A Life of Inches Page 8

  Woodie’s smirk widens. “Loser buys the first round?”

  “Do all Chicago rules still apply?” I ask, recalling one of our most successful races across state lines.

  We fist bump. A bell rings in both of our heads, and our feet leave the starting blocks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two Days Later

  “Wow,” says the curvy woman wearing a nametag displaying a name I don’t recognize. “So, do you play against the Tribe?”

  As usual, even when I do beat Woodie in our competitions, he still comes out as the lucky one. This inauspicious start to the gathering of old high school mates rekindles long forgotten, awkward emotions. I wish Woodie, Molly, and I had met at Stubby’s for some pre-reunion drinks.

  “No, I’m in the minor leagues.” I shake the ice in my glass. “Oops, looks like I’m finished. Can I get you something?”

  “Thanks, but no. I need to go find my husband—but later, I have those baby photos for you to see.”

  I nod and head to the bar. Hustling past an old photo of Woodie and me from our State Championship hanging on the wall, I find it bizarre that I feel out of place here, of all places. Three years after I graduated, our competing schools combined, making this night extra awkward. The baseball fans remember me as a hero and a villain.

  My vow not to get drunk now forgotten, I sip my third scotch while perusing the door to see if my best friends have made it yet. The crowd, now arriving fashionably-late, reinforces my reservations of arriving as one of the first half dozen former students.

  I straighten my tie for the twelfth time in three minutes as I catch a glance from Carissa Dohm, a girl I had a quick fling with in high school. Whatever physical attraction she lacked, she made up for with her adventurous spirit and a well-beyond-her-years’ experience. I’m bored enough to start counting her freckles, but realize before long I didn’t learn numbers big enough to complete the task.

  Carissa left me for some older kid in a band. I never got to know him, but if I saw his bright red Mohawk and tattoos in a police line-up I could identify him. Tonight, though, she arrived with some combed-over, chubby guy with two hands in a bowl of chips and a beard full of salsa chunks. The guy’s pink shirt and purple tie stretch enough to showcase his elephant print boxers exposed from under drooping pants. He drops a chip and reaches down for it. The maneuver causes his shirt to shift, exposing a pale white belly and a washed out tattoo depicting a dragon breathing fire toward his upper chest.

  This fat, balding guy is the rocker she left me for all those years ago. Confidence, which has been at an all-time low for me, begins to spread. Maybe I’m not the lamest guy here after all.

  I slug my drink, order another, and then make my way toward the welcome table just inside the entrance.

  I search the tags for familiar names. “Wow, I remember a lot less people than I expected.”

  I reach for the only nametag that catches my eye. It’s crested with my rival’s high school logo, and bears the name, ‘Molly De Leon’.

  Worried my drink will get too warm, I savor the smoky taste of scotch as it hits my mouth and goes down way too smooth.

  Before I can polish it off entirely, someone poses a question from close behind me. “Don’t you think it would be prudent to double-check that nametag? Because I’m fairly certain you’ve grabbed the wrong one.”

  I turn and hand the nametag to its rightful owner, with a jumble of words filling my mouth so that I can’t speak past them.

  Molly breaks the ice. “I’m glad you made it.”

  As the years have passed, her voice has gained maturity and confidence, Enya meets Courtney Love.

  I take her hand in mine, kissing the back of her palm. “Me, miss a chance to see the most beautiful woman in the world? Never in this life.”

  She’s as radiant as ever. Though she wears her hair shorter, it still retains her natural curls and color. I’m glad she’s committed to staying true to herself, rather than getting caught up in the never-ending rat race of dyed hair and fake smiles.

  She blushes. “Would you mind if we take off for a bit and talk?”

  We turn toward the door.

  Molly squeezes my hand and pulls up her pace. I follow her gaze and see Woodie walking into the building. We all freeze and give each other cursory glances.

  My friend loosens his tie. “Well, at least now I can stop worrying that you two wouldn’t show up.”

  He and I shake hands in our unique way. I acknowledge his wink by pulling him close, and whispering, “I won” in his ear.

  I try to pull back from our hug, but Woodie locks me in place. “And I’ll never, ever fly Geneva Airlines again.”

  Molly giggles. “Why not?”

  “Worst meal on a plane you could imagine.” He winks again and kisses Molly as they embrace.

  I miss the first few words she speaks, as they are muffled into Woodie’s shoulders, but I do catch, “...I hope the damage done isn’t so severe between you and your mother that it can’t be repaired, in time.”

  Woodie stiffens, as he always does when Molly or I bring up his parents. A week ago, my father called and told me Woodie’s parents had split, but the subject was so taboo between Woodie and I that I forgot all about it when I saw him at the bus depot.

  Molly continues, “After all these years, I was shocked to hear they split.”

  I wish I could say the same, but I still carry the secret of what the last straw was.

  Nodding, Woodie offers nothing more on the situation. “So, are we blowing this popcorn stand, then?”

  “No, I’m just stealing Ryan for a few minutes. Besides, I saw Carissa Dohm in there looking for you.”

  Shocked, I point toward Woodie and mouth, “You?”

  In turn, he reels his head back in disbelief and then points back at me. “You, too?”

  Rolling her eyes and grabbing my arm, Molly leads me outside. We stroll past my car, past all of the cars in fact. Each step I take away from Woodie equals one closer to Molly, so I don’t question our destination. I do, however, notice Molly’s tight-lipped expression.

  I vow to remember every detail of the night in case she plans on making it special. There’s a cat lurking down an alley, a video rental store is showing “The Natural” on the televisions, but the piles of burning leaves we pass can’t filter out the acrid smell of the garbage cans lining the street. Perhaps I don’t need to memorize everything, after all.

  We descend the Harris street hill, which leads into the heart of town. The skyline is a mass of lights from the steel mills off in the distance. The town center below boasts a few decent restaurants, a coffee shop, and two bars. I assume we’re headed to one of those locations, but find myself hesitant to break the silence until Molly shows her hand.

  Just before we arrive at the first bar, she pulls up her pace, prompting me to face her. I’d give anything to freeze this moment forever. I gaze at the woman I love and hope she plans to tell me she feels the same.

  As Molly begins to speak, even the wind dies to hear each word. “Ryan, I...”

  Her soft voice chokes up. Her chin quivers as I run my fingers from her forehead to the base of her neck.

  My thumb wipes away a tear. “Please, don’t tell me you brought me out here to announce your marriage to Woodie.”

  She studies me, confusion running wild across her face, but then recognizing my sheepish grin, Molly titters. Her musical giggles build, louder and more passionate, as her body shakes with a playful tremble.

  “Ryan, you idiot.” Her light-hearted insult slips out bearing no teeth.

  She tightens her arms around my dress coat and pulls me close. Before I can respond, Molly buries her face into my chest as her humor dissolves into long, loud sobs.

  As Molly’s emotional tank empties, she sniffles, and wipes away the tears she wet my coat with. As the daughter of a high profile politician, Molly considers it inappropriate to let emotions get the best of her in public, so I know she’s fighting
some powerful emotions.

  Molly gazes up at me with quivering lips. “My father has cancer.”

  My chest deflates, and I stand as a man defeated. Over the years I’ve come to know and respect Omar as he supported and aided my efforts to attract Molly.

  “Oh God. Molly, I’m so sorry. Is he...” I trail off, unsure how to proceed. In all the conversations and confessionals I’ve shared with Mr. De Leon, he never even hinted at health problems. Leave it to the politician’s husband to always keep a positive face for the public.

  “His doctor said, because of his age and because we caught it early, my father has several options for treatment.”

  Inhaling a deep helping of garbage-scented air, I squeeze Molly’s hand. “I appreciate you letting me know, Molly. Your father’s a great man and a fighter.”

  “I don’t want this to ruin our night, but I felt it was easier to tell you now, rather than after the party.”

  “Do you want to stay here, maybe grab a drink and forget about the reunion?”

  She searches the horizon for a few moments before shaking her head. We turn and start back up the hill. We catch up a little as we walk, but, for the most part, the conversation steers toward her father and his condition and me and my comeback attempt.

  That is, until I find my nerve. “I miss you, Molly.”

  She takes a few steps without a word.

  I push. “Aren’t we adult enough to be open with each other, yet?”

  She stays quiet, so I assume her answer is no. “I’ve spent a lot of time questioning my decisions, knowing you also love Woodie and you’re afraid to commit, but—”

  Molly stops dead in her tracks. “Maybe I’m not afraid, Ryan.”

  I reach for her, but she slaps away my hand. “Can’t this be enough? You know I love you, but I’m not going to sit around waiting for months at a time while you’re off playing baseball. I’m not some baseball glove that you pack away all winter. I have a life, a career, and now more than ever my father needs me here to help him fight cancer.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Not fair? When was the last time you came back to town?”

  I clench my fists. “Molly, you know how my job works, and you know why I haven’t been back.”

  “Exactly. Your job requires endless travel and very little downtime, and my responsibilities demand the same attention. This isn’t the right time.”

  “Your mom would be just fine without you.”

  “Ryan, from what I’ve seen recently, your team might be better off without you.”

  Her shocked expression reveals how much she would love that burn back. Molly always had the sharpest tongue of our trio. By the time I prepare a suitable comeback, another sheepish grin has spread across my face. What can I say, she’s probably right.

  She sighs and blushes. “I’m so sorry, Ryan.”

  “Oh yeah, your giggling makes your apology real legit.”

  Her laughter grows and I join in. We make our way back to the reunion, arms locked together. Though I’m still confused on how I feel, I also know Molly has enough issues with her father that now isn’t the time to press. Especially when I know she’s right, I’m not ready to give up on my dreams of baseball as a condition of a relationship.

  Just before we reenter the reunion, I recognize the bass-heavy dance tune now emanating from inside. Attempting to start dancing outside, I tug on her hand until she turns, but a jolt of pain shoots from my rotator cuff as my shoulder flares up.

  “What’s wrong, Ryan?”

  I rotate my arm as the pain subsides. “I’m okay.”

  “No, you’re not. That looked terrible. What happened?”

  “Look, if I spend too much time talking about my shoulder we’ll end up crying twice as long, but this time I’ll be the one grabbing onto your pretty dress and sobbing. Since I can hear my song playing inside, I say we forget about it and head to the dance floor. You in?”

  We join Woodie on the dance floor as “Pump up the Jam” by Technotronic entertains the reunited former students. I make a mental note to change my intro music for next year, no matter where I end up pitching.

  Disregarding my usual limit of dancing for only three songs, I spend the next half hour embarrassing myself in front of my best friends and loving every second of it. When “Love of a Lifetime” by Firehouse brings the party down with a slow ballad, Molly, Woodie, and I slink from the dance floor, avoiding eye contact.

  I grab a $20 bill. “Bartender, I need a Jack and Coke, a Dewar’s on the rocks, and a Miller Light for the lady here.”

  “So, let me get this straight. You want one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer?” the metrosexual bartender deadpans from under ten pounds of gel.

  We get the drinks and after a moment, I recognize the bartender’s George Thorogood shout-out with a giggle.

  Woodie presses his cold drink against his forehead. “Man, oh man, I haven’t beat up my body like that since prom.”

  Molly holds up her hand in protest. “Woah, we were both at prom with you, and your moves that night were no more impressive than this disjointed display here tonight.”

  “Laugh it up, you two. I couldn’t help but feel for that beached walrus I saw on the dance floor, until I realized it was Ryan.”

  I guffaw at my own expense.

  Lifting his leg to rotate his ankle, Woodie uses my good shoulder for balance. “How is it that year round conditioning can prepare my body to survive a never-ending season of baseball and yet, after dancing for a few songs, my feet are toast?”

  Without responding, I reach into my pocket, grab the item I’m seeking, and offer it to my friend.

  He reads the business card. ‘Dr. Sanjulian: Head Podiatrist Magruber Hospital.’

  Both Molly and Woodie frown at me with concern.

  “My feet are A-OK, guys, no worries. Some kid we went to school with handed me that card when I walked in.”

  I head to the restroom.

  Passing through the crowd, I shake some hands, wave at a few people, and avoid a lengthy conversation with a hippy guy just by walking away from his pungent stench. Entering the bathroom, I welcome the respite from the booming bass, anxious and awkward strangers. Muted whispers emanate from the last stall. I can’t quite make out the words, but it sounds like someone instructing other people to ditch something.

  Flashing back to the kids smoking cigarettes in high school, I shake my semi-inebriated head. “Hey, you damn kids better put out those cigarettes and exit the stall at once. This is Assistant Principal Tark, and I’m going to write all of you up for detention.”

  Silence greets me and I’m left giggling by myself.

  Two men, with flushed cheeks, walk out from the stall wearing masks of guilt.

  I say, “Guys, just kidding. You’re grown adults. Smoke whenever you want.”

  I flinch as a third man exits from the stall and I catch a shiny, silver piece of metal slip from his hands and into a deep pocket. I blink and do a double take.

  “I told you before, Ryan,” Delvin Crowe says, through a thicker beard than the last time I saw him. “You should call me sometime, so we can get you squared away with your training and therapy. Now look at you and your bum shoulder, you can’t even support that small excuse of a dick properly.”

  He winks.

  “Delvin, didn’t you graduate a few years ahead of us?”

  “Nope. I didn’t even graduate.”

  Of course, I knew that before I asked. I just wanted to dig at him the way he always takes pot shots at me.

  Delvin fidgets with a gaudy, diamond-encrusted cufflink, eyeing me with distaste. “Then again, I arrived in a Beemer while you’re driving a busted down Corsica.”

  He walks with a slight limp I hadn’t notice the last time we crossed paths. His minty breath and overpowering cologne belt me full force as he pulls his face within inches of my own.

  “You have little to no chance of ever advancing with all your recent setbacks. Let me h
elp and I’ll get you to the Majors, my friend.”

  I grab the card he offers. “How do you know about my issues?”

  Delvin flashes his bleach-white teeth. “It’s my job to know these things. Shame, too, the Indians needed your arm in the bullpen during game four against Seattle, for sure.”

  As Delvin exits the bathroom, I forget all about washing my hands.

  One of the other men, apparently satisfied I’m not in the bathroom to cause trouble, asks, “You wanna party, man?”

  I nod a ‘no thanks’. Just before they close the door, I notice a baggie full of white powder protruding from inside one gray suit pocket.

  I exit the bathroom focused on the business card I was just given. The plain white card with black ink divulges just a phone number and a name. Back in high school Delvin chased all the star players like Woodie around, but didn’t give me a second glance. When I started to turn heads in college, however, he showed up to every post-season game I pitched to ask all sorts of questions. I never told him what he wanted to hear, so after a while he stopped calling. Now though, with my career in jeopardy, the temptation to hear what he has to say seems more justified.

  I stumble around the party, my mind spinning faster than the CD in the DJ’s booth across the dance floor.

  I high five an old teammate, who by the looks of it hasn’t picked up a bat in ten years, receive a kiss from a beautiful woman with the smallest nose on the planet, and ask a stranger, “Who on earth was that?”

  Unsure what to disclose to Woodie and Molly about my bathroom encounter, I saunter around the reunion to gather my thoughts. Someone grabs my shoulder and whirls me around. I have just enough time to thank the maker the person didn’t latch onto my left side before I recognize Woodie. He’s attempting to tell me something, in earnest, but his words are lost to the loud dance music. I strain to read his lips while also trying to communicate my inability to understand him. Just as Woodie moves in closer, and shouts, the music cuts out mid-song and the lights come on brighter than they’ve been all night.

  “—Looking for you.” His voice travels through the now quiet room like a smoke detector in a library.