Idyll Hands

by Stephanie Gayle

  “We’d have another service, Bobby. Geez, stop being an asshole,” Dave said.

  “Language!” Ma said. “Honestly, the way you’re all behaving makes me want to send you to church, for a week.”

  “Sorry, Ma,” we said, in unison.

  Carol smiled. Dave caught her eye and grinned. We were down and up, like carousel horses. We couldn’t seem to stick to an emotion longer than the time it took to express it.

  “Should we tell everybody?” Carol asked.

  “Who’s everybody?” I asked.

  “Old classmates, neighbors, the people who helped search for her.”

  “We’ll invite them to the service,” Ma said.

  “What about the baby?” Dave asked.

  We went silent at that. I’d had more time than the rest of them to absorb the news, and even I had a hard time accepting that there was a Finnegan running around the world, not knowing us, his family.

  “He’s no baby,” Ma said. “He’s twenty-six years old.”

  Twenty-six. When I was twenty-six, I was on my way to marriage #2, with one ex-wife and son in my rearview. When I was twenty-six, I’d left Boston for Connecticut, trying my best not to look back.

  “Can we find him?” Carol asked. “Would they let us try to contact him? Gracie’s Place was strict about no contact from the biological parents.”

  “How do you know that?” Dave asked.

  “I knew a girl who had a baby there, in ’77. A friend of a friend, younger than us. She tried to find out who adopted her baby girl years later and didn’t get anywhere.”

  “When was that?” Ma demanded.

  Carol bit her lower lip. “The late eighties, I think.”

  “Well, times have changed,” Ma said. “People are more open to knowing about adoptive parents.” My siblings’ faces showed that they didn’t agree, but they weren’t going to be the one to speak up, to pop this last remaining balloon of hope belonging to Ma. I didn’t mention I’d begun asking questions on the topic.

  “We should play ‘Amazing Grace,’” Carol said. “At the service.”

  “Why?” Dave asked.

  “Because it was Susan’s favorite hymn.”

  “God, she couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it,” Dave said.

  “David Matthew Finnegan!” Ma scolded.

  “It’s true,” I said. “You know it’s true. Remember that talent show from second grade?”

  “Third grade,” Carol filled in. She groaned. “It was tragic.”

  Bobby, always eager to be included said, “She was so excited to wear her new dress.”

  “Didn’t you let her wear lipstick?” Carol asked Mom.

  “I may have let her apply a smidge,” Mom said. “What did she sing?”

  “‘Ring of Fire,’” Bobby said.

  Dave dropped his head into his hands. “It was my fault. I was into Johnny Cash.”

  “Oh, God,” Carol said. “The teacher didn’t know what to do with her. Her little voice trying so hard to go lower and lower.”

  “Could have been worse,” I said.

  “How?” Bobby asked. “Did you go? Did you see it?”

  I hadn’t. I’d been home, sick. They’d gone without me. At the time, I was delighted. It meant I could watch TV all by myself. But even though I hadn’t been there, I knew all the details. It was a family legend of sorts. Our baby sister singing Johnny Cash at her third-grade talent show.

  “It could’ve been worse. She could’ve dressed like Johnny Cash,” I said.

  Carol erupted into squeals of laughter, which set off Dave. Soon we were hiccupping and wiping our eyes. The phone rang. I didn’t hear it for a moment, because we were making so much noise. I saw Ma stand and wondered where she was going. Then I heard the ring. She walked to the wall and lifted the receiver. “Hello… . Yes, he’s here. Just a moment.”

  The laughter stopped, sudden, like a tap being turned. Ma held the receiver out to me. “Hello?” I said into the phone.

  “Mike? It’s Fred Williams. I wanted to let you know, they found a corpse at the site. Now, we don’t know yet who it is. It’s … badly decomposed.”

  I’d seen a body buried in the woods for twenty years. My mind had a good reference for what “badly decomposed” looked like. “I understand.”

  “Did your sister have a stuffed animal with her?”

  “Mr. Growls,” I said. “A teddy bear. It was missing from her room.”

  Now everyone in the room was watching me. My mother clutched a teacup. I feared she’d snap the handle. Carol repeated, “Mr. Growls,” softly.

  “I see. We’ll likely need to do dental comparisons. I don’t want to raise your hopes, but I didn’t want to leave you wondering if we’d found anything either.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I hope it’s her,” he said. “I mean …”

  “I know. Thank you.” I hung up the phone.

  “Did they find her?” Dave asked.

  “They found a body. They’ll have to run tests,” I said.

  “Oh, my baby,” Mom said. The tears came again.

  We gathered to hug her, and I offered a silent prayer, the first in many, many years, for Susan, for bringing us together again.

  CHIEF THOMAS LYNCH

  SATURDAY, JULY 10, 1999

  1200 HOURS

  The baseball stands were filled with townspeople eating hot dogs and popcorn. This being Idyll, there was no alcohol. Soda, water, or lemonade only. All sales proceeds went to benefit St. Jude’s Hospital. The mayor stood on the pitcher’s mound. His khakis were white, which seemed a bold choice. He talked about how this was an annual tradition and although historically the “firefighters won every year, well, you never know what may happen. So, let’s get out there and play ball!”

  “That seemed unnecessary,” I said.

  “But not unexpected,” Mrs. Dunsmore said. Her sunhat attacked my face, and I shifted in my seat. We sat behind the police dugout and watched as our team took the field. The firefighters would bat first, the result of a coin toss Dix had chosen “tails” on. Who the hell chose tails? Our team captain, that’s who.

  “That’s the new guy,” Mrs. Dunsmore said, pointing to the very fit man practicing his swing. “The one who played for the Sea Dogs.”

  “The Sea Dogs?”

  “Double-A team out of Portland.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I thought he came from the PawSox.” Not that a Double-A team was anything to sneeze at, but to hear our guys tell it, this guy was the second coming of Sammy Sosa.

  “Did you know the new dispatcher could pitch when you hired him?” she asked.

  Hugh was on the mound, rotating at the waist, clockwise, counterclockwise. Turns out, he’d coached his daughter’s softball team for years.

  “How would I know that, or care? I wasn’t included in the softball recruiting, if there was such a thing.”

  Hugh was an adequate pitcher. He managed to strike out the first batter. Wasn’t so lucky with the second. Guy hit a line drive that Hopkins hopped over.

  “Does he realize he’s supposed to stop the ball?” I asked.

  The person seated behind me nudged me. “Isn’t he supposed to try to stop it, Chief?”

  I turned. My nudger was my next-door neighbor, Mr. Sands. “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey, how come you aren’t out there?” he asked. “Is it because of your head injury?”

  “What head injury?”

  “The one that sent you to the hospital the other day.” How did he know about that? “My sister-in-law works in the ER.” Of course she did. Whatever happened to patient confidentiality?

  “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” I turned around in my seat. Mrs. Dunsmore said, “Popcorn?” and shoved a red-and-white striped box in my face.

  “No, thanks.” The butter-salt smell was too much in this heat.

  “Suit yourself. Ooh, he’s up.” He being the minor league player turned firefighter. Chanting erupted from behind
the firemen’s dugout.

  “Are they spelling his name?” I asked.

  “The ladies think he’s a catch,” she said.

  “I remember when I was a catch.”

  She snorted. “That was before they knew you.”

  Dave Jacobson smacked the ball out of the park. Hugh looked chastised as Dave ran the bases. The score was two to zero. Not good. I adjusted my sunglasses and crossed my arms.

  An hour later, the score was twelve to two.

  “This looks familiar,” someone said.

  “Yup.”

  “Hopkins looks like he’s going to expire,” said someone in the dugout.

  “Yeah, well, we don’t have anyone to take his place what with Finny out and Hallihan on vacation.”

  “Still can’t believe he took vacation during the game.”

  The sixth inning ended, and the high-school marching band came out to play while the guys took a breather. “It’s so damn hot!” I heard Hopkins complain.

  “Just three more innings,” Dix said.

  “Maybe we should’ve adopted the chief’s fitness plan,” Billy said.

  “Shut it, traitor,” Dix said. “Come on. Not too much water, guys. You’ll be sloshing as you run the bases.”

  “Run the bases!” Hopkins said. “Ha!”

  “Come on, guys. Just three more innings. We got this!”

  They jogged back onto the field. As luck had it, it was Hopkins at bat. He leaned over home base, his arms out too far. The first pitch whizzed past him. He didn’t react at all. And then, on the windup for the second, he fell. Collapsed to the ground. I stood up and vaulted over the low railing to reach the field. Men hovered over him.

  “He okay?” I yelled as I ran.

  Billy touched his forehead. Hopkins’s eyes fluttered. He moaned. “He fainted,” Billy said.

  “I saw.”

  Hopkins rolled his head to the side and asked, “What happened?”

  Dix stood over him, casting a shadow on his face. “You passed out. Shit. Get him back to the dugout, would you?”

  Billy and Lewis helped him up and half carried him from the field. The crowd erupted in cheers. Great. This was our highlight moment. Limping off the field.

  “I’m sorry, fellas, but we’re gonna have to call it,” Dix said.

  Captain Hirsch ran over from his dugout. “You ladies ready to call it? Without your guy, you can’t field a team.”

  “Yes, we can,” I said.

  “Chief, didn’t see you there,” he said. Funny guy. I was hard to miss.

  “I can take Hopkins’s place.”

  “You?” He sounded delighted.

  “Me.”

  “But your concussion,” Lewis said.

  “Was weeks ago. I’m fine to play.” I had called the doctor about this, a week ago, but I’d die before I admitted it.

  “We don’t have another shirt,” Dix said. He looked embarrassed.

  “I have my own. Is this my at-bat?” I asked.

  “Sure thing,” Captain Hirsch said, bowing. “Remember, you have one strike.” How kind of him to remind me.

  “One moment.” I strode to the dugout and stepped down and in. Then I pulled my t-shirt over my head. Revealing the t-shirt I wore underneath.

  Billy said, “Whoa!” and Lewis said, “That is pink!”

  “Mrs. Dunsmore made it for me.”

  They stared. Some of ’em had to know why it was pink and that their office gossip had contributed to its creation. But none of them said anything except Hopkins, who held an ice pack to his neck. “What does the front say?” he asked.

  I walked closer so he could sound it out. “Hail to the Chief.”

  “That’s right,” I said, snatching the bat and walking to the plate. A breeze of whispers ran around the stadium as people eyed my shirt.

  The firemen’s pitcher didn’t seem to care much. He tossed the ball and I froze. Was it coming in too low? Or should I swing? I swung, late, and missed it. It had been perfect and I’d missed it.

  “Strike!” the ump called.

  I backed off from the plate and took a breath. Remembered what Matt had taught me. What Lewis had said about the plate. I got close and glared at the pitcher. Come on. Show me what you got, knucklehead.

  The ball came and I swung and the contact of it sent tremors down the bat to my hands. It went high and far, and the outfielder leapt to catch it, but it went over him. I ran, sprinting to first and looking briefly to the field where they were still after the ball. I ran to second. The fielder had the ball, and he switched to throw it and dropped it! The ball was on the ground! I took off, headed so hard for third I couldn’t stop, so I rounded it and ran for home. I could feel the ball coming for me, but it whizzed past as I slid into the base and into the catcher. The ump screamed “Safe!”

  The guys started screaming. Hirsch yelled “butterfingers” at his outfielder, and I walked back to the dugout, wondering if I’d just wrecked my ankle with that slide. My foot had caught on the edge of the base.

  Before I went down into the cool depths of the dugout, to join my team, I gave Mrs. Dunsmore a smile. Above her, almost at the back of the stands, was a familiar face. Damien Saunders. And he was doing the classic New York taxi whistle with his fingers in his mouth. I waved and he stopped and grinned.

  Then I got into the dugout and the guys clapped me on my shoulder and wondered aloud if they should’ve worn pink shirts since they seemed to be lucky. And we laughed and I batted twice more, hitting a single and a double.

  We lost, thirteen to six.

  According to Mrs. Dunsmore, it was the “best loss” in the history of our matches against the firefighters.

  We toasted to the “best loss” over drinks at Suds and refused to let the firefighters in when they showed up, because we’d booked the whole space “for a private event.”

  “Come on,” Hirsch said, when he saw we meant business. He stood outside the front door. “You can’t take over the only bar in town.” The entire fire crew stood behind him, sweaty and smiling. Confident that we’d let them inside for some good-natured ribbing.

  “We can and we did,” Lewis said. “See, while you were busy practicing, we were busy scheduling.”

  “Better luck next time,” Billy called.

  “Come on, Chief,” he said. “You can’t let them do this.”

  “I’m not team captain,” I said, “And they can do what they like, especially if they booked the space … how long ago?”

  “Three hundred and sixty-four days,” Dix said.

  “Well, enjoy your private party. We’ll enjoy our trophy,” he said, holding it aloft.

  “Can’t drink a trophy,” I said as I closed the door.

  The men roared with laughter, and for weeks, “can’t drink a trophy” was used at the office as a catchphrase. It lasted longer than “Hail to the Chief,” which lasted only two days and four hours.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to everyone at Seventh Street Books: Dan Mayer, Jill Maxick, Jade Zora Scibilia, Jackie Nasso Cooke, and Lisa Michalski. You make my books so much better with all that you do.

  Thanks to my agent, Ann Collette, who is always a champion for Thomas Lynch.

  To my beta reader, Belle Brett, thank you for wading through the murky waters of my draft.

  To Amanda Stoll for wading into editing waters, again, on my behalf. Thank you!

  To my sisters in crime, Emily Ross and Kelly J. Ford, thank you for your friendship, stalwart advice, and understanding that all meetings should include food.

  To anyone and everyone who ever wrote to say they liked my book or who wrote positive reviews online or in print, thank you. You’ll never know how much those words cheer me.

  And to Bao, who is a bunny, and so cannot read this, thank you for every bink and every nuzzle, you sweet, furry love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stephanie Gayle is the author of Idyll Threats and Idyll Fears. She works at the MIT Media Lab, doing finance be
cause accounting runs in her blood. She lives in Massachusetts along with her partner, Todd, and bunny, Bao.