Sparkle (16 page)

Some guy out there caught the ball. It had dropped like a bomb into the press of mostly teenagers congregated in the right-centerfield standing-room area open to all.

Joe looked up at the Jumbotron to catch the replay.

What he saw made him drop his beer on his foot.

It was Eddie. Catching the ball. Effortlessly. There must have been ten aggressive teenagers trying for it. All you could see was a wild, jumping mass of arms and heads. Then they parted and Eddie was standing there with his glove in the air, solid and unmoved. It was a one-handed catch. Eddie was wearing his sunglasses, his enormous handsome face calm but not smiling. He pulled the ball from his five-story glove and held it in front of his face for a long moment. He turned the moon-sized ball in his hand, inspecting it as though he might take a bite out of it.

There was something strange, almost meditative, about the scene, and the crowd hushed for a moment before it erupted into laughter, cheers, and hand-clapping. Then the screen flashed a slide of Martinez’ HR stats, and Eddie’s image was gone.

“Was that him?” the guy asked.

Joe was paralyzed. The guy had to ask again.

“Y-y-yeah,” he finally managed. “It was. Hey, d-d-do you want this stuff?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the guy said. “You need to go get him? I’ll hold onto your stuff until you get back. That was one slick catch, dude.”

Joe gratefully dumped the refreshments into the guy’s lap and ran like hell, one foot and pant leg soaked with beer.

When he got there, Eddie hadn’t moved an inch. A couple of nice-looking girls were trying to talk to him. He seemed to be nodding his head slightly. His arms were at his sides. Joe tapped his brother’s shoulder in the way only he could get away with—two quick, soft taps—and Eddie turned.

“Jesus, Eddie,” Joe said. He didn’t want to make a scene. He was confused, and furious. And proud. “Excuse me,” he said to the girls, who were giving him quizzical looks. “This is my brother and I need to talk to him. Come on, Eddie.”

Eddie calmly followed. When they were twenty feet away, Joe lowered his voice and leaned toward his brother. “What the hell did you think you were doing, taking off like that?” It wasn’t what he wanted to say at all. That catch was cool.

Eddie stopped. He looked right into Joe’s eyes.

It hit Joe that he’d sounded just like his dad.

Eddie held up the ball. “I made the catch.”

Joe turned and led him silently back to their seats.

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the game. The Mariners kicked the Yankees, eight to three. The sun never stopped shining. An excellent game.

As they walked silently back to the van, Eddie felt his game ball in his pocket. The stitched seams were perfect, regular, and strong. The leather was smooth and soft. The ball was round and hard, with an almost undetectable spring from its deeply buried cork core. It was flawless.

The Sparkle music chimed pleasantly in his head. This ball, this perfect ball, was all his. He hadn’t had his own ball since the one that his dad had tossed into the woods. Now he had it back. He could do whatever he wanted with it, and he knew exactly what he was going to do with it.

Then he felt it. The rubber glove was in that pocket too. Whatever Lucy Silver had given him. Uh huh. He’d have to look at it some time. But one thing at a time. First he had this ball to deal with.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Joe finally said, as they came up to the van and he opened Eddie’s door. “You could’ve gotten lost.”

“You never know.” Eddie fastened his shoulder belt.

“That’s right,” Joe said, after walking around and getting in the driver’s seat. “But you knew where you were going. Is that what you’re going to tell me?” Joe didn’t usually bother with his own seat belt. He started the van, still looking at Eddie.

“You never know,” Eddie said.

Joe couldn’t think of anything to say, so he turned his head and started to drive. When they were halfway home, he lit a cigarette.

“Whatever,” he muttered. “That was still a sweet catch.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie said. “Okay.”

Chapter 22

Jolie wasn’t sure whether to answer her doorbell when she heard it ring at 9:00 a.m. on a Sunday. Probably just kids playing a prank, she thought.

But when she threw on a robe and peered through the peephole, she was surprised to see Mark on her front porch.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately as she cautiously opened the door. “I don’t know what got into me.” He was holding two Starbucks lattes.

Jolie looked at him in disbelief.

He gave her a wounded look. “You want some coffee?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, will you at least take one of these off my hands? Come and talk to me. We can sit on the porch.”

Jolie wrapped her robe tighter and came outside. She accepted the coffee. “So talk.”

“Can we sit?”

“Fine.” Jolie sat down on the opposite end of the stoop. “Talk.”

“Okay. Listen. I have a confession to make. When the guy called from the State to check in…”

“Oh Mark. Jesus Christ.”

“Look, Jolie. You think I’m judging Eddie based on appearances. But you’re doing the same thing with me.”

“So what are you saying? You told them to pull my funding?”

“No. No. Not exactly—look, I just said I had some concerns—”

“You don’t know Eddie, Mark. You don’t know what he’s been through.”

“Well you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“Look, Mark. I can see there’s some pain there.”

“You have no idea.”

“Well maybe you should tell me.”

“Maybe if I had a few drinks I could.” It was a weak attempt at a joke. It fell flat.

“Okay, Mark. What’s going on exactly, here?”

“I don’t know. Let me ask you one more time: are you absolutely, positively sure Eddie is safe?”

Jolie didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“Goddamnit, Mark, I’ve been doing this with him consistently for a year, and the only bad thing that has ever happened was when you butted in and upset him. You upset me, for god’s sake. So would you just tell me what the hell you are referring to? This mysterious act is too much drama. Is it something you know about Eddie that you’re not telling me?”

Mark blew out all his air slowly. It took a long time before he spoke. “No,” he said. “It’s about me.”

“Just tell me please. If it’s pertinent.”

Mark suddenly looked very haggard. It was weird how fast his face changed. For a moment it looked like he was trying to speak but nothing was coming out.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Maybe later. I can’t right now.” He looked up and tried to screw his face back to normal. “But you’re right. It’s not fair, I guess.”

He stood up. “Listen, I’ll call the guy at the state first thing Monday morning. Withdraw my concerns. Nothing has to change.”

“Good,” Jolie said. “That’s reasonable.”

“Call it a birthday present,” Mark said. Another flat joke.

“Yeah. Okay, Mark. I should get going.”

Chapter 23

Eddie spent Sunday night in front of the TV. He was content, mesmerized by the pleasant hum of Shiny Gold, holding his game ball in his lap. He was letting the time pass until he could lie down, close his eyes, and go to sleep.

Right on schedule, Joe clomped down the stairs, cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Ready for bed, Eddie?”

Eddie clicked off his big screen. “Uh-huh. Okay.”

“You need any help?”

“Nope,” Eddie said.

“Still hanging on to your ball, huh?”

“You never know.”

Joe stood at the bottom of the stairs. “You always were a good catch.”

He thought for a minute. “You probably don’t remember that time when we were kids,” Joe started. “We were out in the yard—”

“I do,” Eddie interrupted.

Joe gave him a funny look. Eddie was communicating a lot more than normal today. “That was pretty freaky today, bro.”

“Good night, Joe,” Eddie said. Joe never talked about when they were kids. Eddie normally didn’t remember much about that time. He felt a special, deep comfort knowing that Joe remembered, too.

“It was cool, though,” Joe said, somewhat lamely. “It was a good catch, Eddie. Really good. Get a good night’s sleep, all right? Tomorrow’s kind of a big job. Six head shots.”

Joe clomped back upstairs, sat down at the kitchen table, and shut off the TV. He hadn’t really been watching. After he’d gotten Eddie set up downstairs, he’d been drinking beer, smoking, scribbling in his notebook, wondering about Eddie, and trying not to think about LaVonne. His head was a mess, and he didn’t like it.

Lately, a feeling had been struggling to surface in Joe that took his breath away. What had happened with LaVonne last night made it much worse. It was not going to be easy to repress.

His life was utterly screwed. He was going to grow old taking care of Eddie and living off the fruits of his brother’s dirty, dirty work. He would always be a servant to dead people, his brother’s caretaker, and a slave to the past.

So far, he had labeled his funk a bad case of the blues, or spring fever, and had attempted to treat it with a few extra Pall Malls and Redhooks. But after business had flagged for only a bit more than a week, he noticed that he’d had to force himself to say yes to the job on Queen Anne, even though they’d really needed the money. The only things that had pushed him to keep going were his heart-stopping fear that he might end up like his dad, and the constant nagging reminder that nothing—nothing in the world— was more important than taking care of Eddie.

Certainly not taking care of himself.

Joe was restless. He paced the kitchen for an hour, went upstairs and yanked open his closet door. It was the one place in the entire house where Eddie wasn’t allowed, and it was both messy and dirty. It was the only place in the house that was all Joe’s.

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he instinctively pulled out his old Yamaha acoustic. He sat down on his bed and strummed a few chords. It hurt his fingers. The fret board was covered with dust, but the instrument was actually still in tune, sort of. It was probably the first time he had picked it up in—how many years? He couldn’t remember.

There had been a time, in his late teens and early twenties, when he’d written some songs. He’d dreamed of starting a band, being the next Nirvana. He even saw Kurt Cobain in a Safeway one time, two weeks after Kurt was on television for the first time, an appearance on Saturday Night Live. Joe said hi, and Kurt said hi back, just like a normal guy. Somehow, it had made it all seem within reach, as if anything might be possible.

Maybe he’d write a song about LaVonne.

Joe realized what he was thinking and shoved the guitar back in the closet. I must be losing my mind. Pussy. He was no weakling. Unlike Kurt Cobain, Joe Jones knew how to stick it out. Yeah, right.

He fumbled for a cigarette. No use thinking about the past, he thought. He rubbed the long scar that creased his face. It’s not even worth going there.

But he couldn’t stop himself. The game today had triggered memories of when he and Eddie were kids. They were actually good memories. Normal. It was weird.

Joe knew he could probably remember just about anything if he wanted to, but most of his memories were so bad that he shoved everything down before it could come up.

The truth was, there was nothing worth looking forward to. And nothing worth looking back on. And no matter how much Joe loved Eddie, he felt as though someday he might not be able to take it anymore.

Then what? Nothing. No options. He had to take it. He could take it, and he could take it on his own. Most of the time, Joe remained convinced that he actually liked being a loner. But every once in a while, like tonight, he just felt alone.

As soon as Eddie’s head hit the cool white down of his pillow, he began to slip away. Shiny Gold had mesmerized him all evening, and the Shiny Gold music played softly in his head.

Joe and Eddie were the Shiny Gold brothers, wearing white shirts and white pants, sitting at the table in the Shiny Gold kitchen. Their mom was Jolie, dressed up like Mrs. Shiny Gold, and she was touching up her lips with crimson lipstick. And now there was a sister, too. Lucy Silver, all pretty and unhurt, dressed in gleaming white

“If your man is as finicky as mine,” Mom said, “you know how important it is to have everything just perfect.”

The music took an unpleasant turn into a minor key, and Mr. Shiny, in his dirty construction worker gear, pushed open the door. He was drunk. And he was Mark.

He unevenly sauntered in and smacked Mrs. Shiny, knocking her to the floor. He glared at the wide-eyed boys. Eddie saw it all from above, but as if on a television screen. “You want some, too?” Mr. Shiny said.

This was not the way things were supposed to play out.

Mr. Shiny picked up Joe by the scruff of the neck and started to shake him. Mrs. Shiny, still sitting on the floor, held a hand to her head.

Everything had a washed-out, spastic quality. The Shiny Gold music got louder and faster until it sounded as though a punk band were playing it: “If you’ve got a mess too big to hold, if you’ve got a mess too big to hold, if you’ve got a mess too big to hold.” Over and over and over. The room was starting to spin.

Lucy put something into Eddie’s hand and he felt a wash of gratitude.

Then a loud pop sounded, like a home run hit, and the music stopped.

Little Eddie Shiny had bopped Mr. Shiny in the head with his special baseball. Mr. Shiny slowly, carefully put Joe down. Mrs. Shiny stood up off the floor and brushed herself off. They all sat down at the table.

Before she sat, Jolie Shiny brushed her hand through Eddie’s hair. She had blood on her own head, but when she rubbed Eddie’s hair it disappeared.

Eddie looked down at his hand. Ping! His special ball turned into a bottle of Shiny Gold. He held up the bottle, and a whirlwind popped out of it. It blew through the room and made everything bright and pure.

Jolie Shiny smiled. Mark Shiny stared straight ahead, placid and distant, peacefully out of commission.

Mrs. Shiny surveyed her clean kitchen and immaculate, happy children.