Casey's Home

by Jessica Minier

  “That’s right!” Billy was equally effusive, shaking the man’s hand with vigor. “The very same. This here is a friend of the family, and a damn fine young pitcher, Benjamin McDunnough.” Ben shook the man’s hand, which was a bit clammy, but then, Ben reasoned, he was covered in polyester.

  “Charles Patterson,” the man offered, and beamed at them both. “I’d be absolutely honored to drive you into town. You could get a tow from there, in the morning. I’ll even put you both up for the night, if it’s all right with the missus.”

  “Now that is just too generous of you,” Billy said warmly. “We couldn’t bother you that much. They boy and I will be perfectly comfortable in a local motel.”

  “Well, I appreciate that,” Charles said, leading them toward the LTD. “But, well, there’s nothing in town at all, in the way of places to stay. Really, the missus and I would be thrilled to have you with us, I’m sure.” He opened the back door of the wagon and took each of their suitcases, gently placing them beside several black leather cases. Ben recognized the violin case and the one for the trombone, but wasn’t sure what the others were for. He wondered what this man did, carrying around instruments in the early Georgia morning. It wasn’t exactly threatening, but it wasn’t reassuring, either.

  “We would just be honored, I tell you, to stay with you folks. It isn’t often that I get a chance to spend some real time with a fan such as yourself, Charles.”

  “It’s my honor, really,” Charles said. “Please call me Chuck.”

  “Chuck, you’d best call me Bill, if we’re to be staying with you kind folks and all.”

  “I appreciate that, Bill, I really do.” Chuck had a bit of a stammer, when nervous. He opened the door for Billy, just as he probably did, Ben surmised, for The Missus. Ben was left to fend for himself with the broad second door of the LTD.

  “So tell me, Chuck, who do you like this year? And don’t say Oakland, or I’ll just have to step right back out onto the highway and wait for another man to come along, one with some sense.”

  Chuck laughed, a squeak really, and answered: “The Sox, right? The Sox.”

  “Damn right, the Sox!” Billy thundered as he slid into the car, and Chuck nodded before shutting the door, politely as a prom date.

  Billy seemed to take up the entire front seat, his arm thrown casually across to touch the headrest of Chuck’s seat, as if they were indeed going steady. He was painting Wild Bill in broad strokes; his gestures wider, his voice louder, his grin flashier than he’d been during the entire previous eight hours. Ben wasn’t jealous, exactly, but found himself wondering why, if he got the “real” Bill, what he received seemed so much less interesting. Ben had never been much of an actor. On the rare occasions that a teacher had managed to persuade him to step up on stage in front of his peers, he’d approached the circumstances with a certain nervous acceptance. He certainly hadn’t enjoyed being the center of attention.

  Being on the field was different, of course. There, he felt the edgy focus of the people in the stands, of the other team, of the batter and the ump and the guys standing tense behind him the way he felt the energy of a great rock song. It moved through him with a fierce electricity that built with every movement until he felt as if the cheers and shouts were collecting in his muscles like blood, like fuel. Later, athletes would coin a word for it: pumped. The boys in his charge would feed from the adulation, would wither when it was withdrawn. He only knew, at sixteen, that it was a bit like wooing a girl. When everything was working, the feeling left him dancing internally for days.

  Chuck, this small, sweaty man from rural Georgia, was touching greatness, and his high-pitched, animated voice told Ben that he was flying, barely aware of his surroundings. They could careen off into the dark, lurking trees and the car would float, just like a rocket on descent. Billy knew it too, of course, and so perhaps it was an act of kindness to be the big man, the best pitcher in the whole game, scuppered again by a team unable to react quickly enough to the power contained within his arm. Ben both admired Billy’s ability to be a star, and was made uncomfortable by it. What did it mean to him, to be the one Billy had chosen?

  There were times, after a game, when the other boys in the locker room looked at him with that same mix of admiration and discomfort, and he longed to just be the kid who’d had the interest in astronomy and physics. He had no interest in drama, and the teenage world that slipped by around him sometimes seemed as alien as if he’d been dropped in the middle of a school in another country, another culture. He had few friends. He was too quiet, too intense and at the same time, too relaxed. He intimidated other boys, even without meaning to. They retreated before him; then, he knew, they mocked him behind his back because he didn’t know the secret handshake, the admission policy for teenage boydom. He wasn’t always sure this was a bad thing, exactly.

  By the time they reached the nearest town, which barely registered as a town, just as Chuck had intimated, Ben was finding it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open. It was after two. Ben wondered what The Missus would think as Chuck pulled into the driveway of a low-slung brick house and stepped out to open the garage door. Billy turned and regarded Ben, all the liquid cool drained from his face to reveal his exhaustion and frustration.

  “How’re you holding up back there?” he asked, his voice quiet and for once, somewhat paternal. Ben shrugged.

  “Just tired.”

  “You know we probably aren’t going to make it to Chicago,” Billy said.

  “Yeah,” Ben said.

  “I’m sorry, kid. I know you wanted to go.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Ben said, as Chuck returned, opening Billy’s door. In the garage, a door opened and a tired-looking woman wearing a yellow-flowered house coat stepped out from a wall of light.

  “The missus says we’d be delighted to have you folks stay the night,” Chuck said. Ben wondered what other options had been available to her. From somewhere close by, he could hear the excited barking of what sounded like a multitude of small dogs. It was the deepest black part of the night, and the stars above Chuck’s tiny hamlet in the back woods glittered as though the night sky had worn thin, showing the bright light of the infinite beyond. He could have many of the pulsating points, had his mind not been firmly lodged in the sweaty, aching small of his back.

  Wearily, Ben hoisted his suitcase out of the back of the wagon and followed Billy and Chuck inside. The house was warm, without air-conditioning, and not built to stay cool, as his home was. An odd, sharp smell permeated every surface and rose up like a wall as they entered through the kitchen door. It wasn’t until Chuck led them into the living room that he realized what it was. In a corner of the room, a low wooden gate system fenced off at least twelve wiggling, frantic puppies. Beneath them, a ragged pile of urine-soaked newspapers explained the smell. The mother dog stood at the front, tail wagging as Chuck greeted her with a few gentle strokes. She had dark brown hair that fell in waves like chocolate frosting. Ben knew she would feel exactly like the chamois Billy used to clean his car.

  “That’s my girl,” Chuck said, and then to them: “We breed cockers.”

  Unable to resist, Ben stood next to him and reached down to touch a puppy. The fur reminded him of a seal-skin toy he’d had as a child, only a thousand times softer. Chuck smiled at him.

  “Cute as a button, but then, their mom’s a champion. Aren’t you?” he asked the dog, who panted happily at the attention. The thick scent of pee floated around them, a miasma of soured sugar, with the pungency of a skunk. Billy shifted from one foot to the other, his eyes watery, his cheeks twitching.

  He was saved by the missus, who turned out to be named Betty. She offered them both “a little something,” which consisted of small glass tumblers of weak orange juice and a crumbly, sand-colored cake that she referred to as a “coffee cake,” despite the fact that it tasted like coconut and cardboard. Ben nibbled at his cake without enthusiasm and sipped his orange juice, while Billy made polit
e conversation. It was strange to see Billy perched on the edge of this woman’s striped sofa, a saucer balanced on his knees as he took delicate bites of the cake and talked relatively intelligently about the local weather. Outside, the dogs had settled back into an occasional startled yipping. The puppies curled up on one another: a pile of whimpering, sleep-coated fur.

  Chuck told them, over the last of the cake, that he was a musical instrument sales-man, traveling to schools all over the state to supply the children of Georgia with the ability to play Sousa badly at football games. Ben listened politely, but his eyes felt raw, as open as wounds. He wanted only to go to bed and perhaps nurse his growing disappointment in dreams. At some point, through his haze, he realized they were being led into a back bedroom, complete with two twin beds pushed against opposite walls. Everything seemed to be happening in disconnected chunks, as if one moment he held a plate with cake and the next he was standing beside a nearly-empty bookcase in a room with gold and orange floral wallpaper.

  The room had clearly belonged to one of Chuck’s daughters, as the wall paper still bore the scars of posters tacked directly to its surface, the books appeared to be teen-themed romance paperbacks, and a well-loved teddy bear stared with black glass eyes from each of the beds. Ben smiled as Chuck wished them a good night and Billy thanked him again. With a flick of the gold corduroy bedspread, and a quick toeing off of his shoes, he was comfortably settled with his head against the pillow, the bear unceremoniously tossed to the floor. Billy took his time brushing his teeth in a bathroom across the hall, and Ben drifted between waking and sleeping until Billy returned and slid into his own bed. As he turned out the light, Billy whispered: “I feel like some fucking teenage girl at a sleepover.”

  Ben snorted and spoke without considering his words. “Haven’t you shared hotel rooms with a billion guys over the years?”

  Billy’s laughter was rich and full in the darkness. “Kid, if anyone else asked me that, I’d belt the shit out of them.”

  Ben was briefly completely awake. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, aware that Billy already knew this.

  They were both quiet for a moment, and Ben felt sleep creeping slowly over his body in the darkness.

  “I’m really sorry, kid,” Billy said suddenly, softly.

  “I know,” Ben said. “Don’t worry about it.” He was gritting his teeth now against the stealthy seduction of exhaustion.

  “Yeah, but won’t you be disappointed? I mean, no chili dogs, no score card, no sneaking sips of my beer… I used to go to games all the time with my dad, and we had this ritual: I would get a new hat, and a pennant. I don’t even know if they sell pennants anymore, but I was going to buy you one, if they did.”

  The weak light slipping around the door was briefly eclipsed by someone passing in the hall. Ben tried to focus on Billy’s words, feeling that something was being said that he ought to hear.

  “Yeah, I know. I really appreciate it, but I’m okay,” he said.

  “Of course you are,” Billy said. “I know that. I’m just saying, if you’re disappointed, I understand. Hell, I was looking forward to it, myself.”

  “I know, so was I. It would have been fun to do all that stuff. We can go some other time, I’m sure.” Ben pulled the words out of a molasses-thick portion of his thoughts. “Besides, you go all the time with Casey, right?”

  Billy was quiet, then he said: “Yeah, but it’s not quite the same, is it?”

  “I guess not,” Ben said, unsure what they were talking about.

  “Sleep,” Billy said. “Go to sleep, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yeah.” Ben’s brain was already slipping images in front of his eyelids with the efficiency of a slide projector. He collapsed into his dreams: vivid, startling plots that he couldn’t remember even moments after starting awake in the unfamiliar bed.

  He woke late; he could tell from the bright heat of the sun through the window, from the muffled sounds of a house awake. After changing into a new t-shirt, he made his way down the hall to find Billy and Chuck sitting at the breakfast table, drinking coffee like old buddies. Betty was scrambling eggs in a cast-iron pan on the stove, wearing a different, but equally unrevealing housecoat. This one featured strawberries and watermelon slices and buttoned from her calves to her throat. Chuck was dressed in exactly the same uniform as the day before, but with a new tie. Billy looked as clean and fresh as an ad for soap-on-a-rope. He’d even trimmed his mustache. He was all bristly-clean virility, cocky and self-assured.

  “Good morning, merry sunshine,” he said to Ben. “You look like you could use a shower, kid.”

  Ben didn’t know what to say to that, so he just slid into the chair beside Billy. Chuck offered him toast from a platter and he took several pieces. The bread was cool, but the butter had fully melted into it while it was still warm. Chuck poured him another glass of weak orange liquid, in what appeared to be the same tumbler, cleaned. In the light of morning and some sleep, Ben recognized the watery orange beverage for what it was: Tang.

  “Chuck here tells me there’s a Greyhound station in the next town over. He’s pretty sure we can pop you on a bus back to Tampa.” Billy was tapping his foot beneath the table, and Ben understood the gesture. No doubt Billy was anxious to get started on his car. He tried to reign in his refreshed and strengthened sense of disappointment, which had burst in upon him this morning with the vigor of a freshly rested friend. So that was the unglamorous end, he thought: a bus ride back to Florida. Ben nodded around his toast. He had no real choice.

  “Eggs?” Betty asked, holding the skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other.

  “Please,” Billy said, offering up a plate. Ben nodded and was rewarded with a fat scoopful. They were perfectly cooked and upon closer inspection, contained nibbles of bacon. Chuck seemed to be sticking to coffee.

  “It’s my heart,” he offered by way of explanation. “Can’t eat anything with grease.” Chuck didn’t appear to have consumed a single mouthful of grease in his entire life.

  “Now that’s a real shame,” Billy said, shoveling a forkful of golden fluff into his mouth and smacking his lips. “Grease is what keeps a man strong.” He poked Ben with his elbow. “Puts hair on your chest, eh boy?”

  Ben rolled his eyes.

  After breakfast, Billy and Chuck loaded the suitcases back into the wagon and they drove into the next town, a tree-lined hamlet called Porter, which at least had a main street stocked with the usual small-town shops. Ben waited in the car while Billy arranged for a tow and bargained with the local mechanic. Even with all the windows down, the September heat seemed to coat him in sweat. Chuck fanned himself in the front seat with some sort of music pamphlet. Ben watched the rows of notes, back and forth, back and forth, until they blurred into neat lines. “You still in high school?” Chuck asked.

  “That’s right,” Ben said.

  “Billy tells me you’re a real fine pitcher all ready.”

  Ben shrugged.

  “You should go to college,” Chuck said. “Study something interesting. Baseball doesn’t happen for most people. Get yourself something to fall back on.”

  Ben had heard this a thousand times, from every relative and family friend and teacher and counselor, even those who operated on the mere periphery of his decisions. But he knew, with total certainty, that if the Pros called, he’d give up a kidney, much less college. He knew everyone else knew this, too.

  “I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet,” he replied.

  Billy trotted back, bristling with annoyance. “Six days,” he said, slamming the door as he slid into the front seat. “Can you believe that? Six fu… six damn days.”

  Ben stifled a laugh.

  “Porter got any motels?” Billy asked. “I can’t impose on you good folks for six days.”

  Porter did have a motel. One run-down, Fifties-era motel on the edge of town, its gray paint peeling, baskets of faded red plastic geraniums hanging limply from the eaves
. Billy checked in, and then returned looking considerably more pleased. “I got quite a deal, there,” he told them. “Jewed ‘em down to less than ten a night.”

  The bus station was near the motel, but was really just a few plastic benches bolted to the concrete under an overhang on the side of a greasy spoon called “Berts Eats,” with no apostrophe. Billy treated them all to lunch, no doubt because of the money he’d just saved at the motel, Ben thought. Chuck had relaxed enough to show Billy off a bit, introducing him to the waitress and the owner, Bert, of course. Billy charmed them all by posing for a photo to post on the restaurant wall, an arm around each of his new fans, his teeth gleaming Colgate-white in the camera’s flash.

  By this point, Ben was done with road trips. He stared out the window at the concrete benches and experienced a longing for home so strong it made him want to weep into his burger and fries. He felt disconnected, already on the bus. In his imagination, he could feel the vibrations of the wheels beneath his feet, could smell the musty puff of air from the seat each time he shifted, could see the trees sliding by beside him as he rode at branch-level. For a year after his father had left, Ben had taken a Greyhound out to his father’s apartment in Orlando. Most of the hour and a half had been spent sleeping, but he still remembered the sensations of the ride; a deep memory, further than he liked to access. He could still smell his father, sometimes, when a man passed him on the street or stood close to him in a grocery line, wearing a cologne for which Ben had no name. Then his stomach would tighten in a strange sort of momentary agony, and he would have to move further away to avoid burying himself in the scent like a child.

  “Ready to head home?” Billy asked, and some of what he was feeling must have shown on Ben’s face as he looked up, because Billy put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Billy had a scent, too, as familiar as his father’s had ever been: Old Spice. He knew that’s what it was now, from seeing the bottle in Billy’s suitcase. Trust Billy to wear the cheapest cologne on the market, despite his salary. Underneath the sweet fragrance lay the essence of Billy, which was completely indefinable.