“It’s not for me to say.”
Ralph raises his shoulders. “Of course not.”
“Go see him.”
Ralph flashes a sad smile, then turns around and walks out of the sanctuary.
* * *
Ralph drives down Wilshire Boulevard toward downtown Los Angeles, determined to turn himself in to the police, but all the while hearing the rabbi’s voice playing a loop in his head. Go see him. What did he mean by him? Hadn’t he said it was Gabriella who was looking for him? Maybe he meant his father. Or perhaps the rabbi had confused his words. Ralph’s heart rate increases, and dark spots dapple his vision in the glare of the late-morning sunlight.
As he reaches the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica, he wonders whether this might not be the sign he begged for last night, especially as he has just offered Hashem one last chance. Executing an illegal U-turn, he roars up Wilshire back to Westwood and up Beverly Glen to Holmby Hills.
Driving along the lanes of his old neighbourhood, Ralph feels a surge of emotion and the sting of tears and wipes at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He turns onto his street and brings his car to a halt in front of the gates of his family home. The driveway is empty, as he would expect at this time of day, and he switches off the engine and waits. His eyes feel heavy in the drowsy heat, and he reclines his seat and nods off into a restless sleep.
The roar of a leaf blower jars him awake. Glancing at the digital clock, he is surprised to see that it is nearly three in the afternoon. He stares at the still-empty driveway, and, feeling the pangs of hunger, he climbs out of the car and approaches the gate, dodging the small army of gardeners who are tidying up the grass running along the outside wall.
Grasping the bars of the gate, he stares through them at the front door, throwing back his mind a decade and summoning up the feeling of this place as home, his father studying Talmud in the living room, his mother haunting the halls in her wheelchair. He thinks of his bedroom and wonders whether his father has kept it as it was, or whether he has turned it into a guest room or a study.
The twin forces of hunger and curiosity drive him to punch the access code into the security pad and push open the side gate. Moving up the drive to the front door, he enters the security code to unlock it. But the code doesn’t work. After trying it a few times more without success, he rings the doorbell and raps repeatedly on the front door, hoping that the cook or one of the housekeepers might still be around.
As he is about to head around to the back of the house, a grinding metallic sound emanates from the other side of the door followed by the unlatching of the lock. The door swings open slowly, and Ralph gives it a little shove. Stepping inside, his breath catches at the sight of Yossi staring up at him from a wheelchair, dressed in a thin white tank top and tan-coloured army fatigues shortened to fit the stumps where his legs used to be.
The cousins stare at each other with widening eyes. In the ten years that have passed, Yossi’s face has grown angular, framed by a poorly groomed beard, and his once-friendly eyes look harder, more like his mother’s than ever before. His upper body is strong, the muscles standing out on his arms, biceps, and triceps. Ralph reaches out a hand, and Yossi responds by wheeling his chair around and moving down the hallway toward the living room.
“Yossi, wait.” Ralph jogs after his cousin and intercepts him as he rolls down the ramp and brings his chair to a halt next to the sofa.
“I don’t want to see you,” Yossi says, his voice barely audible. He focuses his gaze at a random corner of the room.
Ralph lays his hand on Yossi’s shoulder, but Yossi shakes it off.
“I didn’t know you were here,” Ralph says.
Yossi tosses a sidelong glance at him. “What difference would it have made if you had? No one has heard from you in ages.”
“I’m here now.”
Yossi wheels his chair around to face Ralph. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to apologise, because I’m not having any of that.”
“I’m not.”
Yossi lifts his chin at Ralph.
“I’m sorry about what happened, achi. But none of it was my fault. Not the fire, not the war, not your injuries—”
“You didn’t know that at the time.”
“No, but it still didn’t make me responsible.”
“And what about your disappearing act afterwards? Not your fault either?”
Ralph passes a hand through his damp hair and wipes it on his trousers. “Look at it from my side, Yossi. I was seventeen; still a kid. I felt like a murderer for what happened in Mitzpe, and also responsible for what happened to you. The guilt was horrendous; I couldn’t deal with it. It’s a miracle I didn’t end up tossing myself off a cliff or worse. And by the time I found out none of it was my fault, the whole experience had already wounded me to the very core of my being. I’m still trying to make sense of it. So, I’m sorry if I wasn’t around to deal with the aftermath. But I couldn’t face up to it. I couldn’t face you.”
“So you are here to apologise.”
Ralph drops into his father’s chair and lowers his head into his hands. “I don’t know why I’m here. The rabbi told me Gabriella was looking for me. He said I should come see her. I came here; I found you.” He raises his head. “Fuck if I know.”
Yossi shakes his head and pivots his chair away from Ralph, who stands and touches his shoulder. This time Yossi doesn’t flinch. Ralph puts his other hand on Yossi’s other shoulder and gently massages his neck and back, finding spots of tension that he kneads with his thumbs, eliciting groans from his cousin. After a few minutes, he steps forward and embraces Yossi from behind, bringing his cheek to rest against the side of Yossi’s head. Yossi leans into the gesture, and Ralph kisses him on the top of his head.
“I’m here for a couple of weeks,” Yossi says after a tentative moment of silence, “for a mental health conference for injured IDF soldiers co-sponsored by the Skirball Center. It starts on Monday.”
“And after?”
“After, I’m returning to Israel. I’m living in Haifa now.”
“Are you with someone?”
Yossi shakes his head.
“Stay.”
Yossi wheels his chair away from Ralph.
“You can live with me, achi. I have a big place. I’ll take care of you. We can start again. It’ll be a new life for both of us.”
Reaching the bottom of the ramp, Yossi glances back at Ralph for a moment. Ralph lunges forward to help him, but Yossi’s hand shoots up halting him mid-stride. Then he struggles up the ramp, the muscles bulging on his arms with the effort. When he reaches the top, he wheels his chair around and looks down at Ralph.
“I’m glad we had a chance to talk, cousin.”
“Yossi, I—”
“But this is as far as things are going to go with us.”
“We could at least try to start over, couldn’t we?”
“We could,” Yossi says. “But I don’t want to. I understand everything you’ve said, and I’ll do my best to find a way to forgive you—for my sake. But you’ve been out of my life for over ten years, and I don’t want you back again. You’re bad news, cousin; trouble follows you wherever you go. I wish you only the best. But I need to protect myself. So, if you truly care for me, you’ll do us both the favour of never contacting me again. Yes?”
Tears stream down Ralph’s face as he watches the image of Yossi recede down the darkened hallway toward his old bedroom. He fights the urge to race after him, to beg his forgiveness, to try to convince him to change his mind. But Yossi’s words continue to echo in his mind. You’re bad news; trouble follows you wherever you go; I have to protect myself. They conflate with the image of Yoshi lying at the bottom of a freezer, buried under a pile of frozen fish.
Wiping his face with the back of his sleeve, he takes in a deep breath and strides out of the house.
* * *
Clyde wanders out of the kitchen in his nightgown and a pair of satin monogra
mmed slippers he dug out of Ralph’s closet, balancing a bowl of Cap’n Crunch in his hand. He returns to the music room and sits in the lounge chair to eat. A quarter through the bowl, he sets it aside and walks around the room, looking at Ralph’s collection of album covers, which cover an entire wall like a functional collage. Spotting a copy of Goat’s Head Soup by The Rolling Stones, he slips the vinyl disc out of the cover, carefully places it on the turntable, and plays “Angie”.
He climbs back into the lounge chair, draws his legs up, and munches down some more of the sickly sweet breakfast cereal, letting a sad, nostalgic feeling wash over him. The image of Kevin the day he left for England haunts him, as it does each time he hears this song. He had seen him again a couple of years later, all grown up and barely recognisable, having put on excess weight, his face pasty and bloated. He’d returned home to see his parents during half term, and Tomoko had driven an excited Clyde over to see him. Clyde recalls the cold, aloof look Kevin had tossed when he walked through the door. He remembers how Kevin’s body had stiffened when he’d hugged him, how he’d excused himself and gone back upstairs to his room.
When Tomoko and Auntie Doreen had settled into a conversation, Clyde snuck upstairs and poked his head into Kevin’s room, where he found him sitting on his bed reading a book. All the James Dean memorabilia was gone; the walls were bare; the room was as lifeless as a wigless mannequin stripped bare. Kevin had looked up from his book and, taking the cue, Clyde climbed the rest of the way into the bedroom and had stood across from him.
“You’re not happy to be back?” Clyde asked. “Because I’m happy to see you.”
Kevin shrugged and looked back at his book.
“I decorated my room the way you told me I should, Kev.” Clyde had snapped his fingers in the air. “It’s absolutely fabulous. You should come see it.”
Kevin had clapped shut his book and dropped it onto the bed.
“Why are you acting like that?” Clyde asked.
“Like what?”
“All stuck up.”
“I’m not happy to be back. I miss my friends. I wish I were back home—in England at my school.”
Clyde could hear the hint of an English accent. It sounded fake to him.
“I thought you’d at least be happy to see me, you know, after what happened before you left. I still have the ring you gave me.”
Kevin crossed the room and grabbed Clyde’s arm.
“Nothing happened, OK? Wipe it all clean.” Kevin pointed at the walls. “Like this room. All clean. A blank slate. James Dean doesn’t live here anymore, get it? His spirit has returned to Jigoku to haunt someone else.”
When the song finishes, Clyde snatches the record off the turntable and rakes his cereal spoon across the vinyl. He sticks out his tongue at the deep gash and returns the disc to its cover.
He dumps the half-eaten cereal into the sink and deposits the bowl into the dishwasher, then strolls across the room to the mirror and admires his reflection, primping and posing, giggling and blowing kisses at himself. After a few minutes, he manages to banish all thoughts of Kevin from his mind and shimmies away from the mirror.
When he gets to the foot of the stairs, Ralph’s shrine catches his eye. There are four candles now, and all the photographs are back in their respective places. Clyde picks up the photograph of the boy on the table and stares at it. He turns the frame over in his hand, looking for some clue as to the boy’s identity. Finding nothing, he reverently places it back on the table. Then he takes down the photograph of the soldier. There is a forlorn look in his dark eyes, and a carpet of hair visible above the top button of his crisp uniform. He touches his finger to the glass, which is stained with what look like watermarks, then touches his finger to his tongue and tastes salt.
He returns the photograph to the wall and goes back to Ralph’s room and rummages through his closet and dresser drawers. He pops into the bathroom and inspects all the bottles in the medicine cabinet. He goes to Ralph’s writing desk, pulls on the bottom drawer and finds it locked. Then he pulls open the pencil drawer and finds among the flotsam a couple of random letters addressed to Ralph from USC’s School of Cinematic Arts. Stuffing one of them into his purse, he sits on the bed and switches on the TV. He flips to KTLA, his favourite channel for late-morning classic movies and giggles at a Palmolive dishwashing soap commercial as Madge the manicurist shocks yet another customer by announcing she’s soaking her fingernails in dishwashing liquid.
Clyde slakes his thirst with a sip of water from Ralph’s water glass as the commercial fades and the unseen host announces: “We now return to Al Pacino and Chris Sarandon in Dog Day Afternoon.” Clyde stretches out on his stomach, rests his chin on his fists, and watches with great interest as the story unfolds.
* * *
Ralph bursts through the door of his loft and races upstairs. He looks around at the empty bedroom, switches off the TV, and pokes his head into the bathroom. Seeing nothing, he races downstairs and searches the rest of the apartment.
In the music room, he finds that the stereo system is on, the turntable rotating. Switching it off, he returns to his bedroom and inspects it more closely, noticing the rumpled, still-warm sheets, the half-opened drawers, a couple of discarded, lipstick-smeared Kleenexes on the floor.
Whirling around he looks at his writing desk. He bends down to test the locked bottom drawer and sees an envelope from USC on the floor next to the wastepaper basket. He picks it up and stares at it for a few seconds, then looks inside his pencil drawer and searches for the other one. Finding nothing, he straightens up and looks back at the empty bed, feeling his heart leap into his chest.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he says as he races out of the room.
* * *
Ralph’s 300ZX roars into the student parking lot, and he leaps out and sprints across the campus to the film school. As he nears the building, he sees Clyde standing on the steps dressed in a white chiffon blouse and a black satin knee-length skirt, his hair done up in classic Marilyn glamour waves. A crowd of students have gathered around him. Ralph rushes up to Clyde’s side.
“Oh, Jimmy dear, there you are,” Clyde says. He gives Ralph a peck on the cheek. “You look like shit.”
“Yes, Jimmy, here you are,” one of his classmates says with a smirk. “Your friend here’s been asking about you. I was about to take him up to your advisor’s office.”
“Watch it, there,” Clyde says. “I’m not a him.” He turns around to show off his body, his eyes closed, a blissful smile on his face. “This girl’s all woman.”
Ralph’s classmates erupt into peals of laughter and loud applause. Clyde flashes a toothy smile, then takes a bow.
“I think they recognise me,” he says as Ralph shepherds him to one side.
“What are you doing here?” Ralph whispers to him.
“Surprise!” Clyde says, pulling the envelope from his purse. “I may be blonde, but I’m not dumb.”
The crowd of students presses in around them, keen to listen in on their conversation.
“OK, guys,” Ralph says, waving a hand at them, “the show’s over.” He grabs Clyde’s arm and pulls him away from the crowd, and Clyde shakes himself free.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?”
“Come with me, please.” Ralph jerks his thumb in the direction of the parking lot.
“But I came here to see you in your element. I was hoping you might give me a tour or something. Also,” he says, his face brightening, “I came up with an idea. And this seemed like the perfect place to pitch it to you. You know, for your project.”
Ralph stares at Clyde for a moment and shakes his head. “Are you fucking out of your mind?” He steps forward and lowers his voice. “After what happened last night? You’re, like, what? Over it? Ready to play?”
“You’re the one who said we should carry on like nothing happened, remember. Well, this is me doing just that, Mister Genius. What are you doing?”
Ralph looks up at the sky
and takes a deep breath, then walks away from Clyde. “Follow me. We can talk about this someplace else.”
Clyde catches up with Ralph as he reaches the student parking lot, and they both jump into Ralph’s 300ZX. Ralph tears out of the lot onto Exhibition Boulevard and hops the freeway toward Santa Monica, weaving in and out of traffic, clocking seventy–five miles per hour.
“Slow down, will you? We don’t need the police stopping us.”
Ralph takes a random off-ramp, pulls into a petrol station, and parks the car. Then he lowers his head to the steering wheel and sobs. Clyde stares at him for a moment, then reaches out a finger and pokes his arm.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought it would be a nice surprise to drop in on you at school.”
Ralph lifts his head and glares at Clyde. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. Not everything does, you know.”
Clyde crosses his arms. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it, Jimmy. Tell me what’s wrong. Or don’t. It’s up to you…”
Ralph holds up his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m upset, that’s all. Family stuff.”
Clyde reaches over and rubs Ralph’s shoulder. “I’m all ears, Jimmy.”
Ralph nods. “After the Doctor Menner thing, my parents sent me back home to Israel to live with some relatives in the desert. They thought it would be good for me; that it would straighten me out. There was an accident; some people died.”
“The people in your shrine?”
Ralph nods and stares absently out the window at the passing cars.
“One of them,” he says after a moment, “the young boy. He was my cousin. He and his mother died in a fire that everyone thought I caused. Turns out it was caused by a short in a neighbour’s refrigerator of all things.”
“What about the soldier?”
“That’s Yossi, my cousin.” Ralph closes his eyes for a moment. “He’s still alive—lost his legs in the war.”
“What war?”
Ralph studies Clyde’s face. “One of those wars we have in Israel.”
“Oh.” Clyde crinkles his brow. “So how was that your fault?”
The Death of Baseball Page 36