The Way Home Looks Now

by Wendy Wan-Long Shang

  He is silent, and for the moment, even with all these thoughts inside me, so am I. And I do not know who I hate more for it.

  THE FIRST THING I DO WHEN WE GET HOME IS GO TO the living room to be with Mom. I just want to be with her, to have whatever little comfort there is in being next to her. I want to pretend for a few minutes that Aaron is still a boy.

  “Mom?”

  She doesn’t move from her spot on the couch; she is lying down and her back is to me, so I walk around to get a better angle. I watch for her chest to rise and fall under the blankets. There is no movement.

  A very terrible thought enters my head.

  What is the least amount of effort you need to live? What’s the smallest amount you can eat, how many breaths do you need, what’s the tiniest bit of caring you need to give and receive to hold fast in the world? What happens when that little bit disappears?

  I take a step closer and force myself to raise my voice. “Mom?” I blink hard.

  Suddenly Mom rolls to one side. “Peter.”

  At the sound of her voice, my body goes weak. I lower myself to the floor, so our faces are at the same level. I get so close to her face that I see each individual eyelash and the tiny freckles across her cheeks. It’s all I can do not to reach out and hold on to her with all my might. “We’re home,” I say. I hope I sound normal, like after any game.

  She nods and closes her eyes.

  The phone begins to ring. Ba answers the phone calls, and most of the time, it seems like the other person is doing most of the talking. Ba says things like, “I see,” and, “I appreciate that you have brought this to my attention.” He stands near the phone on the kitchen wall, letting the cord curl and twist. After the third phone call, I ask him who is calling, though I have a pretty good idea.

  Ba sighs and rubs his forehead with his fingers. “The first two phone calls were from Mr. Lattimore, Jimmy and Bobby’s father, and Mr. Cooper, Danny’s father.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Mr. Lattimore and Mr. Cooper explained to me that they do not want their sons to attend practice or play in games until Erin is off the team.”

  “They can do that?” I ask. “Just up and leave the team? You’re not going to let that happen, are you? We’re going to keep playing, aren’t we?”

  I can’t think of what will happen if the team falls apart, if there are no more games. The team needs more time to play. Mom hasn’t gone to a game yet.

  Ba waits a moment before speaking. “The third phone call was from Mr. Nickelson,” he says, finally. “He said he would understand if I wanted Erin to leave the team.” Then he adds, “But I do not think she should leave the team.”

  “You don’t?” My father has been so quiet that I am surprised he actually has an opinion.

  “No,” says Ba. “Erin is a good player. She has not done anything to deserve getting kicked off the team.”

  “Three guys could leave the team if you let her play. She’s just one player.”

  “That is true,” says Ba. “But there is also a question of fairness. Is it fair to take Erin off the team?”

  Ba crosses his arms and looks down, as if the answer is in the folds of his arms. “Some of those parents, they said if I let Erin play, I’m a ‘women libber.’ ” He says the strange words slowly. I guess he means women’s libber.

  I think back to the conversation Mom and I had about the Equal Rights Amendment. Mom could be a women’s libber, too. Then again, she’s supposed to be a lot of things right now that she’s not.

  Ba shrugs. “I don’t think I am a women libber, but maybe I am. Should Elaine not be allowed to do something because she’s a girl?” I think of Elaine. Sure, she’s a pest and a pain, and there are some things she can’t do because she’s still little, but if someone treated Elaine the way some of the parents treated Erin today? Made her feel the way Erin looked when she left?

  My heart feels like a lion’s. But then I think of that terrible moment when we got home, and fear washes over me, extinguishing everything else.

  “We have to keep playing.” I say.

  Ba rubs his scalp, and I realize that my father’s hair is turning white. It has been pure black for as long as I’ve been alive.

  “Some things are more important than baseball,” says Ba. “You just want to keep playing baseball.”

  His comment fills me with bitterness.

  “If the season ends early, you’ll probably be glad to be done coaching.” I say. “All that extra work. You can go back to the way things were.”

  Ba looks away for a moment. “I have always been prepared to complete this season,” he says.

  “If Erin stays on the team, and the team breaks up, then what’s the point?” I ask. “Nothing changes.”

  “Sometimes you just have to know that you have done what is right. You cannot control the outcome, only your own actions,” says Ba.

  “I want to keep playing,” I say stubbornly.

  Ba looks down, studying the wood floor. “There must be another way, then.”

  But I don’t see how. I don’t see how Erin can play and still have the team play. I feel the way I did with the division with decimals problems. The answers seemed to jump away from me any time I got close. Until Nelson explained it, anyway. For what seems like the millionth time, I wish that Nelson were here to tell me what to do, to help me figure this out.

  “HAS YOUR DAD DECIDED? ABOUT ERIN, I MEAN,” asks Sean.

  I shake my head. “He wants her to stay on the team. But it’s complicated.”

  Sean and me, we’re sitting on the concrete step outside the kitchen door. Sean said he came over to play catch, but clearly, he really wants to talk about Erin.

  “She shouldn’t have lied,” says Sean.

  “Well, yeah, but she wouldn’t have gotten to play if she told the truth.” This is the hard part. As much as I try to just think about my mom, I keep thinking about Erin, too.

  “My dad says that it’s not safe for girls to play sports,” says Sean. “They get hurt more easily. They’ll ruin the game for the rest of us.”

  “Erin never got hurt more than anyone else,” I say. “And when she did, she didn’t make a big deal out of it.”

  “Hmmm,” says Sean. “Well, maybe she really wanted to cry, but she was afraid we’d find out she was a girl.”

  “But she didn’t cry. That’s the point.”

  Sean scratches his knee. “It’s not normal,” says Sean. “Girls playing baseball.”

  I think about my family. I used to think of us as normal, in a Mom, Dad, and three kids sort of way. Not anymore, though.

  “There is a difference between being wrong and not normal,” I say. “Normal just means like everyone else. A long time ago, cars weren’t normal because not everyone had one. Not being normal doesn’t mean bad.”

  Sean nods, but he doesn’t say whether he thinks I’m wrong or right. The thing about Erin is, she treated me the same after finding out about Nelson; she didn’t give me the silent treatment or try to treat me extra special. And that counts for something in my book.

  “And you,” I say, testing him. “You want her kicked off the team.”

  “I didn’t say that. I said it wasn’t normal, that’s all. You gotta admit, we’d get some funny looks from the other teams.”

  “Yeah, okay. But maybe they wouldn’t have to know.” I lower my voice, even though it’s just the two of us. “The thing is, some of the parents on our team are saying they’ll pull their kids off the team if Erin stays. If enough parents do it, we won’t have a team anymore.”

  “You had to figure that would happen,” says Sean.

  I hadn’t figured. “So, what about you? Would you leave the team if Erin stays?”

  Sean looks surprised. “If you’re still on the team, then I am, too. What kind of person just takes off and leaves a friend behind?” He says this like it’s common sense. A lot of what’s common sense to Sean is hard for other people; it’s what I like
about him. I think back to the day I complained when Ba picked Sean for the team with his free pick. Sean, with his chug-chug running and slow hands. My cheeks warm with shame.

  I used to think Chris left me behind. Now I’m wondering whether I share the blame. Maybe Chris didn’t leave me behind; maybe I didn’t give him much to hold on to, either.

  “And don’t forget, my dad’s so excited I’m playing a sport, he won’t pull me off,” says Sean. He finds a tiny pebble and wings it into the backyard. And another one. And another one.

  “He’ll complain, but that’s about it,” continues Sean. “What’s really bugging my dad is that a girl is a better player than me.”

  “You’re not a bad player,” I say.

  Sean shakes his head. “Dad actually used to talk about Erin, back when she was a boy.” He deepens his voice, imitating Mr. Tyrell. “Did you see how Aaron controlled his pitches, even in a full count? That boy’s father sure must be proud.” He closes his eyes. “That boy’s father.”

  “You had some good plays, too,” I say. “You threw that runner out at second. That’s a hard throw.” I politely omit the fact that it was during practice.

  We are both looking out into the backyard, not saying anything. The redbuds are coming out on the trees, and daffodils are coming up along the backyard fence. I turn my face to the sun, letting its warmth fill my face.

  “You wanna throw a little?” asks Sean. “I could use some practice catching.”

  “You want me to pitch? To you?”

  Sean shrugs. “Sure. I’ll practice blocking and dropping.”

  The dig is not lost on me. “Shut up.” And then, “But I can’t play too long. I still have to work on my history paper.” I never did turn in my draft to Ms. Rowe, and the final is due next week. Ba said he would take me to the library.

  After Sean gets his gear, we practice in the backyard. For a moment, it is not Sean in front of the hydrangeas—it’s Nelson. Nelson squatting down, Nelson flapping his glove at me, Nelson tossing the ball back. My chest hurts for a moment at the memory, but then it eases, a rough stone becoming smooth.

  I’d forgotten how much I loved to throw—and throw hard—to hear the snap of the ball in the catcher’s glove. I’d forgotten about that great split second between the windup and the delivery, unloading all that coiled energy.

  “You’re not bad,” says Sean. “Why haven’t you pitched?”

  I stop in the middle of my windup. I spin the ball in my hands, trying to come up with a good answer. “It hasn’t been the right time.”

  “If Erin leaves the team, you’ll definitely have to pitch.”

  I shake my head. “Nah. There are others.” But I am avoiding the real question. Erin. And my mom. When I think about my mom and Erin, the whole problem starts to chase itself in a circle.

  WHILE I’M AT THE LIBRARY, I LOOK UP ERIN’S ADDRESS in the phone book. There’s only one Nickelson in our town. She doesn’t live far—a ten-minute bike ride away from my house.

  After thinking of lots of different possibilities, I’ve come up with one possible way out; Erin offers to leave the team. That way, Ba doesn’t ask her to go, and the rest of the team would remain. You’re putting the team at risk, I imagine saying to her.

  Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t have time to make this a solid plan before Erin answers the door.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hi.” We stare at each other through the screen door. It is the same voice, same face, but a completely different person.

  “Erin? Who is it?” A woman comes to the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Is this someone from school?”

  “It’s Peter, Mom. From the team.”

  “Oh.” Erin’s mom bobs her head awkwardly. “Hello, Peter. Do you want to come inside?”

  “We’ll go sit in the backyard,” Erin tells her.

  Erin’s backyard has a rail fence, and as soon as we walk back there, Erin climbs on top of a rail and straddles it, like a horse. “Did your dad send you to kick me off the team?” Her tone is very matter-of-fact, but she doesn’t look at me when she asks.

  “What? No!” The stoutness of my answer surprises even me. “Ba wouldn’t do that. Send me, that is.”

  “So …” Erin hesitates. “Are we going to play?”

  In those few words, I hear the longing in her voice, the yearning that doesn’t want to be there. I try to couch my words as gently as possible. “I don’t know that, either,” I admit.

  Erin swings her legs up so that she can stand on the top rail, a feat I have tried on other fences and never quite achieved. She puts her arms out for balance. “So what are you doing here?”

  I try to start the conversation I meant to have. “Some of the kids are threatening to leave the team if you stay.”

  “I know.” Erin jumps to the ground. “Who?”

  “Bobby, Jimmy, and Coop,” I say. I feel a little guilty saying their names. “I mean, it’s really their parents.”

  “Wow,” says Erin. “Bobby and Jimmy, you can take ’em or leave ’em. But Coop. Losing him would be bad.”

  I have to smile, just a little. Even at this point, Erin can’t stop thinking about the game. “You know, you make it sound like if only the bad players threatened to leave, it wouldn’t be so terrible.” I walk over to the fence so she has to look at me. “But the thing is, the team needs to have at least nine players. You know that.” I wait, not saying any more, hoping she’ll get the hint.

  “And if I stay, there won’t be nine players.”

  “Not by my count.”

  Erin lets out a long breath. “My dad told your dad that if he wanted me to leave, to just tell us.”

  “Except my dad won’t ask you to leave. He says it’s not fair.”

  Erin puts a hand on her hip. “Darn straight it’s not fair. I’m as good a player as anyone on that team. Better. You know that.”

  “I know. But if you stay …” Erin only needs a second to figure out where I’m going.

  “You’re asking me to volunteer to leave, aren’t you?”

  I can’t look at her when I answer. “Yes.”

  Erin says the next words slowly so I can understand each one. “You want me to give up baseball.”

  I cover my head with my hands. “Look, if there was a way to keep playing and have you be on the team, I’d be all for it. But I can’t see it working out.”

  Erin is shredding the wooden rail with her fingernails. “Well, I’m not. I’m not going to make it that easy on you. You’re going to have to kick me off the team.” She turns to look at me. “Did you really think I would just walk away?”

  Of course I didn’t—not really. Because I couldn’t leave the game, either. Even when I thought I had left, it stayed with me. It’s become what I hold on to in my hardest moments. It must be the same for Erin.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, getting up. “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  Erin takes my apology easily. “You had a weak moment. It’s been known to happen.” She lifts her chin. “Did you bring your glove?” It’s her way of asking if I want to play catch.

  “Nah. And I should get back.”

  “Didja hear that President Nixon is getting involved in the baseball strike? That’s how important baseball is. The president of the United States gets involved.”

  “I hadn’t heard that.”

  Erin walks with me to my bike. “So what’s going to happen?” she asks.

  “I think that if the president of the United States wants baseball, they’ll figure out a way to make it happen.”

  “Not the strike, dummy. Our team.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “If it were up to us, we’d play, right? You’d stay, and there’d still be a team.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course. It’s just not as easy as it sounds.

  AFTER A FEW DAYS OF HEARING FROM EVERYONE, BA has called for a meeting at five.

  I ask in the car what he has decided.


  Ba looks away and shakes his head slightly. I don’t know what that means. No, I’m not letting Erin stay on the team. No, I’m not going to tell you.

  No, no, no.

  “What do you mean? Is Erin staying on the team?”

  “What do you think should happen?”

  “We should play,” I say simply.

  “But what if that means Erin gets kicked off the team?”

  I won’t make the decision my father wants me to make. “You should be the one to decide. Not me.”

  Ba doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he says, “Let’s see what happens at the meeting.”

  I think of all the times Ba told me what to do, saying, I’m your father; you must listen to me. And now the one time I want him to tell me what to do, he won’t.

  We get to the field about fifteen minutes early, and other people show up early, so that by the time it is actually five o’clock, most of the team is there, gathered around the bleachers.

  Erin and her dad are the last to arrive. Everyone stops talking when we see the green station wagon pull into the parking lot, and we all watch them walk toward the field. They take their time, not making eye contact with any of us.

  When they reach the bleachers, Mr. Nickelson raises his head and looks at a couple of the other dads. “Warren, Eli,” he says. “John.” No one says anything back, though I do see Doug’s dad nod his head slightly. Erin looks up, too, at me. Her eyes are wide, questioning. I think of all the times she looked at me from the mound, looking for a signal.

  I don’t know what to wish for, or what to think.