by J. M. Maurer
I slide the door open and step onto the back patio. My fingers are numb, but only from the cold bottle in my hand. It’s certainly not from the fact it’s been weeks since I’ve even thought about touching a baseball.
I sink my back against the warm wood of a lounge chair in the sun. In all the years I’ve been playing baseball, I didn’t see this coming. Not for me. But I was wrong. And honestly, I don’t wish what happened to me on anyone.
While I’m wallowing in thought, the hum of a swarm of bees snares my attention. Off to my side, I watch as blurs of black and gold fly in and out of the opening at the top of a patio umbrella. Eventually, my gaze roams to the lake where the reflections of puffy fair-weather clouds paint the surface of the calm water. Aside from an occasional chirp from a bird in one of the trees nearby, it’s quiet and peaceful.
I close my eyes and let my thoughts move with the gentle breeze. As always, visions of a beautiful brunette enter my mind. She’s been kissing me each night in my dreams since I met her last April.
Addison.
Her name vibrates my entire being each time I hear it in my head. I pull in a long swig, dreaming of being with her again. The cold, smooth liquid moves down my throat with ease but does little to quench the heat that’s pulsing throughout my body.
If only we’d exchanged last names or even numbers. But we didn’t. Reality sinks in. What if I can’t find her?
I hope that’s not the case because I already need to hear her voice. Like right now. I need Addison’s vocal chime replacing the one that’s suddenly started shouting at me from the yard.
“Well, well. Look who’s back. What, the Archer Hills beer league lookin’ for a bullpen catcher?”
I sit up and lean forward, recognizing the elderly lady from next door, but for the life of me, her weatherworn face isn’t conjuring up a name. After a futile attempt at remembering, I move to help her up the steps and listen in amusement as she verbally coaxes her arthritic knees into lifting her up and onto the deck. Despite my offer to take her hand, she waves me off, flashing inflamed knuckles that immediately catch my attention. They remind me of what mine look like when I’ve worked out too hard.
“Actually,” I say, responding to her snarky comment with one of my own, “life’s even better. I got traded to the American Legion for half a pack of Big League Chew and a bucket of batting practice balls.”
She snickers, then manages to settle herself into a chair. “While you’re up,” she jerks her head toward the sliding glass door and points to the bottle in my hand, “go get me some of that watered-down crap you’re drinkin’. Unless you got somethin’ better. In which case, I’ll take that. I got a feeling I’m gonna need a few to deal with you.”
I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but I grab a few beers and return. Surprising me, and seemingly without even taking a breath, she tips her head back and downs the twelve ounces. I watch as she tightens the hold she has around the neck of the bottle, her white-knuckled grip quickly growing brighter and brighter. With her eyelids narrowed, I get the feeling she’d like to be choking something else. Eventually, she slams the empty against the armrest and releases a heavy breath. She’s clearly irritated. Though I haven’t the slightest clue why.
In time, she pans her cloudy gaze in my direction, shooting laser beams at me that are glowing in agitation. “Bender.” She pushes my name past her throat like a mother would do in warning, carrying with it the unmistakable tone that says enjoy sitting down now because, young man, you’re in a mighty heap of trouble. “You didn’t play a lick this season. Son, where the heck’ve you been?”
Lost. It’s my first thought. And lost I still am. But as much as it’s the truth, I don’t dare tell her that.
I lift my cap, swipe back my hair, and reposition my hat on my head, giving thought to the conversation I don’t particularly want to be having with the nosy neighbor whose name I have yet to even remember.
I offer up another beer, which she readily accepts. “How much time you got?” I ask, thinking maybe after a few tall ones she’ll forget she even knows who I am.
Chapter Three
Addison
Most people live for the weekend. Me? Mine are pretty much the same as any other day of the week. I walk up to the town square, maintain a steady pace, and once again hear the familiar knocking sounds of a diesel engine coming up from behind me.
Peeking to my left, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Tinley as she leans forward, her milky eyes focused, directed at me. As usual, she’s gone all out for Heritage Days, dressed up like many of the residents do, and is playing the role of Lovina McCarthy Streight, a Civil War nurse who wouldn’t hear of staying home and raising her five-year-old alone while her husband went off to fight in the war. For as long as I can remember, Mrs. Tinley has become “The Mother of the 51st Infantry,” and she rocks the mid-1800s style black pioneer dress that takes up most of the front cabin of her Gator as if she were born to hide a gun up her knickers and show any man who crosses her path just how to fight.
Like clockwork, she shoots me a morning greeting, pairing her words with a scowl that moves back and forth from the shaking of her head. “Addison.”
I nod toward the cargo area at the back, choosing to ignore the irritated look on her face. Life is just easier when I move beyond the stares I often get and the words people tend not to keep to themselves these days. “Good morning, Mrs. Tinley. I see you’ve got your noodles ready.”
“Last batch is in the back. But, hon, I’m afraid I’m going to need some help with my booth today. The joints in these old knees of mine are flarin’ up somethin’ fierce. It must be rain a comin’. Or somethin’…” she trails off but manages to maintain her steady yet disapproving gaze at me. “I do wish you would’ve dressed up a little for the festivities this weekend. But I s’pose it ain’t worth sewin’ somethin’ up this year anyhow. And I reckon you get ’round easier in the dress you’ve got on. Anyway, be a doll and get with Rusty this mornin’. He’s offered to help you with my noodles.”
In light of Mrs. Tinley’s comment about my attire, I glance down at the knee-length floral print chiffon. It’s moving gently with the breeze. Admittedly, my dress is more spring than fall and it’s definitely not from way back in the day. But hey, it’s light and airy, and I got it for next to nothing at a resale shop shortly after my obstetrician declared I’d put on an excess amount of baby weight. Hearing his harsh truth, I could almost feel the air of embarrassment being sucked right out my uterus. So the dress became the antidote to the virtual kick to my lady parts.
It’s beautiful. And given the short time clothes fit me these days, letting someone else pay full price for a garment they’ve most likely worn once or twice comes in pretty handy, especially for a single twenty-five-year-old who’s living on a barely-above-minimum-wage income and doing everything she can to save up for a jump in expenses that’s inevitably going to happen.
“You look fine, Addison,” Mrs. Tinely interjects, as I smooth out an imaginary ruffle and shift my weight from right to left. “I’m just not used to seeing you…the way you are. Anyway, back to my noodles. My old knees and me sure will appreciate the help. Rusty’s promised to unload these last few boxes, so I best get a movin’. Addison.” She dips her chin. “See ya in a bit.”
I nod, even though Mrs. Tinley’s returned her focus to the road. She chugs on up Main Street, nearing the south side of the square, where large wooden barricades are set up across the road, serving as an obvious warning for drivers to slow their vehicles and follow the detour around. Not to my surprise, Mrs. Tinley plows right on through. Apparently, the red octagonal sign reads “STOPtional” in Mrs. Tinley’s eyes.
The wood hits the ground with a loud THUD. People dart into the street while Mrs. Tinley keeps on driving. It’s not like she doesn’t know exactly why the blockade is there. No. This is Mrs. Tinley we’re talking about. Most likely, she just doesn’t care.
I do my own bit of head shaking as Mrs. Tinley tak
es a right turn, and then disappears behind the row of buildings on the north side of the square where vendors are selling so much stuff your head spins from trying to figure out where to begin looking.
After watching a few kids return the barricades to their spot, I veer off to my right and cut a straight path to the northeast corner of the square where Mrs. Tinley has always set up her booth and sold her noodles. Along the way, I pass a group of kids who are busy chatting and churning slices of apple into creamy apple butter, an early morning sheep-shearing demonstration, and a history-in-action mini-play that’s taking up the majority of the playground. By the time I make it to the bandstand, my canvas sneakers are damp from the morning dew. It’s no big deal. They’ll be dry by the time the bluegrass music starts entertaining everyone at noon.
Right now, I can’t think about the comfortable shoes I have on. They don’t match my dress. I don’t particularly care. I’m much too focused on working my way through the crowd without getting off task. The blending of aromas from all the foods is making me hungry. And I don’t necessarily want to accidentally bump into anyone with my belly.
With people everywhere I look, it’s not as easy as it sounds. But I do my best and meander my way through the crowd. The instant I step onto the pavement at the far north side of the square, I hear the echo of a male voice shouting my name.
“Addison,” Rusty says, his cheery tone alerting me to his direction. “You’re finally here.”
I meet his smile, and then admire the costume he’s wearing. For today, he’s replaced his police uniform with knee-high moccasins, tan skinny pants, and a heavily weighted yet frilly-looking upper body wrap that’s being held in place by a wide brown leather belt. The whole look reminds me of something a Jedi would wear while fighting the Confederate Army. I flash him a smile just as a miniature version of Sacajawea scurries in front of me, momentarily blocking my path to the area under the canopy of the old pharmacy building where Rusty’s standing.
I sidle up beside him and take a look around. “Nice outfit.”
“Thanks. I’m totally wearing it just for you,” he says, his tone full of teasing. “Mrs. Tinley did a dump and run, complained quite a bit about her knees, and left after voicing a mangled set of instructions. To be honest, her to-do list didn’t exactly hold my attention. And I’m not sure when we’ll see her again, but she parked her Gator over at the station. So, since I’ve never done this before, I’m hoping she’ll be back soon.”
I have my doubts Mrs. Tinley’ll be back at all and point to several towering columns of boxes stacked up along the edge of the sidewalk, behind our table. “You did a nice job back here.”
“Thank you. I have a feeling today’s going to be all about organization.”
“Well, you’ve done a great job. And speaking of jobs, thanks for taking care of Mr. Jenkins yesterday. I’ve got good news. You’re officially on his nice list. From now on, he might even trust you enough to let you help him more often.”
“No thanks, Addison. Jenkins ain’t right. I think I’ll let you handle any and all of his upcoming disasters from now on. And since Mrs. Tinley didn’t exactly mention how long we’d have to man her noodle station, I’m sure glad we’ve got some shade.” Rusty fans himself as I begin mentally counting the fourteen columns of boxes, quickly noting each of the columns is almost as tall as my five-foot-nine frame. “Beautiful day or not,” Rusty continues, “I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna be here a while.”
Agreeing, I draw in a breath. It doesn’t take a mathematician to figure out we’ve got quite a lot of noodles to sell.
Rusty hands over several bags. “It’s a good thing people love her noodles. I heard she’s been making them for weeks. Plus, she went and got the cooking club from the high school to help her make more. Does she really think she’s gonna sell this many bags of carbs?”
“I think she does.” I pause and stage a few bags on the table so they don’t fall over. “Besides, it’s all for a good cause.”
“True,” Rusty says, shifting his focus to the contents of an old cigar box that’s probably seen twice as many Heritage Day festivals as I have. “And at least she put a nice chunk of dollar bills in here so we’ll be able to make change.”
“You do know she has every one of these bags marked two fifty?”
Rusty squares his shoulders and cocks his head. “So that’s how she does it. She glossed over how most people end up paying three bucks a bag, which is kind of when I stopped listening. Huh. I always knew Mrs. Tinley was clever.” He shrugs and places the box on the table. “Whatever. It’s her gig. I guess it’s time to make today an awesome day in Noodleland.”
I laugh, feeling my body warming under the sun, and decide it’s time to slip off a layer of clothing. Waddling back to the boxes, I toss my jacket to the top of one of the columns and hear Rusty shoot me an order.
“Hey, while you’re back there, grab a dozen thins.”
I snatch up what I can and, since the noodles are fragile, take some extra precautions. Twisting back toward the table, I immediately heat up even further, my body threatening to melt into an unrecognizable puddle of liquid Addison all over the sidewalk.
Gasping, I halt mid-stride. Stunned by what I’m seeing, I let Mrs. Tinley’s noodles and the scholarship money they’d provide slip though my sweaty palms. I can’t help it. I’m pinned in my spot, captivated once again by a slate-blue stare that’s just as sultry as it is unforgettable.
Staring ahead, I hear a crunching noise and can only assume it’s from the multiple bags of Mrs. Tinley’s noodles. I imagine they’ve spilled into quite a large mess at my feet, but I’m too shocked by his presence to give the noodles another thought. Noodles? Who cares about noodles? I’ve now got nothing on my mind but the tall, blue-eyed Adonis standing before me.
So much so, I feel my heart pound hard against my chest. My mouth goes slack. And a sudden tingling under my lip balm is driving me nuts. It’s all I can do to refrain from leaning in and reacquainting my lips with his. But I know better than to do such a thing, and instead, stay in my spot, thinking, Ben, is that really you?
I don’t dare close my eyes. If I do, I fear when opening them I’ll realize he’s merely an illusion. But he’s not a mirage. My head’s just fine and my eyes aren’t playing tricks on my heart. I open my mouth to say hello, like I always do when I meet someone, but when his sly grin slides clean off his face, I bite my lower lip and swallow back my greeting.
With his gaze cast down, he takes a long moment, appearing to stare almost unseeingly at my midsection. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. His expression is rather frozen. But judging by his furrowed brows, he’s most likely come to one major conclusion.
I’m clearly not the same Addison he remembers from last April.
Though, despite my puffy features, I am the same girl who spent a remarkable week with him last spring. The biggest difference now is I have a baby growing inside me.
At this point I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking. I don’t get the chance to ask because without looking up, he drops his shoulders, turns on his heel, and promptly leaves me.
A lone tear trickles down my cheek as I fight to hold back a burst of overwhelming emotion. But I fail and silently cry right there, rooted in my spot behind Mrs. Tinley’s table.
Staring ahead through a wet blur I hadn’t experienced since the day I found out I was pregnant, I watch as the red baseball cap zigzags a path through the crowd and quickly moves off into the distance, taking the six-foot-four father of my baby with it.
A warm hand slips over my shoulder, the touch alerting me to the fact that today is definitely not like any of the others. Rusty tries to lift my spirits. But much like Noodleland and fun, apparently Ben and I simply aren’t meant to be together either.
Chapter Four
Ben
I have the worst luck.
If the dict
ionary used a picture to show the term “bad luck,” you’d find my mug shot sitting right there next to it, because I’m about to wrap my fingers around the neck of the a-hole who knocked her up.
Maybe this is the same dude the old lady next door has her evil eyes on. I don’t know. She didn’t exactly say why she was so irritated, and I couldn’t keep her happy with the additional rounds of beer I kept offering. Though her agitation waned a little the instant I agreed to go up to the town square first thing in the morning and buy her some fancy noodles she kept raving about. I’ve got news for her. She can go get her own dang noodles. Who has time for carbs when you’re suddenly faced with the after effects of what feels like a beating with a bat to your heart? What was I thinking coming back here to this town? As beautiful as Addison is, of course she’s got someone in her life who loves her.
I kick a lump of dirt in the yard back at the lake house and decide on a different way to take out my frustration. The video camera sets up in three exasperated huffs and the portable backstop I’m going to let loose into settles in place on the fourth. With the radar gun set and ready, I strip to my skivvies, toss an entire pale ale down my gullet, and set the camera to record.
From sixty feet six inches I take a ball into my left hand, squeeze the red laces until blood pops from each of my knuckles, and let rip the most agonizing groan while throwing the ball. The red numbers on the radar gun hit 97.
But I’ve got so much more left inside me. Anger. I feel it consume my body like I’ve never felt anger before.
And it’s begging to come out. So I grab a second ball and fire away, trying to release heartache and pain I hoped would leave me the first time I threw the dang ball. For some reason, the 99 mph reading on the radar ticks me off even more. So much so I stomp back to my spot and release another angry throw. As the radar flashes 100, mocking me as I slouch in nothing but my briefs, I fight to hold back a string of well-thought-out obscenities. I don’t need the neighbors knowing I’ve completely gone mad.
