Home Run

by Dave Lawrence

  “It’s okay, Brad, it’s okay,” Jose repeated softly, his voice showing no sign of impatience or irritation. This was not how superstar sporting heroes behaved, surely, Brad thought to himself? Yet here Jose was, demonstrating a father’s concern for him. Brad desperately wanted to cry, to let out his grief. He wanted Jose to call back later, but how could he possibly ask him to do that? His embarrassment grew more acute.

  “Be strong, Brad. It’s okay to cry.” What is this, Brad thought to himself? Jose isn’t just the greatest hitter and baseball player of all time, he’s a skilled therapist as well. After an interminable minute, which to Brad felt like two hours, he regained control. “I’m sorry, Jose.”

  “Don’t apologise. Listen, this evening I was with Padre Juan Carlos and Terry Finn, you remember them from Good Shepherd Centre? We prayed for you and Jordan.” Brad waited, intrigued. “They had a message for you: Don’t look for Jordan down false paths.” Brad reeled. The two consecutive phone calls directly after booking the Master Channelist presented an extraordinary coincidence. “I will pray for Jordan, Brad. Be strong! Entrust him to the mercy of God, amigo. Don’t do anything crazy.” More silent tears rolled down Brad’s cheeks. “Nothing crazy, okay, amigo?” Brad nodded. A feeble “Yes” passed his lips. “Good! We’re praying for you. And Brad, see you in New York. Congratulations.” He hung up, leaving Brad dizzy.

  In the hours that passed, Brad picked up the phone a dozen times to cancel his booking with the Master Channelist. A growing sense of unease filled him at the thought of his 3pm appointment. What was the big deal? Why did his grandmother and Jose call out of the blue, worried, after praying for him? That was spooky. No way could they be in league together. But the coincidence was extraordinary – more than extraordinary. Is this what this religious stuff is about? Was this somehow God? Did Jordan have some special experience of God that led him, while on holidays on the other side of the world, to a church in Cairo on a Saturday night?

  At midday Brad succumbed to his hunch. He decided to cancel and felt immediate relief. He dialled and explained the purpose of his call, but the receptionist smoothly transferred the line to Aurora Runestones, the Master Channelist, who calmly explained the natural reservations Brad was experiencing exuded a positive sign of spiritual reverberations that augured well for the meeting. It showed Jordan had important, urgent things to say. “You mustn’t back down now, Brad.” Confusion and turmoil filled Brad’s mind. “It’s very normal what you’re going through, Brad. The spiritual force is unmistakable. It’s a very good sign.”

  Brad breathed in deeply, a natural habit for him when under pressure, one that stood him in good stead in tight situations on the baseball pitch. He instinctively knew when pressure was being applied to him, and stood back from the situation, taking out emotions in order to make a rational decision. Why did he call the channelist? To see Jordan. Is that a good thing? He could see no reason why not, unless this channelist was a fraud. Was Brad happy to take that risk? Yes. Then why the agitation? Was it because of his gran’s and Jose’s calls, and this Terry bloke who’s message was not to look for Jordan down false paths? Definitely, that played a part – his instincts knew both these people, who he valued and cared for, would not approve of a channelist or clairvoyant. The disparaging remarks by Aunt Shirley only two nights ago about star signs was enough to convince Brad of that. But was that sufficient reason not to see the channelist? Logically, no. It was simply their opinion. Brad valued them as people, but there was no evidence to say they were right. Yes, the coincidence of Jose’s and gran’s calls was compelling, but what did it actually prove? And his own hunch? Why the sense of relief when he decided to cancel? Was he subconsciously afraid of speaking to Jordan from somewhere beyond the grave? Would it somehow turn his world upside down? Yes, there was the fear of that. Is fear a good emotion? No. Was the agitation a sign of a healthy sense of self-protection? Possibly.

  Aurora Runestones’ confident voice came through the other end of the line, laced with a strangely persuasive tone. “Brad, you can’t let your friend down like this.” The filter of Brad’s mind dismissed the statement as nothing more than unsubstantiated hearsay, the bread and butter of what a master clairvoyant would say when a potential customer wriggled out of an appointment like a fish escaping a hook. Yet, what if he was right? What if Jordan did desperately want to speak to him? That made perfect sense. Of course Jordan would want to talk to his best friend, even more from the afterlife. Jordan would have fascinating things to blurt out, including possibly who his murderers were.

  But why weren’t people contacting dead friends and family members all the time? If these channelists and clairvoyants could in fact arrange this, why wasn’t it common knowledge? Why didn’t everybody do it? Why is confusion and lack of certainty rife in the world about what happens after death? If it was genuine, surely these clairvoyants would all be multi-millionaires and there’d be thousands of them. Why didn’t schools run classes about how to contact the dead? Why didn’t universities offer degrees in it or TAFE offer courses in it? Wouldn’t the whole world know about life after death if people genuinely knew about these things? At the end of the day, what if it wasn’t really Jordan who he spoke to, but some sort of imposter? Brad countered that with the thought that he could ask Jordan about stuff only Jordan would know. That would prove it. “Brad, I also must point out that cancellations on the afternoon of the same day of the appointment attract a $200 cancellation fee!”

  “But I only made the appointment a few hours ago.”

  “That’s our policy. We enforce it in the civil courts. I have your details.” Brad cursed the fact he’d been stitched up. He’d already given his dad’s credit card details as surety, as well as his home address and mobile number. “You may as well come in, Brad.” Aurora’s voice resumed its confident, reassuring tone. “You know you want to speak to Jordan. You know he wants to speak to you. I will make that happen. Come, I’ll see you shortly.” Aurora hung up.

  Brad breathed deeply again. He had nothing to lose; not now, anyway. He quickly walked outside to catch the bus taking him to the train station. From there he figured he had a twenty minute walk. He would just make it. On the way Brad checked the bus timetable on his mobile. He walked briskly, not wanting to cut it too fine, despite the fact the bus often ran several minutes late. He also wanted to be calm and composed, so arriving early at Aurora Runestones’ place wouldn’t be such a bad thing. At the bus stop, an elderly lady sat on the sheltered bench with her handbag on her lap, casting suspicious glances at Brad from time to time. Brad had no idea why. Shortly afterwards another woman arrived with her young boy. Brad checked the time every minute or so. Typically, the bus was running late.

  Five minutes after scheduled time, the lumbering bus picked up its passengers, stopping at every maddening stop till they finally reached the train station. Brad raced down the platform ramp. The electronic display board indicated he missed his train by one minute. The next one was scheduled to arrive in twenty five minutes, meaning he’d have to run from the station to make the appointment in time. That was an irritation, given he wanted to be calm, but at least he’d make it. The last thing he wanted was a $200 bill without even seeing the channelist. He’d have to explain the credit card payment to his dad either way, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Brad still fumed over how his parents treated Jordan on the last horrible night when they kicked him out the house. The fact that Hank hadn’t contacted Otto and Sylvia the whole time they were overseas spoke volumes. Normally Otto would have received daily images of local beauties, although he probably would’ve stuck with the exotic animals given the circumstances of this particular holiday.

  Brad paced up and down the platform, occasionally checking his phone. When the train still hadn’t arrived twenty seconds after scheduled time, he swore under his breath. The tracks could be seen stretching half a kilometre and still no train. At this rate, he’d have to pay that stupid clairvoyant a massive $200, and yet not
even communicate with Jordan. Brad furiously thought of his options. He called the clairvoyant to say he could be late and was more warned than encouraged by the receptionist to get there as soon as he could. A barely intelligible voice erupted from the station loud speakers. With great difficulty Brad made out the announcement the second time it blared. His train had been cancelled. Swearing loudly, Brad raced up the ramp to catch a taxi. He was just about to ring when he spotted one, hailed it down, gave the street address and asked the driver to step on it. Brad thought of better ways to spend his money, then realised how much his contract was worth. Still, parting with all that cash in his wallet on a taxi wasn’t easy. The meter ticked over more than expected when an accident abruptly halted their progress. A garbage truck lodged itself between two cars in a narrow one-way street. Only with the crushing of metal on metal was the truck finally able to grind past, bringing owners and neighbours rushing out at the cacophony. Abuse followed abuse as numbers were exchanged. Meanwhile half a dozen cars followed the cab through the wreckage, some hurling obscenities on their way past at the garbage truck or the vehicle owners who had parked so inconsiderately. Ten minutes later they sped off.

  Finally they arrived. Brad hadn’t thought to look at the meter. It was the first time he’d ever taken a taxi. $125.75. “I’m sorry, driver, I only have $55.” Brad opened his wallet to prove it.

  “No, you pay this!” The driver pointed to the meter, his face flushed with anger.

  “I didn’t expect it would cost this much. We were delayed for fifteen minutes at the accident,” Brad stated calmly.

  The driver’s eyes narrowed. “You pay this,” he thundered. “You pay meter.”

  “I can’t. I’ve only got $55.” The driver’s nostrils flared. He rolled up his sleeves. Brad decided to defend himself if need be. He figured he could easily overpower the weedy driver. “You can’t charge me for the traffic jam.” The driver lunged. Brad deftly thrust the driver’s arms into the roof of the cab with a violent thud. He shrieked like a madman. Brad dropped a note onto the dashboard and jumped out the vehicle. He slammed the door and ran in the opposite direction so as not to give away his whereabouts. Although he’d already given the destination address, he hadn’t given the suite number, and by the look of the building there were dozens of offices. The driver screeched off in a dark fury. Brad ran back. He took the stairs five at a time, ignoring the elevator. Three floors in twelve seconds.

  Panting and puffing like a picture perfect Peter Pan, Brad pounced past the pot plants placed precariously on the precipice of the painted pavings and proudly pointed his pinky past the porcelain pixie, proclaiming a precise arrival at the appointed place. “Made it!”

  The receptionist area was full of eclectic furniture and smells. Porcelain pixies and unicorns populated the room. Incense rose from hanging burners and merged with the aromas of scented candles and oil burners to produce a heady, relaxing sensation, augmented with a strange, haunting music. Painted pavings on the floor intermingled with painted murals on the walls creating a cosmology of new age symbols everywhere one looked – pentagrams, moons, half-moons, suns, wizards, covens and lightning bolts, seeing eyes and mysterious runes along with a thousand more symbols and images. An exotic assortment of plants and creepers haphazardly dotted the room lining a raised walkway leading from the office door to the reception area. Beside a comfortable red couch an artistic waterfall structure flowed into a sparkling pond filled with lilies and goldfish. Patterned brickwork forming an arch invited searchers of the deceased down the corridor to the hallowed consulting suite of Aurora Runestone, Master Channelist.

  Brad did a double take. Seated on the red couch was a thin woman in a colourful dress with long green socks and old shoes. Her nose, lips and ears testified to her love of piercings. She held in her lap a mongrel dog with an angry look about it. It gazed at Brad unkindly, almost looking for a reason to attack him.

  The receptionist was a large middle aged woman wearing earrings the size of basketball hoops. She sported peroxide-blonde hair streaked with green and purple. She was heavily made up and reminded Brad of a clown, not from a circus but a horror movie. She gazed at him out of hungry eyes. “Brad Newton?” The voice was raspy, like it could smooth the edges off a rough wooden beam. Incense smoke rose heavily around her. Was she seated inside a boiling cauldron, Brad couldn’t help but imagine?

  “Yes,” Brad answered simply.

  “How would you like to pay?” The abruptness of the question stunned him.

  “Um, by credit card.”

  She flicked through papers on her desk, punching digits into her computer at light speed. The printer produced a receipt. She presented it to Brad, at the same time extending her open palm toward the couch. “Please take a seat.”

  Brad carefully negotiated his way off the raised walkway across the painted pavers, but thought better of sitting within biting distance of the mongrel, now growling softly at Brad as he stood to one side and studied the goldfish. A moment later a smiling Aurora Runestone appeared under the patterned brickwork. His whitened teeth lit up a handsome, square-jawed face. His smart casual outfit would have seen him comfortably fit into any exclusive golf club or corporate social event. He was well built and larger than average height, with piercing blue eyes and perfectly neat dark hair. He was more a successful looking life coach than a Master Channelist, Brad would have thought, although he had to admit he’d never met either of those types of people. “You’ve come to the right place, Brad,” Aurora’s deep, resonant voice crowed.

  Suddenly and inexplicably the mongrel jumped off its owner’s lap. It raced aggressively toward Aurora, barking loudly. Aurora instinctively jumped backwards, bumping into a porcelain pixie to his left. It splintered into a thousand pieces. The dog lunged and viciously closed its jaws around Aurora’s leg. The dog-owner screamed.

  “Call the bitch off!” shouted Aurora. But the dog snapped its jaws a second time before jumping back. It stood its ground, growling. Aurora kicked the dog’s face and quickly jumped back. He tripped, landing in the goldfish bowl with a splash and a sickening thud. The receptionist screamed blue murder. Blood seeped into the clear water of the pond from the back of Aurora’s head. Brad froze. Aurora did not move. The dog-owner grabbed her mutt and scurried to the door. She turned around for one last look at the carnage her dog had caused, then bolted. The receptionist screamed again. “Call the ambulance,” Brad shouted. The receptionist jumped on the phone and dialled 000. The curious goldfish cautiously moved toward the ever-expanding cloud of blood. They immediately darted away. Aurora’s crumpled, untidy body remained motionless, half in the water and half out. The horrible thought struck Brad that he could be dead. Brad bounded out the front door, passing from door to door yelling: “Help! First aid! Emergency!”

  Sitting in his grandmother’s lounge with a cup of herbal tea in his hand, Brad recounted the event to his grandmother, who didn’t say a word. She held his hand in hers. “It’s like I was destined not to see that guy,” Brad said, immediately going quiet as he tried to piece all the pieces of the puzzle together. Finally, he said: “I hung around till the ambulance came. By then he’d come to. His receptionist wrapped his head in a towel and he just sat there in the fishbowl, waiting.”

  “You’re safe, that’s the main thing.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be, Gran? He’s the one that had the fall. I wonder if he’ll take civil action against that dog?”

  “Darling, I know you don’t see anything wrong with consulting these people, but the fact is, they don’t work for God. If, as is sometimes the case, they are able to do things or have access to knowledge that wouldn’t be possible ordinarily, that power doesn’t come from God. So where do you think it comes from? God has made it clear he doesn’t want us to see people like that, for our own good. It’s playing with fire, because no matter how genuine or innocent it seems, it’s dabbling in the occult. The way the devil operates is to present something evil in the guise of goodness, to f
ool innocent and unsuspecting people. In the end, no good comes from it. In the worst case scenarios, people get possessed.”

  “Gran, do you seriously believe in the devil and possession?”

  “Yes.”

  Brad said nothing. Who was he to argue with an old woman who knew about these things? Still, could she be simply swayed by her religion and therefore believe whatever they told her? He would love to know about these things; whether God was real or not. Jose said he was praying for Jordan. So he believed Jordan was still somewhere. Will I ever see Jordan again? Will I ever know the truth about life? “It will come,” his Gran said reassuringly, as if she read his mind. “Just have faith.”

  For the rest of the week Brad stayed with his grandmother. He still couldn’t face school. He didn’t want to see his parents. He spoke to Rod on the phone several times a day. Rod came over for dinner one night.

  “Hank arrived in Melbourne yesterday,” Rod said delicately. Brad froze. “He’s having a funeral service.” The eyes of his grandmother rested on him. Clearly Brad was not expecting anything like this. Rod allowed Brad to take in the news. “No bodies were brought back.” Rod’s words painted a picture that needed no explanation. No bodies, because the bomb annihilated them. Brad imagined himself stronger over the past few days, spending time with his grandmother, often in the peaceful silence, not going to school, not having his doting parents around, and coming to believe the incredible reality that huge hope lay in Jose’s saying that life was more than baseball. Jose believed in God and he was praying for Jordan. He, Gran and Shirley truly believed Jordan was in the care of God, that even though he was dead, Jesus made death simply a transition from one state of life to another. Surely this was too good to be true, but Brad was warming to the idea. Now this news. The hatred for these cowards resurfaced with a vengeance. “Hank wants you to come.”