A Life of Inches (13 page)

“I…I’m sorry, Ryan. I tried to call. I didn’t want to surprise you and just barge in. All I wanted was to hear your voice, so I called your mom for your new number. After she and I spoke, she gave me a copy of your key, and I ended up here before I even knew what I was doing. Listen, I heard whoever that was, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t right of me to just dump all my baggage here. I—”

If I let her continue, she might rattle on all night. Her nerves seem to have gone supernova.

I inch forward. “Hey, Molly, listen, you’re always welcome here. Besides, I think you just saved me from another awkward night and an even more awkward morning.”

“Another? How many women are you bringing home these days?”

Her joke catches me off guard. Her sneer almost knocks me down.

“First off—” It’s time I figure out what the hell is going on here. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

She nods, but her eyes aren’t with me at the moment. They’re busy chasing or perhaps running from a memory. Something rattled her and it’s not just seeing me for the first time in a year.

Molly wipes her cheek with a tissue. “Everything in my life is falling apart. My mother sabotaged my move to D.C., so I had a falling out with her. I took on a great client in New York, who was just accused of murdering his wife and it wiped out the entire campaign along with all of my work. Mitch won’t leave me alone, in fact, today just as I got into town he confronted me, again. I thought he was level-headed and mature, but I was dead wrong.”

I sit up straight. “I assume things have to be real bad for you to reach out to me.”

She shoots me a glance, part question, part attack, but her lips curl into the first genuine smile I’ve seen her express in a longtime.

Molly grasps onto my forearm. “Hey, are you all right? It looks like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Trust me. I’m fine; I am great. This is fine—you’re fine and…and, I’m just really glad to see you.”

I always was a smooth talker.

“I think you may need this tissue more than I do.” As she speaks, Molly examines the soiled paper, and then retracts her hand. “On second thought, maybe you had better go get your own.”

“I love you, Molly.”

Her eyes dip slightly, but she quickly returns her gaze. “Th-thanks, but I still won’t give you this tissue.” Her eyes blaze as she cringes. Molly has just put herself out on a plank far enough that the slightest breeze could send her confidence over the edge.

I cross my arms. “You come in here and ruin my date, and then make jokes with me?”

My whole body buzzes with excitement and nerves. Just maintaining a straight face poses a challenge. If I could bottle this sensation up, I’d be a billionaire. I imagine these positive vibes are what superheroes feel, and right now I want to rescue people and things, and maybe even save the whales or the clock tower. Oddly enough, saving the Indians never crosses my mind, even though they need help more than anyone these days.

I go to the bathroom, hoping she hasn’t been in the apartment long enough to look around at the disaster within. I grab more tissues and make a mental note to clean before she sees the apartment in the daylight.

Sitting next to her I offer a tissue, a clean one this time. My arm shakes as I put it around Molly’s shoulders. As stunning as the Niagara Falls, and with a similar amount of water coming down, Molly opens the floodgates. She leans into me hard, so I rub her back and let her unload.

Before long, the sobbing has grown to mere whimpers. “I’ve missed you so much, Ryan. I’ve called, and I can understand why you never called back, but I don’t want it to be that way. You’re such a huge part of my life. I don’t want to live without you.”

She pauses to gauge my reaction. “You can say something back, you know.”

I forgot just how witty she can be. As distressing as this moment feels, her lighthearted humor creates the perfect distraction from the tears. I squeeze her hand, nestled in my grip without my realizing. Nice. I kiss her forehead, and temptation swims like a shark in chum-infested waters.

“You’ll sleep in here tonight,” I start, each word causing common sense to curse me louder. “I’ll be in the living room on the futon. Now, I’m going to grab this pillow, because as much as I care for you, and I do, this pillow belongs to me and no one else uses it, understand?”

She nods, though she has no choice. Even a man as caring as me has limits.

“If you get hungry, the kitchen isn’t very well stocked, but you’re welcome to whatever.” I continue my goodnight speech, my insides begging me to just press the issue and stay in the room. “I don’t have to work in the morning, so I plan on sleeping as late as I can. When you’re ready for breakfast, shake me awake, and we’ll go eat and talk. Oh, and if you haven’t been in the bathroom, I apologize in advance.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Right, so, I don’t know how much good I would do in a rational conversation at this point. Been sort of a…weird night, ya know?”

I start to pull myself up to exit the room, but she’s having none of it. She pulls me toward her.

She whispers, “Here you are, once again coming to my rescue. Can’t a gal show her hero some appreciation?”

“Yes, you can show me you care by helping me clean that bathroom tomorrow.”

Her wince proves that every reward has it limits.

***

I awaken the next morning, earlier than I had hoped, and wipe away a cheek full of drool. The raw emotions exposed last night, the thrill of watching top-notch baseball, hot dogs and semi-warm draft beer, surprised rejection, and some long desired acceptance from a coveted love have left me drained. I could sleep all day and still need more time to recover and process everything.

All things considered, I’m surprised to feel as good as I do. Last night was awesome, but with my luck, I bet I’ll find a goodbye note on the kitchen counter. Something to the effect of:

Ryan,
thanks for listening, you were always a great listener and I appreciate it, but I’m headed back to Woodie. Talk to you soon or in a few years, whichever comes first. Ciao.

The “ciao” is the real kicker for me. Why does she have to end it like that? She has to make it some happy-go-lucky gee-pal-thanks note rather than tell the truth. She loves Woodie and no matter what, I will always be second place to that lucky son of a gun.

A shuffling noise from my bedroom distracts me from my daymare. Like a fool, I panic that there’s someone in my apartment. I compose myself just before the bedroom door announces Molly’s arrival with its signature squeak.

She winks. “Hey, you. I tried not to wake you.”

The steam rising from the mug in her hands causes jealousy to stab in my chest like a hard-thrown spear. Curious and hopeful, I test the air. It’s thick with the aroma of strong coffee. She hasn’t just woken up and she’s not sneaking away. Molly plans to stay and she made me…made us coffee. I already told her I love her, so how do I further convey my thanks for this unexpected treatment?

“If you grab me a cup of coffee, I’ll clean the bathroom myself.”

“Hmm, yeah, I’d actually forgotten all about it, so thanks for bringing that nightmare back up,” Molly says with a conspiratorial grin. “1976 called and they want that obnoxious avocado and orange tile pattern back. By the way, not to pry, but what were your plans last night? I mean, I assume if I hadn’t shown up that other girl would have at some point gone in there. And I don’t know how much she liked you, but if she had any self-respect, she would’ve run out the door full speed when she saw that mess. The bathrooms at Municipal were cleaner during Browns games.”

“I won’t dignify that with a response.” I say, huffing. Sometimes, you can’t fight the truth and the bottom line is Municipal, the stadium that the Browns occupied before moving away, was dirty at the best of times, just like my bathroom

Molly giggles and sits on the futon. She smacks my thigh with a rolled up section of newspaper. “Listen, thanks for, you know, listening. The front-page story on just about every newspaper today is about Henry Berea, the politician in New York. The FBI says he can’t offer any reasonable explanation for the events that lead to the death of his secretary. I’m telling you Ryan, seeing a decent man like him accused of something so horrible just doesn’t add up. I tried to convince him to let me help, but he’s pushing everyone away, even his wife.”

She must observe my lost expression because she changes the direction of the conversation. “Anyways, I need a break from, well, just about everything right now. Do you think I could crash here a while, until I can get things back in order?”

Obviously, my words last night didn’t convey how I feel. “Molly, I told you I love you and I meant it. You always have a place with me. I don’t want you to stay here a while. I want you to stay, period. I don’t know where we stand, but I want to work things out. I was a jerk when I walked away from you and I apologize, but there’s a bigger matter that we have to discuss.”

Her gaping jaw betrays her worry. “Oh, jeez, do you want to call that girl from last night and explain? I’m sorry, Ryan I wasn’t thinking. I can go and call you later—”

She can’t continue over my snorts of laughter. “No. No. I don’t have a date, nor do I owe that other gal anything. There’s a question that’s running through my mind that I need an answer to. You see, in a couple of hours I’m meeting a few people at the bowling alley, and as much as I’d like to have you on my team I need to know, are you still as bad as I remember?”

Molly shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. “Oh, you don’t even know. The last time I bowled with Woodie, err, Woodie…”

She trails off, seemingly curious if her socks are still sky blue. I don’t help the situation by jerking my head at the mention of his name.

We fall silent. Two scared kids who just don’t know what to say next. It’s not the silence that’s the problem. The two of us have logged countless hours on various courts, fields, and even a few rinks competing against each other in relative silence. No, it’s not the silence with us. It’s the quiet. It’s the thought running through both of our heads and it’s scary.

I miss Woodie.

Downing a chug of over-creamed coffee, I break the ice, “Look, let me get cleaned up and we can hit the gym. I know we both have a lot to say and then when we bowl, you’ll be on the other team, all right? It’s nothing personal, but you know. This game is kind of a big deal.”

She beams and the worry evaporates, the awkwardness disappears, and above all, the quiet is gone.

Chapter Seventeen

April 13, 2006

Get ready. Here it comes. Molly clutches my hand, the anticipation spreading over her face mirrors my own. Since as far back as I can remember, there has been this one moment shared by people, and I want this one to be the best yet. Molly bites her lower lip and I adjust my hips.

Here it comes.

Without warning, we rise out of our cramped seats, thrusting both hands into the sky, and yell the loudest cheer we can. As silly a tradition as it may be, I make sure to take part in the Wave every game I see at Jacob’s Field. Molly, also a sucker for tradition, assures that I’m only the second loudest fan at the stadium by yelling so loud some birds who just found a pile of abandoned popcorn take flight.

The last few months have been beyond incredible. I glance at her again, just because I can, as we squeeze each other’s hands.

Her freshly plucked right eyebrow rises. “You okay?”

I take a moment to ponder the best way to describe just how okay I am. “I’m great. I’m just really happy. Like really, ultra-happy, you know?”

The Wave makes its way out to the bleachers, but Molly’s attention stays on me. “Do you want to get out of here?”

An innocent question slides into the barrel of a .45 and shoots in the direction of my heart. Now, if this were a typical night, asking me to leave a baseball game before the last pitch would be fighting words, but this disappointing season by the Tribe has forced me to make exceptions. The city longs for the days of Thome, Belle, and Vizquel, but instead we’re spoon-fed a batch of Triple-A players. If I were ten years younger, I’d be on the mound as the ace of this group.

As a beer vendor makes his last rounds up to our nosebleed section and the scent of stadium mustard wafts around me, I clutch my car keys.

Molly says, “I’ll take that as a yes. Can you hold this for a second?”

“Sure.” I say, grabbing her too-big-for-any-occasion purse. “Why on earth did you let me pay $20 to park when I could’ve just shoved my car into this massive thing?”

Molly punches my shoulder and then starts searching for something in the bag.

I ask, “So, what are you digging for?”

“Well, hotshot, I’ve just taken out your spare key. I’m going to have you hold that purse to slow you down as I race you to your car.”

As she finishes her challenge, she pushes me away and takes off up the aisle, toward the entrance tunnel. I stagger back as a few onlookers laugh at my predicament. Regaining my balance, I rush after her, trying to remember where the heck we parked anyway.

Several pairs of curious eyes watch me as I jog toward the Bob Feller statue, holding a big ugly purse in my right hand. I try to look innocent, and even explain to a few people that I’m following my girlfriend, and this sack belongs to her. Snickers and teasing comments follow me down the concourse ramps.

As I look over my shoulder to see if Molly went the other way, I slam right into two men. I fall on top of one of them and hear his startled grunt as we hit the ground. Though he absorbs the brunt of the collision, I take the lion’s share of cheese from his nachos, all down my shirt.

The man pushes me off. “Hey, watch where you’re going. Jesus, you’re a big guy. I could’ve cracked a rib or three.”

As I help him up, he continues bitching, and I’d recognize that tough-love barking anywhere.

“Coach?” I yell, startling him again.

With a quick glance, my former high school coach dismisses me as a stranger. Sure, it’s been a few years, but…“Coach Marv, it’s me, Ryan Kelly, I pitched for you in high school.”

I feel foolish.

He sizes me up, jaw jutted out in frustration. “Of course you did, Ryan, and I see you’re just as clumsy as ever. How could I forget a knucklehead like you? What the hell are you running around here for, anyway? You not only twisted my knee, but you almost gave me a heart attack as well.”

Good old Coach. It took me a record two seconds to get right back in his doghouse.

“Well, I, um—”

“Uh-oh,” the man accompanying Coach says, shaking his head. “That sounds like woman trouble.”

I nod.

The man points toward the exit. “Son, the real question here is, are you running toward her or away? If you’re hustling from her, we’re coming with you, but if you’re running toward her, then you just better forget about us and double time it.”

I start to offer thanks, but Coach speaks. When Coach Marv speaks, you listen. “Well, before you go Ryan, this is my good friend Carlton—”

I double-take. “Massey. You’re Carlton Massey.”

He nods and we shake hands.

Coach Marv wipes cheese off his glasses with his shirt. “Carl is a scout for the Kansas City Royals, and he’s always looking for new and undiscovered talent around baseball. Since he’s been in town, I told him that I’ve coached some of the greatest kids to play the game.”

Coach’s kind words almost move me to tears. “Coach, for you to say that means a lot to a guy like me, and—”

Coach interrupts, as he is prone to do. “And nothing. I was talking about Woodie. Did you see that catch he made in the 4
th
?”

Ouch.

Carlton pats Coach on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about Ol’ Marv. I remember your name. In fact, I scouted you way back when. You’ve got a great arm, but don’t believe for a second that that was your best feature.”

I ask, “Well, if the arm of a pitcher isn’t his greatest asset, then what is?”

“No, no don’t get me wrong, the arm is important, but in your case it was your head. Your mind set you apart from the others. The way you handled each batter and selected your pitches was very mature for a guy still getting his feet wet. It’s a shame you didn’t stick with it.”

It’s a hot night, so I hope they attribute my red cheeks to the fact that, just moments ago, I was running like a madman down the ramp.

“Oh, go on.” Coach Marv says, not able to just stand by and allow me to get complimented. “Why not tell the kid he has the best stuff since David Wells? Maybe his face can turn into a tomato right here and embarrass us all.”

“All right, maybe I will, you old galoot. Kid, you’ve got enough stuff up here to pitch a great game.” He points at my forehead. “And I’ll bet you have the stuff to coach a good game as well. You ever think about managing?”

Stunned, I look to Coach, whose scowl betrays his own surprise.

I say, “Well, to be honest, I’m a pitching coach for an unaffiliated team.”

“Perfect. Here’s my card. If you ever get the itch to get back in a real dugout, call me. There’s a single-A team just outside Cleveland that needs a manager ASAP. Now, enough of this small talk. Marv gets cranky after dark, and I believe you have a vixen getting farther and farther away.”

After taking his card, I race down through the mass of fans. I apologize to the street saxophonist for not dropping my change in his case tonight and hurry down Prospect Avenue. By the time I reach the car, Molly is too curious about my delay to maintain her smug victory smile.

Driving home, I inform her why she was able to win our race. Of course she’s excited for me, but I can also sense the hesitation she might have to miss me all season as I coach, just as she had Woodie as a player.

By the time we get home, our flirting refocuses life away from baseball and back on us. Molly pushes me down onto the couch in our living room. Just being able to say “our” anything is a thrill. In fact, with each day, it becomes more of a privilege to share my life with her. So far, she’s let me keep the apartment intact, but I imagine at some point the Dennis Eckersley painting in the bedroom will be coming down, just like when she replaced my Heat movie poster with her painting of flowers.

She presses her index finger into my chest. “Wait here, I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

Her playful voice sends a jolt of anticipation through my body. Then she adds, “And babe, why don’t you take that shirt off. You’re getting nacho cheese all over.”

She giggles and turns toward the bedroom. Forcing myself not to follow her seductive curves, I’m resigned to just enjoying the view. Before I’m able to read Carlton’s business card for the thirtieth time, I hear Molly calling.

In the bedroom, she stands with her back to me, looking out on the city skyline. Fresh from the shower, Molly wears nothing but a large purple towel. Her hair drips water down her toned body.

“Ryan, I…”

I stop, just an arm’s length behind her.

She tries to continue. “Do you think—?”

I spin her around and we splash together like tidal waves under a raging storm. My kisses cover her face like light rain as my hands slide up and down her back. As we lock lips, her hair tickles my cheek. We twist and tango around the room until Molly thrusts me down onto the bed and leaps on top of me, one leg to each side. Our fingers intertwine, firm, urgent. Our hips sway to a song no one can hear but us. Molly straightens her back, peering down at me, while my shirt buttons separate under her guiding fingers one by one. My heart beats like thunder as I see the lightning sparkle in her eyes.

She whispers, “I love you, Ryan,” before coming in for another kiss.

Point, Game, Set, Match.