No Relation (21 page)

Then Jesse Owens called us all in to the dugout for a pep talk as the Spin Masters took the field.

“Nothing fancy out there tonight, guys,” she started. “When you’re at the plate, we’re just looking for a little bat-on-ball contact. When you see the ball come off the bat, your eyes should be focused on one thing and one thing only …”

“The ball, right?” Hat interjected. “We always must watch the ball. Am I not right, Ms. Owens?”

“Actually, Hat, you watch the ball
before
you hit. But after you’ve connected with the ball, you should be looking only at first base. Concentrate and run for the bag as fast you can.”

“Oh, I’m so stupid!” Hat shouted, slapping both his thighs hard enough that mine stung in sympathy. “Listen, Mahatma, listen!”

He looked ready to break something, and I hoped it wouldn’t be his legs.

“Hat, it’s okay. You’re okay. Have a butterscotch and breathe. That’s it, breathe,” soothed Jesse, her hands holding his hands to prevent a self-inflicted bilateral charley horse. “You’re right, Hat, watching the ball is very important when you’re at the plate and the pitch is coming toward you. By all means, watch the ball then. But after you hit it, run for your life.”

Then Jesse looked back to all of us.

“Remember, when you hear the bat hit the ball, think about nothing else but reaching first base.”

“That’s easy for me,” said a smirking John Dillinger. “I’ve spent a good part of my life getting to first base.”

Only John Dillinger chuckled.

Jesse had decided that we should front-load our batting order to try to get some runs on the board early. It actually worked, at least for a while. With Clark Kent pitching us easy ones from the mound, I led off with a double down the third base line. Jesse then pounded one out to right, as she had in our first game, bringing me home and earning herself a second triple in two
games. Then John Dillinger spent a bit too long swinging in the on-deck circle and doing squats with his bat behind his head.

“Okay, superstar, get in the batter’s box,” instructed the umpire.

“Now at the plate, Public Enemy Number One, wearing number one, the very tough-to-catch John Dillinger,” intoned the announcer.

I was sitting next to Hat and grabbed the waistband of his red short-shorts to stop him from storming out of the dugout. I’m glad the shorts held together. Hat really did not like announcer-guy.

John settled in the box, took far too many practice swings, then signalled to Clark that he was finally ready. On the first pitch, he belted a triple into the gap between centre and right, bringing home Jesse. We led 2–0, with no outs. This was great. The team was thrilled to be leading. Jackie and James were hooting from the stands behind the plate. Well, Jackie was hooting. James stuck with “Bravo” and “Good show” and “Well played.”

As announcer-guy reached for the trigger of his megaphone, I put my arm around Hat, more in restraint than in affection.

“Now batting, wearing number eight, the absolutely perfect number for him, the shortstop, Peter Parker.”

I hugged Hat a little tighter, and he stayed put. I felt like a jerk for having given Peter number eight. The connection never occurred to me until the comedian at the scorer’s table gave voice to it. I’m not sure Peter had yet figured it out as he stepped up to the plate. I made a mental note to switch jerseys with him for our next game.

Peter smashed a grounder directly into the glove of the shortstop. Damn. But wait, the throw to first was high and sailed into the fence. Peter sauntered to second on the error as John came home, waving to the crowd, to make it 3–0.

Then, in quick succession, Diana Ross and Marie Antoinette both grounded out to the second baseman, bringing Hat to the plate for his swing at the ball. I looked over at the announcer and saw that Jackie Kennedy was standing next to his little table, holding his megaphone. I’m not sure how she’d relieved him of his precious
PA
system, but she had. Hat was not formally introduced before he cricket-hit a dribbler to the first baseman for our third out. Don’t mess with Jackie.

The triumphant first half of the first inning is what I choose to remember of our game against the Spin Masters. We were leading 3–0. We were winning. Really! Regrettably, no thunderstorms arrived to rain out the game. There was no power outage to throw the field into darkness. There was no brush fire in Central Park to send us fleeing for the subway. No, the game just continued. It ended after the fifth inning with the Spin Masters winning 50–3. The ten runs per inning mercy rule got another workout that night. There was no need for the
PR
pros who whipped our ass to “spin” their victory in any way. They didn’t have to search for a tiny sliver of positive news and then embroider it into a colossal victory. No, the 50–3 truth was quite convincing all on its own.

Our Achilles heel as a team, although our weak spot covered a lot more than our heel, was our defence. In the entire game,
we caught two fly balls, threw out two at first base, and managed a single force-out at second. We could have had another out when their cleanup hitter tried to stretch her single into a double. Hat made quite a good pickup of the looper into shallow right, catching the ball in his bare hand on the second bounce. But instead of throwing it to second for an easy out, he promptly threw the ball to me deep in centre field. I’m still not sure why, and neither is he. When I managed to return the ball to the infield, the batter had stretched her single into a triple, bringing in two more runs. Over the course of five innings, we’d only managed to get five outs against the Spin Masters. Without the aptly named mercy rule, we might still be playing the game.

“We’ll drive you home,” I said to Marie. “My car is here.”

Mario, Marie, and I had just walked back to the Y, where I’d parked. The others were headed for the bar.

“Very kind of y’all. I’ll take the lift. My legs are sore from running after all those balls,” Marie replied as I held the car door open for her. “Why can’t they just hit them closer to us?”

I considered it to be a rhetorical question and wasn’t sure how I’d respond anyway. I handed her the seat belt and closed the door.

“Do you think it’ll be safe?” Mario whispered. He was somewhat agitated.

“Of course it’s safe. You’ll be fine,” I assured him.

I got in the front passenger side as Mario slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Okay, Mario, you know the drill,” I said and waited.

Mario reached for the power seat control. A motorized hum accompanied the forward slide of his seat.

“Okay, that’s far enough!” Mario said, alarmed.

His seat just kept sliding forward, his knees pushing up against the steering column.

“Make it stop! That’s far enough. It’s squishing me!”

“Let go of the button,” I said. “Just let go!”

He did. He stopped.

“Sorry, lost my head,” Mario said. “I’m a little claustrophobic and it makes me forget what I’m doing.”

He worked the button again to move the seat back to where he wanted it.

“Bring it up a little closer, Mario. Remember where your feet need to be. Okay, stop,” I said. “How’s that feel?”

“Good, I guess.”

“Okay. What’s next?”

“Three Hail Marys?” he asked. I hoped he was just kidding, but he didn’t look like it.

“Mirrors,” I said.

“Right.”

He adjusted them.

“Okay, we’re set to go as soon as we’re all belted.”

“I’ll be having a belt as soon as I get home,” Mario replied. “Marie, are you sure you don’t want to catch a cab, or jump on the subway, or crawl on your hands and knees back to your place?”

“You’re doing just fine, Mario. I’m just where I want to be right now,” said Marie.

The traffic was reasonably clear. It was as if everyone had been warned that Mario would be on the streets that night. Ten minutes later we pulled up to Let Them Eat Cake! Well, to be a bit more precise, we pulled up on the sidewalk in front of the café-bakery. But it was a good try. He’d actually done quite well, staying in his lane for most of the trip, and twice remembering to use his turn signal before he’d completed the corner. And fortunately, when he ran that red, there was no cross-traffic in the intersection. Believe it or not, I could see improvement. And there still was not a scratch on my G35.

I hopped out, relieved to be on the sidewalk, albeit along with my car, and opened Marie’s door.

“Why thank you, sir,” she said, taking the hand I offered. I liked the feel of her hand.

“Keep her running, Mario, I’ll be right back.”

I walked Marie to the door that led to her second-floor apartment.

“It’s awfully nice of you to put your life and car on the line helping Mario get his licence,” she said.

“He just needs more practice. He’ll get there.”

“I know he will, but that wasn’t my point. You’re a good guy to do it.”

I didn’t really know what to say to that.

“So, um, how was your date the other night with Public Enemy Number One?”

She laughed.

“Oh, it was fine. It was nice.”

“What role was he playing?”

“It was a little hard to tell. I think it was changing over the course of the night. But eventually, I think he was actually playing himself. It takes a while to get there but it was worth the wait. He’s really quite nice – much more than just a very pretty face attached to a well-toned body.”

Awesome. Glad to hear it. Shit.

“So, um, you leave for Paris next Wednesday and then I’ll see you there Saturday. My flight lands in the morning,” I said.

“Yes, Hem. The plan hasn’t changed since we last discussed it at the game about an hour ago,” she said, but smiled just the same.

“Do you arrive back here in time to make it to our ballgame?” I asked. “Hat and I will still be in Florida, so we’ll need the bodies at the park.”

“Yep, my body will be there, jet-lagged and all.”

“Great. Jesse may need a hand. I hate to miss it, but I’ll probably be judging an Ernest Hemingway lookalike contest in some Key West bar right about then.”

“I’ll talk to Jesse before I go. And I guess I’ll see you at the front entrance of Notre Dame next Saturday at noon.”

“
Absolument, mademoiselle
,” I said with a bow. But she was looking past me down the block.

“Um, Hem, there’s a cop on the beat coming down the street.”

“See you in Paris,” I said as I hustled back to the car, still sitting on the sidewalk, and jumped in.

Mario managed to avoid hitting anything as he pulled back onto the street, and we were off.

When I got home that night, the car still in one piece, I went directly to my storage locker in the basement and repatriated all of my Hemingway-related books and objects, and spread them around the apartment in prominent places. I stacked his books right next to my laptop on the table. I wanted to get a head start on confronting my spectral nemesis. I then stiffened my resolve further and pulled out
A Moveable Feast
, Hemingway’s posthumously published memoir of his time in Paris. The book was still very sparely written, but the writing seemed less affected than in his novels. And I confess it was cool to read about all those literary and artistic luminaries hanging out together in the Paris of the 1920s. I was starting to get excited about the trip.

In the days leading up to my departure, I still wasn’t able to coax any meaningful words onto the laptop screen, despite following Professor Moriarty’s direction and immersing myself in Hemingway. Perhaps it was going to take some time to complete the exorcism.

My phone rang the morning I was scheduled to depart for Toronto. My caller
ID
did its job.

“Hey, Sarah.”

“Hi, Hem. Are you all packed?”

“I’m pretty well set to go,” I replied. “Is everything cool in Chi-Town?”

“Well, Dad’s acting weirder and weirder. He’s keeping his office door closed all the time, now, and Henderson is with him constantly. Something is up. And Dad just looks so sad and worried all the time.”

“Well, have you asked him?”

“I can’t get close to him. I ambushed him in the parking lot the other day but he brushed off my questions and just claimed to have a lot going on right then.”