“All this over a stupid game!” Sheriff Wells shouts.
Chase glances back at his dad. “Couldn’t disappoint you, could I, Dad? I couldn’t let you down. I keep my promises.”
“You’re a fool,” Sheriff Wells mutters, but he looks broken, not angry.
“I know. I’m a screwup, okay? Don’t you think I know that better than anybody? I just couldn’t stand to see that look, the look you give me when I’ve disappointed you… again.”
Chase turns back to me, as if I’m the one he’s explaining everything to, not the judge, not his dad, not the court reporter taking down every word. “I knew there had to be a mistake. I yanked down the roster and ran to the barn. Coach was always in the stable early. I found him in the back stall, brushing one of the horses. He didn’t want to come out, and when he did, he seemed tired. The sun was peeking through the clouds, making an orange glow inside the barn.
“ ‘What is it, Chase?’ he asked, like I was just another inconvenience to him. That’s me. Mr. Inconvenience.
“I shook the roster at him. ‘What’s with this?’ I demanded, trying to control my temper. I was already breathing hard from the run. All the way to the barn, I’d been imagining the scene when Dad would show up at the park and discover I wasn’t pitching. I’d gone over it in my head, over and over.
“ ‘That looks like the roster I put up this morning, Chase,’ Coach said. But he knew what I meant.
“ ‘I’m supposed to be the starting pitcher. You promised I could start the game this afternoon!’ I was shouting.
“He shook his head. ‘Maybe your dad promised you that. I didn’t. I thought you could get your swing under control, but you’re not there yet. This is a big game, Chase. You ought to know that by now. I want to beat Wooster.’ He was so calm. And the calmer he got, the angrier I got, like I had to turn up the heat so he’d understand how important this was.
“ ‘So you’re pitching T.J.?’ I screamed. ‘You’ve got to be kidding! He doesn’t even have a curveball.’
“ ‘Chase, you’ve got a lot of talent,’ Coach admitted, ‘and I think you’re going to be a strong pitcher. But pitchers bat in our league. You know that. And your swing has been way off.’
“I told him how hard I’d been practicing. I told him over and over.
“ ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘You keep it up, and we’ll see.’ Just like that.
“ ‘No! You can see now!’ I told him. I’d spotted Jeremy’s bat leaning against the wall when I came in. I ran and got it. His gloves were there, so I put those on too. I took a couple of practice cuts and ran back to Coach. He was heading into the stall. ‘Wait! I want you to see. I’ve evened out the swing like you told me. I have, Coach!’
“ ‘It’s over, Chase,’ he said.
“But he’d promised. He’d promised me!
“ ‘Go on home and tell your dad, son. It’s about time he learned how to lose too.’ Then he turned his back on me. He was breaking his promise. He shouldn’t have done that. I was counting on that game. My dad was counting on it. Everybody would be there. He couldn’t take that away from me.
“Something went off inside me. It felt like an explosion. I swung the bat. Just like I’d been doing in the batting cages. One swing. I only wanted to show him. That’s all. He dropped to his knees, like he was praying. Then he toppled to the ground. I stared down at him. Blood poured out of his nose, his mouth. So much blood.
“I dropped the bat, and I ran. I ran fast so the whole mess got farther and farther away from me. I couldn’t believe what I’d done. Had I really killed him? It wasn’t possible. It was too horrible to be real. So maybe I hadn’t done it. When you run far enough, fast enough, all thoughts leave your head. It’s a running high. You can imagine things. Maybe I’d imagined this.
“I was all the way home before I realized I was still wearing the batting gloves. Nobody was there. I put my shoes and shorts and the gloves into a garbage bag and set it out with our trash. Then I waited for Dad to get home and arrest me.
“Only it didn’t happen. I got a phone call from one of the team mothers-all the players on the team got it.” Chase makes a move toward me, and the guard closes in, stopping him. “I didn’t even know they’d arrested Jeremy until that afternoon. I thought they’d let him go the next day. Then the next. Then it was weeks.
“At first I figured they’d see right off it wasn’t Jeremy. How could they find evidence when he didn’t do it? When they didn’t let Jeremy go, I convinced myself that he’d get off. Dad kept telling me the jury would just put Jeremy in a kind of home, that he’d be happy there.”
I remember all the questions Chase asked me about Jeremy and how surprised he’d been when I told him why a mental hospital would kill my brother. He’d wanted to believe Jeremy could live happily ever after in one of those places.
As Chase has been talking, I’ve pictured everything-Chase arguing with Coach, Chase picking up the bat, swinging… But I’ve pictured other moments too-Chase wrapping me in a blanket, bringing me hot chocolate; Chase, his arms around me, his hand lifting my chin, his lips brushing mine.
I have two hearts. One is jumping for joy because I know my brother can come home. Everyone will know he’s not guilty, not crazy. But the other heart is broken, shattered in pieces because I think I loved Chase. “Why did you pretend to help me, to care?”
“I wasn’t pretending, Hope. Do you think I wanted to get involved? I tried to quit, to keep away from you… but I couldn’t. I wanted to help you, to be with you. Then when you talked about Jeremy, I wanted to help you get him off. Remember? Reasonable doubt?”
I want to believe him. And I don’t want to believe him. I want the truth, but it’s trapped in between horrible facts, out of reach, like air in a bottle. “Was everything a lie? You? Me? Us? ”
“No!” he shouts. “God, no!”
God hangs over the courtroom, echoing in the air.
“Hope?” the judge says. And for a minute, I think it’s a question: Hope? I burst into tears, sobs that shake the earth. I have to lean on the defense table or I’ll fall to the floor and never get up.
Things happen fast. Reporters are shouting questions. The judge pounds her gavel. Keller agrees with Raymond about releasing Jeremy. One of the officers takes Chase by the elbow. Another one struggles with Chase’s father. T.J. and his mother come up, both offering help, friendship.
Something touches my shoulder. I know that touch. It’s my brother. His stiff fingers press something cool and hard into my palm. It’s the aspirin bottle. He’s printed on the side in tiny, curled letters: Hope’s tears-Psalm 56:8. When I smile up at him, he wipes the tears from my cheek.
Rita edges in close, closer than she’s been for a long, long time. I look up at Jeremy. He’s smiling at her, the lines in his face soft with relief that his mother didn’t kill his father.
Rita starts to say something to me, but she stops and turns back to Jeremy.
And then I hear it. It has been ten years since I heard that sound, but I recognize it as clearly as if I’d been listening to it just this morning. I close my eyes and take in the single note that swallows every other noise in the courtroom. It drowns out shame and anger and lies. Then it slides into more notes that mingle with the words blowing around us, in the air, filling the room.
I open my eyes and see that Chase isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring at Jeremy because that song, of course, is coming from Jeremy’s mouth. From his heart. His soul.
When my brother stops singing, the courtroom stays silent. We look from Jeremy to one another. Nothing will ever be the same for anyone in this room. I think we all know that.
When we finally leave the courthouse-Raymond, Rita, Jeremy, and me-the air outside has changed. We stop on the top step and breathe in the moment, clear as sunshine, right as rain, and true as song.
Epilogue
“Hope! Hope!”
I don’t answer right away. It’s Saturday morning, nearly eight months since Jeremy started talking again, and I still get a rush hearing my brother say my name. I make him say it again. Then I join him on the front lawn. Our dog, a black-and-white mutt we rescued from the shelter, trots over to greet me, then races back to Jer. Jeremy named the puppy Maple, but only he knows why.