The Curiosity: A Novel

by Stephen Kiernan

  Our Frank’s face is as serious as if the whole pennant race hangs on this pitch. He stares down the catcher, who holds his glove fat and forward like a ten-year-old couldn’t miss. Frank cranks his arm back, lifts a leg high, snaps down like a whip, and hurls that pill like nothing I would have expected: a hot line for the plate, zooming high and left, only to slice down in the last few feet, drop like a rock, and hit the catcher’s unmoved mitt with a satisfying smack.

  The place goes nuts. Frank takes his jacket back, thanks the owner, and shakes everybody’s hand all over again. The fans eat it up. He tips his brand-new cap. This is one adaptable freak, I give him that: from I-need-a-top-hat to curve-into-the-strike-zone in less than ninety minutes.

  The seats were ridiculous. Fourth row, just off the plate, so we looked down the third-base line. I convinced Frank to take off his jacket, but when I reached for the tie he jerked back.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “Certain standards must be maintained.”

  The cameraman sets up below us, and we forget he is there in about two beers’ time. Gerber tells the kid working the stands with cold ones to stay close and keep them coming. The first one goes down like air. The second has all the coolness to make a sunny day lie down like a dog baring its belly. Our Frank takes a beer like a good lad, but after one sip he makes a face.

  “What’s the matter now?” I wipe foam from my lip.

  “No flavor,” he says. “It is perhaps the only sense my body hasn’t regained. Things don’t have as strong a taste.”

  “Maybe it’s not you,” Gerber says.

  “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Maybe the stuff we’re drinking today is really just overpriced piss.” He smiles and takes a big gulp. Frank considers his cup sideways, then sets it down beneath his seat.

  It turns out to be a pitcher’s game, strikeouts and brushbacks and no one on base. In other words a typically dull baseball game, one of the finest things on earth. I buy our Frank a program so he can handicap the batters. He has this theory that doubles are the indicator, that ever since Honus Wagner, the guys with the most doubles also have the best averages. I say that’s BS, till he shoves the program in my face and proves it, player after player right down the roster.

  “Whaddaya know?” I say, and raise an arm to signal the kid selling hot dogs. He works his way over and I order four. “Frank, you have got to chow on one of these babies. You’ll think you died and came back to life.”

  Gerber bursts out laughing. “Dixon, you have really have a gift for tact, you know that?”

  “Relax,” I say, passing dogs along. “He knows what I mean.”

  “I do,” the judge chimes in. “And I believe I will try one of those.”

  “You will?”

  “I’ve had quite enough of Dr. Borden’s fortified oatmeal.”

  “Rebellion,” Gerber says, one hand cupped at his mouth like a mock yell. “Insurrection.”

  “Here,” I say, “try it this way.” I gob some ketchup and a big splooge of mustard down the length of his dog, then do the same on one of mine.

  Frank sniffs the result. “When in Rome . . .” And he takes a good fat bite.

  “Now, isn’t that the best thing you ever tasted in your life?”

  “Oh, my heavens,” he says with his mouth full. “It’s all salt.” He looks around for something to wash it down with, then reaches between his feet to hoist that beer and slugs a good bit back.

  “Now we’re talking,” I tell him.

  “How can you eat these things?” He takes another gulp.

  “Diligence,” Gerber says. “Practice, practice, practice.”

  Frank is quiet for the next few minutes, serious as a chess game. He works his way through that hot dog, though, an inch at a time, easing the job with plenty of beer.

  For a moment I entertain the idea that we might get the guy boozed today. I can’t say why that appeals to me so much, but it definitely does. Gerber must have the same notion, because the second the judge’s cup is empty he signals the beer kid for another round. When the frosties arrive, our Frank does the old beneath-the-seat again. Oh well, more for us, I guess.

  The innings pass, the Yanks go up by one, the Sox take the lead, back and forth, all short shots and tight play. Our Frank fixes so hard on the game he sometimes sits with his mouth open. But the pace is totally easy, afternoon stretching out like a cat sunning on a sofa. At one point he turns to me. “Would you explain something please?”

  “Sure. Shoot.”

  “Why do you wear those?” He gestures at my shades.

  “To protect our eyes from the sun,” Gerber says.

  “Ha. That is why neither of you is squinting. We could certainly have used some of those spectacles in the Arctic seas.”

  “He’s lying,” I say. “That’s not it at all.”

  Gerber chuckles. “Why do you wear them, then?”

  “So I can ogle women without getting caught.”

  “Of course.” Gerber nods. “The other major reason.”

  “Like right there.” I nudge Frank. “See that blonde down there?” A hot little miss is just then standing to straighten her shorts: extremely, wonderfully brief cutoff jeans which have ridden oh so sweetly up her nice backside. Peaches, peaches, peaches.

  “Oh, my heaven,” the judge says. “Is that attire allowed?”

  “It’s a matter of taste,” Gerber answers. “Some of us prefer a different kind.”

  He points with his chin at a rolling-thunder-thighs honey, squeezed into black tights about nine sizes too small, her arms jiggling, legs rubbing against each other as she waddles down the aisle.

  “Oh, my heaven,” Frank says again.

  “The prosecution offers Exhibit B,” I say, pointing to the absolute babe coming along the row, long hair pulled high, T-shirt cut from below to show her yummy tummy, with the sparkle of a piercing at her navel.

  “Oh, my heaven,” the judge says, shaking his head. “My wife wore more as undergarments.”

  “Yeah.” I wolf down the last of my hot dog. “Isn’t it great?”

  “The defense humbly requests that you all check out Exhibit C,” Gerber says, grinning like a man with a winning lottery ticket. He gestures toward a woman across the way, her belly as round as a barrel, her chest so huge it provides a platform for carrying sodas and hot dogs. “I’m in love.”

  “Oh, my heaven,” Frank utters again. He has one hand over his mouth.

  “Let us now give thanks for Exhibit D,” I say, “over there in the white shirt.” In fact this young lady’s chemise, which is as tight as the casing on a hot dog, leaves absolutely zilch to the imagination about her masterpiece boobs. Lettering on her front reads LOVE ME ORTIZ ME.

  “Oh, my heaven,” Frank murmurs once more. “What do the words mean?”

  “It’s a joke about a player’s name,” Gerber says. “And I give. I surrender to your argument, and throw myself on the mercy of the court. What is my sentence?”

  “For the rest of the day,” I intone, playing a judge myself, “Frank gets to wear your shades. And we’ll just see which he stares at more, your evidence or mine.”

  “Fair enough,” Gerber says, handing them over.

  “Instead of concealing my leering,” the judge pauses, hovering the glasses over his face, “let these protect me from both kinds of immodesty.”

  Which is how, in the papers the next day, any photo that is not of Frank’s monster of a pitch instead shows him hoisting a beer or laughing behind dark glasses.

  One thing I forgot about Fenway fans was their annoying tradition during the seventh-inning stretch. With any other self-respecting team, the crowd knows that TV stations are airing a bunch of commercials for beer and trucks. The fans stand a minute, jaw with people around them, or buy another pop.

  Not at Sox games, oh, no. Instead the PA blasts that Neil Diamond tune “Sweet Caroline,” and people howl along at top volume. It sounds as awful as you would expect from a choir of
drunks. The judge looks left and right, trying to follow the words. I all but cover my ears.

  Old Neil gets to the line “Hands . . . touching hands,” and every Fred Fatso and Joe Six-Pack in the place raises whichever hand isn’t holding a beer high overhead. The judge does, too.

  “Whoa,” Gerber cries out. “That is trippy.”

  I lean toward him. “What is?”

  “I’ve seen that before.” He points at Frank’s outstretched paw. “But it was frozen.”

  Weird and true. There is the image from the Arctic video, the same hand making the same gesture. It strikes me what a distance we’ve come. What a long way from the man encased in ice. I want to ponder that a minute, but the damn song is too distracting.

  Look, I’m all for camp, irony and all the trimmings. But after the tune said “good times never felt so good,” everyone in the crowd grins and hollers “so good, so good, so good.”

  Enough. I elbow our old Frank. “Come on. I need to hit the head.”

  He does that oddball look he often gives me when I use figures of speech. Still, he always puzzles out what I mean, and he follows me right up the aisle. “Remember Section 37”—I point at the sign—“in case we get separated.”

  When we first hit the john he is on my heels. One look at the long row of piss pots, though, all with lines of guys waiting, and he draws back, putting one hand on the wall.

  “Don’t touch that,” I advise him. “They may not have cleaned it since 1922.”

  The judge jumps away like the wall is electrified, then looks down at his paw as if it is swarming with bugs.

  “Just do your business quick. You can give your hands a good wash around the corner.” I head to a different line. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  He shuffles off, not saying a word. Poor bastard, imagine being scared of something as ordinary as a public washroom.

  I have to wait for him, which is fine by me. Fenway has no shortage of first-rate tail that day, delectability on parade is what it is. I lean against a pillar and save all that loveliness from going underappreciated.

  Our old Frank staggers out at last, looking like he’d spent a week at sea. He is halfway to me when a woman intercepts, a short-legged jellyfish in a red tracksuit, carrying a pink purse big enough to hold a bowling ball. In two seconds she’s glommed onto him. I duck behind the pillar, cursing myself for not bringing a notebook.

  “I knew I would meet you eventually,” she is saying, her arm tangled in his like she is part octopus. “I just knew it.”

  The judge stops walking, trying instead to work his arm free and having no luck. She doesn’t seem like any danger, so I decide to let the scene play out.

  “How may I help you, madam?”

  “You already have.” She’s grinning like a shark. “You gave me hope.”

  “I’m delighted,” he says, pushing one of her hands down his sleeve.

  “It’s my husband. He died of pancreatic cancer nine years ago.”

  “My condolences—”

  “No, it’s fine. Because we had him cryogenically frozen, you see?”

  Her voice is overmodulated, like the soprano loudmouth of a church choir. She pulls old Frank’s elbow in a death grip until he bends down.

  “It cost fifty thousand dollars,” she says in a stage whisper. “I never put much faith in it, but he insisted. Nine years later”—she pokes his chest—“along comes you. Oh, I have plenty of faith now.”

  The judge takes off Gerber’s shades. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”

  “You won’t get away that easily.” She wags a finger. “I want to ask you for something.”

  His eyes scan the crowd for me, but don’t look by the pillar. “Of course.”

  “I knew it,” she declares, as loudly as if she were telling the other people exiting the john. “I knew you would be generous.”

  The judge takes a dignified stance, courtly even. “How may I be of service?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I want you to get them to wake him up.”

  “Oh, I see,” he says. “I’d be delighted to help, but I’m afraid that is beyond my—”

  “Don’t you go being humble on me,” she says. The woman tilts her head coquettishly, which maybe, I say maybe she could have gotten away with twenty years ago. Now it makes my insides turn. “I’m sure you have all kinds of influence with the scientists.”

  “I wish I did,” Frank says. “Regardless, they are far short of trying their experiment on me with other people.”

  The woman steps back, hands on her hips. “Are you saying no to me?”

  “My dear, I am saying that I have neither the influence nor the ability—”

  “I just cannot believe this.” She looks around as if for witnesses. “But you said.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You said you would help us. All of us who have watched you, brought you into our living rooms, given you our attention.”

  “Wherever did you get such an idea?”

  “We must let our deeds be our ambassadors. What about all that?”

  “Hey, Judge, Judge Rice.” A skinny guy has come up on his other side. He’s dressed entirely in Red Sox clothing, from his hat to his sneakers. “How about it, fella? Would you sign my program for me here?”

  Old Frank takes the guy’s pen and scribbles, still talking to the woman on his arm. “Indeed I meant what I said, ma’am. But it did not concern your husband’s circumstances. It was intended for the people who maintain that I am not real.”

  “Me, too?” says a girl who’s been pushed forward by a trio of her teen friends. “Can I get an autograph, too?”

  Judge Rice, still holding the guy’s pen, looks her up and down. “My dear, you don’t have anything for me to sign.”

  “Sure I do,” she pipes, lifting up her shirt to reveal a belly so cute and young I’m not even allowed to think about it. The friends giggle behind their hands, three cases of speak-no-evil.

  Old Frank hesitates, you bet. “I don’t feel quite comfortable—”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Go for it.”

  A passing guy wolf-whistles, and the teen gal flashes him a smile that would melt an ice cap. Which is when the biddy decides to give the judge a bop on the arm with her purse.

  “I believe you’re real,” she whines. “Real selfish.” She nods at the crowd that is beginning to gather, bringing them in on it. “How hard would it be to get the Lazarus people and the cryogenic people in the same room? Huh? How tough is that?”

  Oh, lady, I’m thinking, you just gave me an idea of what was going on when I stopped by the lab today. A guess at who those men were, and what’s in that green binder.

  Just then three truly hammered guys stagger up, arms over each other’s shoulders, still singing that annoying Neil Diamond song. “Hey, whoa!” the one on the right shouts, though he is only a few feet away. “Holy shit, it’s Judge Rice.”

  “Hey, man, my buddy here is getting married next weekend,” yells the guy on the left. “Any chance you could do the wedding? Like, are you allowed to do that stuff anymore?”

  By this time the expression on old Frank’s face is verging on panic, like a fish might look when he finds himself in a net. It’s hilarious, people pulling him in four directions at once. The crowd has grown, and the camera crew inches up the ramp, too. But I still hold back. It won’t hurt the guy to be humbled a notch, get a taste of the world without Dr. Kate playing goalie all the time. Besides, this is too good a show.

  Then the middle drunk guy, wearing a fast-food crown and looking so snookered he could have cartoon Xs for eyes, hauls his head upright like it weighs two hundred pounds, and he manages to get out two slurry words: “Bachelor party.”

  The other two immediately leap into some kind of crazy frat-boy dance. “Bachelor party, bachelor party.”

  “I’m not finished speaking,” says tracksuit lady, trying to climb the judge’s arm again.

  “Hey, mac, could I have my pen ba
ck?”

  “Could you sign my friend’s tummy, too, please?”

  “Bachelor party, bachelor party.”

  Okay, okay. It’s getting ugly enough that I’m heading over, ready to rescue. A security guard gets there first. He’s not the mellow Boston-Irish-been-around-forever type. He’s muscle-bound and swaggering, wearing enough gear for a tank. “Everything all right here?”

  Oh the frat boys vanish like smoke. Funny to see how fast they go sober, hoisting their buddy in the middle straight toward the men’s room. The teenyboppers are nearly as quick, bellies covered and flowing into the crowd. But Miss Pink Purse stays, fastened to the judge like a barnacle. He turns in his usual stiff way.

  “Hello, Officer. I was just explaining to this kind woman—”

  “You are not a nice man,” she says. “We have given you food, attention, clothes. How can you refuse to help?”

  He turns back to her. “I will attempt to speak with Dr. Carthage—”

  “No, you won’t. You’re just saying that to shut me up.”

  “Lady, why don’t you give this guy a little room, okay?”

  She balls her hands into little fists. “Maybe you are a phony after all. Just a big fake.”

  “Yes, that’s what I am,” old Frank shouts, his dander up at long last. “A fake. You figured it out. Now will you leave me alone?”

  “Let’s go, ma’am,” the guard says, stepping between them, almost bumping the lady with his chest. “Move it along here or we’ll have to send you home.”

  Frank leans toward the guard. “That won’t be necessary—”

  “Come on,” I say, pulling the judge’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The guard speaks over his shoulder. “You go ahead, sir, we’ll take care of this.”

  “Selfish phony,” the woman yells. “Complete faker.”

  “Besides,” the muscle-head adds, “wait’ll I tell my wife I helped out the frozen guy.”

  I drag old Frank, who cranes his neck backward. The crowd falls away as soon as there was nothing more to see.