Out of Left Field (10 page)

He cuts me off. “Brandon—that’s your name, right? Forgive me. Let’s start over.”

“Sure.” I raise my eyebrows at Mart, who shrugs.

“Sorry I was testy. Your dad and I were tight through some tough years. We talked a lot when he first left Canada, but we lost touch after he married your mom. Frankly, that hurt.”

“From what Dad wrote to Victoria, sounds like she kidnapped their baby.”

“That’s how we saw it. Last month, your dad popped up out of nowhere—then he disappeared again. It’s funny he was suddenly searching for his kid who must be, say, late twenties by now. He tried hard to find him back then, hired a detective. Eventually, he couldn’t stand the pain. He had to move on.”

I explain, as fast as I can, about Dad’s heart issue, how it killed him—and how the syndrome is inherited.

Mr. Graham is quiet for a long time. “Damn,” he says at last. “Are
you
okay?”

“So far so good. They put me through the ringer yesterday,” I tell him. “One more blood test. My aunt’s getting tested today. But we think that’s why my dad—”

“Of course. He’d want to make sure his son was safe.”

His son
. That stings.

“Now it makes sense.” Mr. Graham clears his throat. “But I was sworn to secrecy on this thing.”

“Too late now. Dad changed his will before he died. The whole family knows. Finding this guy is—well, it’s urgent. Hope it’s not too late.”

Mr. Graham is quiet a minute. “Let me sleep on this, see what I come up with,” he finally says. “Could I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure, but I work mornings. E-mail might be better. Or you can call later in the day.” I give him my stats.

“Your mom’s home.” Marty jumps up. “I’ll fend her off.”

Mr. Graham chuckles at my e-mail address. “
Pass the bread
?”

“I like to bake.” Or I did. Once.

“Your dad was an ace baker,” he says. “I missed his sweet rolls after he moved. He called me when you were born, but I’ve lost track. How old are you now?”

“Seventeen; almost eighteen. Listen, Mr. Graham. I’m sorry to tell you about Dad—so fast and everything.”

“Don’t worry. You threw me a curve ball, but there’s no other way to share bad news. I would like a copy of the obituary. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I loved your dad. He was a great guy.”

I smile. A guy who uses baseball metaphors should be okay. I’m about to sign off when Mr. Graham says, “Brandon. This may sound strange, since we’ve never met—but you’ve obviously got a lot of your dad in you.”

“Why?”

“Most kids would be so angry, getting this news about an unknown sibling, that they might just—I don’t know. Let the other guy suffer.”

“I
am
pissed that Dad never told me,” I admit. “But still—”

“Right. You won’t let someone die if you could save him. That’s Pat, all over. Explains why he gave up the search for his baby, in the end. He wouldn’t put him through a Solomon’s choice.”

We’re both quiet, me because I’m broken up; Mr. Graham because—well, maybe he is, too.

Mom calls to me from the living room.

“My mom’s home, Mr. Graham.” My voice shakes. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Your dad would be proud of you,” Mr. Graham says. “I’m sure of it.”

“Thanks.” I fall back on the bed. That was harder than swimming ten laps of the butterfly against the clock. I’ve started something that can’t be stopped, like a giant tsunami. It won’t be over until we find the kid—if he can be found.

Damn. I never asked the most important questions of all: When was this guy born? And where? If Ray doesn’t know, how will we ever track him down?

So Much for the Big Trade

I hurry down the hall. “Cora’s fine!” Mom cries, before I can even ask. “They’re doing the same blood work on her that they did on you—but so far, so good. This means the twins are in the clear, too.” She tosses her bags onto the couch and sinks into a chair. “Marty, you’ll have to excuse us. I’m a bit giddy. It’s been quite the week. I’ve gone from thinking I might lose everyone, to the best news possible. Stay for dinner?”

“No thanks,” Marty says. “I promised Rose I’d take her to gymnastics. But I’m glad things look good.” He leaves with a quick high five. Is he still mad? His words sting:
you’re not a quitter
. I’d like to see what he’d do if
his
dad passed.

At dinner, Mom waves a hand in front of my face. “Bran—you listening?”

“Sorry. Afraid not.”

“I was saying that Coach called me. He’s concerned about your ‘lack of interest in the team.’”

I almost spit out my soup. “Coach is an asshole. He’s already replaced me for the next meet. He had to call
you
about this? Why couldn’t he tell me?”

“He told me you walked out on him.”

“True. I get no sympathy, no concern whatsoever from the guy. Maybe I’ll quit.”

Mom actually stifles a smile. “Now what?” I demand.

“Weren’t you just complaining that he pitied you?”

My turn to be red-faced. “Score.”

She takes a deep breath. “Coach is worried about your—your anger. So am I. Would you call that grief counselor the guidance office recommended?”

“And listen to her theories about the ‘Five Stages of Grief’? Forget it. She wants to know what ‘stage’ I’m at, so she can cross them off her list. If I’m stuck in the anger phase, I’ll go to Aunt Cora’s Improv class, or talk to Tony at the ball park.”

“Tony?”

“A guy who works the ticket booth. We’ve been talking baseball.” I ball up my napkin, toss it at the wastebasket, and miss. “It helps, believe me.” I glance at her. “Aren’t you pissed at Dad? For keeping these secrets?”

“I’m hurt, more than angry, that I didn’t know about the other…child—but it helps to know he was planning to tell me. Mostly, I’m just…confused.”

“Me too.”

Thankfully, she changes the subject, says she hasn’t told Pop about Dad’s heart condition. “I’m waiting for the autopsy—and for your final blood work.” She bites her lip. “Bran—I know I’m overreacting. But I don’t want you here alone. Not until we’re one hundred percent sure. When I gave you the note for your coach, I assumed you’d still go to practice, sit on the bench. Could you hang out with a friend? We should hear from the doctor tomorrow.”

“My friends are all on the team. Maybe you should hire a babysitter.” I push back from the table. “Sorry to be rude. I’ll go to the library after work; leave my cell on vibrate so you can reach me there.” I clear my plate. “I’m done in. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Go to bed. I’ll clean up. It’s good for me to stay busy.”

Dad would argue with her, insist I help out. But since he’s not here, what the hell. I’ll do as she says.

I stand in the shower a long time as the hot water streams down my back. Why didn’t I tell her about Ray Graham? Maybe it’s crazy, especially with someone’s life at stake. But, like I said to Mr. Graham, this is between Dad and me.

When Mom runs her bath, I search for Dad’s copy of the O’Brien book. Takes me thirty seconds, max, to find it in the pile on his night table. The paperback bulges with colored post-it notes, messages scrawled on them like little Tibetan prayer flags. I take the book back to my room, flop onto my bed, turn the Sox game on low on my radio. I don’t expect to stay awake long, but as I flip through the pages, careful not to dislodge the notes, a pink one catches my eye. It marks the story called “On the Rainy River.” My dad’s note is a question:
What if I’d met an Elroy?

Sox are already losing. So much for the big trade. I turn off the radio and read the story to find out what Dad’s note means. A sticky note marks O’Brien’s drive north to Rainy River, where Dad scrawled:
Wish I’d been with you, man
.

At the bottom of page 50, top of 51, Dad underlined a passage and starred it in the margins: “Twenty-one years old, an ordinary kid with all the ordinary dreams and ambitions,” O’Brien wrote, “and all I wanted was to live the life I was born to—a mainstream life—I loved baseball”—Dad circled
that
word in red—“and hamburgers and cherry Cokes—and now I was off on the margins of exile, leaving my country forever, and it seemed so impossible and terrible and sad.”

A few pages from the end, O’Brien writes, “I would not be brave.” And in the margin, Dad scrawled, as if he and O’Brien were talking,
But you were. You went to Nam. I ran
.

When the narrator cries, I do too. What was Dad thinking as he read? Did he wish he’d been drafted to fight in the war? I fall asleep wishing I’d really known my father. Now I never will.

From: Brandon McGinnis

Subject: my dad

Date: August 2, 2004

To: Ray Graham

Dear Mr. Graham,

Thanks for talking to me. One thing I forgot: I found an unopened letter my dad wrote to Victoria a long time ago. He mentioned some guy named Blanding and something about “Granger.” Are they the same person? I did a search for the name in Nova Scotia. There’s a G. Blanding, Attorney, in Baddeck. Also a V. Blanding Real Estate. The woman’s picture is on the website. I’m sending you the link. No phone number, but maybe you can get it from information.

My mom doesn’t know I talked to you. Aunt Cora, my dad’s sister, wants to hire a detective. I’d rather find the guy myself. But maybe that will take too long.

Thanks again,

Brandon

P.S. I’ve attached the obit, from the Boston Globe

*

From: Ray Graham

Subject: Your dad

Date: August 2, 2004

To: Brandon McGinnis

Brandon:

Please call me Ray.

I was awake all night, thinking about your dad and the good times we had. Thanks for the obit. Sounds like your dad hadn’t changed: still working with folks in trouble, who don’t have much. I feel for you, for your mom—for anyone who loved the guy.

Sorry my wife and I were curt on the phone. I’ve had some crazy calls lately from clients. You probably know the drill. When your call came through restricted, my wife got nervous. Disable that feature next time and we’ll pick up.

I wonder how much your dad talked about his years up north. He was in trouble, for sure, but my situation was more serious. I was AWOL from the Army. The CRMP hated deserters. They worked with the FBI and the Army to track us down. Carter’s pardon didn’t include anyone who was AWOL. I’m still paranoid.

I could never go home. My parents came up here once or twice a year until they passed away, but it was tough. And since 9/11 I’ve heard horror stories about people of color being held at the border. I’d love to meet you and your mom someday.

Your dad was the best. He’d do anything for a friend. He covered for me many times. It must hurt to find out about his other life. I think he kept it a secret from himself, to ease the pain.

Your dad called me when you were born. We hadn’t talked in a long time. He was giddy with joy. If it’s any consolation, his death breaks my heart, too. Let me know when I can speak to your mom.

Take care of yourself now—

Ray

*

From: Ray Graham

Subject: Your dad again

Date: August 2, 2004

To: Brandon McGinnis

Your dad’s death is keeping me from working. No surprise to you, I’m sure. Anyway, I checked out the website for V. Blanding Real Estate. She’s selling some fancy stuff. She’s no longer a blond, but she could be the one. If it’s okay with you, I’ll make a phone call, see what happens. Pretend I’m looking for property. Cape Breton is a special place.

Peace,

Ray

P.S. We’re in a different time zone, an hour ahead of Boston. If you need to watch your phone bill, I can call you. Just let me know some good times.

P.P.S. Are you a Sox fanatic like your dad?

*

From: Brandon McGinnis

Subject: My dad

Date: August 2, 2004

To: Ray Graham

Hi, Ray. It’s fine to call VB. Let me know what she says. And yes, this could be our year. Go Sox!

Thanks—B

Back in the Race

Weird about this Graham guy: a few days ago he wanted to hang up on me, now he acts like my best buddy. I’m ready to send another message when my phone vibrates: Mom. I sign off and duck outside to escape the librarian’s evil eye.

“Bran!” Mom’s hyperventilating. “You’re fine, everything’s fine. The last test was negative.” Her breath whooshes into my ear like wind. “You there?”

“Yeah. That’s great.”

“I know. Haven’t heard if Cora’s final blood work is in yet but she may know tonight. Shall I pick you up on the way home?”

“That’s okay. I’ll walk. I could use the exercise.”

“Wonderful news. Call Coach. You’ve only missed a few days. Maybe you’ll get your old spot back.”

“Sure.” Death in the family or not: miss more than three practices, you’re on the bench. Never mind. I’ve got more important stuff to think about.

“Bran.” Mom’s voice trembles. “There’s other news. The autopsy report confirmed the doctor’s diagnosis.” We’re both quiet a minute. “I told Pop what’s going on,” Mom says. “I thought it might help him understand about Pat. How the accident wasn’t his fault.”

It wasn’t? What if Dad had had the surgery right away? No need to wreck Mom’s good mood. “That’s fine.”

And it is. Life is confusing as hell—but fine. It’s a soft, warm afternoon. I walk home with a little bounce; check my watch. Two hours ’til first pitch. We’re playing Tampa and something tells me this could be the night things turn around.

I could get used to this. To living.

*

Sounds like a hot party at our place. A Cuban beat thumps from behind the door, along with raised voices. I run up the last flight, breathing in the smell of garlic, and push the door open.

“He’s here!” Uncle Leo, Aunt Cora, and Janine are in the kitchen; Pop sits on the couch, looking sheepish. Janine rushes over, knocks off my cap, gives me a kiss. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

“What’s happening?” I ask. “The Sox win the pennant early?”

“No, doofus,” Janine says. “We’re celebrating your test results
and
Mom’s. Her blood work was normal—which puts me in the clear, too. The doctor says we’re all rock stars!”