Steve is holding Denise’s hand as they walk through the Vietnam Memorial. Jesse is trying to find the name of a great-uncle among the 58,178 names inscribed on the wall. The names are listed chronologically, and Denise has no idea when her mother’s brother died during the fourteen-year war, so the search is close to impossible, but Jesse is trying anyway.
“Come on, Mom. You don’t even know if it was early in the war or close to the end?”
“I told you, Jess, no. My mom died when I was a baby. Uncle Dickie might know. Here’s my phone, call him.”
“How is your brother?” Steve asks, hoping the question sounds innocent.
“Good, I think. Dickie doesn’t say much, but he seems okay. He said you went out for a beer after the game. You didn’t tell me that.”
“I must have forgot.”
“So, what did you talk about?”
“You.”
“That must have taken all of two minutes. What else did you talk about?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
Steve’s conversation with Dick has replayed in his head so many times he could recite every word verbatim. Since he learned of Ally’s death, it’s been the third track on an endless playback reel of the conversations he had with Captain Goh, Ally, and Dick.
“Come on,” Denise prods, nudging his shoulder. “My brother hardly talks, and now you’re stonewalling me as well. You two just sat and stared?”
“Let’s see.” He pretends to try and recall. “We talked about crime and how justice doesn’t always prevail. Your brother has very strong opinions.”
“He does?”
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t know, Dickie’s always been pretty removed from things that don’t involve his work . . . or baseball.” She smiles.
She has the nicest smile. It embodies her whole face—her cheeks, her eyes, and her lips.
“You should have seen him with Caroline, his ex. He’d just let things go, roll off his back, no matter what she said or did.”
Steve watches her jaw tense and gets the feeling she’s holding back her own very strong opinions about her ex-sister-in-law.
“Yeah, well, he definitely has opinions about justice,” Steve says.
“You mean Otis?”
They’re entering dangerous territory, both attempting nonchalance as their entwined fingers strain not to clench. His own opinions have become muddled in a distinctly unsettling way. Ally’s been dead almost a week, and there’s been no sign of Ramirez. More to reassure himself than convince her, he says, “Yes, like Otis. He doesn’t see anything wrong with someone murdering him. I’d say that’s pretty opinionated.”
“Killing him,” she corrects, her hand releasing his to sweep an invisible hair from her face.
Steve wraps his arm around her shoulder and kisses the top of her head, deciding to drop it. It’s a beautiful day, and he’s the happiest he’s been in a long time. He doesn’t want to ruin it. She curls into him and slides her hand into the back pocket of his jeans, a habit that seems second nature to her and that drives him wild with how familiar and intimate it is.
“Though I suppose, when I think about it, Dickie’s always been a bit black and white about things,” she says after a minute. “Even as a kid.”
She smile-huffs as if caught in a memory.
“You know how much he loves baseball?”
“He does know his MLB,” Steve says.
Dick and Mike had an amazing exchange in the announcer’s box trading facts and statistics, past and present.
“Well, when Dickie was thirteen, he was on a team that made the playoffs, and there was this kid who wasn’t very good, and he and Dickie were kind of friends, odd men out sort of thing.”
“You know this story from when you were three?”
“My dad told it to me. My dad didn’t say a whole lot, but every once in a while, he’d tell a story with every detail, and when he did, it was like time stood still.”
Her love for her dad radiates, and Steve imagines how close they must have been. He’s seen photos of the man—in a military uniform, in a suit when he got married, in a workman’s uniform at the hatchery. A small man with a straight spine and an earnest face.
“The rules said every player needed to play at least two innings and bat twice,” Denise goes on. “So the coach calls Dickie’s friend and tells him not to show up for the first playoff game.”
Steve rolls his eyes. It’s amazing how many grown men act incredibly childish when it comes to their kids’ sports.
“So,” Denise goes on, “Dickie being Dickie decided to talk to the coach and tell him it’s not right not to include his friend.” She stops and faces Steve. “Could you imagine the courage that took?”
“And let me guess,” Steve says, “the coach told Dickie to get lost.”
“Yep. Coach told him to mind his own business.”
“So that was the end of it?”
“Nope. That’s the thing. Dickie couldn’t let it go. He went straight from talking to the coach to calling the league president.”
Steve shakes his head. “The president do anything?”
“Nope.”
“So the kid didn’t play in the playoffs?”
“Actually, he did. Dickie quit the team, and they didn’t have enough players, so his friend got to play, and Dickie never played again.”
“He didn’t have to quit,” Steve says, irritated by the story and angry at the idiot coach, the stupid league president, and at Dick for not realizing how the idiot coach and stupid league president would respond.
“That’s just it,” Denise says. “He did. Dickie couldn’t play for that coach anymore. It wasn’t even an option.”
Denise sighs out and looks dreamily at Jesse, who is still running his fingers over the names. “I could tell my dad was proud,” she says, “but all I could think when he told me the story was, For what? Dickie did all that, and it turned out to be for nothing.”
No, Steve thinks, it was for everything.