Photo Finish

by Terry Ambrose

  “I’ve got Roger’s address. I had to drop off the keiki.”

  “How are the kids?”

  “Roger didn’t do nothing, McKenna. He’s a good man.” He paused and let out a frustrated sigh. “Kids are fine. Maile, she got straight A’s last semester. Bubba, he gonna try out for Little League. He hit a home run the other day, drove in three to win the game.”

  Alexander’s jaw tightened as he pushed his anger deep beneath the surface. Volunteering to play McKenna taxi was, I gathered, just a ploy to ensure that he protected his relatives, and maybe a friend or two. I suspected that I no longer counted as one of his friends, but that Alexander had categorized me as an adversary, someone to keep close so he could track my actions. In any case, talking about the kids would keep us on neutral ground. “Why’d you name the poor kid Bubba, anyway?”

  “Just kinda happened by accident. One day at a family picnic I called him that when he asked me a question, next thing I know everybody was doing the same.”

  A moment of awkward silence cast an invisible wall between us. It wasn’t like Alexander to be distant; he either liked you or he didn’t. I said, “Maybe I should get Harris?”

  “If you want.”

  Unfortunately, his attitude was beginning to piss me off. And that could only lead to trouble. I hoped being direct would resolve this problem. “I understand you think we’re trying to hurt one of your relatives, but we’re just trying to assemble some evidence for the cops.”

  “HPD don’t need no volunteer detectives running around getting in trouble and wasting their time. They tight enough on resources as it is.”

  “I don’t want to waste anybody’s resources. I’m trying to help. I just want to—” I stopped.

  Alexander eyed me. “See, you don’t know what you want. Maybe you just want a thousand bucks. Maybe you think you gonna get laid.”

  “And maybe you think I’m going to blow the whistle so that you get into trouble for taking Harris to Sacred Falls. Believe me, that’s not gonna happen. I won’t let it. I may not know what I do want, but I do know what I don’t want, and that’s getting you in trouble. You’re my friend and no one, including Harris, will jeopardize your business or how you provide for your family if I can help it.”

  Alexander stared at me for a moment, then pulled me into a bear hug.

  The hug forced the air from my lungs, but I was still able to croak, “Thanks.” Then, in a hoarse whisper, squeezed out, “You could let me go now.” Thank goodness, he did.

  “You gonna be okay, brah. Let’s go get that blonde troublemaker before you get anymore mixed up.”

  “You are driving, right? I don’t think Harris is in any shape to do that. And I don’t have a car.” Alexander knew the story, rather than pay a fortune to repair my car after an accident, I’d pocketed the insurance money. I’d narrowly missed hitting a kid who’d chased his dog into the street. The driver of the oncoming car must have seen the dog because he screeched to a halt. The stupid dog ran straight into the car and bounced off, four legs sticking straight up towards the sky. I was fascinated by the spectacle and didn’t see the kid standing horrified in the middle of my lane. I don’t know what got my attention back on my side of the road, but I saw the kid in time to swerve. The swerve maneuver was a good-news, bad-news thing because I missed the kid, but hit a fire hydrant, which pounded the underside of my car like a water cannon. It sounded like the grand finale at a Fourth of July fireworks show. The street flooded, the kid wet his pants, the dog started to float away and, lo and behold, the cops showed up to give me a ticket. Yup, I hated driving.

  “You think I want to take a chance with you behind the wheel? Or her? Forget it.”

  We made the short walk to Harris’s apartment in silence, the tension between us now addressed and released. It’s odd, but sometimes it takes a little adversity to make two friends appreciate each other more. Jeez. Talk about being philosophical. Enough of that mushy, gushy crap.

  And, if there was any doubt, mushy, gushy went down the tubes when Harris opened her door. What was this effect I was having on people? Until today, every time I’d seen Harris, it had been a treat—a hot fudge sundae with double whipped cream and a cherry on top. Today was more like beef stew. She’d dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved tee shirt, and her hair hung loose and straight. Her attitude seemed to match her changed attire; simple, direct, and harsh. “What?”

  Whoa. Talk about meeting the inner demon. Alexander took a step backwards, leaving me in the position of unwitting volunteer sacrifice. “We, uh, thought you might want to go to meet the maintenance guy’s wife.”

  Her brow furrowed as she seemed to process the information. “The maintenance guy? Oh, yeah, the one we think stole the plane. Sorry, my head is killing me. I’ve been popping pain killers like they’re going extinct tomorrow. It just keeps, like, getting worse.”

  “Maybe you should see someone?”

  “The only one who needs to see a doctor is my sister. Besides, I don’t have insurance and I’m not going to pay a bundle to have them tell me what I already know.”

  Alexander stood behind me and his silence told me he wouldn't be offering up any of his island feel-good philosophies. No doubt he was covering my unexposed back. Thanks, buddy. “They might be able to give you something for the pain.”

  “What, something I don’t have already? I’ve got plenty. And I’m not that bad—not yet anyway. So where’s this maintenance guy live?”

  I stood, silent. Hell if I knew.

  Alexander said, “North Shore.”

  “North Shore.” She glared at me. “Didn’t we just freaking go to the North Shore yesterday? Why the hell didn’t we visit this guy then?”

  Maybe it was that time of the month. Time to go. “We, uh, shouldn’t have bothered you. Sorry about that.”

  I turned to walk away, but felt her hand on my shoulder. “Please. I’m sorry. It’s the pain meds and this headache. Just give me a couple of minutes and I’ll be ready.” She closed the door, leaving us standing outside.

  Alexander said, “I told you, brah. Something not right with that chick.”

  If there was anything in this world that I hated, it was an “I told you so.” Especially when it came from someone else. And when they were right.

  Chapter 13

  It had only taken Harris a few minutes to get ready, during which time Alexander and I loitered around her door. Thankfully, no other tenants came by, otherwise, I’d have felt obligated to invent some excuse for us hanging around outside her door—something less ridiculous than being involved in a murder investigation, that is. A short time later, we were caught in gridlock.

  Although H-1, our interstate highway, is isolated from the mainland and doesn’t actually take you between states, it suffers regular bouts of traffic congestion that rival its mainland cousins. The congestion often cripples travel on the main highway through this little section of paradise. As we went from slow to go, I watched the clouds racing towards us, each a distant soldier in nature’s perennial battle for life. An army of dark-gray sky-soldiers gathered strength, each prepared to blot out the sun, drench the land, and create havoc on the roads. With the storm moving in, our chances of finding out who had been thrown from the plane seemed to be dwindling as fast as blue sky. By the time we’d connected with, and then turned off of, H-2 and onto State Highway 99, my back hurt from being confined and one thought plagued me: getting involved in this whole missing-body thing had been one huge mistake.

  I recalled my initial feelings about Harris, who slept in the back seat. Her greeting this morning, combined with Alexander’s accusations, had unnerved me. If I hadn’t been inside a moving vehicle at the time, I think I might have kicked myself.

  Alexander remained intent on his driving, trying to maintain as much aloha spirit as possible while about ten thousand people wanted to pass him, cut him off, or run him off the road. We were passing Kamanunu Rd. when I closed my eyes to try to forget my back pain. My breath
ing slowed a bit as I relaxed. The drive had become a marathon, dealing with Harris looked like it might be another. Why couldn’t things just be simpler? I shifted position and imagined the pain fading, slipping away, as if it were never there—just like before the baseball game in which I’d been injured.

  When I was eight, a bunch of my friends cornered me and said they needed another player for their baseball game. I’d played softball before, and was, without a doubt, the best player on my team. But, I’d never played real baseball. A hardball. Ninety-foot baselines.

  Sammy Wharton said, “Johnny Bakerton is pitching for the other team.”

  Johnny was twelve and big and a bully to boot. I’d seen him pitch a couple of times; he had two pitches, a fastball and a curve ball. His fastball was the finisher, the one he used to not only strike out, but humiliate the batter. “I don’t know; my Mom might worry.”

  Steve, Sammy’s older brother said, “What do moms know? Besides, if you can hit what he’s throwing, you’ll be a hero.”

  A hero. Mom had never let me play because she said it was too dangerous. I’d always poo-pooed that concern because I was eight and, well—what did she know about baseball? That’s how I wound up sneaking into my room, grabbing the real baseball mitt my grandfather had given me, not the one for little kids and softball, and telling my mom that a bunch of us were going over to Sammy Wharton’s to play in his tree house.

  “The Whartons are such nice boys. Have fun,” she said without even a glance in my direction.

  I secretly wondered how they did it. Sammy was ten and his brother Steve was twelve. Every parent in the neighborhood thought they were perfect kids because they’d learned to play “Impress the Parent” very, very well. I guess part of it had something to do with the fact that no one had ever actually fallen from the tree house—and told about it.

  At the baseball field, I stared wide-eyed at the diamond. I was about to become a real baseball player, not just a little kid who played softball. They even had an umpire. People watching. Some even had cameras.

  I said, “Wow, people are taking pictures!”

  Steve said, “My dad declared himself the official team photographer. How stupid. You’re batting eighth and playing right field.”

  “Eighth? Right field?” I was a shortstop. I usually batted second or third. Maybe leadoff.

  Sammy said, “It’s your first game. That’s where Steve always starts the beginners.”

  I was a beginner? I guess I felt suckered as I mumbled, “Sure.” I trotted off for my position in Outer Mongolia. I wasn’t sure where this “Outer Mongolia” was, but had heard my dad talk about it a lot.

  I was starting to understand why my dad always sounded pissed off when he talked about Outer Mongolia. By the third inning, I was so bored that I started noticing weird things, like when someone spoke, their mouth moved but I didn’t hear their voice until a couple of seconds later. It was pretty cool, I could make up the words, then see if I was right. But even that got boring after a couple of innings.

  This was definitely a pitcher’s game. Steve mowed the batters down one-by-one, only allowing strikeouts or little hits to the infield. Unfortunately, so did Johnny Bakerton. We were going into the sixth inning, and the score was tied at zero-zero.

  As I was waiting for my turn at bat, I overheard Steve and a couple of the other older teammates arguing. The argument sounded heated and, at one point, Steve burst out in frustration, “I ain’t got nobody else. He was a last minute choice so we wouldn’t have to forfeit.”

  I warmed up, thinking about what he’d said. So that’s what I was, a way to avoid a forfeit. There were already two outs this inning; I didn’t want to be number three. The first pitch came in on the outside corner. My swing was hard, smooth. It was a perfect swing. Swish.

  The catcher, another one of the older kids, said, “Nice swing—for a baby.”

  I felt heat in my face and chest. He had a couple of years on me and stood a half foot taller, but I wanted to smash him with the bat. The second pitch was inside and made me jump away from the plate. Johnny Bakerton smiled and sneered.

  The ump yelled, “Ball One!”

  I took a moment to step away from the batter’s box and swung the bat a few times. I had to show Johnny Bakerton he wasn’t so tough after all. I stepped back into the box, telling myself over and over to drill one into the outfield for a single. The pitch was a curve ball. To an eight-year old, it looked like the biggest curve ball in the world, like it could do a circle on its way to the plate. I stared, wide-eyed, as the ball looped past me and landed squarely in the catcher’s mitt.

  “Strike two!”

  The catcher sneered, “Go back to softball.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. My insides shook. I was a failure at eight years old. I was ruined for life and would probably never get another chance to play in a real baseball game. I’d be demoted back to softball unless I did something really big.

  Johnny Bakerton caught the ball thrown out by the catcher and just laughed. I read his lips, “Stupid little kid.” His shoulders shook with laughter.

  He was the biggest, baddest kid on the team. He outweighed me by a good thirty or forty pounds, and yet I wanted to beat him to a pulp. But, I knew what that result would be. I’d be the pulp. He’d probably kick my—what had Dad said, oh yeah, kick my ass all the way to Outer Mongolia. There was only one way to settle this.

  The pitch came in low and fast. It was Johnny’s fastball. The closer.

  I’d seen his pattern enough to know what he’d do. I knew he’d put it right where he always did. I swung as hard as I could. My ears rang with the loudest crack of the bat I’d ever heard. Instinctively, I ran to first base. Sammy waved me on. As I rounded first, he yelled, “Go! Go!”

  My heart pounded and my lungs screamed, but I ran. On my way to second, I couldn’t resist a triumphant glance in Johnny’s direction. I half-expected to see him standing there, furious that an eight-year-old might cost him his game. Instead, he was on the ground, doubled up, arms and hands wrapped around his knees. The catcher knelt next to him, struggling with Johnny. He wrenched the ball from Johnny’s grasp and, still on one knee, threw towards second base. I was just a few feet away from the base when the ball sailed over the reach of the second baseman and into center field.

  My teammates yelled from the sidelines, “Go! McKenna, Go!”

  I rounded second and headed for third base. The thrill of having the only hit of the game powered my stride. My legs ached, my lungs felt like they would burst. But my heart was soaring! I’d gotten a hit off of Johnny Bakerton! The only hit of the game!

  Steve was behind third base signaling me to stop. He patted me on the back and even hugged me like I was one of the guys. “Wow! What a hit. I knew you could do it!”

  Right, I thought, that’s why I was batting eighth. I stood at third base, my chest heaving as I watched Johnny Bakerton struggle to his feet.

  Steve leaned in my direction and pointed to the bent-over pitcher. “That’s gotta hurt, right in the family jewels.” He laughed as he went back to his position on the sidelines.

  I didn’t know why he’d done it, but there was no way I’d ever make Johnny’s mistake. I’d never put any of my mom’s jewelry in my pants before a game.

  Finally, Johnny was ready to go. I led off. Johnny wound up. I took another step. Johnny’s head turned slightly in my direction, but he was committed. He threw.

  Johnny had wasted batter after batter today, but a hit to the family jewels had killed his game. The weak fastball just sort of hung over the plate long enough for our catcher to pound it up the middle. I jumped towards home. Johnny ducked and threw up his glove as the ball screamed past him. I was a third of the way to home when I glanced over my shoulder and saw the second baseman knock down the ball. I was halfway home when he got control. I looked ahead, the catcher jumped up and down at home plate screaming for the second baseman to throw.

  I increased my speed and glanced back a
t the second baseman. I caught sight of a horror-stricken Johnny jumping up and down and screaming at the top of his lungs. I pumped my arms. I breathed hard. I flew like the wind. I gloated over Johnny Bakerton’s fall from grace.

  I was almost home and ready to dive for the plate.

  Someone yelled, “McKenna, look out!”

  But, I couldn’t look out. I was busy watching the ball sail in from the second baseman’s throw. I poured on my last ounce of speed, took a deep breath, and looked ahead to see the other team’s catcher standing like a wall between me and the plate an instant before I slammed into him at full speed.

  The collision sent the catcher sprawling and me tumbling past him in the dirt. Dust choked my lungs and blinded me as I strained to get my bearings. In the background, I could hear both teams yelling.

  “Get the ball!”

  “Tag him out!”

  “Touch the plate!”

  “Get him, get—”

  “In front of you—”

  “Hurry—”

  Scuffling in the dirt. Pain in my back and neck. Force back the tears. Johnny running toward me from the backstop. Both teams screaming for action. Ignore the pain. Johnny just two steps away. The plate was just inches away. I could barely move my arm, but managed to get my right hand on it just a fraction of a second before Johnny slammed into me and the world went dark.

  “McKenna. Wake up, we’re there.”

  I blinked and then squinted at the light.

  “You fell asleep.”

  My back hurt in the same place it had while I lay sprawled in the dirt. “I need to move.” I opened the door and stood, shaky as a newborn deer, then tested my balance. “Crap, that hurts.”

  Harris stood next to me and held my arm. I leaned into her a bit, relishing the attention, and her apparent change of attitude. She laughed. “We make a fine pair, huh?”

  She hadn’t called me honey, but her choice of words gave me an interpretation of my dream that I hadn’t considered. She’d become affectionate again. Did that mean I was destined to get to first base with her? Second? Third? Might I even score? Just considering the possibility of sex made my palms sweat. Would I remember what to do? Was it really like riding a bicycle—you never forgot?