Tumble & Fall (12 page)

But there was a time when the legendary image of the Green Monster loomed like a sporty Shangri-La in his dreams. Maybe it had something to do with the framed color panorama occupying prime real estate on the wall directly above his bed. It had been a gift from his father on his fourth birthday, the last birthday they celebrated together as a family.

Arthur stops in front of the steps at Gate D. There’s a cop sitting on a stool, and Arthur is saying something about “special permission” when Caden shuffles up between them. The cop has a neck like a tree trunk and black, beady eyes; he studies Caden as if he might be wearing a bomb.

“Hang on,” the cop says, unlatching a walkie-talkie from his belt and stepping away to mumble into one end.

“The season’s canceled,” Caden says. A light breeze picks up a paper soda cup and tosses it against the bottom of the concrete steps. Aside from a few scattered guards and a man in a green jumpsuit sweeping the bottom of a handicapped ramp, the stadium is completely deserted.

“That’s true.” Arthur nods. “Doesn’t mean we can’t look around.”

Caden stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Looking around” Fenway Park hadn’t exactly been on his bucket list. Not that he ever had a bucket list. But if he did, it would probably have involved a lot more getting high on the beach with his friends, and a lot less being kidnapped by his long-lost father.

The cop returns and reluctantly ushers them through the metal turnstiles. Arthur pauses at the bottom of the staircase and heads straight for the lower level. The floor is sticky and the thick evening air smells of stale popcorn and old spilled beer. “A friend of mine is part owner of one of the feeder teams,” Arthur explains as they pass through a dark hallway and step out into the open field. The sun is just starting to set; a strange, cool twilight illuminates the bleachers. “I asked him to arrange a private tour, but he did me one better: the whole place, all to ourselves.”

Arthur takes long, lumbering steps down the cement stairs that lead to the field, the paper bag still tucked beneath his arm. The diamond has been newly brushed and cleaned. The bases sparkle white against the bright green turf.

At the first row of bleachers, Arthur sets the bag on the wall and gently hoists himself over. “What do you think?” he asks, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves and rolling them up in careful, even sections to his elbows. From the bag, he removes a clean baseball and two new gloves.

Caden stops short inside the low wall. He turns to look back at the rows and rows of empty seats, stretching out into the distance. With a loud, buzzing pop, a light tower over the outfield flashes on. On the far side of the high green walls, the sky looks suddenly darker.

Arthur is tossing the ball into one glove, molding the hard leather around it. Caden sighs and throws his legs over the wall. As much as he hates to admit it, he feels a jolt as he lands on the other side. He remembers the dreams he used to have of standing on this field, wearing a uniform and being the best at something, something big. He hops to the turf and grabs the second glove from a bench.

The leather is stiff in his palm. He punches his fist inside, like he’s seen people do in the movies.

“Ready?” Arthur asks.

Caden drops his arm to his side and stands with his feet spread apart. The soft, persistent drone of mosquitoes hums threateningly in his ears.

“You don’t look ready.” Arthur rests the ball against his hip.

“What?”

“Look ready,” Arthur encourages, holding his glove in front of his face. “Look alive!”

Caden squeezes the glove in his hand, the unforgiving leather seams digging into the flesh of his fingers. He holds the glove to his chest, imitating his father’s stance. Then, he laughs. It starts like a hiccup, an unplanned burst of air. But soon, he’s bent in half, the glove buried deep against his stomach.

“Look alive?”
he finally manages to spit back. He feels his lungs emptying as the laughter fades away. The next few breaths he takes fill him with wild electricity. All of the muscles in his body tense and prepare, like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, facing a rough and powerful wind.

“You’ve had twelve years to think about this,” Caden yells. “Twelve years. We’re doing this
now
? Our first game of catch is
today
, in the middle of
Fenway Park
? Did you think I was going to, like, cry, or something? What’s next, you teach me how to catch a fly ball? We go out for ice cream? We talk about life, and hug?”

Arthur wipes the back of his free hand against his forehead. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

Caden rips the glove from his palm and throws it to the ground. “I fucking hate sports,” he says. “Which you would know, if you knew anything about me. How’s that?”

They stare at each other, the pitcher’s mound an anchor between them. Arthur clears his throat. “Caden,” he says. His voice is tired, but stern. He looks at the lights. “Pick up the glove.”

Caden doesn’t move. His feet are like cinder blocks, his fists clenched and pulsing like beating, angry hearts at his side.

“I know you hate sports,” Arthur sighs. “I fucking hated sports, too. I hated playing catch. It never made any sense to me. You throw the ball, then I throw the ball? I don’t get it. But I’ve spent my whole life not getting a lot of things, and not doing them because they didn’t make sense. And I thought now might be a good time to try something new.”

Arthur shields his eyes from the stadium lights high above Caden’s head. “Pick up the glove, Caden,” he says again. “Please.”

Caden eyes the open glove by his feet. He remembers Joe in the car.
He’ll win this game. He always does.
He closes the mitt over his fingers and holds it out, like a statue, by his hip.

His father glances up at the darkening sky, and when he looks back at Caden, he’s smiling. Something about his face has changed completely, and before Caden can help it, he remembers. He’s three years old, and his dad is chasing him through the woods behind their house. He’s a prince, and his dad is a dragon, breathing fake fire at the trees. Caden hides beneath a bush and watches his father pretend not to see him, knees bent, his arms outstretched. Caden coughs, then giggles. He wants to be caught.

Beyond the pitcher’s mound, Arthur draws back the point of his elbow and sends the ball between them. It lands in Caden’s glove with a solid, satisfying thud.

SIENNA

Operation One-Big-Happy-Family was in full swing, and Sienna was already exhausted.

First, there was the trip to the beach. Sienna was sure they’d be the only people there. Who could possibly care about getting a tan at a time like this? But the rocky shoreline was sardine-packed with clusters of families, all of whom seemed to share Dad’s idea of forced togetherness. When the going gets tough, the tough go swimming.

But Dad was the only one who went in. Ryan brought his three favorite books about caterpillars, and pulled his faded Red Sox hat down low as he read. Denise spent the afternoon flipping through wedding magazines, occasionally asking for Sienna’s opinion on everything from flower arrangements to canapés. Sienna managed to grumble a few lukewarm responses (“wow,” “pretty,” “yum”
…)
before pulling a towel over her face and pretending to take a nap.

Then came dinner on the patio, a drawn-out presentation of all of Denise’s favorites. Luckily, she turned out to be a much better cook than Dad. Sienna did her best to pretend not to enjoy the homemade pasta and fresh tomato and basil salad, but she snuck back to the kitchen for seconds when she thought nobody was looking.

After three rounds of charades, Sienna excused herself to her room. She had hoped that might be the end of it. Maybe one day was all Dad had in mind. They’d done what he wanted. They were nice to Denise. Sienna had even started calling her “Denny” to her face.

But after she’d brushed her teeth, Dad was waiting for her in the hall. A hand on her shoulder, his eyes hopeful and sad. “Denny is hoping to put together some bouquets for the wedding,” he’d said. “Could you take her to one of your secret spots tomorrow morning?”

Sienna clenched her teeth and agreed, a quick, silent nod. They’d said good night and she closed her bedroom door.

The secret spots weren’t hers. They were Mom’s. Sienna hadn’t been back since the summer before she died. Fields of wildflowers, hidden deep in the woods, down the overgrown deer paths you had to squint to see.

She sits at the edge of her bed and reaches for her pillbox. She takes half of her anxiety meds at night. A full dose in the morning would make her groggy and weird all day. She’d overheard a few of the staffers at the House, worried that the “kids” would start to boycott. What was the point in medicating themselves, when there was a chance they were all going to die, anyway? Sienna had considered taking a break. The meds did help her to feel more settled, less repetitive in her thinking, but they also made her feel like a zombie. Is that really how she wants to spend the next few days?

There’s a sharp
ping
and Sienna turns to the window. She stands frozen, wondering if she’d imagined the sound, when it happens again. This time, a pebble sails in through the open crack, rolling across the floor to her bare feet.

“Sienna!”

She hears her name whispered in the dark, and carefully tugs at the window. The light from the garage seeps onto the yard and glows on a pair of striped flip-flops. Owen steps slowly out from the shadows.

“Hey,” he calls again. Sienna leans forward, fidgeting with the neckline of the flimsy camisole she wears to sleep.

“What are you doing?” She laughs. He’s wearing a faded blue T-shirt with thin white stripes, and dark jeans. His hair is fluffier than usual, like it’s just been washed.

“What does it look like?” he calls out, his voice soft and hoarse. He picks up another piece of gravel from the driveway and tosses it in the air. “Come on. You owe me a date.”

“I do?” Sienna jokes. She looks over her shoulder at the door to her room, open a crack. Denny and Dad have already gone to bed, but she can still hear the murmur of their voices. She holds up a finger and shuts her bedroom door slowly, careful not to catch the creak as it shuts. She gives her bed a quick look—Dad never checks on her at night anymore, but just in case, she stuffs the pillows under the sheets and pulls the blanket up tight. It doesn’t look remotely like an actual person sleeping, but it will have to do.

Sienna throws on a pair of jeans and sandals, and grabs a light cardigan from her bag. As she passes her bed, she eyes the pillbox, open on the table. She snaps the box shut and tucks it behind the lamp.

She steps onto the deck, pulling the door shut noiselessly behind her. She leans over the high wooden railing to survey her options. It’s only a short hop to the roof of the sunroom below. From there, if she really stretches, she can reach a low branch of the Japanese maple in their yard.

She lands, almost gracefully, on the soft, damp grass, just a few feet from where Owen is standing. She can’t believe how easy it was to get out, or that she’d never tried it before.

Owen puts a hand on the top of her head in a sort of improvised half hug. It could be awkward, but for some reason, it’s not. Sienna, forever the tallest girl in her class, feels small and protected.

“Sorry,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’ve never thrown a rock at a girl’s window before. How’d I do?”

Sienna smiles. He smells like soap and pine needles. “Looks like it worked,” she says.

They cut through the high grass and out onto the road, the sound track of chatty crickets and rustling leaves muffling the quiet rhythm of their feet. “Where are we going?” Sienna asks as they round a corner at the bottom of the hill.

Just as they approach the intersection, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness, and an old blue pickup squeals to a stop beside them. “Our ride,” Owen announces. He waves to the driver, the dreadlocked girl-drummer from his band, and walks around to the back. Five or six people are already crammed inside, perched against the tailgate or wedged between a rusty silver toolbox and the truck’s crowded cab. Owen plants a foot on the bumper and climbs over, leaning out to give Sienna his hand.

She jumps into the flatbed beside him, and feels his arms close around the tops of her shoulders as the truck picks up speed. She’s never ridden in the back like this before, free and untethered. She turns her face to the wind, closes her eyes, and smiles at the darkness.

*   *   *

As soon as they’ve parked by the docks, Owen grabs Sienna’s hand and guides her away from the truck. “See you up there!” Maggie, the dreadlocked driver, calls after them.

Sienna looks back over her shoulder as the group unpacks coolers and bundled-up sleeping bags. “Are they moving in?” she asks.

Owen laughs. “It’s kind of a rotating party,” he says. “Every night they set up in a new place.”

Sienna looks ahead at the crowded, narrow avenues leading to the center of town. People, mostly kids their age and a little bit older, are everywhere—camped out on the curb or dancing in the middle of the street to music playing from speakers, set up every few blocks.

But the stores and restaurants lining the streets, the gift shops and ice cream parlors, the video arcade, the run-down movie theater—every building is shuttered and dark. The deserted backdrop makes the street-side bustle feel wild and lawless. Sienna tightens her grip around Owen’s hand and follows him across an empty parking lot.

“How long has it been like this?” she asks. She remembers the nights she used to come into town with her family, for Thai food and frozen yogurt, or a lazy stroll along the harbor. It’s hard to believe it’s the same place.

“Not long,” Owen says. “A few days. The cops tried to shut it down a few times, but I think eventually they gave up and joined the party.”

The music changes as they pass from one section of the street to another, first Brazilian pop, then pulsing techno, now classic rock. Kids in colorful and abstract clothing—some wearing little more than bathing suits or wrapped, toga-style, in tapestries and sheets—weave in and out, bumping between them as Owen pulls her along the sidewalk.