by Brad Smith
“I know.”
“What do you think about that?”
“I don’t know. He’s talked about it before. And it’s usually this time of year. He’s got a thing about snow.”
“Well, he’s off to meet the real estate man today.”
“He is?”
The door opened, and the room flooded with sunlight, and out of the sunlight walked an attractive blond woman. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a ball cap, a leather coat, and jeans. She stood at the end of the bar and gestured to Tiny, who stopped at the cash register and took out an envelope before he walked over.
She moved under the dim light, and then Chrissie saw that her upper lip was swollen and she had a bruise on her cheek that she’d tried to cover with makeup. Tiny handed her the envelope, and then he gave Ray a look as he moved away. The blonde tried to read the numbers on the check but had to finally remove the shades. Her right eye was purple-black and swollen almost shut.
“What happened to you?” Ray asked.
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.”
“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business,” she suggested, and then she saw Chrissie watching her. “What’s that bitch’s problem?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Chrissie said.
The blonde pushed the shades back on and walked out. Tiny came over then. Ray looked at him.
“Sonny,” Tiny said.
Chrissie saw the muscles in Ray’s jaw tighten. “What happened?” he asked.
“She took him for a roll.” Tiny shrugged. “Sonny didn’t have the cash. She flipped out, and he beat her up. Surprise, surprise.”
“She go to the cops?”
“Nope. I figure she’s got her own reasons for that. Like maybe warrants in her real name, ’cause I doubt it’s really Misty.”
Ray sat staring at the full beer before him on the bar.
“Don’t let it in your head, man,” Tiny said. “She’s a nasty piece of work, that chick. Probably deserved it.”
Ray stood up angrily. He pushed the beer off the bar, and then he walked out. The beer mug smashed on the floor. Tiny watched as Ray left, and then he bent down to pick up the broken shards of glass and in doing so managed to tear a gash in his index finger.
“Shit,” he said.
Chrissie looked at him. “Cut yourself?”
“I’m fucking bleeding, aren’t I?”
“Oh well,” Chrissie said as she stood up. “You probably deserved it.”
* * *
Bo Parker was living in a subdivision along the Grand River on the outskirts of Paris. The area was newly developed and the landscaping minimal. Some lawns had been sodded; most were patches of bare dirt with the odd tuft of grass peeping through, struggling to gain a foothold before winter arrived. The only trees in view were freshly planted saplings whose chances of survival looked a little iffy to Ray’s eyes.
Bo’s house was a split level in a cul-de-sac maybe five hundred yards from the river. The house was of yellow brick, and its design was similar to all the other houses on the street but not identical. This nod to individuality had undoubtedly been a selling point.
Ray parked in the driveway, behind a Jeep and a Lumina, shut off the engine and got out, and walked to the front door and rang the bell.
It had been over three years since he’d seen Bo up close, and when Bo opened the door he smiled his open smile and looked at Ray the way he used to when Ray had pitched a good game. Bo had his hair cropped short, and he was thicker than ever across the chest. He wore a full beard.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
Jen was in the kitchen, putting dishes in the dishwasher. The house smelled of newness: new paint, drywall, cupboards, carpet, appliances. Even the dog, chewing the corner of the doormat, was just a pup.
Jen looked at Ray, and while it didn’t seem that she was happy to see him, it didn’t really seem that she was unhappy either. She said hello, and then Bo said that they would go into the basement to the rec room.
The room was sparsely furnished—apparently the upstairs got priority in the furniture department—but there were assorted chairs and an old couch and a big-screen TV and a stereo. Bo went to a bar fridge behind a corner bar and brought out two bottles of beer.
“How the fuck are you?” he said to Ray.
“Never better.”
“I heard you were out. I thought you’d come by eventually.” Bo poured his beer into a glass. “It’s real good to see you, Ray.”
Ray took a drink and then looked at the bottle. “You drinking light beer?”
“Jen’s got me on a diet. You know how it is.”
“Actually, I don’t.” Ray smiled nevertheless. “How was your season?”
“Aw, what season? I never got a hundred at-bats. This kid from Michigan caught most of the time. I just backed up. Hard to get your stroke when you’re only batting five times a week. The kid hit .360, so I couldn’t complain.”
“No, I guess not.”
“We never really got it going. Finished third, but we were twelve back. You know the story: the whole team could hit .360, but if you don’t have the pitching, forget it. We coulda used you, buddy.”
“Those days are done.”
“You could throw next year. Shit, you could throw relief.”
“No.” Ray shook his head. “I saw you hit the home run against Toronto.”
“You were there? Why didn’t you come to the dugout?”
“I thought about it but…” Ray paused. “I’d just got out, you know. I watched a few times from the highway. Half the guys I didn’t even know.”
“Shit, I’m on the team, and I don’t know half of ’em. Kids, man. They all got tattoos and pierced ears.”
Ray looked around. “So it looks like you got yourself suburbanized, Bo. You’re doing a real Ozzie and Harriet number here.”
“You bet. I figured it was that time in my life when I should just go ass over teakettle in debt. You know the amazing thing, Ray? How easy it is to borrow money. Sit down and sign away your soul, and they just throw it at you, man. And if you ever find out you don’t have enough, hell, they throw more at you. It’s called restructuring your debt.”
Ray smiled and then got to his feet and walked over to a trophy case behind the bar. There were various team photos, awards, trophies in Bo’s name for baseball, golf, hockey.
“So what are you doin’, Ray?”
“Shingling roofs for Steve Allman.”
Ray reached out and took down a picture from the wall. It was the team picture from the year they won the championship. He and Bo were standing side by side in the back row, arms folded, grinning like pigs in a rhubarb patch. Ray was wearing a straggly beard in the photo, and he looked fifteen years younger. The picture was only seven years old. He’d won sixteen games that year and lost just three. His ERA had been under two.
He put the picture back. When he turned, Bo was looking at him quietly, his beer propped between his legs.
“Shingling,” Bo said after a moment. “No wonder you look in shape.”
“I don’t know what kind of shape I’m in these days, Bo.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” Ray came back and sat down. “I’m thinking ’bout maybe going to Texas.”
“What’s in Texas?”
“I’ll let you know when I get there.” Ray took a drink of beer, and then he looked about the room for a long moment. “So what’s it like?” he asked quietly.
“What’s what like?”
Ray made a gesture with his palm. “This.”
“I don’t know, I guess it’s like anything else in life. Sometimes it seems like you spend all your time compromising. Other times, it’s pretty damn good. Why—you thinkin’ about trying it?”
“No. I don’t have the parts.”
“Shit, everybody feels like that, going in. It’s like being a starting pitcher. You’re nervous as hell ’til
you throw that first pitch. Then you’re okay.”
“Unless you get knocked out of the box in the first inning.”
Bo nodded slowly. “What’s on your mind, buddy?”
There were soft steps on the stairs, and then a little girl came into the room. She was five or six, and she carried a curly haired doll in her hands. She wore denim overalls, and she had a Band-Aid on her forehead above her nose. She walked a wide circle around Bo, watching him and then Ray carefully.
“Daddy, you still mad at me?”
“Yup.”
The little girl moved over in front of the TV, made a pretense of studying the set even though it was off. She gave Ray a glance, then looked away.
“Daddy, can I have a hug?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re bad news,” Bo told her.
The little girl turned to look at her father then, her expression a perfect blend of contrition and exasperation. Then she shifted her eyes toward Ray without moving her head.
“Hi.”
“Hello,” Ray said.
“What’s your name?”
“Ray. What’s yours?”
“Mud,” Bo said.
“It is not!” she said. “My name is Ashley.”
“Hi, Ashley.”
“Tell Ray what you did today,” Bo said.
“No.” She stared at her father defiantly.
“All right,” Bo said. “I’ll tell him. Ashley and her mother went shopping this morning, and Ashley decided that she doesn’t have to wear her seat belt anymore. Because Ashley’s the smartest person in the world. They’re in the mall parking lot, and some guy pulls out in front of them. Now Jen doesn’t know that Ashley’s unfastened her belt; Jen hits the brake, and Ashley goes face-first into the dash. That’s where she got the Band-Aid. Isn’t that about the way it went, Ashley?”
She continued to stare at him as he finished; then she looked at Ray again, her face blank. “I’m going back upstairs,” she said.
“Good,” Bo said.
“I don’t want to be around you,” she said.
“Good.”
“You don’t love me.”
“Good-bye,” Bo said, and she started walking to the stairs. “Hey,” he said then.
“What?”
“Come here.”
And she turned and ran to him at once, climbed into his lap, and put her arms around his neck. Ray watched as Bo returned the hug, his eyes closed for the moment, his face buried in her blond hair.
“You gonna smarten up?” he asked her.
“Are you?” she said, and then: “Yes, I will smarten up.” She patted his cheek with her small hand, then went back upstairs.
Bo looked over to see Ray watching him. He shrugged. “That’s what it’s like.”
* * *
It was dark when Ray left. Jen had made sandwiches, and he and Bo had watched golf on the TV; then Bo had taken him into the garage and shown him his new snowblower and his table saw and his router, although Bo wasn’t quite sure what a router did; and then he’d walked him around the estate, the whole half acre, and shown him where his vegetable garden would be and the swing set he’d put up for Ashley.
When he left, Jen had given him a hug, and Ashley had solemnly shook his hand. He drove back to the city under darkness. On the highway he watched the center line and wondered what the hell he would do. It had never seemed to him that the things available to other people were available to him. And going to Texas wasn’t going to change that. All the things that were unavailable to him here were going to be unavailable to him in Texas. But maybe Pete Culpepper was right; it was best he get away from here for a while for other reasons.
No sooner had he thought about Pete than he saw Pete’s pickup, parked at the Tap. Ray turned around at the Dairy Queen and went back and parked alongside. Pete was at the end of the bar, drinking draft ale and talking to Reese Wycliff, the realtor. Ray settled in beside Pete and ordered a beer for himself and another for Pete. Ray was of the opinion that Wycliff was a hustler and a slickster and as such could buy his own drinks.
Ray drank his beer while Pete talked to Wycliff. There was a country band setting up for the evening’s performance, and Ray watched as they carried in their amps and their instruments.
After a few minutes he saw Pete shake hands with the realtor and the realtor take his leave. Pete pushed his empty glass away and picked up the full one. He gestured with the glass to Ray and then had a drink of the ale.
“The sign goes up tomorrow,” he said.
Ray nodded and looked at the pudgy bartender, who was standing in front of the TV with the remote in his hand, looking for some sporting event or another. He finally settled on women’s golf, which was probably not his first choice, but it was better than no golf at all.
“Where you been?” Pete asked.
“Went to see Bo Parker. Guy I used to play ball with.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Pete drank from his glass, wiped the foam from his whiskered upper lip with the back of his hand. So that was it, Ray thought. His old friend was really heading back to Texas.
“Whatever brought you to these parts anyway?” Ray asked. And then: “How come I never asked you that before?”
“I don’t know the answer to the second part,” Pete said. “But the first part’s easy, and it’s not gonna surprise you. It was a woman.”
“I thought you had a good woman down in West Texas.”
“Having a good woman and knowing you have a good woman ain’t always the same thing. There’s always a woman around the corner who looks a little bit better. Because she’s new, and you don’t know all the little things about her that’ll eventually take the mystery out of it. And you’re new to her, and she thinks you’re the greatest thing since barbed wire fencing.”
“Who was this wonderful woman?”
Pete waved her identity away with his hand. “Doesn’t matter, coulda been anybody. What mattered was, next thing I knew, I was in Ontario; she was gone off with some guy I’m sure she figured was the greatest thing since barbed wire fencing, and I was over at Woodbine, exercising thoroughbreds and trying to earn a dollar.”
“They can be cantankerous creatures.”
“Thoroughbreds?”
“Women.”
Pete signaled to the bartender and indicated another round. He waited until the draft came and he’d paid for them. Then he said: “Woodbine’s where I met your father, Ray. And you too, though I doubt you remember it; you were still in short pants.”
“I remember. And I was wearing long pants. You were the first person I ever saw wearing a cowboy hat who wasn’t in the movies or on television. I remember my old man telling me that you were the real deal.”
“Your dad was a good man.”
“I never got to know him well enough to make that judgment.”
“Then you’re gonna have to take my word for it.” Pete got down stiffly from the stool. “I gotta take a leak.”
When he was gone Ray lit a cigarette and took a long drink of beer, and he thought about his father, or rather he thought about how little he knew of the man.
Bobby Dokes painted barns for a living, but that really wasn’t what he considered living. He drank, and he shot pool, and he played poker, and he loved the ponies, forever talking about getting a stake together and buying a thoroughbred. He probably wasn’t much of a husband, but when Ray’s mother fell sick his father quit all his rambling and gambling and stayed by her side for the last year of her life. But when she died at the age of thirty-one, he went back to his old ways with a vengeance, out of grief or time lost or whatever. Ray was four at the time, and he only heard about this later, from his aunts and cousins and his mother’s father.
Elizabeth went to live with Mary then, while Ray stayed with his father in the rented house on Locke Street. When Ray was big enough to run the compressor and haul the air lines and clean the spray guns, h
is father began to take him along on painting jobs. The first night he’d ever spent at Pete Culpepper’s farm was after they’d painted Pete’s barn and his old man and Pete had gotten into the rye to the point that the old man couldn’t drive. Ray was maybe twelve and pretty much taken with the Texas cowboy. After that he would ride his bicycle the ten miles to the farm a couple of times a week to help out with the haying or the horses or just to sit around and shoot the breeze with Pete. In those days, Pete always had one girlfriend or another hanging around; sometimes they were nice to Ray, and sometimes they looked upon his presence as competition for Pete’s attention and tried to drive him off. One even attempted to initiate him to the world of sex, but Ray had declined, partially out of respect for Pete and partially because the woman smelled, for some reason, like pickles. He found out later that she worked at the Bick’s plant in town.
The summer Ray was thirteen, his peewee team was playing a tournament in Owen Sound and had made it to the finals. Ray was to pitch the championship game. His father, shooting pool in the old Royal Hotel in Milton, somehow heard of it and decided to drive up for the game. He was drunk when he left the bar and dead before he’d gone twenty miles, rolling his Chevy flatbed, with the compressors and hoses and ladders aboard, into a ravine just outside of town. After the funeral it was decided that Ray would go to live with his father’s sister. Ray wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, and apparently neither was his aunt. When, after a month, he packed up his few belongings and moved out to Pete Culpepper’s farm, nobody said a word in protest.
Ray drank his beer and sat and watched as the singer for the band did a sound check. The man was tall and lean, like a country singer should be, and he wore sideburns and a black cowboy hat and brand-new bluejeans.
Ray had another drink, and then he looked down the bar and directly into the face of the kid Paulie. He was wearing his porkpie hat and absently fingering the ashtray on the bar as he waited for some service. He must have just walked in. His eyes were downcast; he looked like a man who’d just lost his best bird dog.
The bartender brought over a bottle of Molson’s, set it down, and took Paulie’s money. After working the cash register he picked up the phone there and punched in a number. Paulie took a short sip from his bottle and then directed his attention to the TV.