by Carl Deuker
"You don't have to worry about that, Shane."
"Do we have enough money?"
She lit another cigarette. "Yes, we do."
CHAPTER 4
Dad didn't come home on Sunday morning or Sunday afternoon. It wasn't until after dinner that we heard a car pull up and the door slam shut. I went to the window and looked out. He was whistling as he came up the walkway.
Marian raced to him and hugged him as soon as he stepped in the doorway. "Come on," he said, "can't you do better than that? How about a monster hug?"
That was one of their jokes. She jumped into his arms and squeezed as hard as she could. He puffed and groaned. "You're so strong. You're going to crush me to death." He put her down and turned to me. "How about you, Shane? Are you too old to give your dad a hug?"
"No," I said. I stepped toward him, and he gave me a long hug.
Then he looked at Mom. I could tell he wanted to hug her too, but she only smiled, went to the love seat by the window, lit what seemed like her fiftieth cigarette of the day, pulled her legs up onto the sofa, and looked out the window.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, then looked from me to Marian, from Marian to me. "All right, let's get a couple of things straight around here. The next few months aren't going to be easy, and there is no sense in pretending they will be. You're going to hear a lot of things about me. But no matter what you read in the paper or what your friends might say at school, I want you to know that I've done nothing wrong. Do you understand? Nothing. If we stick together, we'll get through this, and we'll be stronger for it. Okay?"
Marian nodded, and so did I.
Dad turned to Mom, but she was still looking out the window. He watched her for a moment, then swung back to Marian and me. "How about a game of Monopoly? Just the three of us. What do you say?"
Marian had just discovered Monopoly and always wanted to play, but usually she couldn't get anyone to play with her. Her eyes brightened at his suggestion. I didn't feel like playing, but I knew Dad was trying to cheer her up, so I went along.
I set up the board, passed out the money and pieces. On his first turn Dad rolled a four—income tax. "That's perfect!" he roared as he moved the little dog forward. "Absolutely perfect."
Throughout the game he kept losing track of his turn, of his playing piece, of his properties. I wasn't much better. When Marian finally won, he put his hands on the table and looked her in the eye. "You're going to be the tycoon in this family, little lady. But now it's time you went to bed. Way past time, in fact."
Marian smiled and kissed Dad good night, but he hadn't fooled her. Just like me, she'd noticed that Mom had spent the whole evening drinking wine, smoking cigarettes, and looking out the window. And she knew that his big smile and loud laughter were fake.
I put all the Monopoly stuff back in the box, then said good night myself. Upstairs, I stuck a Lauryn Hill CD into my sound system and put my earphones on so I wouldn't disturb anyone, but after about two minutes her music seemed stupid, so I turned it off. Below me I could hear my parents talking, their voices low and serious. I opened my door and listened; I could pick up only a word here and there—nothing I could make any sense of.
CHAPTER 5
Neither Marian nor I went to school on Monday. I didn't want to go on Tuesday either, but Dad wasn't having any of that. "I pay big bucks for Shorelake," he said, still smiling too much. "You get yourself dressed, Shane. I'll drive you. You too, Marian."
As he drove us to school, Dad listened to a seventies station and sang along with the songs. The more he sang, the sicker I felt. When I stepped out of the car, it was all I could do to stand. "Bye, Dad!" Marian called back to him. She was better at play-acting than me.
There's a long set of stairs that leads up to the Shorelake campus. My legs kept wanting to give out from under me. Marian was silent. At the first pathway, she broke off from me and headed toward the lower campus. "See ya, Shane," she said, her voice small.
"Yeah. See ya."
I hadn't even reached the flagpole when Greg came rushing over. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Sure," I said, my throat tight. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"I was worried about you. We all were. You know, with what happened to your dad, and you not being here yesterday."
I shrugged. "That? That was just some police screwup. They don't know what they're doing. My dad drove me to school this morning. Everything's fine."
Greg nodded. "My mom and dad told me to tell you that if you need anything, or if your mom does, you should call us. My dad's a trial lawyer, you know."
The blood rushed to my face. I could hear them talking about us at dinner. "I just told you it was a screwup, Greg. We don't need a lawyer."
"If you do, though, later on. My dad said—"
"We won't, Greg. Okay? How many times do I have to say it?"
He stepped back. "Sorry. I was just trying to help."
"Look," I said, "I've got to go to the library to look some stuff up. I'll see you around."
Before I'd gone twenty feet, he called out. "Shane, you're going to be at practice, aren't you?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
He waved me off. "No reason. I was just checking."
In the hundred-year history of Shorelake, my dad was probably the first parent who'd ever been arrested. In every class that day the kids were polite to me, the teachers kind. It was as if I had some horrible skin disease, but they were going to show their good manners by pretending not to notice.
During lunchtime, I stayed behind in Mrs. Goure's biology class and ate there. I couldn't bear going to the cafeteria and facing a roomful of sympathetic faces. When school ended, I headed off to practice without waiting for Greg and Cody by the fountain as usual. I dressed in a corner of the locker room and then headed to the field.
Crossing from the outfield grass to the infield dirt, I saw Scott Parino and Terry Clarke, our two starting pitchers, standing together at the mound, whispering behind their gloves, grinning away.
"What's so funny?" I said.
"What?" Parino said, looking at me as if he didn't know who I was.
"You heard me, Parino. I want to know what you're laughing at."
"None of your business, Hunter," Parino answered.
I took a step toward him, squaring up with him. He was a little bigger than me, but not much. Besides, there was a softness to his face, to his belly, and I felt like cold steel inside. "It is my business," I said.
Clarke stepped between us. "He told you it was none of your business, so get yourself away from here and leave us alone."
"I'm not leaving him alone and I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me what you were laughing at."
Clarke's face hardened. "It wasn't your jailbird father, if that's what you're thinking."
In an instant I'd charged him, knocking him to the ground. A second later I was on top of him, smacking him in the face. Left and right and left and right. If he hadn't had his arms up, and if Parino weren't grabbing at me to pull me off, I would have broken his nose and blackened both eyes. Still, I hit him hard enough to make his nose bleed, but he didn't hit me at all. Then I felt another pair of hands grab hold of me.
It was Coach Levine. He yanked me to my feet and held me by the shoulders to keep me from going after Clarke and Parino. "What's this all about?" he demanded.
"He started it," Clarke said, wiping the blood from his nose and pointing at me. "The guy's crazy. We were just telling jokes over there, and he comes sticking his nose in, thinking we're making fun of his old man, all ready to fight."
"Were you making fun of his father?" Levine asked.
"Hell, no," Clarke said. "What do I care about his father?"
Levine looked to Parino. "We weren't, Coach. We were talking about something that happened in history class. Mickey West had his..."
I don't know what he said after that. Some stupid story. All I know is that it was obvious he was telling the truth, just as it was obvious I'd made a fool of myself. My body went limp. Lev
ine felt me relax and let me go.
"All right," he said. "Enough of this. Let's get to practice."
"That's it?" Clarke said, wiping his nose. "The little jerk hits me and you're not going to suspend him from the team?"
"You trying to tell me how to run the team?"
Clarke stared at Levine for a second, then turned and headed to the mound.
Levine walked me to the outfield. His voice was low, so low I could barely hear it. "You had it in you, Shane. To hit somebody, I mean. Now you've done it, and it's over. Any more fights and I will suspend you, from the team and from school. You understand?"
I nodded.
"All right then. Get out there and stretch."
I found an empty spot in center field. I could feel the eyes of every player on the team watching me. Again. I made a vow to myself. I'd cracked once, but I wasn't going to crack again. From that moment on, everything was going to stay inside.
CHAPTER 6
We had a game against Sammamish High on Thursday. Sammamish is a long way from Sound Ridge, and I wasn't sure how I was going to get there. Dad was busy with his lawyer all the time, and I didn't want him to drive me anyway. Marian wouldn't go see her friends, so Mom had to look after her. I didn't want to ask Greg or Cody. Then, after Wednesday's practice, Coach Levine pulled me aside. "If you need a ride tomorrow, meet me by the gym after school. I could use some help with the gear."
When I got home that night, dinner was over. Mom was in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher; Dad was upstairs in his office, his head bent over a stack of papers, a glass of Scotch on his desk. I peeked into Marian's room. She was at her desk drawing, the pencil tight in her hand. One of her pet rats was perched on her shoulder. I went to my room, emptied my backpack, and flicked on the television. Mom brought me a sandwich, and as I ate, I half watched the Atlanta Braves get demolished by the Giants.
At breakfast the next morning Mom made toast for Marian and me, but she didn't eat anything herself. Just before she was going to take us to school, Dad came down. "I'll drive them," he said.
He was hung over. I could see it in his eyes and in the way the skin on his face sagged. For most of the ride he didn't say anything. When we were about ten blocks from Shorelake, he looked at me. "You've got a game today, right? Against Sammamish."
"Yeah," I said.
"Okay then. I'll pick you up right after school." He turned to the back seat and looked at Marian. "You don't mind going to Shane's game today, do you?"
Her whole face dropped, but he didn't seem to notice. "No, I'll go," she said.
"That's my girl."
A cold wave washed over me. "You don't have to take me, Dad," I said, keeping my voice casual. "Coach Levine is giving me a ride. I've already talked to him."
His eyes fixed on me. "Are you ashamed of me, Shane? Is that it?"
"No," I protested. "That's not it at all."
"Then why don't you want me at your game?"
"It's not that I don't want you at the game. It's only that I know you're busy. Besides, Marian doesn't want to go to my game."
"Maybe Mom could pick me up," Marian said.
"Sure she can," Dad said as he pulled up in front of the school. "All right then, it's settled. Your mom will pick you up, Marian. And Shane, I'll meet you right here at three-ten."
He was late. For twenty minutes I stood in front of the school, wondering if he was coming at all. Finally the Lexus pulled up. I hustled down the stairs and slid in. Right away I could smell the whiskey.
The Sammamish plateau is about thirty minutes from Seattle. Usually when Dad's been drinking, he talks a lot and in a loud voice. That day he didn't say anything, but when a lady in an old green Plymouth Valiant was poking along in front of him, he laid on the horn, then drove onto the shoulder and passed her on the right, nearly cutting her off.
I was the last player to arrive. I rushed out to where the pitchers and catchers were warming up, but I'd hardly had a chance to loosen up before Coach Levine motioned to us to head to the dugout.
As I ran in, I looked up into the bleachers and spotted my dad. He'd found a place in the very top row, sitting right above our bench. No parent was within five feet of him, as if he was one of those homeless people in the library who smell so bad they get a whole table to themselves.
"Play ball! "the ump yelled.
My dad is always razzing the umpires or shouting down advice to Coach Levine. I was afraid he'd be louder than usual, trying to show everybody that everything was normal. Instead, he was so quiet I kept looking around to see if he was still there. And every time I looked, it was the same: his eyes were on the field, but they weren't seeing the game.
We jumped out to a 4–0 lead in the third inning on three doubles, two walks, and an error. Scott Parino wasn't sharp on the mound—lots of balls were hard hit—but he was hanging in there. Then, in the bottom of the fourth, he gave up a single and a walk to Sammamish's first two batters. The next guy popped out to first base, but the batter after that drove in both runners with a double down the third base line.
Parino stranded him at second, but Sammamish loaded the bases in the top of the sixth. From behind me I heard parents cheering Parino, yet it was the one voice I didn't hear that made my head pound.
When the last inning finally rolled around, Levine sent me down with Bill Diggs to warm up. I thought I'd feel better once I was doing something. I threw easily to Diggs, stretching my arm and my back out. To anybody watching, everything looked normal, but I felt as if I were leaning over the Grand Canyon.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Robby Richardson ground out to end our half of the inning. Levine pointed his finger at me, then headed to home plate to tell the umpire I was coming in. "Go get 'em," Diggs said as I walked past him.
People say the mental part of being a closer is hard, but I love the challenge. I close out games by closing off everything that isn't essential. I don't hear anything I don't need to hear; I don't see anything I don't need to see. I focus on home plate, the catcher's glove, and the ball in my hand. When that's my whole world, I'm in control.
But that day I heard the buzzing in the stands, felt the difference in the way people looked at me. I knew my dad was in the stands watching me, counting on me to show them all.
I gave myself a shake; I had to focus. I looked to Ted Hearn for the sign, then went into my wind-up and delivered. My motion was almost right, but almost doesn't cut it. "Ball one!" the umpire roared as my pitch sailed high. The ball came back to me. Seconds later I was delivering another pitch. "Ball two!" Then "Ball three!" And "Ball four!" The batter trotted to first. Levine stood and leaned against the fence. Up in the bleachers my dad stood. "Come on, Shane!" he shouted, breaking his game-long silence.
A new batter stepped in. My head was spinning. I squeezed the ball tight ... too tight. "Ball one! Ball two! Ball three! Take your base!"
Levine trotted out. "You okay?"
"Yeah," I said, though the roaring inside my brain was so loud I could hardly hear him.
"All right then. Do it."
From the bleachers I heard my dad. "Throw strikes, Shane! Throw strikes!"
Hearn flashed the sign: fastball. I nodded, checked the runners, delivered. Normally the ball explodes out of my hand. But this fastball was a joke; it went right over the heart of the plate, with no speed and no movement.
The guy's bat came through the strike zone like lightning. The sound told the whole story. He got it all—a towering drive to left field. Our left fielder, Alvin Powell, just looked up and watched it fly far over the fence and onto the soccer field behind. The hitter pumped his fist in the air as he rounded first base. The Sammamish guys swarmed him as he touched home plate.
My teammates stood at their positions and watched Sammamish celebrate, too stunned to move. Finally Greg trotted in, and the others trailed behind. Only I stayed put. Levine finally came out and got me. "It happens to every closer sometime. You'll get 'em next time, Shane."
&nbs
p; I packed my stuff quickly and cleared out. In the car, neither my dad nor I said anything as we cruised along the freeway. "Was it me, Shane?" he finally asked when we were five minutes from our home. "Tell me the truth."
"It wasn't you. I just had a bad game."
He looked straight ahead. "Because if it was me, you say the word, and I'll stay away from your games."
"It wasn't you, Dad," I repeated, my voice rising.
He turned into Sound Ridge, waving to Simon as we drove through the gate. "We may be down, Shane, but we're not out. We're going to beat them. It may take a while, but we're going to come out on top."
Our next game was at home on Saturday afternoon against Liberty, a terrible team. "Why don't you skip this one," I told Dad that morning. "We're going to kill them. There's a ninety-nine percent chance I won't even pitch."
"I'm not skipping any of your games," he said. "Besides, don't be so sure of yourself. That's how good teams lose."
All morning I watched him closely, looking to see if he was drinking. I never saw him go to the liquor cabinet, never smelled anything on his breath. But he wasn't right in the car, and he wasn't right in the stands. It was that silence again, that silence that wasn't him.
A blowout. That's what I wanted. A game where we would score twelve runs in the first three innings. Then if I pitched or didn't pitch, it wouldn't matter. I needed some time to catch my breath, to pull myself together.
But Liberty saved their best game of the year for us. In the field their guys were making one great play after another, and with each solid play you could feel their confidence soar. They scored twice in the third, and that 2–0 lead held all the way to the bottom of the sixth.
That's when their starter ran out of gas. His pitches lost velocity, and they were all belt high. Two singles and a passed ball brought our right fielder, Beanie Cutler, to the plate with a chance to tie the game. "Just give us a little hit!" guys shouted from the bench.