Authors: Callie Wright
No, said Dave.
Who?
Dave looked at him.
I don’t know any other sophomores, said Teddy.
Right, said Dave. You only live with one.
Teddy felt his mind circling Dave’s words, trying to get purchase. There was no way Dave was talking about his sister. Was he?
Do you even know Julia? asked Teddy.
She’s your fucking sister, said Dave.
Right, said Teddy. They were probably in rocket science together. Well, she’s kind of annoying.
What’s the deal with her and Sam? asked Dave.
No clue, said Teddy. He stole a glance at Dave and pictured him visiting Julia from New Haven while Teddy was home from Oneida, his house filled to capacity. It wasn’t the worst idea.
Dave pushed the eject button on the stereo and began rooting through his glove compartment for a new tape. Before Teddy could suggest the radio, Dave selected a yellow cassette and pressed it into the tape deck, then cranked the volume.
Automatic for the People
—the suicide song.
No, said Teddy.
Yes, said Dave. Or get out of my seat.
Teddy drove on, through Carlisle, Sloansville, Esperance. Past empty storefronts, empty fields. In front of a double-wide trailer, a plywood
4-SALE
sign leaned against a John Deere tractor, and Dave said, You could buy that and save five hundred bucks, then laughed with his mouth open.
Teddy consulted the dashboard clock and was stunned to find that it was only nine thirty. Gym would just be ending; next stop, math, which suddenly sounded better than Michael Stipe. He could feel his mood starting to slip and tried to soothe himself with images of his Jeep: white with a soft black cover, stereo with a CD player that Rick Delaney had installed himself. Not only that, but Rick had put in two subwoofers behind the backseat that absolutely throbbed when Rick trailed up and down Main Street. Teddy needed that Jeep. He needed a space in the world where he could play Phil Collins as loudly as he wanted, go when and where he wanted, bring with him whoever he wanted. The Jeep would be Teddy’s safety net between life as he knew it and the dining halls, dorms, and roommates waiting below. Worst-case scenario, Teddy couldn’t hack college and the car would catch him, carry him home.
They made it to Albany as Major League Collectibles was opening, but Teddy still didn’t have a game plan for selling his cards, so he steered them toward a diner he’d spotted on Western Avenue.
Again? asked Dave.
I need to think for a minute, said Teddy. Over eggs.
It wasn’t until they were inside the restaurant that Teddy remembered he and Dave were cutting school. They were the youngest patrons by fifty years, the only diners with color still in their hair. Men reading newspapers, couples eating in silence, a woman with a smoker’s cough who picked at a plate of pancakes: the tables were mostly occupied, but the booths were completely empty. Arthritis, knee replacements, broken hips. It took effort to scoot in.
Jeez, said Dave. It’s like visiting my grandmother in Florida. Then he seemed to remember where he’d last seen Teddy’s grandmother and quickly apologized.
Whatever, said Teddy, nabbing a choice booth by the front window. He passed Dave a laminated menu, then took one for himself.
Dave held up his utensils and said, There’s crap on my fork.
Teddy squeaked, This dirty old fork is too dirty, while continuing to scan his menu.
Seriously, said Dave, there’s no way this place passed mustard with the department of health.
Teddy shook his head. Whatever the fuck.
When their waitress appeared, Teddy sat up straighter, older, the word
truant
echoing around in his head. But it wasn’t Teddy who was the problem. Across from him, Dave absently combed his sideburns with the tines of his fork.
Are you ready to order? she asked. Teddy read her name tag: Michelle. Heavy blush, aqua eye shadow, foundation that Kim, an aspiring makeup artist, would’ve called streaky. But there was a softness around her mouth that Teddy found alluring. He tried to catch her eye, do the Teddy thing.
Could I have a new fork? asked Dave.
Michelle turned and lifted a set of silverware from the empty booth behind them, then carefully laid it in front of Dave, paper napkin and all. Good? she asked.
Good, said Dave.
Teddy ordered an egg sandwich and a large Coke, while Dave went for the dry toast and a chamomile tea.
Teddy smiled—chamomile tea!—but Michelle wasn’t looking at him, at either of them.
Anything else? she asked.
No, said Dave. That will be all.
When Michelle was gone, Dave announced he was getting the paper, then scooted out of the booth and headed to the box by the entrance.
Teddy watched Michelle make the rounds with a pot of coffee. A million new girls in college. It was an enticing prospect, and it buoyed Teddy’s mood. He liked Kim—maybe he loved Kim—but he didn’t want to marry her. If Teddy ever got married, it’d be to someone as smart and pretty as his mom.
Dave returned and sprawled sideways in the booth with his sneakers hanging over the edge, his shoulder to Teddy. With fanfare, he flapped open the paper, shook it, then began to read.
Behind the counter, Michelle filled a plastic cup from the soda machine, then located a mug for Dave’s tea. She reminded Teddy of Jess at Gabriella’s, and not because they were both waitresses. Teddy had never been with an older woman. It was definitely on his list.
She crossed the dining room with an oval tray hoisted over her shoulder, her blond ponytail swishing in time with her step.
Egg sandwich, said Michelle, setting a plate in front of Teddy. Toast, she said to Dave.
Could I get some lemon? asked Dave.
Teddy rolled his eyes, but Michelle said, Sure, then smiled conspiratorially at Teddy, the corners of her mouth turning up just for him.
So, said Dave, folding his paper. What’s the plan?
Teddy applied ketchup and Tabasco to the underside of his bun.
You do know Rick Delaney’s an ass, said Dave. There’s no way that car is worth seven hundred bucks.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, said Teddy. It runs.
Really? asked Dave. Have you taken it to a mechanic?
Teddy snorted and said, No, Dave, I don’t own it yet.
Dave stared at him. You do that before you buy the car.
Teddy frowned. Did everyone know that? Right, he said, but I still need to be ready with the money for when the mechanic gives it the okay.
Dave squared himself to Teddy. Okay, he said. So which cards are you selling?
Teddy got serious. If I only go with the big ones, I’ll never make it to seven hundred, he said. My ’83 Ryne Sandberg is worth sixty bucks, and I have two of them because I also have an ’83 complete set. So that’s one-twenty. Then I have an ’84 Dwight Gooden, which is worth twenty-seven, and an ’85 Roger Clemens.
Don’t sell that, said Dave. That’s going to be worth a shitload one day. What about your doubles?
I tried that, said Teddy. Not enough.
Dave nodded. How much would you get by selling the big ones?
I’d be breaking up complete sets to do it, said Teddy, so it makes more sense to look at the value of the sets as a whole. My Topps ’83 through ’88 are worth about four-fifty total, but that’s only because they include my rookie Wade Boggs, Tony Gwynn, and one Ryne Sandberg. My ’85 Fleer set is worth two hundred, but that’s with the Clemens. Teddy dropped his hands. There’s no way I’m getting to seven hundred without selling the big cards, and once you’ve done that, you might as well sell the sets.
Or, said Dave.
Or what?
Or you could sell one card.
Teddy shook his head. That’s not my card, he said.
Your dad gave it to you, Dave said.
To hold, said Teddy. It’s not even his.
Come on, said Dave. You must’ve looked it up.
Teddy had looked it up.
Well? asked Dave.
Six-fifty, said Teddy. Dave raised an eyebrow.
No, said Teddy.
Sell that card, said Dave, come up with another fifty bucks on your own, and you have a car. If you walk in there with a backpack full of complete sets, you know they’re going to rape you.
Teddy shrugged. Maybe, he said. He chewed on a cuticle.
In the car, Teddy called out directions while Dave drove and in less than ten minutes they were idling in the parking lot in front of Major League Collectibles.
Dave cut the engine. Do you want me to come in with you? he asked.
Teddy shrugged. Do you think it’ll help?
I don’t know, said Dave. I look sort of young.
You look about twelve, Teddy agreed.
Dave smiled and reached for his newspaper. Good luck, he said, and Teddy suddenly felt twelve, too. He socked Dave in the shoulder, then grabbed his backpack off the floor of the car.
Major League Collectibles was a single room dimly lit by fluorescent lights, with dusty blinds blocking out the sunlight along with the view of the parking lot. It took a minute for Teddy’s eyes to adjust. Slowly he saw a worn industrial carpet, whirring ceiling fans, and a 1986 Mets World Series poster above the front counter—that’d be it for his father; they’d be out of here. Teddy approached the display case with his backpack clutched to his chest.
The man behind the counter was jacked, veins like ropes under his skin. He wore a muscle T cut halfway down his sides so that Teddy could see his abs flex when he leaned forward over the counter. This guy was no baseball player. Too pumped, too groomed. Something. Teddy could just tell.
Can I help you? he asked.
Is there a manager I could speak to? asked Teddy.
That’s me, said the man.
Teddy swallowed. I’m here about selling some cards. He set his backpack on the counter, building a wall between them.
The manager nodded toward Teddy’s bag. What do you have?
Complete sets, said Teddy. Mint. He slid out the first binder, including his Topps Traded from 1986, priced by
Beckett
at twenty-four dollars. The manager flipped through Teddy’s Topps, bored. He didn’t even pause to admire José Canseco or Barry Bonds.
Ten, he offered.
Ten?
Ten dollars.
Teddy looked around the store for someone else he could talk to. It’s worth twenty-four, said Teddy.
To who? asked the manager, and Teddy felt his neck and face start to burn.
That’s not enough, said Teddy firmly. The manager closed his mouth and opened it again. Teddy shifted, crossed his arms over his chest, tried to steady himself. Twenty, said Teddy.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
Twelve, said the man again. Teddy swallowed, nodded. The manager turned to the next set in the binder.
On a black solar-powered calculator, the numbers were added up. Twelve. Sixteen. Thirty-nine. They were never going to make it to seven hundred. Once, Teddy tried to bargain harder, but the manager shook his head, said, Keep it, and Teddy backed down, sold his 1985 Fleer set for a third of what it was worth. There went the Roger Clemens. Now the manager pulled binders from Teddy’s backpack without asking, turning pages, calling out figures, and Teddy’s palms began to sweat and there was a familiar ringing in his ears.
Sixty, said the manager.
Teddy nodded.
Twenty-two.
Please, said Teddy. The manager glanced at him and Teddy nodded and the manager added the binder to his growing stack.
Teddy closed his eyes, breathed, breathed again. Head bowed, he no longer saw the manager or the worn carpet or the dark windows and faded posters of Major League Collectibles. Instead, he saw the top shelf at Third Base in Cooperstown, where he’d built his collection: a 1952 Topps Mickey Mantle, rookie card; a mint 1916 Babe Ruth, issued when the Babe was still with the Red Sox; a shoeless Joe Jackson and a rookie Joe DiMaggio; an autographed Jackie Robinson and a limited-edition Roberto Clemente.
On the second shelf were the living Hall of Famers, former players who returned to Cooperstown every year for Hall of Fame Weekend, with its free meals, cocktail hours at the Otesaga hotel, golf and tennis matches at the country club, and shooting the shit with one another about old times. Some of these guys looked good, strong and tall, and you knew they could still hit the wall, could still throw an eighty-mile-an-hour fastball if they wanted to. And some were getting old.
When Teddy was ten, he’d gone with his father to the country-club tennis courts to watch Ted Williams—one of Teddy’s namesakes, the other his dead uncle George—rally with his son, John Henry. It wasn’t a competition, but Ted Williams kept slicing it and lobbing it until John Henry was throwing his racket and kicking up the Har-Tru. It was a cloudy day and when the thunder started the other players packed it in, but the Splendid Splinter wouldn’t call it. Then the rain came and John Henry took off for the parking lot and didn’t look back.
For a few seconds, Ted Williams was alone on Court 4 in the rain, a white towel around his neck, and he looked lost, an old man, but then Teddy’s dad had struck like lightning and the next thing Teddy remembered his father’s hero was riding shotgun in their station wagon, Teddy in the backseat behind him. No one spoke during the short drive along West Lake Road—his father had been too awed and Teddy had known better than to break the silence. At the gate to the Otesaga hotel, Ted Williams spoke to the guard and they drove on to the hotel’s covered entrance.
I have a card, said his dad when they stopped. You signed it for my brother when we were boys.
The signature had faded in the thirty years since, but Teddy’s dad had brought along a black ballpoint pen and now he handed the pen and the card to Ted Williams and said, Would you sign this for me again?
Teddy could not swallow the knot in his throat. It was pushing up from his chest and into his mouth and nose and eyes.
The manager was down to the last binder.
What’s this? he asked.
Wait, said Teddy.
The manager looked up.
Not that one.
The manager studied him, then studied the card through the plastic without touching the sleeve. It was a 1957 Topps—the year they’d cut their cards to the new industry-standard size—and they’d taken the top off Ted’s hat. Ted at bat, Ted on the follow-through, Ted with his arms crossed wrist over wrist, his bat breaking behind his right shoulder, his hips twisted to the side.
Character
was the word Teddy’s dad used. The Splendid Splinter had fought in two wars. He had flown a plane over Korea. He had left and come back, left and come back. He hadn’t been afraid of anything. But Teddy was afraid.