by Darryl Brock
Other books by Darryl Brock:
If I Never Get Back
Havana Heat
Copyright © 2002, 2007 by Darryl Brock. All rights reserved. No portion of this book, except for brief review, may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the written permission of the publisher. For information contact Frog Books c/o North Atlantic Books.
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Originally published in 2002 by Plume
“Longings” from Road-Side Dog by Czeslaw Milosz. Copyright © 1998 by Czeslaw Milosz. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Two in the Field is sponsored by the Society for the Study of Native Arts and Sciences, a nonprofit educational corporation whose goals are to develop an educational and cross-cultural perspective linking various scientific, social, and artistic fields; to nurture a holistic view of arts, sciences, humanities, and healing; and to publish and distribute literature on the relationship of mind, body, and nature.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Brock, Darryl.
Two in the field : a novel / Darryl Brock.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-58394-390-8
1. Journalists—Fiction. 2. Time-travel—Fiction. 3. Cincinnati Red Stockings (Baseball team)—Fiction. 4. Frontier and pioneer life—Nebraska—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.R58T88 2007
813′.6—dc22
2006035946
v3.1
To my sister, Sharon,
and
the memory of our mother, Nellie.
Acknowledgments
Many people helped in the making of this story. I owe a special debt of gratitude to the following: Greg Rhodes and Sally West-heimer for their unfailing friendship and hospitality in the Queen City; Wendy Halambeck, M.F.C., for her expert fictional crisis intervention; Go raibh maith agat to Kate O’Day for sharing her ancestral heritage; Michael Cawelti for his shooting-range guidance and vintage weaponry know-how; Dr. Ron Unzelman for brilliant on-call Victorian medicine; the Dolas elders for their steadfast support; Phoebe Zhilan for appearing in the fullness of time; Sophie P. for her many years of enlightened companionship; Steve Fields, creator of The Finns of Summer, for critical reading; Anne Winter for sympathetic writerly input; Charles McCarty for details about Andy Leonard, his ballplaying grandfather; Pat Fritz of the O’Neill Area Chamber of Commerce for A Piece of Emerald, that invaluable history of her city; Dorothy Sanders of the Holt County Historical Society for providing speeches and writings of John O’Neill; and Heidi A. Fuge, director, and Jane Rehl, archivist, of Saratoga’s Canfield Casino Museum, for a fascinating tour of John Morrissey’s old haunts.
Most of all, as ever, I am indebted to my wife, Lura, whose loving presence graces the whole of my work and life.
Then shall two be in the field;
the one shall be taken, and the other left.
—Matthew 24:40
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One - Seeds
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Part Two - Sowing
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Part Three - Harvest
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Prologue
The grass is aquarium green in the late spring San Francisco sun, the crowd a horseshoe crescent of brilliant color. Gulls circle overhead and a ship’s horn blasts from the nearby bay. The game is scoreless in the seventh. An appreciative murmur rises as the Giant batter takes a fourth ball and jogs toward first.
“Where’s your swing?” screams the bullhorn voice behind us. “You freakin’ SUCK!”
I turn and stare, not for the first time: He’s big, my size but beefier, arms tattooed, ears metal-studded. Flanking him are two other Neanderthals, all of them tanked to the gills on beer. As they’ve gotten louder, a tightness has spread through my neck and back. My girls aren’t threatened, exactly, but I didn’t bring them out here for this, and I’ll protect them, whatever comes.
“Ease up, fella,” I tell him.
Hands cupped to mouth, he bellows at the runner, “You’re a 20-million-dollar JERKOFF!”
“Look,” I say in the most reasonable tone I can muster, gesturing toward my daughters in the seats flanking me: Susy, licking mustard from her fingers—we are celebrating her fifth birthday—and Hope, two years older, watching me. “I got my girls here.”
“Yeah yeah.” He stares past me at the runner.
A strikeout brings groans and boos but nothing more. Susy asks why the Giants’ cap bills are longer than those of the Red Stocking models we are wearing. “Caps had more of a jockey design back then,” I tell her, aware of Hope rolling her eyes at my not-so-subtle correction of hats with a familiar don’t-get-Daddy-started look. I take off my cap and run my finger over the crimson “C” emblazoned on the snowy flannel. It cost a small fortune to have them custom-made for this occasion, our first ballgame together. A worthy expense, considering I’m allowed to see my daughters only once a week. The rest of my life feels like a trap.
“The Red Stockings invented a lot of things we still have today,” I tell them. “Girls used to love seeing Andy Leonard and the rest in their white uniforms with short knicker pants and bright red sox. Before then, see, teams wore old-fashioned long pants that—”
“The Giants have long pants,” Susy points out.
It is true; to a man their pantlegs stretch down to their ankles, socks hidden. “Well, okay, they’ve sorta gone back to that, but mostly since back then—”
“You’re ALWAYS going ‘back then,’ Daddy,” Hope interrupts.
I take a breath. She’s right. I need to be here with them. As I start to ask if they want cotton candy, the voice behind us booms, “Throw STRIKES, asshole!”
I stand up, blocking his view.
“Siddown.”
“I don’t want my daughters hearing any more.”
“I got a clue for you, pal,” he says with comic exaggeration, as if to an idiot. “Don’t bring ’em out where their liddle
ears get bruised.”
It cracks them up.
“I got a clue for you too, pal,” I tell him. “Knock it off.”
His face tightens as he lumbers to his feet, buddies rising with him. Sounds of alarm around us. Body tensing, I have the troubling sense that I should be handling this differently.
“Looking to get your ass kicked?”
“Not really.” I keep my voice level despite the heat rising in me. “I just want you to shut up.”
“Got the balls to make me?”
“Only if you force it.”
Without warning he launches an uppercut designed to relocate my jaw. I twist away barely in time and feel the wind of it on my face. A metal bracelet on his wrist grazes my cap and knocks it from my head. I make the mistake of glancing down as it drops into a mess of mustard-drenched wrappers and pooled beer.
“Look out, Daddy!”
His fist slams against my face and I stagger backward. Through a blur I see him winding up for another one. Lifting my hands to ward it off, I suck in air to clear my head.
“Come on, dickhead!” he snarls.
I forget the girls as rage galvanizes me. I block his roundhouse swing with my forearm and exhale with a snort. Fifteen years before, I was Pac-10 190-pound division boxing champ, and my old instincts quickly kick in. I shoot a jab to his face. The swiftness of it befuddles him, and before he can set himself I cross with a right to his gut. He tries to hook me but I lean in and grab his shirt and nail him with a short right. His eyes roll up and he falls back heavily into his seat.
People are screaming abuse, others cheering. I look around for the other two and see them backing toward the aisle. I take a deep panting breath and wipe at my nose; blood is dripping onto my shirt. Hope and Susy cling to each other. I bend to comfort them and feel hands on me. Uniforms surround me. The daylight has taken on a milky opalescence. At the edges of vision, as if behind a white veil, shapes are blurred. One of the uniforms there seems of Civil War vintage. Is that blueclad arm beckoning to me? My heart leaps in my chest.
I’m in the grasp of security cops.
“My girls,” I begin.
“We got ’em,” one responds, his tone contemptuous. “I’ll bet they’re real proud of Daddy today.”
I am led up the aisle, arms pinned, faces gawking at me. I twist my neck to look behind: one cop carries a frightened Susy; Hope trudges, head down, beside another.
Hours later, after the police forms and the psychological referral, I deposit the girls with their mother. “We ran into a little trouble, Steph,” I tell her. “I’m sorry about what happened, but it was for their sakes.”
“Oh, no, Sam.” The words are mournful, her face hardening. “What did you do this time?”
As the girls begin to tell her what happened, I mumble again that I’m sorry and walk quickly back to my car. I feel sick with shame. And I am still haunted by the vision of that beckoning blue arm.
T. Garrard Sjoberg, M.D.
Board Certified Psychiatrist #25765
San Francisco Central Hospital
OUTPATIENT TREATMENT PLAN
Case Number: B-6308825
Patient: FOWLER, Samuel Clemens (“Sam”)
Gender: M Age: 35 Ht: 6′3″ Wt: 220
Marital status: divorced
Living arrangement: alone in a North Beach apartment; 2 daughters reside with his ex-wife in San Carlos
Occupation: Journalist Employer: SF Chronicle
Precipitating event: Engaged in fistfight, talked irrationally afterward. Agreed to re-evaluation when previous mental treatment discovered.
Types and severity of symptoms under treatment: Delusional, with obsessive thought patterns and intermittent hallucinatory images. Believes he spent four months in the year 1869, during which time he played professional baseball and fell in love with the sister of a teammate.
History of previous mental health treatment: Seen by me 2 yrs ago as per court mandate while wearing 19th-century clothing & using arcane language. Limited response to Rx and insight oriented therapy.
Current concerns of the patient: Expresses desperation at inability to relocate himself in 19th century with the woman he desires. Claims “memories” of her are fading. Admits loss of control at ballpark but claims isn’t violence-prone. Seems to recognize that the incident may jeopardize visitation rights with his daughters—not to mention his job and income.
Current level of functioning: Works graveyard shift at SF Chronicle by choice. Not many friends (says they can’t relate to his focus on the past). Plays on a baseball team for older men; otherwise few social outlets. Weekly outings with daughters have been satisfactory, although his insistence on horse-drawn carriage rides and porcelain-headed dolls (instead of the preferred Barbies) may at times be developmentally inappropriate.
Diagnosis: r/o schizoaffective disorder
Goals of treatment: a) avoid criminal justice system & hospitalization; b) improve impulse control & tension/stress levels; c) maintain effective employment & relationship with his children; d) diminish delusions; e) facilitate psychological integration with present-day life.
Treatment methods: ongoing psychotherapy
Haldol 10 mg
enroll in anger management course
Prognosis: given past responses, short-term recovery chances are slight
Part One
Seeds
Longings, great loves, faith, hope—and all that derived from self-persuasion: thinking thus, he recognized in what the nineteenth century was different from his own. The other was a century of emotions, affections, and melodrama—and perhaps to be envied for its force of feeling.
—Czeslaw Milosz, Road-Side Dog
If you send a damned fool to St. Louis, and you don’t tell them he’s a damned fool, they’ll never find out.
—Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi
ONE
“Sam?”
My attention snapped back to Dr. Sjoberg, whose soft, inoffensive eyes regarded me quizzically.
“Sorry,” I said. “I drifted off.”
“Has that been happening much?”
“No,” I lied.
“Anything else about the stress workshop?”
Having attended my first session of Triggers and Safeties: How to Manage Stress Responsibly, I’d already described for him the breathing and pillow-pounding exercises. I’d made a list of situations that “triggered” me and my scenarios for dealing with them. The guiding principle was that we are constructed like television sets: although we cannot change our basic wiring, we can learn to change output channels. An apt metaphor. Several years back, my heaving a TV through Stephanie’s parents’ bay window had been the catalyst for our divorce and my legal estrangement from our daughters.
“I had some trouble with the sentence completion,” I told him. “Things like: ‘When dad got angry_____.’ ”
Aware that my father had abandoned me in infancy after my mother’s death, Sjoberg smiled thinly at what he called my tendency to deflect. “The exercises don’t hurt, Sam.” He rubbed his smooth-shaven cheeks. Since I’d last seen him his hair had silvered slightly at the temples, and he’d added to the number of framed certificates and awards on the wall behind him. “Have you re-thought your actions at the ballpark?”
“I should’ve called for security,” I said glumly. “But I didn’t really expect him to swing.”
Sjoberg made a note on his pad. “Several times you’ve referred to your baseball cap being knocked off as the last straw. Tell me more about that.”
“What’s to tell? It got trashed.”
He nodded acceptingly and adjusted his metal-framed spectacles. “Intense anger can erupt when a cherished personal goal is blocked.” Seeing my puzzled look, he went on quickly: “What might your goal have been in the three of you wearing those caps?”
I shrugged, at a loss. “I guess I wanted the girls to know …” My words trailed off.
“Could it be the same reason you buy
them vintage toys and talk to them about the past?”
“I guess so.”
“To communicate the importance, the depth, of what happened to you? So that they can understand what took you from them? And might take you again?”
I shook my head. “According to you, it’s all a fantasy.”
“Never mind that just now. I’m talking about your feelings. I’m suggesting that by such actions you’ve tried to put your daughters in touch with a portion of your life they can’t otherwise share.”
“Makes sense.”
“Are you doing it in case you have to leave again?”
I hesitated, aware of his scrutiny. Was I?
“Anger can also mask fear of abandonment. Your parents abandoned you, Sam.” His tone was gentle. “Your divorce and your ex-wife’s remarriage distanced you from your children. You managed to find a meaningful life—fantasy or not—and it too was taken away.”
With a stab of loss I pictured the cap falling. “Can I tell you something, Doc, without getting shipped off to the funny farm?”
“Given the current state of public funding,” he said wryly, “your being institutionalized isn’t likely.”
I took a breath and told him of the uniform and the beckoning arm. Sjoberg’s expression didn’t change but I could tell he wasn’t pleased to hear it. “You relate this incident to the Civil War soldier who summoned you into the past?” He checked a sheet of notes in my case folder. “Colm O’Neill?” When I nodded, he said, “Have you had other … glimpses?”
“Nope.” I didn’t appreciate his tone. “Haven’t laid eyes on Clara Antonia for a year and a half, either.”
Another glance at the folder. “The clairvoyant who put you in touch with Colm? Whom you claimed to see again here in San Francisco?”
“I didn’t just claim it.” I could feel us approaching the dead end we always reached: what I considered the most intense experience of my life, Sjoberg had little choice, professionally, but to regard as an extended flight from reality. “I saw her! Do you honestly think I make up all this stuff?”