by Cathy Day
She sat on the icy toilet. "Take them home and wash them. Make sure it's cold water. Not hot."
"How do you know that?" he asked.
Laura gave him a withering look. "My dad owns a laundry. Plus, I'm a girl."
"Oh, right."
She watched Ethan stride into the bedroom, strip the bed, and remake it without sheets. Maybe seeing this, her naked boyfriend bent over the bed, should have filled Laura with warm, domestic thoughts, but it didn't. She made a sanitary pad out of toilet paper and laid it in the crotch of her underwear. If she asked, would Ethan give her his handkerchief for this purpose? Yes, he probably would, and it made her feel sorry for him.
They dressed, and with each step, Laura felt the knife again. As they drove down the snow-blown highway, she groaned every time they hit a bump. Ethan said, "I'm sorry about the radio. Now we don't have a song to remember this by." Laura didn't tell him that the whole time, she'd been playing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in her head. Already, Laura knew there were some things about what happened between two people in bed that you just can't ever say.
THE SCORE WAS one to nothing. The King had tripled in the fifth, driving in the only run scored. It was the bottom of the last inning, two outs, the Roustabouts' last chance to get something going. Ethan dug in, his foot at least six inches behind the now-blurry batter's box, but nobody said anything. More than likely, he was the last out anyway. The King threw his first pitch, a sinking curveball. Ethan had guessed a heater, and so he swung at the spot where the ball would have been. The crowd groaned, and Laura felt her heart tighten a little. The King's next pitch came from between his legs, a perfect strike, but Ethan missed that one, too. The crowd oohed and ahhed a little, and Ethan stepped out of the box to knock the dirt from his cleats and take a few mean swings. Laura could tell he was mad, and she sent a thought out to him: Knock his block off. Ethan stepped back in, down 0 and 2, and the King wound up like a spring. The bleachers were silent, so everyone heard the King's" Unnnhh! "as he whipped the ball from behind his back.
Ethan got ahold of it, of course. A drive up the middle, over the King's outstretched mitt, into the stubbled grass of center field. The first baseman got to the ball quickly, and Ethan pulled up with a double.
Harvey Pollard stepped to the plate.
Betty and Carol yelled in unison, "Bring him in, Harvey!"
Laura hoped he would, but doubted it.
Harvey swung at the first two pitches, the second one so hard he almost fell down. A chuckle rippled up and down the stands.
The King wound up and threw. Laura heard the ball's slap and saw the catcher rise from his crouch and toss the ball back to the King. All of this—the pitch, the catch, the throw—happened seamlessly, like still images you finger flip into a moving cartoon. Harvey's bat never moved. The umpire paused, then said, "Strike three!"
Harvey whirled around. "You call that a strike! It was high! It was way high!"
Laura whispered to Carol, "He must have thrown that awful hard. I didn't even see it."
The King stood on the pitcher's mound, grinning and tossing the ball up and down. Ethan came trotting in from second base, pulled Harvey away from the ump, then whispered something. Harvey's face turned red, and he shook his fist at the King. That's when Laura got it.
"He never threw the ball," she said to the people sitting around them. "The catcher just held another ball."
"That's not fair!" Betty yelled. "He gets another turn!"
Laura heard the King yell back at the crowd. "The ump called it strike three, folks. Never argue with the ump." The King and his Court trotted to their dugout, threw their red, white, and blue mitts on the bench, then came back out to shake hands. The game was over, but it took a few minutes for everyone in the crowd to understand what had just happened. Laura heard weak laughter, followed by applause. During the hand slapping and good game-ing, Harvey Pollard stayed on the bench, pouting, with his arms folded across his chest. Laura stood behind the dugout's chain-link fence and heard the Roustabouts' teasing.
"So how high was that one, Harv?"
"Myself, I like 'em a little lower."
"Harvey, had your eyes checked lately?"
"Shut up," Harvey told them. "Just shut the hell up."
"I still don't think it's fair," Betty said to Laura and Carol while they waited for the team. "He didn't have to make an example out of Harvey like that."
Laura looked her in the eye. "It's just a game, Betty."
Carol giggled.
"Well, I bet if it had happened to Ethan, or to Bob," Betty said, putting her hands on her hips and staring at Carol, "you'd both be saying the same thing!" Then she stomped away.
Carol patted Laura's shoulder. "Never mind her. She'll get over it."
"I hope so," Laura said. "I have to work with her tomorrow." They worked adjoining windows at the bank, and Laura hated it when their breaks overlapped. In the employee lounge, Betty liked to sit at the table and talk about what the women around her were eating. "You're so lucky you can eat like that," she'd say to the thinner tellers. "Everything goes straight here on me." Betty would slap her thighs and light another cigarette. Once, Laura caught her in the restroom, stuffing a cupcake into her mouth. "Don't tell Ethan," she mumbled. "Harvey thinks I'm on a diet."
Ethan emerged from the dugout, and the couple walked past the King's red, white, and blue Winnebago. The King was sitting on a lawn chair, signing autographs, but he saw Ethan and called out, "Hold up there forty-two."
Ethan and Laura had been holding hands, but for some reason, they dropped them.
The King walked over, hitching up his pants. "You really got ahold of a couple of them. Another couple of feet, one way or another, and this could have turned out a whole lot different."
Ethan smiled. "Well, I got lucky. You threw 'em by me pretty fast there."
"What's your average, son?" The King rubbed his hand over his flattop.
".625."
Laura stood, smiling politely.
"My first baseman's taking a coaching job in Washington. I've been on the lookout for fresh blood."
Ethan said nothing, but Laura placed her hand in the belt loop of his pants.
"Come down tomorrow afternoon and we'll give you a little tryout. I seen a couple guys already, but you never know what might happen." Finally the King looked at Laura. "What do you think about that, little lady? Think your husband could be a member of the court?"
Laura was startled. "I'm not his wife."
Ethan stared at her for a second. "Sorry. This is my girlfriend, Laura," Ethan said. "I'm supposed to be playing for Purdue in the fall," he added quietly.
"Is that so? Well, you two think on it and come back tomorrow. Plenty of time for college." With that, the King went back to his lawn chair and continued signing autographs for the gathering crowd.
AFTER GAMES, Ethan liked to drive up to Yellow Lake to cool off in the water and make love. Since the Christmas Dance, Ethan had avoided taking her to his parents' room, although there was no longer anything to worry about, bloodwise at least.
On the drive up, Laura kept the dome light on and read from the game program. "It says here they drive all over the country. And Canada, too. Fifty thousand miles a year."
"That's a ways," Ethan said. Nothing else.
While they swam and dried off and drank beers on the dock, Laura kept talking. She described their life, a year from then. They were driving down a highway, following the King's Winnebago. Every day, they passed through new towns, waving to kids on bicycles. Every night after the game, they'd camp somewhere and drink by the fire and go inside and make love and sleep all night together, listening to crickets. "Wouldn't it be wonderful, Ethan?"
"I don't know," he said. "It sort of scares me, actually." He opened another beer and took a long swig.
"What part?"
"The driving actually. I don't like not knowing where I'm going."
She repeated the names of towns from the program's schedu
le: Cincinnati, St. Louis, Kansas City, Grand Forks, Omaha, Missoula, Tucson, Bakersfield. It reminded her of her father's circus route books. As a child, Laura read them like children's stories full of adventure. Her father rarely spoke of his clowning years, but when he did, he always smiled in a secret way.
The list of towns didn't calm Ethan down. "Now, how does the King know where the ball fields are in all those towns? And the roads to take to get there?"
Laura just looked at him. "He's been there before. We'd just follow him."
"I suppose I'm just being stupid."
"It's not stupid," Laura said, choosing her words carefully. She did think it was a little stupid. "Look, Ethan, it'll be fine. We could see the country!"
"We?" Ethan said, smiling.
Laura punched his arm. "You know what I mean."
Ethan rubbed his bicep. "Easy. Did you hear Eddie tonight? He thought we were married." He looked down at his feet dangling off the dock in the dark water.
Laura said nothing, and a moment later, Ethan got to his feet and held out his hand for her. They went to his parents' room, and Laura knew that meant something. They did it on top of the bedspread, too eager to pull it down. Since the Christmas Dance, things had greatly improved. Sometimes when Laura came, it felt like a rock tossed with a plunk into a lake, sending out circled waves, gentle ripples. But once in a while, they were bigger and brighter, like atom bombs—a bright light and then a roar and then plumes rising into her head. Laura didn't like comparing them to something that killed people, but tonight she didn't care. Tonight was Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the Bikini Atoll.
ETHAN DIDN'T GET her home until nearly one. From the driveway, Laura saw the blue light of the television blinking in the front window. It was her mother, who would pretend to have fallen asleep watching the news. This was how Mildred Hofstadter spoke, in the language of the Not Said, and Laura had learned to speak this language fluently.
Laura walked in the door, and her mother shook awake, saying, "Oh, you startled me!"
Don't you feel bad, coming in like a cat in heat and waking up your poor mother?
"I'm sorry, Ma. Why don't you go to bed now?"
Please get out of here so I can take a bath and wash the smell of lake and beer and smoke and sex off of me.
"How was Ethan's game? It must have gone into extra innings."
You've been up to something.
"They lost, but it was a really good game. We went over to the Pollards' for a cookout after."
Of course I've been up to something, but I'm not going to tell you about it.
"Oh, Harvey and Betty. Isn't she the one who smokes?"
I don't like them.
"Yeah." Laura yawned, then exaggerated it. "I'm real tired, Ma. Good night."
Boy, I just had sex three times.
"Laura, I really don't like you getting in this late. What will people think?"
You're dating the best catch in town, but you're acting like a tramp.
"Nobody cares when I get home, Ma. Don't you want me to spend time with Ethan before he goes to school?"
What a pickle you're in! If you tell me to stop seeing him, he might break up with me. And then what would happen to your plan to marry me off?
"Of course I want you two to spend time together. Did you know that his mother actually spoke to me today down at the market? Never given me the time of day before. Probably felt like she had to. Now."
Don't you remember the night after the Christmas Dance, how you came home with blood in your underwear and I helped you get the stains out? He has to marry you. He has to.
"Ma, Mrs. Perdido just didn't know you before we started dating."
I remember. I told you it was my period, but I knew that you knew the truth. You started planning my wedding that night.
Mildred held out her arms. "Come here and give your mother a kiss."
I want to smell your breath, your hair.
"Oh, can't it wait until tomorrow?"
I squirted toothpaste in my mouth, and I've got my bra in my purse. Laura leaned down and kissed her mother's papery cheek.
"You smell different," Mildred said.
You smell like a whore.
"Well, you know, it was hot tonight."
If I'm a whore, then you're my pimp.
ETHAN TRIED OUT for the King and His Court the next day, and after an hour of snaring throws and hitting dingers to the fence, he'd made the team. The King shook his hand. "Okay, Perdido. My guy's got about a month left before he takes off. Meet us August twentieth in Cleveland."
For practice, Ethan kept playing with the Roustabouts, but Laura stopped going to the games. "I think I've got some kind of summer cold," she told him. "I'm sure it'll pass."
Something was happening. Her insides felt warm and full, and her limbs seemed imperceptibly heavier. She stopped eating desserts and candy, thinking she was just putting on weight, but the sensations persisted. Then, one day at work, she threw up her lunch in the employee restroom. "I must have a bug," she told her boss, who let her go home early. Betty Pollard waved good-bye, and as soon as Laura was out the door, the tellers all looked at each other and smiled.
That night in bed, Laura did some math in her head. She remembered the night at the lake, after the King and His Court game. She remembered the atomic bombs, the first, the second, but for the third, Ethan hadn't gotten up to get his wallet, and she'd been too busy to notice. Vaguely, she remembered him pulling out early, how she helped him finish on her stomach. But maybe. Oh, surely not. They'd done that so many times before and nothing ever happened. It was a virus, or something.
But a week later, something else happened. She was at work, again. She saw her hands counting out singles to a customer, but then the edges of the picture went dark, like those pinhole shots in old movies, and then she was looking up at Betty Pollard. Her ears roared, and the other tellers had to help her stand up because her legs had turned to marshmallows.
"Do you want me to call your mother?" Betty asked.
"Oh no. I'll be fine," Laura said evenly. "I just need to catch my breath."
Betty brought her a glass of water and crouched down beside her. "You need to see a doctor, Laura. You need to get this checked out."
"I don't think that's necessary," Laura said, but she knew she didn't sound as sure this time.
Betty stood up, her knees popping. "I'll just go get our purses."
A few minutes later, they were driving down Main Street. "I called Dr. Spencer's office," Betty said, lighting a cigarette. "They said they can work us in right away."
"Could I borrow one of those?" Laura asked.
Betty looked at her for a second. "I didn't know you smoked."
Laura lit the cigarette and it shook a little between her fingers. "I think I just need a nap."
"Well, you tossed your cookies last week. Remember?"
They rode in silence, then passed Clown Alley Cleaners, her father's business. He was there a lot, even at night, and a long time ago, Laura had figured out he wasn't a hard worker, just a henpecked husband. She could hardly blame him; she didn't spend much time at home, either. Laura saw her father for a split second, talking to a customer over a pile of shirts, and then she started crying.
"You aren't going to call my parents, are you, Betty?"
Betty paused. "We don't need to worry them."
"Thank you."
Well, you probably know what happened to Laura at the doctor's office. Betty was reading Reader's Digest in the waiting room when Laura emerged, her eyes puffy, her face pale. Without saying a word, they walked to Betty's car.
"So, what's the verdict?" Betty said.
Laura was stony. "They aren't sure. It might be mono."
"Oh come on, honey. You don't have to lie. I know." Betty took a cigarette out of her purse and handed one to Laura.
"I don't want Ethan to know," Laura said.
"Why the hell not?"
"Well, the King and His Court want him. He's leaving in a
week."
Betty turned to look at Laura. "Is that so? He hasn't said anything about it to anyone. I'd know. Harvey tells me everything."
"We didn't want to tell anyone until he told his folks."
"Just Ethan, huh? Well, that's great for him."
Laura threw her cigarette out the window. They were coming into downtown, and she didn't want anyone to see her smoking.
"What are you going to do?" Betty asked.
"I don't know," Laura said, but she did know. She'd always known, in a way.
THREE MONTHS EARLIER, Laura had turned eighteen. Ethan told her they were going to a fancy French restaurant in Indianapolis, and her mother went crazy making her a new dress of pink eyelet. "If this doesn't make him pop the question," her mother said, fluffing the skirt, "I don't know what will."
"Maybe," Laura said. She stood on a stool while her mother pinned the hem. "We haven't even graduated yet." Until this moment, she hadn't even considered that he might propose that night.
Her moony friends had their nuptials perfectly planned, everything from the dress right down to the music and centerpieces. When they asked her what kind of wedding she wanted, Laura just waved her hand and said, "Oh, something small and tasteful." But the truth was Laura never dreamed of tuxedos and white cakes. What kept her up at night was the transistor radio under her pillow, tuned to Chicago radio stations. Long after the radio was off, long after she'd gone to sleep, a song played in her head, very very softly, and one day, Laura knew she'd walk into a bar in some far-off city and hear a sad piano playing her song, and then she would know she was home.
Laura held the tomato pincushion and tried to imagine herself married to Ethan. He'd play ball for a while, and that would be fine, every night encountering a diamond made of dust and chalk. But eventually, they'd end up back in Lima at the Perdido Funeral Home. How would she spend her days in that big house? Mrs. Perdido greeted people at the door, baked casseroles and chickens for grieving families, and played "Amazing Grace" on the organ. Laura couldn't picture herself doing any of that. She practiced in her head what she'd say if a ring box appeared on the table. I love you, but I don 7 want to hold you back. This was partly the truth, but more to the point, she knew she should say, I love you, but not like a wife should love a husband. I want something else, but I don't know what it is yet. Laura didn't yet know the real truth: I don't love you; I love what my body does when I'm with you.