His mother’s and father’s car was in the garage when Eddie got home. He pulled open the door, rode his bike inside, popped out the stand, then left, closing the door behind him.
He went into the house through the back door and found his mother in the kitchen, doing the dishes. Margie was helping her.
“Sorry about the dishes, Mom,” he said. “I planned on doing them when I—”
She looked at him. “That’s okay. Margie told me. Did you see the girl?”
“No. She’s in intensive care.”
His mother’s face paled. Margie glanced curiously from him to her. “Intensive care? What’s that, Mom?”
“That means she must’ve been seriously hurt,” her mother explained. “Oh, dear, I hope it’s not too serious.”
She started to rinse the suds off a dish, but it slipped out of her hands and dropped back into the water. Nervously she grabbed it up again, and this time managed to hold it firmly while she rinsed it under the faucet.
“Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“In the living room.” Her mouth twitched, and flecks of pink touched her cheeks. “Eddie?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Was she wearing a helmet?”
“Yes. We all have to when we bat. She turned and ducked when she saw the ball coming at her, and it hit her in the back of the head. It probably just missed her helmet. I don’t know.”
She put the dish in the plastic drainer. “You’ve got to be careful about pitching, Eddie. Margie told me you’re kind of wild. Maybe you should play some other position.”
“It’s too late to think about that now, Mom. I’ve got to get over this worry first.”
“I know.”
He went into the living room and heard the familiar voice of a news announcer blaring from the television set. His father was sitting in the armchair across from it, all rapt attention.
“Hi, Dad,” Eddie greeted him.
“Hi, son,” his father answered without turning away from the set. “Look at that. The market’s still dipping. Wall Street’s still worried about the oil situation. I don’t know. Maybe I ought to talk to my broker.”
Eddie watched the initials moving across the top of the TV screen in alphabetical order, the current market value per share under them. Watching the market report was one of his father’s daily rituals.
“Dad,” Eddie started to say.
“Not now, Eddie,” his father said. “Later. Okay?”
Eddie’s heart sank. “Okay,” he said.
He sat down on the couch and waited till his father was finished watching the report. When it was over, he started to say again, “Dad, can I—”
His father looked sternly at him. “Can it wait till after the news, Eddie?”
Eddie shrugged. “Yeah. Well, anyway, it’s not important.”
He got off the couch and headed for the door. He hoped his father would call to him, stop him, and ask him what he wanted. But his father didn’t, so he opened the door and walked out.
The cool air hit his face, refreshing him. He walked around the block, hoping to see Tip or Puffy or one of the other guys from his team. But he didn’t. It was dusk by the time he got back. He sat on the porch and thought about telephoning the hospital to see how Phyllis Monahan was, but he decided to postpone it till tomorrow. It was dark when he went back into the house.
Later that night he sat in his bedroom and looked dreamily at his drums. He had a set of snares and a bass that he banged away on every once in a while. Sometimes he’d play it when he was depressed. It would give him a lift; make him forget his little problems.
But he didn’t feel like playing it at all now, and he couldn’t be more depressed. Maybe if Tip came over with his trumpet he’d get out of it, but he didn’t feel like calling Tip up, either.
The next morning he telephoned the hospital at eleven o’clock to see how Phyllis Monahan was. The receptionist who answered said that she was still in the intensive-care unit.
He didn’t go to practice that afternoon. Just before supper Tip came over and said that the coach had asked about him.
“Did he hear anything about Monahan?” Eddie inquired.
“I guess not,” Tip replied. “He didn’t say anything about her.”
At suppertime Eddie didn’t ladle half as much food onto his plate as he usually did. His father noticed his apparent lack of appetite and asked him, “Hey, fella, on a diet?”
Eddie shrugged. “No. I just don’t feel like eating very much.”
His father frowned.
“Are you worried about the girl you hit while pitching yesterday?”
Eddie nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?” his father demanded, fixing his eyes firmly on Eddie’s. “I didn’t know until your mother mentioned it to me last night.”
Eddie found it hard swallowing a forkful of potatoes, and tried to avoid his father’s eyes. “I tried to tell you about it while you were watching the news last night,” he said thinly.
His father nodded. “Was that when I interrupted you and told you to wait till after the news?”
“Yes.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake, why didn’t you tell me then?”
Eddie swallowed the food and took a deep breath. His stomach felt tight.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? That’s a good answer. Since when has a girl played in your league, anyway?”
“Since the season started,” Eddie answered.
“Well, I’m sorry she got hit, but girls shouldn’t try to play in the same league with boys.”
“Well, don’t worry about her. She’ll be all right.”
Eddie put his fork down and sat back on his chair. He wasn’t full; he just didn’t feel like eating any more.
“But I do worry about her, Dad,” he said emphatically. “I hit her, and the blow must’ve been serious because they put her in the intensive-care unit. Everybody thinks I hit her on purpose.”
“Not everybody,” said his mother.
“Well, her friends do, her teammates do, and her cousin does.”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, excused himself, and left the table.
“You only ate part of your supper,” his mother said, glancing at the food he had left on his plate.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said. “I just can’t eat any more.”
He went out to the backyard and lay on the hammock. It was his father’s favorite relaxing place. Thoughts of Phyllis, of her friends, her cousin, and her parents streamed through his mind. The more he thought about them the more worried he became.
He rolled off the hammock, got his bike out of the garage, and rode over to Phyllis’s house. If he couldn’t find out how Phyllis was from anybody at the hospital, her parents should be able to tell him.
Nervous and frightened at the kind of reception he might receive from them, he rapped on the door. No one answered. He rapped again. Still no one answered. He realized then that her parents were probably visiting her at the hospital.
He got on his bike and headed there. He had a block to go when he started to pass by a florist.
Flowers, he thought, slowing down the bike. People always take flowers to someone who’s ill. It’s a good way of showing you care about them.
He rode into the parking lot, locked up his bike, and entered the shop. He looked around at the array of flowers, smelled their fragrance, and approached one of the small arrangements set inside a vase.
Twelve-fifty. He read the price label silently. Oh, wow, he thought. At that price he might as well forget about getting flowers.
A clerk came in from the greenhouse behind the shop, and for five minutes she offered suggestions about the kind of flowers to buy for a friend in the hospital. The various costs she always came up with far exceeded what he had in his pocket, so he finally thanked her and left.
He hadn’t given up on the idea of taking flowers to Phyllis, however, so he returned home, picked some of the dahlias from his mother’s garden, and rode back to the hospital. He locked the bike in the bike rack, went into the building, and faced the same receptionist he had met yesterday evening.
“Hi,” she said, recognizing him, too. “How are you this evening?”
“Fine. Is Phyllis Monahan still in the intensive-care unit?”
“Just a minute. I’ll check,” she said.
She picked up a card from the pile she had in front of her and looked at it. “No. She’s out of intensive care and in a ward room now. But there are already two people visiting her. Would you care to wait?”
He thought about it a moment. He felt sure the visitors were her parents. His courage deserted him.
“No, I don’t think so,” he said nervously. He held up the flowers. “Can you get these to her?”
She smiled. “Of course.” She stood and took the bouquet from him. “I’ll put them in a vase with water and have someone take them to her.”
“Thanks.”
“Who shall I say left them?” she wanted to know.
He thought about that, too.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“How about your name?”
“No.” She might throw them into a basket if she heard the flowers came from him. “Just say that they’re from a friend,” he said.