by Guy Franks
“Do you love me?” she asked as she breathed out her smoke.
Shake was in the middle of his toke, stopped, choked, and started coughing. “Huh? What?” he replied as he handed her the joint back.
“Do you love me? … No Shakespeare quotes… Just a simple answer… Yes or no.”
“No.”
She took another big hit and held it in. When she exhaled, she looked down at him and the combination of swirling smoke, disheveled hair and dark piercing eyes, made her look like the malevolent witch Morgan le Fay. He found the image both chilling and, well, bewitching.
“Do you love… someone else?”
Shake declined the joint she offered back to him. He needed to keep his head clear and speak straight and true. The moment wasn’t a surprise to him—he’d seen it coming for some weeks. He’d hoped they could go on indefinitely, like Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty, but it wasn’t meant to be. And it wasn’t the first time it had happened to him—where the woman he was casually dating and screwing suddenly demanded more from him. He had learned from those earlier experiences that, at this precise moment, honesty is the best policy.
“No,” he said. “I did a long time ago. Maybe I never stopped.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dead.”
She was quiet for a moment and abruptly waved her hand around her head to disperse the lingering smoke. “I’m not dead,” she said softly. “What about us? … We have something good… Don’t we?”
“We have lust. Or I have lust. You’re fun to be around. A kick. But I don’t love you.”
“Lust can turn into love… Sometimes you can’t tell the difference.”
“Yes, you can,” he answered firmly, and with that he disobeyed her request to keep Shakespeare out of this:
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
“I hate Shakespeare,” she said with a sigh.
Shake detected resignation in her voice. It was almost a kind of stoned-out, let-it-be surrender and he jumped in after it. “No you don’t,” he replied cheerfully. “Come on, tell me, what’s your favorite Shakespeare play?”
‘I don’t know,” she sighed again. “Let me think.” She focused her attention on attaching a roach clip to her joint. “I haven’t seen them all.”
“Of the ones you’ve seen then,” he encouraged. Shake was of the firm belief that you could tell a lot about a person by their favorite Shakespeare play. Romeo and Juliet meant you were a tragic romantic at heart; Henry V signaled you had a martial spirit; Hamlet indicated you were a thinker and probably a reader of books; and if your play of choice was Titus Andronicus it was a sure sign you had deep-seated problems.
“Macbeth,” she said finally.
“Hmm.” That surprised him a bit—but then again maybe it didn’t. Macbeth had witches in it and the scheming and relentless Lady Macbeth. Not the best role model but a strong female character nonetheless. He had a quick image of himself married to Lucy Macbeth and murdering his way to a manager’s job in the big leagues while she cheered him on. Funny. Then for no reason at all he remembered Mimi’s favorite play—A Midsummer Night’s Dream. A lovely choice.
“Good pick. A little dark for me but good pick.”
She ignored his rather back-handed compliment as she snuffed out the remains of her joint and started putting things away.
“If a good production comes around,” he said brightly, “maybe we’ll go see it together.”
“Maybe.”
With that “maybe” he felt the final tear, from his Wiccan and their wooly affair.
20
CHAPTER
As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,
As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue
Measure for Measure
Saturday was a glorious day. It was warm but not too hot, the blue sky dotted with cumulus clouds, and a breeze from the east brought with it the smell of the sea. Shake was in a buoyant mood and he walked around the infield like a king over his realm. Ball-players in uniform were playing catch. The stands were nearly full. He waved at the umpires huddled behind home plate and they waved back. As he walked between the first base line and his dugout, he noticed a group of fans calling his name and trying to get his attention. It was four attractive young women and Shake walked over to them.
“What have we here?” he asked with a smile.
“Can we get your autograph?” asked the brunette in front. Each one, in their late teens, fresh-faced and pretty, stuck out a program and a pen at him.
“My pleasure,” he said stepping in close to them. “How you gals doing today?” They happily chirped their answers. He took the first program thrust at him (the brunette’s) and readied the pen. “What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Janet. Sign it to Janet from Shake.”
He followed her instructions and handed the finished product back to her. He asked each one their name in turn before signing their program. The last one, a short redhead with freckles on her nose, said her name was “Mimi.”
The name startled him and he asked her to repeat it and she did. “Mimi.” He looked closely at her face but saw no resemblance to his old flame.
“I knew a girl named Mimi once,” he said as he signed her program. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“Connie.”
“Hmm. Here you go. Who’s your favorite player?”
The brunette answered first: “Luis Santiago.”
“You’re partial to pitchers then?”
“Not really. But he’s gorgeous.” Her other three friends laughed at this and heartily agreed.
“Well, at least you’re honest. ‘For honesty coupled to beauty is to have honey a sauce to sugar.’”
“Is that Shakespeare? It is, isn’t it? Do some more.”
“You like the Bard?” They all nodded energetically. “What’s your favorite play?” Two of them immediately blurted out “Romeo and Juliet” and the rest chimed in the same. “Why am I not surprised?” replied Shake with a smile and, pausing momentarily, added:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
They giggled in delight. Shake doffed his cap and turned to walk away but they pleaded for more. He turned back and looked straight at the brunette. She was the ringleader, he had no doubt, and if he was eighteen she’d be the one for him. He took her hand in a courtly gesture and quoted Suffolk from Henry the Sixth:
She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed;
She is a woman, therefore to be won.
And with that he kissed her hand, raised it, and let go of it with a flourish. The brunette held her hand triumphantly in the air as she led her cheering friends back to their seats. Shake followed her raised hand but suddenly caught an image of something higher up in the stands and stepped aside to see better. An unlocked memory spilled out into his consciousness and he strained his eyes to find the floppy sun hat he’d seen a moment before. Mimi’s floppy sun hat. He tried to block the sun with his hand as he scrutinized the spot where he’d seen the hat. But it was gone.
Shake caught himself and lowered his hand. The whole thing suddenly reminded him of that movie The Natural where Roy Hobbs looks up in the stands to find his true love. He laughed at himself and walked back to his dugout. He tried to dismiss the illusion as a thing triggered by a girl’s name, but when he got to the dugout steps he looked back up in the stands to make sure. It wasn’t there.
He stepped down and found Speed sitting on the bench. It was the clubbie’s spot where he sat for most of the game. From that vantage point he could comment on the game, throw one-liners at Shake and his coaches, or run off if need be to refill tubs of sunflower seeds or Bazooka gum.
Speed
Wh
at you looking for? Tell me and maybe I can find it for you.
Shake
I doubt it.
Speed
What do you doubt? The thing you’re looking for or that I can find it?
Shake
Both
Speed
That makes you a double-doubter, which may not be as bad as double-trouble but is definitely not as good as double-chocolate chip. Double-chocolate chip cookies with vanilla ice cream. Mmm, my favorite. But doesn’t Doubt have a twin brother? I read that somewhere, maybe on a bathroom wall. It said Faith is Doubt’s twin brother.
Shake
Profound.
Speed
Thank you. But not identical twins. More like fraternal twins, and Doubt is the uglier of the two.
Shake
Which is why we say, ‘When in doubt, lights out’. Nobody wants to look at that ugly mug.
Speed
Exactamundo… And I have a riddle for you today.
Shake
‘If you be not mad, be gone, if you have reason, be brief’… So, let’s hear it.
Speed
He sold his soul to the devil, and now he’s set on amending your constitution.
Shake
Is that it? Okay, got it… Now I got a game to manage so sit there and be quiet.
Speed
As a church mouse.
After the game, Chili Leonard and Hank Prince sat at a table in an upscale Chinese restaurant off Main St. in downtown New Britain. By sheer coincidence, Dane Hamilton and his mom sat at another table while Orson Kent and Rose Porter shared yet another table. The three couples were each aware of the other, had nodded and said hi, and didn’t find the coincidence odd. It was a popular restaurant.
“Ever had Chinese food?” Chili asked Hank.
“Nah.”
“Let me order. We’ll try a few different things. Broaden your horizons.” The waiter came and Chili gave him their order, then he poured himself some tea. “What was it growing up? Fried foods, right? Maybe some ham hocks and Hoppin’ John.”
“Yo, fo’ real. My mom wassa badass cook. Flatback. Chickin’ fried steak wid gravy. Sweet potato pie, my fave.”
“Got brothers and sisters?”
“A full crib, bro. Fo sistas and three bruthas. In Houston. Sunnyside was-my hood. Mom raised us. My dad was loke an’ neva-round.”
“Do me a favor?
“Wass-that?”
“Cut the ghetto brogue.”
“The wha?”
“The ghetto-talk. It’s a dead give-away.” Chili suddenly put his collar up and turned his head sideways. “Hey, nigga. I can talk-it-too. From East Saint Louie. East Boogie, where-dey do drive-byes on Sat-day and gang-bang yo sista on Sunday. I tapp’d the streets an’ sole sherms and piff. But-I got out cause I could play ball. U-hear me? I got out. Now I’ma baller chillin in my crib getting hella pussy, twenty-fo seven. So keep it trill, playa and cut that nigga-talk.”
“Wha, u-wan-me to talk cracker-talk?
“No, just like a man of means. A professional. Not like some baby G-n.”
Hank didn’t respond and instead took a drink of his beer. It was some Chinese beer. Tsingtao. It was pretty good.
“Want endorsements someday? Do a beer commercial or sell your own tennis shoes? Then stop talkin’ like you’re standin’ on-a corner in Sunnyside.”
“Okay.” Hank took another sip of his Chinese beer and looked across at Chili and nodded. He was the man, he admitted to himself. He knew how to dress, how to talk and act. He had style and money and success. He even did car commercials and played in celebrity golf tournaments. He was no poser or wannabe. Hank was surprised and grateful at his dinner invitation. So he’d listen because the man had style and was worth listening to.
Platters of food soon arrived and Chili explained each one. One was Mongolian Beef, another pot stickers, and another Moo Shu Pork. Chili showed him how to take the thin pancake and fill it with Moo Shu Pork, add a little plum sauce, then roll it up like a burrito. Hank copied him and raised the rolled, stuffed pancake to his mouth and took a big bite.
“Mmm, that’s good,” he said as he gulped it down. He quickly finished it off and started making another one.
“How’s your season going?” asked Chili.
Hank told him. There were ups and downs. He led the league in steals but was only batting .302, which they both knew was low for the Eastern League. He was honest about his fines and benching but was adamant he had a great June and should have been an All-Star.
“Why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yeah, you do. You’d rather get high and hang out with your homies than put in the extra work it takes to be great. And don’t con me that ain’t it. What would your mama say if she knew you were smokin’ weed and runnin’ round with gangbangers instead of workin’ hard?
“She’d whup me.”
“Damn right she would. So would my mama. You got to stop disrespecting the game, bro. Take it serious. It’s your job and you get paid a lot to do it. You got skills. No doubt about it. But everyone’s got skills in the pros. It’s hard work that sets you apart. I mean, where do you want to be in five years? In the show playing on TV before millions of people, married to a model, living in a mansion in Bel-Air—yeah, right, you hear me now—or do you want to end up back at your mama’s house washing cars or delivering mail for a living? Easy answer, right? But I’m not feelin’ it. You look to me like you’re going the wrong direction. You slid out of the bigs, slid out of Triple-A, and now you’re sliding your way out of Double-A. Next you’ll be out of baseball, and when the money runs out cause it always runs out, it’s back to Sunnyside for you.”
Hank listened to Chili’s words and saw the two pictures clear as day. No one had ever put it this way before. He wanted the first picture. With all his heart and soul he wanted the first picture. Not the second one. Back in Sunnyside. Getting high and trying to stay out of trouble. Hell no.
“I hear you,” said Hank sincerely.
“Good… Now try one of these pot stickers—but dip it in hot oil first like this.”
Orson didn’t know what to make of it all. Officially, this was their third date, and Rose had already set another date for them to play golf next week. He looked across the table at her and watched her efficiently pick apart a plate of Kung Pao Chicken with her chopsticks. She was very attractive. No doubt about it, he thought, but was that because she looked like her twin brother Balt or because he found her attractive on her own merits? He wasn’t sure. But one thing he was sure of—he was sure what she wanted out of this relationship. That had become clear on their last date when he walked her to her door. Standing there in awkward silence, she had suddenly grabbed his shirt and kissed him. A hard, long kiss with tongue and all. And to his undying shame, he had kissed her back.
“How’s the chicken?” he asked her.
“Mmm, good. They spice it just right. Chili and garlic. I love it.”
Rose was certainly a woman who knew what she liked, thought Orson. She had made the date and picked the restaurant, and when she ordered off the menu she knew exactly what she wanted without hemming or hawing or asking advice from the waiter. He admired that about her. She was also aggressive, especially when it came to moving their relationship along. He found himself being led but, for some odd reason, he had no compunction to fight against it. And it struck him as funny that two of the traits he admired most about her were traits that most women would admire in a man.
“Here,” she said sticking out her chopsticks towards him with morsels attached. “Try some of this Kung Pao Chicken… Come on, try it. Don’t be a sissy. There. How is it?”
Orson swallowed down the spicy morsels. “Mmm, good,” he lied.
“Told you.”
�
��Heard from Balt lately?”
“Who?”
“Balt, your brother.
“Oh, yes. Just the other day. He’s doing well. He asked about you.”
“Really. What he say?”
“Just asked how you were doing… What do you want to do after dinner?
“I don’t know. What do you want to do? … What did you tell him when he asked how I was doing?
She hummed, “I don’t know” while chewing her food, swallowed, then said, “Told him you were great and that we were dating.”
“Dating? You told him we were dating? What’d he say to that?”
“Sure. Why not? He was happy to hear it. He thought we would get along really well, and I said we do. We do get along really well. Don’t you think?”
Orson put his head down and thought about Balt’s words. It was his greatest fear coming true—that this little tryst with his sister would cause him to lose Balt. But breaking it off with her now would be even worse.
“Don’t you think,” she repeated.
“Think about what?”
“Don’t you think we get along really well?” She hunched down and lowered her head to catch his gaze, caught it, then brought his head up with hers as she locked eyes with him.
He looked into her brown eyes, at her velvety lips, at her long brown hair and exquisite neck line and said, “Yeah, I like you… A lot.”
“I like you, too… A lot,” said Rose with a light laugh. She brought her chopsticks up to her lips and tapped them thoughtfully. “You’re funny sometimes,” she crooned, her eyes playing over his face. “I’ve decided what I want to do after dinner.”
An anxious premonition came over Orson. “What?”
“Don’t you live close by here?”
“I do.”
“Let’s go there. I’ve never seen your apartment.”
