7 Days at the Hot Corner (2 page)

Despite this ugliness I've always
loved
it at Spencer's. This is mainly because first, it's about baseball and anything to do with baseball I love, and second, truthfully, I've never been much with the bat. I'm a good fielder and have a strong arm, which is why I play third, but I've never batted over .350, which sounds hot until you realize that a lot of decent high school hitters bat over .400. It's not that I'm terrible; it's just that hitting is the weakest part of my game. In real games I'm bad at guessing what pitch is coming—heat or junk. I'm going to have to fix this to play pro ball, so I practice hitting a lot, but in batting cages the pitches come slow, moderate, or fast, depending on where you set the dial. So any time you feel like it, you can set the dial where you like it best and
really
hit it! It's such a great feeling: Bang, bang, smack, crack …

On a Monday after school, Travis and I went to the cages. I needed Travis's help there because between pitches he would adjust the dial on the automatic pitcher from slow to medium to fast so that I wouldn't know what was coming, from one pitch to the next. On that particular Monday I'd been hitting for about forty-five minutes and was starting to get tired.

“You want to swat a couple, Trav?” I asked him.

“No,” he answered. He always said no.

“Come on, man, we'll set the machine on slow and you can pound a couple outa here,” I said.

“Well …” Travis hesitated.

This got me juiced, because Travis hardly ever tried to hit and I always felt guilty about having all the fun.

“Yeah!” I hollered. “You da man!” I hurried out of the cage and offered my gray metal Spalding bat to Travis.

“Hold on,” I said, and I took off my batting gloves and gave them to him too. They were pretty sweaty but were still better than hitting bare-handed.

Travis held the bat under his arm, like he'd seen me do a million times, and slipped his hands into the blue-and-white gloves, which were several sizes too big for him.

“All right, Trav,” I said, handing him my batting helmet, which he forced over his spiky hair. “You
are
da man!”

I walked over to the dial and set it for slow pitches as Travis settled, pretty uncomfortably, into the batter's box. This wasn't the first time he'd ever hit, but he hadn't taken any cuts for quite a while, and it was fun to see him at least trying it again.

The first pitch, traveling about 30 mph, zipped across the plate at knee height, and Travis took the weakest little bailing-out kind of swing you've ever seen.

“It can't hurt you, Travis,” I said, instantly wishing I could once in a while keep my know-it-all mouth shut.

“I know,” Travis said, getting ready for the next pitch. When it came, he made a much better swing and almost hit it. “You were a little high on that one,” I told him. He nodded.

The third pitch he hit square. The sound of the ball on the fat spot of the aluminum bat made that great high-pitched
crack!
sound. Truthfully, I doubt the ball would have carried much past dying-quail territory in left-center field, but I didn't let Travis know that.

“Boom,” I hollered. “He got all of that one, folks.” I carried on like a mix of great baseball announcers past and present. “And that ball might be, it could be,
holy cow
, it's outa here. Way out on Wave'lin Avenue … Get out the rye bread and the mustard, Granny, 'cause it's grand salami time!”

Travis smiled and got set for the next pitch, which he also hit decently. I could tell by his expression that he was having fun.

After a few more good hard hits, Travis started to swing even harder, until finally he took a massive cut at one, missed it, and spun a full 360 degrees, right down onto his butt.

I managed not to laugh, but when Travis looked up, he was already laughing. Then we both noticed that his nose and mouth were covered in blood.

“Geez,” he said as the batting gloves turned red, blood dripping from his nose like it was coming out of a faucet. “Sorry,” he muttered. I pressed the stop button on the pitching machine and hurried into the cage. Travis, still laughing, said “Sorry” again, holding up my batting gloves for me to see.

“Don't be an idiot,” I said. “I don't care about my batting gloves. Are you okay?”

“I got a bloody nose,” Travis answered. “How'd that happen?”

“You swung too hard,” I said. “I think the bat smacked you in the face when you fell.”

“Geez,” Travis said, still laughing. “That's impossible, isn't it?”

I said, “Obviously not, since you just did it. No, Trav, anything's possible in baseball—I've seen guys hurt themselves in every imaginable way: I saw a guy drive a tipped foul ball right into his own nuts one time; I saw a guy knock himself out with a ricochet; I saw a guy—”

Travis interrupted me. “Okay,” he said, tilting his head back, trying to slow down the blood still dripping from his nose. “I got it, Mr. Baseball. Am I all right?”

“Sorry,” I said, and without giving it a thought, I reached across to Travis's mouth and gently lifted up his lip to see how badly he was hurt. I wanted to be sure that all his teeth were still in place. His nose was bleeding from both nostrils, and his upper lip had a tiny cut and was already getting puffy. Blood covered his mouth and chin.

“Are ma teeh okay?” Travis slurred as he tried to talk around my hands.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, still running my fingers across his gum line to make sure that there were no sudden gaps. “You're okay,” I reassured him. “You're gonna live.”

I felt guilty; like it was my fault he'd hurt himself because I'd pressured him into the cage in the first place. “You're a mess, though,” I said.

Travis looked at me. “You too.”

I looked down at my hands and there was blood all over them; I held my fingers out, all crinkled, and pointed them at Travis. “I vill drink your blood,” I said, trying to sound like Dracula.

He laughed at that one and even more blood dripped from his nose. It took us a while longer to finally stop his bleeding.

Dorothy, the nurse, listens quietly as I explain, nodding once in a while, but the look on her face doesn't give anything away about her feelings.

After I've told the story, she nods and smiles and then says, “It's true that HIV is transmitted through direct blood contact—and most frequently that involves an open wound or tear in the flesh or through sharing an unclean hypodermic needle with someone who has the virus—or by an exchange of fluids through sexual contact.”

“I'm not gay,” I blurt out. It's important to me for her to know that if I have AIDS, I didn't get it because of sex stuff—at least not gay sex.

She says, “Okay.”

I add, “And I don't do any drugs at all.”

“That's good,” Dorothy says. “Has your friend told you that he is HIV positive?”

“No …” I say. “It's just …” I can't think of how to put it.

“You just want to play it safe?” Dorothy asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, even the trainers on our baseball team wear rubber gloves when they wrap ankles or wrists, and that isn't even about blood, right? But they're still being careful. Plus I have other reasons to be worried, and my team is on a run at the city championship—it's the most important thing ever.... I just can't be distracted by this thing right now. I hope to someday get drafted to play pro ball and …” I don't finish this sentence. I feel stupid even saying it, as the chance of my getting a call from the pros is probably slim or none.

Dorothy looks a little confused by my rambling explanation, but at least she doesn't ask me about the “other reasons.” Instead she questions me some more about the blood at the batting cages, and I explain about it again.

She asks, “May I examine your hands, please?”

I hold out my hands, sweaty palms up. Wearing white plastic gloves, she turns my hands over and stares at them intently. “You bite your nails a bit, huh?”

My head reels again, and I feel even more dizzy than I did earlier, out in the foyer. The room begins to spin. I drop my head down between my knees to keep from passing out and falling off the chair.

“Whoa!” Dorothy says, putting her hands on my shoulders and steadying me. “You all right?”

I mutter, “No.”

Blood to blood! My raw skin where I bite my nails and Travis's blood all over my hands! Sweat runs down from each of my armpits and a sheen of it covers my face. My mind screams: AIDS! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!

“Breathe deeply now.” Dorothy's voice calls to me from somewhere. “Steady, easy, breathe deeply. Come on, you're going to be fine, take it easy.”

I follow her directions, and soon the room stops spinning. I sit back up in my chair.

“I'm a dead man,” I say.

“Not at all,” Dorothy responds. “That's not true at all.” She pauses until I look at her.

She says, “Even if your friend is HIV positive, which we have no reason to believe he is, especially given his age and how little we know about his sexual history—even if your friend
is
sexually active, there's no reason to assume that he's infected. You don't get HIV just by being sexual. You
may
get it by having unsafe sex with someone who has the virus.”

“
May
?” I ask. “I thought you definitely got it by doing that.”

“That's not accurate,” Dorothy says, her voice calm and reassuring. “Many people, not knowing that their partners were HIV positive, have had unprotected sex with those infected partners for years without contracting the virus at all. Based on what you've told me about your history, you have a very low risk factor. I wouldn't even recommend an HIV test for you at this time.”

“What?” I can't believe she is serious. “What about my fingernails? What about all that blood?”

“I can see how worried you are,” Dorothy answers softly. “If you want to have an HIV screening, I'd be glad to do the procedure. If you think it would make you feel better, I'm glad to help.”

“Yeah,” I answer. “I don't wanna keep worrying about it.”

Dorothy smiles again and says, “Okay, roll up your right sleeve.”

The procedure is no big deal. Just a regular blood test, I guess. I look in the other direction, not wanting to see the needle go into my arm. Dorothy must have done millions of these, because I don't even feel it. I honestly don't even know she's stuck me until several seconds after she's finished, when she says, “Okay, that's it.”

“You're done?” I ask. “I didn't even know you'd started.”

She smiles.

Settling back in the chair, I take over the little cotton ball that Dorothy presses against the pinprick. It stings a little, but nothing too bad; now for the scary part. I take a deep breath and ask, “Can you look at it right away? I'd like to get the results before I leave.”

Dorothy half smiles and says, “I'm sorry, but it takes five business days to get the results back.”

“What!” I hear my voice get loud, almost yelling. I quickly do the math. “Today is Tuesday. If it takes
five
business days, doesn't that mean—Monday!
Monday
before I'll have the results?” I say, still in a loud voice. “Counting the rest of today, Monday is
seven
days away! The tournament will be over by then!”

“I'm sorry,” Dorothy says.

I don't say anything. I am stunned.

Dorothy looks at me sympathetically. “I know that these seven days are going to feel like years, but here in Spokane there's just no way for us to do the test any faster. I'm sorry.”

I take a couple of deep, slow breaths so that I won't get dizzy again. “Seven days,” I say softly to Dorothy.

“Counting today, yes,” she says, “but I'm sure the news will be good.”

It's the only time I feel that Dorothy has lied to me. Not that she doesn't believe the test will be all right—I don't think that's a lie—but for her to say she's “sure” it will be okay just isn't true.
Not knowing
is why people have to take the test. Only the test can make anybody
sure.

And the test takes seven days!

Ahhhhh!! All I ever wanted to do was play baseball, and now I'm trapped at a hot corner that's real different than just playing third base.

How did my life change so quickly? Everything was so good, and then blam!

It started two weeks ago.

That's when Travis Adams moved out of his parents' house and in with my dad and me. He wouldn't say exactly what it was his folks were so upset about that he'd had to leave their home. He seemed pretty upset himself. He showed up at our door on a Thursday night at about eight o'clock with a suitcase. He asked Dad if he could stay with us.

“For tonight?” my dad asked, not so much inviting Travis in as getting out of the way; I can't remember the last time Travis rang the doorbell at our house.

“Yeah, for tonight,” Travis answered Dad. “Tonight and maybe some more nights too.”

“Do your parents know you're here?” Dad asked.

“Yep,” Travis said, looking away from Dad, down at the floor.

Dad said, “You're always welcome, Trav.”

I know that later the same evening Travis's dad, Roy, phoned my dad and they talked about what was going on, and that Travis's parents said Travis had their permission to stay with us “for the time being.” Actually, because he's seventeen years old, Travis can live pretty much anywhere he wants—that's the law in Washington State—but I knew he didn't leave his parents' house on his own, and my dad wouldn't tell me more.

A couple of times since he moved in, I tried to get Travis to talk about what was going on, but he kept saying, “It's kind of private. I'd rather not discuss it.”