Unwritten Rules

by KD Casey

  “Hey,” he says, “I’m nervous too.”

  His hands shake on the elevator ride, as he fumbles getting out his keys. He tries the wrong key in the keyhole a few times before he locates the correct one. Inside, the boxes have been unpacked. His dishes are safe in their cupboards, his books orderly on their shelves, his parents at the dining room table. His mother has her feet up on one of the chairs, her scorebook in front of her, pen moving as she tallies.

  “That was some nice hitting,” she says, when he bends to kiss her cheek. “You always did have a good batting eye. It’s good to see you hitting again.”

  And he’s been ignoring his stats, the ones reporters keep asking him about—his splits before versus after the trade, batting average hovering closer to .300 since he came to New York—telling them that anyone would hit better if they went from Swordfish Park to Union Stadium.

  “Must be the change of scenery.” He reaches for the stack of plates Aviva brings to the table, along with the cake and the wine.

  It’s an almond cake, less dense than the kind they eat for Pesach, a bottle of wine that’s too sweet for Zach but that his parents drink. They’re almost done, Zach pressing the tines of his fork into the last mouthful of cake, when he says, “Mom, Dad, I need to tell you something.” And both his parents stop eating, glancing at each other.

  “It’s not—” He trips over the word serious. “I’m not injured or sick. I want you to know something, something about me.” He takes a breath, straightens where he’s sitting in his chair. “I want you to know who I am.”

  His water glass is on the table, and he reaches for it, not to drink, just to give his hands something to do, the condensation sweating into his palm. “I know it wasn’t easy for you when I was growing up. Because of my hearing. And I guess I didn’t want to make things any harder. For you. For myself. Or to disappoint you.”

  “Zacheyleh,” his mother says.

  “Just, um, let me finish.” His throat is tight, and the words that came out standing by the ocean next to Morgan, on calls with Henry, feel stuck. He swallows to dislodge them. “I’m gay. I’m seeing someone. It’s serious. I love him.”

  There’s a pause, a long enough one that Zach wants to get up, leave the room, escape his loft to where Eugenio is probably already asleep. To crawl into bed with him, under the shelter of his blankets, and lie there in the dark feeling him breathe.

  “I worried about you,” his mother says, finally, “all those years you were alone.”

  “I wasn’t. Or I was, then I wasn’t. It’s kind of complicated,” Zach says. “We’re together. Now.”

  She stands, her chair legs stuttering on his rented floor, then comes to hug him, her arms around his shoulders. “I want you to know. That you could never—” her voice wavers “—disappoint me.” And she recites a shehecheyanu, low enough that it’s only meant for him, a prayer of thanks for preservation, for sustenance.

  His eyes are wet. He reaches for a napkin to dry them, one of the cloth ones she bought when he said he didn’t have any. They stay like that for a minute, Aviva marshalling his dad into the kitchen, and Zach didn’t know he had a tea kettle until it whistles. They bring out mugs of tea, a box of sugar packets with them.

  Zach shakes two packets together, emptying them into his mug, and stirring it with the handle of his fork.

  “Your grandmother,” his mom says, reaching for the box, “she used to drink her tea with a sugar cube between her teeth like they did in the old country. She would say to me, ‘Kindele, you have to hold on to the sweetness in life.’” And she starts crying, enough that his father goes over, wrapping his arm around her.

  “Zach, go see if you have any tissues,” he says.

  Zach goes into the guest room he’s using as storage. There’s a box of toilet paper there he didn’t buy, a value-pack of Kleenex boxes they must have driven up with, a set of hearing aid batteries from Costco next to them. He undoes the plastic wrap holding the boxes together, taking one out and opening it, cardboard almost slicing his finger.

  He pauses before going back into the dining room, getting out his phone. I told them, he texts Eugenio, and then considers what to write next or if he should call.

  How’d they react?

  My mom is crying but it’s happy I think. I wish you were here

  And Eugenio starts and stops a text, enough that Zach has the urge to write something else but doesn’t. Tell them I look forward to seeing them again.

  I will

  He finds his mother in the kitchen a few minutes later, cleaning up the plates. She’s standing at the sink, running water over them, then loading them into the dishwasher. He watches her for a second before holding out a Kleenex; she takes it from him gratefully.

  “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says. She hands him the cake knife after she rinses it. He dries it on a kitchen towel and puts it into the dishrack. “You had that fundraiser a couple years ago. Do you remember Eugenio?”

  “That friend you brought home. The handsome one?”

  “Yes.”

  “The one who can cook?”

  “Yes. That’s who I’m seeing.”

  She takes another dish towel from the drawer next to the sink, wipes her hands, and then hangs it up. “And he cares for you?” Her eyes shine.

  “He does.”

  “And you care for him?”

  “I do. I’m trying to be better at it. I promised him I would be.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be ready to tell everyone—maybe not until we both retire, and he’ll probably play longer than I will. I’m not sure how people will react.”

  “Feh to them.” She flicks her hand as if casting the thought away. “The world is the world, full of people who don’t know from love.”

  He laughs at that, a laugh that starts in the soles of his feet and ends with him folding himself to wrap his arms around her.

  “I wish you didn’t wait so long to tell us. That you didn’t feel like you could. That your dad and I made you feel like you had something to be afraid of.” She wipes her eyes. “I just want nice things for you, Zacheyleh. Love. Family. To be who you are. The things we don’t always get in this life.”

  “Thank you,” he says, and he hugs her again. “Thank you.”

  * * *

  He plays the next day, a day game that goes into extra innings, and they win and Toronto—who are behind the Union in the race for the division title—loses. Their magic number goes down, inching them closer to the postseason.

  I can order dinner, Eugenio texts him after the game. What do your parents eat? and Zach texts him a list: no pork, no shellfish, no dairy with meat, no catfish, no rabbit, no eel. Nothing too salty or spicy. Fish and eggs aren’t meat, and a request not to have to explain that.

  Eel was really not a possibility, Eugenio says and then sends a thumbs-up emoji.

  Zach gets a text from Stephanie when he’s back at his loft. A reminder to read the article she emailed, one based on a conversation they had a week ago. He scans over its contents, and it mentions, briefly, a few nameless players questioning if Zach had what it took to be a big leaguer because of his hearing, a transition into his career stats as obvious as a “fuck you” but without the hostility.

  His parents come over after the game, complaining of the heat, the traffic, the umpire’s unfavorable zone, and Zach retrieves a six-pack from his fridge, a bottle of white wine he chilled, and Eugenio from his loft two floors away.

  “Are you ready?” Zach asks. Eugenio’s wearing his glasses, a white collared shirt with an undershirt, tattoos concealed, a pair of slacks. Zach put on actual pants and not sweatpants or shorts after the game, but he’s wearing a T-shirt. “Uh, should I change?”

  “They’re your parents. You don’t need to impress them.”

  “You
don’t either. Can we wait here for a minute?” He sits on Eugenio’s couch. “I want to go up there. I’m just nervous.”

  “You said they were okay last night,” Eugenio says. “Have they said something since then?”

  “No, they’ve been fine. Practically good behavior for them. It’s gonna be different from when you met them before.”

  “It will be. But I survived the last time.”

  “They’re kind of awful to Aviva’s husband about converting.”

  “Yeah, I figured I’d just call my parents and put them on speakerphone. My mom’s teaching a class on biblical commentary this semester. Let them talk at each other for a while.”

  Zach laughs and leans his head against Eugenio’s, closing his eyes. “Your place smells better than my place.”

  “It’s the plants.” He gets up and offers Zach a hand. “C’mon, let’s do this.”

  They eat at Zach’s dining room table. Zach’s parents ask about a thousand questions, some of which they asked before, now with renewed interest.

  “Remind me what your parents do,” his mother asks, and then quizzes Eugenio on his family, what his parents are currently teaching, what he’s thinking about doing after baseball.

  “My contract goes until I’m thirty-eight,” he says. “That’ll be ten years of service time. And then, who knows? My parents want me to go back to school. I’ve been in discussions to do a guest appearance on Food Network.”

  “I thought I remembered you like to cook,” Zach’s mom says. “I see my New York Times cookbook made it up here with the move. I was going to ask for it back.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to hang on to it for a while,” Eugenio says.

  “Keep it as long as you like. Did you ever make that recipe for babka I gave you?”

  “I haven’t yet. But I’m looking forward to it.”

  “It’s a dough you have to be patient with. It takes a lot of time and care, but it’s worth it for the end results.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Eugenio says, and he smiles before taking his next bite of food.

  They eat, his parents commenting on their meal, Eugenio discussing his parents’ trip to visit his grandmother and if he’ll go see her after the season’s over.

  “You’re not worried about getting traded while you’re out of the country?” Aviva asks.

  “He, uh, has a no-trade clause,” Zach says. “Kinda comes with a long-term contract.”

  And Eugenio shrugs, color up on his cheeks, looking somewhere between embarrassed and flattered.

  “Zach,” his mother asks, “have you decided about your contract option yet?”

  And Zach’s agent sent an email reading just ARE YOU SURE? “Uh, before, when I was in Miami, I told my agent I wanted to opt out. I don’t know where I want to play. Or if I want to keep playing.”

  There’s a pause, Eugenio looking at him, and then saying, “I was going to get some more ice.” He gets up, asking if anyone wants anything as he walks away, and Zach doesn’t wait before going after him.

  Zach’s kitchen is galley-style, two rows of counters and appliances separated from the dining area by a solid wall. They’re hidden from the dinner conversation, though it goes to a murmur like Zach’s family has collectively decided to eavesdrop, which they probably have.

  Zach gets an ice tray from the freezer and cracks it into a bowl that Eugenio holds out for him. There’s seltzer in the fridge his parents must have brought, unflavored; Zach opens it over the sink.

  The bowl of ice Eugenio is holding begins to frost up the sides with condensation. Zach takes it from him, setting it on the counter.

  “We can talk about it later,” Zach says. “You’re upset I didn’t tell you.”

  “I am. But I also don’t want them—” Eugenio nods toward the dining room “—to think you’re quitting because of me.”

  There are no noises from the other room, not the clink of silverware against dishes or his parents’ low observational chatter. A silence, awaiting a response. “I’m not,” Zach says. “But yeah, it probably sounded that way. Can I go fix this, and then we can talk about it later? Like, later tonight. Not later later.”

  “Okay.” Eugenio draws him in, kissing him lightly.

  When they get back to the dining room, Zach’s dad is over by the bookshelf, like he didn’t organize the books the day before. His mother is smiling at him, Aviva’s lips twitching like she’s trying not to.

  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen next season,” Zach says, when he sits down. “I considered opting out, but I’m still—we’re still—working it out.”

  “Let us know what you both decide,” his mother says. “Here.” She slides another portion over to Eugenio. “You both are too shy about eating.”

  They finish dinner over tea. His mother hands him a box of sugar cubes she pulls from her purse. “I went down to the corner store earlier.”

  Eugenio takes a cube from the dish Zach pours them into, placing one in the hollow of his cheek at Zach’s mother’s instruction.

  “You know,” she says, casually, when Eugenio can’t answer, “if you ever consider converting, I’m sure there’re online classes you could take.”

  Eugenio takes a swallow of tea hot enough that it must burn his tongue. Zach tries to think of a way out of this conversation with his mouth full of sugar when Aviva stage-whispers, “Mom.”

  “Hypothetically, for a ketubah,” Eugenio asks, and he says the word the way Zach says unfamiliar ones in Spanish, like he’s testing it out, “would I need to be Jewish for us to have one?”

  There’s a long pause, as Zach’s mom looks at each of them, Aviva’s eyes wide, Zach’s father coughing in a napkin. Zach, fixed to his chair, blinks a few times, wordless with surprise.

  “You don’t,” Aviva says, finally.

  “And they’ll give them to queer people?” Eugenio asks.

  Aviva nods.

  “Then I’m probably not going to convert,” Eugenio says, and adds a belated, “Sorry.”

  Another pause, this one with Zach glancing between Eugenio and his mother the way he would between a pitcher and hitter during a contentious at-bat.

  And she gives the hint of a smile. “Zach, go get the plates for the cookies I bought.”

  After, Zach walks his parents and Aviva down to a cab to their hotel and comes back to Eugenio clearing the dishes from the table.

  “Did you... Was that...” Zach says.

  Eugenio laughs, not a mean laugh, and kisses him. “It was just a thought about the ketubah. I just figured it might be important to you.”

  “I guess I never thought I could. But, um, yeah, I would want that.” And it feels enormous to say, standing there, the plates still on the dining room table.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Eugenio kisses him again, and Zach can feel the shape of his smile. “Can we get through the postseason first?”

  They clean, side by side, Zach storing leftovers, Eugenio rinsing off dishes.

  “I was gonna tell you about my contract,” Zach says. “After you came down to Miami, and, um, we talked, I emailed my agent. I didn’t want to spend another year in Florida when you were up here. Obviously, things are different now.”

  “You were going to retire, just like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Though the thought of it feels sour now. “If it’s a problem with the team or with other players that I’m gay, I guess it’s easier if I walk away versus if I’m forced out.” Zach picks up one of the rinsed glasses from the dishrack and dries it. “Miami wasn’t great. Not just that we were losing, but it felt like a chore, going to the ballpark every day. I really didn’t realize how miserable I was until I saw you at the All-Star Classic and it all kind of came back to me. How much I used to love playing. How much I missed you. How I never thought I could have both.”
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  Eugenio takes the glass from him then kisses him. “I might have missed you too.”

  “Might have?” Zach teases.

  “I didn’t know what to expect when I saw you there. You do look pretty good in teal.”

  “I’m liking these pinstripes okay. I asked Morgan about doing a catching clinic at the Women’s Baseball World Cup. It’s in Colombia, if you want to come.”

  “That could be good. I’d like that.”

  “I realized that that’s the part of the game I like, the coaching part. I kinda want to see if I’m any good at it.”

  “Zach, you’ve been coaching for years.” Eugenio wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Of course you’d be good at it. Probably have guys all over the league asking to work with you. The guy who fixed Will Johnson’s curveball. Hell, the guy who made me.”

  “Yeah, I hear you’re pretty good.” He laughs when Eugenio taps him on the arm.

  “But if you want to keep playing, you should,” Eugenio says. “I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret. Fuck ’em if they can’t deal with you as you are.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s how that is?”

  “You think no one ever says shit to me about my nails? Or about flipping my bat or doing the hundred other things that make the old boys’ club angry? That I don’t know what they mean when they talk about ‘playing the game the right way’? That they’re still surprised I know how to read a scouting report, like my parents don’t both have PhDs? And even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.” He shakes his head.

  And Zach considers how many times he saw that happen in Oakland, the grim line of Eugenio’s mouth pressed into neutrality when some umpire called him hotheaded, or a reporter mispronounced his name, or he got forced into being an interpreter because the team was too cheap to get one.

  “Henry says I need to be prepared for people not to be cool about this,” Zach says. “For people to take time, or to cut off contact. That some guys might not want to share a clubhouse with me. That the team might look for reasons not to renew my contract.”