“LTI… is that Lear Transport?”
“Yes, it is!” Robin exclaimed. “So you've heard of us?”
“Nah. Carol told me once, I just couldn't remember. She says we've stocked you before. So, this LTI runs all classes of freight?”
“All classes. I'd love to come and talk to you about what we transport.”
Robin could hear the click of a Zippo lighter and the draw of smoke into Eldagirt's lungs. 'The thing is, Ms. Lear,“ she said, exhaling, ”I don't got a lot of time. I've increased my accounts by about fifty percent over last year,
and I'm a single mom, so I am running from one thing to another all the damn time."
“Oh,” Robin responded, disappointed. But wait… this was business—surely the battle-ax had a baby-sitter or something. “Well… I promise not to take too much of your time,” she said uncertainly. “I'd just like the opportunity to tell you what we've got in mind.”
Another draw of smoke, a lazy exhale. “Tell you what. I'm not so busy on the weekend. Come up on a Saturday and we can talk a little.”
Oh yeah! Saturday in Burdette! “Well, ah, sure!” she said in a lame attempt to sound excited by the prospect. “Ah… Burdette. Is there, like, a local airport there?”
Eldagirt's laugh was one long wheeze. “You ain't never been out this way, have you? It ain't but a two-hour drive from Houston .”
“Yes, but—”
“There's a little landing strip just outside of town, but it don't get used much. I'll plan on making time next Saturday. Get here around noon . I'll meet you at the—” A sound in the background interrupted her; Eldagirt shouted to the side, “Do you mind? I am on the phone!” After a moment, she said, “Like I was saying, just come next Saturday at noon .”
“Umm, okay,” Robin said, feeling even more uncertain. “How will I find you?”
Eldagirt wheezed again. “You'll be able to find us, don't you worry,” she said and dragged on her smoke again. “Burdette ain't no bigger than a tick on a dog's butt. All right, I gotta go. See you next Saturday.”
“Wait!” Robin exclaimed, frantically trying to think of some reason she could not go to Burdette next weekend, but caught sight of Jake standing there, watching her.
“Yeah?” Eldagirt asked, the impatience in her voice evident.
Nothing. Not one reason came to mind that would keep her from going. “I just wanted to say…”—Something!— 'T hank s. T hank s a lot. I really do appreciate this," she said, and felt, strangely enough, as if she really meant it.
“Oh!” Eldagirt said, her voice lighter. “Well, okay, see you then.” She hung up.
Robin slowly put the receiver down, stood completely still, feeling something… After days of fuddling about like a blind man, she had done it; she had gotten through to the elusive Eldagirt Wirt! She suddenly threw her hands up in the air and, with a wheeeee, whirled about. “I did it! I got Eldagirt Wirt on the phone, and she invited me to Burdette next Saturday!”
“That's my girl,” Grandpa said happily, having no idea what she was talking about.
“You see?” Jake said. “Somehow, I knew even you could do it.”
“I know it's only a trip to Burdette—”
“Might as well be a presidential visit, as hard as you've tried,” Jake reminded her as he handed Grandpa a hammer and pointed him upstairs. “Way to go, Peanut.” He winked as he started up after Grandpa.
Grinning like a fool, Robin gave him a thumbs-up, watched until he disappeared upstairs, then reminded herself it was only Burdette. With a sigh, she sat down, pushed the laptop away, and began reviewing the files Evan had brought her, trying hard to keep her mind from Jake, trying harder to learn about the profit/loss ratio of Wirt Supply and Packing.
When Jake, Grandpa, and now (oh boy) Zaney reappeared near the noon hour, she was distracted by Zaney's protracted monologue about how he was going to form a band, playing one-armed air guitar as he talked. The man definitely wasn't quite right, and she couldn't help admire Jake for appearing to be interested in what Zaney was saying when lesser men (like Grandpa) were made comatose.
Grandpa looked exhausted, actually, and she asked if he would accompany her to the grocery store, where he filled her basket with cookies and sodas, which Robin took out and replaced with peanut butter, yogurt, a head of romaine lettuce, a handful of frozen dinners, and a giant Hershey bar. When Grandpa wandered off to the home appliance
aisle, she perused the cereals, trying to remember if she ever actually ate cereal, and if so, what kind.
There was something not quite right about her life, wasn't there? Most people knew if they ate cereal or not, didn't they?
Finally worn out with the task of keeping track of Grandpa, Robin checked out with what she had, figured at least she'd live another week or so, and returned home.
Jake had left, Zaney said, and therefore, Grandpa decided to go home, too. Robin left Zaney tearing out the trim upstairs and put away her groceries, hating the barren look of her refrigerator. It was like a giant metaphor staring at her, the only thing missing was the big flashing neon arrows pointing to the empty box. That bummed her out, so she phoned Lucy to check in—that call was always good for a bitchfest. Lucy had no messages for her, other than the news Evan had had a long talk with Darren at Atlantic , and the account file was now closed.
So Evan had appointed himself her cleanup man. How humiliating was that?
By late afternoon, when someone came by and honked and Zaney flew out the door, Robin was restlessly stalking about her house, wondering why she had bought such a big residence when there was no one to go in it.
It occurred to Robin that perhaps her mom was right— she did flit from one thing to another, never letting a moment go by that wasn't sucked up in some frantic activity, and now that her life had been turned upside down, she wasn't quite sure what to do with herself. Her dad's illness, her job, this general emptiness was making her feel as though her life was slowly unraveling into one long nothing. All she had to show for thirty-four years of living was just a lot of things and more things, as if the quantity of possessions made up for the dearth of meaning in her life. She just kept moving faster and faster until everything was just a blur, running and running, searching for… what?
There it was again, that question. And she did not like the clammy, almost sickly feeling it gave her, this realization that she had been searching for something all her life, but
it was a feeling that would not leave her. By the time Sunday morning rolled around, she was crazed with determination to change things in her life. Toward what end, though, she had no clue. One thing was certain, however—it was a glorious day for a stroll through Hermann Park , where she heard a men's baseball league played.
At an exclusive resort in Newport Beach California , Aaron and Bonnie sat side by side, cross-legged, on a tatami grass mat. New age music played softly in the background, the smell of incense wafted through the air. Bonnie held her hands on her knees; her spine was straight, her eyes closed, and her face lifted upward, toward the soft blue light. Her lips moved with the murmuring of the chant, but she made no sound.
Next to her, Aaron had forgotten the chant they were supposed to be repeating and was admiring Bonnie's neck. He was trying to remember the last time he had kissed the smooth skin there, recalling with vivid clarity the taste and feel of it.
Bonnie's eyes fluttered open; she stole a glimpse of Aaron sidelong and smiled. “You aren't practicing the chant,” she whispered.
“I know,” he whispered back, and leaned over, so that his lips were just inches from her neck. “Why, Bonnie?” he breathed.
His question startled her; she put a hand against his chest, looked at him with wide blue eyes. “Why what?”
“Why are you with me? Why still? Why haven't you gone back to your life? I was an ass to you, Bonnie. I don't deserve this.”
Bonnie looked stunned. Her gaze drifted from his face to her hand against his chest. Aaron covered her hand with his, pressed hers tighter against his heart.
“You're right,” she whispered, her gaze still on their hands, “you don't deserve it. You don't deserve me.”
At the bottom of the seventh, Jake's vision was so blurred he could hardly see the ball without squinting. Shit, he was getting old—he used to party all night and still be as good as new, but now, if he stayed up late doing nothing more exciting than cramming for a test, he was a wreck the next day. What really pissed him off was that he was the only one in this league who seemed to be suffering from age.
“Strike!” the ump called, and with a sigh, Jake stepped out of the batter's box, headed for the dugout, completely disgusted with himself. Tossing the batting helmet into the corner, he dropped heavily onto the bench, avoiding anyone's gaze.
“Hey, you did pretty good, considering that pitcher was throwing crap.”
That voice shot through him like mercury rising; Jake jerked around, saw Robin standing at the fence on the end of the dugout, smiling prettily. She waved cheerfully, as if it was perfectly natural for her to be at his game. It wasn't natural at all, and moreover, neither were those legs. Good
God, he had never seen such long and shapely legs in his life. She was wearing a T-shirt that sported the American flag, a stretchy red miniskirt, and a different pair of funny-looking sunglasses than he had seen before.
Beside him, the podiatrist Bob Richards squinted in Robin's direction, giving her the once-over. “He's throwing crap all right,” he agreed.
Jake was instantly on his feet, but not fast enough.
“Just step into your swing. You know… like this.” She stepped back from the fence before Jake could reach her, demonstrating exactly how he might step into his swing.
“That's very interesting,” he said loud enough for the guys to hear, and, reaching the fence, added in a loud whisper, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING??” as he stole a glimpse of the others over his shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean? What are you doing here?”
“I told you I might run by. Anyway, it looked like you had your weight on your back foot.”
Unbelievable. It wasn't enough that she should tell him how to do his job, but now she was going to trot down to the ball field and tell him how to bat? “T hank s, but I think I know how to swing a baseball,” he said, frowning. “I thought you meant run by like in jogging shoes and spandex. How long have you been here, anyway?”
“Long enough to see you swing at three perfect strikes,” she said, tossing her head pertly. “And by the way, you swing a bat, not a baseball.”
“What?”
“You said you know how to swing a baseball. You meant bat.”
Dumbfounded. Speechless. Was she so clueless that she didn't know women did not advise men on sports? Of any kind? EVER? Especially and particularly in front of a bunch of other guys? “Well t hank s for the batting and the vocabulary lesson.”
“Man, you're touchy. I was just trying to help,” she said, stepping back from the fence.
“Remember our rule—don't help me.”
“Fine,” she said and, lifting her chin, stomped off in the direction of the bleachers.
He paused for a moment to watch that very fine ass of hers march away, then turned around, saw the rest of the bench crowd staring at him. He glared back, stuffed himself up against the fence.
When the inning was finally over (t hank God), he trotted out to right field, and let his gaze wander to the bleachers while the pitcher warmed up. Yep, there she was, couldn't miss her, and somehow, she had managed to park herself right next to the surliest person in the crowd, young Cole Manning. Slumped down, the kid was lost in denim pants with legs so wide they looked like one of those ballroom gowns, and a T-shirt that hung to his knees. In stark contrast, Robin was sitting on the edge of the bleacher.
The first batter up hit a lazy fly to left field, an easy out. The second batter hit a sharp liner back through the box, which, had it been a mere six inches to the left, would have lodged itself in the pitcher's forehead. The third batter hit a drive in the gap, between center field and right. The image of Robin sitting up, stretching her slender neck to see, suddenly flashed across Jake's mind, and he realized he was running, feeling the stretch of scarred tendon in his ankle, knowing he should let the center fielder call it. But insanity gripped him; he dove through the air, caught the ball in the tip of his glove, then wrenched his arm clean from the socket throwing the ball to second. The stunning result, much to his amazement, was two outs and the end of the opposing team's bat.
He hadn't done that in a hundred years. A thousand, maybe.
As he jogged back to the dugout, still a little dazed, he forced himself to look at the bleachers.
Clapping wildly, grinning broadly, Robin paused to give him a thumbs-up. The gesture made him, oddly, strangely, happy. Okay, maybe even a little delirious. She had seen him play—play well. Acknowledging her thumbs-up with a subtle wave of his own, Jake disappeared into the dugout
and smacked his glove down on the bench in the international male signal for I still got it. But as they called the lineup, and he was looking around for his batting helmet, he heard again, “Hey, Jake!”
All right, this was just too much. It was one thing to run by to see the game, maybe catch a play or two, but quite another to keep walking over to the dugout like she owned it. He put his foot down, turned slowly toward the fence. “Yesss?” he drawled.
“Honestly, if you got up on the balls of your feet, it would help you step into the swing.”
In case he wasn't certain what she meant, she demonstrated for him. Ruben Sanchez, a NASA software engineer, and an astounding zero for twenty-one in the league, watched her from the on-deck circle, then mimicked her technique a couple of times.
“See?” she said to Ruben. “Balls of your feet.”
“Yeah,” Ruben said, as if Barry Bonds himself had suggested it.
“Robin?” Jake asked politely.
“Yes?”
“Go sit down. Over there. Way over there.”
She gasped, indignant. “You know, you are really very stubborn.”