by Gish Jen
But what mattered, of course, was—could Gwen hear? Though maybe it didn’t matter. Because, as Gwen told me later, she knew perfectly well what Woody was about to say, at last: The hesitation pitch. Use your hesitation pitch. Or maybe, if he didn’t want the infielders to understand, Think Satchel. Or maybe even just, Hesitate. Hesitate, Gwen. Hesitate.
Instead he said, “Eleanor’s gone.”
“What?”
“Eleanor’s gone,” he said again.
Gone? Gone where? What was he saying? That Eleanor had gone to the bathroom. That Winny had accompanied her. That Ondi had thought they’d come back, but that they hadn’t. That Ondi’s father was gone now, too. That Ondi had rushed down into the dugout to tell him.
“Send in a sub.” Handing the ball to Woody, Gwen started running.
The infielders were stunned.
Then Gunnar Apple said, “I’m not playing for frigging Aunt Nettie.”
And as Woody ran to catch up to Gwen, first Gunnar and then the other infielders ran toward the dugout, too, shouting over their shoulders, “They’ve taken Aunt Nellie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie!”
For a moment, no one else moved. Then Diego was coming in from right field and the rest of the team was shouting and leaving, too. The fans watched in disbelief as those with tattoos waved their arms high. “They’ve taken Aunt Nellie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie!” they shouted. “They’ve taken Aunt Nellie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie!”
What was happening? Some fans began to boo, but the Resistance Leaguers in the stands began chanting, “Down with Aunt Nettie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie! Down with Aunt Nettie! They’ve taken Aunt Nellie!” Then the Surplus fans rose to their feet and took up the chant, and some of the Netted fans, too. Vladimir Santiago chewed his gum, leaning on his bat as the AutoAmericans ran by; the ChinRussian coaches stood confused at their bases, waiting for a Zing. The ChinRussian players, though, were already abandoning their dugout, some of them headed for their locker room but some of them running out onto the field to help the AutoAmericans as EnforceBots swarmed down onto the field. Players from both teams now swung at the Bots with their bats. Then the pitchers from both teams were pitching balls at the Bots, too, with the FieldBots dutifully supplying fresh balls. Vladimir Santiago was swinging as well, and people were stealing the EnforceBots’ guns even as human Enforcers on AeroBikes appeared, and then a squadron of AttackDrones.
Ondi was in the locker room when Gwen ran in.
“Where’s my mother?”
“Winny has her.”
“And where are they?”
“I don’t know. But my father’s gone, too. I think they’re going to Cast her Off.”
“No.” Gwen panted. “No.”
“I don’t know for sure. But he said they were going fishing. I tried to send a signal. You probably saw it.”
“That eighth inning. I knew it was you.”
“I Sweeted what I thought you were going to do.”
“Signaling you could throw the game.”
“Yes. If she wasn’t let go. But she didn’t come back. Maybe it was too late.”
Gwen looked at her. “They tricked you, didn’t they? Your dad and Winny. They tricked you.”
Ondi didn’t even have to nod. They both knew what had happened—that Ondi couldn’t go along with the plan and that, because she had hesitated, Winny and Nick had taken Eleanor midgame.
“We’ve got to find the boat,” said Gwen. “Where’s my dad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we have to go ourselves. Do you have any—”
Suddenly there came a calm voice.
“Please.”
It was Eleanor, disheveled and bleeding down her right side. Woody was holding her up and carrying Winny’s SmartGun.
“Oh my god,” said Gwen.
“Go see if Fishman’s in the men’s locker room,” Woody said. Ondi ran out as Woody helped Gwen lay Eleanor on a bench. He found the first-aid kit and unwrapped a large PressNStop, which Gwen pressed to Eleanor’s wound.
“How do you feel? Does this hurt?” she asked.
Eleanor winced.
“I’m sorry, the bleeding.” Gwen broke out a second PressNStop to replace the first, which had soaked through. Woody rolled up a towel for a pillow.
“Not there,” said Ondi.
Woody ran to check the dugout himself.
“What happened? We were worried you got Cast Off,” said Gwen.
“That was the plan.” Eleanor’s voice was low but clear.
“Did Winny shoot you?”
“He did.”
Woody burst back in. “I can’t find him. I called a MediLyft.”
Gwen nodded, then asked him, “And you got the gun away?”
“From Winny? She got it herself.”
Eleanor smiled weakly.
“Did you shoot him?” asked Gwen.
“I don’t know how to shoot. But I had—” Eleanor winced again. “A knitting needle.”
“You didn’t.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “En garde!”
Everyone had to laugh.
“After you were just shot?” Gwen couldn’t believe it.
“I have two lungs. He only. Hit one.”
Gwen turned to Woody. “And you found her…?”
“The ChinRussian coach asked if there was a back way out of the stadium, to get his team out. So I showed him. And there was Eleanor stabbing Winny.”
“Did you kill him?” Gwen tried to ask this coolly.
Eleanor didn’t know.
“The ChinRussian coach asked if he should call their doctor, and I said yes,” said Woody. “But Winny looked pretty bad.”
“And you didn’t wait for their doctor?”
“It was going to be a while, and your mom could walk. Of course, it was still a risk—these lung punctures can head south in a moment. But I figured we were still better off finding Fishman, especially since their doc was going to have to take care of Winny first.”
Gwen nodded. Outside, they could hear sirens, and shouting, and shots, and explosions, and what sounded like someone singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
“And where’s Dad? Does anyone know?”
“He had his team. Come ready,” said Eleanor.
“Paranoid as he is,” said Gwen.
“Yes.”
“Look.” Ondi held up her handphone. “Someone’s launched a counterattack.”
“You see,” said Eleanor.
“Look at the streets!” Ondi held up her handphone again.
“The Mall Truck Riots,” said Woody.
“Wow, and it says here the ChinRussians refused to take the game,” said Ondi.
Woody, his eyes on Eleanor, gave a nod as if to say he knew.
“I don’t. Like riots,” said Eleanor. “But. Give me liberty. Or give me death!”
Was that the real Eleanor or her BioNet? They weren’t sure until she winked.
“Stay still,” said Gwen sternly.
“Look!” Ondi held up her handphone. And there, in the middle of everything, was the Thistles’ coach, Andrea, her hair grown back in. “After the MediLyft comes, we can go help.”
“Yes,” said Eleanor, clearly. “Go.” Then she looked at Ondi and, weakly reaching out, said, “I had. Faith.”
Ondi took her hand and started to cry. “Thank you.”
“I knew,” said Eleanor. “I knew.” She closed her eyes.
“Eleanor!” said Woody.
She opened her eyes—startled, it seemed. But then, turning pale, she started to wheeze out a fine mist of blood. The mist turned into droplets, and the wheeze turned into a cough.
“Crap,” said Woody.
Gwen felt her wrist. “Hang in there, Mom. The MediLyft is coming. Hang in there.”
Eleanor blinked, but she was very pale and her breath was short.
“Hang in there, Mom,” said Gwen again. “Hang in there. Hang in there. I love you so much.”
The MediLyft arrived.
“Love. You,” Eleanor whispered.
“Mom, hang on,” said Gwen. “You’ve got to hang on. The MediLyft is here.”
“Grant,” she said. “Love.”
“Mom,” said Gwen. “Mom!”
But her eyes had closed and she was coughing up clots, and she died before the medics could reach her.
* * *
◆
There were too many people to fit in the garden; it was just lucky that, despite the rioting, we were able to find a Surplus field for the funeral. For Woody was coming, and all of the Underground Leaguers and their parents, and Mabel and May, and Eleanor’s legal team. Mimi was coming, too, and the League Technical Team, not to say Pink and Sylvie and Eugenie the hockey goalie, and Eugenie’s roommate, Anna. Indeed, it seemed even the house would have come, had we invited it; for even the house was in mourning, saying over and over,
Something is not right. Something is very wrong.
And, Something is missing. Something is not right.
To which, we could only say, Yes. Something is missing. Something is not right.
And, Yes. Something is missing. Something is very wrong.
* * *
—
Eleanor’s coffin was covered with an enormous baseball made of flowers and carried through an arcade of crossed bats. The procession went from home plate, to first base, to second, to third, then back to home, where the backstop was covered with wreaths. Children shooed away the geese; in the distance we could hear shouting and the crackle of small explosions as a choir group sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I spoke, wearing the baseball jacket that Gwen had knit for me. Gwen spoke. And then dozens of other people spoke, from Yuri and Heraldine and Sue to May and Diego and Gunnar. Some of the league parents spoke; all four of the kids involved in the Surplus Fields case spoke. And Ondi, who had dyed her hair back to red and gold in Eleanor’s honor, spoke, too. All expressed awe and love and gratitude, but many were angry as well.
Look what they did to her, they said. Look.
And, Now. In her memory. In her honor. We must do something. Now.
Andrea was especially eloquent in her appeal. Now, she said. Now. Now.
Now.
And, of course, I heard her. Gwen heard her. But all we could do was mourn.
We buried Eleanor’s ashes in the garden. Then we cried the way you cry when the unimaginable has happened, for no reason anyone will ever be able to give, and when all the world is poorer for it, but you most of all. We cried the way you cry when you would much rather have died instead; we cried the way you cry when your loss is both wholly unfathomable and the simplest of facts. Eleanor was gone. Three words whose meaning I would never have been able to convey to my students, unable as I was to understand them myself. Eleanor, gone. How could these words be equivalent? Because of the linking verb? No. It was not possible. No.
There’s no forgetting what you can’t forget, said the house.
And, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Yes, we said then. We’re raging. And, What a light.
* * *
—
The days had to be pulled on to advance, and even then would only advance bit by bit. Gwen and I knew we should be mobilizing in Eleanor’s memory but in fact could do nothing. We could not even keep the garden up, disappointed as we knew Eleanor would be in us if she knew. What a revelation that it mostly kept on growing just the same, indifferent.
But finally, Mimi started to come help—to harvest, to stake, to divide. To tidy up what she called Eleanor’s garden. And Gwen and I joined her, seeing as how we didn’t have a choice: we couldn’t leave it to an old woman to manage everything alone. And so when she came, we followed her out. We raked, we picked, we cleared, we mulched. Afterward we poured her some hibiscus tea with mint, which she called Eleanor’s Tea—surprising her, one day, with some of Eleanor’s Cookies. These Gwen then began to make if we knew that Mimi was coming, but also to have on hand if anyone else dropped by. Would you like some of Eleanor’s Cookies? I said. Would you like some of Eleanor’s Tea?
Finally, at long last, we returned to Eleanor’s work. Of course, Eleanor’s team did most everything. Still, they needed Eleanor’s study to meet, and since no one would sit in Eleanor’s seat, and since there wasn’t a spare seat for Gwen, that became Gwen’s seat. And since they all had their roles but needed someone to hold their toes to the fire, that became Gwen’s job. She did not like to be called her mother’s daughter, and felt keenly that she was not. But she sat in Eleanor’s seat, and brought everyone to order. And when she lost her place, she said, Now, where were we—not meaning to echo Eleanor. But there they were—her mother’s words. She had her mother’s resolve, too, and her mother’s cool, and her mother’s spine—which is to say, perhaps, her mother’s mound presence.
I could only hope now that she would not attract her mother’s distinguished treatment as well.
In the meanwhile, Woody helped. Pink and Sylvie helped. I helped. Ondi—often wearing the glorious baseball scarf that Gwen had made for her—helped. And Diego, who had recently started seeing—happy surprise—Ondi, helped. And slowly, then not so slowly, the work began moving forward again. Countrywide, the riots went on and on. Day after day, week after week, people rioted. Workless, not worthless, they shouted while we marshalled our evidence and prepared to file our suit. Aunt Nellie vs. AutoAmerica, this was. The Mall Truck case.
* * *
◆
The days were better now. Little by little, better. At night, though, Gwen and I still moved about as if underwater.
“Grief deranges,” Gwen would say.
“Healing is slow,” I would answer.
And sometimes that would be it, although sometimes we would cry and cry. Where did she go? And, Isn’t she coming back? She has been gone long enough, we agreed. It was time for her to come back.
But she did not come and did not come.
Instead, one day, as Gwen was working through some piles of paper, Woody came, as he often did, to the door. I did not turn him away, and when he stood in the study door, Gwen did not, either.
“It’s time for me to go back,” he told her. He gave a wry smile. “I have a lot to explain—so much that I don’t know how I’m going to, really.”
“Then don’t,” Gwen said.
“Don’t explain?”
She didn’t answer. But this time, when he produced the hat he had made her, she let him put it on her head, where it looked most wonderfully silly.
I left quickly then, but not before I heard, “I’ll come back anytime. Just tell me when.”
To which, she said, “Okay,” followed by something I could not hear.
“Who what when where how why,” he said.
And she echoed, “Who what when where how why.”
“Who is us,” he said. “And when is now.”
As for the rest, I didn’t hear that, either, because I wasn’t listening.
Long, long ago, my mother observed that the first thing she always asked about water was where it came from. Because she was from an island, she said, where water did not come out of faucets. And so people asked, Did it come from the mountains? Did it come from the clouds? And when my mother first met Eleanor, she said, That’s where Eleanor came from—from the mountains. From the clouds. Eleanor was not from a stagnant pool. She was from a flowing source, my mother said. A fresh source. She could see it. And, of course, my mother was right.
And now I just wished she could see Gwen—Gwen who, like Elea
nor, flowed from the mountains and the clouds. And I wished I could tell Eleanor, too. Nell, I wanted to say, she’s happy. She’s okay. You should see her. For how Eleanor would have wanted to know, I knew. And, irrational as it sounds, I did think she could hear me. Because if anyone in the world of the dead could hear the living, it would of course be Eleanor. And so I told her. She’s everything we hoped for, Nell—you would be so proud. Because it was true. She would be. Of course, the world still needs resisters—lots of them, I said. And Gwen’s getting rusty there in the office. She needs to get out on a mound. But rest in peace, Nell—rest in peace. You should see! Somehow we did it, Nell. I don’t know how. We miss you. But you know, we pitched a perfect game.
Acknowledgments
Deepest thanks to my many patient, generous, and helpful readers, including Dan Bogdanow, Carol Cashion, Mark Fishman, Martha Fishman, Allegra Goodman, Jane Leavy, Allison Mankin, Martha Minow, Marcy Murningham, Bill Nowlin, Louise Radin, Paul Schacht, and Mira Singer. Without you all I would have hit a great many more foul balls.
I am grateful beyond words to the many dedicated people at Knopf on whose support and expertise I have long relied, especially Ann Close, LuAnn Walther, Victoria Pearson, Amy Ryan, and Todd Portnowitz. I cannot thank you all enough.
And, of course, I thank with all my heart my devoted husband, David, and my inspiring children, Luke and Paloma, whom I see in every line of this book. You two are a mother’s dream—a field on a summer’s day, with the bases loaded and the game far from lost.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gish Jen is the author of four previous novels, a book of stories, and two works of nonfiction. Her honors include fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Studies, and the Fulbright Foundation, as well as the Lannan Literary Award for fiction and the Mildred and Harold Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She lives with her husband and two children in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
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