Highway Trade and Other Stories

by John Domini

  Then, these bits and pieces in the rain. Dora’s overcoat dangled, dry, on the rack beside the phone.

  Corrillo could read nothing off the cup. And there was no one on the lawn, no one in the nearby windows. All the children were at school.

  She couldn’t have gone far. Even Safeway was only a mile. Any minute now she’d trot in, her brown face bound in a sensible scarf, and he could get back to the table-pounding conviction he’d brought home. The angelfish were still caught up in it. His hard words had them reeling, he could see it from out on the deck. Corrillo cradled the cup at his chest and stepped back inside. He shut the reinforced glass. The heaviness behind his ribs was only beer, a thick wet sack. This tumbler was only an empty container, scrawled with glaze. No way she’d left it out to lose its smell. Here in the living space the smells were reliable, the In-sink-erator and the vacuuming. The tumbler felt like more of the same, squarish, glossy: like all the new-minted American surfaces Corrillo admired. Nonetheless, abruptly, he put his nose to the thing and inhaled—a test.

  He didn’t notice an odor. What struck him was the sound, the echo; it terrified him. A whistle, a plea, a moan, a wail.

  He jerked his head back. Still there was no one in the place except the fish, going crazy in their tank.

  Hot

  BRO HAD JUST FOUND his good season groove, the groove where you got the big flies and the deep shots, when his brother Sly was kidnapped. The news didn’t seem to register. The call came from his mother while the team’s equipment manager was in the motel room with him. One minute Bro was arranging to have a video made of his swing, and then without so much as changing his tone of voice: “What’d you say? Where’d he go? Mama who, who…” Then while he got the facts straight, the equipment manager standing there brought to mind the old Richard Pryor line, looking stupid was white folks’ natural expression. In fact Bro found that what he wanted most was to get off the phone and hurt the man.

  He let his mother know he wasn’t alone, he roughed his way past the guilt by using the word “ofay.” He told her goodbye and then sat more upright between the stiff motel pillows. His younger brother Sly, he told the equipment man. Last seen outside a hardware store in a mall south of Newark. They figured kidnapped because they’d found his Air Jordans, the ones with Sly-y-y on the trim. The laces had been cut and the shoes thrown in a dumpster.

  It hurt the man, yes. His jawline went through changes and his eyes were too large. But when he shouldered his duffle bag, the manager came up with one of those lame and useless Oregon sweetie pie smiles. Uh-oh. By tomorrow or the next day, everybody on the team would know.

  Alone, Bro remained planted. Waiting, waiting, his long spine flat against the wall. Eventually it came to him that he should call his mother back. The receiver felt heavy and the dialing was difficult, the whole instrument just the opposite from ten minutes before.

  It helped when he learned, over the next two-three days, that his trouble gave the entire organization the numbs. Of course he expected the team to keep it from people on the outside. But what he got was amazing, some kind of multiplication dance in slo-mo. First the ones in charge here in Salem said they didn’t know what Angels policy was, they’d have to call the lawyer up in the majors. Then Bro had to call the lawyer up in the majors himself, and he said he didn’t know what Angels policy was either. Plus everybody kept going back to the same word, personal. Bro wondered what kind of a person they had in mind, putting guys through such a runaround. It took the owner the better part of a week to come and tell him face to face that Salem couldn’t pay the airfare. Up with the big club it would be different of course, he said. The big club would assume the expense for this kind of personal matter.

  Terrible timing, too. The owner had arrived when the locker room was full, everybody suiting up for b.p.

  “Hey, I’m just a guy who sells farm tools. I can’t handle round-trip all the way back to New Jersey.” He’d hiked one foot up onto the bench next to Bro, one flashy damn boot that somehow he’d found income enough to handle.

  “The way you’re hitting now,” he said, “they’ll probably move you up to Sacramento in no time anyway.”

  Bro went into his Mau-Mau glare. “If you gonna fly,” he said, “it cost the same from Sa-cra-men-to.”

  And he didn’t take his eyes off the owner till the man had backed into a mop and bucket. Big Guernsey face all stitched up in another of those smiles. It had the effect Bro was after, a couple of the other guys were openly snickering.

  The last thing he needed was to have this trouble throw off his rep around here. Especially since every time he called home, every day after his roommate headed for the park, the talk with his mother always left him so out of touch he could hardly say where he’d been between when he’d hung up the phone in the motel and when he’d started to pull on his cleats in the clubhouse. He came to work in a dry-eyed Twilight Zone. He wished this had happened while they were on the road; acting like a zombie was natural on the road. Worse, the woman did it to him with sweetness. Even now, when the guys stopped by his locker after the owner had gone—high five, low five, Bro that was bad—he was glad they couldn’t hear how soft and easy his mother came on.

  Bro believed he knew how her mind was working. He recalled his father, a heavy-handed whiskey beard who’d run off when his mother was pregnant with Sly. He figured she didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. All through the week’s home-stand, she’d begin the conversation by asking how he’d done the night before. When he finished reeling off the latest she’d say something like: Oh well you got to stay there, then. And she’d remind him that she had his sisters. Even then, all she’d say was, They a godsend. She never told him straight out that Toola had come from Baltimore as soon as she’d heard the news. That kind of thing was up to Bro to figure out for himself.

  By Thursday he was asking the local guys if they knew a place where he could work out privately. Somebody with the Fellowship of Christian Athletes offered a church lot, but Bro knew there’d be strings attached. He kept asking, patient with the standard joke—Gee Bro, I’d let you use my ID, but.…He’d noticed long ago that in Oregon they mostly didn’t have black kids. But these locals were walk-ons, your basic marginal talent. He never much liked cutting them down.

  Then once he’d found a place and started taking his hacks (at least he’d been able to pry loose a couple pieces of club equipment), it got him nowhere. He set up in the middle field of three empty hundred-yard stretches side by side, some private college layout. Not a Christian in sight, nor some doofus cowboy with the nerve to call himself an owner. Nonetheless it was as if Sly and the rest of Bro’s family were still as much in place as the batting tee and the webbing that caught his shots. In fact once he broke a sweat the magic of the groove returned, everything became concentrated in the tension of the grip against his callouses, in the crack as he got hold of the ball and the thut as it was snared in the rubberized net. Other than that he had room only for the fantasies, rocking out as usual from just behind his eyes, the announcer’s tinny hype and the crowd’s vacuum roar and the whole stadium going wild with flags and paper airplanes for 360 degrees round the silent mountain horizon. When Bro spoke there was no echo. Even the weather was vacant, perfect. He’d gone into this streak just as the rain-outs ended, and now the air was so clear that when he finished his workout, all the way across an adjacent field Bro could pick out a man from Building & Grounds.

  Another black man, in fact. That as much as his cart and shovel made Bro think Building & Grounds. He hooked his fingers in the cage and squinted. The brother wore a Walkman. He appeared to be laughing and he shuffled his feet viciously; he was dishing lime onto a row of plants, each scoop so heaping and brilliant that Bro was certain it would burn the roots. He realized his own rush, his workout rush, was gone. Still he kept staring till his sweat chilled and he had to start his cleanup just to get the blood circulating.

  Sunday, the one day game during the week. Families in
the stands and a little more media. Bro was still rocking Godzilla, he could feel it the first time he stepped inside the foul lines. When he got his third hit of the afternoon—a deep, deep fly, way over the Valley Homes sign in right—it became obvious to him that working out alone was only more of the same. It was part of the problem, stonewall stonewall. Just, after the game, how was he supposed to deal with three reporters at once?

  Bro made sure the young woman from the radio was there, then ducked into the showers. He had another player bring him his towel and slacks. As soon as the pants were on, he went after the woman and backed her into a corner. He hooked his forearm against her shoulder, so close that when her startled face came round her hair brushed his naked chest. She had that working-blond wave; Bro flashed on a TV commercial when it flared round her face.

  Then they were huddled by the doorway. Bro announced that he was dedicating this season to his brother. Just announced it, loud enough to carry through the ghetto blasters and the usual tomcatting.

  She punched her recorder, he ran down the facts.

  “Whoa,” she said the first time he paused. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

  He blinked. “Ahh, I’m not sure you’re understanding what I’m saying.”

  “Well you’ve been awfully strong. You don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”

  “No. No see, this isn’t about me. This is about my brother. I want it to be like all the bats and all the balls, everything you see around here…plus whatever skills or like, knowledge I may have picked up so far…”

  He was bent close to her machine, trying to think; deliberately, she wrapped her hand round his bicep. “You want it to be like all that’s for him?”

  Bro nodded, but already the doubts had set in again. When he straightened up she was slow letting go of his arm, and he started thinking twice about that tickle at his chest earlier. Why come to this white girl? He had something so simple to get off his chest, why complicate it right at the start? When he’d gone after the woman he’d told himself it was the radio thing, getting the exact quote. He had a lot of respect for the men in the bigs who wouldn’t talk to the newspapers. Now Bro had to take a moment, resting against the locker-room wall. And though she must have noticed how badly the concrete would soak her sweater, she wedged herself between him and the corner. Of course that was her job, she didn’t want the guys hustling past to interrupt. But she was close enough for him to pick up her day smell even with all the cologne and deodorant nearby. And couldn’t he at least have buckled his belt? One of the other bad boys on the club ambled past, and he gave Bro that little grin, that little look while he slowed down, rolling easy sideways hip-to-hip going past—and Bro found himself smiling back.

  Smiling. How could he have forgotten: this was still so new for them. A woman in their busy, stinking room, all the uptight wisecracks. Hey, check out the new piece from the radio. After Bro caught himself smiling he couldn’t help glancing sideways, worrying what she thought. But she was busy with her recorder. He noticed instead that she’d dressed down again, granola and jeans even on Sunday. If only she were more like the townies who waited outside the park, the eyeliner, the beaded feather earrings dangling almost to their shoulders. The accessories would have cooled whatever wildcat pump had carried him out of the game.

  But he’d cornered her, she’d grabbed him. Now what was she asking?

  “How old am I?” he repeated.

  He saw that she must have five years on him at least. He wouldn’t have been able to tell if she hadn’t stood so close; all the rain out here kept the skin elastic.

  “Bro?” she said. “I mean are you old enough to come have a drink with me? This is no place to talk.”

  The other faces were no better. The guys who weren’t watching him had their backs squared, shower-drops clinging to their shoulder blades as if they’d turned to chrome.

  “Bro? You there?”

  The equipment manager swung by, fingering a hefty watch out of the valuables bag. Bro nodded, yeah that’s me. When the reporter took it for an okay it seemed like a nitpick, like the kind of thing a wimp would do, to slow down and tell her different.

  She drove some kind of soft-shoulder foreign car, looked exotic just sitting in the lot. Not that Bro needed any help. Already he was seeing lingerie. She said her name was Robin, “but I like it when guys call me Rob.” She said she had to run an errand before dinner, and when he asked where, she smiled. “It’s outside town, Bro—but let me keep it a surprise.” All these white girls had lingerie.

  But the little car’s front seat was a hassle. His thinking became more ordinary while he struggled for legroom. A bad sign; for a long time now he’d believed the head-trips had something to do with his success. About the same time as he’d discovered he could hit the long ball, Bro had noticed how quick and beefy the dreams would come. Announcers going hoarse and the whole works. Bro even used them as part of his pre-game, the way other players had superstitions about how to lace their cleats or when to start their run. He thought it gave him an advantage, having an invisible prep. Nobody knew about it, when he stood picturing the shots leaving the park or what the situation would be with men on base. Nobody could mess, and so nobody was ever going to know. Nobody except his brother anyway. Bro had always figured he’d tell Sly sooner or later, the only other man in the family after all. He would have confided in him already if the boy hadn’t been so much younger. The boy still clung to their mama more than Bro liked to see.

  Bro caught an awful smell, thick machinery rubber. He discovered he had his body curled onto one haunch, away from the woman, his nose buried in the rubber lips of the window. He squared round and tried to look like he was scoping out the view. But Salem of course was nobody’s idea of a city. Five minutes beyond the ballpark and you never saw a house bigger than ranch-style, while the cross-streets came out of scrubby open landscape like a line drawn on a map.

  “Can we talk now?” Robin asked. “While we’re getting there?”

  He saw she’d set up the tape recorder on the console between the seats. And the surprise of her prettiness, when she turned and the hair halved her face—that too only made Bro aware of how his head had cooled. If this were a game he’d be off his stroke. He tried to relax, but the seat’s headrest barely came up to his neck, and the best he could do for starters were the week-old facts of the kidnapping. Robin appeared to understand. She let the tape run a few moments. When she spoke, she sounded careful.

  “Is your family…are they working with all the agencies? Will you know as soon as anything happens?”

  “They say something like this, you just can’t tell.”

  “They? They who?”

  “My mama. I mean my mama tells me what all those agencies or whatever tell her.”

  Robin nodded, but her eyes were active.

  “They all say,” he went on, “you can’t make no plans on the boy for certain. You could be thinking he’s dead and in the ground a long time, and then one night like, his face might all of a sudden flash by on the TV.”

  Nod again, then silence again. The road was so straight the tape must have picked up nothing but its own hum.

  “Was he big, Bro?” she asked suddenly. “Like you?”

  “Naw, not like me.” The numbness remained, this was more of his mother talking. “He might still shoot up in high school, though.”

  “High school?”

  No hand-me-down lines for that. Bro sat up awkwardly; something under the seat jabbed the tendons in his heels, so hard he winced. Bending, he whacked his head on the glove box. “Gyahh.” And then Robin started being nice to him of course. Touching his shoulder, gently repeating his name. His first clear thought was, The media. The woman wasn’t even saying “Bro,” now, but his full, press-guide name. This couldn’t have been what he’d wanted. He took a moment, his cheek against the warm dash, and he could pin it down exactly: he’d wanted to get someplace real for the first time in days. Not this—reporter
’s trick. A stray rocket and then a scene out of a Roadrunner cartoon. A sexy Roadrunner cartoon, to boot. Robin was halfway to giving him a back rub by now.

  He felt under the seat and found what had poked him. A record album, that’d do to change the subject.

  “Hey Rob, what’s this?” He came up holding the LP, and her hand fell away. “Ain’t this a little old for you?”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “That was my boyfriend’s—I mean my ex-boyfriend’s. I’m not seeing anyone now. Wow, that guy was so into the blues.”

  Bro grinned, setting the album on his lap. The grin was all he could manage.

  “That’s Howlin’ Wolf,” she said eventually. “You really don’t know?”

  “He looks like my father,” Bro said. Meantime making up his mind: okay. The media was a tool, they even said so down in Instructional League. Plus anybody on the club could have told him this girl was a newcomer. Okay, so use it like a tool, and pay the price next time her game gets a little clumsy. Talking about the family after all seemed somewhere near what he was after. Except then—couldn’t have been more than a couple minutes later—she was pulling off the highway. She was heading up towards what looked like a farmhouse and stables.

  Of course it had to be a farm. Bro could see livestock a field or two away, through the ballgame roar of the driveway gravel. It was just that everything appeared so square and functional. There were none of the nooks and crannies he remembered from field trips in grade school. The satellite dish was planted between a couple naked concrete blocks, the house stood dark and empty. Instead of a garage the owner had nailed pink corrugated plastic to the top of some upright 4 × 4’s. The movieola effect when they pulled in under that plastic was wildly out of place, like the once in a while when a pigeon flaps down in the infield.