Out of Left Field

by Liza Ketchum

I stand on a stool to reach my big bread bowl down from the top of the cupboard, careful not to make a sound. It’s dusty. I rinse it out and wait for the yeast to bubble. This was Dad’s favorite part. “Amazing,” he’d say. “Those ugly beige grains. Give them warm water, a little sugar—and they come alive. You could feed the world.”

  “Whatever you say, Dad,” I whisper now. I measure five cups of warm water into the bowl, set the flour bins on the counter. The yeast sends up one small bubble, then another. I add this mix, and the flour, to the water to make a sponge. Usually, I’m noisy as I scoop flour from the bins, but tonight I’m slow, methodical. I alternate wheat flour with white, add sugar and milk powder, and beat it with a wooden spoon. Sloop doop; sloop doop. Dad’s recipe—now mine, with alterations—comes from a Zen cookbook, so worn out we’ve patched it twice with duct tape. I’m into the Zen of keeping quiet as I stir up the “beatable mud”—Dad’s favorite cookbook phrase.

  After one hundred beats I cover the bowl with a damp dishcloth and set it on the pilot light. I doze on the couch. Maxine joins me under the blanket and snarls when the phone alarm wakes us. I’m up fast to stir the dough down and add the oil, salt, and the rest of the flour. Things are serious now. I stir with my hand as the dough takes shape, and finally turn it out onto the butcher block counter. It’s still sticky. I clean my fingers with the rubber spatula, scrape out the bowl, and begin to knead.

  Twist, fold, push. I’m pressing as hard as I can without pounding the counter. I’m so sorry, Dad. Sorry we didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell us?

  The dough is still gooey; it won’t help to bawl on the mix. I rub my nose on my sleeve, add more flour, watch the clock as I work. Twist, fold, push, add flour. Twist, fold, push.

  God, this feels good. Why did I quit? I pummel the doctor, pummel Victoria Blanding, pummel that dread disease. Forget Aunt Cora’s improv class: I should make bread every day.

  After twenty minutes, the dough glistens. I grease the bowl and set it in the warm spot again. I snooze for another hour, jump up to punch the dough down—gently now—and doze until it’s time to oil the bread pans, shape the dough into loaves, and watch them rise.

  The beep-beep of the stove timer wakes me an hour later. The fragrance of hot bread fills the apartment and Mom stands over me, wearing a crooked smile. “Brandon, the timer’s going off. Have you been up all night?”

  “Pretty much. I caught some sleep on the couch.” I stumble to the stove, grab the oven mitt and pull out the pans. The bread is golden, all four loaves perfectly rounded. I can’t help feeling proud. “I’m ravenous. Is it morning?”

  “Close enough,” Mom says. “Have a shower. I’ll make coffee—and we’ll have a feast. I can’t tell you how I’ve missed that smell.” She ruffles my hair and reaches for the coffee. I hold her back.

  “Mom. There’s good news for a change.”

  She pulls her robe tight around her. “Oh?”

  “Quinn called late last night. He’s—he’s not my brother.”

  Mom goes very still. “Your poor father,” she whispers. “All those years, he thought—”

  “I know.” I raise the shade, open the window. The sky glows red behind the oak tree. The courtyard is quiet.

  “Listen,” Mom says. “Hear it?”

  “Cheer! Cheer! Cheer!” The cardinal settles on the branch outside the window and pours out his song. Mom props her elbows on the windowsill. “We hear you, Pat,” she says.

  Who knows if Dad is speaking to us or not? As Ray said: Whatever works. I head for the shower. I know what I need to do.

  Phone call: Brandon in Brookline, Massachusetts, to Cat on Digby Neck, Nova Scotia

  Cat? Brandon here.

  Yeah, great news for sure. I’m glad Quinn called.

  Listen: I have a favor. You know those jigs you were playing on Little Blue?

  Right, that crazy day. Any chance you remember the tunes?

  “Lark in the Morning”…“The Rakes of Kildare”… Hold on, I’m writing this down.

  We have a few of MacMaster’s albums, but not that one.

  You would? Hey, that’s great. I’d much rather use your version, if it’s not a pain to send it.

  Doesn’t matter. What I’m doing’s not “professional” either.

  This might strike you as weird—but could you send a photo of you and Quinn?

  No, not an art project. I’m not sure what to call it. What’s your e-mail?

  Got it. Thanks. Really. You guys don’t owe me a thing.

  I said: Forget it! I needed that swim to clear my head.

  Okay. See ya.

  Can You Believe It?

  It takes me a few days to pull things together. I study the Sox schedule for next week. We’re away, in Toronto, for three games; the last one on a Wednesday. Perfect.

  I call Pop, check it out with Mom, send an E-vite to Marty and my aunt’s family—and call Tony. “CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?” he bellows, before I can say anything.

  “You sound exactly like Castiglione! You should go into radio broadcasting.” We talk about last night’s game before I issue the invite. “It’s an off night.”

  “I’m honored,” Tony says. “What can I bring?”

  “We’ll jinx it if I tell you what I really want.”

  “As in: We talk World Series tickets, we invite the Curse?”

  “Exactly. So don’t bring anything. And it’s casual.”

  *

  The stuff piles up on my desk, bedside table, and window ledge. Cat sends the songs and I start a file in the computer. I go through family albums when Mom’s not home; Leo helps me on their end without asking why. Pop shows up at the pizzeria and slips me what I need; our détente seems to be holding. I spend hours at the copy place, scanning everything, and on Monday I call Marty. He comes over to help me set up my PowerPoint, as if our fight never happened. Mom’s at a meeting, so we lay everything out on the dining room table. When Marty opens my file and scrolls through the images, he shakes his head. “It’s a tear jerker.”

  “Can you walk me through this?”

  He does: step by step, patient as the teacher he wants to be someday. We match songs to images, insert captions, rearrange the order. When we’re finished, Marty stands at the window, looking out into the dark courtyard. He’s quiet a long time. Finally he asks, “Sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.”

  I walk him downstairs and out to the curb. Our eyes lock under the streetlight. “I always need you, man,” I tell him. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem.” He raises his fist in salute.

  I hang out on the corner, watching, while he crosses Beacon, turns and salutes again. How’d he know I’d still be here?

  Because that’s what we always did, as kids. Waved goodbye once, twice, sometimes three times. That, at least, hasn’t changed.

  *

  I hustle to get everything ready. I bolt at the end of my shift Wednesday and use last week’s paycheck to buy a couple of pre-roasted chickens and prepared salads at Trader Joe’s. Cheating, but there’s a lot to do. I’ll bake baguettes; not as time-consuming but still tricky to fit it all in.

  As I wait at the light on Beacon and Harvard, a girl hurries over to me, clipboard in hand. Damn; some cause or other. She wears a T-shirt spangled with anti-war buttons and a skirt that shows off nice legs. Tight black curls spill out from under her pink Sox cap. Before I can turn away, she flashes a million-dollar smile.

  “Nice cap,” I tell her.

  “Yours too.” She holds up her clipboard. “Heard about the protest in New York next week? We’re bringing a thousand coffins to the Republican Convention to protest the war. We hope to draw a big crowd.”

  “Coffins? Wow—that’s quite the statement. Who’s we?”

  “United for Peace and Justice.”

  “Oh yeah. We get those mailings.” At least—Dad did. The light changes, the trains squeal to a stop, and the crowd pushes across the tracks. I should cross, bu
t it seems rude to walk away.

  “So—are you interested in the protest? We’re taking reservations.” The girl shows me the clipboard where people have signed their names, e-mails, and phone numbers. “The bus leaves before dawn.”

  “I don’t know…I have to work.”

  “You work Sundays?”

  “Busted.” My face feels hot.

  “We play Detroit that day,” she says. “You wouldn’t miss much.”

  I laugh. “You’ve memorized the schedule? So you’re rabid.”

  Pink spots bloom on her cheeks. How cute is that?

  “I checked the schedule before I started recruiting people,” she says. “I’ll bring radios, so people can listen on the way back.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “There’s a vigil here this Saturday at noon. You could come to that, check out our group. We’re small, but dedicated.”

  “This Saturday?” Now I sound like an idiot. There must be some way out of this.

  “Sorry,” she says. “People tell me I’m too pushy.”

  “That’s okay. Tell you the truth—I try not to think about the war. But I should. You have a flier or something?”

  She reaches into a bulging satchel, pulls out two fliers, and scribbles a number on the blue one. “This tells about the New York protest—and the other is for the local vigil. I’m Rachel.”

  “Brandon.” I stick the fliers into my grocery bag.

  “The war is crazy,” she says. “They made it all up. There were no WMDs.”

  “You sound like my dad. He went on some marches, and the candlelight vigil last spring. Before—” I stop. No need to dump this on a perfect stranger.

  But she’s paying attention. “Before?”

  “He passed away.” There must be a better way to do this.

  “That’s awful.” She sounds like she means it. “Wait—he didn’t die—over there, did he?”

  “No. Heart disease. He was too old to fight—and he didn’t believe in war.”

  “Who does?” We’re quiet a moment. “Listen,” she says, “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “How were you supposed to know? Besides, I could use a distraction.” I’m thinking of more than the peace march.

  The white Walk sign blinks again, counting down the seconds. “Your groceries smell good,” she says.

  I grin like a fool. “Maybe I’ll see you Saturday. I’ll call you.”

  “Go Sox!” she yells, as I hurry to catch the light.

  The trolley passes between us. When I look back, she’s already cornered her next victim. I’m happy to see it’s a woman Mom’s age, rather than some football hunk.

  I grin. A pretty girl who’s a Sox fan? Someone, somewhere, is taking care of me. Like Ortiz when he hits a home run, I raise my index fingers to the sky.

  A Perfect Game

  Marty arrives as I slide the baguettes into the oven. He sniffs. “You’re baking again? Since when?”

  “Since a few days ago. Come on, help me set up.”

  We move chairs and tables and twist the couch away from the wall to make two short rows of seats. “Looks like an official screening,” Marty says. We lift Dad’s favorite painting—a seascape that hangs above the stereo cabinet—so we can project the slides onto the white wall.

  “Damn; this is dusty.” I brush dust balls off the canvas and find a title scrawled on the back of the frame. “Surf Off Ingonish, Cape Breton.” I squint. “Can’t read the artist’s name.”

  “I always assumed it was Maine,” Marty says.

  “Me too.” I’m an idiot. How could I not know? Because I never asked. I could have asked about the painting, or a thousand other things—but I didn’t. Anyway, I’m honoring Dad tonight. We stow the painting in my room.

  The timer rings as we finish setting up. I baste the loaves with an egg white glaze, set them to cool on a rack. Marty perches on a stool. “You’re a professional, man. Ever think about starting a bakery?”

  “As a matter of fact…” I hand him a brochure I picked up in the market. “Check this out. Weekend classes in bread making, in Vermont.”

  “But you already know how to bake.”

  “Just the basics. I need to learn more, if I decide to go to culinary school.”

  Marty leans back so far, he nearly falls off the stool. “You’re kidding. Like the Culinary Institute of America? Where they train gourmet chefs?”

  “The very same.” Saying it out loud makes it real. My hands actually tremble.

  “That’s wild. What would your dad say?”

  “I can hear him now: No son of mine will join the C.I.A.”

  We both laugh, the buzzer sounds, and the party—if you can call it that—begins.

  *

  Tony’s first. He looks scrubbed: mustache trimmed, a faded but clean pressed shirt with a pair of red socks embroidered on the pocket. He hands me two big soda bottles. “My mom taught me: never show up empty-handed,” he says, as I introduce him to Marty. “Smells good in here.”

  Marty boasts about my baking skills as Cora, Leo, and Janine march up the stairs. Janine sets a plate of cookies on the counter; Leo adds a bottle of wine. “Fresh bread!” Leo rubs his hands together. “How soon can we dig in?”

  “After the show.”

  Mom and Pop are next. Pop has brought a bouquet of flowers, of all things. Janine whisks them away and sets them in a vase while Mom takes in the living room. She raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say a word. I introduce Tony as “my Red Sox pal.”

  “Who keeps Brandon sane,” Mom says. “Thanks for all your help.”

  I wonder if Tony will mention his brother, but he just tugs his mustache. “Hey, it’s good for me, too. Brandon believes in the dream.”

  I signal to Marty. He turns on the projector and loads my file while I get everyone into chairs. Tony stands at the back. “I sit in that damned booth all day,” he says, when I offer him a seat. I pull the shades, turn off the lights. The room goes quiet as the title swims onto the wall and Marty focuses the text: The Man Behind the Mask.

  I clear my throat. “I wish we’d had this show at the funeral—but things were too crazy. Thanks to Marty, who helped me put this together. He’s the best.” I’m having trouble talking. “This is my tribute to Patrick McGinnis…the bravest guy I know.”

  The first image appears: Dad as the Lone Ranger, his six guns so big on his tiny frame, they nearly reach his knees.

  “My father, the pacifist,” I say.

  Cora laughs as the Long Ranger’s soundtrack swells. She calls out over the sound of galloping hooves: “Can you imagine what my PC brother would say now, about the way that show portrayed Indians? Pat loved that outfit. Our mom had to sneak into his room after he fell asleep, to get it washed and dried so he could wear it again in the morning.”

  We progress through photographs of Dad in grammar school, then to his high school yearbook (where he’s a total dork with Buddy Holly glasses); the soundtrack for that image is Holly’s “Rain On.” Next is a photo taken after Dad’s graduation from B.C. Dad holds his diploma under his arm. He stands between Cora and my grandparents—the ones I never knew. They squint into the sunshine. Dad’s curls tumble out under his graduation cap, down to his collar.

  “Look at that hair!” Janine says.

  “Our dad hated it,” Cora says.

  For once, Pop says nothing. The photo changes. “And now we jump forward a few years—since there’s almost no record of Dad’s life up north. This is after Carter’s amnesty—when Dad came home. Before Mom.” The photo Dad sent to “Patrick Junior” swims into view. Dad is dressed in the striped uniform of his pickup team. “Dad played first base for the Somerville Saints.” I wait for my voice to stop shaking. “He sent this to—to the baby he thought was his son. It was never delivered.”

  There’s no music for this photo. I glance at Tony. Is it weird for him to hear this story in a room full of strangers? But he gives me a nod.

  “Okay,�
�� I say. “Keep in mind—all through the next years, Dad thought he had another son. And he never told anyone.”

  Mom is weeping. I pass her some tissues. “Sorry, Mom. It gets better.” We switch to Mom and Dad’s wedding photos, then my parents with me as a baby. “Look at that grin,” Leo says. “I’ve never seen such a proud father.”

  “You should talk,” Aunt Cora tells him.

  The next batch comes from our own albums. Dad was often the photographer, so we don’t have as many of him as I’d like—but I’ve come up with a pretty good sequence. For this set, Marty and I downloaded songs from albums Dad loved—The Cars, The Who’s rock opera Tommy, Dire Straits, and New Orleans jazz bands. When Dad’s in the picture, chances are that I am, too: at Revere Beach, building a sand castle; playing catch on the Boston Common; starting a fire in the rain on a camping trip.

  The soundtrack goes quiet. “Okay,” I tell them. “Now we move to Canada—past, and present.” Dad’s passport photo comes up, the one where he shaved his head for the border crossing. He looks so young—just a few years older than I am now. His ears stick out from his head, his eyes are filled with sorrow—as if he’d lost everything. Which he had. “December, 1969,” I say.

  The photo of Ray, Dad, and their kitten is next. “Pat always had a cat,” Cora says.

  I nod. “Now we jump ahead thirty-five years. The next photos are from the trip I took with Cora.” Cat’s first jig begins to play.

  Mom groans. “This music drives me crazy.”

  “I’m with you,” Tony says. I ignore them. “This is Cat, Quinn’s sister, playing ‘The Rakes of Kildare.’ Whatever you think of the music, she’s good.”

  Marty turns the sound down as I narrate the next part. Our photos of the lighthouse at Margaretville and the Annapolis Valley come into view, as well as Freeport in the fog. “Luckily, no one caught me after my swim—I didn’t have much on.”

  “Bran was the hero,” Cora says. “He rescued that wretched woman.”

  I shrug. “Blame it on Mom, who taught me to swim, and Coach, for the lifesaving class.”

  Cat’s version of “Lark in the Morning” plays as we show the final photos from Canada: goodbye pictures of Ray and me; of Cora and Ray, and then—the kicker—the photo Cat sent. She and Quinn stand in the bow of Little Blue. Quinn holds his captain’s hat in both hands. His blond hair is parted and combed so tight you can practically see every strand. He’s got on a blue uniform and black polished shoes. “Tight ass,” Marty mutters—just as I expected. Cat stands beside him, the total opposite. She’s got green streaks in her hair; a stud gleams in her nostril. She wears faded overalls—one strap is missing a snap—and she holds her fiddle close to her chest. She’s barefoot.