The Cactus League

by Emily Nemens

  She returns with two sustainably raised porterhouse steaks, organic asparagus, and a loaf of ciabatta. Eighteen bucks change in her pocket. Herb never asks for the leftover cash, but even so, she clings to the bills like she’s holding on to a secret. Her mother taught her that—It’s yours until it isn’t. Cathy’s ferocity, the scheming and deception Sara grew up with, hardly seems necessary now, but Sara can’t seem to shake it, her mother’s hand. She touches the bulge of bills in her pocket.

  Her mother doesn’t call—Cathy’s been forgetting birthdays for a decade—but Davis does, and Sara lets it ring. Last year, her twenty-ninth celebration started with a bottle of wine and romantic candlelight, them going to eat at a restaurant that neither could afford. She woke up the next morning with a nosebleed, a black eye, and $400 missing from her bank account. She had to call in sick for a week, lying to Dr. Jewell that she had the stomach flu. She didn’t want to see Davis but didn’t have much of a choice; he brought her food and apologized nonstop until he’d convinced her of the choreography of what had happened, describing some unlikely, expensive accident.

  That was the nail in the coffin, she’d told herself at the time. But somehow he’d hung in there, begging his way back into her good graces. It’s not like he was a total drag: He was handsome, funny, could talk to anyone. On their good days together she was the queen of the world, and he gave her the sort of attention that made her hum with contentment. And there was the sex, which was truly remarkable. What couple didn’t have some problems?

  Then, on New Year’s Eve, he did it again. Promised a big night out, persuaded her up to the ATM, and coaxed her to withdraw the last five hundred in her account. Which he turned right around and spent on coke. She hadn’t wanted any, just champagne. Davis, however, went on a rip, leaving her stranded in some far corner of Phoenix, all her cash gone, with just one good-for-nothing credit card tucked into her bra. Eventually she bummed a ride home, broke into her own apartment (her keys were in his car), and slept for two days, getting up every three hours to call Davis. No answer, no answer, until his phone died outright. Then it started going straight to voice mail, a chipper version of her boyfriend promising to call her back soon. At a certain point she stopped leaving messages. On the third morning she cleaned herself up as best she could, washed her hair, and covered the dark circles under her eyes with makeup. She found a spare set of car keys in a kitchen drawer and headed off to work. It was that first day back at Diamond Physical Therapy that she’d met Herb.

  * * *

  “Sara, wake up.” Herb is a silhouette in her bedroom doorway, his chair’s shape making him look massive.

  “Huh? What time is it?” Dinner had gone long, into a second bottle of wine. Herb was in a good mood, chatty about endorsements. Apparently, he was a few days away from sealing a deal with Nike. “The Goodyear,” he’d said, hands in the air like he was envisioning the marquee. He said it was the first time they’d named a shoe after a ballplayer since Griffey—Sara nodded like she knew what that meant. She didn’t mind that she didn’t—she just liked having the light of Herb’s attention cast on her, his mood so unabashedly cheery. They’d even had a small cake—how he’d snuck that in without her knowing was a mystery. Her wish, as she blew out the candle, was that they could stay like this forever, chatty and happy and each other’s everything. She didn’t need the fancy dinners, the little black dresses: just this. That he wouldn’t go back to Los Angeles, not for the regular season, not ever. Earlier she’d overheard him talking to Marlene about accessible rentals in Culver City, and it nearly made her cry.

  “Two thirty-seven.” He’d been barking at Letterman when she said goodnight. “We have to go down to the precinct.”

  “The precinct?” She thinks of Davis, of her own stupid behavior, the many times they could’ve gotten caught. They should’ve. Davis carried drugs on him more often than not, made a game of skipping out on bills at fancy restaurants. Had something to do with dealing, but she never knew exactly what. Never asked.

  “You have a hearing problem?” Herb snaps.

  She thinks of the three big glasses of wine she had with dinner, wonders if her head is still buzzing. She swings her legs off the side of the bed. Only a little; she’s fine to drive. “What’s going on?”

  “Just meet me at the car.” He reverses his chair out of the doorway.

  The city is quiet as well, the roads all but empty. Theirs is the only car at the intersection of Hayden and Shea, each street seven lanes across and typically jam-packed. Sara waits for the light to turn green. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Sara, now is not the time.” The light changes. “Please, just go.”

  The police station is a comparative commotion, a squad car pulling out, its lights on but sirens off, a half dozen more patrol cars parked in the lot. Sara pulls into a handicap spot. She’s always been so scared of this place. “Can I come in?” She means to help him, but realizes that’s not how it sounds.

  “Looking for your boyfriend?” Herb shoves his phone into his breast pocket.

  “No, I—” The chance to see the inside, to walk in and then walk right back out sounds strangely alluring, but Herb’s scowl suggests she drop it. “Never mind.”

  She helps Herb disembark, and she’s still standing next to the vehicle, folding up his ramp, as he rolls over the curb and up to the front door of the station. He hits the automatic open button. Nothing happens. He hits it again, with a mumbled curse loud enough for her to hear. Then, “Sara! A little help here?”

  She closes the door, walks toward him. When she holds open the door she feels the blast of air-conditioning. Herb says, “I’ll be out in five.”

  Sara returns to the car, fiddles with the radio. Herb only listens to sports talk; now she settles on a stoned-sounding DJ talking about the transformational power of love and the potential of kindness between tracks from Mariah Carey and Cher. Ten minutes later a tall, hunched figure with a red ball cap low over his face steps out and holds the door. Herb appears, rolling at full speed, and sails off the curb, so that Sara’s barely out of the car by the time he’s alongside it. “Get over here!” he barks at the red-capped figure. “I told you to be quick!”

  Sara feels a presence beside her; the figure with the ball cap is now at her arm. He is visibly drunk, swaying slightly, the smell of gin radiating off him. He looks vaguely familiar, but—

  “Don’t get too excited, Sara,” Herb says, rolling onto the lift. “At the moment he’s too drunk to be charming. Or to remember anything you say to him.” The man gives her a half-cocked grin, a bit woozy, a bit apologetic. Very handsome. “Jason, you get in the back.”

  Once they’re out of the lot, she finds the man in the rearview mirror. He’s squinting like he’s watching something very far away. “Where to?” she says.

  “The stadium,” the man says. His voice is wavering, but clipped like he’s trying to cover it up.

  “Fuck you, Goody. What, you’re gonna hit some balls at this hour?”

  “No, I’m staying at—”

  “Sara, take him home. Jason, we’ll put you in Marlene’s room, and deal with this bullshit in the morning.”

  * * *

  “Sara, get up.” Herb is in the doorway again. This time, at least, light streams through the window, suggesting a more reasonable hour. “You’re always hassling me to go for a hike? Well, let’s go.” He’s already down the hall, and she hears him bellow, “Jason, you fuck, up and at ’em! Hike o’clock!”

  Sara hurries into her exercise gear. In the kitchen Herb is eating a banana. He passes her one, and she pours them both coffee. The clock says seven—they’ve all gotten four hours of sleep. Jason steps into the kitchen next, gray-faced and staggering. He’s in a pair of Herb’s too-short sweats, a faded Lions T-shirt that is tight at the shoulders. Even so, in the bright of morning Sara recognizes him. Not from the field, but from his advertising campaigns, billboa
rds and bus stops around Phoenix metro. And she’s seen that handsome face on the front page of the grocery tabloids. For some reason she’d assumed he played football.

  “Did you shower?” Herb sniffs, makes a face. Jason still smells like booze, now also the tang of sweat. “Never mind, you’ll sweat out the rest.” Kirby does a figure eight between the athlete’s legs before hopping into Herb’s lap. “At least someone’s happy this morning,” Herb says, patting the dog on the head.

  Their bad moods aside, the morning is glorious, the sky impossibly blue, the air crisp. Sara drives them to the nature preserve, and at the trailhead they stop at a large, laminated map. “How about this one?” Sara points out a route. The legend says it’s two miles up and back. “I can’t tell if it’s paved, though.”

  “No bother,” Herb says, patting the arm of his wheelchair. “This puppy can do anything. Jason?” Jason’s staring at the lines like they’re dancing. Herb puts a hand on his arm. “This is for your own good.”

  Within five minutes, the trail’s settled into a steady climb, not steep but far from flat. Kirby dashes ahead, yipping happily. Then comes Sara, then a trudging Jason. He’s forgotten his ball cap, doesn’t have sunglasses, and without either, he squints like he’s staring down a spotlight. Herb downshifts to bounce over the rocks, weaving between the jutting arms of cacti, one eye glancing down to his phone. “You get a signal up here?” Herb asks. Bright pink flowers explode from the tips of cacti.

  Sara shrugs. “Phone’s in the car.”

  “Jason, you?” Herb holds the cell above his head.

  “I don’t know where my phone is. I haven’t seen it since—”

  “Where did you have dinner last night?” Sara is trying to be helpful. “Maybe you forgot it there.”

  “Or maybe it’s in that hussy’s car.” Herb rolls over a stone and it kicks up, pinging a cactus with a thwunk. “Do I need to worry about this lady, this Tamara? You met her at Don & Charlie’s?”

  “Yes, I mean no.”

  “No, you didn’t meet her there, or no, I don’t need to worry about her?”

  “You don’t need to worry about her. Just a nice lady, a bit down on her luck.”

  “Nothing a little larceny and property damage can’t solve.”

  Sara looks over her shoulder. She can’t tell if the look on Jason’s face is in response to Herb’s barb, or because Herb, gaunt and exhausted, his wheelchair like a fortress around him, looks so unwell. He’s even paler, skinnier, and more ragged in the bright morning light. “It’s historic register, for fuck’s sake. You could’ve burned it down, you know that?”

  Jason kicks a stone off the path.

  “The other Taliesin burned to the ground. Seven people, dead!”

  “I said I was sorry. It’s not like I killed anyone.”

  “Just your shoe contract. What will Nike do if they hear about this?”

  A jogger approaches. From the way his face lights up, it’s clear he recognizes Jason. He slows, raises his phone. “No pictures!” Herb barks, and the runner scampers away. Herb looks at Jason again. “So do I? Have to worry about you?”

  “I don’t know. Things aren’t good.”

  Up ahead, the dog starts a panicked barking. “Oh my god!” Sara yells. A rattlesnake is coiled in the center of the trail, between her and Kirby Puckett. “Kirby’s trapped!” The trembling dog skitters back and forth, the snake watching his every move, its hiss low and sinister. “It won’t let him pass.”

  Behind her another noise, a low whirring, becomes louder, closer. “Sara, move!” Jason shouts.

  She can feel the machine swoosh by as she dives off the path. Herb is full-bore accelerating up the trail, a growl coming through his clenched teeth. The snake’s head whips from Kirby to Herb and the quickly approaching machine, its thrumming engine and massive wheels.

  The tires flatten the snake, one smashing its head, one bisecting its body. The back wheels do the same. Kirby jumps into Herb’s lap, panting with relief.

  “We done here?”

  Jason may show no fear on the field, but right now it looks like he might be sick. He nods, then reaches to help Sara up. She’s landed on a cactus, the spikes of which have printed a red constellation up her arm. Jason plucks the pink flower from its crown and hands it to her. “A small consolation.”

  “Don’t even think about it, Jason.” Herb, Kirby still in his lap, has pivoted the chair and is rumbling back toward them. “Sara’s mine.”

  * * *

  When they hit asphalt again, Herb’s phone chirps and chirps again, then makes another buzzing noise Sara doesn’t recognize. “Oh, fuck.” Herb scrolls down the screen. “Jason! I thought you said there wasn’t any press!”

  “There wasn’t.” Jason and Sara are following a few feet behind Herb, not arm and arm but with their shoulders close, Sara’s cactus flower tucked behind her ear. Sweat makes a dark V on his chest and dark circles under his arms, and his face is pinking without his hat. Her cactus arm isn’t quite bleeding anymore, but the thorns’ punctures make tiny bubbles of blood that Jason periodically swipes with the hem of his shirt.

  “‘Golden handcuffs for the Gold Glove’?” Herb shouts, loud enough to make them wince. “‘Goodyear has a bad night’? What the fuck!”

  His phone rings. Herb rolls his eyes and accepts the call. “Woody, hello! Long time no—Jason? Yes, he’s with me. No, I don’t have any idea why the fuck he did such a bozo thing. No felony charges, just a misdemeanor—that’s good, right?”

  As Jason wipes the blood from her arm again, she sees a flash of the tattoo on his chest: it looks like a playing card, a jack, on his left pec. “Thanks,” she mouths.

  Herb’s eyes are locked on Jason, and he talks slowly, trying to tamp down the anger in his voice. “Yes, Woody, I understand. I’ll get him to the stadium pronto. And I guarantee, on Kirby Puckett’s grave, this is the beginning and the end of the funny business with Jason Goodyear.”

  But what Sara sees on Jason’s haggard face just then suggests that that’s anything but true. She might not be a good judge of character, but after all she’s been through, she’s very good at spotting a man in trouble, and Jason Goodyear, blood-streaked and sunburned, is still in the middle of some serious shit. She hands him back the cactus flower and, without another word, he crushes it in his fist.

  FOURTH

  As the tectonic plate’s weak spot pulled west, another line of mountains cracked through the seam, then again, and again, until Arizona was neatly striated: mountain, valley, mountain, valley. Temporally, it was not unlike the Lions’ own draft system—big player, journeyman, big player, journeyman, the positions cycling through apogee and ho-hum every few years. But if you look across the land, consider the topography at the start of 2011, the Lions outfield is synced up into a moment of peak, peak, peak; Goodyear plus Trey Townsend (several years apart in age, but both 2010 Gold Gloves), plus Corey Matthews, a high draft from UNC. Matthews reported to Single-A Carolina in August, spent the fall in Arizona, and played winter ball in the DR. His stats were good in Chapel Hill, but reports from coaches—all that different letterhead, the Carolina Clappers and the Arizona Arroyos and the Gigantes del Cibao stacked in a pile on Botter’s desk—are that he’s been making unbelievable progress, the kind of development that poises him to do the improbable: jump to the majors in his first full season. Which would mean that across the Lions outfield: mountain, mountain, mountain.

  Back in the day, some of those Arizona slopes were two miles tall. Taller than that even, to start, but like an octogenarian back in uniform for the old-timers’ game, we all lose a few inches. Hell, I’m two inches and eight pounds shy of my peak, which I hit during my junior year of college, when I was just a tick younger than Corey. The school was in need of a catcher (the recruit had a broken arm) and I, being Little League friends with the team’s ace, was called on to catch. We were D-II and no one expected much, though we won more games than we lost when I was behind the plate. After the
season I went back to my English major and to slowly shrinking, but that time on the field, a couple of months of orchestrating the team from behind the plate, I think it always gave me a leg up with the athletes. Looked like one of them, at least until I started looking like one of their coaches. Aging’s a bitch.

  But I was talking about mountains. Take a look at the McDowell Mountains, bordering Scottsdale to the east—that’s a fine example. They started as nearly perfect basaltic cones. But wind picked up the valley floor and blew dirt in the mountains’ faces; the softest stone slipped away with the insult. Not everything has the steely nerve of Stephen Smith, the fortitude to remain flawless under attack. Stephen can stay strong, but mountains, lesser men, they crack and crumble. Today, the McDowells are all jagged, and the tallest of them: four thousand feet.

  There was another element at play in the mountains’ demise: water. So much water. Hard to believe it on a day as blue-skied as this one, the stiff-armed saguaros the only green beyond the stretch of Salt River Fields’ irrigation, I know. But it did rain, for days and weeks and years. And that falling water traveled in flashes down the new mountainsides, pushing for an extra base with all the momentum it could muster. With each rain, the water was widening the base path, picking up stones and carrying them down, carving until there was a clear route, one that cut deeper and quicker than any other. Water flowed into a divot that became a crevice, a crevice that became a canyon, a canyon that became the bed of the new Salt River. And the Salt River became a path to follow, all the way to the now-far ocean.