Out of Left Field (15 page)

I take hold of the nearest hand that’s held out to me, scramble onto the planking, and let Aunt Cora pull me close. “Bran,” she whispers. “Are you all right? I thought we’d lost you, too.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I don’t have time to die. Especially not this year…”

“Let’s see you, lad.” An EMT takes me by the elbow and throws some sort of space blanket around me, like the ones they give to runners at the end of the Marathon. “We need to check your vitals,” he says.

I point to
Little Blue
. “See to the lady on the deck. She really needs help.”

And how.

Seventh Inning Stretch

Phone call: Quinn in Digby, to Granger in Baddeck, Nova Scotia

Hey, Dad.

Mum’s okay. She’s here with us. She had a little accident—

No, not the car. Caught her stupid high heel on a broken plank and fell in the brink. A crazy kid dove after her, helped me pull her in.

I told you, she’ll be fine. A bit of hypothermia, that’s all.

The kid? A Yank. Showed up on the boat.

That’s the weird thing, Dad. He claims he’s my brother!

No joke.

Boston, maybe? Last name McGinnis. Wears a Red Sox jacket.

Is there an echo here? Stop repeating everything!

What’s going on? Things are nuts. Mum says…

(Pause.)

Yes, I’m upset. You mind?

(Pause.)

Hold on.

(Long pause)

Dad, it’s Cat. Quinn’s too whacked out to talk.

No, you can’t. They’re warming Mum up under special blankets. We’re in the waiting room.

It’s an urgent care place.

What’s wrong with our family? Why won’t you explain?

No, it’s not okay.

Forget your job. How soon can you get here? And for God’s sake—bring Mum some dry clothes.

Day to Day

Aunt Cora insisted we follow the ambulance to urgent care in Digby. Their poking and prodding was a breeze compared to the cardio workup in Boston. An hour later, I sit in a small waiting room, dressed in my sweats and Dad’s flannel shirt that Ray retrieved from our B and B. My Sox jacket is across my lap—I’m starting to thaw. Francona would tell the press I’m “day to day”—ready to play any minute.

Aunt Cora’s in the hall on her cell. Let’s hope she can calm Mom down. Ray’s gone in search of hot chocolate: a weird request for August, but I need warmth and comfort food—so I’m alone when the door swings open and Cat shuffles out, carrying a plastic bag she drops on the floor with a thud.

“Mum’s wet stuff,” she says. “You sure spooked her.”

“Excuse me? I believe I saved her from drowning.”

“Thanks. She’ll be okay, in case you’re interested.”

“Of course I’m interested.” What is with this family, anyway? My knee bounces. “I jumped into that frigging cold water, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. I should be grateful. It’s just that things have been bizarre these past few weeks, before you even showed up. Mum’s a wreck. She needs benzos. Quinn needs drugs, too.”

What is Cat, some junior EMT? She plunks down in the chair beside me, unzips a fanny pack, and hands me a faded photograph. “Look at this. I found it in a box of my mum’s. She freaked out.”

The photo has been torn in half, then taped back together, so it takes me a minute to realize it’s Dad, with his arm around a tall blond. They look happy. “Wow,” I say. “That’s quite the hairdo on my dad.”

“And I’d forgotten Mum was a blond once. Not a surprise, since Quinn’s so blond himself.” Cat’s copper eyes shift from the photo to me and back again until I squirm.

“You make me feel like a specimen.”

“Now I see why you looked familiar,” she says. “Your hairstyle is way better than his, though.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Cat turns the photo over. “
V plus P
,” she reads. “We couldn’t figure that out when I found this. Makes sense now. Patrick was your dad, right?”

I nod. “Take a look.” I reach into the hidden pocket of my Sox jacket and pull out Ray’s Polaroid, along with the photo of Dad in his baseball uniform.

We line the pictures up on the table. Cat points to the first one. “Here, they still look happy, like an item. But in this”—she points to the Polaroid—“they’re miserable. Mum must be pregnant. She’s got a little bulge. Mum wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that empire style now.”

Cat squints at Dad, dressed for baseball, and then at me. “You look even more alike here. Guess it’s the change in hairstyle.” She points at my Sox cap. “You’re a fan, too?”

“Rabid.”

“More proof that we’re not related,” Cat says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “Quinn loves hockey, like everyone else in Canada. Where was the baseball photo taken?”

“In the States. Dad played on a pickup team when he came home after the Amnesty.”

“What’s that?”

“A Presidential pardon. Carter forgave the draft resisters who went to Canada. Said they could come home.” I stand up. “Listen. This stuff doesn’t matter—”

“The hell it doesn’t!” She scrubs her hair until it stands on end. “War always matters. Even worse: you’re saying my mum was doing it with two guys at once.”

“I’m not ‘saying’ anything.” My face burns. “Besides, my dad’s letter—the one I gave you yesterday—mentions Granger. He’s your dad, right?”

“Right. But is he
Quinn’s
dad?”

“We need to find out. If your mom wasn’t sure, it explains why she kidnapped the baby and changed her hair color.”

“Listen. Mum may be a stress case, but she is
not
a criminal.”

I shrug and she gives me a withering look. The door bangs open and Quinn bursts out, his jaw clenched. “Mum’s sleeping,” he says to Cat—as if I don’t exist. “They’ll let her go in an hour or two. We need to talk. Let’s go downstreet for some food.”

He starts to push past me but I block his way. “Wait.”

He steps around me. “Look, thanks for saving my mum’s life. My sister and I have private things to discuss.”

He may be taller, but I’m stronger. I brace my feet and take hold of the doorframe into the hall. “I’m trying to save
your
life,” I tell him. “Five damn minutes, that’s all I need.”

“Cut the melodrama.” Quinn raises a fist but Cat grabs his wrist. I feel—rather than see—Ray’s presence behind me.

“Easy,” Ray says.

“Please listen.” Aunt Cora’s here, too. She and Ray back Quinn into a chair, like referees at a boxing match.

I tell Quinn, as fast as I can get it out, about Dad’s will, the cardiology appointment, my own workup. I trip over the name of the disease. “I have information about it in my room at the B and B—and the autopsy report, if you want to see it. That’s definitely what killed him.”

“Look,” Quinn says. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see—”

“I told you before: the disease is
inherited
. I’m lucky; tests show I don’t have it. But Dad believed you were his kid. He was obviously worried about you. That’s why he was trying to find you; why he left you a letter, wrote a new will.” My voice shakes. “It’s why he—” I can’t go on.

Cat raises an eyebrow. “Your dad left Quinn money?”

“You wish.” That’s not exactly a lie. Fingers crossed that Cora doesn’t correct me. No way I’m telling this asshole about the Jackie Robinson card.

Quinn takes off his cap. “Look at me.” He points to his straight blond hair, his eyes the same cold blue as his mother’s. “What makes you so sure we’re related? We don’t look alike.”

Thank God. “Look, hospital records show a Victoria Martin gave birth to a baby boy named Patrick on Halloween—with no last name, and a note that the name was ‘temporary.’ The only other baby born that day was a preemie. You knew that, didn’t you.”

His face twists with rage and he jumps to his feet. In an instant, Aunt Cora steps between us. She plants a firm hand on Quinn’s chest, suddenly the tough street character from her improv class. “That’s enough,” she says. “You need to understand: we’re here to help you. It’s what my brother would want. We hope you’re fine, like Brandon. But you need to see a doctor right away.”

Quinn pushes past her—rude bastard. He goes to the window. “Sun’s out,” he says, his back to us. Like we need to talk about the weather! But his shoulders shake. “You’ve made me miss a full boat of passengers. I lost a lot of money today.”

Give me a break. I glance at Ray. His imperceptible shake of the head says:
back off.

“Quinn. Hey, bro.” Cat touches the back of his neck. “Do you get what they’re saying?”

“I’m not deaf.” Quinn picks up the photos, points a finger at Ray. “Mr. Ray—whatever your name is. Take a look. You see any resemblance?”

“Ray Graham,” Ray says. “And no, you don’t look like Pat. I knew Granger Blanding. You don’t look like him, either—at least, not as I remember.”

Cat sucks in her breath. “You knew my dad?” She gives Quinn a quick look. “
Our
dad?”

Ray nods. “A bit. We hung out in pubs now and then. He and Pat were both into Cape Breton’s music. My scene was different.”

Cat goes to Quinn and asks, as if there’s no one else in the room, “What does Mum say?”

I shift from one foot to the other. Private or not, I need to hear the answer.

Quinn glances at his sister, then back out the window. “I asked her twice: who’s my father?” He whirls around to face us. “You know what she friggin’ said? She ‘doesn’t know.’ She doesn’t freakin’
know
who my father is. How do you like that?” He jabs a finger at me. “Now that you’ve destroyed our family, here’s the truth: I. Don’t. Have. Heart trouble. At my last physical, the doc said I was ‘strong as an ox.’ Now I’ve got to have some weird DNA test to find out who my father is?”

I want to sock him. “My dad was in good shape too. No symptoms. Until he dropped dead.” I throw up my hands. “I’ve had it with you guys. I flew up here to give you a warning, spent every penny I’ve earned all summer. Do what you want. But instant death can be the first sign you have the disease.” I pause. “Got it? As in: one moment you’re alive, driving home alone in the dark, the next instant: you’re gone. Forever.” My voice breaks.

“Whoa,” Cat says. “That’s harsh.”

“No kidding. Death
is
harsh. And final. Let’s hope my father’s
not
your dad. I’d hate to be related to either of you.”

“Easy, Bran,” Aunt Cora warns.

Quinn confronts Ray. “You’re not so pure yourself. Mum says you were AWOL from the army. If you know what’s good for you—you’ll beat it. Now.”

“Kidnapping is a serious crime,” Ray says quietly.

“Is that a threat?” Before Ray can answer, Quinn grabs Cat by the elbow and pulls her into the hall. The clinic door slams and I crumple onto a chair before my knees buckle.

Aunt Cora and Ray are on either side of me in a flash. I grip my head between my hands. Cora rubs my back. “Forget what I said a few weeks ago. You don’t need an improv class. You’re dealing with this just fine.”

I’m laughing through tears. “That was some casting call. Did I get the part?”

“You’re a champ,” Ray says.

“No,” I say. “I’m royally pissed. I’d like to tell Dad off. Why’d he keep this a secret all these years?”

Ray closes his eyes. He’s quiet for a long time. “Shame,” he says at last. “Heartbreak. Maybe both.”

“Say more,” my aunt says.

Ray rubs his chin. “Think about the Pat we knew. The guy who took care of people, worked hard to keep families safe. Then he has a child and loses him?” He glances at Cora. “You and I both have daughters—imagine if someone stole your twins when they were young—and you never saw them again.”

“I couldn’t bear it.”

“Who could? I’m guessing Pat dealt with his sorrow by locking it away in a cold vault.”

“Until he had to open it,” Cora says.

Have they forgotten I’m sitting here? I stand up. “Let’s split before Quinn comes back. I hope I never see that jerk again.”

“You’ve handed him some rough news,” Ray says.

“Yeah. He’s joined the Lone Ranger club.”

“What’s that?” Cora asks.

I shrug. “Never mind.” But the question nags at me as I climb into Cora’s car:
Who was that masked man, anyway?

I close my eyes. Dad was a Sox fan. That’s one thing I’m sure of.

For some reason, this is the most comforting thought I’ve had all day.

Over .500

Ray stays behind at the clinic, to catch a word with Victoria. I’m in a stupor when Cora and I reach the B and B and I’m gone the moment my head hits the pillow. I have one of those naps where you wake up not knowing where you are, what day it is—hell, I’m not even sure who I
am
. The hot shower helps a bit and I stumble downstairs, still half asleep. Ray and Aunt Cora are in the parlor, Ray with a Molson’s, Cora twirling a glass of red wine. Ray beckons me in. “We’re getting maudlin, sharing stories about your dad,” he says. “Come join us.”

“What time is it? You spending the night?”

“If you don’t mind. I’m too worn out to drive home. Besides, my wife and daughter are having a girls’ night out before Mindy goes back to college. Mr. Redstone, who owns this place, offered me a bed. We’re free to use the dining room if we order takeout.”

“Whatever you guys want. I need to make a few calls.” The heck with the international bills. Marty’s out (or not picking up), so I leave a message, telling him I’ll give him a full report soon. Mom’s not home either—doesn’t even answer her cell. I tell her I’m fine, promise to call in the morning. Then I make the most important call.

Tony answers with his last name. I can barely hear him over the bedlam in the background. “McGinnis!” he yells. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling.”

“Canada,” I tell him. “I haven’t seen news or messages for two days. What’s happening?”

“It’s turning around,” he yells. “You can feel it. We’re over .500 now. What the hell you doing up there? Converting to hockey?”

“Not a chance. Some things related to my dad’s past. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“When’s that?”

“Soon. Tomorrow or the next day.” I glance at my watch. Eight-thirty here; seven-thirty at home. “What’s happening?”