Caught by You

by Jennifer Bernard

  Mike’s smile came out more as a grimace. “Can you believe he knew nothing about baseball before I took it up? He studied it the same way he studied national economic policies. I think he grew to love it almost as much as imports and exports.” Talking about his brother was difficult, but he tried, for Joey’s sake. Joey would want his students to be able to share their memories. He would want his memorial ser­vice to be an uplifting occasion, not filled with tears and gloom.

  And it was, it truly was, although it seemed to pass in a blur.

  When it was Mike’s turn to speak, he read from a letter Joey had written him from the Sudan, after he’d contracted E coli.

  “ ‘Getting sick has made me realize how quickly life can change. It’s made me determined to live honestly and completely. When I get home, I’m going to come out to the world. Things might be tough for a while, little brother. When I pass on, I want to know I did my best, with as much grace and compassion as possible. If you want to help, hang in there with Dad and Mama, because they won’t understand. Keep a big heart and all will be well.’ ”

  Mike couldn’t lift his head from the faded piece of foreign stationery, which he’d kept all these years. “That was Joey. He had no hate in him, only kindness. And I think he lived up to his wish. Grace and compassion—­that was my brother.”

  Accompanied by sniffles and nodding heads, he left the lectern and returned to his seat in the front row between his sobbing sisters and Jean-­Luc. The rest of the ser­vice was a blur of teachers and favorite students.

  Had he fulfilled his brother’s desire that he “hang in there” with Dad and Mama? He’d tried. Earlier, at the private burial ser­vice, he and his father had exchanged an awkward, stiff-­armed hug. Jean-­Luc hadn’t been invited, but he’d begged Mike to be civil. When Mike had seen Mama’s tear-­swollen eyes, it hadn’t been difficult after all. All the questions burning in his mind had faded away, though they came back now, full force. Why did you shut him out? Why didn’t you visit him in the hospital? Why are you so rigid, so sure you’re right?

  That familiar helpless fury made his knuckles go white. He flexed his fingers, spreading his hands out wide on his knees. Let it go. You can’t change them. Let it go. As if Joey was whispering to him. He stared at his hands, big and wide, the knuckles protruding like little mountains of bone. Catcher’s hands, used to blocking wild pitches and capturing throws in the dirt. Used to the force of a 95-­mile-­an-­hour fastball slamming into his glove. Used to tracking a knuckleball on its bumblebee path to the plate. Hard blows were part of his job, but none could be harder than this.

  He needed to get back on the field, that’s what he needed. Baseball had saved him from the feud with his family after Joey came out. Baseball had saved him when he’d ended his naval career. He always felt right when he was on the diamond. That’s where he did his best thinking.

  Maybe when he went back to Kilby, he’d figure out how to “hang in there” with his parents.

  Besides, Donna was in Kilby. And he needed to thank her for inspiring him to do the PSA. The thought of seeing her again gave him the first glimpse of light in days.

  Jean-­Luc insisted on driving him to the airport. “You should come to Kilby with me,” Mike said as they hurtled down the Loop in his silver Porsche. “Get out of Chicago for a while. Relax with the tumbleweeds and the wacky Catfish.”

  “You know I never understand baseball. I’m French. I barely understand the purpose of sports. The only reason to visit Keelby is to meet your friend Donna. Joey was very curious about her.”

  “Well, we had sort of an . . . issue.”

  “Issue?”

  “The kind where she threw pillows at my head and I stormed out half naked. There’s a chance I was in the wrong.” He told the whole story of their falling out, and when he was done, Jean-­Luc was laughing so hard tears shone in his eyes.

  “Freaky little bunnies?” He gasped.

  “She has a way with words. And pillows.”

  “I don’t think you should be angry with her. All she wanted was to keep seeing you.”

  “Yes, but sneaking around and lying? Not my style.”

  “Of course not. Hiding is never easy, but you have to look at her motivation. She loves you. She also loves her son, so things were”—­he shrugged—­“compliqué.”

  “Loves me? She never said anything like that.”

  “She was going to marry you, oui?”

  “Yes, but that was to gain legitimacy in the eyes of the judge. And I had to work hard to talk her into it. I had to try to make her fall—­” He snapped his mouth shut. “Oh hell. She said she would only marry someone she was in love with. Then she dropped that requirement, because we decided to make the wedding into a big deal for the sake of the Catfish, to help Crush Taylor out, so I didn’t think about that part again.”

  “I’m finding these events extremely confusing.”

  “Me too.” Mike frowned, watching the high-­rises on Lakeshore whip past. It had made sense at the time . . . hadn’t it? “We never talked about the ‘love’ thing after we decided on the Catfish Wedding of the Decade. We just went for it.”

  “Did you meet her family?”

  Mike snorted in disgust. “If you can call them that. They don’t appreciate her at all. Her father ignores her and her stepmother treats her like a criminal. I haven’t met her mother, because she’s always on the road. Donna’s so . . . exuberant and fun. But kind too. And very loyal. And she’s not afraid to speak up, even though sometimes it gets her into trouble. She’s really a great person, in every way. She just needs someone to watch out for her. And someone to . . .”

  Oh my God. Of course. Why had it taken so long to see it?

  “To what?”

  “She needs someone to love her. Almost everyone in her life has abandoned her. Her father, her mother, her old boyfriend.” Had he abandoned her too, so stuck on doing things the “right” way that he’d rejected her?

  He glowered at the dashboard. Something else had been bothering him, and he might not get another chance to ask.

  “Got a question for you. Why did Joey set me up to run into Angela? Did he want us to get back together?”

  Jean-­Luc, the wind ruffling his hair, shot him an amused sideways look. “He wanted you to either move on completely or pursue her again.”

  “Really? He thought I might pursue her again?”

  “That wasn’t his first choice, no.” He hesitated. “He thought you and Donna were in love.”

  Mike drummed his fingers on the window, impatiently watching the skyline slide past. Why all this talk of love? He couldn’t think about that kind of thing right now. “I just need to get back in uniform. Maybe everything will make sense then.”

  “If it works, you must tell me. Perhaps I will try baseball. What part should I try to play? Joey always said your part, catcher, was the most difficult.”

  “First of all, they’re called positions, not parts. Second of all, I’d recommend starting with the position of fan in the stands.”

  “Oof-­ah.”

  “I’m serious. You should try it. When I play, I always feel Joey with me. He loved following baseball, once he saw the beauty of it.”

  Jean-­Luc was quiet the rest of the way to O’Hare. Just before Mike jumped out at the curb, he said softly, “I know very well how lucky I was with Joey. To love, to be loved, it isn’t a snap.” He demonstrated with a very French-­looking flip of his fingers. “You have Joey’s big heart. You are meant to love. A woman, in your case. A very fortunate woman. May you choose well, mon frère. Joey always wanted you to be happy. It was his dearest wish.”

  Mike’s dearest wish had been that his brother live. So much for wishes. “Take care of yourself, Jean-­Luc.”

  Catfish Stadium’s curving outer walls seemed to greet him with open arms, blue team banners waving brigh
tly. A brisk wind toyed with the gigantic Texas flag at the entrance, ripping it this way and that, occasionally wresting sounds like gunshots from it. Mike dropped his shades over his eyes. He wanted no sympathetic looks, no handshakes, no slaps on the back, no murmurs about the time someone’s grandmother died, or their cousin. He wanted to get back on that field, squat behind home plate, and play ball. Get in the zone and stay there until his thighs were screaming and his right hand was numb.

  Duke intercepted him at the head of the tunnel that led to the clubhouse and dragged him into the manager’s office. Mike crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. Duke gripped an unlit cigar between his teeth and stared back like a bulldog.

  “What?” Mike finally asked.

  “You ready to play?”

  “Of course,” Mike growled. “You don’t have to ask that.”

  “Farrio’s pitching today.”

  “Fine.” He didn’t care who was pitching. Just let him get out there.

  “He’s been shaky lately. Lost five miles off his fastball, and his curve looks more like high school batting practice.”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also . . .” The manager hesitated, chewed on the end of his cigar, then shrugged. “Eh, don’t matter. Go. Stop wasting my time.”

  Mike scooted out of that office before Duke could slide in some kind of condolence comment. Whatever he was about to say, Mike didn’t care. Just give him the ball and . . . rounding the corner, he nearly knocked over a girl in a Catfish cap. He grabbed her before she hit the floor. The familiar feel of sexy, warm curves sent a flash of pleasure through him.

  “Hey!” Donna objected in that throaty voice that seemed to have a direct line to his privates. “Oh. Solo, I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s because I was around the corner. Law of physics.”

  “That’s not physics. That’s geography.”

  “How is that geography? That’s not geography.” Smiling—­actually smiling—­he made a quick visual trip down the landscape of her body, which was clothed in micro-­shorts over leggings with swirls of blue and green, a ridiculously tight Catfish T-­shirt that didn’t quite make it to her belly button, and sneakers. Her red hair flowed in a ponytail through the back of the cap. She looked . . . freaking great. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “Why, do you miss the blue blazer?” She twinkled at him.

  “No,” he said with automatic revulsion. “I’m just surprised . . . I mean, what are you doing here?”

  “I just started working here.” She watched him carefully. “I’m the new Angeline. She ran off with a pitcher from Sacramento. Crush is giving me a shot. He said . . . that you didn’t mind.”

  A vague memory returned, Crush yammering on the phone about Donna and some job. “Of course I don’t mind,” he said gruffly. “You’ll be great. What’s on tap today?”

  “It’s . . . uh . . . Seventies Tribute Day. Psychedelic leggings seemed like the way to go.”

  “Can’t disagree with that.”

  “Mike . . .” Her voice went soft. “I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded. As he’d expected, her words of sympathy made his throat clog up. But it wasn’t the worst feeling, and when she reached out to take his hand, the tight ball in his chest loosened. “I got the card you sent. Thanks.” It had been his favorite of all the cards he’d received. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing . . . after? After the game?” he asked her. “Can we talk?”

  Her vivid little face shifted, wariness taking the place of warmth. “Sure, Solo, but I have to pick up Zack later.”

  “You have him back? That’s great news.” For the second time since he’d seen her, a smile spread across his face.

  “Yes. The final hearing is tomorrow. Caleb and Sadie helped me get a new lawyer, and she says we have a good chance, as long as I behave myself.”

  “No crazy engagements to ballplayers?”

  She smiled gently. “I’m doing it all on my own this time.”

  “Got it. Hey, break a leg out there today. I bet you’ll be amazing.”

  She flashed him a smile as bright as a bunch of spring daffodils. Dimples appeared in both cheeks, her face transforming into a vivid piece of sunshine right before his eyes. Then she skipped down the corridor toward the promotions department, leaving him somewhere between dazed and dazzled. Had Angela ever smiled like that, with her whole being bared to him? Would Angela ever wear psychedelic leggings for a seventies tribute? Had Angela ever thrown herself wholeheartedly into anything?

  Angela.

  In the clubhouse, he stripped off his street clothes and quickly donned his uniform. He needed to get on the field early to swing the bat a few times. He might be rusty after his week off.

  He hadn’t seen Angela again since her out-­of-­left-­field . . . proposition? Invitation? He didn’t know how to describe it. She’d sent flowers to the memorial ser­vice, along with a formal, polite little note. She hadn’t attempted to see him before he left, nor had he her.

  He jogged onto the field and launched into his pre-­game stretching routine, waving to the few players who were already taking practice hits and fielding grounders. The clunk of bat on ball, the casual chatter of the Catfish, the timeless sounds of a baseball field brought him a precious sense of peace. God, it was good to be back. God, he loved baseball.

  And if he made the grade, got the call-­up to the Friars, he’d have the official go-­ahead to pursue Angela once again. If he wanted to. Not that he did. The thought left him cold, or maybe “confused” was a better word. He was still grieving so deeply over his brother that no woman could break through.

  Well, maybe one.

  We are family . . .

  Mike watched Donna dance onto the field to the sounds of Sister Sledge. “How y’all doin’, Catfish fans?” she sang into the microphone, her Texas accent more pronounced than usual. “Are you ready to get your seventies groove on? We’ve got a real fun time comin’ up. Who here remembers the seventies? Stand on up if you do.”

  As some of the older folks in the stands rose to their feet, Donna clapped her hands over her head, leading the crowd in a round of applause. “How about you all come on down here? I got a special surprise for you. Don’t be shy, y’all! This is Texas, this is the Catfish, we’re here to have some fun.”

  Donna and her dimples were impossible to resist, and one by one the middle-­aged members of the crowd filtered onto the field.

  “Now I wasn’t around in the seventies, so I had to watch this on YouTube. Y’all let me know if I’m doing it wrong.” The classic sound of the hustle blasted over the stadium sound system and in less time that it took to say John Travolta, the whole crew was side-­stepping, rolling their hands, and pointing toward the sky in unison. The entire audience was on their feet, stomping and clapping, shouting, “Do the hustle” on cue. Mike had never seen that many ­people have that much fun at the same time. It was a glorious sight.

  Donna in particular shone like a joyful little firefly, a copper-­haired beacon of fun. Every time he looked at her—­which he couldn’t stop doing—­a bit of happiness splashed into his soul, overflowing from her, from the crowd, from the moment.

  Joey would have loved this.

  It wasn’t until the National Anthem had been played and the Catfish were taking their places on the field for the top of the first inning that Mike looked around at his teammates and noticed something different.

  He saw it first on Dan Farrio, the pitcher. A black armband fastened around his upper arm. Squinting, he saw something else. A piece of rainbow ribbon tied around the armband.

  Behind home plate, he froze, then let his gaze travel to first base. Sonny Barnes, the giant, tattooed, bald first baseman, who was so in love with his wife he cried when the Catfish bus rolled away for a r
oad trip, wore one too, right above his elbow. Second baseman, James Manning, whom Mike barely knew—­he wore one too. At shortstop, Bieberman’s armband seemed extra-­large, but maybe that was only in comparison to his smallish stature. At third, T.J. Gates caught his eye and offered a broad grin. He lifted his arm in a gesture of respect, then touched his fist to his heart. Trevor Stark, Dwight Conner, the whole team . . .

  They were all wearing armbands for Joey. For him.

  A swell of applause rolled through the stadium. Joey’s name was up on the Jumbotron, Joseph Luigi Solo, over a simple black background, the dates of his birth and death, and the words, “Peace be with you.”

  Oh hell. He was going to lose it. He put his hand to his lower belly, over his surgical scar, the missing piece of him. God help him, he was going to cry, right here in front of three thousand plus fans. Wildly, his gaze flew to the sidelines, his eyes drawn to the bright splash of Donna’s hair. Her hands were clasped together under her chin, her eyes misty. When he caught her eye, she seemed to sense his distress, and pulled a goofy, comical face. A sort of freaky little bunny face.

  Light flooded the hollow place in his heart. He touched his own hand to his chest, bowed to the crowd, kissed his fist and raised it to heaven, head bowed. This is for you, Joey. My big brother, forever.

  Chapter 23

  AFTER THE EMOTIONAL high point at the start of the game—­Donna couldn’t help crying, it was so beautiful—­things went downhill. Dan Farrio, the starting pitcher, lasted only two innings before Duke pulled him out. His replacement was even worse; he was a rookie who’d just come up from Double A. Mike had to keep going out to the mound to calm him down, and after three innings he got the hook as well.

  Donna was busy emceeing the Farrah look-­alike contest, which was a huge hit both with the Kilby girls who got to go wild with the curling iron, and the guys who got to appreciate the jumpsuits and tank tops. Whenever things got slow—­like when they put the game on pause to bring in yet another pitcher—­she and Catfish Bob would do the “bump.” Everyone loved that, and the stands turned into a sea of hip bumping. At one point she looked up at the owner’s box and caught Crush’s eye. He wore a big grin and gave her a vigorous thumbs-­up.