Come Back to the Ballpark, Maisy Gray

by Cynthia Tennent

  ***

  Maisy yanked the sucker by the head. It broke in half. Bracing her feet, she crouched and dug her fingers deep into the base of the plant. She tugged and twisted until the full root ball came loose in her hands.

  “Gotcha!”

  After throwing the monster weed over her shoulder, she reached for another.

  “You used to hate doing that when you were little.”

  Maisy tried not to grimace at the sight of her mother making the arduous journey across the grass toward her. She should be used to seeing her mother’s hands clutching the forearm crutches and the jerky motion of her shifting her weight as she walked.

  She wiped her damp forehead with the back of her wrist. “Once a farm girl always a farm girl, right, Mom?”

  Andrea Gray squinted in the sunlight. “I think there’s more to the way you’re tearing through the perennial garden than some kind of ingrained farm instinct. Since school has ended, you’ve mowed the lawn four times, pruned the lilac bushes all the way around the house, mucked out the barn, and laid a fresh layer of hay across the stable floor.”

  “All that needed doing.”

  “It’s barely been three weeks. Honey, we pay Henry to do all that. He’s starting to get worried about his job security.”

  Maisy spotted a milkweed by the barn. She made her way toward her prey, securing her leather gloves between her fingers to avoid injury to her hand. “Henry’s getting old. I enjoy the physical labor. Sitting in the classroom made me too soft this year.”

  “Funny. I’ve never heard a fourth-grade teacher say they sit too much.” Andrea leaned forward on her crutches and watched Maisy as she wrestled the milkweed from the earth.

  When she finished, Maisy held the giant weed above her head. “Actually, that was far more satisfying than the last kickboxing class I took.”

  Andrea grimaced. “I’m tired. Come sit down with me in the shade.”

  Maisy threw off her gloves and adjusted her step to match her mom’s. She was famous for running before she could walk, and slow was a pace that took Maisy time to get used to. Now the measured stride was as much a part of their relationship as the plain talk about Mom’s diagnosis. Primary progressive multiple sclerosis.

  When they reached the steps, Andrea grasped the rail and Maisy’s elbow as she climbed each tread. Maisy held the porch swing steady and her mother sank into it.

  “Let me get you a lemonade or a glass of water, Mom.”

  Andrea waved her away. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, I’m thirsty and I have to wash my hands, so I’ll bring you back something—”

  Her mother reached for her hand. “You had gloves on. Your hands look fine.”

  “I can just—”

  “Margaret Mary, stop!” Andrea didn’t use her daughter’s full name very often. Maisy knew she was tired of the hide-and-seek game she had been playing around the house to avoid the inevitable discussion. Her parents’ farm might be in the country, but they were well within reach of the outside world and the Turbos’ latest gossip. She bit her lip and sat down next to her mother.

  Andrea put her hand on Maisy’s knee and squeezed. “Sometimes you can be so difficult to pin down. When you were little, I used to put you in a chair and tie you to the back with my sweater when I wanted to talk to you. Remember?”

  “Yes. I told you that was considered child abuse and I was going to tell my teacher.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “You told me to go ahead. My teacher would probably think it was a good idea and do the same.”

  Andrea laughed. “And now you’re a teacher. Oh, Lord, irony is a beautiful thing.”

  Maisy kicked the ground and the swing started to move slowly back and forth. “I still have trouble staying still…”

  “Why do you think I made your dad build a porch swing? It was the only place you could sit and move at the same time.”

  Maisy grunted. Maybe she should build one in her classroom. She kicked the porch floor a second time to keep the swing rocking at a steady pace.

  “Since the summer started, you have worn yourself out more than usual. Not just the outside chores but inside, too. You’ve been working on that fundraiser for school supplies and that’s not for two months.”

  “That’s our biggest fundraiser. Besides, I have trouble staying still—as you just pointed out.”

  “Uh-huh.” The tone of Andrea’s voice made it clear she didn’t completely believe that. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I do read the paper. And your brother and father still love sports talk radio over the news.”

  Maisy stiffened. “If you think that silly story about the Turbos and good luck is bothering me, you’re wrong. I doubt anyone out here in Comeback even cares.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Why would anyone even link me to Kevin’s pitching and some stupid superstition in the first place? I mean, who thinks of that stuff?”

  “I don’t know, honey. People are weird when it comes to their sports teams. Your dad and I don’t like how you’ve been dragged into it.”

  Kevin had practically grown up in their household. He had spent more dinners at Maisy’s house than his own mother ever knew. In fact, there was a time when he’d put on quite a bit of weight because he often ate a meal with his mom and then ran over to catch a second—and more substantial—dinner with the Grays. Maisy’s parents had been nice to Kevin. But when it came to their daughter’s relationship with him, both her parents were reserved. After Kevin had dumped her, they’d done an old-fashioned shunning. It was nice to know her family had her back. Always.

  Maisy kicked the porch harder. “John Mackenzie stopped me at the grocery store the other day and asked if I was going to a game anytime soon. He offered to pay for my ticket. Even the mailman made a comment. He saw me saddling up Faygo in the barn and left his truck just to talk to me. He couldn’t understand why I wasn’t interested in going to another game.”

  Andrea sighed. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but they were asking about it at the library board meeting, too.”

  Maisy jumped off the swing. A breeze was picking up and the wind chimes were having an uprising. She matched their agitation and paced the porch, ignoring the way the wind whipped her hair across her face. “I’ve avoided him for over three years. I didn’t even know he was pitching. If our section hadn’t won the donut race, no one would have known I was there.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Seriously, I hardly even think about Kevin anymore.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “And when I do, it’s only when I think about all the time I wasted with him.”

  “Then forget—”

  “You think I’m overreacting?” Maisy stopped pacing and stared at her mother.

  Her mother shook her head and the corner of her mouth quivered.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I think you need to find a healthy way to move on from this. Wearing yourself out around the farm isn’t going to solve anything.”

  Maisy whacked the chimes, adding to the cacophony on the porch. “That doesn’t help at all.”

  Andrea blinked slowly. It sucked when her mom gave her that look. Mom was like the wise fairy godmother who knew how the story ended but refused to give her a clue.

  Maisy stared out at the fields beyond the house. The corn wasn’t more than knee high. The sun was lower on the horizon. Her father would be home from his rounds at the hospital soon.

  “I wasted half my life helping him.” Since the age of fourteen, when she had put down her own baseball mitt and focused on helping Kevin achieve his dream, her life had revolved around baseball. She had been equal parts coach, girlfriend, and mother to a man-child
who had never appreciated her.

  “You did love the sport. It wasn’t just about Kev—”

  But Maisy wasn’t listening. “I was going to be a doctor, remember?”

  “Well, you were only seven when you had that dream. And you make a great teacher. I’m so proud of your accompl—”

  “I sacrificed everything for Kevin. I swear, the next man in my life better need absolutely nothing from me. No support, no cheering, no ego-stroking, nothing.”

  Andrea raised her hands and unleashed a full smile. “Praise the Lord. Are you saying you will finally make time to date again?”

  “No!”

  A picture of her co-conspirator at Plato’s Pub the night of the no-hitter came to mind. If she were ready, which she wasn’t, he would be the kind of man she would date. Someone who didn’t like baseball, either. Someone who didn’t need anything at all from her but a channel controller.

  “Dating doesn’t have to be about getting married. Just let yourself meet new people, honey.”

  “I meet new people all the time.”

  “Oh?” Skepticism laced Andrea’s voice.

  “Yes. I met someone just a couple of weeks ago. At a bar.”

  Her mother’s mouth opened and her eyes grew wide in exaggerated shock. “A bar! How did you end up there?”

  “Heather took me.”

  “I always loved that woman,” her mother said with a sigh. “So, are you going to see him again?”

  Maisy half sat on the porch rail. “Mom, just stop. A woman doesn’t need a man to have a fulfilling life. We’re not just cheerleaders who stand on the sidelines looking pretty. We’re strong now. Times have changed.”

  Andrea sent her a measured look and did the slow blink again. “I guess my generation had it wrong. We burned bras and let hair grow on our legs to celebrate our freedom, while yours uses push-up bras and body waxing for…Why again?”

  Busted. Mom was the strongest woman Maisy knew. Despite her weakening body. She had been a high school athlete before Title Nine, a marathon runner before it was cool, and a physical therapist who worked tirelessly to get her patients moving again. Ironic.

  Andrea brushed a blade of grass off the empty seat next to her. “I give up. If you’re going to be stubborn, then the least you can do is transfer your energy into the kitchen. You know how your father loves homemade bread.”

  Maisy raised an eyebrow. “I get to blast my music then.”

  Andrea sighed. “I don’t care as long as you keep the lyrics clean…like Led Zeppelin.”

  Maisy helped her mother up and into the house, where she retreated to her room for a midafternoon rest, which she needed more and more these days. Instead of blasting her music, Maisy put on headphones and worried about the future as she measured flour.

  The future was something Maisy had first learned to dread as a sophomore at IU. That was when her parents had sat Maisy and her brother down to explain Andrea’s disease. Because he was a doctor, her dad believed in full disclosure. He’d held nothing back in the discussion. The thought of her active, energetic mother suffering the slow loss of her motor and neurological skills broke Maisy’s heart.

  When she returned to school, she’d struggled to hold in her emotions in front of Kevin. He had been having an exceptional year on the baseball field. Scouts were calling him almost every day. She’d tried to be supportive, but her mind was elsewhere. On one particularly bad afternoon, when she had made the mistake of looking up more information about PPMS online, she’d skipped one of his play-off games. He’d come to her dorm room afterward, to find her curled up in her bed, crying into her soggy pillow.

  “You have to stop, Maisy. It will be years before anything really happens to your mom. But I need you now.”

  She sat straight up in bed. “Are you complaining because I’m upset about my mom?”

  “I just lost a big game. I know you’re sad, but seeing you cry like this brings me down even further, baby.”

  Stunned, she’d lain back down facing the wall. The next day, she’d made a decision. “Maybe we should take a break, Kevin.”

  It had lasted three weeks. During that time, she’d gone home and was told in no uncertain terms by both her parents that she was not allowed to quit school to take care of her mother. One day in early October, Kevin had caught her after class to tell her the Chicago White Sox had invited him to spring training. It was hard not to get caught up in his excitement. Before she’d known it, they were back together.

  And there was the problem.

  Maisy had always thought she took after her mother. Athletic. Educated. Strong. It turned out she was a complete pushover.

  She punched the dough, admitting to herself that she was far madder at herself than she could ever be at Kevin Halderman.

  ***

  Sam had five minutes to prepare for his next meeting with two television sponsors who were competing to be the seventh-inning stretch headliners. He could pit them against each other to get the highest bid. But the products were farm equipment and the maker of a sports drink called Whammo. Sam was going to convince them to share the seventh-inning slot and run a commercial on the jumbotron that would benefit them both. The pitch featured a farmer on a tractor taking a break in the field with a sports drink. It could double the income from the screen time and help keep the Turbos’ profit churning in the right direction.

  Ever aware of product placement, Sam had set a bottle of Whammo on his desk. He couldn’t stand the stuff, but the sponsor would be impressed if he saw Sam drinking it. Opening the top, he poured half the drink in the plastic-lined trash can under his desk.

  Someone cleared their throat. Sam jerked toward the door.

  “Putting out fires in the trash can, son?” asked Charlie Zumaeta in a booming voice that had the ability to carry all the way to the locker room four floors below.

  Instead of explaining why he was emptying a can of Whammo in the trash, Sam stood up and shook Charlie’s hand. The older man sawed Sam’s hand so hard Sam was tempted to peek at his Fitbit to see if it had extra mileage.

  “I didn’t know you were stopping by the office, Mr. Zumaeta.”

  From day one, Charlie had suggested that Sam call him Mr. Zumaeta instead of “Zoom” like everybody else did. Sam would have no problem with that if he respected Zoom more.

  “Thought I would check around and see who was loafing off, so I could give them a piece of my mind,” Zoom only half joked.

  Sam followed his gaze to his desk. Three newspapers and a protein bar lay across a pile of folders he’d brought back from his meeting earlier this morning. The one that had run on for an extra two hours. They had laid off the director of sales a month ago. To save money, Sam was taking on part of the man’s responsibilities. Sam thought about explaining his cluttered desk and the food but then decided to forget it. He was too old to be told to clean his room.

  “Have a seat.” Sam offered Zoom a chair. He might stay for five minutes. He might stay for two hours. If he stuck around, at least the sponsors would feel a sense of honor at meeting the Donut King himself.

  Zoom waved off the chair. “I’ve been thinking about the situation. Of course, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Sam searched his memory. On Monday Zoom had discussed creating mini baseball donut holes, making the ground staff uniforms purple, and changing the mustard vendor. Sam eyed the protein bar. This conversation would be so much easier if he had more food in his system.

  “Son, who do you trust the most in this organization?”

  Sam made a fist and cupped it in his palm, like he used to when he waited for his pitcher to wind up and deliver. It was a trick question for sure.

  “I trust a lot of people in the organization. If I didn’t, I’d fire them,” Sam said.

  “That’s how I feel,” Zoom said.

  A red-hot f
ireball started to sink in his chest. So, this was it. He was about to get sacked. He had a contract, but Zoom could buy him out at the end of the season.

  “Let me ask you then, if one of my stores was selling princess donuts with blue icing instead of pink icing, don’t you think I should know about it?”

  Sam swallowed and wondered how icing had anything to do with being terminated. He sat down behind his desk and took a sip of Whammo and, too late, remembered why he hated the stuff. It tasted like melted gummy bears.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this gal who lit Halderman’s balls on fire?”

  Sam coughed, spilling Whammo all over his tie. He grabbed an old scouting report and used it as a napkin to blot the mess.

  “I thought I trusted you to tell me if someone was making St. Patrick’s Day donuts in June!”

  It took Sam a moment to make the link between St. Patrick’s Day and Maisy Gray. “Sir, this stuff about luck is just superstitious gossip. I didn’t think you’d be interested—”

  “My star pitcher pitches his best game in years and you don’t think I want to know why?”

  “It’s just the media hyping it up. Halderman’s performance had nothing to do with her.” Sam tried not to think about Tristan’s statistics.

  Zoom put both hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I want that woman back.” The way he said it made Maisy Gray sound like his old lover.

  Instead of pointing out that Maisy Gray was a free agent, Sam argued. “Surely you don’t mean to buy into this myth about Maisy Gray being good luck to Kevin.”

  “Of course I do. And so do the fans. Did you see those signs last night? I thought you would have handled this by now.” Sam had been hoping things would die down. Last night’s upper deck proved he had been wrong.

  Voices down the hallway reached his ears. His sponsors. Suddenly the complication of making two seemingly unrelated advertisers work together seemed as easy as greasing a fine-tuned engine.

  “This situation needs to be handled by someone we can rely on one hundred percent,” Zoom said.

  Sam rose from his chair. “This situation is a person. And from what I could tell—” He stopped himself. No need to explain the scene at Plato’s and the mutual aversion he and Maisy had to her ex-fiancé’s image on TV. “I mean, from her history, it is highly unlikely that she is going to feel good about coming back to watch Kevin Halderman play.”