Night Game (16 page)

We sat at a round oak table by a window overlooking the tiny backyard, framed by hanging plants dangling in macramé. She carried some breakfast dishes to the sink, wiped the table with a dishcloth, and got two cans of beer out of the fridge. Its door was covered with a clutter of postcards, cartoons, and, I noticed sadly, some snapshots of Lucy.

“It’s better in here,” she said. “You want a glass!”

“Can’s fine. I prefer kitchens, too.”

“Let’s get back to the interview, then. Turn on the damn machine and ask me your questions.”

“Tell me about Lucy when she was younger,” I said, setting up the tape recorder. “What was she like as a kid?”

“Same as she was when she grew up,” she said. “Full of mischief. Determined. Once she set her mind on something you couldn’t turn her around, no matter what.

“I remember she wanted a dog when she was little. I wouldn’t let her because I’m allergic. But she kept after me every day. She said she’d keep it out of doors, never let it in the house, never forget to feed it, and so on. She just had to have a pet. So, finally I gave in a little and got her a gerbil. But she didn’t just cuddle it and watch it in its cage. Not Lucy. She called it Rin Tin Tin and trained it to walk on a leash.”

I laughed with her.

“No kidding,” she said. “It was the craziest damn thing. Every night after supper, she’d take it for a walk, just like a dog. I can still see her, eleven years old, setting out with that little fur ball on a leash. People laughed at her, but she didn’t care. And the first thing she did when she left home was get herself that dog she’d always wanted. Did you ever see it? A beautiful German shepherd, just like Rin Tin Tin. She called him Gerbil. He went everywhere with her.”

“I don’t remember seeing him.”

“He got killed by a car six months later. You know the saying, ‘If I didn’t have any bad luck, I’d have no luck at all’? That was Lucy, for a while. But she didn’t let it get her down.”

“What do you know about her relationship with Domingo Avila? Is there anything you know about them that might be a reason for him to, um, do what he is accused of doing?”

“Maybe he was jealous because she broke up with him, but I can’t see why. They didn’t go together very long. It started a couple of years ago in spring training, then again last year when he was playing with the Sunland minor-league team. He was just a kid. So was she, really, but he seemed younger. She was nice to him. She helped him with his English and taught him how to get along up here. She was kind that way.”

“Was there bitterness about their breakup? Did he take it pretty hard?”

“I don’t think there was any problem like that. He got called up to Knoxville and it was over. There was never anything serious between them. At least not on her side.”

“I wonder if you are completely sure that he’s the one who did it,” I tried. She shrugged.

“Troy Barwell says the murder gun was found in the kid’s apartment. He hasn’t got an alibi. I guess the police know what they’re doing. No, I’m not positive, but don’t write that. We’ll just have to wait for the trial. Besides, I don’t really care, you know? Finding out who did it won’t bring her back.”

“But if Dommy’s innocent he shouldn’t be in jail. Whoever really did it should be there instead, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t bring myself to give a shit right now. I don’t feel like it’s my problem. Can you understand that?”

“I guess so.”

“Funny, because I can’t,” she said. “What else do you want to know?”

I looked at my notes.

“Aside from her pet, what did Lucy enjoy when she was young?”

“She always loved to write. I already told you that. She wrote stories and poems as soon as she could hold a pencil. She always got A’s in English. She wasn’t quite so good in math and science, but she was a top student.”

“But didn’t she win some county fair science project?”

“Yes. Tri-county fair. That was a long time ago. I’d almost forgotten. She did a genetics project breeding her gerbil. Rin Tin Tin turned out to be a girl. It was pretty crazy around here that year, I can tell you. It was only second prize, but we were real proud.”

“Any other prizes or honours?”

“She was on a part-scholarship at St. Petersburg Junior College. After she finished, she was going to go to journalism school up north. She was saving her money.”

“Was she a joiner? Girl Scouts, that sort of thing?”

“Not really. She wasn’t much for organized stuff. She was on the cheerleading squad, but that was so she could get with the athletes. I don’t know where that came from, by the way. Certainly not from me. I never went out with jocks.”

“Was there someone special? Did she go steady or give you any terrors about early marriage?”

“Not really. She usually went for the lost ones. I used to call them her stray dogs. There was one who is in a mental institution now, poor kid. Not through her doing. I think he would have been in there long before if it hadn’t been for Lucy. But she couldn’t be his nursemaid forever.”

“This was the Bonder boy?”

“Yes. Arnie. How do you know about that?”

“Someone mentioned it. I can’t remember who.”

“Gossips,” she said, shaking her head. “Everyone thinks our business is their business.”

“This wasn’t reported with any malice,” I assured her.

“I know you don’t mean any harm,” she said. “But that was such a difficult time, with Arnie. It really broke her heart. She wasn’t a cruel girl. Just the opposite. But no one understood.”

“I guess his father is pretty bitter.”

“Yes, he’s the one. He’s the only one. The boy didn’t hate her. Just the father. You wouldn’t believe the things he did. He sent her horrible letters and phoned her at all hours of the day and night. It just tore her apart.”

“I guess it’s pretty terrible to have that happen to your only son, though.”

“Not as bad as what happened to my only daughter.”

I reached across the table and took her hand and we sat in silence for a while. I was comfortable with June, strangely, and she seemed to be with me. After a moment, she got up and got two more beers. We lit cigarettes and looked out the window.

“Nice garden,” I said.

“Thanks, I don’t have time to do enough, but I like to be in it, when it’s not too hot.”

“It must be nice to be able to grow things all year round,” I said. “I have a little garden, too, but last I heard it was covered in snow.”

June shuddered.

“I’ve never seen snow,” she said. “Except once, when we had a storm here five years ago. How can you can stand it?”

“To tell you the truth, I can’t, but I manage, every year. We don’t get a lot of snow in Toronto, anyway.”

“But the cold. You can have it.”

“Yeah, I’m stuck with it. Don’t worry, I don’t go out in it unless I absolutely have to. And you notice I’m not completely dumb. I’ve found a job that brings me here every March.”

She laughed.

“What are you going to do now!” I asked. “Will you go back to work?”

“Next week, probably. I can’t see how hanging around the house is going to help me any. And the gang at work is pretty nice. Plus, we need the money.”

“Is there any place here you can go for help? Anyone you can talk to?”

“A shrink, you mean?” she looked at me sharply. “I’ve had enough of them to last me a lifetime. When I was a kid.”

“I didn’t mean a shrink, necessarily. Maybe a Family of Victims group or a grief counsellor. Maybe a women’s group. Just someone to talk to when you’re feeling lost, someone who will understand. Do you have family that could help?”

“I was an only child, and my parents’ car got T-boned on Highway 19 five years ago by some drunk in a pickup truck. They both died. So I guess I’m on my own.”

She drained her beer.

“But it won’t be the first time, and it probably won’t be the last.”

Another silence.

“Sorry,” she said. “I know you mean well. But, like I told you, I’m a survivor. I’ll be fine. Not happy, maybe, but I’ll be fine.”

She stood up.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like to be alone for a while.”

I apologized and gathered up my things.

“One more thing,” I said, hating to drag the words out. “Could I borrow a picture of Lucy, for the article? I’d get it back to you.”

She turned, without a word, and came back with a colour photo in a silver frame, a head and shoulder shot of Lucy, smiling mischievously.

“That’s a really nice picture,” I said.

“It’s my favourite one,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “You take good care of it.”

I took it out of the frame and handed the frame back.

“I’ll return this tomorrow or the next day,” I said. “Also, the paper wants our photographer to take some pictures of you and Ringo, maybe. Would you be willing?”

She looked blankly at me.

“I don’t mind, but I don’t know when he’s getting back.”

“Not today, necessarily. I’ll call you later in the afternoon and we can set it up, okay?”

“Fine,” she said, and walked me to the door. On an impulse, I hugged her. She hugged me back.

“I’ll call and see how you’re doing,” I said. “Maybe we’ll get together.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “I really would.”

When I got into my car, which was parked three or four houses away, I caught sight of another car in my rearview mirror, turning into her driveway. Curious, I waited before starting the car, long enough to see Cal Jagger walk up to her front door and ring the bell.

I didn’t feel like going back to the hotel to write. It was too nice a day. I’d be spending the first few hours staring at my screen and waiting for inspiration anyway. I could do that just as well in the sunshine. Besides, I hadn’t seen any baseball for close to a week. I headed to the training complex. If I was lucky, there would even be some lunch left.

The players were heading back out to the practice fields when I got there. I went into the media room and made myself a couple of sandwiches and took them out to the stands behind home plate. I was alone, mercifully. The fans aren’t allowed inside until the exhibition season starts, and the rest of the reporters were off doing other things. Trying to find something new to write about, no doubt. Poor buggers.

So it was just me and the sunshine, and the sights, sounds, and smells of the game I love. The strong young men hitting and running and fielding and throwing against the green of the grass and blue of the sky; the chatter around the batting cage, shouted insults and laughter, calls of encouragement, the sweet crack of bat on ball; the air flavoured with red-clay dust, a hint of pine tar, and traces in olfactory memory of last season’s hot dogs and popcorn.

Horkins Field, or more correctly the Dwight G. Horkins baseball complex, was named after the former mayor of Sunland who convinced the Titans that his little corner of paradise was just what they needed for their spring-training camp.

The stadium proper, which is surrounded by practice fields, had originally been the town’s high-school showcase, and still has a cozy amateur feeling to it, despite the money the town and the Titans have spent upgrading it. The field itself is in great shape, but the stands, at field level only from foul pole to foul pole, still feel like bleachers. The right-field seating is on benches with lines painted on them to delineate assigned places, and on busy afternoons the public address announcer asks patrons to “smoosh over so we can fit a few more folks in.”

The outfield fences are painted with advertisements for local businesses: among them the Hiram Wesley Insurance Company, the Bicentennial Savings and Loan, The El Rancho Roadhouse, the All-Globe Travel Agency, Betty’s Dress Shoppe (“Gently Used Clothing for the Fuller Figure”), the good old A-1 Veteran’s Buy and Sell Gun Shop and Practice Range, and, in deepest centre field, Morley the Jeweler, who offers a diamond ring to the lucky player who hits a home run through a circle about ten inches in diameter. At last report, Morley hadn’t yet had to part with any of the merchandise. All the signs, although newly painted, had a fifties feeling to them. But then, so does baseball.

During the summer, the stadium is the home of the rookie-league Titans, at the low end of the minor-league ladder. The practice fields are used by little league, school, and other amateur community teams. It is a good deal for everyone, even though both sides grumble every year during contract renewal.

I slumped happily with my feet on the seat in front of me, enjoying the moment totally. There were six players involved in the current round of batting practice with Sugar Jenkins, the batting coach: Stinger Swain, Kid Cooper, David Sloane, Eddie Carter, Joe Kelsey, and Jack Asher.

They were playing a game Asher brought with him from the Padres, his former team. It was a variation of the simulated games most teams play during batting practice. The Padres variation involved demerits as well as points awarded for each type of hit. The outfielders were competing against the infielders, with Asher qualifying for the second team by virtue of being a terrible first baseman before he moved to the American League and hung up his glove for good.

There was an extra edge to the competition, because they were facing what they call live pitching. Instead of the usual coach serving up soft tosses, the hitters were facing Bony Costello, the left-handed ace of the Titan staff. He wasn’t exactly in mid-season form, but he was hard to hit nevertheless.

They were having fun, something they forget to do sometimes in the heat of the season. They could have been kids in the schoolyard instead of the multinational sport conglomerates they really are. I was having fun watching them, too, which is something I also forget from time to time under the pressure of deadlines and scrambling for scoops.

When Costello was done, Flakey Patterson took his place on the mound. There were loud protests from the hitters, who wanted to face a right-hander this time. After a few pitches, they were howling. Patterson was trying out his large repertoire of junk pitches, knuckle balls, and tantalizing floaters. The hitters couldn’t touch them.

“Stop throwing shit,” Swain yelled. His team was behind in the make-believe game. “Pitch like a man, not a pussy.”

Flakey floated another one in. Swain swung mightily and missed.

“What do you call that swing, Stinger?” asked Eddie Carter.

“A pussy swing,” said Patterson. “You ready for a fastball?”

Swain stood in and swung his bat back and forth slowly, finally pointing it into centre field. Patterson wound up and threw the fastball, high and inside. Swain ended up in the dirt, to general hilarity all around. Even Sugar Jenkins joined in.

“They better not let the skipper catch them having fun,” said Tiny Washington, dropping into the seat two away from mine. “He’ll fine their asses.”

“For having fun?”

“Not allowed in this camp.”

“I guess you retired just in time,” I said.

“Guess I did,” he said, taking the lid off a Styrofoam coffee cup.

“Do you miss it?”

He looked at the players around the batting cage.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said. “Maybe I should have got right out of the game, so I wouldn’t have to be around it all the time.”

“What would you do?”

“Spend some time with my family. Start a business. My brother wants to open a restaurant with me back home.”

“Tiny, you’d go nuts without baseball. Besides, you’re going to be a good broadcaster.”

He shrugged and drank his coffee. I’d never seen him so down.

“Wow, it’s like a big black cloud just moved in,” I said.

“Two out of three ain’t bad,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m not a cloud.”

That lightened the mood a bit.

“Have you been doing any talking to the players about the night Lucy was shot?”

“A little. I found out what Stinger got so hot at Lucy for.”

“Really?”

“She was asking Tracy about the baby, remember? Well, it was last spring training she had that baby, and that’s when Stinger and Lucy were getting it on.”

“Which is why she remembered so clearly when it was born.”

“Uh huh. And there’s more. The same time Tracy got the baby, Stinger got something else.”

“This wouldn’t be a social disease that starts with the letter H, would it?”

“You got it.”

“No, as a matter a fact, I haven’t,” I said.

“But Stinger does, and so does Mrs. Stinger, and she wasn’t too happy about it.”

“You would think Stinger would know better. Condoms aren’t exactly a new invention. But he’s probably one of those guys who thinks real men don’t wear them.”

“That’s all changed now,” Tiny said.

“Did you find out anything else?”

“Not really. What have you heard about Dommy?”

“I’m seeing his lawyer tonight. Maybe she’ll have some news. She says he’s okay.”

“Hope so,” Tiny said. “I hate to think about him in that jail.”

“Me, too. But they got him taken out of the general population into some sort of protective custody.”

“What time is it?”

I looked at my watch.

“Two-thirty.”

“I’m interviewing Olliphant at three. Big deal thing for the weekend special. Got any ideas?”

“You want me to do your job for you?”

“Come on, Kate. This is all new to me. I never know what questions to ask.”

“Well, you could take it position by position and ask him to evaluate the team. You could ask him which rookies are looking good so far. You could ask him about his starting rotation for the Grapefruit League next week.”

“Don’t go so fast,” Tiny said. He was writing it all down.

“Ask him about the American League, how long it’s going to take him to catch up on it, what he’s doing to learn the players on the other teams.”

“Good, good.”

“You could ask him why he never holds a job for more than a couple of years. Is it because he’s a pig-headed jerk.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I just said you could ask him, not that you should ask him.”

“You’re trying to get me in trouble, woman.”

“You’re lucky you were always nice to me all those years you were playing. I wouldn’t do this for just any rookie.”

“Well, I’m much obliged,” he said, heaving his bulk out of the seat. “Now I’d better go get ready.”

“Don’t forget to powder your nose.”

He grunted ruefully and left. I decided my holiday was over, too. I wanted to get a start on the Lucy piece before I went to Esther’s for dinner.

I went down the aisle and climbed over the barrier between the stands and the field. Gloves waved at me from the batting cage, so I went over.

“Were you telling Tiny any news?” he asked.

“Nothing too interesting,” I said. “Have you got anything?”

He looked at Stinger, who was on the other side of the cage, staring at us. When I caught his eye, he looked quickly away.

“Not that I want to talk about now,” Gloves said. “I think Karin’s been asking around about some things. Maybe you should call her.”

“I’ll do that as soon as I get home. Thanks. Who’s winning?”

“Outfielders,” he said. But we’ll get to them once Flakey’s out of there.”

He turned and shouted towards the mound.

“Hey, Flakey. You don’t want to be overdoing it now. You don’t want to blow out your shoulder before the exhibition season starts.”

“Man, if the other teams’ hitters are as lame as you guys, I’m gonna get me a Cy Young this year,” he answered. His cap sat strangely on his head, which was covered with fine stubble.

“You win anything, it’s going to be the Cy Old,” said Eddie Carter, who was at bat. “You pitch like my Grandpa.”

“Who’s your Grandpaw, Satchel Paige?” Flakey hollered back.

There was only one player not laughing. Stinger Swain hadn’t even been listening. He was looking at me with icy hatred in his eyes, swinging his bat towards me. I got out of there.