Dying on Second

by E. C. Bell

  Stage Two

  Playing the Game

  Marie:

  Moving Rory On, and the Pink Invoice

  JAMES LENT ME his car so I could go to Sylvia Worth’s place again to move Rory on. Finally.

  She’d texted me the night before.

  I’m ready, the text read. Be here tomorrow night. 7 p.m.

  No please or thank you. No nothing. Just the date, the time, and the fact she was ready. I decided right then that I would take her money.

  I’d been throwing around the idea of telling her I’d changed my mind about charging her. My mother would not have approved of me charging her anything, and I felt kind of dirty when I thought about accepting that cheque. Until I got the text. Then, it felt like what I’d asked wasn’t enough.

  After work, I drove James to his apartment. “I don’t know when I’ll be done,” I said.

  “I know how this stuff works,” he said. “You want something to eat before you go?”

  “No,” I said. “I think Sylvia’s getting a pizza.”

  She hadn’t mentioned a pizza in her oh so brief text, but I was too nervous to be hungry. I didn’t want James to worry, though, and he would. So, I told him a little white lie. I figured he’d probably forgive me if he found out.

  “Well, remember to pick up water,” he said. “You know, for after.”

  I smiled. “Will do.” I ran back to him and kissed him, a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, James.”

  “Are you sure you can’t come back to my place after?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I told Jasmine I’d come home. I don’t get there often anymore. I think she misses me. But can I come early for breakfast, before work?”

  “I’d be hurt if you didn’t,” he said. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  I patted Millie on the top of her little head on the way out the door. For luck, if I was going to be honest. And she let me. Probably could tell that I was nervous and needed all the luck I could get.

  Then, I left. Early, but I was driving in rush hour traffic, after all, and I wanted to make sure that I got to Sylvia’s before seven.

  I GOT TO her apartment complex twenty-five minutes early, of course. A ridiculous amount of time to be early. I sat in the car, my knee jumping nervously, and listened to talk radio. Found some right-wing call-in show, the host working everyone who called in to a white hot froth about some possible tax increase that the provincial government was considering. I quickly got tired of his talking points and clicked it off. Then, I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone rapped hard on the passenger window.

  It was Sylvia. She was still in uniform and she looked exhausted.

  “What are you doing, sitting out here?” she asked. “Come on in.”

  “I—I was waiting for seven,” I stammered.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said impatiently. “Come up.”

  She turned and walked back to the front door of the apartment complex, and I had to run to catch up with her. “Sorry,” I said. “If I’d known you didn’t care—”

  “You could have texted me,” she said, testily.

  “Yeah, I guess.” I followed her to her apartment. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Oh, he’s not here yet,” Sylvia said. “He never gets here before eight.” She pointed at a pizza box sitting on the counter beside her fridge. “Want some pizza? I figured we could eat while we wait for him.”

  Looked like I hadn’t white lied to James, after all.

  THE HOUR AND fifteen minutes I spent with Sylvia before Rory finally showed up was easily the worst I’d ever tried to get through. Small talk was definitely not my strong suit.

  She’d started off jittery and angry, talking in staccato bursts, like a machine gun. She peppered me with questions about James, and ball, and the rest of my life, like she was trying to drain every bit of information from me. Like she was interrogating me.

  I mentioned the phone call I’d received about playing for the team in Calgary, the Thunder. That Henrietta Kendell was looking forward to meeting me.

  “She said you’ve mentioned me before,” I said, hoping she’d finally explain why she had even thought about me playing for this team.

  Sylvia just looked at me strangely and finally said, “That’s nice. They’re a good team. You’ll have fun.”

  I was going to push about why me, but she started the interrogation again, and I missed my opportunity. I finally shut her down by telling her I had to prepare for Rory’s moving on.

  “Please be quiet now,” I said. “I must prepare.”

  That was bullshit, of course. No prep needed, but at least she was finally quiet.

  Moving Rory on was easy. He was ready to go—he’d told me as much when we met—and now that Sylvia had decided to let him, it all went smooth as silk.

  It was still dehydrating, of course, so I sat at her dining room table and drank four glasses of water. Drinking that much water takes time so we ended up talking. Again. Because she wanted to know what would happen next.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I drank more water, even though I’d already drunk so much I sloshed when I moved.

  “I mean, what do I do now?” Sylvia asked.

  “I guess you live your life,” I said, putting down the glass. “Rory’s gone, and he won’t be back.”

  Sylvia stared at me hard. She was standing by the counter in her kitchen, and I realized I’d never seen her sit down. She was in her own apartment, and she didn’t feel comfortable enough to sit down.

  “Do you promise? It was hard to let him go. How can you be sure he won’t come back?” She blinked. “Where did he go? Heaven or something?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

  “He didn’t say? Are you trying to tell me he chose where he went?”

  “That’s the way it works,” I said shortly. I pushed the glass to the middle of the table and stood. “I gotta go. My roommate’s expecting me.”

  “Oh, you’re not going back to James’s?” she asked. Then she smiled, but it looked brittle, like it was ready to fall in shards from her face. “I thought you spent a lot of time there.”

  I stared at her, trying to remember if I’d told her that in that hour and fifteen minutes before Rory moved on. She laughed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not having you followed or anything. James told me.”

  “Oh.” James would have to learn to keep his mouth shut about our private lives. My private life. “I gotta go.”

  I walked to the door, then remembered the one thing I hadn’t thought to tell her.

  “Please don’t tell anyone about me,” I said. “About what I did for you.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want it getting around,” I said.

  “Oh. I thought this was your business. You know?” Then she gasped and snapped her fingers. “Dammit, I nearly forgot the cheque.”

  She walked back to the dining room table and picked up the plain white envelope sitting in the middle of it. I hadn’t noticed it, even though my water glass was sitting not six inches away.

  “Here,” she said. “Your money. I didn’t register the cheque. Did you want it registered? I can do that, if you want.”

  “No,” I said. I pulled the envelope from her extended fingers. “This is fine. Thanks.”

  “Got an invoice for me?” she asked.

  “A—a what?”

  “An invoice. For my records. You know. So I remember exactly where I spent that thousand dollars.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t thought of this being a transaction that needed an invoice. “Can I email it to you?”

  “Yeah, that’d be fine,” she said. Her mouth worked silently, and I realized she was trying not to cry.

  “I gotta go,” I said again, and turned to the door. “Try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

&nb
sp; “Promise?” she said.

  I didn’t answer her. Just opened the door and walked out. I heard her burst into sobs, through the door, so I walked away. Quickly. So I could stop invading her privacy anymore. I just hoped she’d return the favour and leave me alone now that this was done.

  JASMINE’S HOUSE WAS dark when I finally got home. I half hoped that she was watching one of her shows, because it would have been nice to catch up even though I was exhausted, but she was already asleep.

  I crept downstairs and found a Post-it note stuck to my pillow.

  Greg Robertson called, the note read. He wants to meet you at the batting cages by the ball diamond at six o’clock tomorrow. Who is he? Did you hire a trainer or something? Tell all!

  I thought I’d told Jasmine the name of my coach then realized I really wasn’t talking to her much about anything and resolved to fix that. Let her in, just a little bit more. Then, I tore off my clothes and threw myself across my unmade bed. I was asleep in seconds.

  I WAS AWAKE exactly six hours later. I stared at my clock, willing myself back to sleep, then gave up, and got up. To be honest, I felt okay. Six hours was not too bad, and even though I’d moved Rory on the evening before, I felt refreshed. Maybe all I needed was six hours a night. And waking up this early did give me first kick at the shower.

  But, as I stood in the shower, feeling the hot water wash away the night before, I realized that even though I felt all right, the nightmares every night were really getting old.

  I decided I’d talk to Dr. Parkerson about them, when I saw her.

  JAMES, SWEET MAN that he was, had breakfast waiting for me when I got to his apartment the next morning. He quizzed me about moving Rory on, and I answered his questions readily enough. Thought about how different it had been the night before, when Sylvia had interrogated me. Remembering that brought back the fact that James talked to Sylvia, a lot.

  “Hey, you gotta quit talking to Sylvia about me,” I said. “She was harassing me about staying at your place last night.”

  “Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t look sorry. He grinned. “I didn’t realize I’m your dirty little secret. That’s kind of cute.”

  “You’re not my dirty little secret,” I said. “I just don’t want to talk to her about my private life. You know?”

  “I guess,” he said. He glanced at me, saw the look on my face, and nodded. “I won’t talk about you to her. Not if you don’t want me to.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Millie came up to the table and barked. Just once, but we both knew it was time to go. Millie the alarm clock.

  “She’s earning her kibble today,” I joked as we got into James’s car. “We should miss the worst of the traffic.”

  “She certainly is,” James said.

  Millie didn’t say anything. Just curled up in the back of the Volvo and slept all the way to the office, obviously content with a job well done.

  JAMES WAS BUSY with the Wellington divorce case, so I had time to work on the invoice for Sylvia. I thought for a second about just using James’s invoice template, then stopped that foolishness. I was not tying his agency to anything to do with ghosts, even though he’d once joked about it being a viable second revenue stream.

  So, I Googled “invoices” and built one. I sent it to Sylvia. Wondered how she was going to react to me using her work email, but she didn’t seem to mind. Just replied with two words. Thank you.

  James came in at two, looking a little worse for wear.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Talking when you should have been listening?”

  “No,” he said. “Just a little case of road rage on the Whitemud. I thought the guy was going to kick the crap out of me, but I was able to talk him into calming down.”

  “Road rage?” I said. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He grabbed a cup and poured himself coffee. I could see a rip in the armpit of his shirt when he reached up for the cup.

  “And you were able to talk him into calming down? No violence, then?”

  “Not a lot.” He poured sugar into his coffee, too much, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It helped that I was a foot taller than him.”

  I had a sudden vision of him pushing around a Hobbit on the side of the road, and snickered.

  “It wasn’t funny,” James said. Then he smiled. “Well, maybe a little bit.” He looked at my monitor. “What’s that?”

  “For Sylvia,” I said. “She wanted an invoice.”

  “Why is it pink?”

  I clicked the page closed. “The template I used was pink. I thought it looked okay.”

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” he said. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. Long enough to make me feel uncomfortable.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Remember to put that on your taxes. As income.”

  “Right,” I said. “Can’t forget taxes.”

  He went back to looking at me thoughtfully until I felt like screaming. But I didn’t. Just composed myself, as much as I was able. “What is it, James?”

  “I have been thinking about potential additional revenue streams,” he said. “And I’ve come up with a pretty good idea but I’m not ready to talk to you about it, yet.” He grinned. “Maybe when you get back from Calgary.”

  He’d been talking about additional revenue streams almost since the day he’d reopened his dead uncle’s agency, so I didn’t think much about his announcement, even with his grin. “Sounds good,” I said. “Now quit staring at me."

  “Was I?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “You were.”

  He shrugged and dutifully turned his eyes away from me. But he didn’t leave.

  “Don't you have work to do?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Just tapped his upper lip as he pondered whatever the heck he was pondering. I decided to wait him out. Sometimes that was all I could do.

  “You want to do something tonight?” he finally asked. “Maybe go to a movie or something?”

  “You mean a date?” I asked. It had been forever since he and I had gone out like a regular couple. A movie sounded like fun.

  “Yep. I thought, since you don’t have ball tonight—”

  “Oh damn,” I said, remembering. “I’m meeting Greg at the batting cages tonight. And then I was going to watch the dead game, after. To talk to Karen. You know?”

  “A practice?” he said. “That’s great! Is it the whole team?”

  “No,” I said. “Just me. I asked him for some help. You know, for the Calgary tournament.”

  I felt bad for a second. James had offered to practice with me and I’d turned him down and now, here I was, practicing with my coach. I felt like I was being a practice two-timer. But it didn’t seem to bother James at all.

  “Want me to come with?” he asked. “Could be fun.”

  For a second I almost said yes, then remembered part two of my evening.

  “I’m sticking around after to talk to Karen. After her game.”

  “And you don’t want me there.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s hard enough to get her to talk. I don’t know how she’d react if you were there.”

  “Got it,” he said. I was afraid he was going to get angry about me cutting him out, but all he did was smile. “What about this? I’ll come with you to the practice, and then we can go out for something to eat. I’ll drop you off at the diamond after, and you call me when you’re done. I’ll pick you up and you can stay at my place tonight. We’ll watch a movie and eat popcorn. Pretend we’re on a date.”

  The perfect solution. Of course.

  “That sounds great,” I said. “And thanks, James. For being so understanding.”

  “No problem,” he laughed. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  I PICKED UP a couple of big bottles of water before we went to the practice. I was pretty sure I was overdoing—but I was wrong. Greg hadn’t been kidding what he said he was going to make me wor
k harder than I ever had before in my life.

  First, he put me in the batting cage.

  “Hit the ball where I tell you,” he said.

  James hung off the fence that surrounded the cage. He waved at me, and I heard a ball go by.

  “Concentrate,” Greg said.

  So, I quit looking at James, who was laughing at me anyhow, and set myself, concentrating on the ball. Smacked the next one dead away centre. Greg nodded, didn’t say anything, and sent another ball my way. I hit it, dead away centre.

  “Hit to the left,” he said. So, I tried. The ball dribbled off my bat to the left. “Again,” he said, and sent another ball my way. Another grounder, a bit better than the first, but not great.

  “Now right,” he said. I did so, and the hit was better than to left. Greg nodded. “Looks like you’re going to have to work on hitting to left field,” he said. “Now, let’s begin.”

  He had me hitting the ball for an hour straight. “Set your feet,” he’d say. “Set your shoulders. Hands. Hips.”

  I hit ball after ball, until my arms felt like lead. When I complained, he said, “Ten more.” And then ten more after that. Until I missed four balls in a row.

  “Guess you’re done,” he said. “Good work.”

  I staggered out of the batting cage and downed one of the two bottles of water. The guy was a slave driver. We’d barely have time to go for something to eat—

  “And now, let’s do some fielding,” he said, and grabbed a bat and a bucket of balls.

  I glanced at James, half hoping he’d say, “She can’t, we got a date,” but he didn’t say a word. Just set the bases out on the grass field by the batting cage, then grabbed the glove Greg offered him, and headed to first base.

  “You take second,” he said to me. “If you’re going to play second base, there are a few things you need to work on.”

  I groaned, pulled on my glove, and walked to second base.

  “What are we going to work on?” I asked.

  “Throwing to first,” he said.

  For the next hour he hit grounders and pop ups and line drives at me, all the while barking directions about the position of my feet. My glove. My free hand.