Come Back to the Ballpark, Maisy Gray

by Cynthia Tennent

  The bartender sent him a frown and stepped away from his conversation to grab the bottle.

  Maisy sat up straighter and adjusted her T-shirt. Chivalry was still alive, it seemed. “That was nice. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It had been a long time since someone had stood up for her. Even if it was for a nefarious reason, like another shot of tequila, she appreciated it. Maisy flashed him her first genuine smile in hours and told herself she was not flirting. Just thanking. He didn’t even notice. His eyes were glued to the smartphone in his hand.

  Just as well. She hadn’t played the flirt game since she wore braces and asked a foxy boy to be her reading buddy. That same boy had just pitched a no-hitter.

  The bartender placed a glass in front of her.

  “I’ll have another, too,” said the man she was not flirting with.

  The bartender sent them both a look of blame, as if they were purposely tearing him away from the world’s most interesting conversation.

  Maisy pointed to the screen. “And change the channel!”

  The kid threw a towel over his shoulder and disappeared behind the fancy display of alcohol, mirrors, and lights that graced Plato’s Pub.

  You’d think the Pope had sainted the Turbos this afternoon the way the bar crowd was whooping it up.

  When the game was over, she and Heather had helped the other chaperones corral the fourth grade onto the buses so they could make the two-and-a-half-hour trip back to Franklin B. Joy Elementary School in Comeback, Indiana. When the last bus left, Heather had made good on her promise and taken Maisy to Plato’s to nurse her wounds. Now, Maisy wondered if they should have gone back to Heather’s mom’s house on the south side of Indianapolis, where they were spending the weekend. At least there, she would have been able to shut the TV off.

  Today had been like emotional whiplash. Instead of thinking about how self-centered, immature, and intellectually lazy Kevin was, she couldn’t help remembering the good times. The way they had raced each other home from school so they could dig out their baseball mitts and play catch, the hours talking about his dreams of becoming a major-league pitcher, and the evenings they’d sat on the couch snuggling as they watched their favorite baseball teams race to October.

  The hardest part of the afternoon was how Maisy’s heart betrayed her as she watched Kevin accomplish what he had only done one other time in his career. He had been a rookie then. After the last out, she had gone wild, running out on the field with half the crowd. He had scooped her up in a victory hug that was replayed over and over the next day. Long after the final magnum of champagne had been popped, Kevin and Maisy had lain in bed erupting in hysterical giggles of disbelief.

  That night Kevin had asked her to marry him.

  Maisy ran her thumb over the spot where Kevin’s grandmother’s ring had once been and squinted at the television screen. He was different now.

  “His beard makes him look like he’s trying too hard,” she said aloud.

  “What’s that you said?” Her handsome neighbor leaned her way and cupped his ear near her mouth.

  A faint trace of lime and musk made Maisy’s nostrils flare. She resisted licking the air between them and nodded at the TV. “The beard. He’s making it look scruffy, but it’s totally trimmed up.” She probably made him do that.

  His eyebrows shot up. They were slightly uneven. “A lot of women think Halderman is hot.”

  Maisy had been one of them. Once. “He’s trying to compensate with the beard because his hair’s thinning in back. He’ll be bald by the time he’s forty.”

  “Harsh,” he said, running a hand over the back of his head. He seemed satisfied with the outcome.

  Heather elbowed Maisy and held up her phone. “Maisy, I can’t hear Lamar. I’m going to step outside for a minute.”

  Maisy waved her on and tried to ignore the words Heather mouthed before she left. He’s cute. Typical Heather. Always trying to set her up.

  The bartender arrived and placed another bottle in front of Maisy’s tasty-smelling bar buddy. She was surprised to see him drinking a Budweiser. From the looks of him, in a dark sports coat and white collared shirt that showed wrinkled evidence of a tie, she would have thought he would drink some sort of expensive boutique beer.

  Before the bartender left, they both chimed in, “Change the channel.”

  “No. It was a no-hitter. Except for one walk, it would have been the perfect game,” the bartender said, wiping down part of the counter.

  Maisy lifted her glass. “Perfection is way overrated.”

  “Not in baseball it’s not,” said the bartender, satisfied with the return of the shiny counter. He tossed the towel in the sink behind him before traveling once again to the other side of the bar.

  “Baseball shmaseball.” Maisy put her chin in her hand.

  Her neighbor took a long pull of his Bud and studied her from underneath those interesting eyebrows. His gaze traveled down to her knee that was bobbing up and down, as usual. She forced herself to stop.

  “You probably think I’m some drunk bar rat,” she mumbled. “Pounding shots like this.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “’Cause I’m not. This is not typical for me,” she muttered. “I am not a big drinker.”

  “I don’t think that.” His face twisted into…what was that? A hint of a smile? A scowl? A smile-scowl. A smowl.

  “What if I was a bar rat? I could be lying. You don’t know.”

  “Please. You don’t look the type.”

  “I don’t?” She wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased or insulted. “What type am I if you’re so smart?”

  “You look kind of wholesome. Like you belong in a bar that serves vegan juice, not a bar that serves tequila.”

  She wrinkled her nose. Men. They liked the wholesome girls plenty until they got rich and famous and needed their ego stroked.

  She stuck out her tongue and made a face into her drink.

  “You don’t like being wholesome?”

  “I teach fourth grade. So I guess it was the right career choice.” She didn’t mean to sound quite so bitter. “Wholesomeness is in my job description.”

  “My fourth-grade teacher didn’t look anything like you.” He lowered his eyelids and finally curled the corner of his mouth up.

  She had been right. The smile was devastating.

  The room tilted.

  “Whoa. Watch yourself there.” He put an arm around her and set her straight. The barstools weren’t even. That had to be it. She was only on her second tequila. Or was it her third? She really should have eaten at the ballpark. But food was problematic when you were feeling nauseous.

  When her neighbor brought his hands back to his beer, Maisy ignored the odd sense of disappointment and nodded to the television. “What’s your story? Don’t all men like a good baseball game?”

  His mouth lost its adorable shape. “I do. But…it’s complicated.”

  “Tell me about it. Compilat— complications suck. Wouldn’t life be great if all things were simple?”

  “Yeah.” His lids were downcast. Like a sad little puppy dog.

  She wanted to smooth his fur-brow. “I mean, seriously. Why does life have to be so very, so—”

  “Difficult?” he finished for her.

  “Yeah. Difficult. There should be a way to put everyone in their proper place. And they should stay there. And if you don’t want them around, you should be able to make them go away.”

  On the television screen, the final out of the ballgame was played for the thousandth time.

  He sat up straighter, motioned for the bartender. “Hey, change the—”

  Maisy waved him off. “Forget it. That’ll never work.” She stood up on the top rung of her barstool. “Sometimes you just have to take action. Where’s the t
hingy?”

  “What thingy?”

  “The TV controller thingy?”

  She spied it behind the tap. Right below the television screen. She shifted to her knees on the stool and leaned forward.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making things simple.” Maisy braced herself on her hands and crawled onto the counter. Somehow, she thought she could reach the other side of the bar by stretching out all five foot six of her sorry height. But it was farther than she thought.

  “Hey, be careful. You’re going to fall—”

  She giggled and went over the other side.

  ***

  The last thing Sam saw was a curvy little butt hovering over the edge of the bar. He reached for her and came up with nothing but air as she fell headfirst overboard.

  He jumped up and peered over the counter, prepared to administer CPR or some form of resuscitation. Surprisingly, instead of tears and pain, all he saw was a woman on her back with her feet in the air, laughing her head off.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” the bartender yelled from around the corner.

  Sam debated whether to rat her out or keep her predicament a secret. In the end neither was necessary.

  The bartender walked over, hands on his hips. “She didn’t drink and dash, did she?”

  “Uhh…” Sam tried to keep his eyes from straying downward. By some miracle, the man hadn’t spotted her. “I think she said she was going to look for something.”

  A loud hiccup erupted from beneath the counter. How Sam managed to keep a straight face, he had no idea.

  The bartender surveilled the pub. “Damn. Let me know if she doesn’t come back.”

  “I think you’ll know before I do.”

  After the bartender disappeared around the corner, Sam propped his head back over the bar. There she was, crouching beside a trashcan and a wine refrigerator. Her dark eyes lit up the dim space with sparks that made him slightly giddy.

  A slow grin spread across his face as she held up a remote control like a trophy. “Got it!”

  He offered her a hand and she took it. With ease, he hauled her over the bar, conscious of her trim build underneath her snug Hoosiers T-shirt, her subtly round hips in faded jeans, and her pert little—

  “Hey. Are you looking down my shirt?”

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t look away. “Just making sure you’re all right. That was a long fall.”

  Her feet touched the ground and she stepped out of his arms. “I’m good at falling. Took a class with my mom last year.”

  “You took a class in falling? That’s odd.”

  “Not if you’re my mom.” She was back on her stool now, her hand waving the remote back and forth and her foot tapping on the rung of the barstool. He wished she would stay still long enough for him to admire the cute nose and milky skin that contrasted with her dark hair and flashing brown eyes. She sent him a triumphant nod and pointed the controller at the screen like a magic wand. The replay of Fuzzy Waslaske, the Turbos’ field manager, discussing the game and the impact each inning had on the team disappeared.

  Wheel of Fortune came on.

  Thank God. His interview would have been next. The last thing he wanted to see was his halfhearted smile and overproduced excitement as he discussed Kevin and the team’s future. The one that tied Halderman to the Turbos indefinitely, now that the bastard had thrown a near-perfect game.

  Sam pointed to the TV. “My hero. That was a brave move, sacrificing yourself like that.”

  He meant it. She was the first person who wasn’t connected to baseball he’d talked to in months. Instead of waiting for someone else to make a move, she had taken the situation into her own hands. It was damn refreshing to find someone who didn’t care about the Turbos or their star pitcher.

  Their heads moved closer. Their lips were half an inch apart. He hadn’t wanted to kiss someone since…when? Maybe ever.

  Suddenly there were three heads in the intimate circle. “Isn’t this cozy?”

  “Heather.” Her large brown eyes grew wide, and she stepped back.

  The friend put her phone in her purse. “Lamar is losing it at Mom’s house. Jacy threw up when Mama made her eat broccoli and Drake is at the top of the stairs playing parachute with a tablecloth. Sorry, Maisy. We gotta go.”

  “All that work…” Miss Tequila mumbled to herself and searched the area around her. Sam was fascinated by the way she moved. Like an athlete, but animated and less disciplined.

  She found what she was looking for and pulled out her purse from a hook by her knees. “Wait, Heather, we have to pay the tab.”

  Sam pulled out his wallet. “It’s on me.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, my gosh, no. I can’t let you—”

  He pointed to the television. “You saved me from another replay. We’re even.”

  She hesitated and finally gave in. “Thank you.”

  Five years ago, he would have asked her for her phone number. Maybe he’d invite her back to his place after he impressed her with an expensive meal. If they were lucky, they might even last a month or two. Then, as usual, the responsibilities of work would take over his life and she would leave, tired of being ignored.

  He didn’t bother dating anymore. No time. No patience. No more energy.

  She stared at him and he waited for the inevitable. She was going to ask him for his number. Or a social media connection. It was going to be a shame to disappoint her by blowing off what had been a delightful way to end a crappy day.

  Then, she surprised him. She slapped the controller in his hands. “On behalf of wholesome girls everywhere, I bequeath you this controller.”

  She was magnificent. Maybe he would ask her out anyway.

  Before he could decide, she slung her purse over her shoulder and gave him a winsome smile. “You take it from here, champ. Good luck.”

  Chapter Three

  Maisy did a rudimentary heel, toe, ball change on top of her desk and hoped this wouldn’t go on too long. The classroom was at least ninety degrees, and her deodorant was beginning to fail.

  “Miss Gray, what are you doing?” Anthony’s mouth was so wide his table mate almost made a basket with a wad of paper.

  “I’m tap-dancing on my desk so you won’t forget how to simplify fractions over the summer. Quick, before I fall off, someone tell me how to simplify.”

  Marla raised her hand. Damn. Maisy was hoping it would be one of the boys at the front table. They always forgot the math rules.

  “Marla…shhhh. Don’t tell her.” Anthony tried to get Marla to put her hand down. Smart aleck!

  “Oh, I see how this is,” Maisy said, gasping for breath. “It’s more fun to watch me tap away the last few minutes of the school year than to actually do any work?”

  He gave her the cheeky smirk she was going to miss.

  The leftover cookies from the class picnic were in the back of the room. The lockers and desks had been cleaned out. The students had participated in an awards assembly that ended with the fifth graders being “clapped out” by enthusiastic applause to celebrate their graduation to middle school.

  Now, instead of letting the kids race around the playground aimlessly for the last hour of the school year, Maisy was being selfish.

  She skipped across three desks as if they were stones in a stream. Finally, she hopped onto Anthony’s desk.

  “Is this, like, allowed, Miss Gray?” asked Marla.

  “Tap-dancing on the desk?”

  “Yeah. You’re kind of old and you might kill yourself if you fall,” Anthony added. The rest of the class giggled.

  God, she was going to miss them. All of them. Anthony most.

  She faked a glare. “Anthony, answer my question before I keel over.”

  He crossed his arms, enjoying the show.

 
“Come on, have pity on me before they call the morgue!”

  He laughed. “Okay, you divide the top and bottom of the fraction by as many numbers as you can until you can’t go any further.”

  Maisy collapsed into a cross-legged position on Anthony’s desk. She offered her fist and he bumped it. “Thank you! You saved my life.”

  “Miss Gray, you’re weird,” Marla said for the hundredth time this year.

  Maisy winked at her. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all day!”

  Twenty-eight fourth graders returned her smile with their own. Only her smile came with a big lump in the throat.

  They’d started the school year ten months ago on a hot day in August. When they’d walked into the room, wearing their favorite back-to-school outfits, they had waved to everyone they knew and darted curious glances at the new students who’d moved into the district over the summer. As fourth graders, they were excellent at pretending they didn’t want school to start again, but the excitement in their eyes was impossible to hide.

  By the end of the first week, things were different. They dragged themselves out of bed for the school bus and complained about homework. The excitement was over. Not for Maisy. She was just getting started.

  She’d dressed like Princess Leah and paraded the class through the hallway on Halloween, showed them how to lead the first graders during their annual Thanksgiving Pilgrim Feast, and made them memorize every winter song that was allowed in public school for the holiday concert. In between it all, she’d felt heads for fevers, wiped bloody noses, busted up playground fights, and lectured the girls about mean-girl behavior and the entire class about cyber bullying.

  Now, she gazed at them, cherubs all, and blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “Have a wonderful summer, fifth graders.”

  “Fifth graders? We aren’t—”

  The bell rang.

  “Congratulations!” Maisy hopped off the desk and stood by the door. One by one her students passed, some giving her a high five, some bumping fists. But most giving her a hug.

  Anthony was the last one to pass. “You better be careful this summer, Miss Gray. The way you jump around, you’re going to get hurt.”