38

Sometimes the sun is in your eyes and you can’t see. You just have to know.

At the last instant the ball is there, the stitches dark red against the scuff, the leather marred and stained, and the bat knows what to do, and the body.

I swung, all the way around, and I could feel the sour note all the way up the bat, into my arms. The ball bounced twice and Tu caught it in his hand, the one without the glove.

“Hit it harder, Stanley,” he said.

The next pitch was high, and floated in on me, and I fell out of the way.

I got up and didn’t bother brushing myself off. With Tu pitching, I had to get out of the way a lot. I gave him a look that said: throw it straight.

“It’s not so easy,” he said.

“You’re going great,” I called, to encourage him.

The field was empty except for the two of us, baseball season over, summer vacation already begun. I was careful not to look out across center field, across the faded stripes of the football games, into the empty stands.

Tu threw the ball at my feet, the yellow streak bounding, the backstop taking the ball and stirring all along its frame.

Tu stooped and chose another ball from the green garbage bag of them at his feet. It was a deal: I would help him learn how to pitch, and he would give me the chance to work on my swing. We worked alone in the field, and when the garbage bag was empty, we both went out to collect the balls and started all over again.

Tu kneaded the ball, something he must have learned from watching television, and I waited.

My father had visited the house with the green shutters, and had left the wallet with the man and the woman who lived there.

“I talked to them,” was all he would say about it.

When I had asked him what he had said, and why they wouldn’t talk to the police, he looked at me, into my eyes, and said, “It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. The game was over, and Jared was gone, but there was nothing left to take the place of the way I had felt.

I had felt alive because of Jared.

I hit it hard, and the ball made a sound that was high and sweet off the bat. I leaned forward, holding my breath. It didn’t touch the grass until it reached the dried-up places in the field, and then it bounced, up into the stands.

I didn’t look away in time. The ball bounded on the hard, flat seats of the bleachers. It took an especially high bounce off one of the boltheads, and it stopped near where Jared had always sat, watching me, mocking me at a distance, guiding me back to him.

“It’s a home run, Stanley,” said Tu, clapping, a one-man crowd. “Run the bases, Stanley, don’t just stand there.”

I shook my head. The empty stands were a presence, a thing that knew me.

Tu was calling, but I didn’t move. It was silly to run the bases there in the open field, no one watching, nothing but two people practicing.

“Run the bases, Stanley. You hit the ball, you run!”

I shook my head again, and then I dropped the bat.

Something about Tu, and his smile, and the way the bat rolled away made me start to skip down the first-base path.

“A home run for Stanley!” called Tu, like an announcer or a coach, waving me around the bases like a trainer celebrating in the midst of a crowd.

I began to trot, beyond first base, toward second, the flattened canvas bag we were using as second base slipping slightly under my foot as I ran, taking my time, making the moment last, the silence watching me, the emptiness looking on as I stepped home.