The Cactus League

by Emily Nemens

  * * *

  In a lot of ways, baseball players are like other men. Some of them are dummies, some of them are mad, some of them are suspicious, shallow, arrogant. Some are so driven they’ll just about forget there’s a woman in the room, even if she’s dressed up sexy or screaming her lungs out, even if she’s the mother of their children. But the difference separating ballplayers from everyone else is that they care about something tremendously, and have since they were little. It’s thrilling, and Tami feeds off it. Most people will never touch that kind of drive. Most people, whether they’re living in small towns or big cities or sprawl, spend their lives dealing with crying babies and stupid jobs, whatever life throws at them. Baseball players, they do the throwing.

  After everything bad with Danny and Terrance, after trying to grow old with these men and having it go plain wrong, Tami doesn’t want to give anyone too much. She can’t stake everything, not again. But these six weeks of spring can mean so much: they make the team, they get sent down, they get sent home. What happens here can shape the rest of a career in baseball, and it’s a rare man who can keep his head down and plow through that kind of uncertainty. For everyone else, this is where she can help. She is ready when they need reassurances; she has a calm, steady smile and a warm hand to rest on an aching thigh. No, she doesn’t regret telling Ronnie God’s honest truth about it: she loves a ballplayer.

  * * *

  Greg Carver starts the game. He looks strong, but when he begins to lose it, his arm slips quickly—two doubles in three at bats. The guy seems startled when the catcher pops up and comes to the mound, and shakes him off with a gesture so overdone that Tami can see it from right field. Then he walks a batter, and Walsh calls in a reliever. Carver quits the mound with his head down.

  It’s a nice afternoon, and she doesn’t have anywhere to be, so after the game, she hangs around the players’ lot, not up against the fence but over by the handicap spots, where there’s a bench in the shade. She wants to see who’s driving what this season. It says a lot, whether a player’s got a snazzy rental or owns something nondescript. If he opts for tastefully expensive that means one thing, vanity plates mean something else. And she’s looking for wives and girlfriends. Players won’t rat on other players about any funny business, but baseball wives are another story. Melissa Moyers taught her that lesson plenty well.

  Tami sees a few plain-looking players come out first, relief pitchers and guys who probably have only another week or two until they’re cut. Jason Goodyear signs a few balls and then goes for a dusty old Jeep with a faded black-and-gold Lions bumper sticker—strange that he’s still driving that after all these years and bazillions of dollars. Makes her feel better about her shitty Chevy (Tami’s car is fifteen years old, a convertible that won’t convert, so at first whiff of rain or a dust storm, she has to go skittering for a garage). More outfielders, Townsend and that new right fielder, Corey Matthews, leave together, climbing into a slick blue Audi. The fireplug catcher, Jimmy Cardozo, walks out with Carver, the latter’s arm still wrapped in ice. Maybe him, she thinks. They drive off—Jimmy at the wheel—in a rented red Mustang. Ronnie strides across the parking lot, heading for his Mercedes. Suddenly there is something very, very important in the bottom of her purse.

  * * *

  Her eyes snap open. The house is still, eerily so. She turns to her alarm clock and sees nothing. The button on the bedside lamp doesn’t respond. She feels her way to the window, trying her best to avoid the linen chest.

  The vacant, half-built houses around her are always dark, but the streetlights outside are burning bright. What happened? And then it hits her, hard as a beaner: Ronnie cut the power.

  He could have given her some warning. He could have asked her to transfer the bills to her name or said time was up on her free utilities. Instead, he watched the game from his front-row box, drove across town in that small-prick car of his, and called the power company: Shut her off.

  How much does it cost to restart power? This happened once in Midland, and it was an arm and a leg, on top of the balance. She’s never seen a bill; when they were together it was a given he’d cover all that. She weighs her options. Put it on a card and hope? Try to quickly hawk something? The last piece she sold—a glazed tile that had been festering on a back shelf of the conservation lab so long she doubted anyone would miss it—got her through three months. But she’s got no inventory, just a couple of silver doodads from the gift shop. With a tightness in her chest, she knows there’s nothing to do about it until the morning, so she edges her way back into bed.

  A few hours later, she’s in her cavelike kitchen on hold with the power company. The agent tells her the primary account holder, a Mr. Duncan, called yesterday and said that address no longer needed service. It’s $150 to turn things back on, another $100 to transfer the account to her name. The balance, too. Tami’s seething on the inside, but she tries to stay calm. With some smooth-talking she gets him down to $175, gives him her credit card number, and, miracle of miracles, the charge clears.

  She takes a cold shower in the dim bathroom, the place feeling more like the moon than her house in the skylight’s strange cast. Naked and dripping, she watches herself dry off in the mirror. She’s still pretty, still trim. But she misses those days of stepping into the bathroom to take a piss in the morning and being startled by how beautiful that woman in the mirror was. Half asleep, one of Danny’s baggy T-shirts hanging nearly to her knees, it didn’t matter: she was gorgeous, and not even trying. She could eat whatever she wanted, drink all the drinks, let her hair go wild. The curve of her ass, the way her breasts sat on her ribs—she loved her body then. Even after the boys, and they breastfed like wolves, she looked good—maybe even better.

  That beauty was something she had for so long that she forgot about it. Then poof. Divorced (the second time) at forty-one, moving across the desert, hanging on to some vague idea of herself—but what part, exactly? It isn’t her youth, she knows wanting that is foolhardy. She can’t look like she did at twenty-two, she won’t. Is there timeless beauty in her? No, that is something they say about ladies who have gone to seed. She’s still beautiful, and not in that magnanimous way. But even as she convinces herself of this, in the mirror she can see how her ass has begun to sag, how her breasts swing low.

  She twists one towel around her blond hair, wraps another across her chest. She knows this much: there’s no more surprise-herself beauty.

  In the dark she feels her way through mascara and powdering her nose, then gets dressed in a pink Juicy sweat suit. She should have grapefruit, but opening the fridge will hurry up the spoiling inside. It’s better to go out, wet hair and all.

  Bacon, eggs, home fries, an English muffin—she orders the kind of greasy-spoon breakfast she used to be able to eat without thinking twice, and Lord, does it taste good. The woman on the other side of the counter, managing the crowd all on her own, reminds Tami of herself, how she used to feel running around, looking after those boys and worrying about Danny. Young, but old. Worn out. That was the other part of her twenties—it was an awful time. For a few years there she existed on the constant verge of tears. She remembers driving down the highway, feeling like she might as well just lie down in the parking lot of the next truck stop and wait for a big rig to roll right over her pretty little body, put her out of her misery. Now, the money’s just as tight, things with her boys are different but still not good, and she’s alone again. Getting older, pickling, puckering. Pruning, that’s what Joanne called it. Joanne, who gave her this Juicy sweat suit—there’s some irony for you. It’s another set of problems now, not better or worse, just different. But most of the time, Tami doesn’t want to lie down in a parking lot.

  She finishes her coffee and wants more, but knows better than to rush that poor woman. She’ll come back around soon enough.

  * * *

  “Who you watching?” An older man—the dapper, golf-club sort—slides into the seat next to hers. Most of the stand
s are still empty before the 1:05 start. Tami came early, stopping at a gas station, where she picked up a few adult beverages. Cheaper than buying them at the stadium by a long shot, and today could use an assist. Power won’t be back on until five.

  “No one in particular.” Tami is not interested in making a new friend. She looks back at her program.

  “Vásquez’s pitching today.” Not that she asked. The man points an arthritic finger to the warm-up mound. “I think he’s gonna be good.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Five bucks says Hal Moyers doesn’t make it through the year. That’s his replacement.”

  Tami thinks Hal will last—and not just because she’s seen him naked. “That’s interesting.”

  The man starts flipping through a program, and she takes the opportunity to transfer a second wine cooler from her handbag into a stadium cup with a quick slosh. The organist must’ve shown up—fanfare plays over and over, each time moving higher up the keys. Dun-nuh-nuh-na, duh-na! She starts to feel the booze at her temples with each thwack of the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt. It feels good.

  “What do you think of that Goose kid?” The golfer flashes a page in the program. The nineteen-year-old first baseman is Goose’s great-grand-nephew, the man says. Tami shrugs; she’d read the same article yesterday. Last game, nerves got him in the field—he bungled two easy plays—and he was underwhelming at the plate. He probably shouldn’t even be at camp this spring. He’s too far gone for her kind of help—besides, he is too young.

  “He’ll find his stride,” she says.

  “I bet he’ll find the exit quicker.” The man is happy with himself for that, and Tami lets him laugh.

  * * *

  It’s a sloppy game for everyone but Vásquez, who pitches superbly, nothing like a twenty-year-old making his spring training debut. Afterward she hustles home, changes into a strappy floral-print dress, and is styling her hair into something that looks less crazy when the house’s lights buzz back on. She winces at her bare-looking face. She skipped most of her rigmarole this morning—moisturizer, cover-up, foundation, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, and blush, then her eyebrows and this expensive lip gloss that makes her mouth tingle—but does the litany now, finishing with a puff of perfume onto her breastbone.

  She’s only ten minutes late to meet Deidre, who is waiting for her at the bar of Don & Charlie’s. Last fall, Deidre hooked up with a Suns assistant coach. (Tami never got into basketball, but Deidre spent her twenties as a cheerleader for the Sacramento Kings and says she feels about sweatbands the way Tami does about stirrups.) His night-game schedule has made her all but nocturnal, so happy hours are Tami’s best shot at seeing her friend, at least until the playoffs. When Deidre spots Tami the woman does a quick, high whistle and waves.

  There’s a white-tablecloth dining room in the back, but up in the lounge, things are more casual. Red-nosed regulars have snagged all the stools, which leaves the rest of the crowd standing around, jostling one another. As per usual in spring, there’re stag parties from the West Coast throwing back one last round before their night flights, golf-tripping corporate types reliving their best holes, and retirees taking a nip before early bedtimes. When a player comes in—and there are a dozen, scattered through the building—heads turn and voices dim. Unless they’re wearing diamond-studded everything or have an entourage of Playboy Bunnies (both of these things have happened in springs past), the room absorbs them quickly enough.

  Not many women around, which is also usual. It’s part of why Tami and Deidre like it. Another reason: between long-weekend vacationers and the businessman travelers, only the stiff-lipped bartenders, a couple of world-weary sportswriters, and some septuagenarians recognize them and what they’re up to. Tami’s not worried about the old folks or the writers, they’ve got their own problems, and as for the bartenders … the women make sure they’re well taken care of by whomever is taking care of them.

  “How was the tournament?” Tami asks, still a bit breathless, both from rushing over and because the place is chock-full of memorabilia, stuff that should be in Cooperstown, not getting sticky with beer in suburban Phoenix. Mickey Mantle balls, pennants dating back to the teens, baseball cards displayed like dead butterflies. Stepping inside always makes Tami’s skin go hot.

  Deidre twirls the tiny red straw in her drink and casts her eyes around the room before replying. “Boring.” Deidre’s spent the day on the links, watching her boyfriend play in some charity tournament. Then, a broad smile spreads across her face. “But he’s getting me a car.”

  Tami nearly spits her drink. “For watching him play golf?”

  “No, silly. For being me.” Deidre regularly insists she didn’t set out to be a gold digger, but she’s doing pretty well at pulling up nuggets. Tami’s opinion is that the guy needs to have money enough for nice dinners, maybe some jewelry, but she’s not hunting for a new convertible, so long as her crap car keeps running to the stadium and back. She wasn’t hunting for a house, either, until Ronnie dropped one in her lap.

  It takes a moment to recognize Jason Goodyear in his street clothes, a fashionably faded T-shirt and slim blue jeans, a blank red ball cap pulled low over his brow. A certain amount of anonymity in that, not being decked out in team gear. (Danny would make himself conspicuous on campus, although hardly anyone cared about him, even when they went to Omaha.) He’s flanked by Trey Townsend and Corey Matthews, the two other outfielders looking like brothers in matching dark blazers and khaki pants.

  Tami feels her heart trilling with the new arrivals—this always happens when she sees a player out in the world. “Omigod, Dee.”

  “What?” Deidre turns. “Hmm, he’s handsome in real life, too.” She scrunches up her nose. “I heard he just got divorced, poor baby.”

  “What?” Tami doesn’t mean to sound shrill, but the question comes out like a squeak. “You’re sure?”

  Deidre nods. “I told you, Tami, you have to join Twitter.”

  Tami puts her hand on Deidre’s shoulder. “Deidre.” Tami’s talking to her friend, but watching the outfielders walking toward the bar, toward them. Her stomach does a somersault. He’s getting divorced?

  “I know, I know.” Deidre rolls her eyes. “You want a Tamara Special.”

  Tami hates that she calls it this, that they’ve done this so many times it has a name at all. But her friend is right. Yes, a Tamara Special.

  Deidre sets down her tumbler, straightens the straps on her dress, and gives Tami her “I’m ready” nod. The men are getting closer; Tami can feel the zaps of their electricity on her bare arms. She opens her mouth, mumbles some nonsense, and Deidre breaks into near-hysterical laughter. “Oh my gawd, Tami! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.” Just as he’s passing by, she grabs Jason Goodyear by the arm and pulls him to her. He stiffens momentarily, then loosens when he realizes it’s just another done-up divorcée.

  “This woman,” she says, pointing at Tami, “she’s a riot. Tell it again, Tami.”

  Tami demurs, eyes on the floor. “It wasn’t that good, Dee. Leave the guy alone.”

  Jason starts to turn away, but Deidre tugs at his elbow again. “Well, stick around for a drink, at least? Maybe if we loosen her up she’ll let us hear it. Woo. Haven’t laughed that hard in years.” Jason looks over Tami’s shoulder to his teammates. She can see the question in his face: Two old broads? Tami wonders if Trey Townsend recognizes her. Unlikely. Her efforts that night had been a blip, a nothing moment on his carousel of springs.

  They must’ve signaled for him to go for it, because in the next moment, his face softens and his blue eyes light up. “Why not?” His voice is deeper than she expected, just a few steps from a rumble. There’s a bit of brashness there, which she also didn’t expect. Who knows—maybe she looks better than she feels.

  “Great.” Deidre gives his arm a little squeeze. “Oh,” she says, feigning surprise. “You a body builder or something?”

  “A baseball player.�
� Half his mouth curls up, something like a smirk. What does that smile mean? Is it prideful or embarrassed? Tami’s not sure, only knows that she’s never seen it. On the field he’s all steely determination; most of his ad campaigns employ that same serious-competitor persona. The thin line of his mouth and the square, set jaw, the narrowed eyes of supreme focus. And in interviews he’s all, Yes, sir; no, ma’am, polite as a piece of toast, smiling for the camera when the cue cards tell him to.

  “Whoa! I thought it was time for basketball!” Deidre’s staring at Tami when she says this, but Jason doesn’t notice. He’s trying to make eye contact with the bartender.

  He glances back to Deidre. “Well, it’s preseason. We are in town for spring training.” He says it slowly, loudly, like he’s talking to a kindergartener or someone very old. Or very drunk. “I’m with the Lions. From Los Angeles?”

  “Fabulous!” she all but screeches. “You hear that, Tami? A baseball player!”

  “What are you having?” Tami cuts in, which he welcomes by stepping back, letting her slip ahead of him. In the switch his hand brushes along her hip and she very nearly shudders. Jason Goodyear has the reputation of being as clean as a choirboy, quiet as a mouse. But what was that?

  “Gin and tonic,” he says. Then he adds, a bit bashfully, “Diet, if they have it.”

  Tami gets the bartender’s attention. He knows what the women are up to, but also knows one round will turn into three or four, fat tips each step of the way. For that reason, they comp the women these first rounds as often as not.