Dying on Second

by E. C. Bell

“All right.” He poured a coffee for himself, doped it, then gestured at the chair in front of my little desk.

  “Mind if I sit down?” he asked. “We need to talk.”

  Crap.

  “Sure.”

  He sat, took a sip of coffee, then set the cup on the edge of my desk. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “For last night.”

  I blinked. Took my own sip of coffee from the cold dregs left in my cup, and set it aside. “For what?” I asked.

  “About the ghost business thing. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I know that. It’s just, I think you have something there. Something we can both work with. But I’ll wait. However long it takes you to decide next steps, I’ll wait.” He smiled. “All right?”

  What?

  “You—you kind of said that last night,” I said. “Didn’t you?” And didn’t you tell me that you loved me? Or had I actually dreamed that part?

  “Well, I sort of apologized,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure that you understood me. That I’ll wait for you. No matter how long it takes.”

  Oh.

  “This is about—the other thing you said,” I whispered. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is.”

  Crap crap crap.

  “I know I freaked you out last night,” he said. “But I wanted to get it out there. So there was no confusion about how I feel. You know?”

  “I don’t know if I do,” I said. I stared down at my desk top, too frightened to look at him in case I’d hurt him. Again. “I don’t think you realize just how screwed up I am, James. Jesus, I’m going to a shrink!”

  “I know,” he said. “And I also know what you went through. Going to a shrink is the most sane thing you could do, right now.” He smiled. “I wasn’t kidding when I said that this city is boring without you. Stuff happens around you. Some of it is damned weird, and some of it is scary, but none of it is boring. And I want to be part of that. Part of your life, no matter how weird or scary it gets. I love you, Marie, I think I always will. And that’s a fact.”

  As I tried to think of something to say, he stood and picked up his cup. “Guess we should get to work. After all, Mrs. Silverstein really wants to catch her no-good husband fooling around, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess she does.”

  And, as easy as that, the whole “I love you” conversation was over.

  I EXPECTED THE rest of the day—and my life—to be weird, but it wasn’t. James and I worked. Took Millie for a walk. Went for lunch and talked about softball. About the quick batting practice I’d set up with Greg, and the game after. I kept watching James’s face for signs that he was waiting for me to do something—say something—in response to his confession of love, but he wasn’t.

  It looked like he’d been telling me the truth. That his feelings were out there, in the open, just so I knew. I didn’t have to do a darned thing about any of it. I just had to know.

  It got a little bit strange when Jasmine kept sending me links to wedding planner websites, but I blew them away, telling myself that I’d have a serious talk with her about boundaries when I went back to her place. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

  Tonight, I had a game. I was batting against Miriam Kendel for the first time. And James was coming to watch.

  “I BELIEVE MIRIAM Kendel is the only true rise ball pitcher in the Ladies League,” Greg said. He soft tossed the ball to me and I tapped it out just past the mock second base James and I had set up in the field next to the batting cage. “She has great bottom to top spin, good speed on that spin, and fantastic pitch speed.”

  “How fast does she throw?” I asked. She looked fast when I watched her, but this would be the first time I’d be in the batter’s box. All pitches looked faster in the batter’s box.

  He soft tossed another ball and I hit it with the bat as it was still going up. It sailed well out into left field.

  “She throws close to seventy,” he said. “Sometimes, on a really good day, a little higher than that.”

  Seventy wasn’t fast. Seventy was slow . . .

  “I’m talking miles per hour,” he said. “In case you didn’t get that.”

  Oh.

  He tossed another ball, and I smacked it even further than the one before. I watched James run hell bent for leather to catch it, but it dropped to the ground and rolled to the fence.

  “So she throws one ten or so,” I said. “KPH.”

  “On average,” Greg said.

  “And why don’t you think in kilometres per hour?” I asked. “You do live in Canada, after all.”

  “Because,” he said, “I am older than dirt.”

  He tossed another ball, but I missed the rise and hit it when it was on its way down. The ball popped up in a lazy fly ball and James caught it easily. He grinned as he tossed it back to Greg.

  “Concentrate,” Greg said, “Or Miriam will eat you for breakfast.” He tossed another ball for me to hit. Then twenty-five more, until I was covered in sweat but hitting the ball consistently, always catching it when it was rising.

  “Good enough,” he finally said, and looked at his watch. “Time to go. You have to eat before the game.”

  “Will do,” I said.

  We quickly packed up the equipment. James asked Greg if he wanted to join us for something to eat, but he shook his head. “The wife’s got a meal on the table for me,” he said. “I better not miss it.” And then he left, in a spurt of dust and the smell of old oil.

  “Timmies?” James asked me as we stuffed my equipment into the back seat of the car with Millie, who looked miffed.

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “The usual?” he asked when we arrived, and I nodded.

  He got in line as I ran to the bathroom to wash the dust and sweat from my face. The dust had spread a little further than just my face so by the time I got myself cleaned up he’d found a table for us, and was sitting, waiting, with my everything bagel—toasted with cream cheese—and two coffees. Beside his coffee were two plain Timbits.

  “You’re eating Timbits?” I asked.

  “These are for Millie,” he said. “I’ll eat something later. Something a little less—”

  “Timmies?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and laughed. “We’ve kind of been living here. Know what I mean?”

  “I do,” I said. Because we had. It seemed that since ball season started, we’d been eating nothing but Timmies. And he was right. It was getting a little bit old.

  “Maybe we can go somewhere else after the game?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That sounds nice.”

  I ate the bagel, and licked the extra cream cheese off my fingers. Glanced at the time, but we had twenty more minutes before I had to be back at the ball park. Then I remembered Karen. I had to speak to her, after the game. To make sure that she was okay.

  I hadn’t spoken to her since her blow up about me moving her friends on, and I didn’t feel great about it. I needed to apologize or something. Make her understand that she had free will—but so did her friends.

  Plus, it was time to confront her, once and for all, about where she was buried. Moving on the old man in Calgary had inspired me. What can I say?

  I told James, and he nodded. “No problem,” he said. “I’ll just wait in the car. Me and Millie.”

  “God yes, Millie,” I said. “I forgot about her. Maybe we should pick up something to go instead of going to another restaurant after the game. She’ll be pissed if we leave her in the car.”

  “She really will,” James said. “That’s a good idea.”

  I glanced at the time. Ten more minutes, but I was ready to go. Nervous energy building every time I thought about getting into the batter’s box and finally facing Miriam Kendel. I glanced at James, and he nodded. Gathered up our garbage, tucked Millie’s Timbits into his pocket, and ushered me out to the car.

  It was time to play ball.

  GREG WAS TELLING the truth about Miriam Kendel
’s rise ball. She threw so hard, with the right spin, that the ball momentarily overcame the downward pull of gravity as it crossed the batter’s box.

  Batters expect the ball to drop, just a bit. That’s the natural order of things. Gravity happens to everything. Except the rise ball. It seemed to magically jump above the hitter’s bat, every time.

  It was mostly illusion, of course. The rise ball pitcher—in this case, Miriam Kendel—did whatever it took to have the pitch start lower than a regular fast ball, so the ball would go from low to high. So it would rise.

  Miriam Kendel dropped her shoulder.

  That was the tell I saw in her throw. She dropped her shoulder when she threw the rise ball. Every time.

  But here’s the real deal about a rise ball. Hitting it is hard, even if you know it’s coming.

  I learned that in the second inning of our game against the Blues. Miriam had gotten her usual three up three down in the first inning. Surprisingly, we did the same thing. Not strike outs, of course, but we did all right. Then it was my turn to bat. Fourth. Clean up. Cleaning nothing up, because, well, Miriam Kendel had cleaned up before I got there.

  I stepped into the batter’s box. Narrowed my focus until it was on Miriam’s hand. The ball left her hand, and I could see the spin. Bottom to top, straight as an arrow. I swung, and watched the ball jump above the bat, as though by magic.

  Strike one.

  “Concentrate!” Greg yelled. He thought he was being encouraging. He wasn’t.

  I stepped back in. Focussed, but not quite as hard. And then I saw the tell. It surprised me, to be honest, and I was momentarily frozen as she threw. Miriam had missed the strike zone. Just. The ball was high and inside. I dove back, and the ball whizzed right by the spot where my head had been moments before.

  “Good eye,” Greg called.

  Yeah, right. She’d almost hit me. My nightmare, in real time. But she hadn’t. I’d seen, and reacted and saved myself.

  I took a deep breath in and out, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart. I could do this. I could do this.

  I stepped back in and Kendel went into her windup. I focussed. Concentrated so hard that just for a second, everything slowed down. Everything.

  She threw the ball, and I watched it spin, bottom to top with no deviation. It was coming fast but I was faster. I swung, and felt the bat hit the ball, solid, and I watched it arc out between centre and left field even as I dropped the bat and ran as hard as I could to first base, and then to second. Safe.

  I was safe. I’d hit Miriam Kendel’s rise ball.

  I’d hit Miriam Kendel’s rise ball!

  She tipped her hat to me, then turned to demolish the batter coming up after me. Looked like my hit pissed her off. I never got off second base, but I didn’t care.

  I felt like a god.

  That feeling went away quickly, because it was like my hit woke her whole team up. They sprayed balls all over the diamond when they were up to bat, and Kendel walked me the next two times I came to the plate, leaving me stranded on first base every time. When the bloodletting was finally over, they’d beaten us ten to nothing.

  All Greg said to the rest of the team was, “We’ll get ’em next time.” But he patted me on the back. “Keep practicing,” he said. “You’ll be unstoppable.”

  Nice.

  JAMES TOOK MILLIE to the car, and I walked over to Diamond Two to talk to Karen. She stood in her usual spot on second base, but she wasn’t paying any attention to the game going on around her. She was staring at the bleachers behind home plate. Staring at Andy Westwood, as he ate sunflower seeds and watched the game.

  I had to walk to the backstop before I finally got her attention. She stared at me for a second, like she didn’t recognize me, then shook it off and smiled. Pointed at the right field fence, and trotted over to it.

  I turned to follow, and Andy called my name. I waved.

  “I hear you had a good game,” he said.

  “Oh, we lost,” I said. “Bad. But I did hit Kendel’s rise ball. A legitimate hit too. Nothing flukey.”

  “Great,” he said. “That’s just great.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come on up and tell me all about it.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Andy. I’m here to watch the pitcher.” I pointed to the right field fence. Where Karen was standing, waiting for me. “From over there.”

  “Well, maybe we can do coffee sometime,” he said. “And James, of course.” He sniggered. “Wouldn’t want everyone thinking we were doing anything untoward or anything, now would we? Dianna would never forgive me.”

  I tried to laugh because it was obvious he thought he was being funny, but I just couldn’t do it. “Gotta go,” I said. “I’ll tell James about the coffee.”

  “You do that,” he called after me. “Get him to call me. We’ll set it up.”

  After I finally broke free of Andy, it took me a few minutes to get to where Karen was standing. People kept stopping me to congratulate me. Word had spread about my hit, and it appeared that I was having my five minutes of fame.

  When I finally got to the fence, Karen’s face looked pinched. I honestly thought she was still pissed about the last time we’d spoken, so I started my apology.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I started. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Why were you talking to him?” she asked, cutting me off in mid word. “I told you to stay away from him. Didn’t I?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “But—”

  “Didn’t I?” Her voice rose, and she glared at me, her eyes hard.

  “Yeah,” I said again. “You did.”

  “So, why are you still talking to him?”

  “I was just being polite,” I said. “Besides, James and I checked him out—”

  “You what?” Karen stalked up to me and stood, dead nose to nose with me. “Why?”

  “Because you warned me about him,” I said. “Of course we’d check him out.”

  That gave her pause.

  “Oh,” she finally said. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing much,” I said, and shook my head. “He seems like a regular guy. Normal. You know?”

  “Yeah,” she said, and laughed. “That’s what he is. A regular guy.”

  “Well, if he’s not regular, then what is he?”

  She stiffened. “Nothing.”

  “What is he to you?” I decided to push. “I know he used to go to the Coffee Factory when you were working there—”

  She gasped and her light dropped precipitously. “How do you know about the Coffee Factory?” she asked. “And how did you know I worked there?”

  “Because we checked up on you, too,” I said.

  She stared at me, and her light dropped even further. Left her ash grey. I could barely see her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have told you before.”

  “You think?” she asked. “Why did you do that after I told you to leave it all alone?”

  “Because I had to know your deal,” I said. “You wouldn’t tell me anything. About your death, about where you were buried. Nothing. It felt—odd.”

  “Me not talking about my death felt odd to you so you thought that gave you permission to dig around in my life.” Her voice was flat, like I’d punched all the emotion from her.

  “Yep.” I looked at her. “I’m sorry. But what I found out was that no-one knows what happened to you. That you just disappeared, over forty years ago. Without a trace. Until now.”

  She didn’t say anything. Just stared at me with her ash grey face like she wished I’d disappear, too. I couldn’t really blame her but, in for a penny, as they say. She had to hear everything.

  “That’s the reason I asked you where you died,” I said. “At first, I thought you were like the rest of the dead ball players. That you came from somewhere else, maybe somewhere close, and just played ball here. It wasn’t until I worked with the old guy that I began to suspect that maybe I was wrong.”

  “What old guy?
” she asked.

  So, I told her all about Calgary Henry’s ghost. How easy it was for him to move on once he figured out that he didn’t need to protect Henry—or the house—from Henry.

  “He died in the house,” I said. “That was probably why he was so attached to it. You know.”

  Karen didn’t answer. Just stared at me.

  “Kinda like you,” I said. “Right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You died here, didn’t you?” She stared at me, her eyes wide. “And you’re still here, somewhere. Aren’t you?”

  That was when I saw Karen Dubinsky’s tell. She glanced at the diamond, specifically at second base, and then back at me. She only did it for a microsecond, of course, but she did it. She looked at second base.

  “I don’t know what you’re taking about,” she said. “It’s like you said. We come from all over. And we just come here to play ball. All of us.”

  I didn’t bite. Just leaned in so she had to look me in the eye.

  “You’re buried at second base,” I said. “Aren’t you?”

  “Just let it go,” Karen said. She scowled, like she wished she could touch me. Hurt me, just to shut me up.

  “And Andy Westwood had something to do with your death,” I said. “Didn’t he? That’s why you stare at him all the time. Why you warned me about him. Because he did something to you. Didn’t he?”

  “I told you I’m not telling you anything,” she said. Her voice was flat, but her light dropped even more, lumen by lumen, until she was a dark grey smudge on the grass in front of me. I was pushing her buttons, in a big way. Decided to push even more. She had to tell me the truth. She had to.

  “I’m not going to let this go,” I said. “Think about your family, Karen. Your friends. Don’t they deserve to finally be able to know what happened to you? They need to put your body to rest. For their sake, if not for yours.” I pointed at the bleachers behind home plate. At Andy Westwood, eating his sunflower seeds and thinking his life wasn’t about to fall in great huge pieces around him. “If he did this to you, he needs to be brought to justice.”

  “Yeah,” she said. Her voice burned like acid. “Sure. I tell you where my body is and who killed me. Then the cops dig up my body and move it, and you know what happens after that? Nothing. Digging my body up will do no good. Not for my family, and especially not for me. If my body is moved, I will disappear. Completely this time. And then I won’t be able to play ball anymore. So, I’m telling you nothing.”