by Tom Larsen
“Well, I’m not saying he really saw Gerry. Not physically.”
Muriel studies the logo on her coffee mug. A vision? Jesus, what kind of crap is that to hand her? The old woman’s in a crisis and that’s the best Lena can do?
“Sister Muriel, don’t you see? It’s what you do with your life that matters,” can’t be happening, counseling Sister M.
“Yes, but–”
“Look at what you’ve done! There’s a wing named after you at Mount Sinai, you’re a member of every New Year’s club on Second Street and half the girls in Pennsport are named after you.”
“Middle names, mostly.”
“Still.”
They sit through a moment lost in thoughts.
“What will you do now, Lena?”
“I’ll be okay, Sister M.”
The old nun fingers an empty ashtray.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you, dear?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Caddy takes the curve out of town and Harry feels the load lighten. Okay, so the Catskills didn’t cut it, plenty of burgs up here to get lost in. Next time he’ll go about it a little differently. The liquor is out. Harry’s always been a boozer, beer man mostly, but this? Days lost to hangover, nights veering into sloppy moves and hard feelings. Drink enough and something bad always happens. He runs through the images, Louise and Casey turning on him, Yuri’s deep freeze when he paid his bill. No doubt about it, the booze is out.
He takes the interstate north, Cooperstown bound, Hall of Fame baseball to take his mind off things. Something he’s dreamed of since he was a kid, knows the names by heart, seen the plaques in photos a million times. It was all wrong in Athens, no sense kidding himself.
Hall of Fame came to him at Eva’s, a placemat map of the upstate attractions with a smiley baseball beaming on Cooperstown. A day made to order, Harry, the Caddy and a grand destination, the hand of God showing the way.
Thinks of Kim, that death warmed over look. Should have known better than to mess in his mess, drunks and their problems, who fucking needs it? From now on it’s strictly beer. And reefer if Harry can find some. Wishes he had a joint now, as a matter of fact, toke a buzz to enhance the trip. How it makes the wheels turn so almost anything’s interesting. Driving especially, long distance, follow your thoughts anyplace they lead you. Reefer would be perfect for this, the mountains, what’s left of the foliage. Ease whatever’s kicking in his stomach, fucking bourbon eating at his guts. Checks what’s left of last night’s bottle, peach schnapps, if you can believe it! Harry takes a chug and turns up the radio.
“The Defense Department has lied to us for decades. Look at Rumsfeld! He’s just MacNamara with a better haircut.”
“You mean a different haircut?”
“Right. And more pie charts.”
Harry hits the buttons to distant static, then seek stopping at a rockabilly station, then again to a show about floral design.
“Of course listeners can’t see it, but the arrangement is simple yet elegant, with the holly and the baby’s breath rounding off the shape.”
Then more classic rock, boomers stuck in the rut, like the old man with his Glenn Miller.
“Sat-tis-faction, Du dunt dunt.”
Near the Finger Lakes he stops at a rest stop. Nathan’s Hot Dogs lit up like Coney Island, same crowd as always, sweats and windbreakers. How the fatsos love that shit, waddling over to the queue, lined up for their nachos and chilidogs. Americana in blubber and butt cracks, nothing like the road to put you back in touch. He takes his order back to the Caddy and watches the parade. The hot dogs mix with the schnapps and breakfast, bubbling up like something toxic.
Back on the road he thinks of Lena. Feels like years since he’s seen her. The classified ad told him what he had to know, but he’s dying to talk to her. Try to explain the fuckups. How Stevie made it sound like he was sick, not his daughter. Barely mentioned her, except that last bit when he was going under, the stuff about the operation, desperate measures, long shot odds. All true, more or less, but coming across lame when Harry puts words to it. Okay, what you can’t fix you live with. The money will make it right. The main thing now, the million bucks.
Stevie as headline news, that’s a worry. That’s what should be on his mind, but the last few days, with the drinking, Jesus. Harry doesn’t know much about Puerto Vallarta, but two American casualties in two weeks might raise a fuss. Not such a small town, but not like Philly. Forget about it. Two stiffs in the same room maybe, but otherwise . . .
Coming into Rockville it starts to snow. Ice really, pinging the windshield, hardening to a crust around wiper fantails. The road turns slick and Harry slows to well below the limit. The last thing he needs is a fender bender or speeding ticket. By Mitchellsville the bottle’s empty so he stops for another, back to bourbon for the home stretch. Last one, positively.
Serious snow now, wet and heavy, radio warns of a winter storm due in from Canada. Yo pal, try looking out the window. Harry wonders where he’ll spend the night; someplace warm and cozy to ease into it. A lodge would fit the bill, with a lake view and a mini-bar for emergencies. A lodge or an old inn, stone and timber like Bucks County. He and Lena used to go in mid-winter. The Black Bass Hotel on a snowbound weekend, the carriage suite, if memory serves him. A hundred thousand years ago.
Signs for the Lake and the Hall of Fame. Harry can’t recall anything about a lake, but there it is, wide and white-capped, curving around to Cooperstown. Like a slide show with the downtown and the fucking lake, all brick and storefronts, perfect for an inn or lodge. An unlikely setting for baseball, but comfy in that high-end way. Antiques and more antiques, restaurants and galleries, an upgrade from anything Catskill. Harry passes a few motels but nothing rustic. Turning back he parks at a boutique strip, walks off the wooziness to the corner Starbucks.
“Let me ask you something,” he chats up the woman on the counter. “My wife and I are in town for the weekend. I’m looking for a place with, you know, atmosphere.”
“That’s so romantic!” she croons. “Try the Willows, half a mile out of town. My husband and I stayed there for our anniversary.”
“The Willows. Romantic, right?”
“Ver-ry romantic. Get a suite with the lake view,” she winks. “You won’t regret it.”
The Willows, right where she said it would be. Nestled into the hillside, wood and windows, smoke curling from chimneys, just what Harry had in mind. He checks in with Gerry’s card and takes the escalator to the third floor, deep wood paneling, fresh flowers, violins lilting in the background. His is the Ives suite, late of Courier. Brass bed smothered in comforters, fireplace, big television screen, lake view from his private balcony, all the comforts of a rich man’s home.
Harry puts it off for a while, but with the snow falling and the fire roaring and the crab cakes from room service, it’s not long before he’s into the mini-bar, all those bite-size bottles, chocolates, peanuts. It will set him back a bundle, he knows, but how many times do you Hall of Fame? Here’s to Cooperstown, so much nicer than it had to be.
Later, television to die for, a thousand channels, the premium package with an X-rated option. Harry feels like he’s gone to heaven, just for one night but it makes all the difference. In the morning he’ll take in the town, save the Hall for the afternoon. Or maybe vice versa, see how he feels.
Forget the Catskills, this is holing up in style.
He awakens late, dry-mouthed and groggy. Little empties line the coffee table along with crumpled candy wrappers and a saucer piled in butts. On the television screen a redhead writhes in silent ecstasy. Harry groans once, buries his head in the pillows and dozes into the afternoon.
***
“Can I get you more coffee?”
“Please,” Harry shoves his cup over. “What’s the word on the snow?”
“The radio says it’s supposed to stop this evening. Plows have been running all night.”
/> “Beautiful day for a ballgame, eh?”
“Snowball maybe. You know I may be out of line here, but you don’t look so good.”
“Flu. Must have picked it up on the plane.”
“Also you have your sweater on inside out.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it up with my valet.”
Harry fights down breakfast then throws it back up in his room. Famished again, he finishes off the chocolates to a Thin Man sequel then orders up a ham on rye. Christ, he’s gonna regret this, three figures easy on the room service tab. Plus the mini-bar, plus another night here, since it doesn’t look like he’ll get anything together today, snow up to the knees out there and getting deeper. Hall of Fame will have to wait. Less than twenty-four hours until he can talk to Lena, tomorrow, providing the phones don’t go down.
He meant to rehearse his end of the call last night, but for something on the television, what was it? The fight! Ali versus George Foreman, Christ how could he forget that? A remastered tape, clean as a whistle, mid-seventies, wasn’t it? Ali, thick in the chest and shoulders, but still cat quick, Foreman with hair and looking mean, not that smiley fathead with the indoor grille. The two of them as they once were. God, it was glorious, and endless with the clutching and slugging, way beyond exhaustion.
Harry wonders who won.
Now he’s watching some geezer building a cabin in the wilderness, all by himself with primitive tools. The guy’s meticulous. Christ. Chopping and scraping, filing and smoothing until everything fits just right. Watches him build the fireplace stone by stone, lugging squares of moss for the roof, things Harry would never dream of doing. Hapless, that’s Harry, and proud of it, though the cabin idea has a certain appeal. And this guy’s no spring chicken either, craggy and buzz cut, a man’s man, no doubt about it. Drop him in the woods with a penknife and he’ll carve out a kingdom. Not Harry, not come winter. And now it is winter and the guy’s punching holes in the ice for water, fucking hell! Can’t tell how cold it is since the sound is turned down, but it looks, oh no wait, woodsman checks his thermometer. Minus twenty-five degrees! Jesus pal, you’ve made your point!
Harry drops off dreaming the dream he had as a kid. The weird one about living underground, his own private bunker, air conditioned with a trapdoor hatch and a wraparound view through a hidden periscope. He gave a lot of thought to the details back then, so this dream features a fully stocked bar and satellite television. Can’t recall much else when he wakes, but that old feeling of safe and sound.
The sun breaks through in the afternoon, bouncing off the lake in jagged slashes. He watches ducks in a clumsy landing, steam rising over patches of asphalt. The storm’s end deflates him like it always does, part of him wishes it would never stop. That he could just stay here forever, downing shots and stuffing his face. How everything is suspended in silence. Always quiet when it snows. Quiet and eerie, calm descending, the soft muffle made for blowing off the day.
He downs a short one to shake off the doldrums, has a quick shave and shower and he’s off to the Hall of Fame. What he’s here for, right? Those boys of summer duly enshrined. He bundles up and takes the escalator to the lobby. The Caddy’s plowed in so he heads off on foot. Farther than he remembers and slow going with the sidewalks half shoveled and the wind picking up. Not the right shoes and no gloves, but he shoulders on. Better than holed up with the stupid porn and the mini-bar. The longer he’s gone the better he’ll feel. And it will be a while when he factors in the whole mess freezing up when the sun goes down. Turning back would be the smart thing, but he just keeps onward. If anything will get him back in gear its baseball.
But it’s closed. He can see from blocks away, nobody there and the lights low inside. Slogs to the finish anyway and stares through the door at the turnstiles, the floor wide and empty. A life-size Ted Williams, he’d know that stance anywhere. Now that he can’t get in Harry wants to more than ever. To lose himself in baseball, see the old names again and the plaques and whatever else they have. Like what’s that, by the hallway leading off to the right? A room full of monitors for watching film, and this exhibit, The Story of the Bat, where they come from, how they’re made. Hell, he’d settle for that, though you’d think they’d have something more interesting right there, by the entrance, something to get you in game mood, a picture of the Babe or Ebbets Field. Harry stands there until his toes and his fingers throb with the cold.
“What can I get you?”
“Shot of Jim Beam and a Heineken.”
“You got it, Hell of a thing, snow this early, right?”
“They closed the Hall.”
“Hah! They could burn it to the ground for all I care.”
“You live in Cooperstown and you don’t like the Hall of Fame?”
“It’s a tourist trap. Pushing merchandise, that’s all it is.”
“That’s funny, like hating cleavage and living in Vegas.”
“And your average fan? A real cretin, I can tell you.”
“Come on, it’s the Hall of Fame! There must be some good things about it. What about the plaques?”
“What’s good about it? Let’s see,” the bartender pretends to think then holds up a finger. “It ain’t the football Hall of Fame. Oh yeah, and the plaques? Have you ever seen them?”
“Not in person.”
“They’re plastic! And the faces? They don’t look nothing like the real guys. I mean Yogi looks like Bela Lugosi, for Christ’s sake.”
“Plastic? Can’t be.”
“And like this big,” his hands make a little box. “We’re talkin’ el cheaperoo.”
Harry always pictured a large room with arched doorways and vaulted ceilings. Brass plaques mounted around the perimeter like Stations of the Cross.
“So,” the bartender leans in. “Who did it for you?”
“Did what?”
“Which player? When you were a kid, let me guess,” he steps back and sizes Harry up. “Willie Mays, right?”
“Koufax.”
“Kou-fax! LA? I never pegged you for the west coast.”
“Just Koufax, not the Dodgers. Best ever, for those few years.”
“Yeah, Koufax is a whole other level. The curveball alone would have gotten him in.”
“Like dropping off a table. I can still see it.”
“Me? I don’t even follow the game anymore. These guys with the steroids, they poisoned the record book. Ripped the heart out of the game, if you ask me. I mean the game is built on numbers. Now they don’t mean a thing.”
“You’re angry.”
“Damn straight, I’m angry! Seventy to seventy-five homers a year! It’s obscene!”
“And the money!”
“It’s not about the money. Money’s money, it can ruin your life but it can’t ruin baseball. It’s the numbers! Screw with the numbers and it stops making sense.”
“I don’t know, there’s other con–”
“Numbers! Don’t you get it?”
“Yeah, okay, the numbers, right. Listen, any cabs in town?”
“I mean look at Barry Bonds! Do you mean to tell me his numbers are gonna stand up, huh?”
“No, I–”
“They can’t stand up. No one will ever be able to touch them and they don’t mean a thing. You’re always gonna be up against that, that travesty!”
“Okay, whew! That really hit the spot. Listen, good talking to you.”
“Or Canseco! Christ, he better pray I never get my hands on him!”
Back into the cold and wet. The wind has died down, but the sidewalks are slick and drifted in stretches. Not a cab in sight. Harry takes to the street where the footing is better. Not much traffic so he makes good time. Sure the guy had a point about the numbers, but going postal over it, not healthy, not healthy at all. Put a kink in the old Hall of Fame plan, though. Might not even bother, depending on the price. Plastic plaques, that can’t be right. A blowhard, that guy. A moron, like this guy
here, big smiley face in a knit cap, what’s he waving at? Move the fucking car, pal. Hey!
The window goes down, something jazz on the radio, this face–
“Harry? It is you! What the hell are you doing up here?”
“Frank? Holy shit!”
“I thought that was you. What are you doing walking around in the weather?”
Head spinning. What to say? What the fuck!
“How are you Frank?”
“I’m good. Listen, you going far? You look cold.”
“Just up the road.”
“Get in,” he pushes the passenger door open. “I’ll give you a lift.”
Harry gets in. What now? This is so bad in so many ways. This is the world blowing up in his face.
“I can’t believe it, Harry Watts up here in the boonies. I didn’t think you ever got out of Pennsport.”
“I, uh, always wanted to see the Hall.”
“So what, you schlepped the wife and kids up here and now they’re driving you bonkers, right?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Frank . . . Lavin! From Fairmount, they worked a job together back in the seventies, good pressman, hockey freak.
“Good to see you, Harry. Wait till I tell the wife. All the way up here.”
By all means, tell the wife and the whole damn universe. Just like that, out of nowhere and no way to fix it. Frank’s seen him and Harry can’t change it.
“What are you doing here, Frank?”
“I had business in Albany and I always wanted to see the Hall. Of course, I didn’t know there’d be a blizzard.”
“She’s up here? Your wife?”
“No, hell, Sandy hates baseball. That was the whole point! Now the damn thing isn’t even open!”
They pass the Willows taking a long curve to nowhere. Harry can’t think what to do.
“I think we passed it, Frank.”
“That place back there? Nice, Harry. I’ll turn around.”
“Listen Frank, you doing anything right now?” Buy some time, can’t let him go. Think!
“Not really. I have a meeting in Rochester tomorrow, but–”