by Wendy Wax
“My kids graduated from Walden, too,” Meena says. “Judith and I moved into River Forge right around the same time. My son, Justin, lives in Midtown. Julie is in Charleston.” I listen as they talk and tease each other. Meena has the bigger personality, but Judith’s got a pretty wicked sense of humor when she lets it loose.
The game begins and . . . as much as I love baseball, the past runs through my head. All the bleachers in all the places where I cheered my heart out. First for my brothers and then for Josh.
Even my chosen sport of cheerleading was more about urging others on to victory than competition. But I guess that makes me a natural for representing athletes, right? All I need is to develop the killer instinct that agents are supposed to have and that I’m really hoping is hiding inside me, waiting to be tapped.
The first few innings fly by. We’re playing the Marlins, and our guys are hitting the crap out of their starting pitcher. In the third inning we’re up four to zero. In the fifth, even after a pitching change, it’s six to one. I keep my eye on the game as I open my program and begin to flip through it.
My breath catches when I reach the roster. There’s Josh’s headshot. Clean-shaven. Earnest smile. Official team hat on his head. He’s number 45, just like he was all through Little League and high school and college, one up from his idol Hank Aaron. R/R 6’2” 210lb. There he is in black and white. Suddenly, it’s completely real. I tell myself to stay calm. That I’m totally okay. But I’m dragging air into my lungs a little loudly. Braves shortstop Dansby Swanson, another hometown boy and former number one draft pick whom Josh used to play against in high school, hits a homer at the end of the sixth inning. We’re up seven to one.
“You okay?” Chaz asks.
I look into his face. He’s square jawed, and he’s got really nice blue eyes. There’s an air of calm about him that has to soothe the people he is sent to save, just as it’s soothing me.
“Yeah.” I nod to reinforce the fact. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” He peers into my eyes, double-checking. “Because it looks like they’re warming him up in the bullpen right now.”
I look up at the scoreboard. It’s the top of the seventh inning. Then I hear this roar from the crowd. Josh, my Josh, is on the field and jogging toward the pitcher’s mound. Tyler Flowers runs out to meet him and hands him the baseball before jogging back to home plate.
Josh digs at the mound with his left toe. Then he jiggles the ball lightly in his hand. Getting its feel. Relaxing his hand around it. As if it’s an egg. Getting his breathing under control. I know every habit, every move he’ll make before it happens.
Flowers crouches behind the plate. Josh goes into his windup. Hurls a few warm-up pitches right over the strike zone. Not too fast. Not much movement. Just confirming that he’s ready.
The umpire signals the batter to step in. Josh stares at Flowers. Nods that he’s got the signal. My heart beats so fast in my chest that I’m afraid Chaz will hear it. And then he sends a fastball flying into Flowers’s mitt at 99 mph. The batter swings, but he’s way too late. The crowd goes wild.
The second pitch is another fastball. This time it’s low in the strike zone, and the batter doesn’t even go for it. “Strike two!” Another roar when the speed of the pitch registers on the scoreboard. 100 mph!
“Wow!” Chaz shakes his head in admiration. Every team has its special flamethrower, but not many of them hit 100 mph or more.
Tears form in my eyes. My chest feels so full I’m afraid it’s going to burst. People chant Josh’s name. A couple of guys in the row in front of us are debating whether the catcher will call for an off-speed pitch. Maybe a slider. But I know what’s coming. Even if the batter doesn’t. The final strike roars in like a hurricane. 101 mph.
I cry full out while he sits down three batters in a row, then jogs off the field, where Flowers pounds him on the back. The crowd shouts his name. He faces six more batters, ultimately sitting down their entire lineup. No hits. No walks. The whole team surges out of the dugout and wraps itself around him.
This will go down in the record books. This is as good as it gets. This is exactly what we dreamed of but never really expected.
It’s the most exquisitely beautiful and achingly painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
I can hardly breathe as the crowd goes crazy. Embracing the people around them. Pounding one another on the back. Shouting with happiness.
Here, in the midst of strangers who are unexpectedly turning into friends, the tears slide down my cheeks unchecked. They stain my face and soak my T-shirt. I look around, take in the mass euphoria. I’m not the only one smiling and laughing and hugging. But I am the only one crying.
Jazmine
The celebration in the agency suite is still raging when Angela and I make our way to the door to leave. Larry Carpenter is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. And possibly the drunkest. Rich Hanson has been matching him drink for drink but barely looks buzzed. Ever since our outing to the Bookers, we aren’t exactly what I would call simpatico, but he’s not as combative. Or maybe seeing his softer side has made me a little less knee-jerk.
“Where are you running off to?” he asks.
“Meeting up with some friends.” In the past, I would have tweaked him about not even knowing what friends are, but our visit with Isaiah and his aunt has proven otherwise.
“Ah, a secret assignation at an undisclosed location.” He arches an eyebrow, but there’s a flash of something in his eyes that doesn’t quite match his flippant tone.
“We’re having margaritas at Superica,” Angela says for some reason. Then she adds, “With friends from book club.”
“Ah, literary ladies who like baseball and margaritas. How fascinating. I’d give a lot to be a fly on that wall . . .”
There’s the Rich Hanson I know and don’t love. Is it odd that I’m almost relieved to see that version of him?
“Have fun.”
“Okay, that was weird,” I say as we exit the suite and make our way to the Battery, which is jam-packed with happy Braves fans.
“No, that was a man who’s interested in you,” Angela says, sidestepping a family that stops suddenly and looping her arm through mine.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap while we wind through the crowd past overflowing restaurants and bars and shops. I’m about to add that Rich Hanson isn’t interested in anyone but himself when the memory of Aunt Yvonne’s iced tea and cookies raises its head and compels me to keep silent.
Superica is the opposite of silent. It’s a pulsing, buzzing beehive of activity. We find the others already seated at a large round table not far from the bar. Pitchers of margaritas, baskets of chips and salsa, and various colors of queso dot the table. This is what people mean when they talk about perfect timing.
My eyes immediately go to Erin, who’s sandwiched between Judith and Chaz, and although I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, I’m relieved to see her smiling.
Phoebe and Wesley are there with Carlotta beside them. I almost don’t recognize Dorothy in the Braves T-shirt and baseball cap, but she and Sara are smiling, too. Annell is Annell. Unflappable. Smiling in welcome as she scoots over to make room.
Annell and Meena fill glasses, then pass them around.
“He had a great outing, didn’t he?” I say, leaning toward Erin.
“It was absolutely crazy,” she says. Her smudged eyeliner hints at tears, but however many she may have shed, they’re gone now. “It’s what he worked so hard for. I was . . . I’m glad.” Sincerity and wonder ring in her voice. “It was incredible to see him light up the crowd like that.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I raise my glass in Erin’s direction.
“To the Braves!” We clink those nearest us and take happy gulps.
“To us! To . . . Boy, we really do need a name, don’t we?” Annell muses. But in a conte
nt “it’ll happen when it happens” kind of way.
We shrug and clink and take another gulp.
“Well, it would make toasting easier,” Dorothy says in that unexpectedly droll tone that always surprises.
We toast a lot of things. And grin at even more. I let go in a way I never could or would at an agency function. “To Erin! Who’s made of strong stuff and is already making Louise proud.”
Erin blushes with pleasure.
“And who figured out how to move on when love didn’t go as planned!” Carlotta adds. “You go, girl!”
We finish our margaritas in Erin’s honor. Then we refill our glasses. With twelve of us shoehorned around a table for ten, we have no shortage of things to drink to.
We toast with verve and, I like to think, panache. We are at that point where everything seems deep and meaningful. So we laugh and pontificate. On the surface, a stranger would probably wonder what we’re doing together. We don’t look as if we should have anything in common. But I realize that although the people and the food and drink were fancier in the agency suite and lots of other places where I do business, there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now.
The empty margarita pitchers disappear. Before I can register their loss, twelve shot glasses filled with tequila appear, along with a large saltshaker and a plate of quartered limes.
“From the gentleman.” The waitress sweeps a hand toward the other side of the room, then looks surprised when she doesn’t see whomever she was looking for. “Oops. All I can say is you have two rounds on the house.”
Everyone preens just a little—Chaz and Wesley included—but none of us see anyone who’s smiling or trying to take credit. No one approaches our table.
“Ah, well.” Angela holds hers aloft. “It’s been a while since someone I didn’t know bought me shots. I say we make the most of it.”
“Arriba!” We lift our shot glasses. Then the bravest of us lick salt from our hand, down the shot, slam the empty glass down, and suck on the lime. The rest of the table follows suit. There’s a brief, possibly stunned silence.
“Holy shit!” Chaz gives his head a hard shake. “I am clearly out of practice.”
Some at the table look lost in thought. Some just look lost.
The second round of shots arrives on the heels of the first. We contemplate one another. “Nobody drove here, did they?” Chaz asks.
Everyone shakes their head. But carefully. The next round goes down more slowly, with breaks for water and chips.
The surrounding noise recedes, as if someone packed a layer of cotton balls between our table and the rest of the room. My thoughts slow. It takes me a moment to realize that a conversation is taking place. And that it’s Sara who’s speaking.
“In a way, you’re lucky Josh didn’t wait until you’d been married for a decade before he let you down,” she says to Erin. “Marriage is not what it’s cracked up to be. And neither are men.” She motions vaguely toward Chaz and Wesley. “Sorry. Present company expected. Um, excepted.”
We gape at Sara, who is generally the quietest and least argumentative among us.
“Are you . . .” Phoebe looks at Sara in distress. “Is everything okay?”
“No. It’s not. Everything is abominable, abhorrent, atrocious, awful. And that’s just the a’s.” She looks at her mother-in-law. “Do you wanna tell ’em, Dot, or shall I?”
Everyone but Sara blinks at the “Dot.” Including Dorothy.
“Okay. I’ll go ahead and hannel it then,” Sara continues. “I am divorcing Mitchell. Because he is a liar and a cheat. And . . .”
“I think that’s enough, don’t you, Sara?” Dorothy interrupts.
“Oh, definitely. It’s way more than enough. But there’s a whole lot more! And I have a confession to make.” She turns to Judith. “I’m sorry your husband died. I really am. But I’m jealous, too. Because you stayed married for so long, and you got to raise two children. I bet you didn’t find out your husband had secret children with another woman. And I bet he didn’t steal his mother’s house right out from under her, either. Who does that kind of shit?”
At first, I think I’ve misheard. I can tell everyone’s thinking that. Because Sara is the last person you’d expect to share such private information.
“How could you?” Dorothy gasps, her face so wretched there’s no real room for doubt.
“Oh, Sara. I’m so sorry,” Judith says. “But if you want to know the truth . . .” She doesn’t pause long enough for anyone to tell her that we don’t want to hear anything else that’s painful. “Just because a marriage lasts a long time doesn’t mean it’s a good one. I was seriously considering divorcing Nate when he died. I mean literally. While he was dying. Or possibly already dead.”
I’m not the only one whose mouth gapes open at this. Shock suffuses every face at the table, including Judith’s. I want to applaud her for being brave enough to share something this big, even as I feel us being swept into the unchartered territory of one another’s lives.
Angela expels a big rush of air, and suddenly I’m afraid that the one person—other than my parents and sister—that I’ve always assumed is happy is going to confess that she isn’t. I hold up my hand, ready to beg her not to speak, when she says, “No marriage is perfect all the time. I’ve never considered divorce—not for more than a minute or two, anyway. But no matter how much you love someone, occasionally murder looks extremely attractive.”
Wesley and Phoebe nod somberly, their faces, their Braves jerseys, and the angle of their Braves caps set at identical angles. “He . . . she . . . sometimes is lucky to be alive,” the twins say, each pointing at the other.
Judith’s face turns white. Meena reaches out and squeezes Judith’s hand.
“Wishing someone dead—even for a split second—doesn’t make it so. And I know this from personal experience,” Meena adds. “If it did, there’d be a lot more women in jail for murder. Or appearing on Snapped!”
“Wow.” Chaz straightens and looks around the table. “Women sure do have unexpected depths.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Carlotta adds sagely. “Women are like icebergs. We only let you see the very tip of us.”
We’re all drinking water now, but once tongues are loosened, it’s hard to tighten them back up.
“I was married right out of college,” Annell admits in a stunning spray of words. “It barely lasted a year.”
We contemplate one another almost warily. But there is no censure, no rush to judgment. For the first time, I ask myself why I’ve been so guarded—sharing the facts of my loss but not the pain—when this support has always been there for the taking? I realize that my reticence, my constant need to show strength, has been more wall than protective shell.
And suddenly I’m spilling my truths, too. “A lot of you know that I lost my fiancé fourteen years ago. What you may not know is that I’m only just now starting to date again. Mostly because my sister didn’t give me a choice. And frankly, nothing that’s been said here tonight makes me want to go on another date ever again.” I look around the table. “You people are scaring the you-know-what out of me. And probably Erin, too.”
“Oh, don’t be a baby,” Angela scolds. “It’s time you get back out into the world and give men a chance.” A smile blooms on her face. “But you know what this reminds me of? Did you all ever see that movie Almost Famous, where the rock band thinks their plane is going down and they start telling one another what they really think and confessing all the horrible things they’ve done. Including sleeping with one another’s wives?”
“Oh yeah!” Wesley laughs. “And then the plane levels out and . . .”
“. . . they’re all just left looking at each other,” Phoebe finishes as we do exactly that.
The silence is brief.
“Well, I know we’ve always tried to be there for
one another, but tonight marks the move into new, previously unexplored terrain,” Annell says carefully. “And . . . I’m glad we feel comfortable enough to share the things we have.”
“So am I,” Sara adds. Dorothy still doesn’t look all that comfortable, but her nod is firm.
“Me, too,” Wesley and Phoebe say in unison.
Meena holds up Judith’s arm as if she’s just won a boxing match. Which in my book she definitely has.
Erin pumps a fist. Angela and I follow suit, while Carlotta and Chaz begin a chant of “woot-woot.”
“So, in keeping with the importance of the things we’ve shared tonight,” Annell continues solemnly, “let’s all raise our hands just as enthusiastically as we raised our glasses and swear that what’s said at book club—or any gathering of book club members, especially those that include alcohol—stays at book club.”
We raise our hands and do so solemnly swear. Out of the corner of one eye, I see a man who looks a lot like Rich Hanson ducking out of the way as if attempting to not be seen.
Twenty-Six
Erin
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only member of book club who wakes the next day with a hangover. I lie in bed for a while, taking stock and listening to the creak of wood floors and the faint sound of my parents talking. My head pounds, but it’s more a dull throb than a sharp stabbing pain.
Encouraged, I pry open my eyes—which are caked and goopy with makeup I failed to remove. Ditto for last night’s clothes. I roll onto my side and land on something hard and flat that turns out to be my cell phone. Shit.
Daylight streams through the shutters I forgot to close. I planned to be up early so that I could spend today primping for Katrina’s going-away party, but if my cell phone is right, it’s already one o’clock, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea to get too close to a mirror. I take two aspirin and chug down a full glass of water. Then I scroll through our group chat and Instagram posts and what feels like a million shots of Josh on the mound.
