Home, Away. Jeff Gillenkirk
where you’re playing, explaining interesting things you’ve discovered and asking him what he’s doing?”
“I asked for a trade to be near him,” he offered.
She waved his words away. “You’re a National League pitcher. I prefer the National League because pitchers challenge hitters — strength against strength, fast ball pitcher to fast ball hitter — am I right?” Jason nodded. “But every once in a while you’ve got to throw a curve,” she continued. “You’ve got to drop one off the edge of the table and leave them standing there with the bat in their hands, wondering what the hell just happened.”
Jason arched an eyebrow. He couldn’t figure out where she was going, whether they had just switched to baseball or she was weaving some kind of complicated spell that would leave him in the same straits as the University of West Virginia football team.
“Your ex-wife is hitting your fastball,” she said. “She’s a lawyer, and you’re pitching right out over the plate — fast ball fast ball fast ball. You’ve got something huge that you haven’t used yet, a secret weapon that every man has to discover before he can conquer the world.” Sylvia Hluchan tapped her chest beside a small pearl brooch in the shape of a chrysanthemum. “Your heart.”
The small clock on her desk ticked softly. Jason realized with surprise that the hour had passed. Herds of questions stampeded through his mind. What if Vicki won’t let Rafe play the tapes? What if she throws away the postcards? What if Rafe’s friends think his Dad is crazy for sending a pizza to school — or worse, what if Rafe does?
They rose together. Sylvia Hluchan’s head didn’t even reach his chest. “I think the Reds thought we’d talk about baseball more,” Jason said.
“We did.”
“About my pitching, I mean.”
She hooked him by his left arm and led him into the waiting room. “We determined at the beginning that you’re a wonderful pitcher. That hasn’t changed in the last hour.” She stopped and looked up at him. “I want you to come in next homestand and tell me how you’re doing.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.” She gave his arm a squeeze before letting him go. “Keep throwing strikes, Mr. Thibodeaux.” She smiled her strange smile, her eyes expanding behind the thick glasses. “Just change speeds once in awhile.”
IT WAS, as Yogi Berra said, déjà vu all over again. A man on first, the Reds up by a run, eighth inning, the count 2-2 and Giordano calling for a slider low and outside. Jason took a deep breath and went into the stretch and there was the kid again with the Giants hat, sitting in the front row beside the same heavy-set guy eating popcorn.
Jason’s eyes locked on the kid, then he stepped off the rubber and smiled to himself. Maybe Vuco was right — maybe he was crazy. Maybe at some point next year — next week — they’ll be pulling him off the backstop like Jimmy Piersall in Fear Strikes Out. Stranger things had happened.
“Andale, Ya-sone,” Guardell whistled from shortstop. “C’mon, JT!” Digger Wells called from third. He glanced into the dugout and saw Vuco staring, posed like Baptiste used to be, his hands in his back pocket, his back curved, pelvis thrust forward.
Jason checked the runner, kicked and the pitch was off — a missile headed straight for the heart of the plate. The batter strode forward, his bat seeking the tiny orb but it broke down and away into Giordano’s mitt.
Strike three!
He strode to the dugout and accepted a fusillade of high fives. “JT! JT! JT!” player after another barked affectionately. It was a cold Monday night in mid-September and the Reds were still four-and-a-half games out and nobody believed they were going to make it except them. Everyone was playing well — and no one was playing better than Jason Thibodeaux. With two more wins his record would be 12-12. Two wins put at least another zero on his contract, and his agent could move him to San Francisco.
He stopped at the cooler and tossed down a cup of cold water. Vuco came up behind him. “I’m bringin’ in Jervey to finish,” he said. Jervey was their closer. Jason’s face fell with disappointment but Vuco clapped him hard on the shoulder. “You keep pitching like you did tonight, you can go anywhere you want.”
JASON SAW the light on his phone blinking as he entered his hotel room after the game. He looked at his watch — Wednesday. He quickly dialed the message box. “You have two messages. To listen to your new messages, press one — ”
He punched one. “JT, it’s Digger. I met a dish and can’t make dinner tonight.” Goddamn Wells, he’d stand up the Pope if some babe got to him first. He erased the message, then waited for the other. “Hi Daddy, it’s me, Rafe. Are you there? I’m wondering if you’re still working or at a party or where you are.” There was a long pause, Jason was afraid he’d hung up. Then, “Hello? Are you there Daddy? Um, anyway, I just called to say hello. Mommy and me had pizza tonight and I hope you’re having a good time wherever you are. Bye-bye!”
It was like hearing music after a lifetime of being deaf. He had sent Rafe a bunch of stuff over the past two weeks — tapes of him reading stories from the Brothers Grimm — Rapunzel, Hansel & Gretel, The Fisherman and His Wife; a boxed set of musical sound tracks; a photo of himself from the Cincinnati sports pages; a postcard from the Pittsburgh zoo that showed a Kodiak Bear tossing a ball with his nose at some spectators. He had also sent a telephone debit card, a copy of the Red’s remaining schedule with his custody days circled, and the phone numbers where he could be reached. This was the first opportunity Rafe had to use the new system, and he’d pulled it off like a pro.
He pressed 1 and listened again. “Hi Daddy, it’s me, Rafe … ” His voice felt as close and reassuring as a hug. Jason played the message a third and fourth time, then saved it to listen to later.
“I hope you’re having a good time wherever you are. Bye-bye!”
VICKI YANKED down the front of Rafe’s white vest until the wrinkles vanished, then swiped the cracker crumbs from the corners of his mouth with her plum-colored fingernail. “You look wonderful,” she smiled. She ran her hand down the soft sheen of his cheek. “You look like Mozart.”
Rafe gripped his jaw but he could no longer fight it. His eyes filled with tears, his mouth opened in a silent howl. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Vicki asked with alarm, squatting beside him. It was a cool October night, with a faint stitching of stars above the city. A steady stream of kids, parents and teachers poured through the front doors of Aurora Craverro School of the Arts.
“I don’t want to go,” Rafe cried.
“But baby, your whole class is in there.” She wiped the tears from his cheeks and held his shoulder firmly with her other hand. “You can do this,” she encouraged him. “You know the words.” He shook his head. “Sure you do, we practiced them over and over again.” She flattened his collar, and jerked his red bow tie back and forth. “Let’s just straighten this bow-tie — ”
“It’s a butterfly tie!” he shouted, his eyes sharp with anger now.
“Of course,” she said, softening in the face of what could become a full-blown tantrum. “It is like a butterfly, isn’t it?” She tucked in his shirt and centered his belt buckle. “We should go in now. It sounds like everyone’s getting ready.”
“Daddy said he was going to come.”
“Daddy says a lot of things.” She wiped his cheeks again. “C’mon, this is a happy night. We’ll go to Mitchell’s for ice cream afterwards and celebrate.”
He let her lead him into the crowded auditorium, where the Fifth Grade Orchestra was warming up. The other members of Rafe’s third grade class — or for the purposes of this special evening, Le Troisieme Chorale — had already assembled on the stage, the boys in their white tails and red ties fidgeting and weaving like a field of poppies in the wind,