The Man For Me

by Gemma Bruce

  Not that J.T. would ever come back here again.

  She drove straight to the highway, blinking back angry tears. Took the ramp going south and headed for home. She had no one to tell good-bye. No one to miss her.

  News traveled fast in Gilbeytown and she was sure that, like Harriett, they’d already condemned her.

  Chapter 26

  J.T. stayed angry for a good forty-five minutes. She’d just passed the exit for Pittsburgh when her cell phone rang. It was Skinny. She’d meant to wait until she’d cooled down to let him have it, but now was as good a time as any.

  She pulled her headset off the seat and took the call.

  “Where the hell have you been? This is great. I knew you had it in you. You just had to be in the right place at the right time. And you got it, babe.”

  “I didn’t write that article.”

  Silence. “Did I just hear you say you didn’t write this article?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Then who the hell wrote it?”

  “Beats me, Skinny, but I can tell you what you’re going to write, and that’s a retraction on the front page. Tomorrow. Headlines. I’ll send you the copy in half an hour.” She just needed to find a place with a fax machine or Internet access. A library or a Kinko’s would do.

  “You’re nuts. I just printed this on your signature.”

  “You should check your goddamn sources, Skinny. I didn’t write it. You didn’t even call to verify it. Tommy Bainbridge is going to sue your fat butt up one side and down the other. And when he gets through with you, I’m going to take what’s left. Defamation of character, Skinny. Libel. You’re up the effing creek.”

  “But J.T.”

  “Does it sound like something I would write?”

  “Well, hell, it was all passionate about how the great Tommy B. has let down the world of baseball.”

  “On suspicion of selling steroids? Don’t you think I would have checked out the story first? What time did it come in? Not from my laptop, did it?”

  Silence. A prolonged one this time. She’d finally gotten Skinny’s attention.

  “Shit. It’s from the Gilbeytown library.”

  She took note of that. “Time?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Tommy didn’t get arrested—”

  “So he was arrested.”

  “As a matter of form. At five fifteen. Not even I can write news before it happens. It’s a classic frame. And stupid to boot. Drugs were planted in his car…he’s left his car keys in an open locker every day since I’ve been in Gilbeytown and probably before.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You are.”

  “Shit.”

  “If you’re finished, I suggest you hold the presses, ’cause you’ve got another special edition coming out tomorrow.” She hung up and saw the sign for a mall in two exits. She sped toward it.

  J.T. had never been so happy to see a green Starbucks sign in her life. She stopped in front and took her laptop inside. While she gulped a double latte, she banged out tomorrow’s article, starting with the headline: “Sports Today Retracts Statement. Offers Apologies to Tommy Bainbridge.”

  The world of baseball has reached a new low, when someone posing as a Sports Today reporter sent in an article that lambasted the character of a great American sportsman. Tommy Bainbridge was indeed arrested and immediately released on a drug charge. This reporter, the real J.T. Green, was present at the time.

  Someone in the little town of Gilbeytown has gone to extremes to tarnish the Bainbridge name. It begins with a baseball team, the Beavers, who have been an institution in Gilbeytown for over twenty years, a source of affordable entertainment to a town brought to its knees with the closing of its steel mill in the nineteen eighties.

  This team has been the victim of a series of incidences that are at best suspicious and at worst malevolent. All because there are individuals in the town who want to bring a newer, better, more expensive team to the area.

  Unfortunately for them, Tommy B. has other plans for the steel mill where the new stadium would be located. He plans to build a community center…

  She finished the first latte and ordered another.

  Tommy Bainbridge has returned to give back to the town he loves. To the Bucks, a team of young boys and girls, future men and women, who can’t afford the new little league organization. They play on a vacant lot, the same lot where Tommy learned to play.

  He understands the true spirit of baseball and he would never do anything to jeopardize its place in the hearts of his hometown or the American people. He stood up for honesty and integrity, and for it was framed. Whoever is responsible has done more than besmirch a great ballplayer, they have attacked the very integrity of baseball. Tommy Bainbridge should be applauded for his courage in standing up against these people. And this reporter will be the first to put her hands together.

  A bit overzealous, but it got the point across. She signed it. The real J.T. Green. She ran it through Spell Check. Then added one line.

  Donations to the Bainbridge Community Center can be sent to 38 Melrose Street, Gilbeytown, PA.

  She fired it off to Skinny with a note: Front Page. BIG HEADLINES. Please confirm.

  As soon as Skinny e-mailed back, J.T. tossed her cup in the trash and went back to her car.

  Her phone rang again. The Coach. She hesitated, but she was jacked on adrenaline, anger, and caffeine. Might as well make a clean sweep of it.

  She steeled herself for the conversation. She knew what the Coach’s take would be. She was right.

  “How could you write such trash about a great baseball player? So what if he was trying to help out the Kurtz fella. It’s baseball. It happens.

  “But you couldn’t just stick to writing about the sport. You had to drag his name through the mud. The man just retired for Christ’s sake. He had an illustrious career. One of the top ERAs in the league. And you’ve just shot that to shit.”

  He ranted on. J.T. let him. That he could think that about her was more hurtful and humiliating than all the other humiliations. The chokes at bat, the digs at her career choice, the barely veiled jokes about getting married.

  In that moment, J.T. snapped, and years of heartache and feelings of unworthiness sloughed off her shoulders like cleansing rain.

  “You know…Dad…”

  Sudden silence. That had surprised him. She couldn’t remember ever calling him anything but Coach. Well, he was her father, whether he liked it or not.

  He hadn’t even respected her enough to ask her side of the story.

  “Dad? Father? Are you still there?” She took a breath. “If you are—listen. I didn’t write that article. And if you knew me better, you’d know I would never write something like that. Hell, the sentence structure barely reached a third-grade level.”

  She could hear him splutter at the end of the line.

  “Don’t talk, Papa. I’ve tried all my life to earn your respect.” She swallowed. “Your love. But I quit. I’m not going to live my life waiting for a crumb of approval. This is it. From now on, I’m going to be me, whether you like it or not.”

  “J.T. Really.”

  “And my name is Jessica. I love you, but I’m not taking anymore.”

  “Jay—Jess. Honey.”

  “Good-bye, Dad.” She hung up. Opened the car door and threw up both her double lattes.

  Twenty minutes later after a visit to Starbucks ladies’ room, J.T. was back on the road. But when she got to I-76, she didn’t continue south. She took the ramp north. She was going back to Gilbeytown. There was a story there and she was going to get it.

  And when she did, she’d sell it to the highest bidder. If there was a bidder.

  And if there wasn’t, she’d do something else. Hell, she’d work at a drive-through and be happy, just for the chance to live life on her terms.

  She got off at the Gilbeytown exit. With a mixture of determination and sadness, she checked into the Holiday Inn Expre
ss. She registered as Jessica Green, asked about car rentals, then drove around to the back of the building and wedged the Mustang between a Dumpster and a privacy fence where it was almost out of sight. Then she went to her new room. To her new life.

  An hour later, J.T. drove to Wal-Mart in a beige Taurus rental car. She skulked quickly down the aisles on the lookout for any familiar face. She purchased a baseball cap, sunglasses, two pairs of boot-cut nondescript jeans, and several oversized gray T-shirts. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but she knew people usually saw only what they expected to see, and she’d bet money that no one in Gilbeytown ever thought they would see her again.

  Her cell rang. It was Tommy. It had taken him long enough. Accusing or apologizing, she wished she knew. But success was dependent on no leaks, duh, and she didn’t want him to figure out where she was.

  Back in the car, she pulled one of the new shirts over her head, braided her hair and pushed it under the cap, slid the sunglasses onto her ears, and looked at herself in the rearview mirror.

  Not her look at all. Maybe it would be camouflage enough.

  She stopped at a grocery, loaded up on prepackaged food and soda, and went back to the Holiday Inn to plan her attack. The Beavers Avenging Angel was going to save their sorry little asses.

  Tommy’s phone was ringing off the hook. Every journalist, sportscaster, and personal friend he knew was calling. Even some he didn’t. He turned it off. He knew he should be trying to staunch the damage, but he could only sit on his back porch remembering the look on J.T.’s face when she’d left the locker room.

  He knew she hadn’t written that article. He almost knew she hadn’t. But he’d been so flummoxed when he’d seen it. And somehow J.T. and Cheryl Lynn got all jumbled together and by the time he sorted it out, she was gone.

  He’d tried calling her but she didn’t pick up. Déjà vu all over again. Would he ever get it right?

  As soon as he could move, he’d gone after her. But she’d already checked out of the motel. She’d left her room open and Tommy went inside. He didn’t know why. Hoping that maybe she’d left a note? He was such a fool.

  She had left something, but not for him. The blue binder was open on the floor. Papers were spread everywhere. The rest of the room had been cleaned out. It didn’t take a B.A. in sociology to understand that she’d jettisoned the most important part of her life.

  And it was his fault. If only he had stood up for her. Said or done something, just to postpone that last blowup. But he stood there like a deaf-mute and watched her walk out of his life.

  He’d go to Atlanta. Make her forgive him. Bring her back to Gilbeytown and make everyone hear the truth about her—and about him.

  A little before three, he drove to the Bucks practice. He didn’t really expect any of the kids to be there. What parents would let their child associate with a suspected drug dealer?

  Something caught in his throat as the horror of what was happening threatened to overwhelm him. He’d spent his whole life doing what he thought was right, and look where it had gotten him. Right up there with all those other players whose reputations had been tarnished. Whose accomplishments had been swept away by their own lack of judgment. And he wasn’t even guilty.

  He wondered if the town would turn against him. Would this incident kill his plans for the community center? Would his dreams come to nothing?

  Then what would he do? He couldn’t go back to baseball, even if this wasn’t hanging over his head. And suddenly he was afraid there was nothing to go forward to. That he would end up having to live in one of the three houses he still owned, shunned by his colleagues and friends.

  At least his family hadn’t turned him away. They believed in his innocence. But they were family. They had to.

  He was surprised to see at least half the team sitting in the grass. Carey McClain was standing near them, but he wasn’t talking to them, and there was no move to start practice.

  Tommy parked at the curb, sat for a minute. It was a hot, muggy day and the Beemer’s air-conditioning was pumping, but still he was sweating. Not from the heat, but from fear. He’d been feeling a lot of that lately, but nothing as bad as knowing he’d have to face those kids.

  They’d seen him; they were all looking toward the Beemer. But they didn’t move. Didn’t jump up, talking a mile a minute about what happened at school that day. Begging him to show them some move they’d seen on television. Just watched as he walked slowly toward them.

  Carey cast him a quick glance before stepping aside.

  Tommy cleared his throat and squatted down in front of the group so that he was level with them.

  “I guess you heard what happened.”

  Some of them nodded; others just looked at the ground.

  He hated that he’d brought them to this, even if was based on a lie. And he didn’t want to whine like Kurtz had in his interview. But they needed to know the truth, not just for his sake, but for theirs.

  If they couldn’t believe in something, keep their dreams, what kind of future would they have? He couldn’t let what was happening to him destroy them, too.

  “I don’t know why this happened. But you know how I feel about drugs. Any drugs. And you know that I would never lie to you.”

  A couple of kids nodded, but Janey D.’s face crumpled and she started to cry.

  Tommy’s throat tightened. “There’s been a big mistake. Someone put those drugs in my trunk.” God, he sounded so lame. It was probably what every crook claimed. “I don’t know why.”

  “J.T. said you were a bad man.”

  “Why did she write those things?”

  “She seemed so nice.”

  And Tommy realized that they were as upset about her role in this as they were about his. She’d been here barely two weeks and she’d made a place for herself with them all. He sat down on the ground, cross-legged. Pulled a stalk of dried grass from the ground and rolled it between his fingers.

  “She says—” He stopped. She needed someone to believe in her, just like he did. “She didn’t write that article. Someone put her name on it and sent it to the paper.”

  He felt Carey Senior shake his head. It sounded preposterous even to Tommy’s ears. And he didn’t have J.T. here to support him. Support him in more than this, he realized. He missed her and he wanted her back. That was the truth and he had blown it.

  “Why?”

  Tommy was startled by the question. He’d been drowning in his own thoughts for a minute. He pulled himself back.

  “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

  “Where is she? Why doesn’t she come tell us?”

  “She had to go back to Atlanta, where she works.”

  Their faces were bleaker than ever.

  “Is she coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “Why didn’t she say good-bye?”

  “Because everyone was really mad at her for writing those things.”

  “But you said she didn’t write them.” Janie D.’s face was swollen and her little nose was running and Tommy’s heart constricted.

  “Because they—we—didn’t trust her. And that was wrong. We knew her and didn’t trust her. So she went away.”

  “You’re not going away, are you?” Samuel Pulaski’s voice was a thin thread.

  “No. I owe it myself, to you, to everyone to stay and face this thing.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  Boy, Tommy agreed with that. “Sometimes life isn’t fair. Sometimes you get in trouble even when you are being as good as you can. But it’s important to stand up for what you believe in. For what is right. Even when it hurts. Even when you’re scared. Even if nobody believes you.”

  “I believe you.”

  “So do I.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Thanks. That means a whole lot to me. And I’ll try never to give you a reason not to believe in me. And we have to believe in J.T. Because someone has hurt her, too.”

  He stood up.
“We can do that by not giving up. Keep practicing and make J.T. proud of us.”

  He looked at Carey Senior, wondering if the man would trust him with the kids. Carey thrust out his hand and shook Tommy’s. “Thank you for coming back. They need you.”

  Tommy squeezed his hand. “All right, Bucks, let’s hit the field.” He lugged the container of baseballs to the pitcher’s mound and for a couple of hours life didn’t seem so bleak.

  But a few hours later, sitting on his back porch as dusk turned to dark, loneliness engulfed him. He’d tried calling J.T. again, even though he knew it was futile. He didn’t blame her. But that didn’t make it easier to accept.

  Her binder was in his lap. A six-pack sat on the table. He popped the tab of a beer and opened the book. He’d returned the pages in some kind of order and brought them home with him, but he hadn’t read them.

  He was afraid of what there might be in them about him. He didn’t want to know that he’d disappointed her. That she hadn’t felt about him the way he had about her. And like the jock he was, he was afraid that she didn’t like the sex as much as he had. That she’d only been having a diversion while she was here.

  It was a lot more to Tommy. As much as he didn’t want it to be. But it was impossible to deny. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. And he’d screwed his chances royally.

  He opened the binder to the first page and read about his motley crew of Bucks. She captured the kids perfectly. Janey’s pigtails that she tried to hide. Carey’s fear that he wouldn’t grow. She even wrote about Angelo’s and what he’d told the kids there. He sounded pretty damn inspiring. He wondered if he really sounded like that, or if it was J.T.’s voice.

  He read until it was so dark that he had to turn on the porch light. Whenever his cell rang, he checked to see if it was J.T., then ignored it. As he read, his surroundings faded away and he was carried along by the passion of her voice.

  Page after page, people came to life. Each one had a story that launched the imagination, compassion, or excitement. Even when she was stating statistics, she gave them a human spin. She should be writing real stories, not just back-page baseball stats. Did she know that? Did she aspire to more? He was pretty sure he’d never know.