Sunday Kind of Love

by Dorothy Garlock

  But even he didn’t know the truth. Not all of it…

  Skip chugged the rest of his Coke. “Come on,” he said, playfully slapping Hank on the shoulder. “We’re gonna be late.”

  Hank hesitated, still staring at the door to the filling station’s office, practically daring Milt to come back and have it out, but he didn’t.

  “Get the lead out,” Skip hollered from the truck’s cab.

  Hank took a deep breath.

  It isn’t worth it…

  Someday, he hoped, he would actually believe that.

  Hank pulled into a gravel lot, the truck’s tires skidding a bit on the loose stones. In front of them, a rough baseball diamond had been hewn out of an abandoned pasture; makeshift bases had been found and laid out, dirt had been piled high for a pitcher’s mound, and the outfield came to an abrupt end where it met the encroaching woods. About a dozen men tossed balls back and forth, laughing and carrying on beneath the afternoon sun.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Hank asked.

  “Of course I am,” Skip answered. “You love playin’ ball, don’t you dare say otherwise. Now get your glove and come on.”

  For as long as Hank could remember, he’d been smitten with baseball. The heft of a bat in his hands, the deep sound the ball made when it thudded into a leather mitt, the smell of the dirt and grass…everything about the game spoke to him. He listened to it on the radio and once, one memorable July three years ago, had traveled to Crosley Field in Cincinnati with Pete to see a game in person, both brothers yelling themselves hoarse cheering the Reds on to victory.

  Still, it had been a long time since he’d played.

  Like he had with almost everything else in his life, Hank had walked away from baseball in the weeks and months after Pete’s death. It had been easier that way, to isolate himself, to stay away from others, who didn’t want him around anyway. His woodworking was his comfort, his way to take his mind off everything he’d lost. But then Skip had shown up with a bat, glove, and ball. When his friend had asked him to play, Hank felt a stirring in his chest and had surprised himself by accepting the offer.

  When he and Skip approached the other players, Hank saw plenty of familiar faces: Rusty Pals, Tad White, Matt Glidden, all guys he’d grown up with in Buckton. Most of them offered a nod or wave in greeting, though no one said much or came over to shake his hand. It seemed that not everyone was as keen as Skip to have him join in their fun.

  “What in the hell is he doin’ here?”

  Hank turned to see Jed Ringer coming toward them with a baseball bat slung over his shoulder like a gun. Two years older than Hank, Jed was considered to be one of the biggest troublemakers in town. Wherever he went, his mouth never stopped running, cracking wise and picking fights; tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, muscular arms, Jed was more than capable of backing up whatever trouble he talked himself into. When they were kids, Hank and Jed had scrapped plenty of times, playground brawls that left noses bloodied and chins bruised. They had never been friends. Hank counted a half dozen or so other men walking behind Jed. These toughs hung on the braggart’s every word, reveling in the excitement that traveling in his wake brought.

  “Who do you mean?” Skip asked, playing dumb.

  “Like you gotta ask,” Jed answered with a sneer. Grabbing his bat, he pointed it at Hank. “The killer.”

  Hank stiffened. This was why he’d been reluctant to come. His hands bunched into fists. If Jed was looking for a fight…

  But Skip cut through the rising tension. “The only killin’ that’s gonna happen here today is what I do with my bat.” While some guys started laughing, including a couple who’d arrived with Jed, Skip tossed the bruiser a baseball. “Enough jawin’. Let’s play.”

  Jed angrily snatched the ball out of the air and dismissively answered, “Whatever.” But even as his team started to make their way to the other side of the field, his gaze lingered on Hank, just like Milt Duesenberg’s back at the filling station.

  Once again, Skip interrupted, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder and steering him away. “Don’t pay him no mind. Jed’s the sort who’ll keep yappin’ even if no one’s listenin’. To tell you the truth, with the way he’s always runnin’ that mouth of his, I’m hopin’ one day it’ll break.”

  Hank chuckled.

  “That’s the spirit,” Skip said. “Now let’s kick their asses!”

  When they took the field, Hank played shortstop while Skip pitched. At first it was hard for him to concentrate, his mind still struggling to let go of the things Jed had said. But with every pitch, he began to get more into the game. When a ground ball was sent rocketing toward him, Hank bent to scoop it but it skipped on a stone and hit him right in the chest. Fast as lightning, he picked it up and hurled it to first base, just beating the runner, who loudly protested—but from the beginning it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it, that he knew he was out.

  “That’s the stuff!” Skip shouted in encouragement.

  At the plate, Hank also started slow, his timing off, rusty, the ball arriving faster than he expected. Jed pitched for his team, throwing gas. Hank looked blankly at the first strike, quickly past him and into the catcher’s mitt with a crack. Somehow, he managed to foul off the second pitch, but then completely whiffed on the third, swinging far too late and eliciting a string of triumphant curse words from Jed that followed him all the way back to the makeshift dugout.

  The next time, Hank stayed patient, more relaxed, wanting to atone for his earlier failure, and lashed a hit into the outfield gap. Running hard, he ended up with a double, causing Jed to let loose with more swearing, though this time there wasn’t any humor in it.

  The game went back and forth, one team scoring a couple of runs but then the other answering. After making another tough defensive play, Hank realized that for an hour or so, he hadn’t thought about his father, Pete, or what Warren Foster had said to him. He was simply playing the game he loved, sweat dripping from his brow, shouting encouragement to his teammates, desperately wanting to win.

  But then, in the top of the ninth inning, things began to unravel. With the score tied and two outs, the other team strung together a couple of hits, pushing across a run and taking the lead. With runners on second and third, and with Jed, their best hitter, coming to the plate, Skip walked off the mound.

  “You’re gonna have to get him,” he said, plopping the ball in Hank’s glove.

  “There’s only one out to go. You can do it.”

  His friend shook his head. “My arm feels like it’s about to fall off. If I keep goin’, he’s gonna put us even farther behind. It’s up to you.”

  Hank took the mound and started tossing a few warm-up throws to his catcher. The first was off target but he soon began to feel more comfortable, the ball leaving his hand and quickly meeting leather at the other end of its journey. Hank did his best to ignore Jed as he stood off to the side, smirking.

  “Let’s see what you got,” Jed snarled when he stepped into the batter’s box.

  The first pitch was wide for a ball, but the second caught the edge of the plate. Jed kept right on grinning. The third toss felt good leaving Hank’s hand, but it appeared to be just what the other man had been waiting for. Jed crushed it, the crack of the ball meeting his bat sounding explosive, and it sailed off into the afternoon sky. Hank whipped around, staring at it, willing it to go foul; by a miracle it did, drifting too far left and disappearing into the woods beyond.

  “Another one just like that,” Jed told him. “I’ll straighten it out.”

  Hank rubbed his new baseball hard, feeling its raised stitches, trying to calm his nerves.

  “Blow it by him,” Skip said; he’d taken Hank’s place at shortstop. “Strike that loudmouthed asshole out!”

  Hank toed the pitching rubber, staring at the catcher’s mitt. He took a deep breath, went into his short wind-up, and let loose of the baseball, sending it whistling toward the plate. Jed’s muscle
s tensed as he swung with all of his considerable might, his arms fully extended. For a moment, it felt to Hank as if time stood still, but then it raced forward, the ball arriving where it was supposed to, safely in the catcher’s mitt, Jed’s bat hitting nothing but air.

  He’d struck him out.

  Now Hank’s team had one last chance to tie the score, maybe even go for the win. Things started poorly with two quick outs while Hank was still several batters away from getting his chance. Then their fortunes turned. A bloop single dropped in front of an outfielder. A wild pitch advanced the runner. Skip was up next and lashed a hard hit past the diving third baseman, allowing his teammate to race around the bags and just beat the throw home, kicking up a cloud of dust. They had tied it up. Yet another hit moved Skip around to third, ninety feet away from scoring the winning run. A walk followed, loading the bases.

  And Hank was up to bat.

  It was obvious to him that Jed was gassed, his arm tired from all the pitches it had thrown, but unlike Skip, he showed no sign of giving up the baseball; it wasn’t like any of his flunkies was going to ask for it. Instead, he furiously kicked at the mound as if it had insulted him. Climbing up on the pitching rubber, he scowled toward the plate, not wanting to back down.

  Just toss it up here and I’ll do the rest…

  “Knock it outta here!” Skip shouted from down the line.

  Hank knew that this was his big chance. He could win the game. No matter what Skip said, he wasn’t looking to hit a homer. All he had to do was make solid contact with the ball, and he felt certain that something good would happen. Keeping his hands loose on the bat, he watched as Jed went into his windup, came toward the plate, let loose, and—

  The ball hit him in the ribs.

  “Take that, you no-good son of a bitch!” Jed yelled.

  Hank stood there, staring, as hot pain began shooting across his side. They’d won the game, the winning run scored because he had been hit, but he didn’t give a damn. Anger flooded him and Hank made no effort to hold it back. Instead, he embraced it. He was dimly aware of Skip shouting, still trying to play peacemaker, but Hank wasn’t listening. Next thing he knew, he was at the mound, his fists flying, hitting Jed Ringer as hard as he could. A punch landed on his chin, then someone slammed into his back. Fortunately for Hank, not everyone who was rushing to join in the fight was there to hurt him. He kept brawling, so angry that he hardly felt anything. Incredibly, in the midst of the brawl, Hank was reminded of what had happened with Gwen.

  Even when he won the game, he somehow ended up losing.

  Chapter Nine

  GWEN LIFTED HER FACE to the afternoon sun, reveling in its warmth. Three days had passed since she’d nearly drowned in the river, and every single one of them had been spent cooped up in her parents’ house. It had been comforting having her mother close by, bringing her meals and anything else she might need, but it’d been a little suffocating, too. Finally, when she’d regained much of her strength, the urge to go outside and stretch her legs, to breathe fresh air, to be well and truly alone had become too powerful for Gwen to ignore.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?” Meredith had asked.

  If I stay here one minute longer, I’m going to burst! Gwen had wanted to scream, but instead she had kissed her mother’s cheek and headed out the door.

  Oddly enough, Gwen found herself retracing the steps she’d taken the night of her accident. In the daylight, she noticed things that hadn’t been visible during the storm, like the Levitts’ new garage and that Yvonne Walker had repainted her house, going from white to green.

  Standing at the intersection of Maple and Roosevelt, she once again looked at the burned-down house she’d seen just after arriving back in town. Stan Nunn’s home remained nothing but charred wreckage. Even after the downpour, the smell of burnt wood continued to cling to the air. Gwen thought about taking out her new notebook to write down a few observations, but in the end she decided against it. She didn’t want to stay still for long.

  Still, even as she continued on her way, her thoughts were slowly but steadily drawn away from her surroundings.

  Gwen couldn’t stop thinking about Kent.

  Just as Kent had promised, he had called once he’d arrived back in Chicago and continued to keep his word the following night. He had rambled on and on, his voice rising with excitement as he overwhelmed her with the details of his court case. It was only at the very end of their conversation that he’d bothered to ask how she was feeling. But then last night, at the appointed time, the phone had stayed silent. At first Gwen had brushed it off, figuring that Kent was running late, that he would still call. Even her mother had joined in making excuses for him, declaring that whatever it was that was keeping him had to be important. Gwen wasn’t so sure. In the end, the clock had kept ticking, the hour hand relentlessly moving forward, until she’d finally given up and gone to bed. When she’d woken this morning, Gwen hadn’t been angry, not really, more disappointed. This was why she hadn’t accepted Kent’s proposal. This was why she worried about ever becoming a writer. This was why she sometimes wondered whether she would be the most important part of his life.

  And then there was Hank Ellis…

  Ever since her mother had told her to forget about him, Gwen couldn’t help but do the opposite. She had plenty of questions and no answers. Why had Hank jumped into the raging river, risking his own life to save hers? How had he felt when her father ordered him out of their house? Had he really been responsible for his brother’s death? Gwen even wondered what Hank looked like. In those hazy moments after he’d pulled her from the water, she hadn’t gotten a good look at him before falling unconscious. She had continued to try to talk with her parents about him, but every question she asked was met with a frown or a short answer. Gwen could see that her father, in particular, was growing increasingly annoyed that she wasn’t letting the matter drop.

  “No daughter of mine needs to bother herself with a man like that!” he’d loudly declared before returning to his newspaper.

  But for Gwen, it wasn’t that simple. Her parents’ evasiveness only made Hank more interesting, like a mystery she needed to solve. The writer inside her grew curious. She wanted to ask questions, to learn truths or, at the very least, to have a face to go with his name. Deep down, though, Gwen knew that she couldn’t let go so easily.

  She strolled down Main Street, glancing in store windows, waving to people she knew, genuinely enjoying her day. Gwen was just wondering whether she should stop in the diner for a bite of lunch when the door to the drugstore opened and revealed a very familiar face.

  “Sandy!” she shouted with joy.

  Sandy Pedersen was her oldest, dearest friend. She hadn’t changed much since the last time Gwen had seen her. Sandy was short, with expressive green eyes, auburn hair that barely touched her shoulders, and a smile bright enough to rival the sun. But there was something incredibly different about her, a detail far too obvious to miss.

  She was very, very pregnant.

  Sandy’s large belly strained so hard against the buttons of her blouse that it looked as if they might pop off at any moment. Even though her mother had told her that Sandy was expecting, Gwen was still surprised. But Sandy’s bulging stomach didn’t deter her from excitedly wrapping her arms around her old friend.

  “Gwen!” Sandy exclaimed. “I heard you were back! I’m sorry I haven’t come over or called, but…” she said, then stepped back to show off her belly. “I have a lot on my plate these days.”

  “I can see that,” Gwen agreed, unable to look away.

  Seeing her interest, Sandy said, “You can touch it if you want.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Sandy laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t crack like an egg!”

  Not quite able to believe Sandy’s claim, Gwen gently placed her hand on her friend’s swollen belly. It was harder than she expected, almost like stone. Imagining that there was a baby in there made Gwen smile.
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br />   “Pretty crazy, isn’t it?” Sandy asked.

  Gwen could only nod.

  Just then, something pushed against her fingers. From the inside. Stunned, Gwen yanked her hand away. “What…what was that?” she asked in amazement.

  “A kick or a punch,” Sandy answered matter-of-factly.

  “Does that happen often?”

  “All the time. When I’m trying to sleep, when I eat, even walking down the sidewalk.” Sandy rubbed her stomach with affection. “He’s a feisty little bugger.”

  “It’s a boy?” Gwen exclaimed.

  “Well, there’s no way to know for certain,” her friend admitted. “But John’s convinced. Every time he talks to the baby, he calls it ‘Junior.’ He’s bought baseballs, army men, popguns, every last thing a little boy could dream of playing with.” Sandy smiled mischievously. “Imagine his surprise if it’s a girl.”

  The mention of her husband made Gwen realize one other thing that had changed. Her friend was no longer Sandy Pedersen; her last name was now Fiderlein. When Gwen had left for school at Worthington, when she’d begun to make a life for herself in Chicago, it wasn’t as if time had stood still back in Buckton. Sandy had gotten married, started a family, done all the things she’d talked about doing when they were girls.

  But while Sandy’s dreams had come true, Gwen doubted that either of them had expected their friendship to drift apart. When Gwen had originally left town, they’d sworn through tears that nothing would change, that they would write and call every chance they had, and, for a while, that’s just what they did. But with time, the letters and telephone visits grew less and less frequent. Learning of Sandy’s pregnancy from her mother had been another sign that they were no longer as close. But now, seeing her old friend again, Gwen felt as if all the distance between them had vanished, disappearing like so much smoke. For that, she couldn’t have been happier.