“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
Denny shot a glance at the third baseman, who was someone he’d never seen before, then he walked back to the batter’s box. Then he stepped out to confirm the signals. He knew he was sweating but he blamed the heat. He wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve but even the sleeve was soaked.
“Yeah, I guess I’m going to that meeting,” he said. He squinted.
“He still wants you to bunt,” Skootch informed him. While Denny was gone Skootch lit up a roach and now he pulled on a long drag while bringing the infield in. He offered it to the umpire as he always did but the umpire, as he always did, declined. He held it up to Denny but when Denny didn’t look at him he got the message. Skootch got into his crouch and balanced the roach on the trailing edge of home plate and Denny took a couple of halfhearted half swings then stepped into the box. The pitcher wasted no time. Denny couldn’t believe how well he saw the ball coming in, as if he could count the laces, and he was surprised by how slow it seemed and by the amount of time given him to make up his mind, as if the ball was a balloon and in that millisecond which computed velocity and trajectory and spin he determined that it was not slow, only that his brain was fast, and he couldn’t believe how the ball just ticked off the bat as if the bat barely touched it, nor could he believe that he was rounding the bases at a jog, having finally gotten this guy when he was having a good night only no one would believe that now, people would think the pitcher botched the throw before believing that Denny hit the best pitch he’d ever hit in his life, taking it over the low right field fence although, admittedly, on a muggy night the ball was prone to jump, high humidity was great for home runs, and as he rounded second Denny checked out the third baseman who’d been in for the bunt, and wondered why he didn’t know him, and why his hair was cut short like a regular Joe’s haircut and not like some warmed-over hippie’s from another era or off another planet like the rest of his teammates, and he noticed the guy’s spanking-new cleats as well as he trotted past him and that made him consider at that very instant and for no reason that he could fathom his wife’s right foot poking out from the sheet the other morning and as he stepped onto home plate just a second before Skootch removed the roach he felt weak, particularly in his knees and in his stomach, and Denny decided that he must have taken the bases too quickly on such a hot day, or maybe that wasn’t it, and he heard Skootch say, “Nice bunt,” as he was being welcomed into the hoots and applause of the audience and into the embrace of his teammates while feeling as odd in his own skin as he’d ever felt, as if he was not standing in his own flesh.
Then Denny did something he’d never done before. He looked back at the catcher, Skootch, a tree hugger Ryan’s age, thirty-five, and probably the oldest guy on the field, and he saw that Skootch was looking back at him probably for the first time ever in that situation as well, and he noticed something else that amazed him. Skootch knew. Skootch knew that he just hit the best pitch he’d ever hit and Skootch could no more believe it than he could. That hit. A freak of nature. An anomaly. His rival’s look was saying to him that he should enjoy it because You’ll never hit a pitch that good again, but Denny was thinking exactly that on his own. He couldn’t help himself. He shrugged at Skootch, and the ragamuffin eccentric catcher shrugged back, put his mask back on, and everyone then settled in for the next at bat.
Denny sat on the bench.
Feeling weird.
He hit his share of home runs over a summer, but none were ever so sweet or so perplexing, the way it just ticked ticked off the bat like that. Like snapping his fingers and it was gone, as if he wasn’t the one swinging the bat, as if he wasn’t himself.
Two innings later, Denny was in the field and taking an interest in the next hitter for the Tree Huggers. His counterpart at third base. He looked down the line and moved his toe through the dirt as he always did when there was no one on base, then he leaned into his stance and punched the pocket of his glove twice. Then he put both hands on his knees. Outside the batter’s box, the newcomer took a few practise swings that seemed smooth to Denny, fluid.
The batter stepped into the box.
Denny thought later that it was just as it was with his swing, the way the ball clicked off the bat, and that it was just like Val’s foot, the way it left an impression on him, as though its life suddenly transcended its function, as though it shone with its own light or something equally perplexing. This was just like that and so he didn’t think about anything. He called time.
The ump swung his arm up.
Denny called it intuition. He had an urge to call it something.
He walked to the pitcher’s mound. The catcher was going to join them but Denny held up a hand to stop him and the catcher was grateful to be spared the hike. He waited with his face mask pushed up over the top of his head and tapped his glove.
“Fuck it’s hot,” the pitcher said to him.
That’s when they first heard it, and although the rolling thunder was long anticipated, its sound and vibration and how it echoed through the hills and seemingly grew louder and reverberated did surprise them and frighten a few. Mothers started gathering up their kids, and when Denny and the pitcher looked towards the direction of the sound they saw the first evidence of storm cloud above a nearby hilltop, black and roiling with menace.
“Look at that,” the pitcher said. His name was Pierre Alfred Turcotte and he was having a brilliant night for their side. Maybe his best ever.
“Walk him,” Denny said. Everyone spoke English on the diamond.
“What? Denny, I got a no-hitter going. It’s a fucking perfect game.”
“You’re not supposed to say that out loud.”
“Oh fuck. You’re right. You’re right.”
“Walk him.”
“Why?”
Denny stepped around him so that his back was to home plate, maybe to conceal what he was saying from the hitter, but he didn’t want his catcher to know his ruse either until he first convinced the pitcher.
“Look at the guy. Take a good look at him.”
Pierre Turcotte did so. “Yeah? He doesn’t look tough.”
“You ever seen a tree hugger with a haircut before? He’s got shiny shoes.”
“So?”
“He’s not one of them.”
The pitcher took another glance at the batter. “So?” he asked.
“So he’s a ringer. Walk him. That storm’s coming fast. Don’t let him hit one out of here and tie this game. The ball’s popping out tonight if a guy makes contact. I know. Did you see my hit? It’s the humidity. Let’s keep the lead.”
“But Denny, it’s a perfect game.”
“It won’t matter, Pierre. Check out that cloud. We won’t finish the game.”
That final point won the argument, but Denny was surprised that the pitcher agreed with him. Pierre was a competitive guy and this strategy required letting that go, not to mention letting his perfect game go. Denny went back to his base and the pitcher signalled the catcher to stand out of the box and then he lobbed him the ball. The catcher was confused, looking first at Pierre and then at Denny. He walked out to the mound pounding his glove.
“He’s a ringer,” the pitcher said.
The catcher looked at Denny, then ambled back behind the plate, and they walked the batter quickly. Following them to the plate was the Wildcats’ own catcher, Gordon Skotcher, who popped up the first pitch to second base and when he ran back to his bench along the third base line, he took the long route around past Denny.
“Fucker,” Skootch said.
So he was right, Denny thought, the guy was a ringer.
The next thunder roll was terrific, and both benches began packing their extra equipment and the umpire made a turning motion with his arm to speed them up and after that Pierre pitched quickly. The next batter grounded out to short on his second pitch, and
the third out of the inning occurred on a fly ball to left that was as well hit as any ball that night by a Tree Hugger. Denny held his breath but the arc of the ball was too high for the ball to leave the park and the catch was made in the outfield and on his easy jaunt back to the bench the wind whipped up and dust flew in his face and they could see the lightning now snapping into the hills and one blast of thunder bore closely on the next.
The ump took a long look. The Wildcats hadn’t gone out to the field yet. They were checking the sky. They were scared to go out there. They knew they could get killed. The ump held up his arm as the first batter approached the plate even though no pitcher was on the mound to face him.
Then the ump called the game off. The Blue Riders feigned being pissed off because the Wildcats were spared a defeat but within the minute the game was forgotten in the race to get off the diamond and into their vehicles parked down the road out of the reach of foul balls. Women shooed their children on. The players pulled duffel bags up over their shoulders and beat it out of there. They knew that the storm was coming too fast, that they were going to be soaked.
■ ■ ■
Raine Tara-Anne Cogshill had noticed a poster for the baseball game, and traced a path where others strolled, skirting a field of parked trucks and vans on up through a woodlot to a higher plateau where the diamond shone in the evening light. Hot out, still. Close. Stifling. Perspiration dappled her nose. She was drawn to the crowd by her loneliness, but didn’t take the impulse to be anything serious. She considered her mood to be exaggerated because it felt unfamiliar, as she was now bereft of a constant whirlwind agenda. In time, she might grow into her current circumstances, feel less vulnerable. She might manage to enjoy herself. For the moment, Tara desired the crowd.
Located behind first and third, the stands were low, just six rows to the top with no backrests. She chose to situate herself behind the third base line, not noticing initially that the section was reserved for the visiting team’s supporters. Both sides were filling equally. Tara was surprised that she didn’t feel conspicuous, and supposed that the competing factions didn’t know one another well enough that a stranger stood out. By the way that the crowd was arranging itself—older folks greeting one another and young mothers doing the same—she presumed that at least a portion was merely along for the ride, more interested in socializing out of doors on a hot night than in baseball. Many fans, and players as well, fit her age bracket, so it was easy to feel part of the crowd, and Tara sensed how, in time, this could become her community. She lacked only the proper introductions.
Requiring protection from the sun, she wore a ball cap purchased in town, her first addition to a new wardrobe. She wore a short summery taupe skirt, a collarless and sleeveless white blouse, and sandals, the coolest outfit she could put together to beat the heat.
Tara drew subtle pleasure from the sounds of the game, the voices, how players barked encouragement to teammates and paid homage to the rituals of their sport. The soft thud of a ball into a mitt. She liked how everyone leaned one way or the other when a pop foul risked coming down on their heads. Preteen girls giggled. She appreciated the babble of small fry in and under the stands who frequently abandoned the game altogether to romp behind the tall fence of the backstop, their mothers edging over to keep an eye out. Tara noticed that a few beautiful men decorated the field, husbands probably, and when she slapped at a mosquito she detected in that action, in that quick response, the moisture on her own neck and forearms and in a twinkling the moisture on theirs. She liked the power that derived from anonymity. She was just a blur in the stands, free to notice a good set of pectorals, a six-pack, a cute tush.
Then the thunder and lightning came up and that excited her differently.
Like the others she fled the storm, walking quickly, although she was bereft of a car or truck to shield her and this sport could only have one conclusion: she’d get drenched. As the few cars that were behind her drove by, rocking in the ruts, she caught whistles from ballplayers, but no one stopped. Those cars were full. Then the rains hit and she jumped under a tree. Lightning slashed the sky and the thunder was not merely loud, it shook the ground and shot through her feet and she felt the tree tremble and its fright made her shake, too. She loved it. Branches whipped to and fro. She knew better than to seek cover under a tree in a storm, but out there, in the open, surely lightning would find her just as easily as did the fierce rain.
She wasn’t there long, maybe twenty seconds, when a pickup stopped and honked. The driver seemed to be looking for her, but she couldn’t be sure, as the windows were opaque with water. He flashed his lights and honked and when the truck went forward it was only by a few feet. So she took a chance and ran out and since she could not make eye contact she banged on the door’s window. The window lowered a crack.
She was already soaked.
“Jump in!”
She did. How dangerous could a baseball player be? She recognized this guy and told him, “Nice hit.”
“Thanks. Too bad we didn’t get enough innings—it won’t count. No car?”
“No car.”
“I saw you duck away. Figured you might need a lift.”
He was glancing over at her as his hands wrestled with the steering wheel until the truck reached a smoother section of road. He was checking her out but he was one of the cute ones she’d already checked out herself, and anyway photographs of three kids and a wife were pinned up under the windshield visor and across the dash above the glove box. A good-looking family. She felt safe enough.
“Thanks,” she said. “It’s really coming down.” She tried to adjust her wet bangs, then folded her arms over her chest in case she was showing through her soaked blouse. She knew she probably was, a little, but didn’t want to make that visual check. “I can’t believe how fast it came on! Just over the hill and whoosh!”
“Yeah. For sure.” He was able to speed up a little. The red taillights of a small car in front of him helped keep him on the road.
Rain galloped across the roof.
“Are you a tree hugger?” he asked. “You don’t look like a tree hugger.”
The question amused her. “What does a tree hugger look like?”
His was a lovely smile. “You know,” he said, although she didn’t. “Weird.”
She continued to look at him quizzically.
“That’s who we were playing. The other team. They’re tree huggers.”
“So, someone else might call a tree hugger . . . an environmentalist?”
“Some would. Other people might call them ecoterrorists. Depends on who you’re talking to. I guess I’m just asking if you live here. Are you visiting? I don’t think we’ve met.”
He could have tacked on something snide, such as, “I’d remember you,” but he didn’t, and she appreciated that.
“Just arrived. For now I’m at the Old Mill Inn.”
“I’ll take you up there.”
“That’s out of your way.”
“Nothing in this town is out of anyone’s way. What, do you think I’d just drop you off in a puddle?”
She smiled. “Thanks,” she said. He was right. She didn’t have far to go.
“So you’re visiting? Sorry about the weather.”
“I’m moving here. I’ll be staying upstairs at the Potpourri. Do you know it? I’ve joined that business.”
He was looking at her with a different sort of curiosity now.
“What?” she asked.
“Joined? You mean you’re working for Willis Howard?”
“Nor for him exactly. With him.”
She could tell that he didn’t believe her.
“He’s surprised, too,” she told him. “But I’ll have a little section of the store for myself and I’ll help him out with other things. Come see us! A few changes are in the offing.”
He turned onto hard pa
vement and she had trouble locating where they were through the driving rain. The wipers no sooner cleaned the windshield than it was instantly inundated, as if they were underwater.
“Changes, huh? Does Willis know about these changes? He’s like an old stick-in-the-mud, except that he’s not that old. About the only thing he changes is his clothes. Yeah. Sure. I’ll come by. See what you’re up to.”
“You don’t look like a shopper to me.”
He laughed lightly. “Changes down at Willis Howard’s store? News like that? In this town? You might as well say you’ve built a skyscraper smack dab in the middle of Main Street.”
She laughed. She liked him. “Good. Spread the rumour. We want people to come by, just give us a little time. Send your wife, too, of course.”
He looked over at her.
“If she’s the shopper in your family. Man, I feel like I’m in a submarine.”
“Yeah. It’s coming down.”
“What work do you do?”
“Logging truck.”
“Ah. An anti–tree hugger. A tree chopper. I’m getting the picture.”
“You thought that was a baseball game? That was no game. That was war. Whose side were you on?” She was glad that he was grinning.
“I clapped for your home run, does that count?”
“Sure does.”
“Good. Then I rooted for the tree choppers.”
They both smiled and he drove on slowly, as visibility went down to nothing and the world went dark.
“What just happened?”
“Power failure. Typical in a storm like this.”
“I love storms,” she said.
He didn’t answer right away, but momentarily uttered a quiet grunt.
“You don’t?” Tara asked.
“I do. Actually. But it’s been dry. With lightning, I worry about fires.”
“Ah. Competition for decimating forests.”
He glanced over at her to see how serious she might be. As quickly, his focus returned to the road. Driving required concentration.
The River Burns Page 12
