Out of Left Field (7 page)

“Uh-oh.” Marty points to a file with my initials.

“Skip it.” I open the folder marked “Personal,” and immediately feel guilty. There are e-mails from Cora and from friends. I recognize some names, not others. I close the folder and glance at Marty. “This is too weird. Maybe we should quit.”

“Hold on.” Marty points to a folder in the middle of the list. “N.S. Could that be Nova Scotia?”

“Score.” I slap him five. “See—told you I needed your smarts.”

“It’s not smarts, Bran. I noticed and you didn’t. Check it out.”

I grip the mouse and open the file.

From: Ray Graham

Subject: Hello, old buddy!

Date: June 30, 2004

To: Patrick McGinnis

Hey, pal—

I can’t believe you found me. Pretty clever, to go through the alumni grapevine. I didn’t know they’d give out e-mail. Damn—it’s been too long.

Good to hear you’re doing well. I’d love to meet your wife and son. Come on up! I was in Halifax for years, working for a mental health agency, but Priscilla got sick of the city. We came to Yarmouth a few years back. I stuck out like a sore thumb at first but folks are used to me now. We have a big garden and space for guests if you want to visit—unless it’s too painful.

Yes, the girls are grown. Mindy’s in school in New Brunswick and Alix works in Digby. She’s getting married this fall. Time moves on. I’ll send some photos next time.

About your question: I haven’t heard a thing about V since you left and they disappeared. I assume you tried the McGill route for her, too?

Time for bed but I wanted to tell you, right away, how good it is to hear from you.

As we used to say: Peace.

Your buddy,

Ray

*

From: Ray Graham

Subject: Hello, old buddy

Date: July 1, 2004

To: Patrick McGinnis

Me again. I searched online and found plenty of Martins listed in Antigonish—but not the ones you asked about. You’ve probably tried that already. Needle in a haystack, eh? I wonder if her parents are even alive. How about hiring a detective? I know you tried that before, but it might be easier, now that the Internet knows everything about us. I could ask around, get the name of a good agency.

It’s funny: I always thought you’d be the one to stay in Canada and I’d go home and face the music. You’d laugh at how I love this country. I fly the maple leaf, sing
O! Canada
! I’ve even become a hockey fan. (Don’t worry: I still keep track of the Mets.) Stay in touch—

Ray

*

From: Ray Graham

Subject: Where are you?

Date: July 15, 2004

To: Patrick McGinnis

Hey, old buddy—where the hell are you? Hope things are okay. It’s been a while since your last post. Did you find anything? Got something that might interest you. Give me a buzz. I’m around most nights except Mondays, when I’m on call. Someone always flips out at three A.M. You know the drill.

Let me hear from you soon.

Peace—

Ray

Fourth Inning

Out of Left Field

“You’ve got to call the guy!” Marty jabs the screen. “Look—his number’s there.”

“Not now.” I scribble the number down, close the folders, shut off the computer. The walls are closing in on me again. “Gotta get out of here.” I return the computer to Dad’s desk.

When I come back, Marty’s holding his cap. “Your wish is my command.”

How to say this? “Mart, this may sound harsh—but there’s something I need to do alone.”

“No problem.” He claps his hat over the buzz cut. “Long as it’s not some girl you haven’t told me about.”

“You wish.” I see him to the door. His slumped shoulders show he’s hurt. Dammit. I almost call him back, but I can’t. This is more important.

I’m on the Green Line before I admit where I’m headed. I get off at Kenmore, walk across the bridge with Turnpike traffic whooshing below, and turn onto Yawkey Way. The Sox are on the road but Gate A is open. A wiry guy with an old-fashioned handlebar mustache sits at the ticket booth. “Need tickets?”

“I’d like to go in, sit a while near the Pesky Pole.”

“Tours are over for today.”

“I know my way around. Been coming since my first birthday, but I’ll pay for a tour ticket if you’ll let me sit for a while. I won’t stay long.”

“Nostalgia trip?” When I nod, he releases the turnstile. “Stay off the field and sit where I can see you. Anyone asks, say Tony let you in.”

“Thanks.” I trudge down the ramp into the concrete bowels of the walkway behind the seats. My first time here on an off day. The silence is weird. No crush of people waiting in line for beer or hotdogs. No guys hawking French fries; no warm pretzel smells. I hurry past the red and white signs until I reach section 93. I stop at the top of the ramp like we always do—

Did
. Like we did.

I breathe deep. Fenway’s magical, even in the quiet. The first sight of that green expanse, glittering in the sun, never gets old. Last time here, a few months ago, we sat beyond the Pesky Foul Pole. I scoot into the fourth row up—better than our usual spot—open a seat in the middle and sit. Wait. And listen.

Nothing. The hum of traffic in the distance. Hammering behind the bleachers.

This is crazy. As crazy as Mom thinking Dad has turned into a talking cardinal. Maybe we’re both nuts.

What would Dad do in this empty park? Climb into the Monster Seats? The guy in the booth wouldn’t like that. I close my eyes.

My memories are a blur. I should have kept scorecards so I’d remember specific games, but Dad dismissed them. “Study the field, soak it all in,” he said. “Listen to the peanut guy, the crack of the bat. Smell the cotton candy. Watch for the guy hiding behind the scoreboard.”

I smile. When I was little, I thought that the scoreboard guy lived back there, and I always wondered where he went to the bathroom. Dad’s face is hazy in my mind but I can hear his voice, that slight hint of Canadian accent, the way he said “oat” for “out.” Maybe he’s here, perched on the edge of his seat next to me, sipping a beer, ready to leap if someone hits a foul ball into our section—or, better yet, if the batter smokes one into deep right, bringing three men home.

Of course, when I open my eyes, I’m still alone. I climb over the seats to the first row and lean out over the dugout roof. My first real memory of the park, I was on Dad’s shoulders when we snaked through the crowds, so I was probably what—five? I remember how the flag snapped in the wind, how I thought the giant Coke bottle was filled with real Coke. I was wearing my glove, of course. Dad set me down at the top of the ramp and we looked out over the greenest grass I’d ever seen, the color of emeralds. The players were out on the field, warming up, their home uniforms clean and crisp, smiles cocky. They moved like dancers as they shagged balls and fired them back like bullets. “They make it look so easy, don’t they?” Dad probably said. It was true. Still is.

I studied the field that day. No sign of the man I wanted. “Where is he?”

“Still in the clubhouse, I bet.” Dad led me to the railing near the dugout, where I’m standing now. “Wait here—maybe you can get his autograph.” He handed me a ball and I clutched it, afraid I’d drop it.

When Mo finally emerged from the dugout, my heart raced. He was huge, even bigger in real life than on TV, with legs like tree trunks. His ebony skin gleamed. And his number? 42. Like Robinson.

“Mo!” I cried, and held out my ball. “Mo, over here!” I reached out until I nearly fell into the field.

A miracle: Vaughn stopped, flashed his signature smile, and winked at me. Then he touched the brim of his cap and kept going. “Mo,” I whispered. Like an incantation, or a prayer. And then I realized: I’d forgotten to ask for his autograph.

Dad came up to me then, set his hand on my shoulder—

*

“Ahh!” I spin around as someone grips my shoulder
now
. “Jesus!” It’s the guy from the ticket booth. I pull away. “Dude—you scared me. Thought you were someone else.”

“Sorry.” The guy raises his hands. “Guess you didn’t hear me. The park’s about to close.” His voice is raspy but kind. “Tough memories?”

“Yeah. My dad died a few weeks ago. That was our spot, up there.” I point to the Pesky Pole, its yellow more intense than usual. It guards this end of the park like a sentinel. “For some reason, whenever Dad bought seats, those were the only ones available.”

The guy leans on the dugout beside me. “Sorry for your loss. How’d he die?”

“Car accident, middle of the night.” I can’t believe I’m spewing my guts to a perfect stranger. He’s quiet, paying attention—which is more than I can say about the so-called “grief counselor” who called me last week.

“Gone with no warning? That’s awful. Out of left field.” He tugs on his mustache. “What’d your dad think of this year’s lineup?”

I manage a smile. “He was psyched. Even though we were eight games out, he insisted this is our year.” We stride down the ramp side by side. “What do you think?”

“Ya gotta believe,” the guy says. “That’s our mantra. But I got a feeling…ever since Damon showed up looking like Jesus, with that beard and hair—this team feels different.”

“Yeah. That’s what Dad said: ‘We’ll reverse the curse this time.’”

We grin, like someone has let us in on a big secret. The guy opens his wallet, hands me his card. “I’m Tony. This is my direct line. Computers are down now, but give me a call tomorrow. I’ll get you two seats to the playoffs, section 93, no questions asked.”

“Seriously? Won’t we jinx them, talking about playoff seats now?”

“I’m as superstitious as they come, but trust me.” We shake hands and I tell him my name.

“Come back anytime, Brandon,” he says. “If I’m at the window, you can walk on through. He’ll find you.”

We both know who he means. “Thanks.”

I leave the park with a quick step. A fresh breeze cools my face. Like Dad always said; like this guy Tony says now:
Ya gotta believe
.

Phone call: Quinn on Digby Neck, to Cat in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

Hey, Cat. Got a minute?

Listen, I’m still trying to get a copy of my birth certificate. Dad claims he doesn’t know where it is, but says he’ll look. Should I believe him?

Anyway, I told him how the hospital has no record of my being born. He made some lame joke but I got angry. Then he has a coughing fit—

Yeah, totally fake. I even ask him, point blank, if I’m adopted. He gets all huffy, says of course not; people don’t keep that a secret these days.

Take it easy, Cat. I’m getting to that part. So then he asks me, like he doesn’t know: what hospital did I call? I tell him and he says: there’s your problem. You were born in Halifax, in a birthing center.

Wait: it gets worse. I called a friend, a Halifax midwife. She says the place never existed. I tried the hospital in Halifax, like she suggested, got the names of all the babies born on my birthday. Couple of boys, but no one named Quinn.

I know; sounds like they’re hiding something big time. Gives me the creeps. The hell with Puerto Rico. This is bigger than that now.

Can’t come home: the fog’s lifted. Tourists are showing up for a change. If I don’t get out on the water soon, I won’t make my rent. It’s up to you.

Of course I’m serious! The safe deposit box is our only hope—

Come on, Cat. You’re my sister. Who else can I count on?

Okay. I admit I’ve been a jerk. I thought about your offer to crew on
Little Blue
. It’s not a bad idea. You’d need to take the boating safety test, but you know that stuff already, eh? I could use you. Seriously. My first mate took off last week.

Deal? Okay. The key to the safe deposit box should be in the bank file. They may not let you in, given you’re a minor and all. You’ll need a letter with Dad’s signature, saying it’s okay for you to have access.

I’ll forge it for you. How do you think I skipped class at school?

Cut it out. If I’m an alien someone left on the doorstep, how come everyone says I look like Mum?

Clutch Play

I’m in the Twilight Zone now. Just when you think the weirdness is over, something else happens. I get home from a grueling practice, find the light blinking on the answering machine, push the button—

And a woman from a doctor’s office comes on, reminds me I have an appointment at Faulkner Hospital tomorrow at 4 P.M. “Please call twenty-four hours ahead if you can’t make it—otherwise you will be charged for the appointment.”

Huh? I glance at my watch: 4:35. I listen a second time, write the number down. No way I can miss our big meet tomorrow, unless I’m ready to quit the team. (Which I am, some days, but swimming numbs the pain.) I call the hospital number, punch in the extension, wait through ugly Muzak—and finally a voice tells me I’ve reached cardiology.

Cardiology
? What the—?

I tell them who I am. “Apparently I have an appointment with you—but there must be some mistake.”

“Hold on.” Computer keys click on the other end. “Your father made the appointment,” she says. “He must have forgotten to tell you about it.”

“No kidding.”

She clears her throat. “Excuse me?”

“My father’s
dead
,” I tell her. “So he’s not making appointments for anyone. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

The silence goes on for a while. “I—I’m terribly sorry,” she says. “Will you hold a minute? Please don’t hang up.”

For once, I’m grateful for the bad music and the crummy recording about staying healthy. It gives me time to calm down, wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. A man’s voice startles me.

“Mark Spivak, cardiology nurse,” he says. “I’m sorry about the confusion—but you
do
have an appointment.”

“Since when do I have heart trouble?” My heart is in
pieces
, but no doctor can fix that.

Now the nurse clears
his
throat. That office could use some lozenges. “Is—is your mother home?”

“Nope.” I hang up on the guy and back away as if the phone is an IED. What the hell’s going on? It’s like a trig problem that’s beyond me. Even Marty the math whiz couldn’t figure this one out. Dad had one son in Canada. Supposedly. And another son here in Boston, for real—who needs to see a cardiologist.