Out of Left Field
Bottom of the Ninth: Top of the Fourteenth
Out of Left Field
By Liza Ketchum
Copyright 2014 by Liza Ketchum
Cover Copyright 2014 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
In memory of my father, Richard M. Ketchum, who loved the Pirates;
and of Ellen Levine, who adored the Mets.
And this book is for John, who believes.
Top of the First: July, 2004
Out at the Plate
The phone shrills at three A.M. Dad mumbles in their bedroom; background noise you’ve heard so often it’s like a lullaby. When he pads down the hall in his socks you’re already drifting. Later, you wonder: did he hesitate outside your door? If you’d been awake, would you have said something? Tried to keep him home?
But you’re too old for that. And he’d have gone out anyway. He always did, those nights on call.
You don’t hear the phone next time. Just Mom whispering your name: “Brandon…”
You snap awake. Mom grips the doorframe for dear life, eyes empty sockets.
You had no idea silence could scream so loud.
*
So that’s how it is. One minute you cruise along, being a kid. Bus tables at the pizzeria. Check stats on Manny and Big Papi. Ride the Green Line to JP Licks after swim practice. Sprawl on the couch with the cat in your lap listening to a Phish guitar riff. Then, in a heartbeat, the past is gone. Over.
Finito
. Out at the plate.
Hey: if it was all that easy—could you take it back, reverse direction, press the remote to rewind?
But there’s no do-over. One minute, you have a dad. A guy who celebrates your first birthday at Fenway. Who scowls at your trig problems, teaches you to shave when you’ve barely got a mustache, even keeps his cool after you crumple the fender—on the same damned car that did him in.
One second he’s here, the next instant—
Gone.
Day-Night Doubleheader
Two weeks since Dad died, the friggin’ sun slants into my eyes as I get off the train. Pisses me off. Why does the sun shine on death? Dad would say it’s good for tonight’s doubleheader at Fenway. Today I’d vote for a rain delay.
Hot as an oven inside our building. The damn bulb is out again. Mom will curse the landlord or call Pop. But my granddad would tell her: “Get the kid to fix it. He’s a grown boy.”
So Dad’s death makes me a man?
Speaking of Dad: this mail would crack him up. He always complained no one wrote us real letters. Check this out, Dad: stacks of handwritten notes, all about you. I tuck them under my arm, trudge up the two flights.
Humdrum. If I keep to my routine, I can almost pretend nothing’s changed. It’s like Mom’s mantra for getting through each day: “One foot in front of the other.”
Here goes: key in the lock; thump of Maxine leaving the windowsill. She twines around my legs, purring. “Hey, Maxie girl.” Lights on, toss the mail on the table, dump backpack on top of gym bag. Check the sports section for game time, as if Dad were alive—
Except he’d phone me at this time, during a break. Make sure I was home okay, ask if I had the game on; let me know he’s caught the score between clients. And since it’s Wednesday, he’d ask what kind of bread I plan to bake, so he’d know what ingredients to pick up for supper. He’d make pasta on a baguette day; soup to go with five-grain bread. Dad taught me to bake bread four or five years ago, and that’s been my family job ever since. But I haven’t baked since Dad died. Why bother? Mom eats like a bird and I haven’t got it in me. Besides, it’s too hot for the oven, even with the AC pumping.
I riffle the mail. Bills. Condolence cards. Junk mail—
And this: a letter from Norfolk County Probate Court. What’s ‘probate’? Marty would know, his mom being a lawyer and all. Return address Canton, but we live in Brookline. There are two of these things: one for Mom, one for me. My full name, no less:
Brandon Marc McGinnis
. Get outta here. What did
I
do wrong?
I tear mine open. The letter’s on official stationery: State of Massachusetts, with the official seal. It announces that the “Last Will and Testament of Patrick McGinnis, Senior, has been filed in Probate Court,” with a notice that “Paula Samuels, Esquire, Attorney for the Deceased, has petitioned to act as executor…”
Yada yada yada. But excuse me? Patrick McGinnis
Senior
? What kind of bullshit is that?
I skim through the legalese to the Next of Kin. Jesus. Dad’s guest list. Funny he named so many of us—what’s he got to give away? Mom rants about the debt he left behind, says she’s lucky to have the extra teaching this summer. I don’t even get the Corolla, smashed when Dad fell asleep at the wheel.
The letter is super formal, with names and addresses: Mom, of course, and me. Dad’s sister Cora and my twin cousins, Andrea and Janine. Pop—now that’s a surprise. Not just because he’s Mom’s father. He and Dad were never close, thanks to that Vietnam crap—
And something weird. Beyond weird.
Patrick McGinnis,
Junior.
Last known address Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada
.
What the—?
I read it twice, three times, but it comes up the same. My mind goes into meltdown. Fold the letter, open it again: the name’s still there. “NO!” I roar, as if Ortiz has struck out with the bases loaded.
The door bangs open. Mom drops her bag, rushes over, grabs me. I twist away.
“Bran, stop! What’s wrong?”
I shove the document in her face. “Read it.” Dad would have my ass for yelling at Mom. He should have thought of that before he checked out.
Takes her forever to read the damned thing. I bounce, heel to toe, heel to toe. She glances at me. “Bran, this is just a formality. I’m sorry if it upsets you—”
“Read the list!”
“Stop shouting!” (But she’s yelling, too.) “The whole building can hear you.”
“Who gives a shit?” I breathe deep. “Read. The. List.”
She does. Shoulders slump, her mouth crumples. She stares out of raccoon eyes.
“Patrick McGinnis
Junior
? But who—”
“You tell me.”
She lists to the side. I catch her before she falls, lead her to the couch. We sit there together, shoulders touching. Like we’re waiting for a bus that never comes.
The first phone call: Cat from Baddeck, Nova Scotia, to Quinn on Digby Neck, Nova Scotia
Hey, Quinn—it’s Cat. Got a minute, big bro?
Little Blue, Little Blue
—you think of anything else but that boat?
Okay, okay. I
know
you have a job. Hear me out, eh? Something weird’s going on with Mum. I was in the back room, looking for sheet music. Thought I’d find a fiddle tune to play at our next seisiûn. Maybe even get Dad to an open mic in Chéticamp or Mabou.
Right, eh? We finally move to Baddeck, a seisiûn or a dance somewhere every night, and Dad won’t play. Anyway, I find boxes they never unpacked since the move. You know Mum, every carton labeled. I pull out one that says “Montréal.”
Sure I’m nosy. First it’s just college stuff: diploma, notebooks—did you know she studied Mandarin?—
Wait; I’m not done. Here’s the squirrely part. I found photos stuck at the bottom of the box. One of Mum being silly with her girlfriends. Everyone smoking fags, long scraggly hair, beads. And a pic of Mum with a guy.
No, not Dad. Promise. A hippie type, long curly hair, brown eyes. Mum’s giving him a goofy look.
I know, not her style. I forgot she was a blond once…
Me? Orange this week; close to the real thing. I should dye it blue to match your boat, eh?
Kidding. So listen: I show the photo to Mum and Dad at dinner, expecting a laugh. ‘Who’s the hunk?’ I say. Mum takes one look, turns purple, snatches the photo. Rips. It. In. Half. Stuffs it in the trash bin.
I swear, Quinn. When I ask what’s up, she gives Dad this heavy look. Leaves the room. Doesn’t finish her dinner or show her face all night.
Dad? Equally weird. Takes me aside. “It’s tough on women, going through the change,” he says. That’s how he says it—with deep meaning. “Hormones, you know.”
Yah. Excuse me while I puke.
Today they’re pissed at me for snooping. I need to get out of here. Could you use another deck hand? I could fiddle like the Sirens, lure the whales to your boat—
Don’t hang up! All I did was show Mum a photo. How should I know it would push her buttons?
Never mind. I thought you’d be interested. Kind of a mystery. You think Mum was involved in some romantic love triangle?
What?
(Long pause.)
Crap, Quinn. I’m sorry.
I said sorry! How was I supposed to know? You never tell me anything.
If Racquelle left you for someone else, she’s an idiot.
You’re right: I can’t imagine it. I’d be happy if some halfway decent girl asked me out for coffee.
“Mind your own business.” That’s all you have to say?
Fine. Forget I called.
Course I’ve got the photo! Grabbed it from the trash, taped it back together. Think I’d let something that interesting go out in the rubbish?
Keep Your Hat On
Voices in the downstairs apartment jolt us back to reality. “Tea?” I ask Mom.
“Too hot. Maybe some lemonade?”
I open the fridge, find a bottle wedged between half-eaten casseroles, wash a couple of dirty glasses, fill them with ice and lemonade. The kitchen is nasty. “Routines help,” Coach tells me. Mom and I don’t even remember what they are.
Maxine jumps into Mom’s lap. Mom pushes her off and the cat stalks away, tail straight up, offended. We sip our drinks. “I don’t understand,” Mom says at last. “What does this mean?”
“No clue.” A word slides into my brain and pulses, a bass note amped to top volume:
Brother
.
And another word:
Son
.
“Funny,” I say. Though it’s not. “I always thought I was his only kid.”
“But you are,” Mom says. “Unless—” She grips my arms and she’s suddenly scary. For the first time since Dad died, she looks mad. Really pissed.
I edge away. “Easy, Mom. Unless what?”
“Dammit!” She shakes a fist at the ceiling. “God damn you, Patrick—get back here and tell us what this means!”
Traffic roars on Beacon. A siren wails. A vacuum cleaner runs in the apartment below. No answer.
I jump to my feet. Sitting around drives me nuts. “How long before the phone starts to ring?”
“Why?” Mom asks.
I jab the letter. “Does everyone on this list get a copy? If so—we’ll hear from Pop soon. Just what we need: more of Pop’s complaints about Dad being a cowardly draft dodger.”
“Don’t call your father that,” Mom says.
“Dad can’t correct us now. Sounds like he dodged more than the draft.” When Dad talked about Canada—which wasn’t often—he called himself a “resister.”
“I don’t get it,” Mom says. “The night Pat died I pulled out his will from a few years back; the one we made together. It doesn’t say anything about this other—Patrick.”
“
Patrick Junior, last known address Halifax, Nova Scotia
? Wherever that is.”
“The biggest city in Nova Scotia. Pat lived there before the Amnesty.”
I should have paid attention in American History. “When was that?”
“January, 1977. Jimmy Carter pardoned the men who went to Canada and Sweden to avoid the draft. One of his first acts as president. Some say his finest act. Others never forgave him.”