Becky's Kiss

by Fisher, Nicholas

  Danny Taragna did not square to bunt, but started rocking back in rhythm.

  Michigan fired, and Becky thought, Four seam away…easy pickings.

  Danny swung and missed by a foot.

  “Strike one!” the umpire called. The crowd quieted to murmurs and hushed whispers. Anthony Tarragna had his hands out palm-up, like ‘What the heck?’ Hanrahan was miffed, but tight-lipped, seeming to want to scold Danny later for disobeying the bunt sign. He’d let it play out for now. Brett Michigan got the ball back from the catcher and strode back to his place at the top of the mound. He shook off one sign, then another. He agreed on whatever the catcher laid down third, and went into his wind-up, huge and angry.

  The ball shot out of his hand, and Becky saw the most amazing curveball turning on a dime in mid-air and dropping into the bottom of the strike zone.

  Danny swung, but it was ugly, the bat almost coming clean out of his hands on the follow-through. A couple of wise-guys in the back booed, and the visitor’s bench was on their feet now, all feeling it, believing, fingers clawed in the fence and shaking it, voices strained and hoarse with the war cry, all in support of Brett Michigan.

  He gave them a nod, and despite herself, Becky thought her father looked handsome there in the sun, and Danny kicked the dirt around, dug in his feet, and set up.

  Brett Michigan wound up and threw his fastball.

  It was high cheese.

  Danny Tarragna swung for the fences, for the farmhouse, for his father.

  And missed by a mile.

  “Strike three!” the umpire called, and the visitor’s bench exploded onto the field, charging the mound, jumping up and down around this giant of a boy who had just struck out the best hitter in Southeastern Pennsylvania.

  Then they all faded, their cheers and calls turning to a dull ring of memory.

  It was just Becky and Danny now, there on the magic field with the magic lights, surrounded by the woods just past midnight. He walked toward the bleachers, dragging his bat, shoulders slumped down. Becky stood slowly.

  “What was that, Danny?”

  “What was what?”

  “Did you just strike out on purpose?”

  He shrugged, making a study of the bottom-most bench where someone had carved a rough heart-shape into the grain. A tear ran down his nose and splatted right where the arrow went through. Becky’s tone rose in volume and pitch.

  “But what about the dream, Danny? Your life mission? Breaking all those records?”

  He tilted up a look at her and said,

  “Goodbye, Becky.”

  “What’s that mean, Danny, please!”

  “What’s anything mean?” he returned, but it was only an echo. The scene then faded to absolute darkness with only the cold stars winking above her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Becky still refused to come out of her room, and she could hear her father’s tone change from the other side of the door.

  “Now listen here, Becky-Bec. Enough is enough. We have to do your bullpen session and long toss out back. I know you’re going through stuff, but the great ones do the work, right?” His big steps treaded away, then came back. “And when we get to the Diamond Club at the ball park tonight, with everyone and their mother jumping out from behind things, try to act surprised, please? Beth texted and promised she wouldn’t let on that she’d slipped about the party and seeing your old friends Chase Utley and Jimmy Rollins who promised to say hello before their batting practice with the visiting Dodgers. New team, new responsibilities, and they’re going out on a limb for you.”

  Becky padded over to the door and opened it. Her father stood there in the archway, gray hair in the long Mohawk he’d had as a teen, thinning high up the forehead yet tied back in a glorious ponytail. He was wearing a casual dress shirt and khakis, and his cell was ringing there in his pocket.

  “Are you gonna get that?” Becky said quietly. He gave a short laugh.

  “It’s just Buddy again from ESPN. I ain’t no commentator, no matter how big the payday.” He reached out one of those huge monster hands and smoothed down a lock of her hair as if it was the most natural gesture in the world. “You all right, honey? Holed up in your room with the shades drawn on a Saturday isn’t really like you.”

  “Well, that was yesterday.”

  He smiled, and it made his huge face look incredibly handsome, like a granite bust of some Native American warrior king. He spread his arms.

  “Come here, baby. Give one up for the big old fella.”

  Head down, she took a couple of baby steps forward and he drew her in, gently hugging her up to his collarbone, making her feel warm and secure and light as a dream.

  “Now, get on your sweats and start stretching,” he said, letting go. “It’s your first practice tomorrow with the school team and you want to go in loose, ready, and juiced, right?”

  “Right.” She watched him retreat down the long hall as if watching some weird home movie she’d been spliced into. You would have thought that she’d be familiar with both of her histories, the one before Danny Tarragna’s strike out and this one, but she only remembered her old life. She was learning this one as she went, and it was harder than it ever would have seemed.

  Last night, she had run back home in the dark, weeping and overcome, relatively breathless, and when she approached the house, she didn’t recognize it. Where their little dumpy one-floor rancher had stood, there was now a sprawling mansion with two detached garages and a ten acre yard. There was a pool with a lagoon setting. There was a domed-in pitching practice facility and a two-hole golf course. At first, she couldn’t even find the bedroom window she’d left open when she’d crept out!

  They had a finished basement game room with arcade machines, a small movie auditorium, a spa, and a kitchen with an island in the middle of it. Terrified, Becky had spent her entire Saturday locked in her room and buried in her computer, searching the net for who on earth her father had actually become as the result of three missed swings back in 1978.

  It turned out he was the one who became a Cleveland Indian. He pitched for them for twelve years, threw five no-hitters, two perfect games, and broke the record for fastest recorded speed of a pitch at one hundred and twelve miles per hour. He made the Hall of Fame, and with his last contract, nestled away more than twelve million dollars, a heck of a lot of money for a pitcher before the steroid era. And he changed the game in a way Becky never would have expected—in fact, he changed all sports in general. Ironically, it seemed, he looked a bit too much like the Cleveland Indian icon, so they changed their name to The Cleveland Crush. Then he took it on a tear and spread what he called his ‘Cultural Sensitivity’ campaign, making the Atlanta Braves change their name to the Atlanta Cougars, the Kansas City Chiefs to the Warlords, The Redskins to The Presidents and The Blackhawks to The Pythons.

  Becky’s mother, in this reality, was a Vegas showgirl named Candi Reece, and six months after giving birth, the woman had organized a tidy divorce. Brett Michigan was still taking care of the woman financially, but she was not a current part of Becky’s life. Brett had never remarried, but the few little gossip column snippets she’d found hinted that he still remained hopeful.

  Becky had searched for her mother from her old life but found nothing. She was probably married with a different last name, duh. Becky had also looked high and low for anything concerning one Danny Tarragna, but came up with absolute zeroes. It was if he’d never existed. But really? One ninth grade fall ball strike out did that? Clearly, this ‘Marty Frick’ had been at the big game scouting more than one player, but weren’t there other scouts, other chances, a whole high school and college career where he could have showcased what he could do with a Louisville Slugger? Someone that talented had to get another shot, right?

  Evidently not. Evidently, Danny Tarragna fell out of baseball and dropped off the grid altogether. Maybe he was some middle-aged guy selling insurance somewhere in Idaho or Montana or something, antiquated
in his ways, wary of Tweeting, absent from Facebook, and declining any ‘new-fangled’ LinkedIn sign-ups. Invisible.

  But did he remember her like she remembered him? How did this work? Was it possible that he struck out, said his echoed goodbye, and simply moved on, having Becky Michigan somehow erased from his memory altogether? Just like that? And for the next decade or so, was Danny Tarragna’s only offhand association with a ‘Michigan’ some random scatter of hollow mixed feelings for the big Cleveland Indian who made the game pass him by when they were kids?

  Becky had a feeling that she might never know. And even though she’d gained a father, she pretty much had to face the fact that her Danny was gone, a haunt of a past that never was. She only hoped that, every once in a while, there would be a hint of those crystal blue eyes somewhere, maybe shimmering off the water or dancing along the edge of the sun.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  School, the next day, was absolutely bizarre. Everything seemed to be caught up in a whirlwind, and the most alarming part was that Becky had gained a level of popularity that she had to take responsibility for, like it or not.

  Everyone knew she was the daughter of the great Brett Michigan, and they were all still buzzing about the batting practice she’d thrown Friday, indicating that they thought they might have actually inherited a great one, right here in their freshman class. Girls followed her in the hallways, and boys approached her with this insecure fondness she just wasn’t used to.

  At times, she wanted to just tell people to please stop talking so much, it was making her dizzy! In the mirror, she looked pretty now, but if she looked hard enough and focused the right way, it was the old Becky, sad-eyed and plain. Yet not. There was a confidence in her expression that wasn’t there before, almost as if the idea of a successful and loving father was now connected to her own buried talents, forming an exotic equation that worked below the lines of her face like art. Or not. At certain angles, she looked like background, like the one who was born to make other girls stand out, and Becky decided it was finally like Beth had said during the video chat…all in her head, subjective, and somehow she knew she didn’t need a Rutledge hat to make herself feel important anymore.

  And speaking of Beth, everything in this new world was backward now. Becky’s new best friend wasn’t a cushy girl with stringy hair, but a striking red head with a belly ring who played electric guitar in a band with Tabitha Messersmith. Fluffy still wore his goofy hats, but he had made a stand-up joke video that went viral with a quarter of a million hits, and Philadelphia comedian Todd Glass had even mentioned it in one of his routines.

  Justin had to have his dad sign papers allowing the gaming company who made the “Call of Duty” series access to some of his ‘scenarios,’ and Jill had been mentioned on TV by the President of the United States for her part in raising a record amount of money through the school’s gay-straight alliance. Shane was still winning every science Olympiad, but he had a girlfriend now. It was as if that exotic equation had opened up everyone’s potential, giving them attitude, or at least access to attitude, that had always been buried.

  “I’m everyone’s can opener,” Becky thought, closing the gym locker door and adjusting her sweats. Earlier, in English class, she had barely recognized Cody Hatcher, now wearing a dress shirt and a tie, his hair moussed back behind his ears, and raising his hand and offering responses with a polite kind of thoughtfulness. He was the editor of the school paper, and out in the hall, Becky had promised him an interview after practice. To her amazement and distress, Joey Chen had then walked by them, purposefully knocking shoulders with Hatcher and looking at him with a cold bully’s glare.

  “Joey!” Becky had scolded, making him stop and look down in shame as Hatcher went on his way quietly.

  “I am sorry, Miss Rebecca,” her friend muttered to his sneakers in an absolute mirroring of her father when he had been weak and subservient in a past life that was getting more and more faint and dream-like with every passing moment. It turned out that Joey Chen was the third baseman for the Rutledge High baseball team now, and Becky had no problem reminding him that pushing around guys like Hatcher didn’t make him any better at the game.

  “Focus,” she’d said. “Keep your eye on the prize.”

  He had nodded, and then Mr. Marcus had stepped into the hall, sarcastically reminding them not to block his doorway. Yeah, it seemed that Marcus was the same guy in any reality—cutting and blunt, smart as a whip, and the kind of teacher you only liked when you thought back on it years later and remembered how much you learned.

  Becky put on the glove Dad had loaned her and opened and closed the fingers. Everything was in place now. The world had become a living masterpiece where nerds could unlock their potential and the bullies were under control, as if a lump of formless clay had become this lovely, complex Da Vinci painting, perfect in its proportion of fiber and muscle and limb.

  Except in the place for the heart.

  That part stood jagged and empty.

  Tears welled up in Becky’s eyes, and when they spilled over, she rubbed at them with her glove, making dark streaks in the leather. She missed Danny Tarragna and it hurt. She still felt the press of his lips on her own, the warmth of his gentle smile, the impact of those crystal blue eyes, but she also knew that those feelings would lose their immediacy, like fading pictures in a scrap-book. It wasn’t fair! She wanted to keep feeling these feelings, she wanted her stomach to ache, her breath to quicken, her heart to pound like the hooves of some crazy, fairytale racehorse. She wanted Danny in the here and now, reminding her again and again of why she loved him so much.

  But no portrait was ever complete, she supposed.

  And some things were not meant to be.

  Becky pushed out into the hall and walked past the trophy cases. After the circus last Friday, she had no idea how many onlookers would be there at practice today, but if she had one wish, it would be that there was a boy in the back, up high in the bleachers by the fire extinguisher watching intently and waiting to give her a hug after she threw her last four seam.

  As she pushed through the door, her cell phone rang, and while she was distracted, digging it out of her pocket, she realized she’d gone out through the wrong exit. In this new reality she was no longer a klutz, but the people weren’t the only things flipped inside out and backward. Hallways, at times, seemed reverse mirror images of themselves, and she’d gone the wrong way more than once.

  Here, it was a strange case of Déjà-Vu as the door shut and locked behind, leaving her out in the empty area where they dumped their cardboard recycling.

  Becky looked down at her cell, and there was a text there. She gasped.

  There in the small view window it said,

  Message from Louisville Slugger.

  She held her breath and hit the ‘Ok’ button. On the screen, letters came up slowly at first, fading in and wavering, and then they were there in pure solid font.

  “What if my three misses started a new cycle, strike one, where I could push the rules? And by the way, you had better get to health class, silly.”

  Even though school was over, Becky Michigan didn’t have to be told twice to go back to the place where the magic of all this had started. She walked across the courtyard, trying not to shake to pieces, trying not to burst into tears of hope and joy, and then she vaulted the stairs to the trailers two at a time. The door was open, of course, and she crossed the hall to Trailer Classroom C where the desks were all set in squares facing each other, and the audio-visual cart sat right by the teacher’s desk.

  The television suddenly came on, making Becky jump. There was a blizzard of static on the screen, and for a long moment, that’s all it was, white noise with the volume too high, and mad twisting curls of electronic nothingness. But then Becky’s hands started rising to her mouth as she thought she heard a voice beneath the blare, wavering in and out as if it was fighting to become real, and she was almost positive it said, “Strike two…I bent
the rules by staying in limbo.”

  Suddenly, the static cleared and the television showed a scene. It was the baseball field Danny had died on, just as they had left it when he got the chance to re-do his at-bat, and he was sitting there on the visitor’s bench in his Newtown Edgemont Bicentennial jersey. Then it started to fast-forward, but not like a normal video. It was supernatural, like the movie “Paranormal Activity” on hyper-drive, the days and nights flying past so quickly they were almost a blur, the field growing obsolete around Danny Tarragna as it had over the course of years, the weeds and vines thickening and patterning themselves in the fencing, the reeds and cattails growing in the outfield, the wild fern rising and marching between the baselines.

  In wonder, Becky watched Danny Tarragna outlast time, refusing to re-enter his life, reliving once more the thirty-five years he’d originally endured between the time of his death and her fifteenth birthday. Even blurred like this, it seemed to last forever, and finally the scene faded, the television winking off to one dot of luminescence in the center. Danny’s voice came through clear out of the speaker.

  “Thirty-five years for me was a day and a night for you, Becky. And guess what…you’re late for your after school practice in the gym.”

  Becky didn’t walk. She didn’t jog, she didn’t pass ‘Go’ and collect two hundred. Becky Michigan ran.

  And this time, she didn’t get lost. Once re-entering the main building, she took two lefts where there should have been rights, shot down the long hall of green lockers, and burst through the gymnasium doors.

  They were all there: the team, Cody Hatcher waiting to the side for his interview, Beth and the posse, and Joey Chen taking grounders at the hot corner. The bleachers were packed, and there was a player’s semi-circle over to the side by the stacked-up wrestling mats, where there was a new kid facing away, taking warm-up swings. She stood there on the first baseline, and he turned.

  It was Danny Tarragna, blue eyes filled with emotion, face flushed, helmet framing his face like a portrait. They walked toward each other and someone was saying that this new kid looked like he knew what to do with a bat, and there were others murmuring back that he couldn’t stand up to a Michigan heater.