Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  She turned to Kyle. “Kyle honey, I’m absolutely parched. Will you get me something cold to drink while I talk to Liz for a minute?” She took me by the elbow, tugging me away from Nick and across the aisle behind the last row of seats.

  I shook Laycee’s hand off my arm. “I want to get back to Nick. What’s so important?”

  “You asked what brought me to town. Well, I have huge, huge, huge news to tell you. Kyle trains Billy Miles, a producer for the ATTAGIRL Network. You know, the network that runs Atlanta Wife Life?”

  “And?” I glanced over her shoulder, trying to spot Nick in the concession line.

  “When Kyle told me Billy knew the casting director for next season, I told Forrest I was going to visit you then hopped on a little ol’ plane out here. Kyle introduced me to Billy this morning, and after I use my Southern charm on him up in the suite tonight, you can bet I’ll be auditioning for the show tomorrow.” She winked at me.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I tensed, irritated she had concocted a visit to me as an excuse to carry out her scheme, a scheme I knew her husband wouldn’t like at all. Her narcissistic lack of boundaries was limitless. “And why would you tell Forrest you came out here to see me? You and I haven’t talked in years and it’s still not long enough for me. I don’t care what you do on your own, but I’ll be damned if you use me as an excuse to your husband while you bed-hop your way onto a TV show.” I turned to walk away.

  She grabbed my arm. “Don’t tell me you’re still upset about—”

  “My alleged friend having sex with my husband?”

  “Oh, please. You think I was the only one? You’d have to move to the desert to escape all the women Jarret bedded while you were married.”

  “This conversation is over. You’re dead to me.” I spun around, straight into Kyle and the beer in his hand.

  Chapter Four

  Kyle’s cup of beer hit me full frontal, soaking my white T-shirt, splattering him, and spraying the two men passing us in the aisle. Laycee stalked toward the escalator, unscathed.

  “Whoa, I’m sorry. Here, let me help you.” Kyle pulled out a napkin while his eyes tracked Laycee through the crowd.

  Pinching the hem of my T-shirt, I pulled the sopping material away from my body before the beer soaked my bra. “I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

  Nick appeared through the crowd, balancing a tray stacked with beer and hot dogs. “What the…?”

  “We had a collision,” Kyle said.

  “Go find your date, Kyle. Nick and I can handle this,” I said, fanning my shirt.

  Kyle apologized again then shouldered into the streaming crowd and disappeared.

  “Nick, will you ask Robin to meet me in the ladies’ room with the other pink shirt?”

  “What happened?”

  “If I had known a full cup of beer was right behind me, I would have thrown it in Laycee’s face. But the beer had other plans. Get Robin, will you? I’m drenched.”

  Good thing the night air was warm, because the beer and my wet T-shirt were ice-cold. As I wove through the crowd and entered the restroom, I heard a loud cheer come from the stands. I found an empty stall and pulled the soaked fabric over my head. Standing in my bra, a calm fell over me. At least I had the chance to tell Laycee what I thought of her. Cathartic.

  “Liz? Are you in here?” Robin’s voice echoed through the concrete walls and metal stalls.

  “Over here,” I said, opening the door a crack.

  “You missed everything. The Dodgers just scored a run.”

  “Me, too. A deep fly onto my center field.”

  “Huh?”

  “Baseball talk. I crashed into a beer. The shirt, please?”

  Fortunately, my bra was dry enough to keep on. I wiped the residual beer off my skin with the dry side of my white shirt, dropped the wet tee into the plastic bag Robin handed me, and then slid into the new pink T-shirt. I recapped my run-in with Laycee for her on our way back to the seats.

  “My only question is why you ever hung out with someone like her in the first place? She doesn’t sound like the type of women you’re close with,” Robin said.

  “Proximity. Loneliness. I spent a lot of time working, and didn’t make a lot of female friends in Atlanta. Laycee lived right next door to us. I doubt if I’ll ever see her again. At least, I hope not.”

  Nick had saved two hot dogs and beers for us. After enduring a mini-lecture from Mom about missing an inning then getting the play-by-play recap from Dad and Dave, I settled down to watch the game.

  At the top of the seventh inning with the score tied at one, the Cubs loaded the bases with two outs. Their ace left-handed batter came to the plate. The Dodger manager took a time-out and brought Jarret, his ace left-handed specialist, out of the bullpen. After three warm-up pitches from the mound, Jarret easily struck out the batter and retired the side.

  Jarret’s skill as a left-handed reliever extended his career beyond the life of normal pitchers. He usually worked only one or two innings, leaving his arm always rested. At thirty-nine, even his chronic sore shoulder didn’t hamper his performance.

  “Jarret’s in good form today,” Dave said. “There are three lefties batting in the eighth. I bet they leave him in.”

  “If they do, he’ll have to bat. The Dodgers are near the bottom of the batting order.” Nick turned to Dad. “Gee, it would be just awful to see Jarret strike out, wouldn’t it, Walter?”

  Everyone except sports-clueless Robin turned at Nick’s snide remark. Dave leered. Mom sneered. Dad chuckled. I enjoyed Nick’s heresy. Jarret’s shoddy behavior during our marriage got set aside whenever our family came to see him pitch. Dave, who usually ignored my ex, let his Dodger loyalty soften his feelings toward Jarret only if and when Jarret got in the game. Mom, taken by Jarret’s Midwest boyish charm, liked having a celebrity in the family and still referred to him as her son-in-law. She watched him on the field, enchanted.

  I had spent fifteen years rooting for Jarret. I knew how much pitching well meant to him. He made a lousy husband and a sometimes irritating ex, but his skill on the mound demanded respect.

  Although the sun had set, the temperature registered seventy-four on the scoreboard as we sang two choruses of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” for the seventh-inning stretch. As we sat down, the first Dodger batter walked to the plate. Jarret followed him out of the dugout with his bat, and took a few practice swings in the warm-up circle.

  The lead batter got to first base on a walk. Jarret came to the plate, took another practice swing, then set his stance. He swung at the first pitch and missed. He let the second pitch pass him for a called strike. One more strike and he would be out.

  Mom, Dave, Robin, and I stood. A heart-pounding rush of nervous energy coursed through me.

  The next pitch crossed the plate dead center. Jarret swung, and the ball and his bat connected with a sweet crack. The ball flew high just inside the first-base foul line and over the head of the first baseman. And as the outfielder leaped to the wall to make the catch, the ball cleared the fence and bounced into the second row of the right-field bleachers for a two-run home run.

  The stadium erupted into a massive, earsplitting cheer. Jarret circled the bases toward home. Two women stormed down our aisle, screaming and waving their arms, and as he crossed home plate, they hugged each other. Mom, Dave, Robin and I exchanged high fives, and fans throughout the stadium circled rally towels, baseball caps, and fists in the air.

  Dad and Nick slumped in silence, arms crossed.

  Jarret took off his batting helmet and disappeared into the dugout while the crowd continued to roar. Home runs by pitchers were a rarity. This was the second one I had seen Jarret hit in fifteen years.

  The two women who rushed the aisle pumped their fists and jumped up and down, yelling with the rest of the stadium for Jarret to come out for a bow. As they turned, chanting Jarret’s name at the Dodger dugout, I recognized both women from the gym. Gretchen, the brunette from
this morning, and a nameless, streaked blonde I saw yesterday. Screaming for Jarret at high pitch, Gretchen wasn’t kidding about being a baseball fan.

  Relentless cheers brought Jarret out of the dugout before play resumed. He touched his cap in acknowledgement, then pointed up into the stands and blew a kiss in our general direction. I bent my head, chuckling. He remembered.

  Mom leaned over to Robin and me. “Isn’t it sweet how the fans love him?”

  “Very sweet,” Robin said.

  The inning ended with the Dodgers leading by two runs. The Cubs’ defense cleared the field and the Dodger defense came out of the dugout and took their places. Jarret, the last player out of the dugout, jogged toward the mound.

  As he skipped over the chalk between third base and home plate, a white pigeon swooped off the home plate backstop fencing and dive-bombed straight at Jarret’s head. Jarret flinched backward onto the chalk line.

  Mom and I gasped together.

  “Oh, no,” Mom said.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “What?” Nick said.

  “Maybe he didn’t notice,” Mom said. “I hope he didn’t notice.”

  “He noticed,” I said. “See how he’s stomping his foot? He’s trying to shake off the chalk.”

  “What happened?” Robin hunched forward, staring down at the field. “Why is Jarret doing a rain dance on the mound?”

  “He’s superstitious about stepping on the baseline,” I said. “He believes a myth about the chalk between third base and home plate carrying runs. If he wears chalk to the mound on his shoe, the chalk will make him pitch runs to the opposing team.”

  Nick leaned over to Dad. “Then this should be very interesting. Let’s see how the phenom pitches with chalk dust clouding his focus.”

  I rubbed my knees, watching the field. When Jarret performed on the mound, he had a canny ability to shut out distractions around him. Jeering crowds couldn’t shake him. All-star batters didn’t intimidate him. Being behind on the count, hung-over, shivering from the cold, or sweltering in the heat didn’t faze him. But the run-laden chalk on his shoe would shimmy up his leg and into his head.

  And it did. Jarret walked the first two batters and hit the third on the shoulder with a wild pitch, loading the bases. The next batter, the Cubs’ left-handed leader in runs batted in, came to the plate.

  “They have to take him out of the game,” Dave said.

  “They won’t. The Dodgers only have righties warming up in the bullpen. Jarret is their leftie specialist. They have a better chance leaving him in,” Dad said, nudging Nick.

  The Dodger catcher and first baseman went to the mound to calm Jarret down. He bobbed his head as he listened to them. The catcher handed him the ball with an encouraging tap on the shoulder. I knew their assurances wouldn’t work. Jarret was freaked, and the worse he pitched, the more freaked he became.

  On Jarret’s second pitch, the Cubs batter cleared the bases with a grand slam home run. The manager took Jarret out of the game and he left the mound to lukewarm applause and a few jeers from the crowd.

  The Cubs won the game five to three. Dad and Nick exchanged fist bumps and smug smiles.

  “Season’s not over. We’ll get you next time,” Dave said.

  “I’m happy for you, Walter,” Mom said, kissing Dad’s cheek before they filed into the aisle. “You got your birthday wish—your team won.”

  Dave, Nick, and Robin followed them out. As I tagged behind, Gretchen and her blonde friend climbed the steps toward me in dejected silence.

  “Gretchen,” I said. She glanced up. “I saw you at the gym this morning. I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself, I’m Liz Cooper.”

  “Cooper?” Gretchen tilted her head.

  “Are you related to Jarret?” the blonde said.

  “I used to be. He’s my ex-husband. Tough loss tonight.” I stepped into the aisle and climbed the stairs with them. “Jarret pitched a great seventh inning. Bad break on the eighth.”

  “I hope he remembers his home run and forgets about the rest of the game,” Gretchen said.

  “He looked pretty happy rounding the bases, didn’t he?” I said.

  The blonde stopped and turned. “Pretty happy? Didn’t you read the note on the scoreboard? He’s the only Dodger pitcher to hit a home run this season. The fans adore him.”

  “But you saw the kiss he blew into the stands, right?” Gretchen said.

  I smiled, amused by the delight on her face. “I did. And don’t worry about his attitude. He’ll make a comeback with his pitching game. He always does. It’s a long season.”

  Mom and Robin met me at the top of the stairs. “Liz, are you meeting Jarret at the pub later?” Mom said.

  I exchanged quick good-byes with Gretchen and her friend. As they disappeared into the exiting throng, I said to Mom, “Believe me, Jarret would rather hang out with his pals at Fifth Base than with any of us. Especially tonight.”

  Robin, Mom, and I followed the crowd to the escalators with Dad, Nick, and Dave leading the way. When we reached the field level, Mom pulled me to the side. “I feel bad for Jarret. Someone has to cheer him up. You should call him, Liz.”

  “Not my job anymore. If you’re concerned about him, call him in the morning. I have a feeling he’ll be busy tonight.”

  Jarret soothed his losses with rebellion. Back in the minor leagues, he broke training with a few beers and went to bed. When he entered the majors, the beers became scotch or pain pills. Age and wear on his arm only served to escalate his dejection over losing. During his worst slump, a disastrous road trip with the Braves, I called his hotel room to comfort him and a woman answered. The next day he swore I’d called the wrong number. Women, each with a different voice, began phoning our house. I refused to stoop to searching through his cell phone messages or texts. The day before I found Laycee’s bra under our bed, he had pitched a horrible game to the Phillies. His losses and our marriage went down together.

  Robin waited in the aisle for us to catch up then we followed our guys into the parking lot.

  “Thank you for inviting me to the game, Viv. I had a great time,” Robin said.

  “Dear, I’m sorry we weren’t able to chat more. I expect you and Dave at the house Saturday night for Walter’s birthday barbeque. And don’t let Dave try to back out with a work excuse. I know all the ploys homicide detectives use to get out of going to functions. I cured Walter of his habit by throwing parties at home. I can give you a few other good tricks to use.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Robin has plenty of tricks to keep Dave in line,” I said, laughing.

  Robin blushed. “I want to hear everything you know, Viv. We’ll be there. Should I bring anything?”

  “Whatever you want to, dear. What will you be bringing from your brand-new kitchen, Liz?” Mom said.

  “Wine.”

  I stopped to give Dad another birthday hug and smooch, and then Dave, Robin, Nick, and I left my folks in the lot with promises to regroup on Saturday.

  As we walked to his car, Nick pointed at the waning crescent glowing over the hills around the stadium parking lot. “The moon will be full in a few nights. The spirits are getting restless.”

  “I think your spirits made enough trouble for tonight,” I said.

  “You mean Jarret? Live by superstition, die by superstition.”

  “I was thinking more about what spooked the pigeon to fly into him.”

  “Ah, the white pigeon. Remind me to make a donation to the home for orphaned pigeons. That bird helped the Cubs win the game. I wonder if Jarret has heard about the legend.”

  “What legend?”

  “White pigeons are death omens.”

  “What’s with omens and birds, Nick? Seriously, last year you and Robin had me dodging crows. Now you’re warning me about pigeons?” I laughed. “Forget it. Have you looked around the city lately? We’re surrounded by them.”

  Nick opened the door of his SUV for me, tossed his cap into the backseat, and sta
rted the engine. I relaxed in the passenger seat for the slow ride to the freeway and home. As we inched into the thick stream of traffic creeping out of Dodger Stadium a sour, yeasty odor permeated the car.

  “What’s that awful smell?” I said, wrinkling my nose.

  Nick tossed me a glance. “I didn’t want to say anything, but…”

  I sniffed a strand of my hair. Oh no. Me. The stink was on me—my hair and skin reeked from the odor of dried beer. I put down my window. Nick put down his. The loud blast of hot air blowing into the car and the freeway noise outside kept our conversation to a minimum all the way to Studio City. He parked in front of my house and we walked inside.

  “I have to get out of these clothes and clean up,” I said.

  “How? Did the plumber put in your showers and tub already?”

  “Not even close. I can’t go to bed smelling like this. I’ll wash my hair in the sink and take another sponge bath after you leave.”

  “I have a better idea,” he said, tugging at a strand of my sticky hair.

  “What?” I moved close, wanting to kiss him. The stench stopped me. I knew Nick loved me but embracing my smelly body warranted combat pay.

  “Where did you put the garden hose I bought you?”

  “Are you serious?”

  Nick curled his mouth into a sexy, evil grin. “As serious as a shower and nightcap in your backyard. Take off your clothes, get some towels, and meet me outside.”

  Chapter Five

  “Nick?” Barefoot, with two towels and an open bottle of white wine, I peered over the candytuft blooms shimmering under the moonlight in my backyard. Crickets chirped. A dog barked in the distance. Erzulie watched from the kitchen window.

  Nick’s shirt and jeans were draped over the back of a chair on the porch. I scanned the empty yard with caution. Despite the heat in the still night air, I didn’t want to be ambushed with a blast of cold water.

  I heard a squeak of a faucet turning from the side of the house, and then the sound of water splashing the driveway.