Gods of Wood and Stone

by Mark Di Ionno

  In the weeks since she declined his invitation, Grudeck woke every morning with more than the usual pains. There was a feverish, weak sensation in his arms and chest, the physical manifestation of loneliness. It was a deeper ache, one without acute parameters or cure. He felt adrift, desperate to pull her into him to make it go away. Alone in his condo, he could sleep it away until it was time for golf and a date of some type with Stacy. But he dreaded the week in Cooperstown and being away from her. She said it would be good for both of them, “to give us some clarity,” and those words made Grudeck think that once the speech was done, and she got a little distance, well, she would break free and keep going.

  He had Sal call the Otesaga to let them know he was running late, and would not check in until way after a scheduled dinner with league brass. He had Sal relay apologies to the commissioner and the rest. It was late afternoon when he asked the golf club manager to send up two banquet waitresses to help him pack. He opened up the first suitcase himself and put the manila folder that contained his speech in a sleeve compartment. Stacy helped him buy a new black suit, one that required less tapering in the gut, and Grudeck was thankful he didn’t have to wear those puke-yellow blazers the NFL guys had to wear. The girls helped him select other clothes and organized everything neatly, except for his underwear, which Grudeck thought prudent to handle himself. He had one go to a chain drugstore to buy him fresh travel toiletries, because he didn’t want them rummaging through his bathroom, where they might discover his blue pills. He was leaving them home anyway. Joe Grrreww, on the straight and narrow. When the girls were done, he tipped them each three hundred.

  He made a last call to Stacy around dinnertime.

  “Are you sure? It’s not too late,” he asked, then cursed himself for sounding desperate. “You still have time to pack.”

  * * *

  GRUDECK HEADED WEST INSTEAD OF East on Route 78, and took the long way up to Cooperstown: heading out Route 80 into the West Jersey sunset, up I-81 through the moon-silhouetted Endless Mountains of northeastern PA, and then back east across I-88 to Cooperstown. The drive reminded him of his trips from Union to Fort Myers for spring training. He shut off the interior lights and killed the music to immerse himself in the black and quiet cockpit, with only the droning, muted road noise as a bass line for his thoughts. It was a smaller space, a moving capsule, in which to feel less lonely, and less anxious about the speech. Unlike those trips, he stayed in the right lane, keeping within the speed limit, not blasting through the night at triple digits. He was in no hurry to get there. The opposite, in fact.

  Somewhere near Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania, this thought occurred to him: all those twenty-four-hour races down south were part of his long journey to Cooperstown. And now here he was, making the final leg to baseball immortality. Whatever that meant. He suddenly grew afraid of the return trip home; still alone, beginning the second half of his life, on the road to irrelevance. An old-timer, getting older, year after year. And maybe not such a popular one, if he delivered his speech.

  He pulled off for gas, and the access-road convenience-store parking lot was busy with teenagers, boys and girls together, sitting in and on cars, with naked arms all over each other on this warm July night. He moved through them to get a Coke, unrecognized, just another solo stranger on the road through their town, soon to disappear in the dark.

  At the junction of I-81 and I-88, the overhead signs told of the coming split; Syracuse to the left, Cooperstown to the right. He thought of the girls back at the highway stop, just kids; small-town girls bored with their high school boys and their big talk of dreams they all knew would never come true, girls who might want to have some fun with a guy they thought had even a little chance to be famous, like a minor league ballplayer. Grudeck looked at himself in the rearview mirror, oncoming headlights illuminating only his tired eyes, equally scared of a past he could not change and a future he could not grasp. Joe Asshole. You deserved what you got.

  * * *

  NOW IN THE VILLAGE SUITE of the luxury hotel, the light flooded in and brought new thoughts of Stacy. What to do about Stacy? He was afraid she was relieved he was gone. He was afraid she would be gone. He was in a room big enough for a family, but he had none. Only his mother and Sal. Two old people. Everyone else seemed to have their hand out for something, just to touch him, to claim a piece of him, from cell phone shots to endorsement deals. All those hands. Those sweaty, sticky hands, reaching for him. He felt the residue just thinking about it.

  He picked up his itinerary, two pages of commitments.

  During Induction Week, all 133 rooms at the Otesaga were booked by the commissioner’s office and filled with league brass, TV network execs, and corporate sponsors—all those official whatevers of Major League Baseball. Everyone in the hotel was connected. Golf outings, lunches and dinners, autograph signings. Meet Joe Grudeck here, meet Joe Grudeck there. The Budweiser brunch, the Frito-Lay lunch, the Bank of America dinner. Eighteen holes on Leatherstocking with Chevrolet today, with Under Armour tomorrow, a round each with Coke and Pepsi. Joe Grudeck, the official glad-hander of Induction Week, meeting all the high-bidders, all the deal-cutters, all the winners of the sponsorship sweepstakes who passed their cost of being “official” on to consumers, like Sal said.

  Then into town for memorabilia signings, the stores all stocked with Joe Grudeck this or that, lines of everyone unconnected out the door and down the street. His hands cramped from signing balls, photos, cap brims; handshakes and smiles. Grudeck’s frozen smile forever on thousands of cell phones, masking the squirmy desire to wash his hands.

  Then over to Doubleday Stadium to throw out the first pitch for this or that league championship. Senior Little League. Babe Ruth. American Legion. Signing cap brims and balls, sweaty, grubby hands reaching for him, touching him. Mr. Grudeck, Mr. Grudeck, Mr. Grudeck, over here, over here.

  He remembered what Sal said when the announcement came back in the winter. “The whole party’s gonna be for you.” Now his hands hurt, just thinking about it. Yes, he could feel the grime on them, those oily moving germs. From the silver-haired, manicured corporation CEO to the dirtiest Little Leaguer, Grudeck hated their hands equally.

  If only he could give his speech first, and tell them all the truth. If only he could do that, then leave town with their stunned silence at his back.

  He lay in the bright room, paralyzed by thoughts of the coming days—the crowds, the speech—finding comfort only in imagining Stacy stretched out beside him, until there was a quiet tapping at his door.

  “Mr. Grudeck,” came the voice from the other side. “It’s John Smythe from the commissioner’s office. We have an eight o’clock breakfast scheduled with the commissioner and the people from Rawlings . . .”

  He didn’t want the distractions. He just wanted to think of her. He wanted to imagine her face in front of him. He wanted to see her dark hair spread out on the floral bedspread, in this room clearly appointed for a woman.

  “Mr. Grudeck . . . are you there?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Grudeck stood at the podium in the main dining room, sweating in his blue suit, even though the air-conditioning was humming and the doors to the expansive porch were thrown open to let the evening Otsego Lake breezes in. Some of the women were chilly and wrapped shawls, sweaters, or their husbands’ jackets around their shoulders, but Grudeck stood under a ceiling-mounted studio light, sweating his balls off. He could feel the sugary perspiration from a day’s worth of Cokes leaking from his pores. One at breakfast, three on the golf course, another two in the bar after, and two more at dinner. Sugar-sober. Clear-eyed for all introductions to important people, and all those cell phone shots. The blue suit was only a couple of years old, but he should have had it let out. He felt packed into it. Claustrophobic was more like it. It felt straitjacket tight across his back and gut, and the pants crept up on him, the crotch seam uncomfortably splitting his testicles.

  He whispered this to Sal—�
��my nuts are killing me”—just before he got up to speak, before he walked through the standing ovation of three hundred people there for the United Way. It was their show—they were announcing a new partnership with Major League Baseball, like the one they had with the NFL—but Grudeck was the star, the honoree, the keynote speaker. The board chairman introduced him “as more than a great player, but a role model for our youth, which we need so badly today.” Grudeck made his way through the crowd with a big smile on his face not for the compliment but for leaving Sal cracking up at the table.

  At the podium he shook hands with the United Way guy, reached into his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out the three index cards Sal had slipped him before dinner.

  “It’s the usual bullshit,” Sal said when he handed him the cards. “Make them feel good about what they give, then guilt them into giving more. Make them feel they can do more than those football assholes.

  “And don’t forget this,” Sal said, and handed Grudeck a bank check made out to United Way. “A hundred grand from you, like we said.”

  The applause continued as Grudeck adjusted the mic, and someone yelled “Joe Grrreww!” from the back of the room, which drew some laughs. Grudeck looked toward the yeller and saw Jimmy MacIntosh giving him a big thumbs-up. Next to him was Joanie, her hair freshly lightened and illuminated by the overhead lights. She waved, and Grudeck reflexively held up both hands, to at once acknowledge and quiet the crowd, like some late-night TV host.

  Grudeck took the moments while they sat and settled to look over Sal’s notes. Start ’em off with the Yankee joke . . . then tell stories about stuff like visits to Boston Children’s Hospital and the Big Brothers/Sisters days at Fenway, about the looks on kids’ faces. You know the drill. Swing into how their generosity makes it all possible . . . then zing them about how they are the most fortunate and with all that good fortune comes responsibility. Tell ’em more is needed. Tell ’em to step up to the plate. Say “Join me and step up to the plate.” Then announce you’re dropping a check for 100G on U. Way right now to get the partnership campaign started.

  Grudeck looked into the crowd, and all those faces trained on him, the baseball execs and owners and sponsors, the people who made the game go, the same crowd that would be there on Induction Day when he dropped his bomb, or maybe someone dropped the Syracuse bomb on him. The thought of both made his mouth go dry, and he reached for the bottle of water that had been left for him. He looked at the crowd, unable to speak. All those millionaire, billionaire owners getting their ballparks built off the backs of taxpayers, then bilking those same suckers—their fans—for everything from parking to beer to seats. And, what, a few thousand bucks to the United Way would clear their consciences? What consciences? Cocksuckers. And he was part of their racket. Making millions, signing autographs for cash. He looked at the check in his hands. What? Penance? Was it enough? For his life? For what he did to those girls? Could it ever be enough? Joe Lucky Fuck? What was the price? He was alone up there among strangers except for Sal. Not another friend, not even a teammate, for fuck’s sake. No Stacy. Just Joanie and Jimmy Mac.

  These bad thoughts cascaded down him like the sweat trickling under his arms and inner thighs. He looked at the crowd and realized the moments had turned awkwardly long. Looks of admiration turned inquisitive. A woman muffled a laugh off to his right; the clinking of silverware sounded like crickets on a dead-air summer night.

  He cleared his throat, and weakly mumbled, “Excuse me.” In the back Sal was leaning forward in his chair, nodding his head and rolling his hand in a “Let’s go!” sign, like a father whose kid forgot his lines in the grammar school play.

  Grudeck smiled at Sal’s worried urgency and spoke into the microphone.

  “Well, um, thank you. Thank you, very much. I guess there aren’t many Yankee fans here tonight . . .”

  The crowd laughed, and Grudeck was on, reading from his innocuous script.

  * * *

  THEY FOUND A DARK CORNER in the hotel’s Hawkeye Bar after the dinner. Grudeck faced the wall, putting his big back to the rest of the room. Sal ordered a gin and tonic, Grudeck ordered another Coke with extra lime.

  “I need my vitamin C,” he said to the pretty waitress, who didn’t crack a smile but instead said “Yessir” in a passive, subservient way.

  “What’s bothering you, kid?” Sal said. “Have a drink, for Chrissakes. All this soda is making you jumpy.”

  Grudeck shook his head.

  “Got to be on my best behavior. Remember, I’m a role model for the youth.”

  “If they only knew,” Sal said.

  If you only knew, thought Grudeck.

  The drinks came and Grudeck stared into his glass, playing with his stirrer, bursting bubbles.

  “Jesus, Joe, this is your party. You act like it’s your funeral.”

  Grudeck didn’t look up. Maybe it is, he wanted to say. Passing from one life, but hitting a wall to the next. His own Purgatory. What was it they called it back at St. Joe’s? Limbo.

  “Not now,” Sal said to a couple of guys in golf shirts who approached the table.

  “We just wanted to tell Joe how much we loved watching him play,” one said.

  Grudeck turned to them in his chair.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said. “ ’Preciate it. But we’re doing a little business here. Catch me later.”

  “Can we buy you a drink at least?” another said.

  “Taken care of,” Grudeck said, holding up his soda. “Thanks anyway.”

  The men left, looking hurt.

  Grudeck turned back to Sal.

  “I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here. I feel smothered.”

  “Smothered? Jesus, Joe, all these people want is what you just gave them. A little acknowledgment. What’s the big deal? I’m starting to believe you’re a misanthrope.”

  “A what?”

  “A misanthrope. Someone who hates people, maybe even themselves.”

  Grudeck laughed.

  “After all these years, you finally got me pegged,” Grudeck said.

  “Salut!” Sal said, tipping his glass toward Grudeck’s.

  They were quiet for a few seconds before Sal said, “I hate to bring up a touchy subject, but what about your speech? The commissioner’s press guy was asking.”

  “It’ll be okay.”

  “Want me to take a look again?”

  “No, Sallie, I got it.”

  “Joe, I gotta ask you. You doing it for yourself, or for her?”

  “What?”

  “Burning the bridges. Are you pissing on your past life—the life that made you rich, famous, and respected—to prove something to her?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re done with it. Like you’re going to give up your celebrity, and all that comes with it. Like all the broads. Like all the attention. Maybe she can’t handle you being famous, you ever think of that?”

  “She’s not behind it, Sal. It’s me. And I’m not even sure what I’m going to say yet.”

  “Be smart is all I’m saying,” Sal said. “That thing between your legs ain’t a leash.”

  When Grudeck got to his room, there was a big security guy from the commissioner’s office in a black suit sitting on a dainty antique hotel chair.

  “Secret Service?” Grudeck cracked.

  “They just want to make sure you’re left alone.”

  “You here all night?”

  “No, sir, just till one. They figure everybody’s asleep then.”

  “I’m good,” Grudeck said. “You don’t have to hang around.”

  “Those are the orders, sir.”

  “Okay. Well, good night.”

  “Good night, Mr. Grudeck. Let me know if you need anything.”

  Grudeck shut the wooden door behind him, hearing its lone echo in the hall.

  He called Stacy, but it was after midnight and her cell phone went right to voice mail.

  * * *

  THERE WAS A SOFT
KNOCK on the door. Grudeck looked at the digital clock, glowing 1:38 in green. Stacy?

  He got out of bed and found his underwear, but not before the knock came again, this time slightly louder, more urgent. At the door, there was a flesh-colored blur covering the peephole.

  “Guess who . . .” said the voice from the other side in little more than a whisper. It was Joanie MacIntosh. “C’mon, Joe, let me in. We don’t want to wake the neighbors.”

  “Joanie, no, I . . .”

  She knocked again, just as soft as the first time.

  “C’mon, Joe. Don’t make me throw a tantrum.”

  He opened the door halfway and she did not push in, but stood there, heels in one hand and an unopened bottle of wine in the other. “Don’t make me drink alone.”

  “Joanie, this is a bad idea,” Grudeck said, hiding himself behind the door.

  “Aren’t you the shy one?” she laughed, and came through. Grudeck didn’t stop her. She threw her arms around his waist and let her shoes and the bottle fall to the carpet as she pushed down his underwear and went to her knees.

  “You seemed so . . . tense . . . tonight,” she said before her hand and mouth went to work on him in a practiced rhythm.

  He didn’t stop her; Stacy should’ve come.

  Joanie stopped, stood, and turned so he could unzip her dress, wanting him to be complicit in the act. He did and she wiggled out of it until it was a puddle at her feet.

  Chapter Thirty

  Horace played with the words while he sat in traffic on Lake Street.

  Induction Week. Dysfunction Week.

  Now it was Wednesday, and the simple routine of getting to work was already a pain in the ass. Lake Street was always jammed because the Otesaga was baseball headquarters and the hotel hired police to make sure everyone trying to pull in was a registered guest, not just regular fans who wanted to chase ex-players for autographs or watch them play golf.