by Brad Smith
There was a stringbean lefty on the mound for the home side. He had a wild windup, lifting his leg so high he almost kicked himself in the ear with his shoe, and then heaving himself forward in a jangle of arms and legs, releasing the ball from about three quarter. The movement was so herky-jerky that Ray wondered how the kid ever managed to throw strikes and then, watching for a bit, realized for the most part that he couldn’t. The bases were full when Pudge walked out to talk to the kid the first time, and they were still full, with three runs scored and nobody out, when he pulled him a few minutes later.
Al Robins came in to relieve. When Ray was on the team the young guys used to joke that Al had three pitches: slow, slower, and slowest. Of course, what the kids couldn’t understand was that a pitcher pitches with his brain, not his arm. Ray watched, smiling, as Al threw a total of four pitches, got a pop-up and a double-play ball, and walked off the field. Slow, slower, and slowest. Ray could see the guys kidding Al as he went into the dugout, and he knew what they were saying—ragging him about his age, his paunch, his lack of speed. The same things Ray might say when he went down to the field.
After another inning he got into the Caddy, sat there with the engine running for several minutes. Then he pulled out onto the street and headed out of town.
On the inside, all a man thinks about is getting out. Night and day, it’s always there, like an unfulfilled promise—that always indistinct point of time somewhere in the distance when he is no longer in stir. It occupies a man’s head when he’s thinking about it, and it occupies his head when he isn’t. The mental pursuit of that future moment is so powerful that he invariably forgets to consider the next question.
What to do when it finally happens.
Because being out with nothing to do and nowhere to go is not all that much different from being in. The difference between being inside and being out was that on the inside, a man always had a plan. And that was to get out. Being out robbed him of that objective, and it was in looking for a brand-new objective that he usually got himself in trouble.
* * *
Dean and Paulie were at the bar in the Slamdance. Dean drinking a vodka martini, Paulie, beneath his porkpie, nursing a beer, both transfixed by Misty strutting the stage. Dean was pissed at Tiny Montgomery; he’d asked Tiny for Grey Goose vodka—that’s what Misty drank—and Tiny had told him he wouldn’t know Grey Goose vodka from gray goose shit. So Dean, on his third drink, had yet to tip the big man. Tiny was taking his penance in stride; Dean wasn’t much of a tipper in the best of humor.
Misty was into her finale when the door opened and a guy walked in, a guy Dean recognized but couldn’t finger. The guy was late thirties, brown hair, thin. Wearing jeans and a leather jacket. When he came under the light of the bar Dean could see he had a slight hook in his nose and a thin scar across the point of his chin. His hands on the bar were large and calloused.
“Paulie, who’s that dude?” Dean asked.
Paulie glanced over real quick, then went back to Misty, who was stark naked now, on a blanket on the floor, knees up, giving the boys on pervert row a reason to pay six bucks for a bottle of beer.
“I seen him before someplace,” Paulie said.
Tiny Montgomery walked over to the man, and they shook hands across the bar, Tiny smiling broadly. He brought the man a beer, refused payment. They talked until a customer drew Tiny away. The man in the jacket took his beer to a corner table and sat with his back to the wall.
Misty finished up, gathered her clothes and her blanket, and headed backstage. Paulie turned back to the bar and reached for his beer. He was thinking about asking Misty to go on a picnic.
Dean drank off his vodka, signaled to Tiny for another, and the big man brought it over. This time Dean tipped.
“Who’s that guy you were talking to?” Dean asked.
“What guy?”
“In the leather jacket in the corner.”
“Ray Dokes.”
“Ray Dokes.” Dean tried the name like he was sampling a drink. “How come I know him?”
“He’s the guy,” Paulie said. “I just remembered.”
“What guy?”
“He’s the guy put Sonny in the hospital for all them months,” Paulie said.
“Sonofabitch,” Dean said. “I thought he went to jail for that.”
“He did,” Tiny said. “That’s why you haven’t seen him around, genius.”
Dean took his drink and turned around, leaned back with his elbows on the bar. Ray Dokes sat with his legs crossed, watching as a fresh dancer ascended the stage. The dancer was dressed as a cowgirl, with six-shooters, a red cowboy hat, and a bullwhip, which she cracked periodically over the heads of the patrons up front.
“He doesn’t look so tough,” Dean said.
“What’s looks got to do with it?” Paulie asked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Misty came out of the back room, wearing a short tight skirt and boots, which meant she was still working. She cast an irritable eye about the room, as if she was looking for someone who wasn’t there. When Dean waved to her, she rolled her eyes and walked over. She stepped between the two of them, and Paulie took the opportunity to smell her hair, her neck. She smelled, he decided, like a goddess.
“Johnny Walker Blue,” she said to Tiny. She indicated Dean. “He’s paying.”
Misty smiled impatiently as Dean did as he was told. She’d been hanging with the two pretty steadily for the past week or so. Dean was an easy touch for drinks, and she had, just a couple days earlier, hit Paulie up for two hundred dollars, saying she needed the money to buy her son a pair of hockey skates. This in spite of the fact that Misty was taking home two grand a week and that her kid, who lived in Wisconsin with his father, was barely two years old and probably not all that interested in hockey.
Now Dean took a twenty from his pocket and offered it to her. “I want a table dance.”
She shrugged. “We can go in the back.”
“Not for me,” Dean said. He looked at Paulie. “Watch—I’m gonna give this Dokes a treat.” Then to Misty: “That guy in the corner. In the leather jacket. Tell him it’s on Dean Caldwell.”
“I thought your name was Dino,” Misty said.
“It is,” Dean said quickly. “But in certain circles, I’m known as Dean.”
Misty glanced at Paulie. “What are you known as, in certain circles?”
“I’m always Paulie.”
Ray was lighting a cigarette when he saw the blonde approaching, cutting through the crowd, the sway in her hips suggesting Monroe while the look in her eyes was all business. It took him a moment to realize that he was her target. Just as she arrived, the music ended. She sat down beside him, put her Scotch on the table.
“You’re getting a lap dance.”
“No thanks.” Ray drew on his cigarette, watching her narrowly.
“Hey, it’s paid for.”
“By who?”
“Guy’s name is Dean Caldwell.” Misty crossed her legs, then turned toward the bar. “See the idiot at the bar with his mouth hanging open, wearing the hat? It’s the idiot beside him, with the spiked hair.”
Ray looked over. “I don’t know him.”
The music started up, and Misty got to her feet, moved in front of Ray. “I don’t care if you know him or not. He paid for a dance, and that’s what you’re getting.”
“Go away,” Ray told her sharply.
“Don’t fuck with me, man. I’m just doing my job.”
“Go dance for somebody else. If I want to see you naked, I’ll go sit up front with the wankers.”
Misty stared at him for a moment, gave him a look that told him she was this close to telling him to fuck off. But then she sat down.
“What’s your problem?” she asked.
“I don’t have a problem. You think you’re at a mixer?”
“You’re a miserable prick. What’re you doin’ here if that’s your attitude?”
“Minding my own bus
iness, for starters. I came in for a beer.”
“Who the fuck are you to look down your nose at me? I happen to have a B.A. in business from Yale.”
“Oh yeah? And I’m an astronaut.”
She took a drink of Scotch and glanced over to the bar, where Dean was watching her in puzzlement. Then she turned her chair around, regarded Ray, and told him, “I’m not giving the motherfucker his twenty back.”
Ray shrugged. “What do I care? I don’t even know them.”
“I thought they were your friends.”
“I’ve never seen them before. Don’t you know them?”
“They’re just a couple guys who hang out here. They claim they’re related to Earl Stanton, the billionaire.”
Ray had straightened in his chair now, and he was looking in the direction of the bar. He glanced back at the woman for a moment. If it was some sort of power play, he had to wonder if she was in on it. He dismissed the thought, though; if she was involved, it would have been stupid to spill about the Stanton connection. And she didn’t appear stupid. Ray got to his feet and walked directly to the bar. Dean had his back to him, ordering another round. Ray slammed him from behind, pinned him against the bar, felt inside Dean’s jacket for a piece. Then he turned to Paulie, who was wearing a T-shirt, not hiding anything.
“Don’t move,” Ray said.
“What the fuck—” Dean said.
Finding no weapon, Ray turned Dean around, held him by the collar with one hand. “So what’s the story here?” he asked. “You boys got a message from cousin Sonny?”
“You got it all wrong,” Dean told him.
“I’ll tell you what, asshole,” Ray said. “Follow me out that door, and you’ll have it all wrong.”
He pushed Dean aside and walked out the door. Dean straightened his collar and gathered his dignity and then he turned to see Paulie watching him.
“It didn’t appear to me as though that man wanted a treat,” Paulie said, and then he ordered another beer.
* * *
Etta loaded the last of the whites into the washing machine and measured out the detergent. Before closing the lid, she glanced down at her own T-shirt, stained from the cereal Homer had tossed her way in a fit an hour earlier. She pulled the shirt over her head and placed it in the washer, closed the lid, and started the machine. There was a plaid work shirt hanging on the wall, just inside the back door; she took it from the hook and slipped it on. It smelled faintly of her father’s pipe tobacco.
She walked back into the kitchen. Homer was sitting by the window, rocking back and forth and watching a hummingbird as it searched fitfully for an autumn blossom. The second bowl of cereal sat soggy and untouched on the table. Etta considered another effort to get him to eat, then let it go. Homer would eat when he was ready.
Etta looked out the window and saw that the flag was up on the mailbox. She went out the front door and walked across the lawn to the road. The wind had come up overnight, stripping the large silver maples along the lane of their leaves and assorted small branches. The lawn was covered.
Etta flipped the red flag down and retrieved the mail from inside. There were several bills and the Farmer’s Monthly. She glanced quickly through the pile, saw nothing encouraging, and started for the house. Her next-door neighbor drove by in her filthy white LeBaron, honking her horn like she just got it for Christmas. Etta waved over her shoulder and continued on across the leaf-strewn lawn.
When she went back into the house she saw that her father was no longer in the kitchen. Looking out the kitchen window, she saw him walking in the orchard. At least he’d put a jacket on.
Etta went into the pantry—her office—and sat down in front of the computer. She opened the envelopes one by one, keeping a running total in her head, then tossed them in a pile.
“Shit,” she said.
After a moment, she turned on the computer and went on-line. She went into her bank account and checked her balance. Then she looked at the bills again, mentally aligned them in order of priority. Going off-line, she sat back and stared at the monitor until the screensaver appeared.
Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, it advised.
Indeed.
She was still in the chair when Father Tim Regan walked in, wearing a windbreaker and carrying a brand-new Bible.
“I said hello!” he said.
Etta straightened with a start. She reached forward to turn the computer screen off, got to her feet. She wasn’t thrilled to see the priest; his visits were growing more frequent. Etta had Mabel Anton to thank for that.
“Hi, Tim,” she said. “I guess I was out of it.”
“I guess you were.”
“I need a coffee,” she told him.
In the kitchen Etta took the bowl of sodden cereal from the table and dumped it in the garbage. She made a pot of coffee while Regan sat at the old pedestal table and watched her. The Bible was on the table. Once, turning to the fridge, she thought he was looking at her ass, but she couldn’t be sure. Tim Regan was handsome, a boyish forty-one, and a charming man. There were people who thought that he was gay, but that was probably a preconceived stereotype more than anything. She’d never felt that he had any interest in sex at all. He’d never flirted with her.
When the coffee was ready she carried the pot to the table and brought out cups and cream.
“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” she asked as she sat down.
Regan poured cream into his cup. “Just passing by. I thought I’d stop and see how things were going.”
“Fine as frog’s hair, as the old folks say.”
“I just saw Homer. How’s he doing?”
“Depends on what day it is. Did he speak to you?”
“He swore at me for parking on the lawn.”
“Well, he’s pretty much back to normal.” She smiled at him, and they drank their coffee.
“So what’re you really doing here?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I worry about him. And you, too. Especially when I see you sitting, staring at a blank computer screen. How are you making it?”
“I work three nights a week at the hospital in town. Nurse’s aide, twelve-hour shifts. Mabel didn’t tell you this?”
Regan smiled. “She told me. And that she comes in and looks after Homer.”
“Must have been tough getting all that out of her.”
“She has a good heart, Etta.”
“She’s a busybody, is what she is. She’s decided to save my soul, and apparently she’s signed you up to help.”
“She cares about you. She thinks you’re falling behind. Did your father pay the taxes?”
“You’re as nosy as Mabel, padre. The taxes will be fully paid, thank you very much.”
“Then you’ll borrow the money to pay them.” Regan hesitated, then pushed the new Bible toward her. “I brought you this. Thought I might see you and Homer at church.”
“That what you thought?” she asked, smiling. She picked up the Bible. “And you think I’m in need of this?”
He shrugged. “Better to have it and not need it than the other way around.”
She let go of the smile and looked away from him. Out the window, she could see Homer in the yard, making his way back to the house. He seemed unsteady on his feet.
“Sometimes he mistakes me for my mother,” she said. “And when he does, he thinks he’s entitled to his conjugal rights.”
“Oh.”
“Luckily, he’s not that strong anymore. Or it could be a problem.”
“But eventually he will be a problem. He can’t be any help to you around here.”
“Not a lot,” she admitted. She looked at him. “Sonny Stanton’s been bugging Dad to sell him the farm. Seems Sonny’s bent on becoming a gentleman farmer. Although I doubt either word applies with him.”
“Maybe you should consider the offer.”
“No way. History is all I have left. This is where I make my stand.”
Regan reached for his cup, fo
und that it was empty. When he looked toward the pot she got up and poured another cup.
“Sonny Stanton,” he said. “That’s funny; Mabel mentioned that Ray Dokes is out.”
“Tell me, padre, does Mabel have any inside information on the JFK assassination?”
“I couldn’t say. Have you seen him?”
“JFK?”
“Ray Dokes.”
“He stopped by the other day. Wasn’t it in the newsletter?”
Regan shrugged and took a drink of coffee. “I’ve heard stories about the man. You two seem … an unlikely pair.”
“What’s going on here?” she asked. “You concerned about my welfare, or just looking for tales of true romance?”
“Maybe both.” He smiled. “I’m a modern man.”
Etta looked at him a moment, thinking that she’d like to tell the priest to go to hell. Though she’d probably lose her sitter if she did.
“All right. I’d just come home, what—three years ago. I was teaching art history at Sheridan College, and the job was losing its patina, if you will. Also, I’d just broken off with a guy who wasn’t nearly as divorced as he’d led me to believe—gee, maybe that’ll be next week’s installment. Anyway, I decided to move back home for a while. I was teaching an art class at the Tompkins Gallery, and Ray’s sister was one of my students. Ray started dropping in—he was still playing ball then—and next thing you know, I was going to watch him pitch, and we were going out for beers afterward, and we golfed a couple times, and then—well, you know all about the birds and the bees, right?”
Regan didn’t bother to smile this time. “Why were you attracted to him?”
She leaned back in her chair and regarded him narrowly. She was torn between a feeling of resentment and a need to justify herself. “He is—” she heard herself say and then she hesitated. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but he is as good a man as I’ve ever known.”
“Really.”
“Really. Having said that, I should add that he is also—and you’ll pardon my language here—a bit of a fuckup.”
