again. “Damn. I act like Dad’s still here.”

  “But he is.” Ray sets a hand on my shoulder. “This is hard stuff. None of my business—but do you have someone to talk to, at home?”

  “There’s this guy, Tony. Works the ticket booth at Fenway. He’s my so-called ‘grief counselor.’” I smile. “Keeps me going, doesn’t tell me what ‘stage’ I’m in. He reminds me to ‘follow the idiots,’ as we call the Sox these days. It’s pure baseball talk.”

  “Whatever works,” Ray says. “But call anytime.” He pulls me into a strong hug, slaps my back. “Pat was lucky to have you, even though his life was too short.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ray and Cora say their goodbyes and Ray leans into my open window. His dark eyes shine. “Come back,” he says. “Bring your mom and Leo. We’ll start from scratch—dinner at our house in Yarmouth. Brandon will bake the bread.”

  “Who told you about that?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “A little bird. We’ll camp on the point at Blomidon Provincial Park, or visit the southern coast—whatever you want. Seriously. My wife would love it.”

  “Deal.”

  I can’t tell Ray I haven’t baked bread since Dad died. He stands on the curb, shoulders slumped, as we drive away. I stick my arm out the window and wave in big circles until he disappears.

  “What a wonderful man.” Aunt Cora points to a paper bag on the floor. “We’ve got all those letters to read—and the new stories. Pieces of your dad, things we never knew, friends he loved. If only…”

  She can’t finish. “Yeah,” I say. “Hey, Cora—would you mind pulling over? Otherwise you’ll get stopped for DWB.”

  She wheels into the nearest pullout. “What’s DWB?”

  “Driving While Bawling. I’ve caught Mom at it, too.”

  Is she choking or laughing? I pat her shoulder, feeling useless. Where’s my uncle when we need him? “Thanks for letting me do this my way. Even though it turned into a mess.”

  “Death is a mess,” she says. “So’s life.”

  “No kidding. But seriously: thanks for driving, coming with me—everything.”

  She’s crying again. I open my door to switch seats. “Better call Leo. Then we’ll find that garden you wanted to see.”

  Phone call: Brandon in Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Marty in Brookline, Massachusetts

  Hey, Mart—how’s it goin’?

  Not yet; I’m at the airport. We’re delayed.

  Lots to tell you but I can’t talk long.

  Yeah, we found him. Weird dude. Shit-faced angry.

  I know; can’t blame him. Still, I wouldn’t mind if I never saw his sorry ass again. His sister’s all right, though.

  No such luck. She’s young. And not into guys.

  How? She told me. Been out since she started high school, apparently.

  Yeah, brave. Anyway—you around tomorrow night?

  Oh. Well, maybe the next day?

  Sure, after practice—if I show.

  I don’t know. I’ve had the swim of my life, if you want to know the truth…

  (pause)

  What’s the matter, man?

  You sound funny, that’s all. Bad day?

  Of course I’m interested, it’s just…

  (pause)

  You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?

  Damn: they’re calling our flight. Ciao.

  Eighth Inning

  Dirt Dogs

  Mom and Leo wait for us outside Customs, as if we’ve been away forever. Maybe we have. Mom hugs me tight and stands beside me on the moving walkway. “How do you feel?” she asks.

  “Empty. Blah. I guess part of me hoped I might have some cool older brother—”

  “And he’s not?”

  “Cool? Not in a good way, no. I hope we’re not related.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “I see.”

  “It would be better for him, and for us. His dad’s not a bad sort.” I take Mom’s elbow at the end of the walkway. “Victoria’s a piece of work. Seriously. You can see why she and Dad split.”

  “Thank God.” Mom squeezes my hand. Her nails are painted a bright cherry. A good sign?

  We catch up to Cora and Leo at the garage elevator. “I was just telling Mom about Victoria.”

  “The Ice Queen?” Aunt Cora hugs Mom. “Believe me, Margaret—she couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

  The three adults chatter nonstop as Leo speeds along the Mass Pike. I’m half asleep until the lights of Fenway jolt me awake. I open my window and strain to hear the roar of the crowd, the pulse of its energy. The blazing fluorescent cloud hovers above the park. I lean forward, tap Leo’s shoulder. “Hey—sorry to interrupt. But how are the Sox doing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  Mom blurts out, “We won last night.”

  “WE!” Leo and I chorus together.

  “What’s with their hair?” she asks.

  Leo and I howl with laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Mom demands.

  “Nothing, Mom. I’m just impressed that you noticed.” My cell rings and I grin. “Tony—what’s happening?”

  “You home?” The roar behind him is intense.

  “On the Pike. We just passed the park. What’s the score?”

  “We’re ahead! It’s happening; you can feel it. Ya gotta believe.”

  “I do, man. Don’t worry. I do.”

  *

  Work is a nightmare. I could jump out of my skin. The smells of hot oil, dusky oregano, and overcooked tomato sauce make me gag. I’ll barf if I ever see another slice of pizza. And I’m clumsy as hell. I spill a giant root beer float, jostle tables as I sweep, and jam the cash drawer when I make change.

  “Take a break,” Frankie says. No sympathy. Who can blame him?

  I stumble out the back door into the parking lot and perch on the metal fence in the shade. It’s all I can do not to bawl.

  Dad’s never coming back. Duh. I knew that. But for some reason, I really know it today. I’ll never be able to ask the questions that boomerang around in my head; questions I couldn’t ask Mom in a million years. Like: how do you know you’ve found the right girl? How do you avoid dating someone—never mind sleeping with her—like Vic, the Ice Queen? Do guys wake up hard every day, until they die?

  And how about the tough questions. Like: How did you cope with warring families at three in the morning when you’d rather be home in bed? Did you actually like coming to my swim meets or were you just being nice? Were you still disappointed that I quit playing baseball? Why didn’t you tell me about Patrick frigging Quinn Blanding?

  There are questions no one can answer, that make me want to howl: Where is Dad now? Is he bathed in that white light people claim they see when they have a sudden death experience? Or did he evaporate, fly into a black hole? Mom and I never talk about this. Maybe we fear the answer.

  Crap. This is beyond depressing. I shiver in spite of the heat, close to despair. But Frankie saves me in his annoying way when he pokes his head out the back door and waves me back in.

  *

  I blow off practice. That’s probably it, between Coach and me, but I’ve missed too many days, too many meets. He’s got no choice but to bench me until fall. I’d rather stay in shape by running and, except for Marty, who else do I want to see?

  Marty. Something’s weird. He hasn’t called me back or answered my e-mails; not like him. I check my watch: he’ll be on the way to practice. Instead, I punch #4 on my cell (Pop’s number) and invite myself over. “That’s okay, I’ll walk,” I tell him, when he
offers to pick me up. “I need the exercise.”

  Pop’s apartment smells musty and the place looks wrecked. Pop gives me a quick hug but avoids my eyes. “I’m making iced tea,” he says.

  “Want help?”

  “No thanks. Get comfortable.” Like I’m some out-of-town guest. Maybe I am—I haven’t been here in months.

  The living room is more cluttered than I remember. The old AC unit moans. Mugs with coffee dregs sit on every surface, and water rings mar the end table next to Pop’s stained armchair. I peek into the kitchen: a disaster. Dirty dishes make a Pisa tower in the sink; open tin cans and half-empty soda bottles and piles of newspaper cover the counters. Is Pop losing it? I watch to make sure he takes clean glasses from the cupboard before I peruse his bookcase.

  Pop’s photo gallery—a random collection of black-and-white and color photos in dusty frames—lines the shelves on both sides of the television. A faded wedding photo of Pop and Bess, my grandma, sits next to a picture of Mom, Dad, and me. I must have been about ten, and I’m dressed in full Sox regalia: hat, shirt, mitt. This was before I quit Little League. I pick up the photo and find another one behind it, propped against the back of the shelf. Four guys in Army uniforms—cocky as hell, arms around each other’s shoulders—mug for the camera.

  “You found my crew,” Pop says behind me.

  “That’s you, isn’t it?” I point to the guy wearing glasses. “Where were you?”

  “England,” he says. “The day before D-Day. Last time we were all together.” He sets the iced tea down, takes the photo, rubs it on his sleeve to clean it.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Same thing I’ve done all my life—electrical work. But I was wiring more important things than dishwashers and wall plugs. They called us the ‘blue collar boys.’”

  I grin. “That’s what Dad called everyday ball players. The ones who do the work and never complain. The ‘dirt dogs.’”

  Pop grunts. “So I’m a dirt dog?” He looks pleased. “Have a seat.”

  We sit side by side on the sofa. Pop sets the military photo on the coffee table. I clear my throat. “You were part of D-Day? I didn’t know that.”