“I invited the recruiter from Kansas State to come watch you play last week.” Dr. Kinneson motioned me to a chair in her office. “He’s a friend of my husband’s. They went to Penn State together.”
She had all these diplomas on her wall that I couldn’t read from my seat. A picture of her and her husband sat on the bookshelf behind her. He looked like Denzel Washington.
“Jerry’s very interested in your future. Jerry Wesson—he’s the recruiter—he’s been following you. A lot of coaches from other universities have too, of course. He’d like you to play for K State, though between you and me,” her voice lowered. “I think you can do better.”
Better than what? Her words were swirling around in my brain. I was having a hard time concentrating with the door closed. I hated closed doors. Hated being closed in, trapped. Did Dad feel trapped? Is that why…?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Dr. Kinneson folded her hands on top of the desk. “I mean, on a softball scholarship you can take your pick of colleges and universities. You were planning to go to college, weren’t you?”
I let out a short laugh.
She looked offended. “What?” she asked.
“College? Me?”
She frowned. “Of course you. Why not?”
I sprawled back in the chair. Feigned attitude. “I’m not exactly college material, Coach. Er, Dr. Kinneson.” I crossed an ankle over my knee. The sole of my Nikes was worn through and you could see my bare foot. I dropped my shoe back to the floor.
“That isn’t true,” she said. “You have a solid B average. You could go just about anywhere you wanted on an athletic scholarship, Mike. To a school with a softball program, which I’m sure is what you’re looking for. There are dozens of good colleges and universities with competitive teams. Elite schools.”
I couldn’t suppress an audible exhale of breath. “Thanks, anyway.” I pushed to my feet. “Not interested.”
“Sit down,” she snapped.
My butt hit the chair. Geez.
“Look at me.”
My head lifted.
“What are you going to do with your softball?”
What’d she mean? Like, throw it? Or throw it away?
“What are your goals?” she asked. “Do you want to play professionally?”
“I don’t know. I never thought about it.” Which was a lie. The biggest lie of my life.
“What do you mean, you never thought about it?”
I used to think about it. But I quit. Dwelling on the impossible was destructive.
“You need to think about it,” she went on. “You’re good enough, you know.”
“Even if you didn’t play, you could still get into college. You’re smart and talented and you work hard.”
I shook my head at the floor. “I don’t think college is in my future, Coach—uh, ma’am.”
“Why not? Look at me.”
Why was she sniping? What had I done to make her mad?
“Why not?” she barked again.
A hundred reasons. The money. Wasn’t that enough? The week after Dad’s funeral, it all fell apart. I had the application for competitive league all filled out and ready to send. I went to Ma to ask for the money. Except—I couldn’t. She was in bed, comatose. Plus, she wasn’t acknowledging my existence. So I asked Darryl. I said, “I need you to write me a check for competitive league. Dad said I could go. He said I could try out for a travel team.”
Darryl’s face went white. Like I’d hit him in the gut.
“Dad’s been saving the money,” I told Darryl. “It’s in his savings account. Just write me a check, okay?”
Darryl took the application I was shoving in his face and skimmed down the page. His eyes stuck on the bottom line. Then, he laughed. He laughed hysterically.
I ripped the app from his hands. “Dad’s been planning for me to go, to play competitive,” my voice rose to be heard over Darryl’s donkey laugh. “I have to if I want to go pro. He’s been planning it. He wants me to go!”
Darryl sobered fast. “There’s no money,” he said. “There’s no savings.”
“What?”
“There’s nothing.” Darryl got up from the kitchen table to leave.
“No.” I grabbed his arm. “We’ve been planning this. Me and Dad. He’s been saving for me.”
“Are you deaf!” Darryl wheeled on me. “There’s no fucking money. He didn’t leave us anything, okay? Except the business. The fucking business. He didn’t even put money away for his own funeral. Who do you think buried him? Who do you think paid for that fucking headstone?” Darryl’s shrill voice cracked. “Who? Who paid for his fucking worthless life?” Darryl stormed out.
I was left to wonder. Who? Who did pay?
Later, I figured it out. Coalton.
I swore I’d never take another penny from anyone in this town. Mike Szabo pays her way. She isn’t a charity case.
My dream of going pro died with Dad. I’d play through high school, then hang up my glove. Face reality. Get on with it.
“Listen, Mike,” Dr. Kinneson’s voice brought me back to the present. She stood suddenly and charged around her desk like she was going to attack me. She stopped just short and held onto the edge of her desk, eyes boring down on my face. I felt like a caged animal, a criminal. “You have a way out of this town, Mike. A guaranteed future. You absolutely cannot waste this opportunity.”
“Who said I wanted out?”
She acted like she didn’t hear me. “You have so much ahead of you, you can’t even imagine. I can help get your name and face out there, get college recruiters interested in you, but you’re going to have to want this, commit to it long-term. It’s up to you.”
Nothing was up to me. He’d made my decision for me.
“Mr. Archuleta says he’s talked to you about this before. About trying out for the KC Peppers or the Shockwaves. I understand your financial situation, but there are ways around that.”
Don’t. Don’t blow. Breathe in. Out. Yeah, Coach Archuleta had talked to me. He’d talked a blue streak. He even offered to pay my way. No thanks.
She circled back around her desk and opened her top drawer. Withdrawing a glossy white folder, she said, “There’s a softball camp this summer I’d like you to apply for. Jerry says it’s brand-new, open only to top flight players. You get personalized instruction, a batting coach, a catching coach. It’s three weeks of intensive training. I know you’ve been working out on your own, strength training, but at your level you need a personal trainer. You can’t get that here.” She shook her head and added, “They expect so much of you girls these days. Small towns don’t have the facilities or resources. But, Mike,” she looked at me hard, fixed on my face, my expressionless eyes, “this camp is doable. The recruiters who come to observe are thick as thieves, Jerry says. You’re sure to attract attention. He says you have the raw talent—anyone can see that—but what sets you apart are your leadership skills. He says that’s what recruiters are looking for. And the commitment, the hunger. Do you have the hunger?”
I used to. I ate up the game. I loved the game. More than she could know. More than anyone could know.
It was quiet, still. A magpie squawked outside her window. She was waiting for an answer. “Where is it?” I asked.
“The camp? Michigan,” she said.
“Michigan!”
“It’s expensive.”
She had to be kidding. Michigan?
Dr. Kinneson handed me the folder across the desk. I made a show of opening the folder and glancing briefly at the papers and brochures inside. Lots of words, promises, hype. No dollar amounts. “How much?” I asked.
She made this clicking sound in her mouth with her tongue, like a human calculator. “With airfare and incidentals, it runs around three thousand dollars.”
I choked on a laugh. Pushing to my feet, I said, “Thanks, anyway, Coach.” And headed for the door.
“This is your future, Mike.” Her voice stabbing at my back. “There are scholarships for players with financial need.”
My eyes narrowed. Charity. Handouts. Help for the needy.
“Check with your mother,” Dr. Kinneson added. “See what she thinks.”
My gut twisted. My mother? Who would that be?
Jabba the Hutt was splayed along the entire breadth of the sofa with a TV tray perched between her tree trunk legs. She was eating a Mrs. Smith’s cherry pie directly from the tin. Dr. Phil was on. All she ever watched were talk shows—Regis, Dr. Phil, Oprah, Jerry Springer. Since she never left the house, it was her only link to reality. If you call that real.
Two years. Ma hadn’t talked to me in two years.
She didn’t acknowledge me as I crossed in front of her to head for my room. Or on the return trip to the kitchen to make myself dinner. It’d gotten windy during practice after school. Cold. A storm blowing in. I’d snuck into Ma’s room for a pair of Dad’s long johns, just in case I might be working in the yard out back of the Merc.
What I’d said to her that day was bad, I admit. The day of Dad’s funeral. The words were spoken aloud and I could never take them back. Every day, every time we breathed the same air, I wished I could take them back. She acted like I blamed her for his death. I didn’t blame her. That’s not what I said.
Darryl oozed into the kitchen. He grabbed a jar of Jif off the counter and looped a leg over his chair at the dinette. Leafing through a new car zine, he dipped his grimy index finger into the peanut butter jar and said, “Where’ve you been?”
“School,” I answered. “You’ve heard of it. You learn stuff, then take that knowledge and apply it to some useful activity in the world. It’s called work.”
He flipped a page. The peanut butter smelled good. I shoved the box of mac and cheese I was going to cook up back into the cupboard and opened the fridge to fish around for jelly. Miracle of miracles. Faye’s homemade jam was only half gone. I retrieved the loaf of bread and slid across from Darryl at the dinette table.
“You got a call from Charlene,” he said. He sucked peanut butter off his index finger.
“Charlene? Why would she be calling me?” Charlene was Darryl’s girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, I should say, from high school. She’d dumped Darryl for Reese Tanner right after graduation. Which was the smartest decision any girl ever made.
“She said you fixed Nel’s john so would you come look at her leaky tub. I left the message on the machine.”
Huh. I knifed out a mound of peanut butter, not being all that careful about whether I sliced off Darryl’s finger or not.
He added, “You getting back in the biz?”
That hacked me. “What biz? Oh, you mean the one you never gave a rat’s ass about so it all just dried up and dwindled away? That biz? That the one you talking about?” My voice sounded hard, bitter. Gee, I wonder why. I slathered the PB on a slice of bread and globbed on jelly.
Darryl said, “Look, I told him it wasn’t my gig.”
“What is your gig?” I folded the sandwich, trying to calm myself. “You don’t work.” I chomped into it. “You don’t take care of the house. You don’t fix anything around here.” I chewed and swallowed. “What the hell do you do all day? Besides waste gas.”
He turned a page in the magazine. With a thumbnail, he loosened the staples and carefully removed the centerfold. Which he handed across to me.
I snatched it out of his grubby paws.
Sliding the peanut butter jar my way, he stood and dumped the zine onto the head-high stack of newspapers and magazines accumulating near the back door. He could at least take them out to the incinerator, I thought. Or do the dishes, fix the roof, clean up the yard. Something, anything. “You know, Dad’s survivor benefits are meant for me too. They’re not yours to blow on your wastoid life.”
He balled a fist in my face. “What do you know about my life, Mike? You just shut the fuck up about my life.” We had a brief staredown, then he slammed out the back door.
I heard him trip over the oil pan he’d left on the porch and curse. The pan clanked into the aluminum siding on the house.
What was his problem?
I could understand Ma’s reaction—maybe—but what happened to my brother? When did he check out? What happened to the guy who used to let me tag along with him to the town pool every summer? The one who’d play three-around with me and Dad for hours and hours out back so I could practice my catching and hitting. Where was the Darryl who’d fixed up that old Mustang and won the stock car races in Goodland three years running? Or the guy who’d gotten voted homecoming king his senior year, with Charlene his queen. He’d lettered in track. He’d set a school record for the long jump. Which I’m reminded of every day when I pass by the office and see his trophy all lit up in the display case. Where did that Darryl go? How did he deteriorate so fast? After Charlene ditched him… after he crashed his Mustang… after Dad died…
It was as if Darryl died too. Or went away, same as Ma. Someplace far, distant, removed. They left and they didn’t take me with them.
A crash in the living room propelled me off my chair. Ma grunted and groaned. She sounded hurt.
I raced in there. “Ma, you okay?”
She was trying to push to her feet. Grappling with the sofa slipcover and heaving, falling back. The TV tray had tipped over and spilled what crumbs of crust remained in the pie tin all over the floor. I reached out to give Ma a hand. She slapped me away.
Fine, I thought. I hope you have a heart attack and die.
I hated myself for wishing that, but it seemed to be what she wanted. She finally levered herself up by swaying side to side. She kicked the tray across the room, then thundered down the hall. Her bedroom door whooshed shut.
If Darryl was numbing his pain with anger, Ma was medicating with food.
Anger surged up from my core. How could they? How could they let him do this? They were giving Dad exactly what he wanted—the satisfaction of knowing we couldn’t live without him.
Not me. I could. I could live without him just fine.