The Light of Day

by Kristen Kehoe

  “Jesus, Chris, accept is spelled with an a. Except implies exclusion or an issue, not an agreement of terms. I know you didn’t finish college man, but what about high school?”

  He frowns and deletes, retyping at a rapid rate, forcing auto-correct to keep up with him even while it tries to turn words into things like “duck”. Yeah, there aren’t a lot of ducks being talked about here.

  “Hey, Shakespeare, how come you never talk about your girl?”

  I glance over at Laken as he slips his phone away and finishes buttoning up his own jersey. We’ve been here for five hours already, going through our motions, warming up, stretching, getting looked at, and now we’re in the final stages before we take the field. We’re teammates, so we know each other well, but because we’re roommates and friends too, Chris sees more than others.

  I clear my throat, zip my pants, taking my time as I stretch out my arms and make sure my jersey isn’t too snug anywhere. Really, I’m just buying time and we both know it.

  “I guess because I’m not sure I have a right to call her my girl anymore. When I got the call, I had to leave. We hadn’t really been together that long so it seemed kind of ridiculous to ask her to be mine when I didn’t know the next time I was going to get to see her and what kind of shape I would be in when I did.”

  He nods like he gets it, and on some level, I know he does. However much he enjoys going out and hooking up, he lives the same kind of day-to-day life that I do. We’ve reaped the benefits of being athletes all our lives, but no one sees the cost that comes with it either, the dedication to a sport that doesn’t give two shits about you as a person, the limited time for anything or anyone else. He’s working toward the same dream I am, sledging through the constant bus trips and endless motel rooms like me, despite the fact that reality has told us that the likelihood of us both making it is slim to none.

  “I had a girl too,” he says after a second and I stop to look at him. “We’d been together since high school and when we got to Kansas all I did was play baseball, and all she did was sit home and wait. Turns out, the waiting is just as hard as the leaving, and eventually she found something better than a kid who couldn’t give up the game.”

  Laken shrugs his shoulders and keeps his tone light, but I can see it costs him a little to say even that much. “We can’t change who we are, Chris, no matter how many times we wish to Christ that all we wanted to be was a goddamn car salesman who got to go home every night and live a normal life, where he saw his girl every day while knowing his job would still be there in the morning.”

  He nods briefly and we both grab our gloves. As we walk out of the tunnel and onto the field, he laughs. “A car salesman? Face it, Shakespeare, in your next life you’re going to be a goddamn professor, carrying some big ass briefcase full of papers and wearing tweed jackets and spectacles, making that shit look fly while you quote your damn poetry.”

  I laugh at the image and then shake it off as I take the mound, picking up the rosin bag of chalk and bouncing it back and forth between my palm and the top of my hand before letting it drop. My cleats kick up dirt and I look over to home plate to make eye contact with Nielson, my catcher, holding out my glove to let him know I’m ready. When he throws me the ball I catch it, leaving it in my glove and running my pitching fingers over my brim for luck, like I’ve always done. And then I tuck thoughts of Blue and the future to the corner of my mind while I focus on the present.

  ~

  Two hours later, I’m on the mound again, only this time I’m trying to figure a way out of the mess I’ve created in the last twenty minutes. Coach called time and jogged out, so everyone in the infield did as well, and now they all surround me as we talk in riddles and innuendos and try to decide whether or not I can really take care of the guy at the plate and get us to the next inning, or if I’m done for the night.

  It’s the top of the fifth and we’re ahead four to two. We took an early lead when our centerfielder hit a homerun with the bases loaded, but that was at the top of the second, and since then our bats have produced nothing, while we’ve had three major errors, two in the third which granted them their two stolen bases and subsequent scored runs. From then to now it’s been a battle of high pitch counts and strikeouts or easily fielded grounders that have tempers on both teams soaring. The lights of the field have popped on and as I listen to the guys around me discuss them and us at the same time, I look at the runners on second and third and then to the scoreboard. There are two outs, two on, and their heavy hitter is up — it’s not the worst scenario to be in, but it’s certainly not the best.

  “What do you think, Shakespeare, you want this guy?”

  I look at Nielson and then to the batter standing at home plate. His count’s at 2-2, and he’s crowding me because he fucking can. I want to send him a message, to wing one in there and let him know in no uncertain terms that I’m not afraid of his fat ass, but I can’t, because while I’m not afraid of him, I understand that one shift, one graze of the knuckles, or one pitch that just isn’t thought out well could lead to full bases or runners batted home. I won’t risk that for my ego, no matter how much his stance begs me to.

  I glance back at Nielson and then at Coach who hasn’t said two words since he stepped out here. “Yeah, I do want this guy.”

  They all nod and continue to stand there, taking the time we have, giving Coach the time to agree or disagree, me the time to cool off, the batter the time to wait and stew.

  “How’s the elbow? You were whacking off pretty hard last night, I almost stopped what I was doing to offer you my girl so you didn’t get tendonitis.”

  Laken’s comment earns some laughs and I shake my head, appreciating the time he’s giving me to get my shit together. When Coach nods, accepting my choice, Nielson does too before slamming the ball into my glove.

  “Throw this motherfucker out and, after you do, look to home plate before taking the dugout. There’s a bombshell there that’s been screaming your name since the second inning. She even called you handsome.”

  I nod, and though a familiar tingle starts to pulse through me, I knock gloves with the rest of the guys as they head off to their positions and keep my head down for one more second, calling up the calm and the quiet that’s always gotten me through. Licking my fingers, I run them over my brim again and take a deep breath. My batter’s already at an advantage, because he knows what this conversation was about. He knows they asked if I could finish him, which leads him to believe that it might be a mistake to leave me in here, to let me face the strongest hitter on their team when I’ve already thrown over ninety pitches tonight. But it’s not a mistake, and he’s about to learn that.

  I start with an inside slider at Nielson’s call, and though I think it squeaked by, the ump doesn’t give it to me. Now we have a full count and for the next four pitches I decide I’m going to give him what he wants, the fastball. He fouls off all four of them, and his arrogant grin continues to grow, his eyes never leaving mine as he goes through his routine each time of kicking his cleats up, rotating the bat, testing his swing, adjusting his helmet. I wait him out, because I know, in the end, one of us will break. I’ll be goddamned if it’s going to be me.

  I get him on the fifth pitch as he steadies his hips and readies his body for the same pitch I’ve given him the last four times, stupidly assuming that my ego demands to meet him on his level. Instead, I throw a change up and it drops right in front of him while he blasts away, his bat cutting over it with enough force to knock him off kilter and force him to drop the bat and use it cane-like to steady himself or fall flat on his face. There are cheers from my team and silence from his.

  I barely look at him as I jog in, taking the high fives that my teammates give, grinning at Laken as he makes a crude gesture that matches his earlier comment. I stop at the entrance to the dugout and look up and over, and that’s when I find her. Four rows up, three seats from the aisle, there’s my siren, her hair a little lighter from the last ti
me I saw her, her skin glowing against the white tank top she’s wearing. If I also happen to notice that the thin material forms to her breasts quite perfectly, well, it’s not a crime.

  I stay where I am, staring at her, absorbing the sight of her after what feels like years of being deprived, and then she stills, and ever so slowly she turns away from whoever she was talking to and our eyes meet. The impact of the look punches me and takes my breath a little, and I can tell it’s done the same to her, but she doesn’t break her stare and neither do I, not until the person next to her taps her shoulder and she smiles, gesturing with her head. When I glance over, any air that I had left leaves me completely as I stare into the face of my father.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Cora

  The first inning is almost over by the time I arrive at Jake’s baseball game with his dad, A.J. and Liam in tow. It’s now the bottom of the fifth and the game is getting more intense by the minute as Jake faces down batter after batter. Mr. Ferrari — Tony, as he’s told me to call him — has barely said a thing since we met him here outside of the stadium, but I notice that each time Jake throws a pitch his breath catches a little and his body stills even more. He’s intent on the game, and it makes me wonder if he’s missed seeing his son play as much as Jake misses being seen.

  Every now and then, Tony mumbles something about a pitch call, saying things like, “Throw what you know,” or, “Skimmed the damn plate and we all know it.” When Jake escapes the inning after an intense one-on-one that leaves two batters stranded and keeps the score in our favor, Tony visibly relaxes, sipping lightly from the single beer he’s been nursing all night.

  I didn’t know what to expect when I met him today. Three weeks ago, after completing my ninth step and sharing the first intimate conversation with my mother in years, I couldn’t help but think of Jake, as my mind has been doing whether I wanted it to or not lately. He’d pushed me in our relationship, yes, but never in a way that was too much. He’d pushed me to accept him and my ability to feel, just as he had pushed me to trust my feelings rather than run from them, and when I was too afraid to reach out to him he still found a way to get to me. It made me wonder who watched out for him and made sure he got the love he needed.

  Our conversation about his father from all those months ago replayed in my mind, and before I could think about it too much, I began tracking down a phone number for his father. After two days and no success, I called Liam to help me which netted me results in under twenty minutes, because apparently he’s far more adept at Google search than I am. Whatever.

  My phone conversation with Tony was a surprise for both of us, him because I had called, me because when I said my name he knew who I was. It was easier after that, even when I told him why I was calling: Jake’s last games were coming up, and I wanted Mr. Ferrari to join me at one of them. There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment and I wondered if he was going to refuse me, but then he did something altogether different and asked me a question.

  “Can I ask why you’re calling me, Cora?”

  His voice was quiet, thoughtful, as if each word he spoke was very deliberate and my heart squeezed a little as I thought of what Jake had told me, that his father had never quite conquered those demons that had driven him to shrink back from life and into his own head. Since I’d already invited him to the game, I also understood that whatever he was, Mr. Ferrari was just as insightful as his son.

  “I care for your son very much, Mr. Ferrari, and I know that he might not say it but having you at one of his games would mean the world to Jake.”

  The line was silent except for his breathing after that, and again my heart constricted, thinking of the battle we go through every day to do what’s right rather than just what’s easy. I knew Jake’s dad wanted to say yes to me, almost as much as he wanted to say no because going to see his son would be going back to a place that had taken everything from him and given very little back in return.

  “I’ll think about it and let you know. When’s the game?”

  “Three weeks,” I answered.

  “I’ll call you before then. Cora,” he said before I could murmur goodbye and hang up.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s lucky. Jake — he’s lucky to have you. Thanks for calling.”

  He didn’t call me again until this morning to let me know that he’d meet me outside of the stadium. I didn’t know what to expect, but the minute Tony stepped onto the sidewalk I knew it was him. He wears his hair almost as long as Jake and it’s just as dark and thick, with a small sprinkling of gray. Despite the beard and the almost haunted look of his eyes, eyes that are the same liquid brown as Jake’s, the resemblance to his son is uncanny. He’s tall like Jake, with broad shoulders and long legs, slightly thicker through the chest and waist, the largest difference between him and his son coming in the way Tony carries himself. His shoulders hunch slightly inside of the plaid button down he’s tucked into faded Carhartts, and his hands were shoved uncomfortably into his pockets and have stayed that way all game.

  Now, I feel him freeze a little beside me as Jake stops before stepping into the dugout, his brown eyes meeting mine before I motion next to me, and then lighting on his father where they widen and stay.

  I wonder briefly if I should have meddled, or if the sight of his father will mess with Jake’s focus the rest of the game. My answers comes quickly when Jake gives a small smile and a salute, winking at me before heading inside to his team. I let out a small breath and so does Tony.

  “I’m going to get a refill,” he says and I nod, happy when Liam stands to go with him, saying he could use another as well.

  “Risky move you’ve made here, Snow White,” A.J. says as the two men disappear and I nod before sipping from my water.

  “I know. I just couldn’t not,” I tell her and she nods. “Maybe it’s because after talking with my own mother I finally understand that parents are no different than we are and sometimes they need to be invited, to hear the words before they give us what we need, or because I’ve finally just realized how much I love Jake, and I know he needs this, no matter what he said before.”

  “Well, whatever happens next, you’ve done a good thing.”

  I look at her and smile. “You’re a good friend, A.J. I’m starting to think you’re one of the best, actually.”

  She grins then, full of girlish mischief and pleasure. “Snow White, I could have told you that a long time ago. Just remember it, especially if you’re ever in a place that has you hurting. Understood?”

  I nod. “Understood.”

  ~

  Jake’s team wins, scoring three more runs at the top of the eighth. Jake pitched the sixth and was replaced in the seventh, but not before striking out two more runners. When he walked off with his hand in the air, I added my own cheers to those that were already going, smiling broadly when his dad stood and clapped, yelling his name over and over. It was a good moment, and now we’re waiting as the game ends and Jake makes his way over to us, stopping every few feet to say something to his teammates and coaches, pausing twice to sign a foam finger or other item for a young kid.

  When he steps up to the bleachers where we’re all congregating, a girl behind me goes crazy, holding out her T-shirt and asking him to sign it. I laugh when I see it asks to “drive the Ferrari for a night”. You have to give her credit for creativity.

  He flashes me a grin, one that tells me he’s just as amused and flattered, and then he signs his name with a flourish before handing the pen back. He steps up next to us, holding out his hand to his dad.

  “Hey, Old Man, it’s good to see you.”

  Tony takes his hand, dragging him in for a quiet handshake/back slap that seems more intimate than either were ready for. Still, I see Jake hold on for a second and then step back, his eyes quickly scanning his dad. Tony’s almost one hundred percent steady, only drinking the two beers all game long, and it makes me happy to see that Jake notices and nods at him i
n thanks. Tony accepts and then begins to talk about the game, running through the pitches Jake threw each inning and surprising me with his ability to recount every single one. If Jake’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, just banters back and forth, defending his choices with a smile and shrugging off the friendly questions from his father and Liam.

  “I need to get changed but then I have some time. Have you eaten yet?”

  Tony shakes his head and then declines, sighting an early flight as an excuse. Jake nods, understanding. He can’t change who he is, but he did his best to be here and be sober for his son, and it matters. We say goodbye, and my eyes water when Tony not only hugs me lightly, but releases me and pulls Jake in and holds him for a second before leaning back and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

  “Throw ‘em hard, Jake.”

  There’s a catch in his voice and Jake nods, waving after him as he walks away. “See you, Old Man.”

  A.J. and Liam make an excuse to leave, too, and in the span of a few seconds Jake and I have been left alone, staring at one another as the lights of the field glint off the metal bleachers.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says after a second. “I didn’t know if you would when I didn’t really hear from you.”

  “I wanted to surprise you. Your dad…” I trail off and shake my head, putting my hand on his arm when he watches me guardedly, like he doesn’t know if what I’m about to say will ruin the moment he just had. “He loves you a lot, Jake. I just thought you should know that.”

  When he brings me against him, I go willingly, my arms snaking around his waist, gripping the fabric of his jersey, his circling around my shoulders and holding me so close there’s barely room to breathe.

  “Can you take a few hours and eat?” He nods his head against my neck before pulling back. “I’ll wait for you here,” I say and then cup his face. “Congratulations on your win, Handsome Jake.”

  He nods again, his fingers sifting through my hair before he turns to walk back to the dugout. Sitting, I look out at the emptied stands and wait for him to come back.