by M. D. Thomas
But there was nothing. No kid. No witnesses to confirm he wasn’t losing his mind. Nothing.
Harvey’s clothes were coated in grassy mud and he knew he’d have to go back in the house and change, but for the moment he didn’t care. He looked at where the kid had been standing, looked at where he’d been, then followed the line across the street. He wanted to find the ball.
He stared at the houses across from his, remembered how incredibly fast the ball had been moving. No. That was just an illusion because he was close. Anything thrown at your face from ten feet away would look that fast…
Harvey decided where the ball should be and crossed the street, avoided a lone car that almost stopped as it passed. “Nothing to see here fucker,” Harvey said as he gave them the finger with a hysterical laugh. “Move along!”
Harvey walked into a yard that was a barren wasteland of weeds and half-dead shrubs. He pushed through the vegetation for a couple of minutes but found nothing, the rain finally making it through his coat to his shirt.
He stopped and looked back across the street to where the two of them had been standing.
It has to be this yard…
There was nothing though. And nothing in the yards to either side. He looked until his clothes were sopping wet and then gave up. The ball was as gone as the kid.
Fear filled him again as he walked back to the Cherokee and returned the car to the driveway. He went inside the house and changed, his movements mechanical as he remembered the face he’d seen and the ball racing toward his head.
It happened… it did…
But had it?
It scared him that he wasn’t sure, but not nearly so much as the certainty that he’d see the kid again soon. He ran a hand across the top of his head, remembered what he’d felt after the ball had been thrown at him.
Soon.
Harvey had trouble focusing.
The hearing was rolling at the courthouse and it wasn’t long after he arrived that he took the stand. He gave his cut and dry testimony, the whole time expecting the kid to show up with that goddamn magic baseball. Big as the moon, he thought as he pictured the flying toward him on the witness stand.
He made it to the station in time for the daily operation meeting, where there wasn’t much to discuss other than the upcoming bust-out. It was his operation, so he did most of the talking, which was good since it limited the amount of time his mind could wander—with Robertson acting funny he couldn’t afford to fuck things up. All of the narcs had participated in dozens of operations, so the plan was finalized by lunchtime. They’d gear up that evening before heading out.
Most narcs had operation day rituals—you never knew when your ticket might get punched so you’d best spend some time with family, let the people that mattered know how you felt. Harvey’s ritual was a sharing some fresh cannoli with Nonna and Nonno.
He picked up the cannoli at Fiducci’s Market and made it to Haywood Street shortly after two. He stepped out of the car, white paper bag in hand, shoulders hunched against the rain, and half-expected the kid to appear. He wasn’t afraid anymore, but there was an edge to his nerves that he’d only felt a couple of times in his entire life.
The closer he got to the house the more certain he was that if he looked behind him the kid would be at the end of the sidewalk, his arm winding up into another throw that would put the baseball right through his entrails. He walked faster.
“It’s Harvey, Nonna,” he called out as he knocked. “You there?”
The door opened up a moment later, concern on Nonna’s face. “Good grief, Harvey, is something wrong?”
“No, I’m fine,” Harvey said, the itch between his shoulder blades stronger than ever. He’s not behind you. Don’t you think Nonna would have noticed?
“Fiducci’s?” Nonna said as he hurried inside, her voice anxious. “You’ve got an operation?”
“Nothing dangerous,” Harvey said, his heart finally slowing as Nonna closed the front door.
“They’re all dangerous. Well, you’re in luck. Nonno’s already at the table. But let’s get you out of that wet coat first.”
Nonno sat in his usual seat, his once tall, strong body hunched and withered, his remaining hair wispy and thin, his gaze unfocused as he stared at the wall, mouth open. The man that’d intimidated Harvey as a child, the man who’d skipped around construction sites tossing bricks and cinder blocks like they were feathers, was nearly gone. Even as an older man he’d been strong, immutable and immovable. But his mind had left him and his strength had gone along for the ride.
“Hi, Nonno,” Harvey said as he kissed his grandfather’s papery scalp. “I brought your favorite—cannoli from Fiducci’s.”
Nonno only stared ahead.
“Sit, Harvey,” Nonna said as she brought plates and forks to the table.
Harvey obeyed, placed the Fiducci’s bag in the center of the table. Nonna doled out the cannoli then sat between the two of them. She scooted her chair closer to Nonno and began to spoon feed him, prompting and encouraging him like she would an infant. Harvey stared at them, his thoughts running between the kid and his grandparents.
Everything is falling apart…
Nonna glanced at him. “Eat, Harvey.”
Harvey nodded and forced himself to it. “He’s had a bad day?”
“No. Not really. He’s actually given me a run for my money.” She sounded happy, but she looked tired as she wiped ricotta off her husband’s chin. “He decided to take a walk on his own this morning. I found him at the end of the sidewalk. He even remembered an umbrella.”
Harvey sighed. It was the third time that month Nonno had gotten out of the house without Nonna realizing it. How long before he made it far enough to get lost? Or he wandered into traffic and got hit by a car? Harvey thought of bringing up a care facility again but it would be useless. Nonna was one of the sweetest women he’d ever known, but she had a stubborn streak a mile deep. “I think we need to go ahead and get those safety locks.”
Nonna pursed her lips as she placed another bit of food in her husband’s mouth. “I know. We should have done it weeks ago. I think I just wasn’t ready to admit to myself that he needed them. He loved walking so much.” Nonno had taken two walks a day as long as Harvey could remember. One at dawn most days, and a second right after dinner. Keeps your guts moving, Harvey, he’d said almost every time as they set out. Keeps you from eating too much because you know how uncomfortable it’ll be to walk if you do.
“I’ll get them this week, okay?”
“Okay. I hope they’re not too expensive.”
Harvey grimaced, thinking about the bust-out. “Don’t worry about that, Nonna.” He hesitated, then asked, “You haven’t noticed a kid hanging around the house have you? Always has a baseball and glove?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.” He put his fork down, the cannoli only half-eaten. Big as a goddamn moon… He had to find the kid’s parents. It was stupid and risky, and he didn’t know how he’d play it, but he had to get that kid off his back. He needed to worry about Nonna and Robertson, not Lee Young. “Tell me what other trouble Nonno got into today.”
Sixteen
JON
That night Jon didn’t make it to the care facility until almost eight because of a deadline on the specs for a new high-rise out in Herndon. He opened the door to Lee’s room, the minuscule bit of hope he had every visit dying as soon as he saw his son still immobile in his bed, turned on his side to avoid bed sores.
Sarah sat in her big chunky seat, knitting forgotten in her lap, staring at the bed, her face blank. It was an expression he’d grown to expect. It told him nothing about her day, but what needed to be told? Lee was still gone, still missing in action, still AWOL.
Jon stood in the doorway, stared at his not-even-a-vegetable son, and emotion passed through him like light through water, bent and distorted. Sadness. Despair. Anger. Confusion. Everything negative. The only thing near pleasurable since the acciden
t had been the boy at the ball field the night before, wildly tossing the ball, reminding him of Lee. But even that memory became darker the more it aged.
“Do you think he’s dreaming?” Sarah asked, startling Jon. He hadn’t been sure she’d even noticed his arrival.
“Dr. Kamarti says maybe.” There’d been discussions of what some coma patients remembered upon awakening, discussions of dreams, of time passing. None of it mattered.
“I didn’t ask what Dr. Kamarti thought. I asked what you thought.”
Calm…
“Sorry.” He tried to consider the question, tried to pretend it mattered, thought of what she wanted to hear. “I hope so. I like to think he’s dreaming about playing baseball.”
No reaction.
He hesitated, then, “What do you think?”
Sarah was silent for a long time before she answered. “I hope he’s not. Not all dreams are good and the thought of him being trapped in there, dreaming about something like the accident scares me beyond comprehension. I hope wherever he’s at, it’s deep and dreamless and when he wakes up, it’ll be like no time at all has passed for him.”
Jon stared, uncomprehending. “But isn’t it better if he’s dreaming? Doesn’t that mean his brain is more active?”
Sarah’s mouth thinned. “They say that. The truth is, they don’t have a clue. Haven’t you realized that by now? They don’t know what they’re doing or what they’re talking about. They know how to keep his body alive, but they don’t even know what’s broken in his mind, much less how to fix it. His brain is as much a mystery to them as it is to you and I.”
Jon supposed she was right, but he didn’t want to think about it. “Maybe when Lee wakes up, he’ll be able to tell us if he was dreaming.” He was careful to say when, not the if that first came to mind.
Sarah stared at Lee for a moment before she turned her gaze on Jon. “How is the search going?”
Jon was surprised by the subject change, but not by the question. Sarah had asked more and more often lately, seemed almost obsessed with the quest she’d sent him on. “Nothing still.”
“It’s been almost a month since you started looking.”
“There are a lot of bars around here, Sarah. A lot. I’ve been to forty already. You knew it was a long shot from the beginning.”
“Forty,” Sarah said, and something about her expression disturbed him—she looked harder than she ever had before. “You should be going faster.”
“I’m going as fast as I can.”
“You need to go faster, Jon. If you don’t find her, he might not—” She snapped her mouth shut and the hardness on her face was replaced by wariness.
“Might not what?” Jon asked. “And who are you talking about? The guy that was with the bartender?”
“Nothing,” Sarah said with a shake of her head. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Go faster, Jon. We’ve got to find her. For Lee.”
After Jon told Lee goodnight and walked away from Sarah in silence, he went straight to the next bar on the list.
Some joint in Falls Church full of modern furniture and reflective surfaces, the kind of place that served more wine and mixed drinks than beer, the kind of place where the majority of the patrons wore suits and ties or fitted dresses after a day at the corporate office slash courthouse slash financial firm, where the talk was a mix of business and coital fencing, mostly the latter. The single male bartender wore a burgundy vest. Jon took one sip of an overpriced foreign beer, contemplated and then rejected the food, and hurried out.
x.
Rain falling, he sat in the Volvo outside the bar, engine running, his head on the steering wheel, his eyes closed, tried to figure out what in the hell he was doing. What did it matter if he found the people who’d hit them? Justice down the road wouldn’t wake Lee up. And why did Sarah care so much all of a sudden? Was that the only reason he continued to search, because that’s what Sarah wanted him to do? Or was he still searching because he wanted revenge? Because he didn’t know what else to do?
Calm…
He raised his head off the wheel and looked at the clock on the dash. Half-past nine. There was the next bar on the list but he had no desire to go there. It was nothing but a waste of time. He was hungry and tired and done. He needed to reevaluate, to try and reconnect with Sarah somehow and that meant he belonged at her side with Lee, not wandering to yet another bar searching for what might never be found.
He leaned into the wheel again. Tears came, silent and hard, went on until there was nothing left but the hitches in his throat. Spent, he sat up, ready to head back to Rainbow Pines, and saw that Lee was in the passenger seat.
Jon didn’t care that it wasn’t real, didn’t care what it said about his state of mind.
Lee had his ball and glove, the same worn-in brown Wilson that lay perfectly flat when a hand didn’t hold it open. The glove had been so stiff when they’d first brought it home, had rested wide open. Lee had oiled it, stomped on it, left it rolled up with rubber bands, had Jon run over it again and again with the Cressida. Only time had loosened it. Time and a thousand games of catch, a thousand tricks Lee taught himself, game after game until it had become perfect.
On Lee’s head was the same old dirt-stained blue Pirates hat, shrouding his torso a Pirates jersey. Below the jersey were a pair of scuffed jeans and cleats.
Lee started smacking the ball into his glove. Over over over, his eyes staring through the rain-streaked windshield at the pretentious bar.
Jon tried to talk and realized he couldn’t, his throat as tight as a tensioned steel cable, and he swallowed against the restriction. After a moment a croak emerged, and after that a word, garbled and harsh. “Lee… ”
Lee didn’t respond of course.
Again. “Lee. I miss you. I don’t know what to do. Ever since the accident nothing has been the same and I don’t know what to do.”
Lee looked at him, his hands never ceasing in their movement. Smack. Smack. Smack. That look said why are we sitting here? Let’s go…
Jon nodded and shifted the car into reverse, left the lot and pulled into the stream of traffic headed south. “It’s all my fault, Lee. We never should’ve been there. I’m sorry. We never should’ve been there.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
“I understand if you’re ready to move on, Lee. I don’t want you to keep suffering.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Calm…
Jon breathed deep, did everything he could to stifle another apology. It burned to come out again, and even as he held back part of him wanted to repeat the words.
“The Nats have been on a tear the last few weeks,” Jon said after swallowing hard. “Thirteen and two, and one of those wins against the Red Sox. They’re second in the division right now, but only two games back from the Mets.”
Jon rambled as he drove, and it wasn’t until he’d made two successive left turns that he realized he hadn’t been driving toward Rainbow Pines at all, but had made his way out of Falls Church and into Arlington. A moment later the next bar on the list came into sight. The Hill. He thought of driving by, of turning toward Sarah, but Lee was there and that meant something. He coasted the Volvo into the parking lot, looped for a spot, his eyes off Lee, and when he looked back at the passenger seat his son was gone.
The dull thump of a band washed through the swinging doors ahead of him when a couple pushed out, hanging on each other, drunk, their faces slack. Jon slid past unnoticed and let the doors carry him inside the Hill.
The roar of the band matched the cacophony of shouting laughing talking voices, the press of bodies a swarm that obscured the floor and tables. A wall hugged the bar and small stage in the corner, where a long-haired rocker with sunglasses and a cowboy hat belted out a song that was part rockabilly part pop that was familiar but unplaceable. A cover no doubt, Jon just couldn’t remember who.
A behemoth of a man stood just inside the doors, eyed him, dismissed him, bouncer instinct sure there
was nothing to worry over. Wondering if entering had been a mistake, Jon struggled toward the bar, tried to see over the people before it and failed. He dodged a scantily-dressed college-aged girl—spinning and dancing with a beer raised above her head, her hair arcing, her eyes closed, two guys attempting to close on her and failing because of the whirlwind—and squeezed through a chink in the wall of people.
“Just need a beer,” he apologized to annoyed glances as he shoved his way through. Two girls wearing cowboy hats at jaunty angles pushed aside, bestowed the dismissive glances of the young for the old, Jon so ancient they felt sorry enough for him to move out of the way.
He got one elbow up on the bar—sitting wasn’t even an option, there were no stools that he could see—and spotted a bartender pulling bottles from the wall of liquor that ran for at least twenty more feet to either direction. Her hair ran in unruly curls down her back, a turbulent waterfall the color of dark chocolate. She wore a denim shirt that the sleeves had been ripped off of at the shoulder—it was hard to tell if the shirt was made that way or altered—above a loose black skirt that swirled above bare knees. She was thin, her brown skin spotted by a handful of dark moles. On her shoulder was a Celtic tattoo, the ink faded, the lines dull, the overlaps of the knots indistinguishable.
The bartender finished prepping the drink, returned the last bottle to the wall, and turned around as she shook the mixing glass in her hand. She stepped up to the bar near him and poured the drink into a serving glass, set it down in front of a woman to Jon’s right. She moved squarely in front of him and said something and he saw lights through the shattered car window, saw that billow of curls and thought he must be dreaming.
She frowned, leaned closer. “What can I get for you?”
It was dim inside the Hill, just as it had been dim that night, and with the lights from behind the bar outlining her face, Jon felt suspended between the past and the present. Her face was attractive but a bit harsh, her nose sharp and slightly hooked, her lips curled into a natural sneer, one corner higher than the other, a faint scar running across her left cheek. Opposite the scar a small tattoo sat high up on her cheek, not far from the corner of her eye on the thin skin above a prominent cheekbone.
