Out of Left Field (3 page)

“Apparently. And never told Mom.”

“That’s terrible.” Cora steals a napkin from the next table and blows her nose again. “Has Margaret called the lawyer?”

“Tomorrow. It was after hours when she got home.” I dig into my salad. I’m famished for the first time in days. The feta—salty and sharp—tastes great. I even gobble three slices of their crummy white bread. “You had no clue.”

“None.” Cora gives me a sad smile. “I’m curious why we’re named in his will. Pat didn’t have much to give away, except his time and energy.”

“And plenty of debt, according to Mom.” I stab the last olive.

“Maybe he won the lottery and never told you. That’s the sort of secret my brother would keep. He could have been a Jesuit priest.”

“Whoa.” I set my fork down. “Seriously?”

“Not really. But your dad is—” She colors up. “God, I can’t stop doing that. He
was
such a decent man.”

“Yeah. Did you ever think: if he hadn’t been so good, maybe he’d still be alive?”

“It crossed my mind,” she says. “At his age, he could have cut back on night call for Social Services. But he wouldn’t abandon a family in crisis in the middle of the night. He was almost too good for this world. It’s why he couldn’t fight in a war.”

“Guess he wasn’t as perfect as we thought.” I focus on my salad. I refuse to cry in public. When I can talk again, I say, “We need to find him.”

“Who?”

“The other Patrick.”

“There’s no need for you to get involved. Leo and I—”

“Sorry. This is my deal.” I push my plate away. “Pop will hate this.”

“Does he have to know? After all, he is your
mom’s
father.”

I jab the letter. “Pop is on the list. Odd, since he always blasted Dad about avoiding the draft and running off to Canada. Even called him a traitor.”

She sighs. “Pat admired your granddad, even teased him a little. I think they reached a détente, or at least an agreement not to talk politics.” She signals the waiter for the check. “I have some things at home to show you. Old letters, a few photos from Pat’s time up north. I wasn’t sure if you were ready. Maybe we’ll find a clue there. Are you up for this?”

“I guess.” Like it or not, the search is mine now.

One-Run Game

Uncle Leo’s out walking Dusty, their black Lab. Aunt Cora runs upstairs and I pace the living room. My cousins smile at me from every shelf and table. Janine, the knockout with Aunt Cora’s auburn hair, grins from a professional photo on the mantle. She’s around this summer, working on a documentary for her New York film school. Like my pal Marty, she stuck with me through the wake and the craziness back at the apartment. She’s a good egg, like a sister—only better; we don’t fight.

Andrea, her blond twin, looks whiter than white surrounded by kids in South Africa where she’s volunteering this summer. She couldn’t fly back for the funeral but she e-mails me almost every day. A family photo takes center stage on the piano. Spare me. Too much happy togetherness.

Dammit! All those years I wished for a sibling—I actually
had
one? And Dad never told me? Didn’t I
say
to him, age eight or nine, straight up: “I wish I had a brother.” And what was his excuse? Something like: “One’s the perfect number. Like a one-run game.” This is so frigging unfair.

My elbow knocks over a small black-and-white photo propped up on the bottom shelf. I rub the dust off on my shirt. A kid in a Lone Ranger outfit grins at me: black eye mask, Stetson too big for his head, cowboy boots, chaps, even a holster with twin toy pistols. Is this Dad? Wearing guns? Sure doesn’t look like Uncle Leo.

I grip the photo. Coming here was
not
a good idea. I’m about to bolt when Aunt Cora hurries downstairs, carrying an old shoebox. She stops cold. “Brandon—what happened? You look murderous.”

“Sorry. It’s like a wave. Who should I curse? The guy who had a crisis at three A.M., or Dad for going in, or fate?” My toes tap out a rhythm on the floor.

Aunt Cora pulls me down on the couch beside her. “Maybe you
should
come to an improv class. Channel that rage.” She gives me a nervous smile, like she’s afraid of what I might do next, and notices the photo. “Where’d you find that?”

“Behind the piano. Is it Dad?”

“Definitely. He was obsessed with the Lone Ranger. Drove our parents crazy.
Hi oh, Silver, away!
”

I force a smile. “You’re good at that. Check out the guns. Some pacifist. I had to save up my allowance to buy my own
squirt
gun, for God’s sake.”

“His four years with the Jesuits changed his life.”

“At Boston College? But Dad left the church.”

“I know. We all did, except for my mom. Pat followed the Berrigan brothers, the priests who came out against the war.” She sighs. “Those were crazy times. I was in high school; too young to understand what was going on.”

Does that mean
I’m
too young to understand now? If so, too bad.

Aunt Cora lifts the box. “You ready for this?”

“I guess.”

She pulls out a pack of letters, cinched with rubber bands. Dad’s messy handwriting scrawls across the top envelope. My throat feels tight. “They’re all from Dad?”

“Yup.” She hands it over. “Back in the dark ages, people sent actual letters on paper.”

My knee bounces. The packet feels like a time bomb. “Wonder if Mom has personal stuff like this at home.”

“Ask her,” Aunt Cora says.

“Sure,” I say. Maybe.

“Here’s my old address book.” She opens a small, red leather book and flips to a page that says PATRICK at the top. “Look how many times your dad moved.” I squint at the list, scribbled in different colored inks, as Aunt Cora reads them off. “He crashed on Baldwin Street in Toronto for a few months. They had a support system for draft resisters there…some commune with ‘bus’ in its name…” Her finger trolls down the page. “Four addresses in Montreal, when he was in grad school. Then Halifax.”

Halifax. The city mentioned in Dad’s will. “What was he doing there?”

“He set up a private practice. In 1977 my dad—your other grandfather—got sick. President Carter pardoned the resisters, so Pat came home. He was in terrible shape; I assumed because our dad was dying. Now I wonder.” She gives me a long look. “Pat would never abandon a child. There must be some explanation.”

He abandoned
me
! But that’s pathetic; Dad didn’t leave me on purpose. “Do hospitals keep birth records?” I ask.

“Of course. We’ll do some sleuthing.” Cora grabs my arm. “Maybe he didn’t know he’d had a son? Maybe this Patrick, Junior was born after he came home? Maybe Pat found out before he died—and that’s why he revised his will?”

“That’s a lot of maybes.” I feel tired, like after a swim meet, when you ache inside your bones. I struggle to my feet. “Sleuthing” with my aunt doesn’t appeal. I hold up the Lone Ranger photo. “Could I borrow this?”

“No problem. Keep it as long as you like. Read the letters at home, when you’re not so tired.” She gives me a half laugh. “Who am I fooling? Grief is exhausting. You notice?”

“Yeah.” The thought of my bed is suddenly appealing.

Aunt Cora stows everything in the shoebox. “Take good care of this stuff. They’re all I have left from that time in our lives.”

And what do
I
have? Dad’s beat-up baseball cap and his Sox jacket, too tight across my shoulders. His prize possession: the Jackie Robinson baseball card. Some photos. His favorite songs. A jumbled bag of memories. The sound of his voice on the answering machine—which Mom says we need to erase soon. Sometimes, I can hardly remember his face. That scares me.

“One suggestion,” Aunt Cora says. “Read a few at a time. They’re like raw oysters—you can’t eat too many at once.”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I hate oysters.”

Second Inning

Letter of December 5, 1969

Dear Cora,

When you get this, I’ll be over the border. I’ll lose my nerve if I say goodbye in person.

I used to think it was sweet, being born on Valentine’s Day. Who knew that the Day of Love would end up as Numero 4 in the Draft Lottery? My induction notice will come any day.

Dad says I’m a coward. Too bad. I can’t fight in this rotten war. If I were a better Catholic, maybe Father Finnegan would help me get CO status—but the government’s cracking down. No more grad school deferments.

Dad told me to join the National Guard. He doesn’t get it. The lines for those slots are endless. You have to know the right people. Anyway, the Guard supports the war.

Tell Ma not to worry. There’s a whole network up there. I’ve got phone numbers. Can’t say where I am or where I’m headed, except it’s cold as hell.

Hope you like the Polaroid. Dad will be happy I finally cut my hair. Thought I should be presentable at Customs.

Any chance you could take Bandit? Greg will keep him for a while, but his girlfriend hates cats. And Bandit likes you. Sorry to miss your play next week. You’ll be great. I’ll be there in spirit. You’re the best.

Love, Pat

*

Letter of December 21, 1969

Dear Cora,

I’m safe. Good folks here. They run a store called the Yellow Ford Truck. Hippie gear, beads, long skirts—your kind of place. Tell Ma I have a warm bed and a place to eat Christmas dinner. It will be strange without you. I don’t dare call but I’ll be thinking about you.

Did you pick up Bandit? I can’t stop thinking about that cat. It made me feel like a grownup, choosing my own pet for my first apartment. Scratch his chin for me. And PLEASE WRITE to the P.O. Box above!

Love, Pat

*

Letter of February 2, 1970

Dear Cor—

Happy Groundhog Day! I don’t think they celebrate that up here. Too many months until spring.

Sorry I haven’t written. Things are looking up. I’m in Montreal. I came after Christmas to get a degree in social work. The school will take my BC credits. I start classes this summer. Meantime, I’m working in a home for disturbed boys. (And no, I’m not a patient, although Dad thinks I’m off my rocker.) The job will help me get legal here.

I met this great guy Ray, who needed a roommate. Here’s a photo of the two of us. (Ray’s situation is complicated, so keep the photo to yourself.)

I owe you one for adopting Bandit. Maybe his crooked ear will win Ma over. Meanwhile, the old U.S. of A. looks strange from this side of the border. And it’s lonesome here. Come visit. We could go to the Shakespeare festival in Ontario, eh? (I’m ‘talking Canadian’ now.)

I hope to have my own phone before long. Until then—

Love from your big bro, Pat.

*

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

Hey, Cat. You home alone?

Good. Listen: sorry I was harsh the other day. I’m not over the breakup. But it’s more than that. This whole thing is beyond weird.

Yeah, got the photo. Looks like Mum and this guy were an item, unless he’s some long-lost cousin. Not sure what this means. Maybe she got the date wrong?

Not like her, I know. Anyway, there’s more. My pal Dexter and I have been looking at airfares. Cheap tickets to Puerto Rico and Cuba.

I know it’s hot down there. Exactly what I need. Gotta get out of the fog and this funk.

Not an invitation. Sorry. I need a passport. Twenty-seven, and I’ve never been out of the country.

Well, I know you haven’t—but you’re only fourteen—

Okay: fifteen! Will you listen up? I need my birth certificate to get a passport.

Right. Not something I carry around in my truck. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the thing. I asked Mum—

Uh-huh. So you heard her hissy fit. Maybe Dad’s right about hormones.

Seriously, Cat. Asking for my birth certificate doesn’t seem like an odd request. You hear Mum cross-examine me, asking why I need to go to the States?

As if. Why would I head that way? Our money’s worthless and their crazy government doesn’t tempt me. I’ve heard lines at the border are nasty since 9/11.

Yeah, Mum was beyond weird, eh? Claims she doesn’t know where she put the birth certificate, maybe the safe deposit box, she won’t have time to look the way business is booming, yada yada yada.

Like the world is rushing to buy homes in Baddeck. And like she’s ever misplaced anything.

Listen up. Dexter says it’s simple: Call the hospital where you were born, ask them to search their records, they’ll send a copy.

Antigonish. At least, that’s what Mum always told me.

Will you pay attention? There is NO record of me at that hospital. Nada. Zip. They even took my phone number, searched again, called me back. No Quinn Blanding born on my birthday. In fact, the woman said it was an odd week: only three babies born, all on the same day, all girls.

Very funny, Cat.

Come on, Cat. Someone’s lying. I need to figure out who—and why. So do me a favor: Take a look in the files when Mum and Dad are out.

Try the tall metal set, in Mum’s home office.

Don’t know. Maybe under my name? Or something obvious like “birth certificates.” She’s probably got one for you, too. You know how anal Mum is; her files are super organized. If they’re at the bank, I’m out of luck.

Thanks. Maybe I’m paranoid, but it makes me wonder about that photo. It’s almost like I was never born. Or maybe they lied about my birth date? I’m tied in knots over this thing.

No, I’m not mad at you, Cat. Just confused as hell.

I’m on the boat all day, waiting for the sun to shine, so use the cell. And whatever you do, don’t let Mum know what’s up.

You’re right: I owe you, sis. Big time.

Pregame Warm-Up

“Brandon, wake up. We overslept.”

Mom jiggles my feet. She’s still in her robe. I sit up fast and swing my legs off the bed.