SHE STANDS AT THE KITCHEN SINK finishing last night’s dishes, her back to the windows that look out over the front yard. It was a point of contention with the house when they bought it all those years ago: how it seemed ungenerous, and maybe even cruel, to deprive the one person who was to spend a good portion of her life cooking meals and washing up for the family of a reasonably pretty view while she worked. After months of grudging, Dwight gave in and said that as soon as they had the money they’d redesign the kitchen, turn the sink around, make it however she wanted. The money eventually came, but, despite numerous promises, the new kitchen never materialized. She watched Dwight build himself a fancy workroom in the basement and buy loads of junior sports equipment for Sam, who wasn’t yet even three feet tall. She saw the Newmans next door do a gut renovation, complete with portable wine cellar and the latest German appliances. Which was okay; envy wasn’t her particular sin. It was just that some days, living in the “country,” as they called it, she missed nature the way she missed her mother. One eventually grew tired of brown backsplash tiles palimpsested with 1990s marinara sauce. She wanted to be able to look up one day—simply raise her head—and see that the world was larger and more inviting than her house kept telling her it was.
The last pot done, she sets it on the dish rack and turns off the water.
She hears it then, behind her and outside: what she has not heard here, at home, in a very long time. It takes her a few moments to understand.
Norris had no gift for it. He didn’t like having objects thrown at him. The only ball he ever related to was tiny and never moved unless he himself decided to strike it.
She turns and looks out the window at the lawn.
She sees the white baseball, hard-looking in the morning light, speeding through the clear air toward her son.
She sees her son, as calmly as if he’s considering an itch under his chin, tip his glove like a casual salute and envelop the ball, make it disappear. He doesn’t even glance at it; he knows it’s there. He reaches down—a magician now—and plucks his trusted rabbit back into the light; he grips it and unlimbers himself and hurls the object back whence it came.
She sees the ball speeding backward in time.
She sees his father, standing on the other side of the lawn, catch it without struggle or regret.