Out of Left Field (2 page)

“Like Pop.”

“Right.” Mom squints at the letter, as if she’s missed something. “I never heard of this lawyer who’s named as the executor. It’s not the attorney we used, but she’s from the same firm. I don’t understand.” She glances at her watch. “Too late to call there now.” She goes to the kitchen, opens the breadbox, nibbles at a cracker. “Ugh. Stale.” She tosses it into the trash.

“What does the will say—the one you found?” I ask.

“Not much. I’ve already told you—your dad left credit card debt. Luckily, we have his state pension. No mention of anyone else but you, me, Cora, and the twins.”

She cups her tiny hand over mine. Dad always teased Mom about her perfect nails, made fun of the wild manicures her fourth graders love. Now her nails are chipped, the polish flaking off. She’s training new teachers this summer; you’d think she’d care how she looks.

Of course, I’m not winning any awards myself. Bussing tables doesn’t require elegance. And I’m too tired to care.

“Why would he change his will in secret?” Mom asks. “That’s not like him.”

“How could he have another kid—and not tell me?”

The phone cuts through the silence. I check out the caller ID. “What’d I tell you? It’s Pop.”

“Let it go.”

Five rings, then the message and Pop’s voice. “Hi, angel. Brandon. Thought you’d be home by now. Did you get a letter from Probate? I’ll call you later. Love, Pop.”

Funny the way my granddad signs off: like he’s sent a letter to our machine. Mom blows her nose and gives me a half smile. “Maybe it’s all some sort of mistake. If there
was
another child—you’d think he’d have found us by now.”

My mind veers in a different direction. I grab a pad and paper and start to calculate. “Dad ran away in ’69, right?”

Mom nods. Her face is blank.

“And he came back in ’77. If he had a kid in the early seventies—damn, the guy would be…in his thirties now. I could be an uncle. You’d be—a step-grandmother?”

“Stop it!” Mom slaps the pencil from my hand.

“Geez, Mom. Take it easy.”

“No.
You
take it easy. This ‘kid’—as you call him—is nothing to do with us. I’ll call the lawyer first thing tomorrow. There must be some mistake. Pat would never do this to me—or to you. We shared everything.” Mom dumps her lemonade, pulls a bottle of white wine from the door of the fridge, and pours herself a glass. “Don’t give me that look.”

“Sorry.” Mom’s been dipping into the wine lately, but who can blame her? I go for my own fix: the deep chair by the window and the iPod Dad gave me for Christmas. I set it on Shuffle, hoping it picks something good. What comes up spooks me: Dylan singing “Girl from the North Country.”

The week Dad died, I downloaded his favorite songs. Dad told me this one was about crossing the border into Canada—like Dad did when his number came up. I sink back in the chair and listen to Dylan whine. It’s almost like Dad sent me a message: first the letter; now this song.

I listen.
The borderline
… All the times Dad played this song when I was around—was he hoping I’d ask about that time in his life? I always focused on the lyrics about the border. Now the rest of the lyric—where Dylan remembers his “own true love”—makes me queasy.

Thank God Mom can’t hear. She sits at the table, opening mail. She reads, wipes her eyes, wedges another condolence letter into the basket. How can she stand it? She drains her wine and signals to me. I drop the earpiece.

“I have to go back in soon,” she says. “We have a reception for new teachers tonight.”

“Better swig some Listerine.”

Mom actually laughs. “Some example I’m setting for you. I’m sorry, Bran. Tomorrow we’ll go to the market, stock up on food—throw out the rest of these frozen casseroles.” She hesitates. “It’s Wednesday.”

“I know. I’m not up to baking and it’s too hot. But I’ll clean up later.”

“Great. Don’t worry about the bread. I’m not exactly Julia Child myself.” She hands me some money. “Get yourself a pizza, or a calzone.”

“Thanks. I might go out for a while; see if Marty’s home.”

“Got your books for summer reading?”

“One of them.”

We both know I’m not reading anything. She ought to grill me. After all, she
is
a teacher; that stuff is supposed to matter—but she’s letting me slide. Dad would be on my case, remind me that senior year is coming up, these grades count so much toward college—

College schmollege
, Marty would say. Besides, is it my fault Dad fell asleep at the wheel? I put on Dad’s Red Sox hat. It’s a little tight, but it’s kept his smell. Besides, Dad would say, “It’s game day. Keep your hat on.”

“Take your cell,” I tell Mom, playing parent again. She nods, kisses the top of my head, and heads down the hall to freshen up. I stuff the court letter into my pocket. This “kid” in Canada may have nothing to do with Mom—but he’s got everything in the world to do with me.

Phone call: Cat in Baddeck, to Quinn on Digby Neck

Hey, Quinn. You alone?

Good. Remember that photo I told you about? When I taped it up last night, I found something written on the back. Mum’s handwriting. “P + V,” it says.

You know, like you put on your notebook in junior high when you liked somebody?

Okay, so it’s not a guy thing. Mum also wrote: “Halifax. Feb. ’76.”

I’m not trying to “prove” anything—except that the guy is definitely not Dad.

Quinn, Mum and this guy are not “just friends.” Mum’s looking at him the way you used to gawk at Racquelle—

Okay, okay! I’ll never say her name again!

Yes, 1976. I’m sure. Why?

What do you mean, “do the math”?

(Long silence.)

Oh.

(Long silence.)

Shit, Quinn. That’s—

God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think…

Course I’ll send the photo. But maybe we should forget about it.

Don’t hate me, Quinn.

Quinn—you there?

Manny Being Manny

I scroll through names on my cell as I head downstairs, and push the
Cora
button. Uncle Leo answers on the first ring.

“Brandon! How are you?”

“Okay.” No one wants an honest answer to
that
question, even my favorite—and only—uncle. “Aunt Cora home?”

“She’s teaching her Improv class at the community center. You could try her cell when she’s done, around seven. Any message?”

“Just tell her I called. She been home today?”

“Doesn’t look like it. What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Gotta run.” I hate to B.S. Uncle Leo. He’s a good guy—never once offered himself up as a substitute dad. Marty calls him a
mensch
; rare praise. I check my phone. Not quite six. If Aunt Cora had seen her mail, Uncle Leo would have said something. I need to see her reaction.

The trolley crawls toward me, so packed with fans the door barely closes. Damn—I forgot about the second Sox game. If Dad were here, he’d get into conversation with the fan wearing a Nomar shirt. They’d talk about this afternoon’s game, be best friends by the time we reach Kenmore. I stay quiet. The AC is broken and the car reeks of sweat. A preppy kid wearing a
Stop the War
button knocks into me. A guy with his Sox cap on backwards reads the
Boston Herald
as the train lurches forward. The
headline screams about more American deaths in Iraq.

Crap. Some of those dead soldiers must have kids. Are they cut off from reality, too? Last week the school counselor called me at home, asked if I’d like to speak to a “grief therapist,” or join some “grief support group.” She even talked about “the five stages of grief.” Like that was supposed to be comforting? And who would come into an empty school building in the summer? I was rude when I turned her down.

No seats on the Orange Line, but at least I can breathe. The community center is a few blocks from the T stop. Dad and I came here last fall to pick Cora up, but I’ve never been inside. A Latina woman in the lobby peers at me over gold-rimmed glasses. “Too late to go in,” she says, when I ask for the Improv class.

“That’s all right—I’m meeting my aunt, Cora McGinnis. I’ll wait outside.”

Liar. The receptionist takes a phone call and the sound of voices lures me down the hall. I slip into the crowd at the back of the room. All eyes are on Cora and a boy in the middle of the circle. My aunt’s got a wooden block in her hand. She shoves it at the kid. “Come on,” she says. “It’s a beauty. Check it out.”

The kid shifts from side to side, then yanks up his baggy pants before they slide off his hips. “I dunno,” he mumbles. He wears a do-rag like Manny’s to keep his dreads under wraps, and a Ramirez T-shirt. For a second my mind plays its cruel trick as a baseball conversation starts in my head.

Dad:
Get a load of that miniature Ramirez, will you?

Me:
What’s with Manny’s red shoes?

Dad:
It’s just Manny being Manny—

Cut. I grit my teeth, focus on Cora. In full swagger mode, she points the block at the kid as if it were a gun. It’s the block shaped like a half arch. You can call it a gun if you’re desperate. Which Marty and I were, since weapons were forbidden at my house and his—even squirt guns. We made great Lego weapons when the grown-ups left us alone.

Cora circles the kid. “What’s the matter—you chicken? The piece isn’t even loaded. How you going to be in our gang if you won’t touch a piece?”

Now
that
is funny.
Cora
is a middle-aged piece herself, with her auburn hair, purple glasses, and skin-tight blouse. The kid reaches for the block and a man’s deep voice booms, “Hold it!”

Aunt Cora and the boy freeze. A burly black guy with a crisp goatee steps from the back of the room. “What should Lionel do?” he asks.

Hands shoot up. Aunt Cora glances around the room. She catches my eye but doesn’t blink. A wiry little girl with her hair in cornrows yells, “He should sass Cora, then go on home.”

The black guy beckons to her. “Show us, Kadisha.”

Kadisha strides into the circle and sets her fists on her skinny waist. “Don’t take that gun,” she warns. “Yo’ Mama be ma-aad wit you.”

I swallow a laugh. I bet no one messes with Kadisha.

Another boy raises his hand. “His friends gonna call him a sissy,” he calls out.

“Show us,” the tall man says.

The boy scrambles to his feet, grabs the block gun from Cora, and taunts the first kid, shoving the butt end at his face. “Yellow coward!”

Aunt Cora steps aside. She gives me another quick look but she’s still a tough girl from the street who might have a knife hidden away. The improv goes on. Everyone cheers when Kadisha and the first boy turn on the second kid, jeering until he gives the block gun to Cora, handle end first, and slouches away.

Class dismissed. Aunt Cora hurries over, grabs me around the neck, plants a smoochy kiss on my cheek. “Brandon! What are you doing here?” She beckons to the goatee dude. “Maurice: my nephew, Brandon McGinnis.”

Maurice shakes my hand. “Nice to meet you. Heard good things about you from Cora.” He touches my shoulder, quick and easy. “Sorry about your dad. I know it’s hard on you and your aunt.”

“Thanks.” God, there’s sympathy everywhere. People mean well. But still…

“What brings you here?” Maurice asks. “You an actor, too?”

“I was in a school play once.” I catch Cora’s eye and we both laugh. “I was a mouse who slept in the corner.”

Maurice raises his eyebrows. “Never too late to start. I’m sure you two need to catch up. Come early next time. We’ll pull you into the act.”

“I’d never have Kadisha’s nerve.”

Cora tucks her arm through mine when we’re out on the street. “This is a nice surprise,” she says. “What’s the occasion?”

So she doesn’t know. “I need to show you something.” I take a deep breath. “Where can we talk?”

She stands still a minute, thinking. “You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Great. I know just the place.”

*

Aunt Cora’s favorite Greek restaurant is cool and quiet, with no TV, so no Sox distractions. Cora has called Leo, told him she has a hot date and he should fix his own supper. I’ve left a message on Mom’s cell. We order Greek salads, sodas, garlic bread. I pull the letter from my pocket. “You get one of these?”

She shakes her head. “Looks official.”

“It’s about Dad’s will. You’ll have one waiting at home.”

She skims it. “This is pretty standard, Bran. It must sting, to see it in black and white—”

I pick up my soda, set it down when the ice cubes start jiggling. “Check out Dad’s guest list. Notice anything odd?”

“
Guest list?
” She squints, gasps. “Patrick McGinnis—
Junior
?” Her green eyes are intense. “What does this mean?”

“Who knows?” I’m quiet while the waiter sets down our salads. “Sounds like Dad had a kid up there. Maybe I have a brother…or a half brother.” I take a deep breath.

“And I could have another nephew?” Cora leans back against the banquette. “Bran, this will sound strange—but it could be wonderful.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” She blows her nose on her napkin. “It could mean there’s another piece of your father somewhere.”

This is too weird. “So I’m ‘a piece’ of him, too?” If only I could bolt. The booth hems me in. “This isn’t turning out like I thought.”

“I’m sorry. Me and my big mouth.” Aunt Cora squeezes my hand. “You must feel…well—” She takes a deep breath. “Here’s the improv teacher telling the actor how he feels. I’ll start over. How
do
you feel?”

My knee bounces under the table, spilling our sodas. “Confused. Betrayed. Pissed off.” I scrub the spill with my napkin, as if I could wipe away the bad news.

Cora hugs herself. “It’s not like Pat to keep something this big a secret. Maybe it was news to him and he meant to tell you. After all—he wasn’t planning to die.”

“Unless—”

“You think he had a premonition?”

“I don’t know if I believe that stuff. But according to Mom, there’s no mention of this—this Patrick ‘Junior’—in the will she has at home.”

She frowns. “Pat wrote a new one?”