“Yeah, I know, I know. I was there, okay?” Sam replied. “What difference does it make? We still lost.”
Richard hugged his boy’s shoulder. “You did well, Sam. Even Leo.”
“Dad, he’s no good,” Sam complained.
“He’s not as good as you, but he’s still out there, practicing and playing,” Richard said. “That counts for a lot. He could have given up a long time ago. But he didn’t.”
Sam didn’t say a word, and Richard knew the poor guy was struggling over showing emotion at having lost yet again but determined not to say anything that could lead to dreaded tears pouring out. For twelve-year-old boys, sometimes showing tears was worse than anything else.
Olivia spoke up. “Look, there’s the other team. Going out for ice cream.”
“Well, we can go, too,” Richard said, seeing the smiles and happy faces of the other boys, trooping into open car and minivan doors.
“Dad...” Sam said. “No, let’s just go home. It doesn’t count. They’re going for ice cream ’cause they won. Losers don’t get ice cream after a game like ours.”
Richard was going to say something, but he noticed something going on over near the school’s dumpster. He pulled out his car keys and passed them over to Sam. “Here, go in and get the car opened up. I’ll be right along.”
Sam said, his voice now not so despondent, “Can I start it up?”
“Yes, but move it out of park and I’ll ground you till you’re thirty.”
His two kids ran ahead to his Lexus, and he dodged around the end of a pickup truck hauling an open trailer with a lawn mower on the back. There came a man’s voice, loud and insistent, “... dummy, how in hell could you drop that ball? It was an easy out!”
Richard froze at what he saw. George Winn, landscaper in town — among other things, some legal, some not so legal — had his boy’s T-shirt twisted up in a large fist and was shaking the poor guy back and forth. Tears were streaming down the child’s face, and his ball cap was on the ground. George was huge, with a beer gut that poked out from underneath a dark green T-shirt and a beard that went halfway down his chest. The hand that was wrapped around the boy’s T-shirt was stained with dirt and grease. Richard stepped forward. “Hey, George, lighten up, okay? It’s just a game.”
George turned, his face looking surprised, like he could not believe anyone would approach him for something so insignificant. “Hunh? What did you say, Dick?”
Richard hated being called Dick but let it go for now. “George, c’mon, it’s just a game. Your kid did all right.”
George let go of his son’s shirt, and the boy quickly went over to pick up his hat. The older man stepped closer and Richard caught a whiff of beer. “You looking for trouble, Dick?”
Richard’s hands seemed to start tingling, like they were being suddenly energized by the adrenaline. Richard recognized the sensation, tried to dampen it. “No, I’m just telling you that your kid’s a good player. Hey, he’s a trooper. Why don’t you—”
George came over, punched a finger into Richard’s chest, making him step back. “No, he ain’t no trooper. He’s a loser, writer-man, so back off. Unless you want to settle this right here and now.”
A horn honked, and he recognized the tone. His kids were in the Lexus, urging him to hurry up so they could get home. A door slammed and he saw the small figure of Leo in the front seat of the truck. Richard stepped back, made sure his back wasn’t turned to George.
“No, I don’t want to settle this right here and now.”
George snorted in satisfaction. “Good. Then why don’t you go home to your kiddie books and leave me and my boy the frig alone.”
Richard walked over to his Lexus as the truck backed up and roared away, the front right fender brushing his pants leg as it bailed out of the parking lot. He got to his Lexus and sat still for a moment as Sam talked more about the game and Olivia asked what he thought would be for dinner tonight, and it was like their voices were coming at him through thick cotton, for the only voice he could really make out was George’s.
Dinner that night was the usual rolling chaos of dishes being prepared, voices being raised, the television set on, and the phone ringing, with boys and girls calling for Sam and Olivia — and was it a genetic quirk among children everywhere, Richard thought, that they always called at dinner time? — and he managed to give Carla a quick hug and kiss as she heated up a tuna fish casserole.
“Besides losing, how was the game?”
“Great,” he said. “Sam pitched well. Got three strikeouts. Your day okay?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, handing over a head of romaine lettuce to him. “Wash this up, will you?”
“Sure,” he said, looking over at the trim figure of his blond-haired wife, her tight jeans and black flat shoes, and the light blue polo shirt that had white script on the left reading CENTRAL STREET TRAVEL. The casserole smelled all right, but he remembered a number of years ago, when Carla would prepare dishes like baked ziti and manicotti and a lobster fettucine... my, how good that had been. But all those food dishes had been left behind, years ago, when they had come to Vermont.
Olivia was at the kitchen counter, drawing a horse, and piped up, “I think Daddy almost got into a fight today.”
That got Carla’s sharp attention. “He did, did he?”
He started running the cold water, washing the lettuce leaves. “No, he didn’t. It wasn’t a fight; it was just a discussion.”
“That true, Olivia?” Carla asked, her voice still tense.
“Dunno, mom,” she said, still working on her horse. “The car doors were closed, but the other man was pushing his finger into Daddy.”
“Oh, he was, was he?” she said, her brown eyes flashing at him. “I thought you said things went great.”
“They did,” he said, washing another leaf of lettuce.
“And who was this guy, and what was going on?” she demanded.
“Nothing much,” Richard said, patting dry the leaves of lettuce on a stretch of paper towel. “We were just talking about the game and about sports dads. That sort of thing. He got a little heated up, and that was that. I just tried to remind him that it was just a family game. That’s all.”
“No trouble then,” she asked.
He smiled at his demanding wife. “No trouble.”
Some hours later he woke up in bed with Carla, staring up at the ceiling. He rolled over, checked the time on the red numerals of the nearby clock radio. It was 1:00 A.M. Time to go. He slowly got out of bed, sitting up and letting his feet touch the floor, hoping he wouldn’t disturb his wife. But Carla was too good.
She gently touched his bare back. “What’s up, hon?” she whispered, shifting closer to him in the darkness.
“Nothing much,” he said, leaning over to a chair, picking up his pants and a pullover.
“Getting dressed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s going on?”
“Gotta see a guy about something.”
“Something bad?”
He reached behind him, stroked her face. “No, nothing bad. Just seeing a guy about something. No big deal. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“ ’Kay,” she murmured. “You be careful, and you come back to us. Capisce?”
“Capisce,” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead.
A half-hour later he was on the other side of town, at a small dirt park near the wooden covered bridge that spanned the Bellamy River. He shifted in his seat, wincing some at the uncomfortable feeling of the nine-millimeter Browning pistol stuck in his rear waistband. It was a quiet night, and he leaned his elbow outside the open window. The night sound of crickets and frogs were pleasant enough, but he remembered other night sounds as well. Traffic, always moving, always going. Horns and sirens and brakes squeaking. Music and the rattle-roar of the subway and people talking, shouting, laughing. And behind it all, the constant hum of an island filled with millions of people, always moving, always dealing, always doing something. That sense of energy, of being plugged in, of being part of something, God, he missed it as much as the faraway scent the day before of the cigar...