by Jon Pineda
“What’s that, honey?”
“If I move, I breathe.”
“You silly goose. You have to breathe,” Elinor said.
She stuck her tongue out at her grandson. Micah grinned and ran into the house.
“What’s wrong, Mama?” Teagan said and wiped her mother’s cheek.
“Nothing’s wrong, silly goose. I was just thinking. That’s all.”
“You call me Princess.”
“Okay, Princess. I’m sorry. I don’t know what in the world I was thinking.”
Teagan spread out her arms and walked forward, steadily, as if on a tightrope.
“I fall,” she said.
“Don’t do that,” Elinor said, laughing now.
“I will. I fall.”
“Keep your head straight. You’re not going to fall.”
Tom watched his sister place one foot in front of the other.
He pictured her on a tightrope. High above them. The flowers part of the costume. He wasn’t going to say anything. He didn’t want to break her concentration.
As they were leaving, Manny told Micah he could take one toy with him, that he had to leave the others for the next time he came to visit. The boy nodded at the bribe.
“They’re all yours, Lolo,” Micah said with a serious face. “You keep them all.”
“All of them,” Manny said. He was embarrassed now. “They’re your dad’s toys. This whole side belongs to him. This other side belongs to your Aunt Sissy.”
“Then they should clean it up!” Micah said.
Tom watched his father’s smile fall.
The boy took the keys out of Tom’s hand and ran for the car.
“You and Mom are coming to his game tomorrow, right?” Tom said. “It’s the first one.”
“What game?” Manny said.
“Oh, he knows what game,” Elinor said. “We’ll be there with a bullhorn and a banner.”
It was a strange name. Shoe sat on the bench across the street from the halfway house and looked up at the street sign. Omohundro. How had such a name made its way to this part of the world? It had to mean something.
Behind him, children at the nearby school were out for recess. He could hear their piercing voices. They traded off chasing one another.
He thought of Mario from years back.
How his nephew had loved to play ball into the evening.
Hadn’t he also, as a boy, loved the sound of bodies scuffing the grass of a field? He and Mario were so alike in this way. But then this boy had vanished into another version, one who would endlessly write letters explaining how he was going to make something of his life. Mario had gone on to study hard in school. His nephew was not only a physician, but a surgeon.
A real surgeon, Shoe had bragged to his housemates.
His nephew practiced medicine at the children’s hospital downtown.
Shoe could walk there from the Ghent section. But there was no need. Mario was going to pick him up and take him to lunch.
Once he was released altogether, he would go to live with his nephew.
That was the promise.
He sat on the bench and mused on the name of the street again. He closed his eyes. The sounds of the children chasing each other became the sounds of the cars passing in front of him.
Then the idling engine. A vehicle had pulled up close to where he sat.
“Hey, old man,” a voice came from inside a silver, pristine Range Rover.
“I got your old man right here,” Shoe said and grabbed his crotch.
He climbed inside.
“Where to, Tio?”
Mario was still wearing his scrubs. He was going back after lunch.
“What was it you do again?” Shoe said.
Mario laughed. He knew what his uncle was up to.
Mario announced it with more flair than he normally would have. “I’m a pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon.”
“I’m guessing anyone can be one of those,” Shoe said.
“That’s right,” Mario said. “Anyone.”
It was warm outside. Shoe welcomed the breeze through the open window. They pulled up to a light. A woman in her mid-forties stopped alongside them. She was driving a faded black BMW. The color made Shoe think of water. A body of water, in particular, one in a poem he had read so often that he had memorized it easily.
In the prison library’s possession was a collection by the poet A. R. Ammons. Shoe’s favorite was “Corsons Inlet.” He liked the way the person inside the poem spoke to him. Of the many lines he loved, in crossing the yard, he would repeat the final line in his head, That tomorrow a new walk is a new walk.
“Tio, tell her she looks good in that car,” Mario laughed.
Shoe looked at the woman and smiled. He knew she could hear his nephew.
“Your car’s beautiful,” he finally said to her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, turning to face him. “What was that?”
She was wearing designer sunglasses. She had salon-blond hair. She lifted the glasses so that he could see her green eyes.
“Nothing,” Shoe said.
The woman replaced her glasses. Her jawline clenched.
The light changed, and the woman drove away.
She had reminded him of someone.
Paul Guzman was happy to see his brother. He could embrace him in his own home. Mary came around the corner, where she was busy cooking a huge meal. She hugged him quickly. Her hair carried the scent of roasted chilis. She was crying.
Shoe didn’t know what to do at first. He thought she was going to tell her son to take his uncle back where he had found him. But then he remembered her letters expressing such gratitude. She kissed Shoe on the mouth. Paul had done the same.
Mario’s sisters, who had both driven up from Florida, were there with their families. The children, who had been running around in the backyard, were now busy darting into the house, assuming the roles of entitled grandchildren.
“This place is exactly how I remember it,” Shoe said.
“We’re so glad to have you home, Exequiel,” Mary said. “You’ve brought us good luck, you know that?”
“That’s right, Mano,” Paul said.
“Yes,” Mario said, trying not to cry.
Shoe looked around the room at everyone, then focused on the floor. There was his right foot, turned just slightly askew as if it might walk out the door on its own.
“I just wanted your life,” Shoe said quietly, “to be different from mine.”
Mario had been the only one to hear his uncle. He found he could barely breathe. The others started clapping, Paul suddenly overcome with the need to vocalize a grito, surprising his family as the joyous scream lifted and sank like netting in the wind.
Someone turned on music, something traditional already programmed in the iPod. Paul took Mary’s hand. Even though she playfully refused at first. He coaxed her into the widening circle of the room. He held her close. As they spun, he saw his younger brother’s face.
“You’re a silly man,” Mary said to Paul. “It’s your brother’s turn to dance.”
Paul nodded and handed her over to Shoe. Shoe only shook his head. He pointed at the floor, as if the toe of his boot had been nailed into place.
The meal was a number of dishes that Shoe had only been able to dream of for so long—panes rellenos, yuca frita, pupusa, arroz con chorizo, more spices than he knew.
Shoe could not eat the meal without being reminded of Mary’s skin. The way her neck and hair had smelled when she had embraced him and tried to get him to dance. He did not like to dance. He could not move his body gracefully like the others.
After he finished his meal, his nieces cleared the dishes and brought out a plate of flan from the refrigerator and sat it in the middle of the table. Some of the younger children asked if they could have ice cream instead, and this made Shoe laugh. The other adults laughed too.
Mario looked at his watch and apologized to everyone, especially his uncle. He explained that h
e needed to get back to the hospital. He took a deep breath. His mother wanted to send him off with a Tupperware container full of food.
“Leave him be, Mariposa,” Paul said. “Your son has to go save more lives.”
Shoe glanced at his older brother. He could see the pride on his brother’s face. He wondered if it was showing on his face as well.
eight
Mario didn’t know why he had found it suddenly difficult to breathe. He should have been happy, standing there in his parents’ house with his sisters up from Florida, his nieces and nephews having the run of the house. But then there was his uncle, in the middle of it all, among the food and the music and the happiness.
He parked in the reserved space and went inside.
Everyone he passed knew him, knew he was a rising star on the surgical team. He went to conferences all over the country. He never stopped trying to learn about the latest techniques. Even though computers were taking over, a mind was still required to guide the machine.
And then there were instances when all was abandoned for the skill of the surgeon, the steady human hand. He had that. He had cultivated the evenness. Now, though, he was having difficulty breathing. He smiled as he passed nurses and other attendants. He could not shake the way his chest felt. Closing in on itself.
He could label every sheath, every piece of tissue and bone that would converge to make it so. If given the chance, he could open himself up. He knew he could point to what needed to be there, what was essential. Even what needed to be removed.
Opening day began with team pictures. Micah had chosen the number 10. It was his age. It was also the number on the jersey he had found in the closet at his dad’s apartment. The jersey wasn’t for baseball, but he wouldn’t hold that against his father. The cool thing was that it was shimmery and gold. His father had let him wear it to bed that night since he had forgotten to pack his pajamas. Just before his dad had shut off the light, he told Micah a story about a boy who played on a field, who kicked in the winning goal.
“Who was that?” Micah said, laughing.
“You,” Tom said. He placed his hand on the boy’s chest. “Inside there.”
Tom had watched Micah run to catch up with his teammates. The kids were taller, with scowling faces. Some had modified uniforms. Longer pants with belts like the pros. Tom remembered it was Rachel who had insisted they not go all out, since this was just a trial.
“Don’t let your guilt buy him an expensive bat,” she had said.
“But I can get an employee discount,” Tom had said.
“I don’t care. There’s nothing worse than seeing a kid with everything, all new equipment, get up there and strike out.”
He knew she was right. But the impulse to provide for the boy was too great. He had compromised and had bought Micah a batting glove and a mouth guard and wrap-around safety glasses.
Orange and black jerseys bounced up and down. Micah’s Orioles uniform looked too big for the boy; the large, freshly screened number 10 covered most of his back. The jersey had been scrunched down into the bunched elastic waistband of his bright white polyester pants. The entire ensemble could have been a construction sign, it was so large and at odds with the boy’s frame.
They gathered in the dugout. Tom made sure not to stand near the chain-link section. He would not call Micah over to him. They had worked on his swing earlier.
“Drive it,” Tom wanted to tell his son, as if that would mean anything now.
The boys horsed around on the bench. They raked sunflower seeds with their cleats. Wet shells were smeared on the concrete. The boys were laughing.
Tom didn’t want to take him away from that.
He climbed the bleachers and took a seat. He saved space for his family. Rachel was going to make the next game. They had already worked out the details, how they would trade off throughout the season.
It was better this way.
The boys went out onto the field and removed their caps.
Tom took off his old UVA baseball hat. One of the fathers had turned around and asked him what year he’d graduated, pointing.
“I didn’t,” Tom said. “Sorry.”
As the prerecorded “Star-Spangled Banner” played out over the brittle speakers of the PA system, Tom glanced back at the parking lot. He could see his mother and father. He searched quickly for Teagan. He was relieved she wasn’t with them.
Micah was right in the middle of the lineup, which surprised Tom. He thought for sure his son would have been at the bottom.
“How is he?” Manny said.
“They just started,” Tom said. “Where’s Sissy?”
Tom’s father didn’t say anything. Tom leaned over and looked at his mother.
“She wanted to go to one of the craft classes,” Elinor said. “That’s all.”
“What craft class?” Tom said.
The pitcher for the other team, a barrel-chested kid, was throwing hard. He had a gun, but he wasn’t very accurate. If anything, it would be a long game. Lots of walks until this boy was traded out.
“It’s nothing,” Elinor said. “She said she wanted to go to the center, so we dropped her off just to see. We’ll get her after the game.”
“That’s right,” Manny said. He was giddy now. He called over to Micah, who was on deck. “Don’t swing like a sissy!”
He had meant it as a joke, but the boys in the dugout had picked up on it and were chanting, “Sissy! Sissy!” at Micah until their coach, standing near first base, asked them what their problem was.
The bases were loaded when Micah stepped up to the plate. He banged the rubber pentagon. Micah looked over into the bleachers for his dad’s approval. Tom gave him a thumbs-up, and Micah laughed.
Before he fixed his stance, a ball flew past his shoulder.
“Strike!” the ump said, turning to the side.
“Come on, Blue!” Tom said.
Micah had jumped out of the batter’s box.
“Get back in there, son,” Manny whispered, his leg bouncing.
Elinor put her hand on her husband to calm him.
The pitcher started his windup.
“Ball!” the ump said.
“Good eye!” Tom yelled. It had been the third straight.
A little boy had been milling at the bottom of the bleachers. Someone’s younger brother. “Good ’ay, good ’ay!” the little boy said. He didn’t look up from the small dump truck he was pushing across the gravel. He had sounded Australian.
Manny laughed.
“What’s the count?” Elinor said.
“3–1,” Manny said. “Come on, Micah. He’s all yours now. Get your elbow up!”
Tom felt guilty for having filled the boy’s head with too many things.
If you’re behind with strikes, work your way back.
Watch for junk.
Only swing on what you can hit.
Micah had stayed in the box through the last three pitches. Now all he had to do was settle in and wait for the next one. It would have to be a strike, or else he’d get walked.
Swing for the fences.
“It’s all you, Micah,” Tom said.
Micah looked back at him and smiled. He pounded the plate hard and pulled up the new bat, locking the bright barrel into place. There was a slight swagger in his stance. Tom hadn’t seen this side of his son. He would have to mention it to Rachel, for sure.
The boy on the mound started his windup again. Tom watched the arm pull back like the hammer on an old-fashioned pistol. Then the wrist unlocked with a jolt as the rest of the body lunged forward. The ball flew into a bullet.
Tom watched it cross the stretch of space. But it was wild and curved.
Micah, instead of hitting the deck, had turned toward it, facing it head-on. It seemed practiced. The boy’s arms had simply dropped, pinned back, as if the weight of the bat had been too much. The ball slammed the middle of his chest.
“No!” Tom yelled, jumping off the bleachers.
&n
bsp; He had run out onto the field without hesitation.
Micah lay collapsed at the plate. No one had moved. The players and coaches were stunned, the ump frozen.
Tom could not say anything. He didn’t care that the ump had come to life and was pleading with him not to move the boy. Tom lifted Micah into his arms. He wasn’t going to wait for an ambulance.
“Mom? Dad?” Tom said, confused, bringing the boy to his parents.
“Go,” his father said. “Just go! Run to the car!”
“Tommy, go!” his mother screamed.
On the backseat, Micah barely opened his eyes.
“Dad?” he said, crying.
“It’s okay,” Tom said.
“Dad?”
“You’re fine. Do you hear me, baby? You’re fine. You’re fine.”
Tom kept saying these words, “You’re fine,” as he sped along Hampton Boulevard, toward the downtown. He said it as if to make it so.
The trauma sustained had produced a huge contusion, as if someone had spilled jelly and smeared it under the boy’s skin.
At first, upon Micah’s arrival to the emergency room, the attending physician suggested only an ice pack and, after checking Micah’s vitals, was pleased by the apparent confirmation of his judgment. He found nothing out of the ordinary.
Boys will be boys, the young doctor told Tom and even laughed.
Then Micah fainted.
Mario was sitting by the lockers, in the dark, when he heard the call come over the intercom. His mind switched over, filled now with the light of the screens he knew were waiting for him in another room. The intense graphics swirling with colors, crushed with pixels. He could look into the space of a body and then the representation of it. He searched images for the question.
No, the statement upon which he had built his life.
You must fix everything, Mario.
After prep, he could start to breathe. It was fine. His uncle was free. So was the next breath Mario took. It was getting easier again.
