by Terri Kraus
“Yeah, I’m ready. But it’s just another game, you know.”
Chase watched his father’s face. He couldn’t tell if his father was in pain or just confused.
“Well, that’s a good attitude. But you are going to try your best, right?”
The teenager part of Chase wanted to reply, “No … I might only try half my best. That would be okay, right?” He wondered if dads ever realized how goofy some of their questions were, and how they forced their kids into saying the right thing—even if they didn’t mean it.
“Absolutely,” Chase said with some degree of assurance.
“Then that’s all I can ask for,” his father said, as if wrapping up the conversation and the question into a neat little ball. After a short silence, he added, “Cameron’s going to be there. Is that okay with you?”
So that’s why he’s so goofy.
“Sure,” Chase said.
“You sure?”
“Sure. She’s nice.”
Chase knew his father wanted to ask something else, some other question, but he didn’t know how to ask. Did he want to know how his son felt about his father seeing another woman—a woman who wasn’t his mother? But there was nothing. It was as if he was perfectly fine with his father seeing another woman—not his mother—but another woman.
“You’re okay with her being there?” Ethan asked again, with a note of uncertainty in his voice that Chase wasn’t used to hearing from his dad. “She doesn’t have to come. I just thought it might be a nice day and she might like to watch the game.”
“It’s fine with me,” Chase said. “I’m going to go to Elliot’s house. His dad will take us to the park. We want to get there a little early. Elliot said he had to practice his throwing.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Chase was sure his father almost said, “We’ll see you there,” and was glad he didn’t. Cameron seemed like a good person, Chase thought, but it was still very weird to imagine his father on a date, holding hands … or trying to kiss her.
Ethan watched his son leave, carrying his bat and glove and satchel filled with baseball things. He wondered why Chase hadn’t been upset—at least a little—with Cameron coming to the game. Ethan would have been, if the situation had been reversed. He was sure of it. This was a woman who threatened to take his mother’s place and Chase said nothing—no rise, no concern, no problem. Ethan figured there would be more. But Chase had seemed so cavalier about it. Something tightened in Ethan’s gut … or was it his heart? Either way, he felt out of kilter—and maybe a little hurt.
He turned away from the door and walked upstairs, wondering what he was going to wear to the game.
And that was a totally new and disturbing experience for Ethan.
“I’ll go get two hot dogs and sodas,” Ethan volunteered as they found their seats at the ballpark.
“Sounds good,” Cameron said cheerfully. “I’ll be here. I’ll save your seat.”
He grinned at her as he left, heading down the bleachers, around the dugouts, and toward the concession stand on the far side of the field. As he passed by the Flyers’ bench, he called out, “Go get ’em, Chase.”
Chase looked up, but only for an instant. He nodded, but only imperceptibly.
Ethan had not felt this jumbled for … well … for as long as he could remember. Courting his first wife—and wasn’t that a terribly curious way to think about her?—he’d had no considerations other than her and himself. He had no son to think about, no concerns over what the neighbors might say, and no guilt in how he felt.
But now, with Cameron, all those elements came into play.
He worried about how Chase was reacting. It appeared to Ethan that his son was simply acting too nonchalant and too unaffected to be believed.
They had not talked about Ethan dating—really talked, since … well, since never.
Since the evening Ethan had invited Cameron to what she called “the purple restaurant,” he had kissed her a few more times, and she had kissed him twice—taking him completely by surprise both times.
If he had said that compatibility was based on conversation and its ease of taking place, then he would have to say they got along well together. He enjoyed spending time with her. She laughed easily and often and had a wicked, biting sense of humor that he found stimulating and refreshing. And he liked the way she looked—a lot. But more than just physical, he saw in her a strong, mature woman, smart and passionate and willing to take risks.
He wasn’t so sure what she might see in him.
Joel did repeat his observation that Ethan was “way older than she is … right? I mean way older.”
Ethan only nodded in reply. He had not asked her how old she was, but he could figure things out within a year or two. Working in Franklin for a year. Maybe working at odd jobs out of college for a year or two. Maybe she took five years to graduate. If he rounded up for each situation, he was ten years older.
That’s not so bad, he told himself … often.
Cameron watched him walk down the bleachers, paying attention, without being obvious, to the way he moved.
He’s so graceful, she thought. He moves like a dancer. Must be all the construction work that keeps him limber.
She rested her back against the seat behind her and let the sun warm her face and arms. She had dressed modestly today. Not that she dressed immodestly on other days, but this was their first “official” time together in the presence of Ethan’s son. Everyone had been aware of everyone else, almost from the beginning, but like asteroids, their trajectories did not collide—except for the time in Starbucks—until today. Today she was not completely certain they would all get together after the game, but she thought the odds were good. If the Flyers won, a celebration of sorts would surely follow. She would have to be invited along to that.
If the Flyers lost, then something smaller, a more sedate and quiet gathering, no doubt, but she took heart even at that. Ethan had remarked, several times, that Chase didn’t seem to be all that concerned, winning or losing. The three of them would commiserate in a loss, or celebrate for a victory. Cameron was pretty sure of that.
Either way, Cameron and Ethan would be together—and she would get a chance to be with Chase. After all, Chase was a big part of Ethan’s life … and maybe a part of hers in the future.
And just maybe, because of something dreadful in both their pasts, she already felt close to the young boy.
The two teams—the Oil City Tigers and the Franklin Flyers—appeared to be evenly matched. Through five and a half innings, the score stood at 2-2. Chase had gotten one hit but didn’t score a run and was thrown out after a weak infield grounder. Defensively, there had been no close plays at first base yet.
Both teams played in the Junior League, and according to league rules, teams were required to play every player at least three innings during the game, and no player, except the catcher, could play all nine innings. The rule guaranteed equitable participation, and all but the most driven coaches endorsed the rule and substituted freely.
Chase and his team took the field. It would be his last time in the field for this game. The first Tigers’ batter connected with a low curve and drove it out into the gap between center and right field. By the time the outfielder returned the ball to the infield, the batter had slid safely into third base. This was a serious scoring threat. The Flyers’ best power hitters would be out of the game after this inning, and Ethan felt a collective groan emanate from the Flyers’ side of the bleachers.
“Hold ’em, Flyers!” came a shout.
“Heads up!”
“Stay focused!”
“Keep your head in the game!”
Cameron looked over at Ethan. He was sitting at the very edge of the bleacher, his hands in tight fists on his knees, staring hard at the action
on the field. She wanted to say something, even encouraging, but could think of nothing that didn’t sound clichéd. So, she remained silent alongside Ethan and stared out to the field.
Ethan took off his ball cap and twisted the brim in his hands, back and forth, folding and creasing, folding and creasing. Cameron tried her best not to look.
A short, burly player from Oil City came to the plate. He did not appear to be a particularly intimidating or dangerous batter.
“Pitch ’em hard, Justin!” Ethan shouted.
The first two pitches were balls, wide to the outside.
“Make ’em work for it! Don’t give it to him!”
Another pitch went into the dirt, followed by a series of soft groans. The catcher blocked it and the runner held at third.
The next pitch came fast and dead center.
The batter swung and caught nothing but air.
The crowd on the Flyers’ side applauded.
“Two more just like that!”
The Flyers’ pitcher nodded to his catcher, reached back, and threw another fastball. The batter swung nervously, as much trying to protect himself from the ball as he was trying to hit it. It was more a case of the ball hitting the bat than the other way around. The ball plinked off at a curious angle and headed, looping and spinning, toward first base.
Had Chase a few more years of experience, he would have stepped back, toward the outfield, and let the ball corkscrew its way to foul territory. But Chase did not have that experience, and the throaty yells from the crowd helped propel him to dive toward the ball. He nicked it with the top edge of his mitt, almost catching it … coming within two inches of making a wondrous play. Instead, his glove touched the ball and made it a fair hit. Then the ball hit the dirt, took another strange hop, and rolled away from him. He scrambled to get to his knees, lunging at the ball, tripping himself in his haste, booting the ball farther from his reach.
The runner made first with ease, well before Chase found his footing and the ball. The runner at third walked home, scoring the go-ahead run, amid cheers from the Tigers’ bench and fans, and groans from the Flyers’ loyalists.
Cameron knew some of the intricacies of the game, having played girls’ softball all through high school. She knew Chase’s effort would be ruled an error—as honest as it may’ve been.
Ethan stood, his arms raised first in hope, then sinking in defeat. “Chase! What are you thinking! Get your head in the game!”
Cameron could see the red flash in Chase’s face—anger, embarrassment, shock. She felt an urge to run to the field, to put her arm around the young boy and tell him everything was going to be fine.
“Come on, Chase—think! That was totally your fault!”
Although Cameron was surprised by the harsh tone Ethan had taken, she didn’t say anything. A few minutes later the second and third outs were made, and the Tigers finally retired to the field.
“Tough break for them,” Cameron said, keeping her words calm and even and without judgment.
Ethan only grunted in reply and slapped his cap against his thigh.
The Flyers failed to score in the seventh, eighth, and ninth innings, losing the final game of the year by one single run.
The teams gathered in midfield, each player offering each opponent a handshake. Cameron scanned the boys—winners happy and ecstatic, losers glum and tight-lipped. But there were no tears, at least not yet. If they had been girls, there would have been tears—lots of tears—hugs and tears and promises that they would return victorious someday.
But the Flyers didn’t cry. They returned to their dugout for their equipment. She could hear the words of their coach, praising them for a good season and a good effort. He said they should all be proud of what they did.
That will make them cry, she thought.
She stood at the bottom of the bleachers while Ethan walked toward the dugout.
He did not have a smile on his face. It was not what she had ever expected to see from him.
She didn’t want to eavesdrop on a private moment between father and son, but she couldn’t turn off her hearing.
“That was your fault—you stopped thinking. You let the run score,” Ethan accused, his voice louder than it needed to be.
Chase, head lowered, his eyes averted, mumbled something in reply.
“It was your fault!” Ethan said back.
Chase raised his head, squared his shoulders, and, with a look of anger and grit, shouted back, “It’s always my fault, isn’t it? That’s what you think, isn’t it?”
Then, without waiting for a response, Chase turned on his heels and walked away, heading to the far exit of the park, the exit by the river.
“Hey!”
Chase kept on walking.
“Hey!”
He had no hint of hesitation in his steps.
“You stop—now!”
Chase didn’t stop, or slow, or even flinch.
Ethan stared after him for a moment, then turned away.
Cameron looked down at her hands, as if she had not been listening. To be honest, there was a lot of commotion on the field and in the bleachers as the winning side continued to celebrate. Perhaps no one else had really heard what father and son had said to each other. Perhaps it was not an unusual occurrence.
But Cameron couldn’t believe that was true. She didn’t want to be there, not just now, not having heard what she’d heard and not having seen what had just happened.
Ethan came around the backstop, slowing his steps with obvious deliberate effort. He moved to stand by her. Most of the Flyers’ families had dispersed. No one stopped as they left.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
She wondered what was in his eyes but was hesitant to look up.
“I didn’t …” Her words were almost inaudible.
Finally, she raised her head. She swallowed, her throat dry, her chest tight. “Ethan, that wasn’t fair. He’s just a boy. It wasn’t really his fault. He tried his best. And it’s just a game.”
She felt herself recoil, physically, from the withering stare that took over Ethan’s face. His eyes had narrowed until they were tight, flashing.
“Hey,” he said, snapping the word in cold precision. “You don’t know what this is all about, okay?”
She thought, for just a split second, that he would offer his sort of silly, wry grin, and make the moment better, as if he were just playing some sort of joke that went badly, badly amiss. And she thought she saw, in his eyes, a glistening of something—something like fear or panic or an overwhelming desire to stop and take all of it back. But like the flash of a bolt of lightning on a summer night heralding the start of a thunderstorm, there was no taking back, no silly grin. There was nothing—except that cold, angry, almost malevolent stare.
“Just stay out of it, Cameron. He’s my son, remember?”
He turned back to look for Chase, but his son was now lost in the crowds arriving for the second game.
Ethan spun back around. “It was his fault and he knows it. I don’t need you saying it wasn’t. This is none of your business. He’s my son.”
The words were harsh and brittle. And they were aimed directly at Cameron.
“You have no business interfering! Okay?”
She willed her eyes, harder than she had ever willed anything before in her life, not to well up with salty tears. She bit on her lip to focus her energy and concentration.
And then he turned away again.
Chase didn’t turn around, nor look back, nor listen, nor care. If someone followed him, fine. But he was not going to turn around and find out if they had.
He walked out the southern entrance to the ball fields, crossed the street, walked past the boat launch, past the picnic tables and portable toilets the city set up in the
summer. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the far end of the city park, where the riverbank gave way to rocks and cement and brambles. It was his and Elliot’s favorite place to fish, throw stones into the water—and talk.
It’s always my fault. He said it. He thinks that way. It was my fault. I should never have done that.
His vision became watery.
I am not going to cry.
He still held his baseball glove close to his chest, the baseball glove his father had driven to Butler to find, a Wilson A2K model, with the single post web and deep pocket.
He held it in his hands and stared at the stitches and the Wilson logo in black and yellow. He lightly traced the leather webbing, brushed his hand over the logo once more. Then, without thinking any more about it, he leaned back, coiled his arm, and threw the baseball glove, as far as he could throw it, into the dark water of French Creek, a quarter mile from where it joined the Allegheny River heading south, south through Pennsylvania and the Ohio River and the Mississippi and on to New Orleans.
He watched the ball glove bob in the murky water, holding its head above the ribs of the river until the darker, stronger current grabbed hold and drew it under.
Then, almost as if he had planned it this way, Chase put his elbows on his knees, formed a V, buried his face in his hands, and began to sob.
When Ethan had turned away, Cameron felt something snap in her heart. And she knew, in that instant, that if he looked up, she would not know what to do, or what to say. She would wind up blubbering like a foolish, lovesick teenager who had just been jilted by an equally foolish young swain who was testing his muscles by inflicting pain on the unsuspecting—just because he could.
Cameron, in a most pellucid moment, knew she could not let that happen, regardless of what Ethan needed. She had to turn away before he turned around. So she spun on her heels and began to walk, as swiftly as she could without resorting to running, and headed away from him, heading north, getting away from the tears she knew were only a few steps away.