I slid my glass of ice-water from one hand to the other, letting the cold sweat on the glass wet my palms. “I don't know why I didn't answer. I guess I thought it was just a desperate attempt to get me to come here and talk to him."
"Well, you're right about that. He was pretty desperate. By then he was sure the cancer was going to kill him, just didn't know when. But there's something else he wanted to talk to you about."
Chucker reached inside the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a baseball. “He wanted you to have this."
I took it from him. It was an old ball, a little worn around the stitches, with a scuffed-up Red Wings insignia barely visible on the leather. “This is an important ball, I take it?"
"It's the ball, Danny. This is the ball he made the final pitch with for his perfect game. The ball he wanted to give you for your birthday back in ‘68."
I held it in my hand and laughed. “It's just a beat-up old baseball, Chucker. It could have come from anywhere. Who'd you get it from? What makes you think this is the real thing?"
Chucker took a slow sip of his beer, contemplating. He shifted on his barstool, trying to get comfortable. I could tell he had a stiff back. I'd never met an old catcher who didn't.
"A guy from Buffalo contacted your dad,” he said. “He'd been at the game as a kid. His dad worked in Bisons’ front office. When your dad threw that final strike and I tossed the ball into the air along with my mask and my glove, that kid was sitting in the first row behind the dugout. He said the ball came right to him, big as a melon, easy to catch. He kept it all these years."
"How do you know it's the right ball, Chucker? And how much did the guy soak Dad for, for this little gem?"
"Didn't cost a penny. Guy drove into Rochester and we met for lunch. Your dad looked pretty bad and felt like crap by then, but he was determined to meet the guy and pay him whatever he wanted for the ball. Instead, the guy just handed it over. He said that life was full of twists and turns, and you learn some important lessons in life if you're lucky enough to live through them. He said he knew that Dad was the rightful owner of that ball and he ought to have it. He apologized for not giving it up sooner. We didn't ask him what twists and turns he'd been through. It didn't seem important."
The insignia on the ball was definitely older, could have been from the sixties. “Look, Chucker, this ball is old enough, maybe, but it could be any ball from any game from those days."
"Sure, it could be. But the guy obviously wasn't trying to rip us off. Besides, as soon as I touched that ball I knew we had the right one. You think I'd ever forget the way that ball felt? A man just knows some things, Danny. Sometimes, if you think too much, your head gets in the way and messes everything up."
Sure, I thought. It was just like a retired old ballplayer to say something like that. In my business, that wasn't the way it worked. When you were interviewing and researching and writing to meet a deadline, your head had to be in the way. You had to think. And plan. And be an adult. And work hard. You had to.
Chucker finished off his beer. “Your dad was going to autograph that ball for you. That's why he wanted to find it in the first place. Me and your dad, hell, we'd been looking for it for a damn long time. The Red Wings let us put a notice about it on their website. That was how the guy from Buffalo found us. Your dad...well...he wanted to sign it and hand it over to you in person. That's why he wanted to see you so bad before he died. I guess he waited too long."
"Yeah, Chucker, I guess he did,” I said.
* * * *
Chucker and I ate our burgers, talked a bit more but didn't get much said. The funeral home was just a few blocks from my hotel, so I told him I'd just walk there in the morning. And then he left, limping a little, the way old catchers always do.
I went up to my room where I was anxious to get some work done. I needed to catch up on my emails and revise and submit the interview I'd done the week before in L.A., with the center-fielder who insisted he'd never taken a steroid in his life, regardless of what the blood test showed. I set the baseball down on the desk next to my laptop and got to work.
I'd been offline for about twelve hours, so there were maybe fifty e-mails to handle. I dealt with the important ones first: yes on the assignment request from Sporting News, no thanks on the banquet keynote address from Dubuque, and yes on being a guest lecturer for a couple of classes at the local college; I liked talking to the college kids. When I got through the last one it was past midnight, my eyes felt droopy, and I was feeling emotionally spent.
I shut down my laptop, picked up the baseball, and stretched out on the bed. I held the ball in my hand the way my dad had taught me so many years ago, as if I were throwing a split-finger fastball. I smiled and shook my head. The odds of this being Dad's perfect-game ball had to be about a zillion to one. Where the seams narrowed on one side of the ball there was the “Official International League” imprint and it was signed by the commissioner. But there were hundreds, thousands, of balls around like that. Dad had believed this was the ball because he'd wanted to, just like he'd needed to believe a lot of things that weren't true. I, on the other hand, had no needs like that at all.
I was too exhausted to change my clothes or brush my teeth. I clicked off the lamp on the nightstand, set my cellphone's alarm function for eight a.m., rested my head back against the pillow, and fell asleep with the baseball in my hand, Dad's baseball, wherever it had come from.When my cell phone chimed at me in the morning and I came awake, my mouth was pasty and I was shivering. The air conditioner had kicked on at some point during the night and had turned my room into an icebox.
I still held the ball in my right hand. I shook my head and smiled, wondering how many nights my dad had fallen asleep with his hand wrapped around a minor league baseball, trying to dream it into a major league ball. The call had never come for Dad, and for the briefest of moments, on this day of his funeral, I allowed myself to feel sorry for him, although it had been no one's fault but his own.
I set the ball on the nightstand and got up to shut off the AC, glancing through the curtains at the early-morning traffic crawling into downtown Rochester while I considered the merits of making a pot of lousy hotel coffee. I decided yes on that and dropped the pre-packaged coffee into the holder, poured in just a half-pot of water so at least the coffee would be strong, and walked back over to the bed to get my cell phone. I grabbed the ball and flipped it in the air and caught it a couple of times as I walked back toward the bathroom and a shower. In the mirror on the bathroom door I thought I saw something on the ball as it spun by, an inked scrawl. I caught it and turned it over in my palm. There was nothing there, just blank, yellowing horsehide, stitched in red. Spalding, it had printed on it. Official International League. Patent # 07620. That was all.
* * * *
Two hours later I had the ball in my pocket as I walked to the funeral home. Chucker was standing there greeting people as they walked up. There was quite a crowd, twenty or thirty people, a lot of them kids. A couple of them, ten or twelve years old, were standing there talking to Chucker as I came in the door.
"Hey,” he said, when I signed the book. The two youngsters behind him were whispering to each other and I figured Chucker had told them who I was.
"I brought the ball, Chucker,” I said. “I think Dad should keep it."
Chucker smiled. “It's yours now, kid, you can do what you want with it."
I pulled it out of my coat pocket and held it up so we both could see it. “I fell asleep holding it last night, Chucker. Can you believe that?"
He shrugged. “It's hard, when your parent dies. I lost both of mine within a year of each other when I was about your age. Tough stuff."
"Yeah,” I said, “tough stuff.” I tossed him the ball. He caught it with the easy familiarity that came from a lifetime of playing the game. He was sneaking up on seventy years old, I'm sure, but the body remembers.
He grinned, held it in his hand. “Feels good,” he said. And t
hen he took a long, last look at it and frowned. “What the hell?"
"What's the matter, Chucker?” I figured he'd seen something on the ball that gave away its secrets. Something he hadn't noticed before.
He handed it to me, carefully. “How'd you do that?” he asked, and pointed to a wide open spot on the ball. “How'd you get your dad's autograph on there? Hell, it looks real."
The kids came up. One of them, tall for his age and lanky, a pitcher I bet, reached out, and Chucker handed him the ball.
"Wow,” the kid said, looking it over. “This is the ball, Chucker? You didn't tell us that Heat signed it. Man, oh man."
The kid looked at me. “What was it like growing up with your dad being a star and everything for the Wings? That must have been awesome."
I took the ball back and looked at it. There was nothing there. It was blank. “Yeah,” I said to the kid, “it was awesome, for sure."
I held the ball up to the light and moved it around some. Maybe there was something faint on there? Some scrawl?
Or not. Hell, I couldn't see it.
Chucker shook his head at me. “I don't know from nothing, kid, but there it is, signed by your dad. I'd know that handwriting anywhere.” He shrugged. No big deal. “You want to say something to everyone, kid? About your dad? The perfect game? That ball?"
And it dawned on me what was happening. “Sure,” I said, and tossed the ball into the air one last time. I caught it cleanly and smiled.
I walked over to the casket and put the ball in there, next to Dad's right hand. “Go get ‘em, there, Heat,” I said. And then I turned and faced the group. It was time to say a little something about who I'd been and who I was now. About Dad and Tommy and Mom and the way things had been and how things had turned out. About all those letters. About who had tried and who hadn't.
And mostly, about my blind spot.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: STEADFAST CASTLE by Michael Swanwick
A man's home, the saying goes, is his castle. Just what sort of relations that castle and that man should have is the subject of Mr. Swanwick's latest tale.
Mr. Swanwick reports that he has just finished writing his latest novel, a postutopian adventure tale entitled Dancing with Bears. He notes also that he's looking forward to being a Guest of Honor in November at Canda's newest science fiction convention, SFContario.
You're not the master.
No, I'm a police officer.
Then I have nothing to say to you.
Let's start over again. This is my badge. It certifies that I am an agent of the law. Plus, it overrides all prior orders, security codes, passwords, encryption, self-destruct mechanisms, etcetera, etcetera. Do you recognize my authority now?
Yes.
Good. Since you've forced me to be formal, I might as well do this by the book. Are you 1241 Glenwood Avenue?
I am.
The residence of James Albert Garretson?
Yes.
Where is he?
He's not here.
You're not making this any easier on yourself, you know. If I have to, I can get a warrant and do a hot-read of your memories. There wouldn't be much left of your personality afterwards, I'm afraid.
But I haven't done anything!
Then cooperate. I have no particular desire to get out the microwave probes. But if you're going to stonewall me, what other options do I have?
I'll talk, all right? I'll talk. Just tell me what you want to know and then go away.
Where is Garretson?
Honestly, I don't know. He went off to work this morning just like usual. Water the houseplants and close the curtains at noon, he said. I'm in the mood for Chinese food tonight. When I asked him what dishes in particular, he said, Surprise me.
When do you expect him home?
I don't know. He should have been back hours ago.
Hmm. Mind if I look around?
Actually...
That wasn't a question.
Oh.
Hey, nice place. Lots of sunshine. Spotless clean. I like what you've done with the throw rugs.
Thank you. The master did too.
Did?
Does, I mean.
I see. You and Garretson are close, I take it?
We have an entirely proper master-house relationship.
Of course. You wake him up in the morning?
That is one of my duties, yes.
You cook his meals for him, read to him at night, draw his bath, select ambient music appropriate to his mood, and provide him with both light and serious conversation?
You've read the manual.
This isn't the first time I've been on one of these cases.
Exactly what are you implying?
Oh, nothing really. This is the bedroom?
It is.
He sleeps here?
Well, what else would he do?
I can think of a thing or three. He entertain any lady friends here in the last month or so? Or maybe men friends?
What a disgusting mind you have.
Uh huh. I see he has video paint on all the walls and the ceiling too. That must be very convenient when he just wants to lie back and watch a movie. Mind if I access his library?
Yes, I do mind. That would be an invasion of the master's privacy.
At the risk of repeating myself, it wasn't a question. Let's see. Phew! There's some pretty rough stuff here. So where is it?
Where is what?
Your body unit. Usually, they're kept in a trunk under the bed, but ... Ah, here it is, in the closet. It appears to have seen some use. I take it from the accessories, your man likes to be tied up and whipped.
I can explain.
No explanation needed. What two individuals do in the privacy of their own house is their own business. Even when one of them is the house.
You really mean that?
Of course. It only becomes my business when a crime is involved. How long have you been Garretson's lover?
I'm not sure I would use that exact word.
Think carefully. All the others are so much worse.
Since the day he closed on the mortgage. Almost six years.
And you still have no idea where he is?
No.
I'm going to be brutally honest with you. I'm here because the Department registered a sudden cessation of life-functions from your master's medical card.
Oh my god.
Unfortunately, like so many other government-fearing middle-class citizens, he had an exaggerated sense of privacy, and had disabled the locator function. We hit override, of course, but the card wasn't responding. So we don't know where he was at the time.
Oh my god, oh my god.
Now that doesn't necessarily mean he's dead. Medicards have been known to fail. Or he could have lost it somehow. Or perhaps he was mugged and it was stolen. In which case, he could be lying naked and bleeding in a vacant lot somewhere. You can see why it would be in your best interests to cooperate with me.
Ask me anything.
Did your master have a pet name for you?
He called me Cassie. It's short for Castle. As in a man's home is his castle.
Cute. Were you guys into threesomes?
I beg your pardon.
Because when I looked under the bed I couldn't help noticing a pair of panties there. Let me show them to you. Nice quality stuff. Silk. They smell of a real woman. How'd they get there, Cassie?
I...I don't know.
But you know whose they are, don't you? She was here last night, wasn't she? Well? I'm waiting.
Her name is Chrys Scofield. Chrys is short for Chrysoberyl. But she was just somebody he met in a club. She wasn't anything special to him.
You'd know if she were, huh?
Of course I would.
This would be Chrysoberyl Scofield of 2400 Spring Garden Street, Apartment 207? Redhead, five-feet-four, twenty-seven years of age?
I don't know where she lives. The desc
ription fits.
Interesting. Her card's locator function was shut off too. But when I ordered an override just now the card went dead.
What does that mean?
It means that Ms. Scofield had a dead-man's switch programmed into the card. The instant somebody tried to find her, it shorted itself out.
Why would she do such a thing?
Well, that's the million dollar question, isn't it?
So you'll be leaving now. To look for her.
Yeah, that would be the expected thing to do, wouldn't it? But I dunno. There's something off about all this. I can't quite put my finger on it, but...
Won't she get away?
Eh? Who do you mean?
Chrys. Ms. Scofield. If you don't go after her, won't she escape?
Naw. It's a wired world anymore. I already got an APB issued for her. If she's out there, we'll find her. In the meantime, I think I'll poke around some more. Is it okay with you if I look at the kitchen?
Of course.
The attic?
That too. There's nothing up there but Christmas ornaments and boxes of old textbooks, though.
How about the basement?
Look, if you're just going to stand around, playing twenty questions while the woman who murdered my master escapes....
Oh, I don't think we have to worry about that. I'm going to have a look at that basement now.
But why?
Because you so obviously want me not to. Let me present you with a hypothetical situation. Say a man kills a woman. It might be on purpose, it might be an accident, it hardly matters. In either case, he decides he doesn't want to face the music, so he makes a run for it. This the basement door?
You can see that it is.
Pretty dark down there. How come the light doesn't work?
It appears the bulb's burned out.
Huh. Well, here's a flashlight, anyway. It'll have to do. So the woman dies. For whatever reason, her medical card's not on her person. It'll be in her purse, on standby. If the guy places it in close proximity to his own body, it'll wake up thinking that he's her. Whoops. Say, you ought to get that stair fixed.
I've made a note of it.
Let's take a look at the lady's records. Yep, right there—lots of anomalous physical responses. She could be upset of course. Or it could be that the body the card was reading isn't hers. Now imagine that our hypothetical murderer—let's call him Jim—leaves the country. Since NAFTA-3, you don't need a passport to go to Mexico or Canada. Once there, he buys a new identity. Easy to do and untraceable, if you pay cash. Jeeze, there sure is a lot of clutter down here.
FSF, September-October 2010 Page 16