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When he sees it in his dreams – the ball bounding toward him
like some round promise of destiny – Billy realizes that he cannot move his
arms, because Frankie Minor has wrapped him in an ill-timed embrace. The ball
flies past, so close that he can see the stitching. Billy’s anger is animal and
quick, until he looks behind them and sees the ball bouncing into the
right-field corner. The dream fades as McCarthy rounds third.
When he sees it in his dreams, the ball arcing toward the
spruce forest like a Satanic missile, David realizes that he has superpowers.
He takes a deep breath and blows the ball far into the woods, where it will do
no further harm. Where it will not inspire his best friend to launch a Willie
Maysian sprint away from the infield, and to end up in a crumpled heap at the
left-field fence, his heart collapsing on itself like a termite-riddled shack.
They gather on the end of the jetty at Point Brown. David
cannot recall the significance of this spot, but the will was clear. The trek
was perilous – a half mile into the ocean along a narrow strand of rocks – but
the late May weather is a miracle of sun and calm.
David sets
his sportcoat on a rock and offers the brief tribute he’s been running through
his mind all morning. A man of music, and
nature, and laughter. The kindest man I have ever known. He tells Larry’s
favorite joke – the one that ends “tank tankity tank” – and is relieved when
everybody laughs. And he tries, in his creaky bass-player’s voice, to sing a
few measures of “Someone to Watch Over Me,” because that was Larry’s favorite
song. He’s surprised to find that he’s not crying. He turns, opens the lid and
sends the ashes into the ocean.
When they
return to the beach, Elena’s eyes are too dark and moist for him to fathom.
Pablo and Derek are annoyed, but they’re teenage boys, it’s their job. He’s
happy enough when they take turns slapping him on the shoulder.
“I hear you
were wonderful,” says Elena. “You’re such a good friend.” She hugs him, but he
pulls back.
“Dios mio!”
(This is their little joke, the Anglo husband with his Spanish eruptions.) “I
left mi jacqueta on the jetty.”
“Silly
gringo. You’d better get it – it’s your favorite.”
“Okay. Ten
minutes, tops.”
“Don’t hurt
yourself.”
Derek and
Pablo do their best not to groan.
David runs
the jetty, the same game that he played with his boys when they were small.
Find a flat surface, stick it, look for the next. Elena couldn’t come to the
scattering because she’s too fat. He hates to think these things. David slows
his pace. He’s tired; he’s near the end. He hears singing.
He sees a
scarlet hunting cap, in the Bavarian style. A short black feather rises from
the band like the flag on a mailbox. The cap looks like it’s gone through hell,
and so does its owner, a human fencepost dressed all in denim. His wiry hair
and beard are the color of rust, his skin like a sunbaked saddle. He aims a
crooked, avian nose toward the landing point of Larry’s ashes and sings “‘Round
Midnight” in a sandpaper baritone.
David was
wrong. This was Larry’s favorite
song. And he knows why he didn’t sing it, because he can feel it taking him
apart, brick by brick.
Photo by MJV
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