by Gayle Roper
She’d taken one step when she plowed into an older man standing directly behind her. Her Cokes went flying, drenching the man. His eyes went wide as sticky brown liquid pocked his glasses and dissolved the hair spray that held the long strands that he combed with evident care from one side of his skull to the other.
Leigh didn’t even apologize. She ducked, lifted her hands above her head, and braced for the wallop when the ball connected. She waited for her life to flash before her eyes.
Nothing happened.
A cheer went up, and she opened her eyes to see Clay’s hand just above her, the baseball seated firmly in his outstretched palm. He grinned down at her as he held the ball aloft for everyone to see.
She began to breathe again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He held the ball out to her. “My pleasure.”
She shook her head at the proffered ball. “This isn’t the Phillies. We can’t keep it. We have to throw it back.”
As he lobbed it over the fence to the umpire amid the wash of more cheers, Leigh turned to apologize to the man she had given the cold bath. She felt terrible, imagining how he had come to cheer some grandchild to victory and instead endured a frigid shower. Hopefully he had a strong heart.
He was gone. She looked over and around all the bodies between her and the street but couldn’t see him. She even stood on the first step of the bleachers and scanned the whole area, but the man had disappeared.
She felt bad. She’d driven some poor, innocent man from the ballpark, and not only hadn’t she been hurt, but she didn’t even have significant damage done to her by the Cokes.
As she made her way back to the concession stand for more Cokes, she shook her head at the farce of it all. While she, ever the klutz, drenches some poor stranger, Clay, ever the hero, makes a miraculous catch, saving her from certain injury. He’d even had the presence of mind to transfer the three hot dogs to his left hand before bagging the ball.
She sighed. Life was never fair.
Fourteen
SATURDAY EVENING, Clay tossed the baseball back and forth with Billy and his buddy Mike in the driveway, trying to work off the jitters that made it impossible for him to be still. He had had quite a day. There was his disastrous attempt to spend time with Ted and his hissing bout with Leigh. He’d made her cry. He’d made his mother cry.
Clay sighed. Nothing like a mature Christian to bring light to the darkness. Or more appropriately, pour salt into open wounds. He thought he’d redeemed himself somewhat in Leigh’s eyes with the Little League thing. He’d said yes to Billy mainly to impress her, and to his surprise he’d had a great time. It had been a real kick to cheer for the Eaters and Billy who not only made a good catch but actually made it to first base. And his own hero-making catch that kept Leigh from getting beaned hadn’t hurt any.
He still got chills when he thought of that ball heading straight for her. It would have clobbered her if he hadn’t gotten there first. His hand ought to stop stinging in a week or two tops.
“Yo, Mr. Wharton,” called Mike as the ball sailed past Clay’s head.
“Sorry,” he called, loping down the drive to recover the ball. At least if it went into the street, it was no big deal down here on the cul-de-sac. He scooped up the ball and tossed it to Mike who made a big jump to catch it even though it was only shoulder high.
“You’ve been watching too many Great Moments in Sports films, Mike.”
“Wait until you see me,” Billy yelled. “Put it here!”
Billy’s contortions made Mike’s look like the clip on the editing room floor.
“Let me hit you some pop-ups,” Clay suggested, trying not to laugh. These two might not be long on talent, but they certainly got into the spirit of things.
“Be careful of the windows,” Billy said.
“Have you had some experience with windows?” Clay asked.
“Sure. On my computer,” Billy answered, all innocence.
“Hah!” Mike pointed his finger at the window over the kitchen sink. “That one.”
“Well, it wouldn’t have been so bad if Grandma Jule hadn’t been at the sink peeling potatoes.”
Clay laughed as he popped one high. The boys clustered under it, both yelling, “Mine. It’s mine. I called it!”
“It’s Mike’s,” Clay called as the ball dropped. “But don’t take your eye off it!”
Mike looked at Clay at the last minute. “What’d you say?”
The ball bounced harmlessly to the ground.
“My turn,” shouted Billy. “But not quite so high.”
Clay swung and the ball arced.
“The window,” yelled Mike. “It’s going to go through the window.”
Billy reached for the ball and caught it in the webbing of his glove just as he lost his balance and fell in the hydrangea bush under the kitchen window.
Billy pulled himself out of the bush as Mike rushed over, and the boys examined it thoroughly for injuries.
“It’s okay, I think,” Mike said. “Man, hurting that would be worse than breaking the window. For some reason your grandmother loves this little tree.”
“Bush, not tree. That’s because Grandpa Will bought it for her the birthday before he died,” Billy explained. “It’s sentimental.”
Clay looked at the leafless bush. Clusters of dried, pinkish beige flowers left over from last year still clung to it. He hadn’t known the story of it being Dad’s last gift. He sighed. What else didn’t he know that he should? He’d definitely been away too long, though he had an idea or two that might rectify the problem. He still needed to think and pray more about his future plans before he told his mom anything. He didn’t want to get her excited prematurely. He laughed to himself. He’d never thought he’d want to come back to Seaside to live.
“I think we’ll go to the beach,” he said to the boys, his many years in the military teaching him when it was time to seek a more suitable venue.
They tramped through the dunes to the empty beach. Even the ever present Clooney was missing. Time after time, Clay hit the ball as far as he could, and the boys chased the hits tirelessly. The longer they played, the more obvious it became that Billy wasn’t really a bad player. He just needed practice. And someone to practice with.
“Mike,” called Leigh from the path through the dunes, interrupting them in the middle of a play. All eyes turned to her while the ball Clay had just hit sailed down the beach and bounced to the jetty.
The three ballplayers waved to her as she stood there in her bathrobe and slippers. She waved back and called, “Mike, your mom called. They need you at home.”
Mike waved at Leigh. “Thanks, Ms. Spenser.” He walked to Clay. “That’s my bat, Mr. Wharton.”
Clay handed the Louisville Slugger over and looked off toward the ball. Mike looked in the same direction. “That’s Billy’s.” He turned to leave, stopped, then looked at Clay. “It was very nice to meet you and thanks for playing with us.”
He trotted across the dunes after Leigh. Clay turned to Billy. “Mom says you and Mike want to be rock stars.”
Billy nodded. “I’m doing drums.”
“Yeah, so I hear.” Clay glanced again at Mike’s receding figure. “I don’t know about you, but Mike’ll never make it.”
Billy stiffened at this insult to his best friend. “Why not?”
“He’s too nice and polite.”
Billy frowned. “And I’m not?”
Clay grinned. “You do pretty well too. I think you’re going to have to look elsewhere for quick riches.”
Billy sighed, then brightened. “We can practice being impolite and not nice.”
“Your mother’d love that.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be not nice to her. I mean, she’s my mom.”
“She’s a good mom, isn’t she?” Clay told himself he wasn’t really using a child to probe Leigh’s privacy. He was asking a simple question. Just like he asked every kid he’d known for twenty-four hours.
“That’s it,” said Clay with a snap of his fingers. “You can be an architect.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “Doing kid stuff like building castles doesn’t mean you’d be a good architect. Besides, I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up. The rock stuff’s just for fun for now.”
“Billy.” It was Leigh again, back at the path through the dunes. Why was she wearing a bathrobe at six-thirty in the evening?
“What?” Billy yelled.
Clay tapped Billy on the shoulder. “Don’t you think it’d be nicer to walk closer to her so you don’t have to scream your whole conversation?”
“Oh.” Obviously this was a new thought. He started toward his mother. “Aren’t you coming too?”
“Uh, sure.” Clay trailed behind, watching Leigh and wondering about the bathrobe. As he got closer, he saw that her hair was all fixed and her face carefully made-up.
Uh-oh. She’s got a date and hasn’t finished getting ready yet. I wonder who the jerk is?
“I’ve got Spaghetti-Os for you to microwave,” Leigh said when Billy joined her at the edge of the yard. She smiled absently at Clay. “The popcorn to go with the video is on the counter. You can take everything over to Grandma Jule’s. Ted’s expecting you.”
“Okay.” Billy nodded. “In a little bit. Clay and me are going to build a sand castle right now.”
She glanced at Clay who smiled sweetly back. “Don’t bother Clay, Billy. He doesn’t want to build castles.”
That was the second time today she’d known what he didn’t want to do, and both times she’d been wrong. His hackles rose. Suddenly he wanted to do nothing more than build castles.
“I’m not bothering him.” Billy looked insulted at the very idea. “He wants to build a castle, don’t you, Clay?”
“Sure do, Billy.” He smiled warmly at the boy, then looked pointedly at Leigh.
“Well,” she said, eyeing Clay skeptically, “just be careful, Billy.”
Be careful, Billy? Clay stared at her. Now what did that mean? Did she think hanging around with him put Billy in danger, like he was going to hurt the kid or something?
“Yeah, Mom. I’ll be careful.” He sounded so put-upon that Clay almost smiled.
“I mean it, Billy.” She bent and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.” She turned and went back to the house without saying another word to Clay.
Miffed at her attitude, Clay looked at Billy. “Why do you let them all call you Billy?”
The boy looked at him in surprise. “It’s my name.”
“It’s a little kid’s name,” Clay said, trying to keep his frustration with Leigh from his voice. It wasn’t the kid’s fault that just when he thought he was doing okay with his mother, she got all cool again. “You’re too big for Billy. You should be Bill.”
“Bill.” The boy tried it out for size.
“You don’t call Mike Mikey, do you?”
“Only when we want to make him mad.”
“Then don’t let people call you Billy.”
“My full name is William Clayton Spenser. I was named for Grandpa Will.” Billy spun and pointed. “Hey, Clayton. Clay. Just like you.”
It was decidedly jarring to hear his name belonging to another. “Yeah, I’m William Clayton Jr.”
“Then I’m the third.” Billy’s eyes sparkled.
A deep green Acura drove into the driveway and saved Clay from a response. It was a good thing because he didn’t know how he felt about this imp of a boy sharing such a personal thing as his name. It was a little too father-son. So the kid’s mother was driving him crazier every time he saw her. So he hadn’t felt so emotionally rattled in years. That was a long way from wanting some boy to adopt a III after his name.
“Hey, Dr. Traynor.” Billy waved to the tall, handsome man climbing out of the car in the turnaround.
“Billy,” he acknowledged.
“Bill,” the boy called. “I’m Bill now.”
“Sounds good to me. How are you, Bill?”
“Doctors always ask that,” Billy said to Clay sotto voce. “It’s a doctor thing. Your father always asked too.” He smiled at the doctor. “I’m fine, thanks. You here to see Ted?”
Dr. Traynor, looking anything but professional in jeans, a long sleeve black T-shirt, and a tweed blazer, smiled and said, “Partly.”
“And partly to see me, right?” said Billy, grinning.
“Absolutely.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Dr. Traynor.” Clay stuck out his hand. “I’m Clay Wharton.”
“Obviously,” Dr. Traynor said. “I’m glad to meet you.”
“David.” The quiet voice from the back door brought a smile to David Traynor’s face even before he turned.
“Julia.” His voice was deep and warm, very warm.
Clay felt a chill as he watched his mother blush. The chill intensified as Dr. Traynor climbed the steps to the house, pausing to put an arm around her shoulders. She in turn rested her head momentarily on his shoulder.
“No one told you about him yet, did they?” asked Billy with a knowing look. “I mean, that way.”
Clay didn’t answer, just stared at the closed back door.
“He’s nice,” Billy said. “We all like him.”
Like that made it all right for his mother to go out with another man, to rest her head on his shoulder, for crying out loud! Clay turned and barked, “Go get whatever we need to build a castle. There’s not a lot of time left before dark.”
Smiling with much too much understanding, Billy went into the garage.
“I’m going out for a while this evening,” Julia had told him that morning. She’d stood at the foot of the stairs, a mug of that vile vanilla coffee in her hand, ready to go spend some time with Ted. “I thought about canceling, but since you’re going to be here for a while, I decided not to.”
“No, no, don’t cancel,” he had said as he pulled on his sweatshirt preparatory to going to the beach. “Go. Have fun.”
“Yes.” She smiled. “I will.”
He’d pictured her meeting some of her women friends for a movie or dinner. He’d never in his wildest imagination thought of her going out on a date!
He was still stewing when his mother came outside with David Traynor. Traynor’s hand was resting in the small of her back as he guided her to his car, and she was smiling at him over her shoulder. She looked happy and beautiful in gray slacks, a bright blue sweater, and a dark blazer.
“It’s okay.” Billy, arms full of beach paraphernalia, came and stood beside him. “He really is nice, and he’s nice to her.”
“He’s not my father,” Clay muttered, amazed at how betrayed he felt when Traynor’s car backed out and drove away.
The boy reached over and patted his arm like a little old lady might. “It’s hard not having a dad, isn’t it?”
Clay felt a giant hand grab his heart and squeeze, and he laid his hand on Billy’s shoulder. There was such sorrow and longing in that little voice. And such understanding. Clay had to clear his throat several times. He slid his hand gently up to Billy’s head and tousled his hair. “Let me tell you, Bill. Any dad would be proud to have a son like you.”
Billy glanced up at him, then sighed. “Maybe. Mom says I need to remember that God is my Father.”
“That’s true.”
“Yeah, but God can’t play catch with me like you did. And he can’t help me with my Pinebox Derby car. And he can’t go to the father-son dinner at Awana.”
“I’m sorry that it’s been so hard for you.” Who was the louse, he raged silently, who left Leigh and Bill alone?
Billy shrugged. “I had Grandpa Will and Ted. Grandpa Will went to lots of stuff with me when I was little, as long as nobody had a baby and he had to go to the hospital. And Ted came to lots of my Little League games before he got so sick. He’d even bring Matt with him. Matt was a bit loud, always yelling for
me.” Billy grinned a sad, lopsided smile. “He was almost as loud as Mom. I was sad when he died. So was Uncle Ted.”
“I bet Ted gave you lots of good tips about playing. He was a great pitcher. I don’t know about Matt.”
“Yeah. Uncle Ted was good, very good. For an uncle.”
Clay stared out toward the water and tried to imagine what his life would have been like without his father, without his love and encouragement, his example of a godly man, his repetitious lectures on the issues of life that had made him and Ted roll their eyes. What would I have become without all these things? Even now, a grown man of twenty-nine, he missed his dad with an ache that never quite went away. Many times he started to reach for the phone to ask his father’s advice about a problem only to be brought up short with the painful realization that there was no help from that source anymore.
He took a bucket and a pair of putty knives from Billy. “Yeah, not having a dad’s hard.”
“But at least you knew yours.” Then as if embarrassed that he’d said too much, he started for the beach, swinging his bucket as he went. In his other hand he clutched a collection of sand shovels.
“Why these?” Clay held out the putty knives.
“For smoothing,” Billy explained. “And for making sharp cuts.”
They walked to the packed sand in silence.
“First a big pile,” Billy said. “Just a big pile.”
Clay got down on his knees and began to dig. It had been a long time since he’d built a sand castle or anything else in the sand for that matter. A flood of memories of him and Ted creating masterpieces filled his mind. One of their favorite projects had always been burying their father until only his face showed and sculpting a sand body for him with impossibly big muscles and hair like snakes and feet like a clown’s.
He needed to remember these fun times when he saw Ted. It would defuse a lot of his own antagonism, and then maybe Ted wouldn’t be so defensive.
Lord, do you think we can ever learn to love each other again?
LOVE YOUR ENEMIES.
