From The Dead

by John Herrick

  “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, we … ten years …”

  Caitlyn nodded again, then turned her head and focused on a spot on the wall. In the corner of her eye, the one furthest from Jesse—did he see a tear in formation? Caitlyn pretended to rub her temple with her fingertip, but Jesse noticed she had brushed away the tear.

  “Cait …”

  Jesse reached for her hand, but she withdrew it—not in anger, but with tender grace.

  “Don’t,” she breathed. “It was long ago. We were long ago.”

  For Jesse, the ambience faded around him. The music from the overhead speakers drowned out. The people at other tables blurred, their conversations a muffled drone. Before him sat Caitlyn, the girl he had, at a time long lost, vowed never to crush. Now look at her, pierced to the soul without cause.

  And in that moment, Jesse comprehended what had happened during their time apart.

  She had waited for him.

  In her heart, despite the disappointment and upheaval, she had never stopped loving him.

  This—this—was the girl he had left behind.

  The ambience resurfaced around him. Between Jesse and Caitlyn, a magnetic pull seemed to facilitate an unspoken communication. Their silence spoke of mercy.

  A ballad played above them, a flavored Dave Matthews Band beauty with which Jesse had often serenaded Caitlyn while in the car as teenagers. Tonight, Jesse hummed the tune to himself; its vibrations buzzed along his sealed lips.

  When she heard the faint hum, Caitlyn giggled.

  Jesse wasn’t aware he could be heard until he noticed her reaction. Embarrassed at first, when he saw her awash in radiance, Jesse increased the volume for her to hear. Then he remembered why she seemed to enjoy it.

  In former days, he’d started to sing this tune as a serenade. Then, by the second verse, he’d mimicked Dave Matthews’s high-pitched, staccato voice, which never failed to ignite giggles in Caitlyn. After their quarrels, it was common for him to sing to her in this way, which broke the ice and healed the wounds between them.

  He thrived when he saw her happy.

  So tonight Jesse continued to sing quietly. And Caitlyn, her chin at rest on folded hands, leaned forward to listen.

  She gleamed with delight.

  And she giggled some more.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jesse preferred afternoon baseball games. But with his son beside him, Jesse lauded today’s Sunday game as his all-time favorite.

  Tied to a strict ticket budget, he and Drew sat in the uppermost tier, but Drew didn’t appear to care. The kid seemed content as he munched on a foot-long hot dog.

  With a win-loss record of 22-6 to date, the Cleveland team gelled early on to ignite its fans’ hopes for the season. While it was yet May, most already considered the team a probable playoff contender. And Drew scoped out players as a federal agent might scour the files of a tax cheat.

  Today the Indians played Seattle, whose fortunes had turned nasty soon after the season started. Seattle’s current win-loss record had dwindled to 11-17.

  As Drew focused on the Indians pitcher at the mound, Jesse scanned the human sea of navy blue and white. The line of lean bachelors in the row ahead had opted to shave their heads and paint them the team colors. A pair of pot-bellied fans, adorned in full quasi-Indian headdresses, sat several sections over. Jesse pitied the folks who sat behind them with a partial blockage of view. From this height, a single feather could obscure a player below.

  The stadium, Progressive Field, had opened as Jacobs Field in 1994, when Jesse was a kid. Chuck made it a priority to take his son to a game, live in person, once a year. But for all the improved proximity offered by the new ballpark, Jesse still favored the timeless, grandiose layout of the old Cleveland Stadium, where he’d viewed his earliest games.

  Odd enough, the last time Jesse stepped foot in the former stadium occurred not during the Indians’ final season in 1993, but in 1994, when Chuck took Jesse and Eden there for a Billy Graham Crusade. Jesse recalled that warm June evening as the three of them walked through the gates with ease. The atmosphere distinguished itself from a routine baseball game; at the Crusade, Jesse had sensed a calm—albeit personally unexpected—fervor of anticipation.

  Jesse remembered the stage’s position at midfield that year, and the Thursday crowd that filled a full semi-circle at one end of the stadium by the time the program began. He thought back to when he heard the gray-haired preacher, held in utmost respect by Chuck, speak in a genteel Southern drawl. Jesse could still picture the scene that followed the sermon, when Reverend Graham gave an invitation to receive salvation—where a middle-school-aged Jesse, not much older than Drew, watched what appeared to him a thousand people descend the concrete stadium steps in a perpetual stream as the traditional hymn “Just As I Am” played. Some of those people wept, others remained stoic, as they spilled onto the field—the field where Jesse had seen players scramble to steal third base. At the time, Jesse had marveled as the field transformed into an ocean of changed lives.

  Beyond experiences in his father’s church, that night had made a strong spiritual impression on Jesse. Yet he couldn’t remember when, prior to today, he had last thought back to that evening.

  The cheer of the crowd jerked Jesse back to the game at hand. A Seattle hitter cost his team their third out and brought the game to the middle of the fourth inning.

  Jesse looked down at Drew, who had borrowed his father’s sunglasses for fun. Jesse finished his bratwurst and wiped his hand on a napkin. He signaled for the beer vendor, and the transaction completed as Jesse cast the cash along the row of fans and a beverage floated his way in exchange.

  “You’re drinking a beer?” Drew asked.

  Wheels turned in Jesse’s mind as he analyzed the situation. This was new to him; in a split second, he learned that kids notice everything.

  “Yeah, just one,” Jesse replied. “Wait—is your mom okay with that?” He’d promised Caitlyn not to get Drew into trouble.

  “Give me a drink of it and I’ll keep my mouth shut—then she won’t find out.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He hoped this was the kid’s idea of a joke, but now Jesse wondered.

  Drew shrugged. “I think she’s okay with it.”

  The kid had nearly caused one of Jesse’s aortas to rupture with that scare. Then again, he had chosen to embark on crash-course fatherhood.

  Jesse pointed out a mustard drop at the corner of Drew’s mouth, which Drew wiped away and ate before Jesse could find a napkin.

  “Enjoying the game?” Jesse asked.

  “Pretty cool.”

  “Do you pay much attention to baseball?”

  “Oh yeah! My favorite player is Creed Harris—he’s the Indians’ second baseman. He’s got a batting average of .412 so far this year. Nine home runs, thirty-four RBI’s. The guy’s awesome. They got him last year in a trade with Detroit.”

  “Impressive. How long since you saw your last game here?”

  “Never.”

  Jesse tore his focus from the Indian at bat. Drew had given his answer in such a matter-of-fact tone that Jesse had to ask again. Every boy had been to a baseball game, or so he thought.

  “Never?”

  “Well, we don’t live close to the stadium and I don’t have a dad to take me,” Drew said, as if it were a normal aspect of his life, nothing out of the ordinary. “I went to a minor league game in Akron with my friend and his dad, though.”

  That should never have had to occur. Jesse wanted to ask more about this but opted against it, unsure how sensitive Drew might be. Maybe Drew wouldn’t want to discuss the issue.

  Jesse returned his attention to the manicured field, where Seattle’s first baseman, Lanny Ortega, attempted to catch a foul ball before he ran out of room at the barrier. Instead, the ball tumbled into a mob of grasping hands. With the next pitch, the batter struck out, which left Cleveland at 0-2 for the inning. A runner stood at first base, and another runner had stolen th
ird base a few minutes ago.

  By this point, the fans craved another run. To everyone’s surprise, the Indians trailed by a score of 3-2 so far. They had loaded their bases twice before batters struck out and destroyed the momentum. Drew took another bite of his hot dog as Creed Harris, his apparent hero, stepped up to the plate.

  Seattle pitcher Bruce Beckett, known to flirt with the edges of the strike zone, zipped the ball across the corner of the zone at ninety-six miles per hour. Strike one. Drew eased forward in caution, tapped his foot, and pounded a small fist against his knee.

  Jesse didn’t care about the excitement of the game. He marveled at his son’s individual personality, the boy’s readiness to cheer as the suspense unfolded before him. Jesse couldn’t believe his sunglasses now sat on his son’s head.

  With a tap of his bat to home plate, Harris geared up for the second pitch and waited. The ball arrived and he fouled. Drew scratched his head and exhaled. “Come on,” he murmured.

  Next, Beckett delivered ball one, which Harris anticipated; Harris had held steady as the baseball zoomed past him. That intentional ball paved the way for an unintentional ball two, followed by a ball three that proved the pitcher’s concentration waned.

  A full count—and with two men on base.

  Now the pitcher looked agitated. This was the sort of snag that had led to his team’s less-than-desirable record.

  The sound of a Native-American drum pounded from the loudspeakers, which sent reverberations through the stadium like a tamed electric current. Jesse felt it buzz on the concrete beneath his feet. The fans filled the stadium with an ominous growl.

  Tension hung in the air. At the last moment, as if to prolong Beckett’s anxiety, Harris stepped away from the plate. Beckett, in response, wiped sweat from his brow. Harris’s capabilities were notorious in the enemy camp—including his reputation that he, in times of weak pitching, tended to chase balls to deliver a hit.

  Drew bit his lip. Beckett wound up for the pitch. Jesse kept one eye on the game, the other eye on his son, eager to see how Drew might react to a combustion of victory.

  Beckett released the pitch. The ball sped toward home plate. And Harris made contact.

  Deep contact.

  Some players report that they can sense when a ball is a home run as it sails halfway across the field. This ball soared like a laser into right field and into the stands. Harris noted the home run on his way to first base and hopped on his feet.

  The crowd roared. A flurry of white team towels waved around the stadium as spectators jumped to their feet.

  Both Jesse and Drew shot up and screamed with excitement, arms up in the air, as Creed Harris rounded the bases in a celebratory trot. His team had improved its score to a winning 5-3.

  As Harris rounded third base and jogged to home plate, motion seemed to slow for Jesse as he glanced down at an ecstatic Drew.

  Jesse stood dumbfounded.

  So this is what my son looks like when he cheers.

  * * *

  When he slipped into the house that evening, Jesse removed his shoes at the door. He found Eden in the living room, curled up on the sofa. The television, which she had on mute, flickered from the other side of the room.

  She looked up from the book on her lap. “How was the game?”

  “We won, 8-3.”

  “Blake thinks they’ll win the division this year. But it’s so early in the season; I don’t think he can tell.”

  “Male know-how.”

  “Whatever. Harris is strong at second base.”

  “Another home run and two more RBI’s today. The guy had a .412 batting average when he headed into the game.”

  Eden looked impressed, then shot him a look of suspicion. “You follow baseball?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Speaking of your source, how’s Drew?”

  Jesse’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “He had a blast. You should’ve seen his thrill when the home run occurred—he yelled his lungs out. And you wouldn’t believe how much food the kid eats! Such a smart guy, too. He takes after his mom.”

  Eden checked the clock. “Did you just take him home?”

  “I grabbed a bite to eat after I dropped him off, then went for a drive.” He nodded toward the television. “Good TV show tonight?”

  Based on her reaction, she’d forgotten she left it on. “No. I started to watch a reality show, but the bickering got on my nerves.”

  Jesse angled his head to peer over Eden’s lap. “What are you reading? Oh—Bible?”

  “I’m winding down before bed.”

  “I don’t think I even know where mine is anymore,” Jesse half joked.

  Like their dad, Eden took reverential care of her book. As she continued to read, Jesse stared at its leather binding. Thin as tissue paper, the pages crackled when turned. A few days ago, unknown to Eden, he’d flipped through those pages, their text underlined in various places and Eden’s margins speckled with handwritten notes about the pages’ contents. Some people seemed appalled that someone would write in a Bible, but Jesse and Eden had watched their dad do just that all through their childhood. To them, it was commonplace.

  Over the years, as Jesse had talked to her on the phone and watched Eden’s lifestyle here at home lately, he could tell she had peace with God.

  “Do you ever think about Mom?” he asked.

  Eden looked up, furrowed her eyebrows. “Mom?”

  “Yeah. Just in general.”

  She gazed at the ceiling for a moment, then pressed her lips together and nodded in peace. “From time to time.”

  “What kind of thoughts?”

  Eden closed the book and rested her hands on top of it. “Even though I never knew her, I always knew what she looked like from pictures,” she said. Eden gazed into the distance. Her smile grew warmer. Again, that peace of hers resurfaced. “So when I was a little girl and I’d fall off the monkey bars or skin my knees, I’d picture Mom wrapping her arms around me so tight and imagine how safe that would have felt.” Although she didn’t seem to notice, Eden drew one hand around to her other arm, a half hug.

  She continued, “Then, of course, I wished she could have taken me to those mother-daughter events or explain sex to me—Dad was hilarious with that one. But even now, sometimes I stop and imagine what it would be like to go to lunch together, or to tell her about each little baby I place for adoption.”

  Eden paused, and Jesse could see her sink deep in thought. Yes, she must have spent much of her life pondering what might have been. A mere three years old at the time of their mother’s death, Jesse, unlike his sister, enjoyed the benefit of a recollection—albeit a vague one—of his mother. As he’d clung to her memory, her face had grown clearer in his mind’s eye. He sympathized with Eden’s lack of even a hint of remembrance to hold dear.

  “Do you think about Mom?” Eden asked.

  The house was silent except for the rustle of a fan in another room.

  “Oh, every once in a while.” He pretended to shrug the notion off as if it didn’t bother him. He scooted forward, his eyes intense with concentration, and tapped his fingertips together. “When you read your Bible, do you ever wonder why God allowed her to die?”

  “For a while I did—years back. But I realized I could never figure out the answer, so I refused to spend my life trying. And when I was oh, maybe twelve, I started to look at it as Mom’s love for me—like she sacrificed her life for me. Somehow that helped me cope with it.” She squinted, perhaps to consider her words and judge them accurate. “Maybe that’s why I love my job: I get to give mothers to babies.”

  Jesse digested what she said, then pointed out, “So you understand how Drew felt without a dad all these years.”

  “To an extent.” Her smile made a full comeback and she perked up. “But here’s the good news: You get to change that for him now. Even if Drew doesn’t know you’re his dad, you get to participate in his life and give him a gift no one else can give him: a
second chance at a full family.”

  His voice almost inaudible, the revelation hit Jesse. “Like coming back from the dead …”

  Eden tilted her head, nodded. “Odd way to put it, but yeah—in a way.” She inspected Jesse, who had now lost himself in concentration. Eden set her Bible on the coffee table and scooted closer. “You’re okay, right?”

  Jesse shook himself out of his trance. “Huh? Oh—yeah, I’m fine.” Rapidly in his mind, he retraced his steps from his Ohio departure to his suicide attempt, from his near-death rescue to his reunion with Drew and Caitlyn. Then he looked over at his sister and remarked, “You don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “No, I don’t,” she replied with resolute confidence. “Life is too big, too filled with purpose for that.”

  A month ago, he might have argued with her opinion. But not anymore. The way he saw it, he now lived on borrowed time.

  CHAPTER 36

  Late that Tuesday afternoon, Jesse crisscrossed the church’s rear lawn in a riding mower. Even with the low humidity of the upper Midwest, the sun felt hot after an hour. Drops of perspiration trickled down his cheeks and crawled to his neck.

  His last conversation with Eden brought perspective to his situation. No wonder Caitlyn shielded their son like she did.

  With further reflection, Jesse imagined the rough times Caitlyn must have endured alone. Then, by contrast, he thought about his own status during one of those moments: A brief stint as an extra on Love and Errors, a dark romantic comedy. The day he and Jada moved into their Sherman Oaks apartment, the upgrade from Hollywood and Vine. And one Christmas Eve, courtesy of a credit card, he took Jada to an expensive French bistro in Pasadena, where they ate in a corner by candlelight.

  What value he’d placed on things that now meant nothing, watercolor paintings that had faded with time.

  All while Caitlyn and Drew struggled.

  And to think, mere weeks ago, Jesse felt screwed because a film role had fallen through.

  * * *

  When he walked through the church building’s back door, the air conditioning prickled his skin like the fresh chill of spring water. Around the corner, at the end of the corridor, he poked his head in Mel’s office to say good-bye before he headed home.