by Darryl Brock
I get more honest feeling for the sport at the diamonds in Golden Gate Park, where the field is banked like old-time grounds, and where the players show up out of love. I spend quite a bit of time there.
Where the Recreation Grounds stood, at Twenty-fifth and Folsom, is all residential grid. I went there once—and felt nothing. For me it’s mostly the carriages in the park, old St. Mary’s, and Chinatown. And every once in a while I go up to Coolbrith Park and stand in the spot where O’Donovan fell to his death, where Colm saved me. I feel the milky light close by and hear Cait whisper my name.
It’s been almost a year since I returned. I feel pretty good. The job’s okay—not exciting, but it’s enabled me to stash a fair amount of money in an account for Hope and Susy, with very specific legal instructions and protections. I’ve told Stephanie what to do should I vanish. She appreciates my attempt at responsibility. All the while thinking me nuts.
I’ve spotted Clara Antonia twice in recent weeks. There’s no particular cause, no pattern that I can see. She didn’t call out again, but our eyes met. Once she waved, once nodded.
I keep the tiny piece of Cait’s fabric inside my watch. It’s always in my pocket. I take the quilt with me everywhere in a locked carrying case. They tease me at work about it. I don’t care. I’m packed and ready to go.
I see them clearly: Cait and Timmy and Andy and Harry and Johnny and George and Brainard and all the rest.
In the autumn of 1869 the world is younger. And yes, more innocent. They are waiting.
My lovely Cait is waiting for me.
I don’t know when, but I know I’m going back.
I can feel it.
