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In June, Jake came with me to Wrigley Field to see St. Eloy’s play in the Catholic League championship game. Stella, who was there with Betty, Frank and their daughters, looked at me with loathing, but the lithium seemed to be holding—at least she didn’t try to punch me.
Mr. Villard sat on the first-base side so that he could watch Frankie at short. Adelaide was with him, helping him in and out of his seat. At the end of the game, he beamed enthusiastically at Frank and Betty: no promises for the future, a lot can change in a boy’s life, a talented kid at fifteen may have developed as far as he ever will, but he liked what he’d seen; he’d make sure Frankie Junior got a spot in one of the league’s premier talent camps this summer.
A few days later, Mr. Villard came to High Plainsong’s last concert—High Plainsong’s Swan Song, they’d billed it, with medieval songs and music about swans dominating the second half, and me performing a duet with Jake from Vittoria Aleotti’s “Garland of Madrigals,” to end the first.
A few days later, I got a letter from Mr. Villard.
Dear Ms. Warshawski,
I’ve always liked players with guts and determination. They dig deeper, often outlast flashier players. You did a major service to baseball and to the Cubs by exposing Gil Brineruck; you saved my life, and now, your visits bring me a lot of pleasure.
I heard through the grapevine that you lost your car and lost a lot of income this spring. This check is from me, no strings attached, but maybe you can get yourself a nice little car. The other check is for your friend. The only song I can sing is “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” but he and his musician friends are major leaguers, I can see that, and they deserve to keep their own playing field green.
Two checks fluttered out. Mine would buy me a very nice little car indeed. I wrote Mr. Villard a thank-you note, then sat daydreaming in front of car websites. Muscle car or getting-around-town car?
The front bell roused me. I looked at my security camera monitor: it was Frank. I almost didn’t let him in, but he looked so uncomfortable that I finally released the lock.
Just as it had been when he first showed up in April, it was hard for him to find a way to talk. I sat quietly until he blurted, “Tori, I’m so sorry. You saved Ma. You saved Frankie. I know you almost died because of me, and I can’t even pay your bill.”
“It’s okay, Frank.” I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I made a big mistake, letting you go.”
“You did the right thing, letting me go. You brought me great comfort when I needed it most, but we weren’t right for each other.”
“Yeah, but—” He broke off, but I could see all the unsaid words on his face: if he’d stayed with me, it all would have turned out differently, he wouldn’t have whiffed the curve, it would be him in Cooperstown, just as Boom-Boom was in Toronto.
“No, Frank,” I said, my voice gentle. “I would have made you a lot unhappier down the road than you ever made me. My dad never cared much for men who rated success by how much money or power they had. To him, a successful man was honest in his public and private affairs. You have four beautiful children, and that’s something I will never have. You’re a good dad to all of them. You go home and remember to feel proud of that.”
“Yeah, okay, yeah.”
I walked him to the door and stood on the sidewalk until he climbed into his truck.
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