by Daniel Perry
Jessie takes a few steps away from the car, covering her face with both hands. She exhales and lets her hands fall to her sides. The pink was nothing compared to the purple that’s darkening below her eye. “Fuck it,” she says, narrowing her gaze at me. “I know I look good with a shiner.” It suits her and her dingy red flip flops, toenails unpainted, bare legs under blue jean cut-offs and — no one’s perfect — a faded black Doors T-shirt she’s cut the neck out of. It sits off her shoulders and unabashedly shows a white strap. Her hair is down. In her hand is a tiny red purse, barely bigger than the pack of cigarettes she pulls from it. She plucks one and puts it between her over-sticked lips, red, too. She lights up.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
She bends over and opens the cooler. Bottles clink and ice rumbles. She stands up with her smoke pinched in her mouth, two beers in one hand as the other twists the caps, flicks them to the ground. She gives one bottle to Stella then lifts a hand to her mouth, lowering the cigarette to swig from the beer. Her hands finally come to rest at her sides again.
It is a good look for her.
BRIAN’S ARM IS across my chest when his watch alarm starts beeping. I’m soaked in sweat, and I didn’t even sleep in the bag, just on it. We unzipped all the windows before passing out, but two guys and fourteen beers do this to a tent. It reeks. With my head pounding, I lift his wrist and crawl to the door. I open the flap and squirm out then walk barefoot on the grass toward the house. I open the screen door gently to temper its squeal, remembering that Jessie and Stella disappeared into the house after just one drink and might still be asleep. But as I enter through the laundry room I hear the shower running. I turn into the kitchen. Stella sits at the table flipping pages in a magazine.
“I got her a towel,” she says. “A yellow one. From the hall closet. Is that okay?”
“It’s fine.”
She doesn’t look up from the magazine.
“We’ll go once she’s out.”
“Go where?” I ask.
“Hank’s leaving with the twins this morning, for the Lake.” She glances side-to-side, as though we’re being watched. “We’ll have breakfast at Don’s to wait him out, then I’ll drop Jessie off.”
“Hank’s leaving her home alone?”
Stella rolls her eyes.
“It was supposed to be a trust exercise ... but yeah.”
The judge had also ordered counselling.
“But it was him who hit her, right?” I ask.
Stella nods.
“Why?”
She shakes her head.
“You wouldn’t believe me, and I can’t tell you anyway.” She fumbles in her purse for her car keys. “You guys hungry?” she asks. “I’ll drive you back after.”
From the bathroom, the shower sound stops. In my mind I see Jessie take the towel from the rack. She dries her feet first and steps over the tub’s edge now, wrapping the towel under her armpits, lifting out the wet hair that gets squeezed against her shoulders and letting it fall. Yellow’s not her colour. She should take the towel off again.
“Mike?” Stella asks.
“Yeah,” I say, back to reality. “Sounds good.”
DON’S BREAKFAST IS full of farmers — retired farmers — like it is every Saturday. They’ve eaten here every weekend of their adult lives, at the same tables every time, gawking at generations of young people. When we sit down to fat and salt plates to flush the night before away, people whisper about our mismatched socks (Brian), our messy hair (me), or our wrinkled clothes (Jessie, who clearly slept in the T-shirt). Stella’s the only one who looks half-decent, having packed before she left home. We feel the stares as we walk to a booth at the back, though it could be worse: most times, we wait on display in the vestibule. About all Don can cook is a fried egg sandwich, but on Saturdays the line-up’s out the door regardless.
Brian and I each get the Strapping Lad, three of everything: eggs, sausages, bacon and ham slices, with toast and homefries on the side. Stella gets the sandwich and Jessie gets nothing, just a coffee when grouchy old Marlene says: “Something to drink, at least?” before she and her change pouch jingle off and leave our table in silence, the kind that would go unnoticed most hangover mornings but looms like a funnel cloud across from Jessie and her still-puffy eye. The coffee arrives, and then our plates. Jessie watches us devour our meals. I convince her to have a slice of my toast. She turns down the jam. When we finish our food Brian and I stare at Jessie. Stella stares at us. The farmers are still staring at our table. Jessie glances at each of us in turn.
“Done?” she asks.
We look to each other, to agree that we are, but before we answer Jessie has pushed herself up with her hands and brought her feet onto the bench. She stands and steps onto the table and screams: “I had an abortion, and my father hit me for it!”
Forks clatter down on plates. Conversations end. Jessie jumps down, kind of whimpers and runs to the front door and out. Stella and I each throw a twenty on the table, way more than the bill will come to; we forget the change and hurry after, finding Jessie in Stella’s passenger seat. We join her in the car and leave Currie, down the Sixth Concession toward Waubnakee.
When we’re out of town, I lean forward and ask: “Who told him?”
Jessie sighs, doesn’t look back. “Mitchell himself. After ball one night.”
Chad Mitchell. Captain and starting catcher for Currie Blue, and a star now in Men’s League, the only one that scouts out here. I didn’t think he and Jessie were together, but I guess they are. Or were. I hope it’s were.
Jessie turns and looks out her window. She exhales.
“Hank and I were doing so well, too.”
In the cluttered yard in front of the Muellers’ leaning, mint-coloured house, we don’t see the baby-blue truck. Stella pulls the car off just past the long laneway, to back in. She keeps it running. When Jessie gets out she leaves her door open. We wait in silence as she enters the house, holding our breath till she emerges again. She flashes a thumbs-up. No Hank, no speeding escape. No chase down gravel roads.
THE MEN’S TEAM is in first place going into the playoffs. The final game is Labour Day Sunday, like always, but it’s at night, pushed back by the girls’ year-end tournament, which rotates between Currie and Somewhere Else; as the new team this year, Waubnakee is Somewhere Else.
The girls’ last regular season game was their best, a 2–1 loss to Blue. The twins have played even better since Hank began coaching, as of the first game after Lake Week. He yells a lot — “Rebecca! Two hands!” or “Dammit, Stacey! Choke up!” — but it’s working for them. And though the other girls haven’t improved much, a shortstop, a centre-fielder and decent pitching can really carry a team: we finished a distant second to Blue, one win ahead of White.
I get to the diamond early, to unlock the equipment shed behind the backstop so Bill the umpire can start spiking the bases down. Hank’s already on the field when I arrive, wearing his Wanderers jersey and leading the twins in furious jumping jacks. I sit on the bleachers and watch. Shawn’s van drives up and Christine and Samantha jump out the side door. They jog to the field. Shawn shakes his head as he approaches, rolled up bat rack in hand. His eyes dart side-to-side, then he smiles.
“Hammerin’ Hank.” He shrugs. “What can you do?” He hands me the schedule the league office sent him and I walk it to the snack bar. I take the cover off the chalkboard beside the window and begin posting game times. To my left, a voice, not Jessie’s, asks, “Can you give me a hand?” It’s her mom, Jane Mueller, who coaches figure skating in Currie and who’s been running the canteen for a month now. I hold one corner of the flap as she undoes the padlock. We lower the plywood together.
“Thank you,” she says, adjusting her glasses.
I say, “No problem.” She lingers a moment, expecting small talk, I think, but I don’t say more. I haven’t seen Jessie since that morning at Don’s, and I haven’t ask
ed — I wouldn’t dare with Hank so close.
Brian told me, though, after Stella told him: Jessie’s a free woman again.
WAUBNAKEE PLAYS THE first game, against the team from the Reserve. I say it that way because everyone else calls them the Reds or the Indians, and the league has decked them out in knock-off Cleveland gear that’s even more embarrassing than the mismatched, second-hand ball pants and raglans all their teams wear. Only two adults accompany the girls, one to coach and the other to drive their rusty mini school bus. Our team takes the field for the top of the first and I know that today, we’ll do the mercying.
Hank made it a verb in his speech before the game.
“Remember how it felt to get mercied?” He gestured to three keeners from Blue in the bleachers, here early enough to see our game. “They know you’re comin’,” he said. “And we almost beat ‘em last time.” He paused for effect. “Run up the score here. Send a message.”
In the bottom of three, the girls walk off the field with the score 15–0 for us. No matter how bad you’ve got it, someone’s always got it worse.
I’M WATCHING OUR second game closely, from the coach’s box at third base. We’re up 7–5 in the fourth, runner on third, one out, when behind right field, the baby blue pickup pulls in; Hank’s on the bench, though. He and the girls came in the Muellers’ minivan. The truck door opens and Jessie steps down, slamming it behind her. She walks toward the diamond in a fuchsia golf shirt. What’s left of her hair is short and parted to one side, more conservative but more punk rock than before (black eye notwithstanding). Watching her, I don’t hear a deep foul ball ping, well over my head and still in play. White’s leftfielder races toward the fence and crashes in, catching it. From the bench, Hank hollers, “Tag! Tag!”
The runner, Melissa, looks at me quizzically.
I yell, “Yes! Run! That means run!”
She pushes off and starts toward home, getting to the plate just before the throw without sliding. Most of the girls are still scared to slide. On the back of my neck I feel Hank’s laser eyes, but I don’t turn to look at the bench.
Jessie’s just sat down in the bleachers.
She waves at me, ever so slightly.
IN THE TOP of the last inning, with two out, White scores two runs on a double by a speedy redhead. It closes the gap to 8–7. The next batter steps in and from the bench White’s players sing “H-O, H-O-M, H-O-M-E, R-U-N” and clap their hands. The batter, short with long brown hair, swings at the first pitch and scuffs it. The ball rolls slowly toward third base, barely past the pitcher. Rebecca charges hard and calls off Christine — “Mine! Mine!” — before scooping it and whipping it off-balance to Melissa at first base, beating the runner by half a step and ending the game. Our girls run onto the field and celebrate around the bag, throwing their gloves in the air and cheering. They’re through to the final. As they line up at the plate for the handshake, my shoulder is shoved from behind and I stumble. I turn around. Hank stands with his arms folded, hat in his hand, nostrils flaring.
“Get your head in the game, Carrion,” he says, poking my chest. “Your real dad would be so disappointed. We nearly didn’t score that. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“These girls have to win,” he says. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “You understand?”
I nod.
“What?” he barks.
“Yes,” I say, straightening my spine and lifting my head, which is finally enough for him. He replaces his cap and stalks off toward Shawn. They talk in low tones then head for Shawn’s van. I walk to the bleachers and sit beside Jessie. Around us, Blue’s players are rising from their seats, gathering their equipment. We stay silent as Blue takes the field and one of their girls starts batting grounders to a few teammates on the base paths. Our players have begun walking toward the parking lot, where they’ll get into parents’ vehicles and ride to Shawn’s place for barbecued hamburgers before the final. Passing them the other way is the Reserve team, leaving the rusty bus for a last, meaningless game. I watch absently as they sleepwalk toward the diamond.
Jessie exhales heavily.
“What?” I ask.
She turns to me, then looks away again.
“No,” she says. “It’s too corny.”
“Come on. What?” I ask again.
“Well,” she says, “it’s just ... this has been really good for Rebecca and Stacey ... and for the other girls, too. I mean, something to throw themselves into, and ...”
“And what?”
“And it makes me wonder if things could have been different for me.”
She leans forward to pick a few blades of grass and tosses them up, letting the breeze take them.
“Hank always wanted me to play, too,” she says. “On the boys’ team.”
I imagine her sliding in a dust cloud at second base — cleats up — with a black stripe under each eye. She stands and dusts herself off, nodding back at me first base. (I moved her over, hustling out the bunt.)
She’s waiting for me to say something.
“Why didn’t you?” I ask.
She looks in my eyes an extra long moment.
“I’ll skate for Mom,” she says, “but I fucking hate softball.”
I reach over and take her hand. She doesn’t flinch but she says, “Not here.” She rises from her seat. I stand and follow her along the first-base fence to Hank’s pickup. My pickup. Jessie takes a crowded ring of keys from her purse. She puts one in my door.
“He left you the truck?”
“His ball equipment, too,” she says, smiling, unlocking it.
“Trust exercise?”
“It is now,” she says.
I pull my door shut as she gets behind the wheel. She starts the engine and reaches for Hank’s Rothmans on the dashboard, putting one in her mouth and offering me the pack. I’ve been trying not to smoke but I take one, which she lights for me. I breathe in and cough. She cracks the window and shifts the truck into drive. We turn off the park laneway at the museum, onto Waubnakee’s one backstreet, and then we accelerate onto Seventeen. We vault the tracks in front of my house. Jessie keeps the pedal depressed. My knuckles go white around the armrest on the door.
“Relax,” she says. “I have my licence.”
Same grade but a year older, I remember.
“Where are we going?” I ask. She doesn’t answer or even glance away from the windshield.
“What happened to you, Jessie? Where have you been?”
She pulls the last drag off her cigarette and throws it out the window. She finally takes her eyes off the road.
“Don’t laugh,” she says.
“I won’t.”
“Bible Camp.” I keep my promise and let Jessie break first. Her laugh is loud, too loud, and it scares me. It sounds hungry. “The day after I saw you, when my parents came home ... they drove me there. Four weeks. I got back yesterday.”
“And Mitchell?” I ask.
She turns to me again, eyes wide, mad.
“What about him?”
“Did you two talk about — ”
“No,” she says. “Not really. He’s moving to Sarnia. He thinks he broke up with me, but ...”
“But?”
“We haven’t talked,” she says. “Not since he drove me London to — ” She pauses. “The baby.”
We near the dirt road along the Waubnakee River — the cleverly named River Road — and turn onto it, following it until it can’t help but cross, just outside of Currie. Jessie stops the truck on the clattering steel bridge, so close to the barrier that she nearly scrapes it, trapping me inside the cab. If I want out, I’ll have to go through her, but she leads, opening her door and jumping down. I hear the tailgate clang and the truck’s old springs groan. Her footsteps echo in the chassis. I open the back window to talk to her, but when I see her I know she won’t answer. She stands staring down at Hank’s equipment bag. A frog
croaks. Suddenly — violently — Jessie bends and lifts the bag by its straps, swaying a moment before she screams, low and throaty, “I hate you!” and throws it over the railing. She loses her balance and thuds on the truck floor. The bats and balls clunk on the rocks. The river’s nearly dry this late in summer.
“He’s going to kill you,” I say.
Jessie shakes her head.
“Everyone knows, now,” she says. She sniffs. “All he can do is send me away again.”
She lifts one foot over the side of the box, and using the tire as a foothold she jumps down.
“Is that what you want?”
As though she doesn’t hear, Jessie walks to her still-open door. She lifts off her shirt and throws it in at me as she steps up from the running board, crawls over my legs. She reaches for my fly. The sun’s in my eyes the whole time, and afterward we listen to the shallow water below us burble softly, like it’s washing us clean.
JESSIE LETS ME out at the end of the park lane, on her way home to pack what she can. A few Waubnakee parents are already parked in the lot so we don’t kiss goodbye. I make up something to tell Shawn about where I’ve been, but when I get to the bench he doesn’t ask.
After warm-up, Hank herds the girls into the cage. He stands in the doorway and talks of trophies and execution. Shawn and I flank him and add nothing.
“And last thing,” Hank says. “Nobody — I mean nobody — swings at the first pitch. If you do, you sit the next inning. It’s discipline. Make her throw you strikes.”
Blue’s the top seed, so they’re the home team. Their pitcher comes out tired in the top of the first, starting her third game today. She throws twelve straight balls, which loads the bases. Rebecca steps in next and clears them with a triple: second pitch, a fast one, way outside. She calls, “Come on, Stace,” as her sister picks up a bat. The first pitch to Stacey comes in slower than it should, straight down the pipe, and she swings and powers the ball over the outfielders. It booms off the black tile atop the fence, inches from where Hank usually puts it, and the ball caroms back past the centre fielder, who chases in vain. The easy home run is Stacey’s first, it makes the score 5–0, and if the plaque-‘n’-shack museum would make some room it would be enshrined as the Girls’ League distance record, too. At the plate, Rebecca waits and slaps her sister high-ten. The grinning twins return to the bench, where the team has lined up to greet them. Hank waits behind the fence and glares. Stacey meets his eyes. Her smile disintegrates. She slumps and drags her feet as she walks off the field, arms lowered, ignoring the raised hands greeting her. The girls stand aside and let Stacey shuffle down the bench in silence. The whole team turns and stares at scowling Hank, who ignores them and looks at his clipboard.