by Paul Hina
progress report everyday if you want."
"You guys done kicking up the dust on my field?" Gus says from the dugout.
"We had to give you something to do, Gus. Field looks too good."
"Always something to clean up, Clay," Gus says. "Nothing's ever too good."
"Thus is life," Clay says.
"Clay Hart, baseball philosopher," Maggie says, emerging from the shadows of the dugout.
"You look prettier every time I see you," Clay says.
"I hadn't put on my face yet when you got here."
"Who said I was looking at your face?" he asks, smiling at her. "Face or no face, you look great."
"I can take the compliments as fast as you can throw 'em. So, keep 'em coming."
"Speaking of throwing, you got time for a catch?"
"I make time every morning."
"So, we're done?" Wayne asks.
"I've got all I need to know, right?"
"I think so," Wayne says, and then leans closer to Clay. "You will be discreet, I hope?"
"That's the name of the game, 'ol boy."
"And you'll call me?"
"That I will."
Wayne walks away from Clay, nods to Maggie, and disappears into the shadow of the dugout.
Maggie grabs a glove from the bench in the dugout, and looks toward Clay. He throws her the ball. She catches it awkwardly.
"You might want to wait until I have the glove on all the way."
"Sorry, just got excited. That's what you do to me."
"You're a lot of talk, Clay. Not a lot of action," Maggie says. "Some day you're going to have to put up and make an honest woman out of me."
"Sure, but what do you think your dad would've thought of that?"
"He didn't say anything to you that he didn't say to every ballplayer that made their way through here. Besides, he just didn't want me to end up with a ballplayer, and you're not a ballplayer anymore."
"Who says I'm done playing ball?"
"Your leg says it just about every time you put any weight on it."
"Don't pull any punches for my sake," he says, catching her throw with his bare hands.
"I'm not going to be single forever you know."
"You're not single now."
"Sure I am. There's no ring on my finger."
"I just always figured you'd wait for me."
"Not forever."
"Whenever I think about getting serious, I just think about your dad and how he would feel about it. I don't think he'd approve."
"Are you kidding, Clay? He loved you."
"And I loved him."
"I know you did," she says, catching Clay's throw.
"Do you miss him?"
"Everyday I walk into his office."
"It's your office now."
"It'll always be his office to me."
"How have things been around here lately?"
"Fine, I guess."
"Since Brett, I mean."
"Oh, you know, it's been pretty somber, but these guys are resilient. They lived through the war. Death isn't new to them. So, things are getting back to normal."
"What'd you think of him?"
"Brett?"
Clay nods as he catches a high one from her.
"He was a great hitter, and a serviceable fielder. He was on the fast track for sure. We were expecting the call from double-A at any moment before the accident," she says. "He probably would've been playing in the show by this time next year."
"He was good. No question about that. But I'm not asking how he was as a player."
"Oh, well, he was a lout. I don't know if I ever saw the man sober, even on the field. And he never walked by an attractive woman without making a pass at her."
"Including you?"
"All the time."
"Should I be jealous?"
"Of a dead man?"
"Dead or not, I still feel jealous."
"Good," she says, and smiles at him.
"And Emma? Did you know her very well?"
"What's this about, Clay?"
"Just curious."
"Does this have anything to do with what you and Wayne were just talking about?"
"Can't I ask some questions without there being some hidden motive?'
"I don't know. Can you?"
"Sure I can. But this isn't one of those times."
"What's up? What are you trying to find out?"
"Right now, I'm trying to find out what you knew about Emma."
"What? You don't trust me? You can't tell me what's going on?"
"I don't know what's going on."
"You know something."
"Honestly, Maggie, I don't know the difference between what I know and what I don't know right now. I'm just asking questions."
"I didn't know her very well," she says, throwing him a fast one. "I never really saw her much at games. Not that she didn't come, but we never really crossed paths. I did see her when she would pop in to watch practices, or to watch Brett take batting practice. She never said much, though."
"How'd they get along?"
"They seemed fine when I saw them here, but I know he had a tendency to smack her around."
"What makes you think that?"
"I hear things. Also, I could see the usual signs.
"Like what?"
"Bruises on the arms. A black eye barely hidden by make-up."
"I had no idea."
"Does it surprise you?"
"I guess not."
"He was a happy drunk once he had a few drinks, but he could get really mean if he'd had too much. You should hear some of the stories the guys tell. I know Red had to bail him out of jail on a few occasions."
"What happened?"
"Bar fights. Fights at poker games."
"Poker games?"
"That's what I said."
"Where'd he play poker?"
"I'm not sure. You'd have to ask Red."
"I'd like to pop in at today's practice, if you don't mind," he says, throwing her the ball.
Maggie drops her arms as she catches the throw, exasperated. "Clay, things are just getting back to normal around here. If you come in here and start asking everyone questions about Brett, it'll…"
"It'll what?"
"It'll stir things up," she says, throwing the ball back to him.
Clay catches the ball and starts walking toward her. "You know how I like to stir things up," he says, and embraces her around the waist.
"Are you trying to charm me?"
"Is it working?"
"I don't know. What else you got?"
He kisses her softly on the mouth.
"Is that all you got?"
"There's plenty more where that came from," he says, and kisses her again.
"Hey, come on, not on the field," Gus yells from the first base line. "Take it inside."
Two
Clay pulls into the sheriff's office parking lot in his Fleetmaster, and keeps it running while he sips a lukewarm cup of coffee he'd grabbed before leaving Maggie's office.
The county sheriff is Sam Denton. Clay and Sam were old war buddies. Both were wounded in battle. Sam had found the better part of a mortar shell in his shoulder, and Clay was shot in the thigh at Normandy. They spent several weeks convalescing in neighboring beds at an Army hospital in Bristol, England, and they became fast friends during their recovery. It was difficult to find ways of passing the time in the hospitals then, and they were generally pretty miserable places. So, people talked or played cards. And, since Sam's shoulder made it difficult for him to play cards, he and Clay did their fair share of talking.
Once Clay told Sam that he had spent a couple weeks playing second base for the Cleveland Indians, you'd have thought Sam had met a bonafide celebrity. After that, they're conversations revolved mostly around baseball. This had the positive side effect of keeping them from talking too much about home, which was good since talking about home only made them miss it more. But God knows they had to talk about something. Anything to keep their minds off t
he war, though there were reminders of it all around them.
After Clay came home from the war, his prospects in baseball quickly dwindled. He practiced for many teams, exhausting just about every connection he still had in the game. But his leg, with its nerve damage and remaining bullet fragments, just wouldn't cooperate. Though it was painful, he could still run, but his speed was highly compromised. And no matter how much he gritted his teeth and tried to push through the pain of it, he was never fast enough to ease the minds of skeptical coaches.
He could still hit though. But he was a left-hander, and since his wounded left thigh was the leg he planted his swing on, it hurt to swing with the same old snap he'd had before. He could still do it, but it never felt as clean and fluid as it once did.
His fielding was the hardest loss to accept. He knew his reflexes were still there. He could still hear the voice of his body anticipating the direction of the ball off the bat, still knew with precision the spot where the ball would bounce once it was hit, and where and when to best eat it up with his glove or his bare hand. If he had both legs underneath him, and the same old flexibility he used to own, he could field balls on muscle memory alone. But squatting down or diving for grounders was just too painful. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pretend away the pain.
But, overall, he knew he could still play the game—just at a diminished level. He'd have happily played left field, or, better yet, he thought he could cut it at first base if someone would've given him a chance. But no one would bite. He offered to play deep in the farm system to prove his worth again. Some teams were receptive at first, but once they understood the true extent of his injury, they all passed.
Then, out of the blue, he got a call from Sam. It was great to hear from him again. They hadn't spoken since they'd gotten back to the states. And it was like their conversations in that England hospital had never stopped. He told Clay about his life in California, his job at the sheriff's department(he wasn't the sheriff back then), and his new fiancée. That's why he was calling, he was inviting Clay to the wedding.
When Sam asked
