Something was shifting in Ted. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt it was good. That was a strange feeling for him, because usually he didn’t know what it was, but felt it was bad. He’d read somewhere that every six years or so, the body’s cells have completely died and been reborn or something like that, turned over like a car speedometer. Meaning that every six years or so, you were literally a new man. Every scrap of you, for better or worse, head to toe, was not as it was. Ted wondered if the soul molted, too, like a snake angel. Because that’s what it felt like, like his soul was shedding its skin.
One morning, about a week later, Ted overslept, and jumped out of bed. It was after nine. Shit. He ran outside to get rid of the paper. He picked it up and had it over his head to toss it, when he heard, “Ted, what are you doing?”
Marty was at the window, looking down on him. Ted was busted.
“Getting to the bottom of who’s stealing your paper.”
“Who is it?”
“Well, I haven’t quite gotten to the bottom of it yet.”
“But you got it today?” Ted looked at the paper in his hand.
“Yeah, I got it today.” And just then the overacting, overcursing Don Knotts kid came flying by on his bike: “Nipple-titty-pubes-fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkk…”
Which could mean only one thing to Marty: the Sox had won again. Sufficiently and happily distracted, Marty pumped his fist in celebration and disappeared from the window.
Ted hustled down to the kiosk to brief the boys. The Yankees were back in town, so Ted had to go to work and couldn’t manipulate the outcome with the VCR. So he had decided to try a rainout. He had the panthers ready with hoses to go up on Marty’s roof and try to create a realistic-enough downpour to convince Marty that the game would get canceled. Then Ted would call from the stadium, corroborate the rainout, say he had to go to a work meeting, then rush home in the Corolla immediately after the game was over. If the Sox won, then he’d say there’d been a long rain delay, but they got the game in after all, and the Sox had pulled it out. It was worth a try anyway, and the panthers were into it. Satisfied that they had some kind of plan, Ted hustled back up the block to home.
“Where the fuck were you?”
“And a good, good morning to you, too, sir.”
Once inside, it was harder to keep Marty away from the paper. Ted held on to it and pretended to read as he fixed breakfast. Marty watched him impatiently. “Can I see it now?”
“See what?”
“For god’s sakes, Ted, the newspaper, can I see it?”
“Oh, the newspaper. Here, can you see it?” He held up the paper for Marty to see. “You see with your eyes, not with your hands.”
“Hardy har-har.”
Ted handed Marty the paper. “You want coffee?”
“Sure.”
As Marty was unrolling the paper, Ted lit a match for the stove, but purposefully held the match to the bottom of the Times. Marty didn’t realize the thin newsprint had caught until the paper had burned halfway up to his hands. He tossed the flaming thing down.
“Whoa, watch it, Ted!”
“Jesus!” Ted stomped on the paper like a winemaker, and grabbed a glass of water to put it out. By the time he’d trod and drenched it, it was an unrecognizable and unreadable mess. He picked up the dripping gray-brown burnt glob and offered it to his father. Marty wouldn’t touch it now. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Ted stepped out of the kitchen. He returned with two baseball gloves and a softball.
“Look what I got.”
“So?”
“So let’s go to Central Park and watch some softball. Like you used to play.”
“No.”
“That’s your answer?”
“No. Fuck no is my answer.”
“I invited Mariana.”
“Hand me that glove.”