Curveball, page 20
“He’s such a pig.” She looked enraged. “I never told you what my girlfriend Taylor said, the one who slept with him?”
Jess shook his head.
“He’s such a pig. Did it hurt?”
Jess nodded.
“Do you want ice?”
“I’ve been icing for hours. But hey.” He grinned, and it still hurt. “It’s all good. Right after Big punched me, in front of half the team, Rah broke his nose.”
“Really?” She laughed. “Serves the fucker right.” Then her look turned somber. “Is it going to be in the news? I haven’t seen anything on Twitter.”
“Because Big threw the first punch, the club has warned him to keep his mouth shut, or else.”
“And because he’s such a piece of shit and you’re so great.” She touched his hand. “I’ve already watched your no-hitter twice, beginning to end.”
“You sure you’re not a stalker?”
She smiled. “Someone will talk, you’ll see. And when that happens, you’ll be really glad to have me as your pretend girlfriend.”
He grinned, then winced; it hurt to grin. “You’re probably right. I wish I could ask Rah. But we agreed not to talk and to keep this on the down-low.”
“So,” Emmy said. “Just let me know. I should get going.”
“Where?”
“Back to school.”
“Isn’t that, like, five hours?”
She nodded.
“Sleep here. You can have the bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
He patted the couch.
“You can have the other side of the bed.” She smiled sadly, if such a beautiful smile could ever be sad. “If you think you can keep your hands off me.”
He thought, This is really crazy. But he also felt how grateful he was to have company. And all of a sudden, Jess felt so tired he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to cross to the bed and fall into it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After the tumult at Citizen Bank, a postgame train to Penn Station, followed by a 1:00-a.m. cab to their hotel, Jack had trouble negotiating sleep. At two-thirty, he downed two bolts of scotch and two of them little blue pills; not the kind that leadened his pencil, the one that sealed his eyes and kept them shut. He woke at eleven, the latest he’d slept in years, feeling as if his mind had been dragged through the mud and put away dirty. What was that kids’ movie, Cloudy With a Chance of Mothballs? That’s how his head felt, so fuzzed it took some time to realize the buzz was a phone, not a fly, which stopped before he reached it. Then, while he stood above the pot waiting for his eighty-two-year-old bladder to finish its business, and Lord knows he wasn’t going to muck with that since once it got going it was safer not to stop, his cell phone, abandoned on the nightstand, began playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy”. He let it.
Finally, head clear, bladder empty, he shaved, did his push-ups and crunches, dressed and called Joey, then arranged to meet in the lobby and walk up to the Celestial on First, a greasy spoon of the sort he favored: familiar food, no sushi, breakfast served twenty-four seven.
Striding uphill from York towards First, leaning into a brisk wind—it was nearly October, his birthday in two months—Jack peered up at his son’s face in profile. Crow’s feet walked around his eye; wrinkles creased his cheek; salt and pepper seasoned the hair above his ear. He ain’t a kid no more. Inside the Celestial, Jack ordered eggs over easy, home fries, and sausage, same as Joey.
“I didn’t know you ate eggs over with sausage.”
“My whole life,” Joe answered. “I learned it from you.”
“Why didn’t I know that?”
Joey grinned. “Don’t get me started.”
What the hell does that mean? But Jack said nothing because he took Joe’s meaning. After an awkward silence he asked, “You heard from Jess this morning?”
Joe shook his head.
“What about Frannie?”
“She had to put her dog down.”
“That funny-looking mutt?”
Joey nodded. The waitress arrived with their chow. She was tough-looking, sixty if she were six, dye job gone bad, wearing white nurse shoes and support hose. She slapped their plates on the Formica, set the Heinz in front of Jack.
“Anything else?”
“We’re good.”
She deposited the check beside his water and slipped away. Jack watched his son cut into his eggs, then salt-and-peppered his own. For a minute or three, they chewed in silence. When he’d cleaned his plate except for a smear of yolk and a hillock of hash browns, Jack napkin-ed his lips and asked, “When you flying to Cali?”
Joe met his eyes. “I’m not.”
“Don’t you think Frannie wants you there, since she had to kill her dog?”
“She’s flying back tomorrow.”
Jack almost asked, Why the hell not? Then he knew. “There something you ain’t telling me.”
Joey nodded.
“The cancer’s back.”
Joey nodded again.
He was about to demand, Why didn’t you tell me? Instead, he asked, “You tell Two-J’s?”
“He’s got enough on his plate.”
“For damn sure.” He forked half the paprika-ed potatoes to his lips, chased them with the dregs of his coffee. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s metastasized.”
Joey smiled, though Jack didn’t see what was funny.
“I finally said it right,” Joey said.
“Where’s it moved to?”
Joey shrugged.
“Someplace they can cut it out?”
Joey shook his head. Jack mouthed the last clump of potatoes and waved his coffee cup at the waitress.
“I had the first dose of radiation yesterday. Next one’s Monday, then Wednesday.”
“They gonna remove your prostate?”
Again Joey shook his head. The waitress arrived with a fresh pot and filled their cups. When she took off, Jack asked, “What happens next?”
“Maybe it comes back, maybe it doesn’t.”
“Don’t take a genius to know that. Doc give you the odds?”
“More likely it does. But he didn’t say when.”
Jack sipped his coffee, which was hot and black, but not too strong, like the Chock full o’Nuts he cut his taste buds on. “Don’t fucking die on me, Joey.”
He grabbed the check and walked to the register, though he usually counted on Joey settling up. He threw the old waitress 20 percent, then Jack and his son emerged onto First, headed downhill towards the river.
Jess arranged with Ray Mattis, the Mets’ traveling secretary, for Emmy to sit with the Mets’ wives and girlfriends at Saturday night’s game. He also arranged for her to sit in the smaller wives’ section on Wednesday in Miami, when he was pitching next. Then Jess and Emmy went down for a late breakfast in the hotel restaurant where he was counting on some of the other players seeing her. Sure enough, not only players, but Gallagher, Gib, and Mac were finishing up when he and Emmy walked through the dining room, and Jess made a point of stopping at their table. He finished intros to the manager and pitching coach, but before he could introduce Mac, Emmy broke in.
“Mister Davis, you’re like a god in my house.” She turned to Jess. “He’s my dad’s favorite player ever.”
Jess said, “My dad’s too.”
“Why, hell!” Mac grinned. “Your fathers are a mighty fine judge of character.”
“If it’s not too much trouble”—Emmy shrugged—“could I get your autograph for my dad? He’d just die!”
Jess watched Mac’s cheeks blossom in a smile. “Emmy’s a big fan. She came in from college for last night’s game, and she’s staying around for tonight’s game too.”
Gib, the hard-ass of the coaching staff, said, “She’s probably hoping to see better pitching than last night.”
“That’s for sure,” Emmy said.
The coaches laughed.
“I’ll sign a picture,” Mac said, “and get it to Jess before the game. What’s your dad’s name?”
“Frank Williams.”
Jess glanced at Gallagher, who was staring at him with a What the hell is going on? expression because he no doubt remembered asking Jess two days ago if the Twitter posts about him and Rah were true. Now here was Emmy hanging on his arm.
Baffle them with bullshit, Jess thought.
Rah and a couple of the other younger Latin players walked past, following the hostess, headed for a table. Rah did not look surprised to see Emmy; he looked hurt, and maybe even jealous, his eyes momentarily latching onto Jess’s before skittering away.
Jess and Emmy continued to their table and sat, a few places from Gallagher and the coaches on one side, a few tables from Rah on the other. When the brain trust departed, they smiled and waved at Emmy. As for Rah, Jess didn’t know if he was just following the plan they’d agreed to by ignoring him, or if he was actually pissed. Probably both.
The Mets won Saturday, 7-2, behind Wetherby’s six hitter. Rah caught, called his usual excellent game, and doubled in a run. Even better, the Cardinals finally lost. The Nats and D-backs lost too, and just like that, with seven to go, the Mets were one game out of the first and second Wild Cards and tied for the third. Since Rick was starting the series finale, everyone was feeling optimistic about getting onto tomorrow night’s Miami flight tied for at least one of the Wild Cards entering the final week of the season.
The mood in the locker room couldn’t have been more different than twenty-four hours earlier. Salsa blasted from the Latin corner, hip hop from the African American guys, while the white players clustered around Rick’s locker, listened to twang. (Unsurprisingly, there was no gay Jewish locker row pumping out Hava Nagila). Big, who’d sported a white gauze pad over his nose in the bullpen, which made him look like Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, had approached Jess in the locker room after the game. In earshot of several veterans, he apologized. Jess didn’t believe a word, but shook Big’s hand, anyway. According to Mac, Gallagher had ripped Big a new one during a private sit-down, telling him if he had any hope of making the post-season roster, he better clean up his shit and pronto.
Whatever. Big was the same asshole he’d always been. Nothing would change that, except now he had a gauze pad on his nose that everyone could see. Jess wondered if Big was Flushing Fred. Or if Big had tipped off a friend named Fred? On the advice of the Mets’ PR department, Jess had shut down his Twitter and Insta accounts, resolving never to think about Big again.
Jess was more worried about Rah, who was still cutting him dead in the locker room and in the dugout. It’s what they’d agreed to—no contact until this blew over—but Jess regretted the decision. He missed Rah, and what if their relationship really was over? He also regretted letting Emmy stay a second night and flying her down to Miami when he pitched on Wednesday. It had seemed like a good idea last night, but now, after getting the cold shoulder and cold eyes all day from Rah, he was worried all the time.
He hadn’t even been able to thank Rah for punching Big in the face, and Lord knows, he deserved more than a simple thank you. Returning from the shower wearing just a towel, he peered down the row of lockers where Rah was halfway dressed, naked from the waist up, his muscular chest hairless except for little black whorls around his nipples. Jess knew them well. Rah looked up. Their eyes met briefly, then Rah turned away.
Emmy was outside the players’ exit when Jess emerged, his curls wet and slicked back. She crossed to his side, kissed his sore cheek, said, “Whoops,” when he winced, and slipped her arm under his. Moving her lips to his ear, she whispered, “How’s my pretend boyfriend?”
“Pretending.” He kissed the corner of her mouth as one flash after another went off.
They walked to her car, which was parked in the VIP section just outside the players’ entrance. Driving back to the Marriott, she chattered happily about how welcoming all the other girls had been, especially Rick Heynen’s wife, Sherry.
“She invited me out to lunch after you guys go to the ballpark tomorrow. If you think that’s okay.”
Jess, who was driving Emmy’s car, took his eyes off the road to glance at her. “Why wouldn’t it be okay? Sherry’s great.”
“You know.”
Jess looked straight ahead to make sure they were safe, then turned again towards Emmy as the lights from an approaching car washed over her.
“It’s weird, Jess, isn’t it?”
“That’s for sure.”
They drove in silence, then almost in unison they said, “How about going out for a cheesesteak?”
And broke up laughing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jack didn’t like it, not one damn bit. The whole trip back to West Palm he kept thinking he shoulda stayed with Joey, even if Frannie was coming back tomorrow. He’d seen it a million times. When cancer metastasized, you were a goner. If not now, then sooner than later you were a dead man shuffling towards the River Styx. It wasn’t right, he kept thinking, drinking Chivas on the plane. It wasn’t right, he thought, still drinking when he got home, and not calling Glad like he’d promised.
It wasn’t right to outlive your son, when you still had so many things to make right. They were a burr in each other’s saddle. He shoulda stayed in New York, even for just one night, but he woulda had to pay to change his flight and pay for a hotel room. But it wasn’t right. He shoulda stayed.
Sunday morning, Jack was roused by a pounding on his door, which morphed into a pulsing bladder. The real estate above his neck was pounding too. For a second, he looked around, too farblondjet to move. Where was he? He’d sucked down too much hooch, more than he’d drunk in years, musta passed out in the den. Christ on a popsicle, he had to pee, a condumbdrum worsened by the pounding in his head and nether parts.
“Hold your horses,” he shouted, and un-reclined the recliner.
Jack barefooted it towards the door, calculating odds he’d have time both to open it and reach the john before his bladder let go. He really wanted to see Glad, that’s who it must be, he was supposed to call last night, and anyway, he had a few choice words for her. He ripped the door open, and sure enough: Glad, all dolled up.
“Wow.” She peered over her sunglasses. “You stink.”
“Hold that thought,” he called over his shoulder, really booking because don’t look now, it was trickling down his leg. He slammed the guest bathroom door, extricated his poor wet pointer. It wasn’t right!
When Jack emerged with only a towel around his middle, he was hoping Glad would be gone, but also hoping she wasn’t.
“Why didn’t you call last night?” she asked, getting up from the couch. “And why didn’t you answer this morning?”
“Don’t you be asking questions. I’m the one with questions.”
“What happened to your pants, Jack?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Joey? And don’t tell me Stu didn’t tell you.”
She opened her mouth, then her lips sealed. They gazed at each other. “It wasn’t my place.”
He nodded. Of course, it wasn’t.
The Mets won Sunday’s game behind Heynen’s seven shutout innings. Watching from his seat in the starting pitchers’ corner of the dugout, Jess was not only filled with admiration, it was hard not to feel jealous. Rick’s stuff was so dominating, his stride so long and effortless, his pitches flew past the batter. And Rick not only overpowered; he out-thought batters. They couldn’t have hit his pitches if they knew what was coming, but at least half the time, they looked as if they were swinging swords not bats, just like in The Benchwarmers.
It wasn’t only Rick’s pitching that triggered Jess’s jealousy. His wife, Sherry, was not just pretty and kind, she clearly loved him. They had three kids, two boys and a girl, four, six, and seven. Watching Rick stride off the mound at the end of the seventh, with the game in the bag, to the cheers of Mets fans who’d made the trip from New York, Jess thought, I’ll never have that. Not the cheering fans, which he had plenty of, but the grace and assurance, the sense that everything fit together, no faking or pretending. Rick just was.
Afterward, on the team bus to the airport, Jess called Emmy, who was driving back to school. She really knew a lot about baseball, more than any girl he’d ever met. She’d loved eating with Sherry who said Rick thought of him as a kid brother. Wasn’t that great? Emmy couldn’t wait to see him in Miami. And had he heard? The Cards and Nats lost so the Mets were tied for all three Wild Cards!
She’d make a perfect baseball wife, Jess thought, hanging up. Just not for me.
He texted Rah, How are you? But Rah’s phone must have been turned off because he didn’t respond.
Joe received his second blast of radiation Monday morning. Afterwards, he and Frannie walked to Sables, a delicatessen on Second Avenue run by Chinese brothers that served, in Joe’s humble opinion, the best lox and lobster salad anywhere. He couldn’t remember if Sables had opened during his playing days, or after he retired. What he did know was that the brothers, or maybe only one of them, had worked for Zabar’s, and that they had aged tremendously in the twenty or twenty-five years he’d been a customer, their hair changing from black to gray to almost white. They remembered his name though he only came in once or twice a year, singing out, “Hey, Joe!” when he approached the counter. Sables was one of the few New York restaurants he’d given a signed eight by ten; it had hung on the wall behind the appetizing case for as long as Joe could remember. The funny thing was that it was in Sables, a deli run by Chinese brothers, ordering a toasted everything with Irish smoked salmon, veggie cream cheese, capers, red onion, and tomato, that Joe felt most Jewish.
