17

When the Catfish finally had a Sunday off, most of the guys decided to grill out and invite local girls again, but Zan felt done with that whole scene. He’d hang with the wholesome crew for the day. Not go to church with them and all, but he could occupy himself while they were gone.

Zan knocked on the broken bathroom door. Made a mental note to buy another set of hinges and fix the door while they were at church. “Hey, Caleb. Can I use your tablet for a sec?”

“It’s on the kitchen table,” Caleb shouted over the spray of water—at least the shower had good water pressure.

Zan pulled up his social-media account. Still nothing from Kasia. Well, he wouldn’t bug her. But man, he’d give just about anything to hear back.

A couple hours later, when Caleb and Chen came home from church, he’d just dropped the last tool in the box. The bathroom door now hung properly, and he had a spread of twelve-inch subs on the table. After lunch, they decided to take a road trip to see the baseball hall of fame. The guys jumped into his Jeep, and Zan kicked up gravel as he pulled onto the empty New York road.

The two-and-a-half-hour drive went by quickly, and—as they followed the main route into Cooperstown—a sense of reverence settled over them. Nobody spoke for a while.

The town itself wasn’t a big deal, except that it was the mecca of every true baseball fan. Zan’s father would love it. He’d have to find a souvenir and get Caleb to take his picture in front of the museum.

The street was lined with memorabilia shops, and it was all Zan could do to ignore them. He’d enjoyed countless hours with his dad, collecting cards, when he was in Little League, and things were so different now. The slideshow of memories almost made him call home.

But not quite.

The guys wandered through the exhibits, lingered longest in the oak-walled plaque gallery. Light glanced off the bronze faces of the baseball greats, and Zan stood there, reading about their feats. He swore to himself he would do whatever it took to stay in the game. He couldn’t blow this opportunity.

In the gallery, they split up for a few minutes, each drawn to their own heroes. The Honus Wagner card sheet had Zan’s attention.

“Incredible story, huh, man?” Caleb stood behind him.

What a powerhouse Wagner was. Zan’s dad had joked for years that he’d find the card one day. Up in an old attic or somewhere. Never mind that the card was worth over two million because it should never have been printed. “It’s pretty incredible to see an entire sheet of them—uncut.”

“Pristine. But I’m more impressed with the dude’s integrity,” Caleb said. “That’s what makes it worth so much.”

The Pirates shortstop had demanded the American Tobacco Company pull his card from their cigarette packs. “Could’ve been because he wanted more money.” Zan enjoyed playing devil’s advocate with Caleb. Their debates had been fun—and intriguing.

“Or it could be what everybody else believes. Wagner didn’t smoke, didn’t want his baseball card encouraging kids to smoke.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Zan grinned and knocked Caleb’s hat off.

“Or maybe the money. Naw, seriously, man. When I grow up, I want to be like Honus.”

The more than thirty-eight thousand pieces of memorabilia crowded Zan’s senses after a while. He wanted to remember everything to rehash with his dad so he could enjoy the camaraderie baseball offered, but he was cruising toward overload.

Chen fell asleep in the back on the way home, and Caleb was mercifully silent.

Zan was the first to speak into the quiet. “You and your father get along, Caleb?”

“Yeah. He ain’t perfect, but I respect him. And when he messes up, he’s quick to try and make it right.”

Zan ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “My dad’s a financial advisor. Always with clients, investing…you know. I see him at parties, business dinners.”

“We’ve never been rich, but my dad’s good at investing his time.”

There it was. As far as time went, their relationship was bankrupt. Ironic.

“Money isn’t all there is, is it?” Look at Mike Weston. Zan’s brother-in-law had a phenomenal career but was an arrogant, violent jerk. Always provided bruises along with the cushy income.

“There’s way more to life than money. I don’t lack for anything, man.”

An unfamiliar restlessness gnawed at Zan. He wanted Caleb’s brand of contentment. Wanted to be a man of integrity too. A man who protected the people he loved, knew how to be strong and kind at the same time. Knew how to show them they mattered.

Zan needed to be a different kind of man altogether.

~*~

Kasia leaned in, arms on the table. “When the market closes for the day, what do you all do?”

“I am…I read…about economics and business,” Arturo said. Deep brown eyes watched for her approval. He’d been the first to answer every single question she asked. Juan, the older boy with glasses, listened carefully, but he only spoke up if she spoke to him by name.

“Do you study all summer, Arturo?”

He shrugged. “It is difficult to find work in Lima. I must be…do best I can.”

“That makes sense. Do any of you have any hobbies? What do you do to relax?”

Arturo squinted.

The girl with the long, wavy hair tilted her head and lifted her hand. “I may answer?”

“Sure, yes! Rosamaria, right?”

“Si.” She laughed. “Sorry, yes. If…if I am not have to watch my little brothers, I like to help my mother make cloths. I like the…colors”—she used her finger to trace the design in the tablecloth—“this pattern?”

“Oh! Yes. This has a beautiful pattern. You make cloths like this?”

“Yes, this one—this my mother’s work.”

“It’s beautiful.”

A genuine smile graced the girl’s face as she ran a hand across the cloth and dipped her head in thanks. Kasia made a mental note to buy a tablecloth for Mamusia.

“Juan?”

“I play fútbol.”

“I love that,” Kasia said. She spoke slowly but didn’t over-enunciate the words. “My family enjoys fútbol too. In America, we call it soccer. My father grew up in a small neighborhood where all the families had moved from Europe—from Poland. They played soccer in the streets, many nights until dark.”

All the heads nodded. Juan smiled. “We do too. We play in streets.”

“Donde esta this—Poland?” Inez asked Arturo.

“Polonia.”

“Ah.” She nodded, quiet again. That was the first time Kasia had heard her say more than her name.

“So, all of you like soccer?” Kasia asked.

Heads bobbed.

“What else do you do to relax, for fun?”

Most everyone shifted, eyed the others, waited.

“Kasia, you want to go places, do fun, with us? After class?” Rosamaria asked.

“I would love to. Maybe some of you could show me around. Take me to your favorite places—important places I should see before I leave. I want to take pictures for my family in America and show them your beautiful city.”

Suddenly, everyone was talking—and Kasia knew that the plans her students hatched now would be her favorite times. One-on-one. She could learn from them, listen to their stories, and build real friendships.

~*~

Scruffy grass pressed into Kasia’s thighs as she dangled her feet in the steamy spring—her new favorite spot.

Every afternoon siesta, she rested in her courtyard, played her guitar, and poured her thoughts out onto the pages of her journal, more poetry than story. She might not have the songwriting bit back, but she could play. And she could sing songs she already knew.

But she wouldn’t complain. After two silent years, music had relented and given an encore. That was something.

Besides, if she wanted rest, naps were pointless.

Kasia set down her journal, pulled her feet from the water, and scooted back against the wall. She reached for her guitar. Her fingers picked along the strings as she sang through Psalm 40. The instrument felt like an old friend, but her fingertips throbbed, and she set it aside.

Wow. Her index finger had actually cracked. No wonder it ached.

Shadows had lengthened and the sun rested on her boundary wall. Siesta would be over soon, and the kombi would shuttle people back into town. If she missed the bus, she’d be late for coffee with Rosamaria. She ran inside, set her guitar on the bed, made sure the darkening circles under her eyes were well-disguised. Then, with her backpack and water bottle, she hurried toward the door, kept an eye on her watch.

Time with her students outside class was her lifeline. In the midst of real conversations—about life, dreams, plans—she could feel.

Kasia caught up with a group of young girls, age ten at the most, who also headed down the street. She hung back a bit, tried to stay under their radar. She etched the picture in her mind: their vivid wool skirts puffy enough to be hiding crinolines, vibrant blouses, cardigans, and high-crowned straw hats. What intrigued Kasia, though, were the striped cloths—the kind Rosamaria and her mother made. Each girl wore one against her back, her burden bound closely to her. One girl, maybe four years old, carried a load of alfalfa, which Kasia had learned would be for the family’s sheep. Another older girl toted a load of firewood.

The tallest carried a hefty black-haired toddler with wide ebony eyes. Kasia smiled. His big sister kept passing him bits of bread over her shoulder. Kasia knew the moment he noticed her.

He stared at Kasia openmouthed and called out to his sister. “¡Naranja!” The girls turned, all evidently surprised by her fiery curls.

“¡Hola!” Kasia waved.

The three girls giggled, but the little boy whispered a greeting back to her.

Kasia stopped under the tree that marked the local bus stop. Since she only headed as far as Cajamarca proper, she’d actually be in a twelve-passenger van. Bigger busses were used from one metropolitan area to another. She’d learned the hard way, though, the kombi could hold way more than twelve of the locals. Kasia eyed the waiting crowd. Who knew how many they’d squeeze in today?

The mud-splattered van approached, filled the clean, village air with diesel fumes. It chugged to a standstill, and a lanky man unfolded himself from the front seat and stuck out an open palm. Kasia dropped two soles in and climbed into a seat as close to the door as she could manage. It did no good. Within a minute, she was twisted and squeezed so she could barely breathe, and a strange man bent over and perched directly on her right shoulder.

Oh, and she didn’t want to breathe. The rank air burned her nostrils and throat.

Mercifully, the ride didn’t last long. When Kasia stood upright once again, she gulped in the fresh air like water in the desert. She met Rosamaria at the café, and the two of them wandered the city for hours.

By the time they said good night, it was late enough the shuttle wasn’t running. Rosamaria walked Kasia to a taxi stand and gave the driver the address before she told Kasia the fare was a little over one sol per kilometer. So…ten or twelve soles to Los Baños.

“He might think you don’t understand. Don’t pay too much. Okay? Tell him you know what is fair.”

Kasia nodded and hugged the girl before she climbed in the back of the car.

The night was so dark that Kasia only saw her own tired reflection peppered with red and blue flecks of light from the instrument panel. The driver watched her in the mirror. She wished her Spanish were decent enough to tell him to concentrate on not running his crazy little car off the road, but she must’ve bored him eventually. Just as she started to relax, he pulled to a stop in front of her place.

“Veinte soles,” the driver said, without so much as a glance in her direction.

Twenty? Not a chance. She reached across the front seat and dropped twelve soles into his hand.

His head jerked up, offended, and he repeated the price.

No, sir. “Doce.” Twelve. Not a cent more.

She opened the door to get out, and as she stood, he jumped up as well, irate. He held out his hand in arrogant expectation, and she gave him one icy look before she marched toward her door. She half wished she’d knocked his hand out of her way.

But she fumbled with the lock, and the whole time, his voice rose and rattled her composure. As the green door relented, he shouted a final nasty insult, slammed his door, and peeled out. All she’d understood was gringa. Would she have paid twenty if Rosamaria hadn’t warned her? She hoped not. She wanted to be strong, the kind of girl who said no and meant it.

She closed the door behind her, locked the deadbolt. What she wouldn’t give to have Samson greet her right now—all wet kisses and whimpered hellos.

Kasia leaned an arm against the cool wall and kicked off her shoes. The hot spring beckoned her again. She sat on the edge to roll up her pant legs. As she slipped into the warm bath, the heat melted away her fatigue. Her indignation drained out as well, and Kasia breathed in the solitude. The sounds of deep silence swelled the air, disrupted only by an occasional shuffle out in the street.

This was where she wanted to be. Behind her wall, safe in the warmth of her sanctuary, under the heavens and the ever-watchful eyes of her Savior.

The sky above her held familiar constellations, but out here, miles from the city lights, there were more stars behind Orion the Hunter than she’d ever known. Clusters twinkled in and around the three stars of his belt. Tatuś always looked up at the sky in Langston Falls as he closed his day, and she imagined him beside her now.

I miss him—all that strength and stability. If I can’t get back to who I was, at least help me be worthy of his love.