But if I had to go there to get here … Lord, it’s a good thing, I guess.
Turning toward the house, boots scraping the skillet-sized earth-sunken stones that formed the sidewalk, Mac wished the same thing he always did as he made his way up the wooden steps and across the width of the wraparound porch to the front screen door.
He wished that his uncle would be waiting for him inside.
A few inches shorter than Mac, but with a heart at least twice the size, Jake Lochen, his mother’s brother, was a man he enjoyed immensely. Truly a man to be admired, though not for his worldly status necessarily.
Years ago, in fact, when his parents confided that his uncle was ill and having trouble keeping up with payments on the farm, Mac had stepped in and paid off the mortgage. He couldn’t stand the idea of his uncle losing the property and not living out his final days there, finding whatever joy he could in his “piece of heaven on earth” as he fondly called it.
Of course, Mac couldn’t handle the thought of losing the farm either. Jake had taught him an awful lot on those ten acres when he was a young boy. He had many good memories of his visits there, and of his uncle, who never ceased giving him lessons on pitching. Lessons about life. And teaching him about God.
Mac had gone on to perfect his pitching just as his uncle had trained him, and was lucky enough to play in the major leagues, in his former hometown, no less. Problem was, as his pitching led him to more and more success and fame, he’d pretty much turned his back on everything else.
Making his way into the old farmhouse, he turned on the floor lamp sidled up against his uncle’s favorite worn leather chair. Mac hadn’t yet sat in that chair. He still had too clear a vision of his uncle sitting there, reading his Bible on summer mornings before they went out to toss. Or visions of Jake bent forward over a newspaper on the floor, whittling some knickknack or another on evenings when it was too brisk to be outside on the porch doing the same thing.
Instead Mac walked past it, shucking his spring jacket and removing his baseball cap, tossing them onto an antique church pew on the opposite wall. The pew had always been a catch-all for everything. Jackets, hats, baseball mitts. It was also the spot where his uncle parked his walking stick.
Uncle Jake had used a walking stick daily—long, long before he’d ever become ill. As a young boy, Mac had never understood since he couldn’t detect any problem with his uncle’s legs or gait.
“It’s a reminder,” his uncle told him when Mac, at about eight years of age, finally got up the nerve to ask.
“Reminder?” Mac had been totally confused. “Like of how to walk?”
“In a way.” His uncle chuckled. “It’s a reminder for me to depend on God. Not to try to make the walk alone.”
Mac picked up the walking stick, rubbing the smoothness of the carved pine, marveling not for the first time at his uncle’s talent. Jake had made many a walking stick and handed them out to friends and visitors alike. Some had intricately carved knobs and handles; others were awesome combinations of wood, braided and glazed like some fancy bakery bread. Just holding the walking stick in his hand also forced Mac to recall the essence of his uncle’s faith.
And to reflect on his own.
If only Uncle Jake were still around the see the changes in him since the accident! Not that the man had ever criticized him for his scandalous behavior—he never had. Jake Lochen never judged and rarely lectured. Instead, the very few occasions they’d spent any time together in the past years, Uncle Jake had only promised to pray for Mac.
“I’m trying, Uncle Jake,” Mac whispered into the silence. “God knows I’m trying.”
As he used his uncle’s walking stick to make his way upstairs to the bedroom, he thought about all the handicapped kids who were in need of assistance just to eat, walk, and barely play. Hopefully, his volunteering for the All-Stars Sports Day really could make a difference.
Hopefully, too, someday the Megan O’Donnell lady would look at him with a smile in those pretty blue eyes of hers. Instead of gazing at him in a distant way … unable to connect or trust.
Chapter 5
Oh Megan, I’m so glad you stopped in.”
Megan watched Janey slide a tray of Morning Glory muffins into the bakery case, making her decision even more difficult. Without fail, Sammy always asked for jelly doughnuts from her friend’s Sweet Sensations Bakery. But Megan couldn’t help eyeing all of the yummy choices and considering them. What should she get this time? A freshly-baked muffin? Or her usual cinnamon twist?
“It’s Saturday. Why wouldn’t I stop in?”
A visit to Janey’s bakery was part of her and Sammy’s Saturday morning routine. If the weather conditions were even so much as passable, she’d come in, chat with Janey, and gather up their order. Meanwhile Sammy waited outside right where he wanted to be, with his wheelchair parked on the edge of the community basketball court on the opposite side of the bike path. That put him in prime position to watch the groups of kids who gathered there to shoot hoops and play pickup games on their day off school. Generally kids who were used to him and the other way around.
Sammy enjoyed that time immensely and the bit of freedom that came with it. But so many times as Megan glanced out the bakery window and saw him sitting across the bike path in his wheelchair, on the sideline, unable to be a part of the action, an all-too familiar pang tugged at her heart. This morning was no exception.
“I just e-mailed you.” Janey pulled her from her thoughts. “I have pictures to show you.”
“Pictures?” Megan’s eyes darted between the muffins and doughnuts. “Pictures of what?”
“From the other night. At the meeting.” Her friend’s voice turned slightly accusing. “Megan, why didn’t you tell me MacNeill Hattaway was going to be there?”
Megan looked up to see Janey pull her hands to her hips. “I would’ve at least redone my makeup. Or brought cupcakes or something,” she prattled on. “Did I tell you he complimented my bear claws?” A proud smile erupted on her face.
Megan stared at her friend, blankly, mostly not understanding one wee bit why everyone seemed to care so much about what MacNeill Hattaway thought. Did everyone really need to hang on to his every last word?
“Janey, I don’t have time to look at pictures. Sammy’s over there at the basketball court, and—”
“It’ll only take a minute, I promise. Cindy Duncan wants a photo to accompany the press release she’s written for the Loveland Herald and the Cincinnati Enquirer. I thought you’d want to decide which photo it should be.”
“I’m sure you can choose, Janey. I trust your artistic eye.”
Truly, Megan wasn’t trying to heap undue flattery on her friend. Janey had always had a creative streak in everything she did. It was even obvious in the way she’d decorated her bakery. The shop was surprisingly unique, with an art deco style that was both striking and homey at the same time.
Plus, Megan flat out didn’t need to see pictures of MacNeill Hattaway. His face was already imprinted on her mind, thank you very much. And she would be seeing him at their next All-Stars meeting on Wednesday night. Wasn’t that soon enough?
But before she could protest any further, Janey dusted off her hands, pulling a digital camera out of her apron pocket.
“Seriously, Janey. Sammy’s out there. I really don’t have time. If I could just get my latte and our doughnuts?”
Glancing into the sunshine that poured in the bakery window, Janey waved toward the basketball court. “You worry about him too much, Meg. Sammy is less than ten yards away. He looks perfectly content. Perfectly comfortable.”
She followed Janey’s line of vision and knew it was true. Sammy did look fine. But the fact of the matter was, she wasn’t.
Even after nights and days of stewing, she still wasn’t comfortable at all with the entire Hattaway hubbub. And she really, truly didn’t care to see photos of her and him, standing side-by-side.
“I’m not making this decision
on my own,” Janey said firmly, coming from behind the bakery cases. “Besides,” she said with a giggle, “you should look at these pictures, for real. Hattaway’s so gorgeous and hunky. Maybe you’ll want to blow one up. Poster-sized.”
Right. Megan could barely refrain from rolling her eyes.
“Did I tell you Mac also likes my blueberry muffins?” Janey preened.
Megan wanted to groan. A few fast-flung compliments here and there, a couple of appearances at fundraisers, and soon MacNeill Hattaway would be up for sainthood, all of his past forgiven.
“He should. Your sweets are incredible, Janey. I’ve told you that a zillion times.” But somehow her compliments didn’t carry much weight. Not like Hattaway’s anyway.
In fact, Janey dismissed what she’d said with a wave of her hand and started up about the photos all over again. “Here. You have to look.” She thrust the camera’s screen in Megan’s face. “Don’t you two look great together? I’d thought of nabbing him for myself, but after I saw that picture of you two … well, guess I’ll have to find my own baseball star.”
Forced to look at the photos of Mac and her, Megan could readily see what Janey was talking about. They did look good together. Aesthetically speaking of course. And why wouldn’t they? Her dark hair contrasted perfectly with his sun-streaked blond. And his athletic look and build complemented the girl-next-door persona everyone always told her she exuded. Yes, they went together “picture perfectly” like two people in a car advertisement or something. Only, unfortunately, she wasn’t a model getting paid to smile. She’d forced that on her own.
“So which one?” Janey clicked through the series of pictures she’d taken.
“How about the first shot you showed me?” Did it matter?
“Oh, great. I like that one best.” Janey nodded with approval, sliding the camera back into her pocket. “I like the way Mac’s kind of looking at you in that picture. I’ll copy you on it when we send it to the newspaper so you can have a record.”
“Really, Janey, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you kidding? MacNeill Hattaway not a big deal?”
Megan couldn’t stand to hear it any longer. “Hey Janey, I hate to be a nudge, but I should be getting back to Sammy. Do you mind getting my latte and his doughnuts together? And I’ll take a cinnamon twist. I really hate leaving him alone for so long, you know?”
It was the perfect excuse, one she didn’t mind dredging up. Anything to remove herself from anymore talk of the local baseball hero. But as soon as the words left her mouth and she glanced out the window again at her son, the excuse had turned to reality.
“Oh my—” Words froze in her mouth. Her heart lurched in her chest.
In the short time she and Janey had been looking at photos, the younger kids had disappeared from the basketball court. Apparently, they’d been shooed off by a gang of teenaged boys who had taken over the area. That might have been more normal than frightening, except for the fact that the boys weren’t shooting hoops. In fact, she noticed the ball had rolled off past the edge of the court. And Sammy’s eyes were wide as the boys turned their focus on him and his wheelchair. In fact one of them stood behind the chair, rocking it back and forth, hoisting it up and down.
She wasn’t sure what was going on. But that was all she had to see. Heart pounding, her maternal instincts at full throttle, she bolted out the door.
Hands at his waist, Mac gazed up into the sunlight flickering through the branches of the birch trees lining the running path, trying to catch his breath.
Jogging three miles had never been so hard in his life! How he’d ever been as stupid as to get behind the wheel drunk all those months ago was certainly beyond him.
For at least the thousandth time he inwardly chided himself for ever being so irresponsible. For ever being so negligent as to cause the accident that left him with pins everywhere in his body—his ankles, his knee … and though his pitching elbow was healing, there was still the question if it would ever be completely right again.
These days it was hard to believe he’d ever been that dumb. But obviously he had been. Really dumb.
Shaking his head at himself, he glanced around at the serene setting, squinting at the glistening strip of river that ran along the jogging path.
Many a time, he’d heard his uncle talk about having a heart of gratitude. How a man needed to humble himself and realize where all good things came from. He finally knew what Uncle Jake had meant. Feelings of thankfulness came easy nowadays. Such as, he was thankful that he hadn’t hurt anyone else the night of the accident. Of course, he was also thankful that his life had been spared despite his recklessness. He’d really needed the chance he’d been given to reacquaint himself with the things that mattered in life. God being at the top of the list.
Claiming one of the iron benches off to the side of the path, he closed his eyes. Raising his face to the sun, he soaked in the warm, healing rays. But all too quickly the peacefulness of the moment was interrupted by jeering voices. Most likely coming from teenaged boys, he guessed.
Slowly opening one eye, he glanced in the direction of the disruptive sound. Yeah, there was a tribe of them, all right, all huddled together on the basketball court that flanked the jogging path.
Only … whatever they were up to didn’t look like anything good.
His other eye shot open.
Not a one of them was dribbling the ball. Actually not a one of them had a basketball in their hands. In fact, the only ball in sight had rolled over onto the grass. And there was a wheelchair he could see, right in the middle of the noisy bunch.
Could it be—? He peered more closely.
It was! Megan’s son sat in the wheelchair, in the center of the group. And it looked like the boys were moving in on him, on—what did Megan say his name was again?
Sammy. She had called her son Sammy the night the two of them had stood out in the pouring rain together, her finger nearly jabbing his chest.
Instinctively, Mac’s jaws tightened. So did his fists. Whether it was Sammy or not, the idea of a bunch of boys ganging up on a defenseless kid made him crazy. Hustling toward the court in long, quick strides, he struggled to keep his temper in check. But it wasn’t easy—especially when the kid behind the wheelchair kept jostling the thing, acting like he was going to dump Sammy out of it.
The name MacNeill Hattaway might’ve been synonymous with a lot of rotten things in the past—but “bully” wasn’t one of them. It was also something he had never tolerated very well. Not since he’d been friends with a neighbor kid Robbie, who had Coke-bottle glasses and had always been picked last in gym.
“Hey guys.” He stepped onto the court and crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his closed fists under his armpits. “What’s going on here?”
“Who wants to know?” The tall, lanky kid standing behind Sammy’s wheelchair didn’t even bother looking up from under the oversized cap, sunk down over his eyes and face.
Even so, Mac leveled his eyes at the kid, felt his teeth clench. “I do,” he ground out.
But the kid didn’t flinch. Kept his eyes downward. “Don’t worry, dude. He likes it. He’s my kid brother.” He nodded toward Sammy.
“Brother, huh?”
“Yeah.” The kid shrugged. “Brother.”
Mac eyed the other boys, who for the most part, couldn’t keep from smirking. He shot the kid another stone-cold expression, but again the kid wasn’t looking anyway. “So what’s your last name, dude?” he repeated the boy’s own word emphatically.
“Smith.” The kid didn’t skip a beat.
“Yeah? Smith, huh? That’s interesting.”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because that’s not his name.”
“Oh, right. Like you know his name? Who are you, the bike path police or something?” The teenager snorted at his own not-so-clever joke, and then glanced around in search of his friends’ knowing grins. Mac figured him to be the ringleader of
the group since most of the boys chuckled along with him.
“His name is Sammy O’Donnell.”
“Wha?” Sammy, who had been sitting stiffly, not moving an inch, slowly turned his head toward Mac’s voice, coming face-to-face with him. “You know my name?”
“Yes, I do, Sammy.”
“Hey.” Sammy’s face lit up suddenly. “I know you name, too.”
“He talks weird,” Mac heard one of the boys in the group say.
“Probably because he is weird.” Another smart-aleck boy answered back.
But Sammy didn’t appear to hear the jibes from the boys. “You MaaNil. MaaNil Haa-away.” His tense face broke into a smile.
“What?” Unable to contain his surprise, the boy behind the chair finally looked straight up at Mac. “It’s you.”
Mac recognized the teen right away and snatched the concealing hat off his head. “Reese? Reese Calvin. Are you serious? What do you think you’re doing?”
What’s going on now?
Megan stopped and froze just yards from the basketball court, her heart still pounding. It was all she could do to stand back for a moment and not run the rest of the way to Sammy’s defense. But it looked like MacNeill Hattaway, of all people, had already done that.
When she’d sprinted down the bakery steps and across the bike path, she’d seen a man jogging up to her son. Fit looking, in running shorts and a sweatshirt. Tall, and towering over the teenagers and Sammy’s wheelchair. The man had looked familiar from a distance. But she’d never dreamed it would be Hattaway.
Wedding Homerun in Loveland, Ohio Page 5