Home Run: A Novel (9 page)

Cory holds Emma’s hand as he sits on the bench beside her. “They’re going to draft me.”

She doesn’t say much because she knows. Emma is smart and doesn’t live in denial.

“I’m happy for you.”

“I’m turning them down. I’m going to OU.”

Emma looks at him. “Stop it.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m playing college baseball. I mean you can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Cory—”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am. It’s just—are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve already told everybody. Well, everybody but you. And my father.”

“He’s going to come over here and burn our house down.”

“Over my dead body.”

Emma’s concern showed in her sweet face. “Cory, are you really sure?”

“Yeah. It’s good—it’s going to work out great. Trust me. It’s going to be great.”

“But what if you don’t …”

Emma can’t finish what she’s thinking, but Cory already knows her reservation.

“This is what Coach Weideman has always said: nothing good happens when you hang back.”

“But isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?”

“No. No way. This is—this is going to be great. Everything’s going to work out, Em. For both of us. I promise.”

Chapter Twelve

Outfield

Voices woke Cory. For a moment he thought it was another morning in his condo in Denver, that he was lost in his soft king-sized bed, trying to figure out how he made it home last night or who he might have ended up with. Then, as he turned over, the unforgiving mattress beneath him solid as a rock, Cory realized where he was.

He climbed out of bed and noticed the empty bottle on the floor. Too bad it didn’t have a full brother to say good morning to. He pulled back the heavy drape and saw a man in his late forties holding a brush in one hand and a can of paint in the other—the maintenance guy or the motel manager. Or, considering this sorry little inn, both. Talking to him was a college-age guy pushing a shopping cart full of stuff like toilet paper and towels and linens.

A makeshift janitorial cart. This is a classy joint.

Near the manager’s office stood a beat-up pickup truck.

This gave him an idea.

He got ready, trying to get in and out of the dingy shower as fast as he could. The Little League practice was later this afternoon, and there were a few things he needed to do. Well, one in particular. Something he had to get out of the way before he could manage to do anything else around this tiny town.

Cory walked outside toward the older of the two men. “Your truck?” he asked, nodding toward it.

The man shook his head and aimed his paintbrush at the kid. As he did, the young guy instantly got that look of recognition on his face. His eyes were wide, and he appeared to want to say something.

“Wanna rent it?” Cory asked the kid.

“Rent my truck?”

“Rent your truck,” he said, confirming the ridiculous.

“Yeah, sure.”

The manager shot them both a suspicious glance. Either he didn’t recognize Cory, or he did and wasn’t a fan. Cory just smiled and said that was great. He walked over to the truck, urging the kid to come with him, away from his boss. As they neared the side of the old Ford, Cory pulled a wad of cash from his pocket.

“Hey, listen. My mini-fridge is empty. Know what I mean?”

This kid had recognized him, and he was no dummy. He knew exactly what Cory meant.

“I could fill it for you.”

Bingo.

Cory smiled. “The little fridge. You fill it, and charge me five times what it cost you.”

The guy nodded in agreement, his face looking like he just won the lottery. Cory handed him a hundred dollars.

“That’s for filling it with adult beverages.”

Again the kid nodded. Cory gave him another couple hundred.

“And that’s so you remember to keep filling it with adult beverages. Every time you remember, you’ll get paid again. Sound good?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“How about another five hundred a month for renting the truck?”

Cory knew he’d made the kid’s day. Make that year. The big smile confirmed it.

“What’s your name?”

“Chad.”

“Where are the keys, Chad?”

Oh, yeah
, he seemed to say as he dug into his pockets and produced a set of keys. He handed them to Cory.

“Thanks, Chad. I’m Cory Brand.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Promise I won’t crash your truck.” Cory thought for a second, then added with a wink, “But if I do, you’ll get an even better one.”

He found them at the bottom of the hill, a place that appeared abandoned and unremarkable. The grass hadn’t been cut in a long time, and there were weeds growing everywhere. The summer breeze seemed to sigh as he scanned the area.

Cory didn’t think it would be like this. So—simple. So detached. They died, and he moved on. Just like that.

He studied the pair of bronze plaques.

You should’ve been here.

Alicia Brand

He had no memorized speech to share. No apologies or afterthoughts. There was nothing he could say to undo the past. He’d tried to outrun this place and these plaques beneath him, yet Cory had known that one day he would need to face them like a man.

He glanced about at nearby graves and spotted a lone red silk flower resting on a nearby stone. He took it without hesitation and set the flower down by her name.

How that woman could have stood by her husband for all her life, Cory would never know. Maybe life back then was just different. His family had always gone to church, though his father stopped going as the boys got older. Mom would drag them there every Sunday no matter what had happened the week or even the night before. It was her sanctuary and solace, probably a lot like how the baseball field felt to Cory. She was a strong woman, but she’d never threatened to leave his father, even when Dad’s drinking got completely out of hand.

With his toe he scuffed the dust and weeds off the plaque next to his mother’s. For a moment, Cory looked at the name the way he might have looked its owner in the eye.

Michael Brand

In a clear, loud voice, Cory cursed his father and hoped that wherever he was right now, the old man could hear him.

There was no apology that could give Cory back his youth. There was no way to make amends for the years of fear and anger. Even after leaving this place, Cory felt like he had the weight of his father on him, watching him, swearing at him, scolding him. There was nothing he could have done to be acceptable in his father’s eyes, even when the old man got older and more feeble and tried to get right with all of them.

There’s a reason I’ve been gone a decade, and it’s this corpse rotting six feet underground.

For a moment Cory looked at the sky, wiping a drop of sweat off his forehead. Thick stubble covered his face, and he was as thirsty as a man trapped in a desert.

He thought back to his childhood. What did a kid like him know anyway? He’d thought this was all there was to life. This place off the map, this tiny existence where the lights and the crowd were nowhere to be found. Cory had been stupid enough to believe he could get away unscarred. He was dumb enough to think he could leave all this behind.

A heaviness filled him. Not regret, not anger, but a deep empty feeling, the way a stone might feel being dropped into a discarded well.

There was nothing to make him cry for his parents, not even for his mother. He couldn’t bring them back and couldn’t make them fill a snapshot that never existed. He’d done everything he could to survive his youth intact and to keep Clay from being damaged.

And Clay made it to adulthood just fine.

He knew his mother would have been disappointed in him. Not because of the mishap with his elbow that got him suspended from the game. Not even because of the accident that sent Clay to the hospital. She had lived a life with Dad and understood how those things went.

No, she would’ve been disappointed that he’d left them behind and never bothered to come back until he was forced to.

Cory left the graveside. Regrets were for losers, and that wasn’t how he lived his life.

It is what it is.

And he kept saying this over and over, even though he didn’t believe a word of it.

He sits in the locker room, trying to find the will to leave.

He’s the last one there. He’s taken his time, and now he just wants to escape this room and this campus and this life.

He wonders if he made a mistake.

What if the slump continues?

He ignores the thought.

What if my game doesn’t improve?

He shuts the voice off.

What if I threw away the one chance I had because of some silly girl?

Cory stands and gets his gear and knows he needs to just get out and stop thinking. Emma isn’t some silly girl, and this slump and his game are just some rocky stretch of road he’s traveling over.

It’s all gonna be fine.

He knows what he needs to do.

Go see Em.

But that’s not what he needs. He needs to find the rest of the guys and blow off some steam just like they’ll be doing.

He needs to stop thinking so much and just start being Cory Brand again.

Chapter Thirteen

Signs

Some women might have been up in their walk-in closets with the boxes opened and the old memories pouring out. But Emma refused to do that. She couldn’t even remember where a lot of the mementos from her time with Cory were. Every day, she walked with and talked to and hugged and loved the only memento that was important to her. Tyler was more perfect than a pitcher throwing a no-hitter. He was more beautiful than a grand-slam homer to end a World Series. He was indeed the best part of her life now that James had died.

What if Cory decides he wants to be back in Tyler’s life?

Cory was his legal father. No court could prevent him from wanting time with his son. The man she saw at the hospital yesterday, the man she occasionally saw on a highlight clip on the evening news, was a complete stranger. There had been a kid she’d fallen in love with in high school and accompanied to college, a guy scared to death that his dream of playing baseball was over when she told him she was pregnant. That guy ran away.

She could see Tyler playing out in the backyard with some friends. He always had someone he was hanging around and having fun with.

Of course he does. He’s got Cory’s charm.

It wasn’t the only thing Tyler shared with his father. And that scared her.

She threw away the uneaten sandwich she’d made for herself. The Bulldogs practice later this afternoon would be a nice way to take her mind off things. She just hoped that Cory wouldn’t show up for some reason.

Sometimes, in her imagination, the Cory Brand she used to know would hold her with his massive frame and whisper that everything was going to be all right. Whatever she was worried about, he’d say that things were going to be fine. For a long time she had believed him. Even when he left them behind, she tried to remember those words and let them soothe her.

But like everything else in Cory’s life, the words had just been for show. He had never meant them, and surely he didn’t believe them himself.

The young girl who fell in love with that young boy was gone. They were both gone.

Not entirely, and you know that.

Emma took a sip of iced tea and closed her eyes as the squeals of the boys outside grew louder.

“Lord, help me get through this, to get through having him around. Please don’t let anything happen to us. To Tyler. Protect us the way You always have.”

Emma knew she no longer needed some stud athlete to put his arms around her and tell her everything would be okay. She had someone much stronger and bigger, someone who loved them and took care of them.

She thought about James. While God did indeed love them and protect them, He didn’t always answer their prayers. That was one of the great mysteries of life. But that didn’t prevent her from continuing to have faith in Him. It just made it a little harder.

The kid had delivered. In spades.

Now Cory sat on the bed, the buds of his iPod in his ears, the music cranked, the glass almost empty by his bedside, a worn photo of Emma and Tyler in his hand.

He laughed.

This was so pathetic. All of this. Every bit of it.

Look at him. Sitting in this dump a streetwalker would think twice about visiting, looking at the one and only picture of Emma and Tyler she had ever sent him, drinking the day away while counting the minutes to practice. Not regular practice, but Little League practice.

Pathetic.

At least the guy named Chad had loaded up this fridge. It looked like something that could be in a frat house, all the booze. Cory hadn’t even thought twice about opening the pint of vodka that sat on top of the fridge along with the other bottles. The kid had been selective, which was great.

For a moment he laughed, thinking of the utter ridiculousness of his collision with his adopted nephew at the ballpark. The only thing that could have been worse was if it had been a girl he’d hit. In a wheelchair.

That’s cruel.

And yeah, he knew it was cruel, but it still amused him. Being thrown out of the game and now ending up here.

All he ever told people was that he was just trying to have a good time.

Knocking a kid over in anger?

And he was passionate. That was all. What was the big deal? He got a little excited, and things happened. A little angry, and an adopted nephew suddenly popped out of the magician’s hat.

Oops.

A little bit reckless, and a tractor suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Double oops.

Thinking of the tractor driver made him laugh again.

“I’ve had that tractor forty years,” the farmer had said. Insurance would pay for it and give him a brand-new tractor, so again, he was getting off good. Like Carlos and his teammates. Like this whole town that was about to be put back on the map.

He filled the glass and hit shuffle on his iPod, and a familiar song came on—Gerry Rafferty’s “Baker Street.” It had been one of his father’s favorites.

For the first time in his life, Cory sat and listened to the song all the way through, draining his glass and then filling it again to drain it one more time. The sax and the guitar soared, and Rafferty’s laid-back, cool voice sang about life and loss and dreaming big.

Then a wave of goose bumps drifted over him, and Cory got it. He suddenly heard the song not the way a kid might listen to it on the way to school as his father blasted it from the truck’s tape player, but the way a grown man might listen to it, thinking of the man who was once the same age he was now.

This Baker Street wasn’t a place, but a fantasy. It was a dream of hope imagined by a restless, troubled soul. A man who was trying but could never find the home he was looking for, even though it was right there in front of his face the entire time.

Suddenly Cory didn’t like how he was feeling. His amusement was gone.

The booze wasn’t working the way it should have. The picture next to him mocked him. The sun outside beat down and cut through the blinds. Cory changed the track. But he couldn’t find his own personal theme song to soothe his troubled soul.

He was far beyond that, and he knew it.