Binding Arbitration (14 page)

In that fragile moment, I witnessed the miracle of the man Aidan Palowski had become. All the smug conceit vanished, the athletic ego evaporated. He could express tender emotions and gentle ministrations, where nothing predatory lurked in any part of his touch. I closed my eyes with relief for Cass—but terror for my own withered heart.

11

SQUEEZE PLAY

‘You seem you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time.’ Jim Bouton

Aidan 7 a.m.(ish)

I came awake with a start. Something was stabbing me along my rib cage. “Mister, you gotta wake up,” said a small voice that was more than a dream, and familiar.

My eyes blinked open to find a miniature version of myself standing at my head with a remote control in his hands. He was taller than I’d expected and he had Libby’s eyes, radiant green with mischief.

“Where’d you get that shiner?”

“Uh…” Athletes are known for their finesse both on and off their respective fields, but I stumbled through my mind, trying to find words. Surely, I could have a conversation with my son.

“You’re in my spot, mister.” His brow furrowed, marking his displeasure. A mysterious cartoon character was emblazoned on his flannel PJ’s and the creature was as much of a puzzle as my own son was. “Where’d you get the love handcuffs?”

“Uh…” I rubbed at the thin line of glitter on my wrist that appeared when a little girl held my hand and told me all my hurts were on the inside. I struggled to sit up. “Sorry about your spot, little man.”

Cass had already made himself comfortable, where my head had been resting on a stack of pillows. “Once that kind of mark seeps in, it never fades away,” he said eyeing my glittered wrist.

A quiver ran through me.

Cass shrugged his shoulders breaking the hypnotic pull of our eyes. “My mom needs to rest. If she wakes up, she’ll make me go back to sleep.” Cass put his finger to his lips, flipping through the channels, immediately engrossed in Sponge Bob.

When Cass spoke again, I jumped; something about the way he looked at me had me on edge. “What’s your name, mister?”

“Aidan Palowski.”

“You must be Polish. My friend Madison Dubrowski is Polish. She’s a ski too.”

“I see.”

He’s not a catcher. You can use words with more than one syllable with him.

“Was my mom on a date with you?” He scrunched up his face, but his eyes were still engrossed with the TV.

“Sort of. Is that okay with you?”

Cass looked me in the eye. I’d never seen a kid with such a direct stare. “Are you her boyfriend?”

I thought about that for several moments. “I think that would be nice.”

“If you’re her boyfriend, will she kiss you?”

You’d have to do some major league convincing for that.

“Why?” I asked smiling.

“She’s always kissing me. If you could get her to kiss you some of the time, that would keep her lips off me. It gets kind of yucky, and the other kids notice.”

“I would love to help you out.” It was a toss-up. What would be more fun? Convincing her, or kissing her?

“Mister Pole-ow-ski, you know what else?”

“What?”

“My mom needs someone to make her laugh. She’s sad a lot.”

“That’s probably because you’ve been sick.”

He shook his head, but his eyes went back to the cartoon.

“I’ll do what I can to make her laugh again.”

“Mister Pole-ow-ski, if you could love her, I think that would be nice, just in case if I’m not here no more.”

“Cass, you’re going to be here.” I couldn’t help myself I reached out and brushed his hair away from his concerned face.

“But sometimes when mommy cries, I can’t get her to stop. I bet you could make her stop. ‘Cause you’re big.”

“It’s not right to intimidate anyone with your size.”

“What’s in… tim… i… date?”

“When you force someone to do something because you’re bigger or louder. It’s when you push someone around.”

“There are some big people I’d like to intima, intimi. What’s that word again?”

“Intimidate.”

“Or you could intimidate them for me, so my mom won’t cry. What else would she need a boyfriend for?”

“Your mom has had other boyfriends before, right?”

“Nope,” he said.

I looked at his solemn face, burdened with the weight of his mother’s happiness. That’s why kids needed two parents, so the kids would feel each parent looked after the other’s happiness, freeing the child to find his own. I knew, because for a short, tumultuous time, I had lived with only one parent.

I watched Cass for awhile before speaking again. “Do you have any baby pictures?”

“I have scrapbooks.” He jumped off his perch, all smiles, as if this might be more entertaining than Sponge Bob. He went to an armoire, pulling open drawers, rifling through them before he lugged three binders back, putting them in my lap. He snapped the TV off, settling himself alongside me before he opened the book.

“That’s my mom the day I was born. She went bowling with Aunt Vicki to get me to come out.” He started to turn the page.

I stopped him. “Do you mind if I look at it for a sec?”

Cass frowned for a brief moment. “I’m on the next page, and I’m really cute.”

“I’m sure you are, but so is your mom.”

“Girls aren’t pretty, when they have a baby in their pocket.”

I wasn’t sure if I should correct him. If he believed he was in her pocket, then that was as good an explanation as any I supposed. Better to save that particular talk for another time.

Libby had smiled hesitantly for the camera with her beautiful long fingers resting on her protruding stomach. She looked anxious, as if finding the real function of her body was a terrible combination of agony and joy. She looked young and fragile, but at the same time, confidence simmered in her eyes. A longing to step into that picture overcame me. I wished I could wrap my arms around her, kiss her temple, and tell her that it would be okay. My stomach twisted, knowing that the opportunity had passed, and I’d missed it.

Cass flipped onto the next page. A baby’s hospital photo can only be compared to a mug shot, except babies are allowed to wear hats in theirs. His face was scrunched up and fiery red, he looked about as happy as some guy who was brought in for disorderly conduct. At the bottom of the page were two foot prints about the length of my thumbs, I traced their size trying to imagine something so small and perfect.

On the opposite page Libby was in a gray hospital gown, holding a bundle in her arms. Her face was colorless, her lips pale and drawn. She clenched a handful of tissues. My arrogance had done that to her. What should have been a happy day with a healthy child in her arms had turned into a painful reality, while I had been off pursuing baseball dreams.

We went through the photos one by one, and he would tell me things about them and about his mother. In most of the photos, she looked exhausted, but her smile shone with happiness. There was a summertime shot of Cass lounging between her long, outstretched legs in tall grass. Cass was sitting up and Libby looked more like her sassier self. Her figure had returned to its former state. It was enhanced, and not in a bad way.

“Hey Cass, when is your birthday?”

“October ninth.”

Exactly nine months later, at the tail end of the season.

Isn’t there a saying about knowing your ass from a hole in the ground?

I shut out the ump’s voice. “I just missed your birthday.”

“I had a cool party with all my friends, but I had to invite Madi Dubrowski. You know what, Mister Pole-ow-ski? Girls can be a real pain in the butt.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Cause Madi wanted to kiss me for my birthday. Those females are kissing maniacs,” he said, clearly disgusted.

I couldn’t contain myself, I chuckled. I picked up the second scrapbook, which Cass helped me leaf through, telling me about his first meal, his favorite toys, his first steps. Then we came to his first birthday party. There were several pages for the happy occasion, held in the Rodger’s house. I glimpsed a familiar-looking, older gentleman holding Cass in several shots. “Who’s this man?”

Cass looked over my shoulder. “Oh, that’s Grandpa Rodgers. He lives in the old folks’ home a couple blocks away. We go visit him every Sunday after Mass. He don’t remember so good anymore. Sometimes he thinks my mom is back at school again, and he asks her how come she keeps coming to work without her uniform. Mom doesn’t laugh at him though, she just tells him not to worry everything is okay at the Waffle House.

Old Mr. Rodgers owned the Waffle House. I’ll be damned!

“I love the Waffle House.” Cass sighed. “We go there whenever we go to Indiana. But my grandma ain’t married to Grandpa Rodgers on account, he’s only my grandpa ‘cause he wants to be, not cause I have his blood. Do you like waffles, Mister Pole-ow-ski?”

Max Rodgers is old Mr. Rodgers’ son. The elder Mr. Rodgers must have helped Libby, so she could finish up school at Indiana. I gave my attention back to Cass. “I like the pancakes better at the Waffle House, the ones with apples, cinnamon, and whipped cream.”

“Have you been to the Waffle House at Indiana Hoosiers?”

“I went to Indiana University, too.”

He thought about that a few minutes. “Are you a lawyer?”

“I’m a professional baseball player for the Chicago Cubs.”

“Me and Madi like the White Sox.” Cass frowned. “Her dad took us to a game once. But we didn’t watch too much ‘cause me and Madi ate candy, peanuts, popcorn, hot dogs, soda, cotton candy, pretzels, ice cream, and Italian ice.” He counted these items out on his fingers. “Then, we both had to puke. I barfed more than her, but she thinks she did ‘cause she puked in the car on the way home, too. Who do you think the winner was?”

“I can’t say. Haven’t you watched the Cubs on TV before?”

“I don’t watch sports. My mom says jocks are dumb.”

She makes several relevant points about you, kid.

“You better not tell her you play baseball, ‘cause she’ll dump you. Once, I wanted to play T-Ball with Madi. She yelled at Mr. Dubrowski, and he was the coach.”

“Would you let me teach you how to play baseball?”

“If my mom says it’s okay, then I could try it. But I don’t think I’ll be very good.”

“You’ll be good at baseball. It’s in your blood.”

“I wasn’t born with baseball in my blood, Mister Pole-ow-ski. I was born with cancer in my blood.”

My heart sank. “It isn’t your fault you’ve been sick. You’re going to get better.” I gave him a reassuring smile.

“I might get better for a while.” He patted my shoulder, as if he wanted to reassure me.

“Maybe we can replace the cancer in your blood with baseball.” I swallowed down. “We could buy you some equipment today, and play in the park. How would you like that?”

“Can we see if Madi can come, too?”

“How about just me and you and your mom today, and another day we’ll invite Madi, if her mom and dad agree.”

“You can ask her dad, but she don’t see her mom because she runned off with some man. She comes around once in awhile. Besides, Madi has her dad and my mommy. Everyone loves Madi.”

“Hmm.” The question was does her daddy love your mommy, or vice versa? This was a deeper conversation than I’d intended, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hear Cass’ feelings on child abandonment.

Cass’ stomach grumbled. “Hungry?”

“Kinda.”

“Let’s see what you have.” The kitchen was straight out of the 1930s with white painted cabinets and Formica counter tops with a stainless steel edge. Cass climbed on a step stool, reached into an upper cabinet, and pulled out Raisin Bran and two bowls. I grabbed the milk. The fridge looked original to the structure in a sage green color with a stainless handle, when you closed it gave a suctioned clunk. The only things new in the room were a moveable center island and a Viking stove. I poured cereal, cut bananas, and poured milk while Cass arranged silverware and juice. I slid next to Cass into the booth that served as the kitchen table.

I noticed the laptop on the table as I started to eat. “Is this your mom’s laptop?”

“No, this is mine.”

“Can I use it for a few minutes?”

“I guess.” He slurped his cereal. “What for?”

“I want to buy a car. Mine’s only a two-seater, and I won’t be able to take you and your mom places in it.” Underneath the computer was a manila file folder marked ‘Nanny’. I eyed it.

There were several dealerships along the Eden’s expressway. I pulled up the websites and searched through their inventories, while Cass pointed to colors and options that he liked. We went back and forth until we found what we could agree on. I arranged for us to pick the car up, while Cass dressed. I wrote Libby a note that we’d be right back.

The Hummer was fully loaded, the tubular utility side step and fender flares were highly polished chrome. Cass wanted ‘army man green’ and I thought that sounded cooler than platinum or ebony. I signed all the X’s and collected the keys.

“It’s a big, mean, green, fighting machine.” Cass chanted as he decided that the seventeen-inch aluminum wheels needed the attention of his wool hat.

I opened the rear door, motioning him into the vehicle with a nod.

I heard the stereo blast to life, as he worked his way into the driver’s seat, adjusting it and the side mirror so he could see me. I signed a few autographs and told the salesperson that I’d pick up my BMW later. As I approached the door, he switched the car lock, shutting me out of my brand-new purchase. But I had a great follow up pitch: I hit the automatic starter and the engine roared to life.

Cass jumped back in his seat, as I got in, and we argued over the fact that, yes he had to sit in the back seat, and yes he still had to use his booster seat, and yes he had to wear a seat belt. Once he realized I wasn’t budging on safety, he said, “Oh, all-right Mr. Pole-ow-ski.”

Every time I hit a pot hole Cass gave an enthusiastic belly laugh that made me smile. I liked the kid from the first poke. He made fun what should have been a chore.