The Death of Baseball

by Orlando Ortega-Medina

  Ryo leads me through his house, which is a little bigger than ours, but in a nicer neighbourhood, and takes me into the kitchen. His mom is finishing putting two fat candles on his birthday cake, one in the shape of a number one and the other in the shape of a number two. The cake is brown with yellow frosting, and Ryo’s name is spelt out on top in Japanese.

  “Hi, Mrs Murakama,” I say. Ryo’s mom turns around and wipes her hands on her apron, and I bow to her. Even though Mrs Murakama’s English is way worse than Momma’s, she wears more modern American-style clothes, like stretch pants and halter-tops, being that she’s about ten years younger than Momma. And she does up her hair in an afro, which I think looks ridiculous.

  “Welcome, Koba-san.” She points out the window to their backyard, where Ryo’s dad is barbecuing something next to a wooden picnic table covered in a red-and-white chequered plastic tablecloth. “We’ll be having lunch in twenty minutes.”

  Ryo takes me to his room and sits on his bed, which is covered by a comforter and pillows with the same pattern as the Partridge Family bus, a bunch of red, yellow, and blue squares of different sizes, connected by black lines on a white background. I glance around the room and notice lots of Partridge Family stuff, posters, album covers, and even a Partridge Family wall clock. I try hard not to roll my eyes, and I hand Ryo his birthday present.

  “Thanks, Clyde!” He rips off the wrapping paper and uncovers the cardboard box.

  “Where are the other kids?” I ask as he holds the box to his ear and shakes it a few times.

  “What other kids?” Ryo tears open one end of the box and peers inside.

  “For your birthday party.”

  “You’re the only one.” He slides out the red-and-blue clip-on necktie Momma bought for him and stares at it for a second. “Is this for real?” he asks, the tie dangling from his fingers.

  “Matches your bedspread,” I say with a shrug.

  “Thanks.” Ryo stuffs the tie back in the box and throws it behind his bed in a typical Ryo jerk-like way.

  “I thought you invited me to a party. One person isn’t a party.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll have fun, just like Kevin does whenever he comes over. Plus, I have that Marilyn stuff to show you after lunch.”

  We spend the next hour with Ryo’s parents at the picnic table in their backyard, eating stuff like barbecued fish, steamed rice, pickled vegetables, and 7 Up. They do their best to make it seem as much of a party as possible for Ryo, passing out pointy birthday hats and playing the Japanese birthday song Otanjoubi Omedetou over and over on an eight-track player until I think I’m going to lose my mind.

  After a while, the wind kicks up and blows the paper plates off the table. So Mrs Murakawa moves us inside to sing American Happy Birthday to Ryo in the kitchen, and we have some melty vanilla ice cream and some not-so-good chocolate cake. Then Ryo’s dad, whom I never met before today and who is way too jolly for my taste, makes each of us sing karaoke songs. He belts out a tired one from the 1950s called My Way, Mrs Murakawa slaughters I Wanna Hold Your Hand by the Beatles, I sing Puppy Love by Donny Osmond, and Ryo wraps up the whole crazy thing with I Think I Love You by the Partridge Family.

  As Mrs Murakawa puts everything away, Ryo’s dad calls me into the family room and shows me all the amazing Marilyn Monroe stuff he has there: vintage magazines in plastic protectors, a real spicy signed picture of Marilyn wearing a fuzzy white sweater hanging off her shoulder, and a couple of framed posters from a movie called Bus Stop. He tells me there’s a lot more at his shop on Hollywood Boulevard and that I’m welcome to visit anytime. I’m so amazed by everything he’s showing me, and I wish I had enough money to buy it all. But then I remember that even if I had a trillion dollars my father would never let me put up any of it, which makes me mad and more determined to get rid of him.

  “You can have the signed picture if you want it,” Ryo says after his father leaves us alone in the family room. He slides the picture out of its paper frame and holds it out to me, flashing a big grin.

  I look at the picture and at him. “It’s not yours.”

  Ryo shakes it at me. “Just take it. My dad won’t mind.”

  “He didn’t offer it to me when he was here.”

  “It’s OK. He knows I sometimes give stuff to my friends. Like the one of James Dean I gave to Kevin.”

  “Kevin paid you for that.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “He told me he paid you ten dollars for the James Dean picture, the one where he has a black turtleneck sweater pulled up over his mouth.”

  Ryo pulls back the picture of Marilyn, which I do want, but not if it’s stolen from Ryo’s father.

  “Forget it,” he says. “Let’s go play in the field behind the house.”

  “What are we gonna do there?”

  “Explore and stuff. Your mom won’t be here for another hour, and I don’t want to be cooped up all afternoon.”

  Ryo leads me out a side gate to a big wooded field that all the houses in his neighbourhood are built against. According to Ryo, nobody ever goes back there, so it’s a perfect place to explore and to get away from his parents whenever he gets in trouble.

  We walk to the very edge of the field, where there’s a cliff overlooking a long shaded gully with a running creek down below. Ryo points out a switchback trail to our left leading down to the gully, but I tell him I don’t want to go down there because my shoes will get all muddy, and because, well, I don’t want to have to climb all the way back up the hill in the hot sun. So he says OK and shows me another part of the field with lots of rabbits jumping around. After beaning a few of them with rocks, he leads me into a flat, shaded area between a stand of pine trees, clears away some stones and sits on the ground Indian-style.

  He squints an eye at me. “Sit down for a sec.”

  So I sit down, stretch out my legs and lean back on my hands. It feels nice and relaxed in the shade, especially with the wind blowing through the trees. I close my eyes and imagine I’m back in the Enchanted Forest with Kevin.

  “That was a cool speech you gave the other day,” Ryo says after a bit.

  “Thanks.” I keep my eyes closed and hum a little tune to myself to try and block him out.

  “I was surprised you picked Marilyn Monroe. I thought you’d pick someone more to do with baseball since you’re into that.”

  I shrug my shoulders and think about how funny it is that people assume I’m into baseball just because I’m good at it. The truth is that the people who are the most into baseball are the ones who aren’t any good at it, like my father. But I just keep quiet and let them think whatever they want because it’s none of their business anyway.

  “Spencer’s a good actor. But you were way better than him, the way you swished around and talked in that girly voice. For a second you had me believing you really were a girl.”

  I open my eyes and sit up. Ryo winks at me and wiggles his eyebrows the way Kevin does.

  “I wasn’t acting.”

  “Yeah, right!” He stands and pats the dust off his trousers. “Hey, I’ve got to pee real bad.”

  “Me too.” I stand and hop up and down a few times to get the circulation in my legs going again.

  We move closer to the trees so the wind won’t be able to blow the pee on us, take down our trousers and go for it. Since we’re standing next to each other, I turn away for, like, some privacy. But Ryo edges closer and tells me to let him see my chinchin, which is OK with me as long as he lets me look at his. He laughs and sprays his pee all around, which makes me laugh, and I do the same thing.

  “Let’s see whose is bigger,” he says, moving right up next to me.

  “No, thanks,” I say, pulling up my trousers. “You win.”

  “No, wait!” He grabs my hand hard, leads me back to where we were sitting before, and pulls me down.

  “Hey! Watch that!” I say.

  “Come on.” He pulls his trousers to his ankles. “Let’s jerk off.”r />
  I try to stand, but he yanks me back down, which makes me mad.

  “Dude! It’s my birthday. Do it with me just this once.”

  So, being that all I got him was the stupid necktie, and being that nobody else came to his birthday party, I decide it’s OK this one time, just to get it over with. Right when we’re in the middle of it, Ryo grabs my hand, but I pull it back.

  “Do me,” he says.

  “Do yourself!”

  “At least sit closer so I can feel you against me,” he says.

  I don’t see the harm of that, so I scoot closer to Ryo until our legs are pressed up against each other, and I can feel the vibration of his body. Then, right when I think he’s about to splatter, he grabs my neck and pulls my head down toward him, and says, “Suck it.”

  I pull away from him, but he grabs my neck again. “Suck it like Kevin does,” he says.

  The moment he says Kevin’s name, I pry his hand off my neck and push him back hard against the tree.

  “You liar!” I say, glaring at him as he sits back up.

  “I’m not lying! Kevin sucks me off every time he comes over. Why do you think I gave him such a good deal on the James Dean shit?”

  “You’re a fricking liar! I’m going to tell Kevin what you said when he gets back tonight, and he’ll never speak to you again.” I pull up my underpants and my trousers. I’m so angry I could easily kick in Ryo’s face.

  “Kevin’s not coming back, you stupid bumpkin. His mother put him in boarding school in England.”

  Everything in my stomach gushes into my chest when I hear those words, like when a roller coaster reaches the highest point in the ride and suddenly drops, and everything goes spackled and grey because I know Ryo is telling the truth. That’s what the telephone call last night was about; that’s why Momma was so quiet this morning. I try my best to hold back my tears, but this just makes me feel weak and I accidentally fall against Ryo’s shoulder.

  “Pastor Tanaka told my mom yesterday at church,” he yells. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything to you. But since you’re being such a jerk about it”—he grabs my neck again and pulls my head toward him—“now, suck it!”

  What happens next is a blur. All I remember is some paramedics are loading Ryo into an ambulance, and a bunch of adults are screaming at me. Seems I cracked open Ryo’s head with a rock. I’m too embarrassed to explain what happened, and when he finally wakes up in the hospital a week later, Ryo can’t even remember his own name.

  Chapter 13

  I’m lucky the police release me to my parents because most kids who crack open other people’s heads usually get put into juvenile hall and don’t get out for a long time. But since I’ve never been in trouble before, they think it’s better for me to go home, as long as my parents promise to take me to court on Monday, which they do.

  Nobody understands why I would’ve done such a thing to a school friend. I don’t even know myself; it all happened so fast. And now my parents are afraid that what happened with Hiro is happening to me too. So between them, the social worker, the lawyers, and the Juvenile Court judge, they agree to put my case on hold until a psychiatrist can examine me and report back to the court, which gives me an idea about how I can finally use the thing from the box, which is still in my book bag.

  On Wednesday, right after breakfast, I grab my book bag and run to Momma’s station wagon. My father’s in the driver’s seat drumming on the steering wheel, and Momma is waiting for me by the passenger door, wearing big sunglasses so I can’t see her eyes. She points at my book bag and says, “You won’t need that.”

  “I don’t want to fall behind in my schoolwork, Momma.” I lift the flap and pull out my maths book. “It’s just for if I have time while we’re waiting to see the doctor.”

  Momma nods, pulls open the door, and I pop inside.

  My father doesn’t say anything as he drives. He hasn’t really said anything to me for weeks. Earlier that morning, I heard him arguing with Momma, telling her that he didn’t understand why he had to go to the psychiatrist’s office since he wasn’t the one being examined. Momma told him the psychiatrist might want to talk to them as part of his work. So he finally agreed. But he’s still not happy about it. In fact, he looks totally nervous, which he should be.

  The psychiatrist’s office is in Beverly Hills, in a fancy, tall glass building next to Rodeo Drive. His secretary tells us we’re fifteen minutes early and asks us to wait while Doctor Menner (that’s the psychiatrist’s name) finishes up with another patient.

  Momma and I sit on a black leather sofa facing the door to Doctor Menner’s office. Momma’s still wearing her sunglasses, with her head turned away from me, her arms wrapped tightly around her purse. My father’s squirming on a chair next to the front door and reading a magazine upside down. We’re the only people in the waiting area. It’s super quiet, the only sounds being father’s raspy breathing, Momma’s grumbly stomach, and the clack-clack-clack of the secretary’s typewriter. After a bit, I pull my maths book out of my book bag, and quickly check underneath it to make sure the thing is still there. My heart does a somersault when I see it at the bottom of the bag, folded neatly in a plastic sandwich baggie. Momma swivels her head in my direction. I show her my teeth and close the flap slowly so it doesn’t look suspicious, then I set the bag on the sofa next to me and open my book. Momma looks away again.

  Just then, the door to Doctor Menner’s office opens, and a tall man steps out. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit and tie and wears a little black felt beanie on top of his head. The man has a short, black beard, dark blue eyes, and a kind face. I set aside my book and sit up on the sofa, and my father peers at him over the top of his magazine. The man is followed by a handsome boy, who’s probably a couple years older than Kevin, with a big, shiny camera hanging from a strap around his neck, and carrying a black canvas book bag that looks a lot like mine. The boy is wearing tight blue jeans, a tight-fitting, black snap-button shirt with black braces, big black boots, and a black hat with a rounded top. A lock of his hair is sticking out from under the hat, completely covering one of his eyes. I’m surprised to see that under his other eye, which is dark blue like the man’s, he’s wearing a fake eyelash. More surprisingly, his fingernails are painted black.

  The handsome boy moves past the man in the suit, who I reckon is his father, and stands next to the secretary’s desk while Doctor Menner and the boy’s father speak quietly. The boy takes off his hat and rakes his fingers through his hair. He lets out a loud sigh, then pivots around and glances into the waiting room. He catches my eye, smiles, and winks. Momma lifts her sunglasses, leans forward, and looks at him, then looks at me and frowns.

  “Thank you very much for everything, Doctor,” the boy’s father says. “We appreciate all you’ve done.”

  Doctor Menner nods and pulls a fake smile, then goes back into his office and shuts the door kind of hard.

  “Yeah, thank you for everything,” the handsome boy calls out to the closed door with a smirk.

  The man in the suit shakes his head at the boy, who shrugs and lifts his book bag, putting his arms through the shoulder straps and adjusting it on his back.

  “All the best, Vivien,” the man in the suit says to the secretary as he walks past her desk.

  “Thank you, Mr Dweck. Goodbye, Raphael,” she says to the handsome boy, who is already halfway across the waiting room. He lifts his hand goodbye without turning around.

  As he passes the sofa, he flashes me a wicked smile and pumps his eyebrows the same way Kevin does and snaps a picture of me with his camera before gliding out the door. Momma lets out a surprised yelp and makes like she wants to get up and go after him. But she changes her mind, I guess, and sits back, and my father mumbles something rude about the boy’s father being Jewish.

  Ten minutes later, Doctor Menner calls me into his office. Momma stands and calls out to my father, whose face is buried deeper in the upside-down magazine. But Doctor Menner tells them not
to worry; he needs to see me alone first since it’s a court-ordered evaluation.

  Doctor Menner has a thin brown moustache and stringy hair pulled over to one side like it’s falling out or something. He’s wearing a wrinkled short-sleeve white shirt, the kind you buy from Sears, and a crooked clip-on bow tie. He takes hold of my book bag and takes it around the back of his desk. “Sit there.” He points at a long, brown leather sofa in the middle of the room with funny pyramid-shaped chrome feet.

  He flips open a manila folder and reads something to himself while still standing. I plop down on the sofa and wait. The office feels stuffy, and smells funny, almost a little like aieki. I look around and see bunches of books—on shelves, stacked in little piles on the floor, and on his big wooden desk. On the wall behind me is a spacey-looking digital wall clock set in a white plastic case, and right next to it hangs a huge Frenchie-looking mirror that doesn’t exactly go with the other decorations in the room.

  “It’s hot in here.” I point at the window.

  Doctor Menner looks up from the folder and squints at me. Big marbles of sweat quiver above his eyebrows, ready to stream down his face. He pulls a handkerchief out of his back pocket and mops his forehead, then pours himself a glass of water from a white plastic jug on his desk. His hand shakes a little, which makes me nervous.

  “I said it’s hot in here. Can you open the window or something?”

  Doctor Menner looks over his half-glasses at me for a second. Then he picks up the telephone and asks his secretary to turn on the air conditioning. Finally, he grabs a pen out of a little box on his desk, sits down in the chair across from me, and flips open a steno pad.