Like even her sister had done when Kasia first shared everything. But Mama hadn’t. How was she supposed to know who was safe to tell?
Jayce was still weaving his tale. “The change in my old man had me riveted, but I was an angry little punk with no use for Jesus-freakery. So we worked on restoring Pop’s bike. Together—and over hours and hours of wrenches and ratchets—I started to understand who God is.”
He chuckled at himself again. “Then it was wicked simple. So”—he shrugged—“the second tat.”
The ink was thick and dark down his forearm. Δικαιοσύνη.
“Righteousness,” Tatuś said. “I bet the pair of them start interesting conversations.” He slapped Jayce on the back and lifted the lid of the grill.
Smoke from the grill wafted over them, and Kyle inhaled next to her. She smiled at him, wished Tatuś would approve of him like he did of Jayce. Then maybe he’d trust her judgment too. Trust her not to embarrass him in his own house.
Had he known about the time she’d been with Blake behind his shop? The only time she’d ever brought Blake home—because of that.
When darkness had swallowed up the daylight and kamikaze mosquitoes began bombardment in earnest, her friends loaded up to return to the valley.
Kyle hung back a minute. “Can you squeeze in a little time with me before you leave?”
“Not for a date though, right? Because I can’t…go there right now.”
He nodded slowly, entertained. “I get it. I just enjoy your company.”
If he meant that, she’d like to hang out. “Can I get back to you?”
“Of course. Maybe. But if I don’t hear from you by Saturday, I’m trying again.” His boyish smile coaxed out a slight grin.
“Deal.”
He climbed into the back of A.J.’s car and rolled down the window.
“Your car is quite a classic, A.J.,” Tatuś said.
Jayce laughed and knocked on the hood. “It was a wild piece of junk when her Uncle Frankie got ahold of it. Thing’s prob’ly as much Bond-O as steel at this point.”
“Truth.” A.J. climbed behind the wheel. “It can’t be worth much at all. But I feel tough driving from A to B.” She cranked the muscle car and made a slow circle in the drive. As it rumbled down the hill, the phone rang inside the house. Kasia shouted goodbye and jogged in to answer it.
“Hello?”
Silence.
No. Someone was breathing.
After her third hello, she slammed the receiver on the counter and stalked back to her room. On the edge of her bed, irrational fear crowded her senses. Her cell phone buzzed and she jumped, slammed her knee into the corner of the nightstand. Ugh. Her knee throbbed.
A text from Blake.
Nice. Press charges because I broke your window. I posted bail. See you soon.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She erased the message.
15
Well, there wasn’t sand and beach, but Zan couldn’t say he minded the scenery.
The Northeastern Wooden Bat League consisted of small teams across the Finger Lakes region. Deep, thick forests and meandering hills filled the horizon all along the back roads. Plenty of signs for locally owned vineyards. Maybe he’d squeeze in a little wine tasting.
Early afternoon the first Sunday in June, Zan rumbled into the historic district of Geneva, New York. Home of the Geneva Catfish, his summer team. As he sat at the red light, he wrapped his fingers around the bar, pulled up a few times, stretched.
A brick church, a library, and some colorful storefronts dotted Main Street. Quaint little town. But the gas station, laundromat, and handful of municipal buildings weren’t going to provide much entertainment. Nothing compared to the heat of the Carolina sun on his back as he spiked a volleyball into the sand, the salty waves only a hundred yards out.
Still, his ball career wasn’t over.
He picked up his keys and housing assignment from his new coach, a gruff guy from Tennessee, and found out where to be the next morning. The rest of the day was his.
He found the bungalow without much difficulty and pulled alongside the curb. A car and a pickup that’d seen better days, both with Georgia plates, were parked in the drive. The grass, littered with cans and bottles, waved about knee-high, completely gone to seed. The rest of the welcoming committee was a boarded window, moldy siding, and a broken flowerpot with crisp, used-to-be geranium stems.
He cracked open the door and stepped in. The house was too warm even with all the windows open, and a musty, been-a-long-time-since-this-place-was-inhabited smell hung in the air. Stained, threadbare carpet reminded him of moss in a drought. Would his housemates help him clean the place up? Zan heard some laughter and music upstairs. He shouldered his duffel, headed toward the noise.
He found an empty bedroom, dropped his bag on the dusty parquet floor, and tossed his keys on the dresser. Ideally, the metal bedframe in the corner would be able to support his weight. He could try it out, but he’d rather vacuum it and put his sheets on it first.
Man, he missed his mama somethin’ awful.
He turned to go back out to get a box of stuff.
“What’s up, man?” A guy with Asian features and close-cropped hair gave him a nod from the doorway. “Todd Chen, catcher.”
“Chen’s all right,” drawled a stocky blond. “We caravanned up here, and he drives like a maniac, but other’n that I like him. I’m Caleb.” He stepped into the room.
“Zan,” he answered. “Not much to do around here, is there?”
“Nah, but I figure we’ll be pretty busy anyway. And I found an old grill out back. Maybe we can clean it up and use it.” Caleb tossed a ball near the ceiling and snagged it with a snap of his wrist.
Chen leaned back against the doorframe. “Yeah, my last semester was a killer. When I’m not playing ball, I plan to be chilling. We’ve got to do some work on this place to make it a little more satisfactory.”
Zan smiled. “I like the sound of that.”
They made plans to hit the supermarket and pick up a few items from the hardware store.
Caleb stretched. “I’m gonna rest for half an hour or so before we head out.” He turned back on his way out of the room. “You go to church, Zan?”
Zan stared at him. He did not get stuck in this house all summer with a Bible thumper. “Uh, no, man.”
“No problem,” Chen said. “We were just wondering. We’re going to try the one in town on Sunday. If you change your mind, let us know.”
Zan offered a tight, half-hearted smile in response, and the guys left.
Two Bible thumpers.
Was it too late to switch houses?
~*~
Zan relished the feel of the wood grain in his grip. He’d spent his whole life playing with aluminum, so the bat in his hands at the moment was a big deal. Wooden bats were only for the minors and up. Though the balance was almost identical to the metal bat he was used to, this one was weightier.
He adjusted his grip and stretched his upper body. A scuff mark right on the label caught his eye. He winced. It hadn’t been there before the last pitch. He could’ve broken the bat, letting the ball hit it against the grain like that. Label up, label down. He couldn’t forget all these little nuances in the wooden league. He dug in.
The ball came in hard and fast, but Zan nailed it on the sweet spot, sent it down the right-field line. Perfect.
He dropped the bat and took off for first, his stride long and even. He pushed himself, but this time, it wasn’t about impressing anybody. Zan passed first base and jogged back, shielding his eyes from the sun as he took in the scene.
This first game of the summer was exhilarating. There were even fans.
“What’s up, Geneva!” sang Dannyboy Rollins. The disabled vet was a local hero, and he never missed a practice, much less a game from what Zan had been told. The atmosphere of this local ballpark—no stadium, no diehard alumni, no ever-present boosters—made the politics and stress of col
legiate ball seem a world away—exactly what he needed.
A redhead in the stands filled his head with Kasia Bernolak for a second, but he shook it off. Be here. In this moment.
Hedge, one of his oldest teammates, hit a shallow line drive, and Zan took off, hustled around second.
The base coach signaled him at third. “Hold up! Hold up!”
He slowed.
The pitcher rolled his neck, and Zan took his walking lead, remained watchful. After three pitches, the batter was up two balls and a strike. And third base wasn’t on the pitcher’s radar. Zan decided to steal home. Wished Auburn really was out there in the stands, watching him.
A few steps farther.
As the pitcher wound up, the third baseman was a few feet away from the bag. This was it. Zan waited to catch Hedge’s eye, shuffled farther down the base line for an extended lead. Hedge turned his head, and Zan touched his helmet; the batter tapped the plate in answer.
Twice more, he stepped toward home, never breaking stride. The moment the pitcher’s foot broke contact with the rubber, he made his move. His feet pounded the base line.
“He’s going!” someone called out behind him. “He’s going!”
The pitcher would have to throw low and away to get the ball out of the strike zone and into the catcher’s hands, but Zan knew Hedge was ready for him. As he sprinted toward home, Hedge planted his feet and swung wide. The catcher dove for the ball and stretched his glove toward the plate.
But Zan had the momentum of a locomotive behind him. In one fluid motion, he slid behind the batter, kicked up a cloud of rust-colored dust, and reached around Hedge’s feet to tap the plate.
“Safe!”
The crowd went wild. Dannyboy’s melodic voice rose above the roar. “What’s up, Geneva!”
Zan’s confidence soared. Four innings later, the Catfish won.
The first victory of the summer.
As soon as he had a minute, Zan used his smartphone to search for Kasia on a few social networks. Tried to figure out how to spell her name. So unusual.
There. He’d found her. He clicked on her picture. Other than the photo, he could see nothing.
Unless he followed her. Would she even consider it?
He let his gaze wander over her penny-colored hair and wide, gorgeous smile. No wonder he couldn’t get her out of his head.
His fingers hovered over the keypad. With guys like Nail-in-the-Tire and the dude she ran into outside of the Warehouse, she didn’t need to believe a psycho watched her every move. He understood how a woman who’s been threatened and mistreated could hesitate to trust. Look at Bailey.
A direct question was probably his best bet. He typed a message and hit send.
~*~
Kasia’s burdens rolled off behind her in the jet wash. She slumped in the constrictive seat and studied the cloud pattern that stretched beside the airplane.
Everything she wanted to run from was miles behind her. Thousands of miles. She leaned her seat back the one oh-so-relaxing inch and tried to rest.
Thirty thousand feet above Venezuela, she jetted toward Peru, toward new purpose, new people, a new country—may as well be a new world.
Sheriff Schilling had called just before they’d left and informed her dad that the D.A. had, in fact, decided to drop the assault charges against Blake. So everything would settle down while she was out of the country, and—when it was time to fly home—none of this would be an issue.
But it wasn’t time to think about home.
She was on her way to the Andes.
Kasia selected Kyle’s playlist, tucked in her earbuds, and turned off the overhead light. She settled in, closed her eyes, and saw them: Tatuś filled with an awkward mix of love, tension, and relief as he waved goodbye. Busia, not to be left behind on such an occasion, sandwiched between Mama and Lenka, her eyes shut tightly in that endearing blink—the Polish version of a wink. She’d called out, “Z Bogiem, Kasiu!” With God.
Kasia had blinked back and then blown a kiss to Mama.
Just before she walked through security, Lenka had yelled, “Get me a picture from the highest place you can find. Climb if you have to.”
Kasia’s lips curved at the memory as she drifted off.
Three hours later, her feet touched the floor of Jorge Chávez International Airport, and her soul flooded with excitement. The air was an odd symphony of unfamiliar words, lilting accents that spoke of distant lives, raucous laughter, and shouting.
At the conveyor belt, Kasia kept her distance. She knew better than to step up before she saw the red-and-white striped ribbon on her bags. The pushy swarm reminded her of a Polish deli counter.
But the people! Some of them looked as if they’d just stepped out of a magazine, tall, tanned, and blond. Rich, charming men swaggered around women who commanded their notice. And right in the middle of the glamorous were worn, tired people. Blue collar, or whatever they were in this country. These people—rather than make demands of life—stood still, content to be a part of the background.
It was their ebony eyes that called to her, their stories she wanted to know. If Lenka were here, they’d people-watch together, dream up plots for the oblivious cast of their play.
She wrestled her bag off the conveyor and heaved her pack onto her back, picked up her guitar, and scanned the long line winding away from customs. As she stepped up to the tall desk and lifted her gaze to the border guard, her heart tried to match the rhythm of the loud passport stamping in the room. Was it more anxiety or anticipation?
She’d call it anticipation. That answer felt better.
The disinterested guard stamped her passport with the joy of an undertaker. He handed it back and said with a thick accent, “Have a nice stay in Peru.”
“Gracias,” she said.
The international concourse exit was the gateway to another world, way more lively than Passport Guy would have her believe. Kasia scanned the crowd, noticed her name on a fluorescent pink placard. If it hadn’t been neon bright, she’d have missed both the sign and its bearer, a tall, wispy girl who looked as though she wished she could disappear.
Kasia approached and stuck out a hand.
“You’re Kasia?”
“Yep. Is everything all right with Patty? She was supposed to meet me, I thought.”
“She’s fine. Just getting your apartment ready. I’m Grace, Mark and Patty’s daughter.”
So did they not need Kasia to be here? “Oh! I hadn’t realized—”
“It’s no biggie. I travel a lot and had to come through this week anyway. I’ll take any excuse to spend a few extra days in Lima.”
“So you have a car?”
Grace smiled. “I don’t like to play chicken with third-world busses. You up for one more quick flight?”
“Can I buy a ticket at the counter?”
“Follow me.”
When they stepped out onto the tarmac and Kasia saw the teeny plane parked on the runway, propellers spinning, her heart might have stuttered a little.
They boarded and sat near the back, in different rows. After a few incomprehensible comments from the old man beside her, who apparently liked to waggle his eyebrows at young Americans, Kasia gave up trying to understand and stared out the window. Mercifully, Señor Too-Friendly gave up too.
The plane shuddered as it took off, and Kasia prayed it would stay in one piece until they landed in Cajamarca. Crystal-blue sky surrounded them, and she touched her head to the cool Plexiglas of the tiny window, tried to see more. The buzzing vibration of the engine traveled through the window and into her head, and she smiled. Was it wrong to want joy? Jayce’s words from Bible study echoed in her head again. Spend our time on what matters. On Christ. That’s it.
For a passing moment, she wished she could be at small group on Monday night, but she’d be teaching her own class by then. Besides, Lenka would tell her about it.
Kasia leaned toward the window as the plane banked to the left and glanced downward, i
nhaling sharply. Sunlight had stamped a silhouette of the plane on the cloud below them. A rainbow—a complete circle—surrounded the shadow like an embrace.
Determination welled up in her, and she steeped in it.
The plane bounced as they hit the primitive runway. Kasia took mental snapshots of the sights around her—the sun-bleached stones lining the rough tarmac, the small crowd milling around outside the simple brick-and-glass airport, the large pineapple-ish plants pleasantly disguising the fence behind them. Tatuś had given her a new journal. She’d capture these memories first.
As she climbed down the stairs, Kasia scanned the waiting faces. The Cleavens’ blond hair and peachy complexions shone out of the throng.
Mrs. Cleaven chatted as they left the airport. “The first thing we’ll do is take you home for some coca tea, and then you can rest awhile.”
Kasia forced a smile. She didn’t want to rest. She’d been sitting on planes and in airports for hours and hours. “I’d rather just get busy learning my way around, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Cleaven.”
With a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, she said, “Please call me Patty. And I’m glad you’re ready to get going, but the first seventy-two hours can be a little touchy. The air’s thinner up here, and altitude sickness isn’t a good way to start.”
“It’s like the flu, but ten times more awful,” Grace volunteered.
“So I have to stay in and rest for three days?” she asked. Three days?
“Well, the tea really helps. It’s an old Incan trick. Then we’ll go over to your place. As long as you take it easy, you can get settled. Make the apartment feel like home. Mark has your internet connection ready, and Grace has some information about the area that might be useful. Just keep drinking lots of water too.”
At least Kasia would have time to get her bearings and touch base with home.
Mark tossed her backpack and guitar into the back of an ancient SUV, then drove them around Cajamarca, pointing out a few places of interest. She tried to form a mental map of the city and found it difficult to gauge the direction. Tall building façades and walls lined the narrow streets, obstructing her vision as if she were in a ravine. She did notice, though, that the center of the city seemed higher than the outer areas.
Strains of Silence Page 12
