by Dana Mentink
How could Cal send his mother’s elderly dog to the pound?
“And a man with oodles of money,” Gina fumed. “He’d never even have to cross paths with the dog in that pretentious mansion of his.”
Her phone buzzed. Lexi’s name appeared on the tiny screen. She bit her lip, wondering how long she could put off telling her cousin that not only had she been let go, but her canine charge had been packed off to the pound. And by the way, she’d nearly crippled the Falcons’ star pitcher. Fortunately, Lexi didn’t enjoy social media, so with a bit of good fortune, she might not have seen the Toppled by Tippy headline. Yet.
Best to avoid the matter for a while.
Take a walk, Gina, she ordered herself. She reached for her jacket, annoyed to find she’d left it at the home of a certain flinthearted pitcher. Buy yourself another jacket. But that one had been such a nice lemon color, with extra deep pockets and a liner that could be zipped in and out. It was a birthday gift from her mother who had visited and found the San Francisco temperatures inhuman compared with Florida, where the rest of the Palmer clan resided. It was one of her many attempts to persuade Gina to come home and take a job in her father’s office, to be protected and taken care of like her parents had been trying to do since her first interminable hospital stay when she was only minutes old.
She imagined running into Cal again. Her face burned at the memory of what she’d hollered at him. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Chin high, she sailed to the car, calling to Mrs. Filipski as she passed the shop. “I’m going to take back my jacket,” she announced.
Mrs. Filipski looked up from her steaming pot of water, her glasses partially fogged. “From whom?”
“A horrible man.”
“He treat you bad?”
“No. Not me.” Cal, she had to admit, had done nothing to her personally. “He threw out an elderly, overweight female who never did anything but try to please him.”
She waved a slotted spoon. “She’s better off without him. You, too.”
Gina sighed. Mrs. Filipski was not a fan of the male species since her own husband had left her at the Dulles airport fifteen years ago and flown back to Poland, where he’d promptly remarried. Gina had heard about it every day since she’d answered the help wanted ad six months earlier, desperate for a job after the bakery field trip debacle. Still, there were moments when she wondered if Mrs. Filipski might be softening a bit, especially toward Butch the mailman, who seemed to have an insatiable pierogi appetite.
Gina pulled her car from the weed-sprinkled lot behind the shop and drove to Cal’s house. Ed let her in. He must have gotten wind of the disaster because both he and Bobby offered sympathetic smiles as they allowed her inside to retrieve her jacket. The quiet of the house tugged at her heart. There was no skittering of Tippy’s feet on the floor, no excited snuffling or wheezing from the old dog. Gina blinked back tears. Hearing a familiar muttering in the kitchen, she decided to make her final goodbye.
Luz was at the cutting board, preparing a vegetable salad. The woman talked to herself, whacking apart a head of broccoli.
“Hello, Luz. What’s the matter?”
Luz shook her head. “Hello, Gina. It’s the Tweets.”
“The what?”
She pointed the tip of the knife at her cell phone. “The Tweets. Mr. Cal is trending.”
Gina was dumbfounded to discover that Luz was tech savvy. “You Tweet?”
“Just to stay in touch with my sons, but I like to keep tabs on Mr. Cal. Just look what they’re saying about him.”
Gina squinted at the screen. The first Tweet was brutal. #doghater #Falcons star pitcher #CalCrawford dumping #pet at the pound. There was a picture of Cal bending over his Mustang, Tippy in his arms. Gina gasped in horror as she read some of the hundred-odd replies. They were not kind. Gina’s throat closed up. As mad as she was at Cal, she would not wish this kind of vitriol on anyone. She peered again at the picture, throat thick.
Luz continued to rant. “Saying all those things about Cal. People who don’t even know him.”
What a disaster. Gina memorized the details in the photo. Tippy was cradled in Cal’s arms with no inkling that the person she loved was about to discard her. It was the last time Gina would ever see the dog, she knew. Tippy’s little socks, the droopy eyes. Gina’s vision blurred again and she put the phone down, sucking in a breath to compose herself as her mind raced. Maybe she could find another place to rent that would let her take Tippy. But where could she find one for the pittance Mrs. Filipski charged on top of her pierogi duties?
She spotted the empty food bowl and water dish on the floor. With a leaden heart, she was bending to retrieve them when the door swung open and Tippy barreled into the kitchen.
“Tippy!” Gina cried, sinking to the floor and accepting the sloppy lick from the panting dog. Tippy stood expectantly, tail ricocheting back and forth. Gina rubbed the old dog’s sides and shot a look at Luz. “How did she get here?”
Luz shrugged. “I don’t know, but maybe we should do a Tweet to all those hateful people and tell them they’re wrong about Mr. Cal.”
Cal entered. “Don’t bother. They’ve decided I’m a dog hater.”
Gina shot to her feet. “What happened? I thought you took her to the pound.”
He waved a hand and helped himself to a bottle of water from the fridge. Tippy ambled over and sat at Cal’s feet, staring at him. Cal ignored the dog.
“Oh wait,” she said, feeling her stomach sink again. “You saw the lady take your picture and you didn’t want people to know what you were doing, so you brought her back.”
Cal looked at her, brown eyes shining with some emotion she could not decipher. “That’s not what happened, but I know you and the rest of the world are never going to believe that.”
“What did happen then?”
“Never mind. You got what you wanted. Tippy’s here and you can take care of her if you want to. I’ll be leaving next week anyway.”
He turned away.
She was mystified. Something didn’t fit. As much as he deserved to be lambasted by fans for abandoning Tippy, a notion crept into her mind. “Wait a minute.” She took up Luz’s phone and peered at the picture. Something warm bubbled up through her as the pieces clicked into place. A slow grin spread across her face.
“You changed your mind before that lady took the picture, didn’t you?”
He stopped, one hand on the door. “Does it matter? Everyone thinks I’m a killer.”
“Yes, it matters.”
He rounded on her. “Why should it? I’m a pitcher. That’s it. Who cares what kind of a person I am?”
“I do,” she said quietly. “And so do you.”
“You don’t even know me,” he said, voice low.
There was a stream of loneliness, of grief, trickling under his words. She wanted to take his hand, to put her arms around him and let him rest his battered face against her shoulder. “I know you changed your mind about Tippy. You couldn’t do it; you couldn’t leave her there at the pound.”
“How do you know that?”
Gina pointed to the cell phone screen. “The sock. Tippy’s yellow sock. In the picture it’s at the top of the stairs. You turned around and came back to the car and that’s when the woman got your picture. You weren’t taking her out of the car, you were putting her back in.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t see what difference it makes why I did it.”
She couldn’t resist. She walked to him, raised herself up on tiptoe, and placed a gentle kiss on his unbruised cheek. The stubble on his chin tickled her lips, the warmth of his body lending some heat to hers. He tensed, but he did not retreat. Her palm rested on his cheek.
“It makes all the difference in the world,” she said.
He sighed, so low and soft that she almost didn’t hear it as he pulled out of reach. “Yeah. Well, anyway. Uh, could you still take care of the dog? I mean, if you’ve decided I’m not a heartless eg
omaniac?”
After she’d nearly killed him and had a full-on hissy fit in his living room, she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “I would be thrilled to be Tippy’s dog sitter.” She rubbed Tippy’s ears, sending the dog into a twitching pile of pleasure.
Luz offered a plate of immaculately arranged fruit. “You should eat, Mr. Cal. You haven’t had a morsel in your stomach since last night. Look, there’s a nice mango.”
He stared at the plate. “Not hungry right now, Luz. Thanks, though. I’ll eat it later, I promise.”
“I’m going to take Tippy for a walk,” Gina said. “Do you… would you like to come?”
Cal looked as though she’d suggested a trip to the gulag. “Got to call the lawyer about my mother’s estate. You two have a nice time.”
He left.
Luz looked forlornly at the fruit plate she’d labored over. “No breakfast. Again.” She sighed. “What am I going to do with Mr. Cal?”
Gina stared in the direction Cal had taken.
Who cares what kind of man I am? The words spoke of loneliness and loss.
She was overjoyed to be tending to Tippy, but who, she wondered, would take care of Cal?
Five
I want to get on the mound.” Cal shoved his hands in his pockets. The warehouse where he and the other pitchers did some offseason training was largely empty, except for some guys grunting through deadlifts and sprints on the treadmill. It was always a tricky balance for Cal in the offseason between the need to rest and rebuild his arm and the desire to throw every chance he got. This offseason was far worse for some reason. “I need some pitching time.”
Pete took off his baseball cap, his scalp now covered by only the barest patch of stubble. When had he lost the puff of red hair that earned him all manner of teasing?
Cal met Pete for the first time when he started in the minors, a wet-behind-the-ears nineteen-year-old with a rifle of an arm and a heart shot to pieces. The old pitching coach had seen Cal at his finest, complete master of the 100-mile-an-hour fastball, and his most humble, repeatedly calling home his first season in the League, insisting to his mother that baseball was a mistake and declaring he was taking the next bus home. Pete became his father, his mentor, his nemesis, and his compass. Not true north, though. That spot was held by his mother. True north would always be Meg Crawford. His chest tightened.
“Are you listening to me?”
Cal blinked. “Yes. What?”
“I said you’re not setting foot on that mound again until spring training and furthermore, you’re not doing any aerobic work for another three, count them, thrreeeeeee days.”
“I’m… ”
Pete waved his hands as if he was swatting flies. “I know. Perfectly fine, hale and hearty, but guess what, Mr. Big Shot, you don’t happen to have a medical degree, do you, last I checked?”
Cal huffed.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so. With the amount we pay these team doctors, we might as well listen to them once in a while, shouldn’t we? Skipper seems to think so anyway.”
Coach Bruce—Skipper—would expect him to follow orders, but maybe Cal could convince him. “I’m feeling a hundred percent. I’ll talk to Skipper.”
“You’ve got something else to do.” Pete sighed, the wrinkles around his eyes softening. “You’ve got time. Get it done, Cal.”
Cal didn’t have to ask what Pete meant. “Busy. I’ll have someone else do it.”
“No, you won’t. You’ve got to go get the papers the lawyers need, box up the place if you’re going to sell it. It’s gonna hurt, but you can’t move on with your life pretending she’s not gone.”
“I know she’s gone,” he snapped. “I’m not a child.”
“Yeah, you’re a man, but you got a mom-sized hole.” Pete put a calloused fingertip on Cal’s chest. “Right here.”
Cal looked at the ground.
Pete cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to tell you that our people, you know, those mental health people, will talk to you, if you want.”
“If it’s not about pitching, I’m not talking.”
“I know. Figured I’d say it anyways.” He folded his arms. “Skipper wanted me to mention it.”
Cal’s head came up then. “Why? He’s worried about my performance? I know the end of the season was bad, right before… ” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m getting it turned around. That’s why I got to go back on the mound.”
“Uh uh.” The look Pete fired off was one Cal had seen many times before. The gray eyes were determined, immovable. Pete was putting his foot down. “You’ve got to do it, face it, take the pain and use it to get you where you want to go.”
Cal knew about using pain, playing through it, in spite of it. That he could do. “It doesn’t hurt, like when I was a kid with Dad.” Cal scuffed a toe in the dirt. “Supposed to hurt, isn’t it?”
Pete blew out a breath. “Not sure, but maybe it’s like when the ball takes a hop and nails you when you’re running. You keep running and feel the hurt later.”
“Then I don’t want to stop running,” he mumbled.
Pete’s hard face softened, the creases around his mouth gentling. “God’s stopped your running for now, kid. He’s calling the plays and He wants you to deal, so that’s what you’re gonna have to do. In a few weeks, we’ll play some ball.”
God had stopped his running? And taken his mom? Was there anything left to be stripped away? A cold numbness seeped through him. Pitching. It was all Cal had left, and he would die before he let God take that away too.
Pete clapped him on the back. “Take Gina and Tippy with you to the ranch.”
Cal started. “Why would I do that?”
“Bunch of Tippy’s dog stuff there. Gina will know what to do with it.”
Take the dog and the pet sitter? For a moment, he felt the warmth of her palm on his cheek, her gaze that made something inside him go sideways. He shook it off, trudging out of the warehouse and driving back. Not wanting to face Luz and the agonizing prospect of a day with no baseball, he did not hurry. On the way the plan came together. He’d drive to Six Peaks, box up his mother’s belongings, find the papers the lawyers were asking for, and be back by the day after next. The job needed to be done quickly and efficiently, without the confusing presence of Gina and Tippy.
Then it would be done and his mind would be fully on his game.
With a new spirit of purpose, he eased up the driveway to the house. As he passed the security gate, he noticed a van parked across the street. The guy behind the wheel was busy on his phone, cap pulled down over his eyes. He paid no attention as Cal went by.
Ed waved him through, chuckling.
“What’s so funny, Ed?”
He jerked a thumb to the front lawn. “Most entertainment I’ve had in all my days working for you, sir. ’Cept of course the championship game year before last when you pitched a no-hitter.”
Cal peered through the wrought iron fence. He saw a flash of color, the blurry glimpse of a skirt. He parked quickly and made his way to the lawn.
Gina knelt on the grass, a tennis ball in her hands. Tippy lay down across from her. Both were staring so intently at each other that they did not notice Cal’s approach.
“Okay, Tippy,” Gina said, rubbing the ball as if she was polishing a diamond. “It’s the bottom of the tenth, there’s three outs already and it’s all up to you. You’ve got to get the ball and run to home, remember? Ready?”
Tippy stood, tense with concentration.
“Fetch,” Gina hollered tossing the ball onto the grass a few feet behind Tippy.
The dog leaped excitedly, circled twice, and sat down again in precisely the same spot.
Gina collapsed cross-legged onto the grass.
Cal could not hold back. He exploded into laughter. Gina leapt to her feet and Tippy waddled over, tail wagging.
Gina folded her arms. “What is so amusing, Mr. Crawford?”
It took several more breaths before he wa
s able to answer. “You know nothing about baseball.”
“So? I’m not here to be your coach.”
“And you’re not making much progress coaching Tippy either.” He wiped his eyes. “That was hilarious.”
“It will take some time, that’s all. She’s a rookie at fetching.” She brushed off her hands. “How was your day?”
The question surprised him. People asked about his performance, his training, but it had been a long while since anyone asked about his day. Something about it pleased him.
“Okay. Yours?”
“Pretty great. We went to the park and there was a man there who said Tippy had potential. As a matter of fact, the man said he went to college with you.”
“Yeah?” The muscles in Cal’s stomach tightened. “What’s his name?”
She frowned, freckled nose squinching in thought. “Hmmm. I don’t think he said.”
He tried to keep his voice light.
“What’d he look like?”
“Tall, red hair… ”
Now his stomach was good and truly clenched.
“You don’t look happy. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. What did you say to him?”
“I just told him I worked for you. He has two dogs of his own.”
Raised voices drew his attention. Ed was out of his guard station shack, striding to the front sidewalk fence where the van guy was now standing, camera pressed between the wrought iron bars.
“Get out of here before I call the cops,” Ed shouted.
“Easy dude,” the man said. “Cal and I are friends.” He took off his cap and waved at Cal. “Hey, Cal. Talked to your girl this afternoon.” He snapped another picture.
Cal took Gina by the arm. “Into the house.”
Gina gaped. “That’s the man I met in the park.”
“Now, Gina,” Cal commanded.
The guy got off one more picture before Ed reached him. Cal did not miss the guy’s sly grin as he hustled Gina and Tippy into the house.
Gina sat on the sofa, mind whirling. “I don’t understand what just happened.”
Cal was pacing, muttering to himself as he dialed his phone.
