“Uh oh,” I hear Kristie murmur.
“Yeah, uh oh,” I mutter with sarcasm.
Ritchie turns back to the game, and his eyes are blazing. For a moment I’m assured that this renewed energy will play in his favor, but his pitch is so far outside that not even the catcher can react fast enough, and the ball sails over his head and strikes the backstop with fury. The crowd cheers—not at the wild pitch but at the ferocity in which it strikes the fence. However, when the second pitch sails over the batter’s head and into the crowd, there are some concerned mumbles. Ritchie shakes his head and accepts a new ball. He goes into his wind and hurtles a strike, which brings the crowd to an enthusiastic cheer. It’s when ball three and ball four sail wildly to the backstop that they go quiet and sit down.
The bullpen begins to warm, but they’re five minutes away from being ready. It’s Ritchie’s game. For better or for worse, it ends here. There’s only one out left. One out. If he can dig deep enough, the maybe…
The first pitch settles softly over home plate, and the batter smacks it to left field moving runners to first and second.
Of course, even if one or two runs cross, it’s not the end of the world. It’s just that the crowd wants to see a shutout. They want a shutout even when at end of the day, the win is the all that really matters. Two pitches later and the bases are loaded. Ritchie is looking discouraged more than he’s looking tired, and he keeps looking Joanne’s way.
“What’s happening?” Kristie whispers.
“He can’t process it,” I answer.
“Process what?”
Ritchie hurtles another ball all the way to the backstop, and the runners advance—the first Ram crossing home plate.
“This,” I answer.
The bullpen still isn’t ready, and Ritchie is gassed. Another batter, and the first pitch is sent to outer space with a bases-clearing three-run homer, tying the game at four. It’s only the second homerun Ritchie’s given all season. He yanks his hat down and spits before turning his back and pounding the inside of his glove. The hometown loyal are quiet.
The pitching coach emerges from the dugout, but Ritchie flips him off, sending him back. For some reason, this reinvigorates the crowd, and they jump back on the Ritchie Hudson bandwagon. Meanwhile, Ritchie looks exhausted. More than that, he looks angry. Even more than that, he looks heartbroken. He shakes his head and digs in. Wiping his face, I think I see tears mixing with the sweat.
I stand, but no one sees.
Ritchie settles into his wind and hurls every last bit of junk he has saved, the velocity somewhere near 100 mph. If the pitch is on point, the batter won’t have a chance. As it turns out, the batter doesn’t have a chance anyhow, but for different reasons. The ball strikes the poor kid in the face, and he goes down—out cold. Then the benches clear. Most pitchers would recoil or show some kind of regret, but Ritchie just smiles, lowering himself and bracing for impact. The first player he encounters is wasted with one punch. After that, it’s like that old saying; I went to a hockey fight, and a baseball game broke out. The umps have lost control, and as far as the crowd is concerned, that’s okay. They’re here to see Ritchie. They don’t care if he’s pitching or just beating the shit out of someone.
I leap forward, racing down the steps toward the field. Kristie is screaming my name, but her voice is drowned under as I maneuver the bleachers, hurdle the railing and race onto the field. Ritchie’s holding his own. I expected him to, but he’s not only beating back his opponents, he’s destroying them. Referees are blowing whistles, the PA is screaming for calm, and players are fueling an all-out brawl—all of it backed by the frenzied Payton faithful who are rushing the field—me leading the charge.
Ritchie’s being pummeled. He’s bleeding yet he’s shrieking with rage, and he’s fighting back. I figure every person he faces is named ‘Travis’, and every blow he lands is meant to avenge the only girl he’ll ever allow himself to love. The fireworks have started, but the skies are dark. I know I need to get to my friend, but someone must’ve seen me coming, because someone lands a blow, and I see white. I hit the dirt, and while everything is foggy and painful, I realize that I’m lying face down in the sweet smell of the grass and dirt of a small-town baseball field. Less privileged kids never see this much green. And here I am, bleeding all over myself while soaking it all in as people race in chaos overhead.
Nineteen
Today
Screaming, I sit straight up, my room drenched in shadows. I’m covered in sweat, my sheets soaked. Feels like I’m lying in a puddle, so I tear away the covers and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my head in my hands as I gasp for air.
It was just a dream. It didn’t—couldn’t have actually happened. The television is still on, but the game is over, and it’s now late-night TV with cheap commercials and over-modulated sound.
It’s too loud.
I use the remote to turn the sound down, the volume level on the screen counting backwards like a time bomb ticking down. The LED clock beside the bed has stopped, hanging on 2:13 forever, the woman on the TV fossilized with fear while the audience jeers and heckles. Apparently, they hate her the way I hate myself.
I need a drink of water.
Crossing the small room toward the bathroom, the carpet is crusty from soap and shampoo and God knows what else, and the bathroom tile is still sticky from whatever the previous tenant left behind. Rinsing my face, I drink from my cupped hands before shutting the water off and drying my face with a damp towel. Returning to bed, the sheets are clammy and wet. Frustrated, I consider my options before shoving the bedspread aside and taking a seat in one of those useless chairs they keep in the corner.
It’s 3:02 in the morning. My mind is on fire with thoughts and memories, and I figure I’ll never fall asleep again. And maybe I don’t want to. After all, the dream wasn’t about him. It was about the other one.
Part II
The hangover isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I think vomiting up the final two or three beers minimized the damage and prevented what would have been bad from becoming really bad. I don’t bother to shower. Or shave. The five o’clock shadow adds color to my face, and I’m hoping she’ll notice the stubble before she notices how red my eyes are.
It’s 9:09 on Monday morning, which means she’ll be here shortly. It’ll also means I am now officially late for work, so I dig out my phone and flip through my contacts before selecting ‘Phillip Beltran’ and pressing send. Knowing Phil the way I do, he wandered in through the security doors five minutes ago, crossed through the lobby with that smug look of self-importance on his acne-pocked face while en route to his office. By 9:10 he’ll be booting his computer, and by 9:13 he’ll have already checked his email. Two minutes later, he’ll be wondering how he can ruin the rest of the day for guys like me.
Ring number one.
Phil never picks up on the first ring. God forbid executive management connects the dots and draws a natural conclusion that Phillip K. Beltran has idle time. Beltran is a corporate stooge. He even has a brass plaque hanging on his wall that reads; Project an image of success at all times. It’s one of four things you see upon entering his office, the first being a very bold nameplate announcing Phillip K. Beltran, Senior Vice President. The second is that big gaudy metal desk, the third is a five foot plastic ficus tree, and the fourth is that ridiculous plaque.
Ring number two.
Beltran makes an art form out of appearing distracted. After all, it’s an honor to solicit the wisdom of a Senior Vice Douchebag, and since the phones at InteGREAT Inc. only ring three times before going to voicemail, it’s always in the middle of the third ring that he’ll answer. When he picks up today, it’s with that same irritated yet professional “Philip Beltran” that I’ve come to loathe.
My mouth is sticky, and my breath stinks, reminding me to brush my teeth before Kristie shows. “Phil, it’s Tony.”
“Tony,” Beltran says, his voice managerial. “I stop
ped by your cube a few minutes ago.”
“I’m not there.”
“But you’re weren’t in,” he finishes.
“I was in a car accident,” I say. “I’m still in Payton.” I leave it at that. Let him draw his own conclusions. If the man has a heart, which he doesn’t, the first words out of his mouth should be are you okay? But knowing him the way I do, he’ll be less interested in me and more concerned with the work stacking up on my desk.
“We’ve got Crimson nTernal coming onsite this week,” Beltran says. “You’re my lead. I need you here.”
“Yeah, I know. If you’ve got any suggestions, I’m all ears, but I’m kind of stuck in a holding pattern until Allstate figures out what to do.”
“So, you’re not coming in.” It’s a statement. Not a question.
“It shouldn’t be more than a few days.”
“So, you’re not coming in.”
I bite my tongue. “The airport is eighty miles away, Phil. And there’s no taxi service in or out. Like I said, I’m open to suggestions.”
“And you said you’re where?”
“Payton County. It’s in Michigan. My hometown.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I’m fine, by the way,” I sneer. “Thanks for asking.”
“You know how important this week is.”
“Which is why I’m calling.”
A heavy sigh. “This is disappointing.”
“I’m glad you pointed that out, because whatever it is you’re not implying is coming off loud and clear.”
“So, what do we do?”
“The insurance company is working as fast as they can.”
“I need you onsite by Thursday morning. Do whatever you have to do, but be here by Thursday.”
“I’ll call as soon as I know more.”
Phil is quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I lost the signal even though the phone shows we’re still connected. “Dustin can fill in through Wednesday,” he mumbles over the line. “But I need you here by Thursday. Wednesday if possible. Thursday at the latest.”
“I’ll call you.”
A second audible sigh. Phillip Beltran doesn’t like to be ‘told’ anything. He does the telling. “Let me know if you need anything. I can be somewhat persuasive when push comes to shove.”
“Thanks,” I answer. “I’ll call.”
“Keep me posted.”
Beltran can’t let go, but I hang up anyway. I don’t even say goodbye, and despite our awkward banter, I figure the exchange went better than expected. Part of me was thinking I’d be unemployed by now, and part of me is disappointed that I’m not.
Checking my watch, I still have a few minutes before Kristie shows, and once she’s here, it’ll be too late to turn back. Then we’ll go to a place no one’s been in twenty years, and we’ll see things no one’s ever seen. Those things will rewind the clock and reopen old wounds. They’ll include me, her, Joanne, Ritchie—all of it and all of us. It makes me wonder if she’ll be able to handle the deluge of memories. I still don’t remember all of the details, but I remember enough to know where we’re going and why. I remember enough to know I’m responsible for Joanne’s death, and I know enough to remember how Kristie will react.
She’s not ready.
I’m not either.
Joanne didn’t just hitchhike out of town. I remembered this tiny little tidbit of relevant information at some point yesterday. I remembered enough to know that Jo never even left. She’s still here just like her sister suspected when she found Joanne’s hearing aid rotting in that old barn. Joanne’s still here, Kristie’s still here, Ritchie’s still here, and now I’m here. I’m back. The sad thing is I know this, and all the aspirin in the world won’t change it even though I take four anyway.
For the headache, of course.
Twenty
Yesterday
Graduation day. The whole town has turned out for the big event. It’s not quite like one of Ritchie’s games, but it’s standing room only, and they’re all standing and they’re all clapping, cheering us on. We’re dressed in our best, behaving better than our parents up in the stands who are doing their best to embarrass us. As we file in as pairs—a sea of black robes and flat caps—we’re talking in calm voices about how this summer is going to be “off the hook,” and how we can’t wait to get out of this one horse town. We talk about next steps as if we’re planning our next trip to Chuck E. Cheese while quietly, we all have that look of terror, we’re all hoping we’re not the only one, and we all smile when we’re told to.
I take my seat in one of those plastic cafeteria chairs with one of those awful backrests. Our tassels are on the left, and we’re waiting to swing them to the right, thereby symbolically releasing us from our childhood prison and opening the door into the great unknown. Principal Price is up there talking about responsibility and reverence and leadership, his face a river of smiles while we’re down here, silently wishing we could rewind time to when we were only seniors and all underclassmen looked at us like gods. Principal Price is saying a lot of nice things, and he’s smiling, and we’re smiling, and the crowd out there is smiling, but I’m dying inside. Today is supposed to be beautiful, but instead it feels empty. I’m sitting among 156 of my peers, when I know I should be sitting among 157.
My best friend isn’t here.
“Franklin Roosevelt said it right,” Price continues as he looks around, hands planted firmly on the podium. “As you have viewed this world of which you are about to become a more active part, I have no doubt that you have been impressed by its chaos.” The crowd laughs, but he’s stolid. “FDR was referring to the growing pains we all experience as we go from boy to man or from girl to woman. It’s a scary world out there, and this is just a first step. A high school diploma will only open so many doors. You have to shoot for the moon, be willing to risk everything, be all in or be nothing at all.”
The student body falls silent. Masking our fear is suddenly not as easy as it was only a few minutes ago.
“Shoot for the moon,” Price repeats. “It’s within your grasp. Believe me, it’s there for the taking, but you have to reach out and take it. No one will hand it to you. You have to take that first step. And then you’ll have to take that second and third step too. Never give up. Never settle for average. Shoot for the moon, and I promise that even if you don’t make it, you’ll be among the stars.”
The crowd erupts. We erupt. We’re a bunch of zombies going with the flow and doing what we told. We’re told to smile. We’re told to clap. We’re told to cheer. Principal Price stands at the podium, the sweat raining like beads over his face, his hands out, his grin toothy. It’s supposed to be our big day, a day every one of us seniors will remember for the rest of our lives. But someone is missing, and as a result, I can’t relax. My best friend isn’t here. I’m set to leave home in three days, but given the number of loose ends that I don’t know how to tie off, everything feels like it’s falling apart.
Ritchie’s not here.
But it’s not because his alarm didn’t go off or because he’s staging a coup, or even because his dad beat the hell out of him. Ritchie’s not here because he wasn’t invited.
Twenty-One
Today
I’m sitting beneath the overhang of the Days Inn, my knees up—my back against the paint-flaking wall when she turns into the parking lot. She pulls right up to my room before shutting off the engine. She stares at me through the windshield and from behind the dark shades hiding her eyes before opening her door, snaking out a well-manicured foot in a flip-flop and climbing out. The door to my hotel room is wide open, but I’m not inside. I’m out here, my head resting against the paint-flaking wall. Just as I suspected, she’s early. Nine minutes.
“What are you doing out here?” she asks, removing her sunglasses.
My clothes are wrinkled, my hair a mess. Two days of stubble complete the picture of a hapless and perhaps even hopeless train wreck of a man. The
aspirin are helping with the pain, but not the dread. “I forgot what mornings smell like here.”
She sniffs, looking around. “I don’t smell anything.”
I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath. “If I concentrate, I think I can even smell the Beaver.” I look up at her. “I think I’d like to see it again before I leave.”
“You’re not leaving.”
I frown.
She smiles. “Not if I have anything to say about it, anyway.”
I get to my feet, wiping my jeans. I don’t feel humorous, and in a little while she’ll know why.
“You haven’t showered,” she says, looking me up and down.
“I had a long night.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Some.”
“Are you still drunk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’m not driving, so what’s the difference?” I answer as I walk around the car to the passenger side. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
The door is locked, so I knock on the roof of the car. “It’s locked.”
“Tony?” Kristie persists. “Where are we going?”
I look at her. I hate doing this. I can still see the girl I once loved, and I know how much this is going to hurt. All that pain she’s tucked behind a single thread of hope is about to come undone. I’m about to make her world that much smaller.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“Then where are we going?”
“It’s just this place…” I manage, my voice locked in phlegm at the back of my throat. “Hidden away.” I look away. I don’t want her to see my eyes. I don’t want her to read my thoughts. She deserves closure, but I’m worried there can’t be closure in a situation like this, because even if there is an answer, there won’t be an end.
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