League of Her Own

by Faith O'Shea

  “I was that, Mom. When are you back in session?”

  There was a pause as if her mother wasn’t sure she wanted to stray from the subject of interviews, but she answered the question asked. “The twenty-sixth.”

  “Anyone come back early to work with you?”

  “Caitlin. I’ve hired her to be my TA and she wanted to get a jump on it.”

  She’d heard all about Caitlin Persaud. Brilliant, dedicated, committed. Just the way her mother liked her students. And her daughters.

  She’d been tough on both, but from where Fiona was standing it hadn’t been a bad thing. She might never have realized her dream if Clare had been less demanding in her expectations.

  “At least you’re not working alone.”

  Her mother liked having lots of people around her. Fiona still wasn’t sure if it was for the attention or the company. Clare was used to being in the spotlight, and her awards and prestigious position lent themselves to her acquisition of scientific celebrity. Her mother bloomed with an audience, wilted in solitude.

  “You could come home and work with me for the week.”

  Fiona could think of nothing she’d like less.

  “Remember I told you I’m house-sitting. I can’t leave until Izabella and Reid get back.”

  She was glad she had an excuse. She didn’t ever want to work for Clare again. It wasn’t that she didn’t share a love of the planet; she just didn’t enjoy laboring over the kind of analysis that geology required. The curiosity wasn’t there, and her mother always picked up on it. What always came next was a lecture on the benefits of varied research procedures and a soliloquy on discipline.

  There will be many times you won’t like the detail of some experiment, but you will need to complete it.

  There was always a judgement, a discourse, a demand for respect and acceptance.

  When she’d left home to attend Boston University and begun to forge her own path, she’d left behind her mother’s intrusiveness. Siobhan had left as well, settling in Maine with her husband and the kids, when they came along. They both loved their mother but didn’t like being barraged with her strong opinions on how they should live their lives, or what they could do to improve themselves.

  “I don’t know why you agreed to that, Fiona. You’ve worked hard for what you’ve achieved, and it seems a waste of your intelligence to be dog walking.”

  Condemnation in Clare form.

  “This is a nice diversion after all the long nights of study and analysis. The house is huge, and Hoover gets me out exercising a couple of times a day. It is infinitely better than sitting around in my condo waiting for something to happen.”

  She knew the minute that was out of her mouth it had been a mistake. Her mother proved her point.

  “You need to be more aggressive in your search. You need to expand your horizons. Don’t just settle for Massachusetts.”

  “This is where the best labs are, and I would think that’s where you’d want me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. They have experimental labs all over the country. The University of California is one of them. Have you applied there?”

  Fiona didn’t want to live in California. She loved New England and hoped she could find a permanent home here.

  “I haven’t. Yet. If things don’t go according to my plan, I’ll have no choice but to apply in other cities.”

  “I can write up a list that would serve you well. The newer facilities might not be averse to hiring someone right out of a doctoral program.”

  “Mom. I can take care of this myself. Honest. I’ve got it.”

  Clare blew out a disparaging breath.

  “Fine. I’ll let you have some time with this, but I’m still going to talk to some of my peers and get some recommendations.”

  “I had no doubt.”

  “I’ll call next Friday, see how the interview went. Until then, I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Talk to you Friday.”

  When she swiped off, she breathed a sigh of exhaustion. Dealing with her mother was like managing a tsunami, or earthquake. It could be a devastating experience.

  Clare didn’t seem to understand that she undercut her confidence when she tried to take control. Not that Fiona often let her. She’d apply where she wanted, live where she wanted, but the battles always left her feeling vulnerable. She’d had the same fight back in college when she applied for a job at one of the hospitals in the city. Hospitals were where germs lived and breathed, where viruses were studied, where healing took place. It was her domain and she learned a lot just walking the halls, talking to the patients, doctors, and nurses. She studied families, resemblances, quirks, family genetics by reading patient medical records. Was the person hospitalized because of a hereditary deficiency in heart, blood, organs? Would the children follow the same cellular route? She was still asking those same questions, only now she had some of the answers which was due in part to the forensic biologist who’d become her first mentor. She was introduced to Dr. Tara Robbins by one of the nurses and it was her lab where Fiona had worked during her last year of undergrad study. It was a busy, noisy place and it took her time to get used to the bustling bodies who were trying to pinpoint the genetic fingerprints of the hospital population. Once Robbins understood her discomfort in throngs, she set her to work in an isolated corner, where Fiona used her inherited math skills to fulfill the critical piece of forecasting. She left only when her post-doctoral work took her to a different lab, where she worked on quantitative genetics, another subdivision of the field. There she examined and estimated how much of a variation existed between nature, or environment, and a person’s genetic code.

  She plugged the phone into her charger and left it on the nightstand. She didn’t usually sleep with it so close, needing to turn off the outside world periodically, but she wasn’t going to venture into other parts of the house tonight. She did not want to bump into Enrique. Her freedom had been curtailed by his arrival and she could only hope he’d spend most of his days at the ballpark.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Enrique awoke to the dog barking. Did she need to go out? Where was Fifi? Had she been negligent in her assigned tasks? He flung the covers off and grabbed his pants. Once decent, he ambled out to the hall and looked down the stairs. The barking had stopped but he could now hear a quiet voice talking to Hoover, as if she were human.

  He made his way into the kitchen, where there were steaming cups of coffee in take-out cups, a box of pastries, open on the counter, Fifi eating one of them. She looked showered and dressed for the day and he knew from the bounty on the table she’d already been out. Hoover sat at attention, her gaze on every bite taken.

  When human eyes looked up at him, there was a crinkle around them.

  “I, unlike you, bought enough for all. I’m not even sure you drink coffee, but I took a chance that you did.”

  He rubbed his eyes, trying to get the picture of her sitting there out of his erogenous zone. It made no sense. She certainly didn’t belong there.

  “I do although it is not usually strong enough for me. We have much bolder things in Brazil.”

  She tilted her head, smacked her lips after the bite of the lemon square, and asked, “If Brazil is so cosmopolitan and exceptional in all ways, what are you doing here?”

  “Baseball, of course.”

  He’d walked over and claimed a cup, took a sip before examining the offerings in the box.

  Her voice was tinged with curiosity. “You couldn’t play there?”

  He was hovering over the box. “I could, but the best are here.”

  She licked her white-powdered lips, and his heart skipped a beat. He immediately began to inspect the offerings, trying to get his mind off the pink tip of her tongue. It was harder than he’d thought, but he was given a reprieve when she continued her line of questioning.

  “Why did you take up baseball? I would think soccer would be the game of choice in your country.”

  He l
ifted a blueberry scone out of the box and took a bite. “I like more of a thinking man’s game rather than a physical one.”

  Izabella had accused him of being too lazy to exert himself to that extent. She didn’t understand he wanted a more cerebral endeavor, even accused him of being too lazy to play baseball well. Was it a repeating pattern?

  “That’s an interesting take. Excuse me if I disagree.”

  He threaded his hand through his hair and then met her eyes.

  “About the why?”

  “About your wanting to use brain rather than brawn”

  He washed the deprecation down with another bite of the flavorful scone.

  “Soccer is an aggressive sport. I prefer finesse.”

  “I can almost believe that. But then again, it could be you don’t like to sweat.”

  She’d obviously never been to a game in late July when the humidity turned every ball player into a wet dish-rag.

  “Do you think I have no brain? Or I don’t want to use it?”

  “I’m sure there are some working neurons, although your take on marriage has me doubting the strength of the connections.”

  “And you? You walk dogs for a living. Not sure that flexes your brain muscles.”

  The scone was good and as soon as he finished it, he chose another.

  “I find things to do that exercise it just fine.”

  “Like what?”

  “Crossword puzzles, Sudoku, I read books. And I’ve probably done more in the last few hours than you’ll do all day.”

  Hours? It was only a little past eight a.m.

  “What time did you get up?”

  “Just before five. I showered, dressed, checked email, and scoured Indeed for a job I might have missed, went into town for sustenance. And now that I’m finished here, I have to walk Hoover.”

  She got up from the stool, threw her napkin and cup into the garbage and went to retrieve her coat from the closet. He watched as she added layer upon layer, sweater, scarf, heavy down jacket, hat, and mittens.

  “I don’t think it’s reached ten degrees yet. I’m hoping she’ll settle for a short one this morning.”

  Bending over, going nose to snout, she said, “We can make it up this afternoon, can’t we, girl?”

  The short stub of a tail was wagging back and forth in excitement as Fifi snapped the leash onto the collar.

  “Be a good boy and throw away your refuse, would you?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. What did she think? He was a slob?

  “Don’t worry. I will. How long will you be?”

  “I’d love to say five minutes, but based on prior walks, it will be more like thirty or forty.”

  “I’ve got to be at the field by ten. I might be gone by the time you get back.”

  “That’s fine. I can handle being alone. In fact, it might be a nice change.”

  And with that, she was out the door. He got up to peek out the window at her. She was being led down the sidewalk, the leash pulling her instead of her pulling the leash. He’d bet Hoover weighed almost as much as she did.

  Once she’d disappeared around a curve in the drive-way, he walked back through the kitchen and toward the stairs before remembering. He backtracked and cleaned up the counter, not wanting to give her anything to complain about.

  He’d been surprised she knew so little about baseball. He hadn’t met many people living in the United States who didn’t know something. It was the number one pastime, with two leagues, the American and National, and thirty teams. There weren’t many people who didn’t have a favorite. It was totally different in Brazil, although it had opened up in the last ten or fifteen years, with a fairly new national training center that catered to fourteen-through-seventeen-year-olds. It had been too late for him, and if it hadn’t been for Tio Yan, his mother’s brother, he might never have picked up a bat or a glove. He’d been heavily into soccer but had been playing racquet ball one day when his uncle had noticed how well he hit the ball. He was the one who suggested he give baseball a try. The first day at the park, fielding hits and taking turns in the batter’s box, he fell in love with the game. His father was deeply disappointed and hadn’t talked to Yan for weeks after the introduction, but he finally relented and found a team that was looking for new players, signing Enrique up and getting him back and forth to practice. He was lucky they’d lived where they did. The city was academic in nature and students from all the universities were enthralled with the sport. Soccer had deep pools of talent and there was little chance of being good enough to play. Baseball was a completely different story and that it was more cerebral, made it even more enticing. Introduced to society by the Japanese immigrants, baseball in Brazil was a mix of cultures, with Latin and American flavors thrown in. He had to relearn many aspects of the game once he got to America. After transferring to the University of Michigan his third year of college, he was acclimated to a new way of playing and was approached by the Mets before the end of the spring semester. He dropped out to join the farm team, against his parents’ wishes but all he wanted was to play ball. And to play for one of the premier teams in the league was too good to pass up. He did well in double A and moved up and down between the minors and majors as they needed him. His first year in the majors was exceptional. He played behind one of the best at the position, gaining experience during his off days, and was able to rack up a .357 batting average and handle shortstop like he was made for it. What he didn’t like was sitting on the bench and it showed. He lost the attitude that had gotten him there, and his stats fell. Whether the front office thought him a lost cause and had given up or wanted him to get more playing time, he wasn’t sure, but he was glad he’d been traded to Boston. He’d be out on the field every game and he a chance to regain his footing. He’d become the face of Brazilian baseball, a player who’d made it to the big leagues. He hadn’t only let down his team, but his countrymen as well. He had to admit Izabella was right. He’d gotten lazy.

  It was time to gear himself back up. He had goals, and he was going to make sure he achieved all of them.

  He arrived at Harborside Field fifteen minutes early, wanting to prove his commitment. Farina was in his office and asked him in as he was passing by. They’d spoken by phone right after the trade was announced but hadn’t had a chance to sit and talk yet. About the expectations.

  Farina would have them. Especially after last year’s race toward the pennant. He’d been close enough to taste it. It had to leave a man hungry.

  Enrique took a tentative step inside and faced the grizzled old-timer. From what he knew, Farina was just shy of sixty. He had a horseshoe ring of white hair, deep-sunken eyes and wrinkles from squinting at the sun-drenched field. The man was a peanut-eating machine during a game, smoked over a pack of cigarettes a day. Chewing gum replaced both in his office but he must have tucked it inside his cheek like snuff because his words were clear, not garbled.

  “I’m glad to see you here. I hope it means what I think it means.”

  “It does. You will get one hundred per cent out of me. That I can promise.”

  Farina leaned back in his chair, his hands fisted over his chest.

  “Upper management thought if you had regular playing time, you’d spend more of yourself out on the field. I wasn’t so sure, but I’m willing to give it a wait-and-see attitude before I make any judgements.”

  He didn’t like hearing that the manager wasn’t a fan, that if this had been left up to him, he might be in some other city, playing for some other team.

  After retrieving the gum from his mouth with pinched fingers, Farina dropped it in the waste basket, unwrapped another piece, and held it.

  “I talked to Reid before the trade was made. He thinks you’ve got potential. We all think you have potential, but that doesn’t mean dick if you’re not willing to live up to it.”

  “I agree.”

  What else could he do? The number of people who had given him the same speech was adding up. He had a p
roblem and he needed to face it head on.

  “Good. Leo’s waiting. I want to hear some good things from him. Don’t let us down.”

  Farina popped the gum into his mouth and started softening it up.

  Enrique rose, adjusted his sweats, tucked in his tee shirt, and turned to leave.

  “Oh, and dos Santos. Get rid of the New York merchandise. You’re a Greenie now. Look like it.”

  Enrique glanced down at the team name emblazoned across his chest.

  Meu Deus. Brilliant move.

  He’d just pulled a shirt out of his bag and put it on without paying too much attention. That had to change as well.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He made his way through the tunnel down to the locker room. The polished concrete shone underfoot. The walls were freshly painted, no longer peeling and layered in grime. He’d been given a tour of the stadium during the Greenies’ run for the World Series. He’d come into town along with his parents to watch a couple of the home games and Reid had shown them around the modern facility. It was brand-spanking new, finished just ahead of last year’s season day opener and there were some who argued it was one of the reasons the team had played into October. Gone were the dilapidated buildings, the uncomfortable seats, and all the remnants that reminded fans of an outdated Fenway Park. Bogs had been built around the same time as the one on Lansdowne Street, designed by the same architect, the big green wall a signature for both. Where Fenway had been revamped and updated, Bogs Field had been left to deteriorate, until it was finally abandoned to the college that sat adjacent. It had been demolished in favor of dorms as soon as Harborside Field was ready to house the old team. Its signature landmark now was the Boston Harbor, a backdrop that provided a variant wind speed and direction that had been absent at Bogs. On certain days, it could carry a ball, not only out of the park but out into the depths of the waterway. There might be no history here, but it didn’t matter to Greenie fans. What they cared about was winning and the team was ready, willing, and able to do that for them.