From The Dead (21 page)

He sat amazed by her boldness, her strength, her
quiet confidence. This was the girl with whom he had fallen in
love. And now he found himself at a loss for words: What, in this
present context, could justify his answer? He’d given Jada the
relationship Caitlyn had sacrificed.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, we … ten years …”

Caitlyn nodded again, then turned her head and
focused on a spot on the wall. In the corner of her eye, the one
furthest from Jesse—did he see a tear in formation? Caitlyn
pretended to rub her temple with her fingertip, but Jesse noticed
she had brushed away the tear.

“Cait …”

Jesse reached for her hand, but she withdrew it—not
in anger, but with tender grace.

“Don’t,” she breathed. “It was long ago.
We
were long ago.”

For Jesse, the ambience faded around him. The music
from the overhead speakers drowned out. The people at other tables
blurred, their conversations a muffled drone. Before him sat
Caitlyn, the girl he had, at a time long lost, vowed never to
crush. Now look at her, pierced to the soul without cause.

And in that moment, Jesse comprehended what had
happened during their time apart.

She had waited for him.

In her heart, despite the disappointment and
upheaval, she had never stopped loving him.

This—
this
—was the girl he had left behind.

The ambience resurfaced around him. Between Jesse and
Caitlyn, a magnetic pull seemed to facilitate an unspoken
communication. Their silence spoke of mercy.

A ballad played above them, a flavored Dave Matthews
Band beauty with which Jesse had often serenaded Caitlyn while in
the car as teenagers. Tonight, Jesse hummed the tune to himself;
its vibrations buzzed along his sealed lips.

When she heard the faint hum, Caitlyn giggled.

Jesse wasn’t aware he could be heard until he noticed
her reaction. Embarrassed at first, when he saw her awash in
radiance, Jesse increased the volume for her to hear. Then he
remembered why she seemed to enjoy it.

In former days, he’d started to sing this tune as a
serenade. Then, by the second verse, he’d mimicked Dave Matthews’s
high-pitched, staccato voice, which never failed to ignite giggles
in Caitlyn. After their quarrels, it was common for him to sing to
her in this way, which broke the ice and healed the wounds between
them.

He thrived when he saw her happy.

So tonight Jesse continued to sing quietly. And
Caitlyn, her chin at rest on folded hands, leaned forward to
listen.

She gleamed with delight.

And she giggled some more.

CHAPTER 35

Jesse preferred afternoon baseball games. But with
his son beside him, Jesse lauded today’s Sunday game as his
all-time favorite.

Tied to a strict ticket budget, he and Drew sat in
the uppermost tier, but Drew didn’t appear to care. The kid seemed
content as he munched on a foot-long hot dog.

With a win-loss record of 22-6 to date, the Cleveland
team gelled early on to ignite its fans’ hopes for the season.
While it was yet May, most already considered the team a probable
playoff contender. And Drew scoped out players as a federal agent
might scour the files of a tax cheat.

Today the Indians played Seattle, whose fortunes had
turned nasty soon after the season started. Seattle’s current
win-loss record had dwindled to 11-17.

As Drew focused on the Indians pitcher at the mound,
Jesse scanned the human sea of navy blue and white. The line of
lean bachelors in the row ahead had opted to shave their heads and
paint them the team colors. A pair of pot-bellied fans, adorned in
full quasi-Indian headdresses, sat several sections over. Jesse
pitied the folks who sat behind them with a partial blockage of
view. From this height, a single feather could obscure a player
below.

The stadium, Progressive Field, had opened as Jacobs
Field in 1994, when Jesse was a kid. Chuck made it a priority to
take his son to a game, live in person, once a year. But for all
the improved proximity offered by the new ballpark, Jesse still
favored the timeless, grandiose layout of the old Cleveland
Stadium, where he’d viewed his earliest games.

Odd enough, the last time Jesse stepped foot in the
former stadium occurred not during the Indians’ final season in
1993, but in 1994, when Chuck took Jesse and Eden there for a Billy
Graham Crusade. Jesse recalled that warm June evening as the three
of them walked through the gates with ease. The atmosphere
distinguished itself from a routine baseball game; at the Crusade,
Jesse had sensed a calm—albeit personally unexpected—fervor of
anticipation.

Jesse remembered the stage’s position at midfield
that year, and the Thursday crowd that filled a full semi-circle at
one end of the stadium by the time the program began. He thought
back to when he heard the gray-haired preacher, held in utmost
respect by Chuck, speak in a genteel Southern drawl. Jesse could
still picture the scene that followed the sermon, when Reverend
Graham gave an invitation to receive salvation—where a
middle-school-aged Jesse, not much older than Drew, watched what
appeared to him a thousand people descend the concrete stadium
steps in a perpetual stream as the traditional hymn “Just As I Am”
played. Some of those people wept, others remained stoic, as they
spilled onto the field—the field where Jesse had seen players
scramble to steal third base. At the time, Jesse had marveled as
the field transformed into an ocean of changed lives.

Beyond experiences in his father’s church, that night
had made a strong spiritual impression on Jesse. Yet he couldn’t
remember when, prior to today, he had last thought back to that
evening.

The cheer of the crowd jerked Jesse back to the game
at hand. A Seattle hitter cost his team their third out and brought
the game to the middle of the fourth inning.

Jesse looked down at Drew, who had borrowed his
father’s sunglasses for fun. Jesse finished his bratwurst and wiped
his hand on a napkin. He signaled for the beer vendor, and the
transaction completed as Jesse cast the cash along the row of fans
and a beverage floated his way in exchange.

“You’re drinking a beer?” Drew asked.

Wheels turned in Jesse’s mind as he analyzed the
situation. This was new to him; in a split second, he learned that
kids notice everything.

“Yeah, just one,” Jesse replied. “Wait—is your mom
okay with that?” He’d promised Caitlyn not to get Drew into
trouble.

“Give me a drink of it and I’ll keep my mouth
shut—then she won’t find out.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He hoped this was the kid’s
idea of a joke, but now Jesse wondered.

Drew shrugged. “I think she’s okay with it.”

The kid had nearly caused one of Jesse’s aortas to
rupture with that scare. Then again, he had chosen to embark on
crash-course fatherhood.

Jesse pointed out a mustard drop at the corner of
Drew’s mouth, which Drew wiped away and ate before Jesse could find
a napkin.

“Enjoying the game?” Jesse asked.

“Pretty cool.”

“Do you pay much attention to baseball?”

“Oh yeah! My favorite player is Creed Harris—he’s the
Indians’ second baseman. He’s got a batting average of .412 so far
this year. Nine home runs, thirty-four RBI’s. The guy’s awesome.
They got him last year in a trade with Detroit.”

“Impressive. How long since you saw your last game
here?”

“Never.”

Jesse tore his focus from the Indian at bat. Drew had
given his answer in such a matter-of-fact tone that Jesse had to
ask again. Every boy had been to a baseball game, or so he
thought.

“Never?”

“Well, we don’t live close to the stadium and I don’t
have a dad to take me,” Drew said, as if it were a normal aspect of
his life, nothing out of the ordinary. “I went to a minor league
game in Akron with my friend and
his
dad, though.”

That should never have had to occur. Jesse wanted to
ask more about this but opted against it, unsure how sensitive Drew
might be. Maybe Drew wouldn’t want to discuss the issue.

Jesse returned his attention to the manicured field,
where Seattle’s first baseman, Lanny Ortega, attempted to catch a
foul ball before he ran out of room at the barrier. Instead, the
ball tumbled into a mob of grasping hands. With the next pitch, the
batter struck out, which left Cleveland at 0-2 for the inning. A
runner stood at first base, and another runner had stolen third
base a few minutes ago.

By this point, the fans craved another run. To
everyone’s surprise, the Indians trailed by a score of 3-2 so far.
They had loaded their bases twice before batters struck out and
destroyed the momentum. Drew took another bite of his hot dog as
Creed Harris, his apparent hero, stepped up to the plate.

Seattle pitcher Bruce Beckett, known to flirt with
the edges of the strike zone, zipped the ball across the corner of
the zone at ninety-six miles per hour. Strike one. Drew eased
forward in caution, tapped his foot, and pounded a small fist
against his knee.

Jesse didn’t care about the excitement of the game.
He marveled at his son’s individual personality, the boy’s
readiness to cheer as the suspense unfolded before him. Jesse
couldn’t believe his sunglasses now sat on his son’s head.

With a tap of his bat to home plate, Harris geared up
for the second pitch and waited. The ball arrived and he fouled.
Drew scratched his head and exhaled. “Come on,” he murmured.

Next, Beckett delivered ball one, which Harris
anticipated; Harris had held steady as the baseball zoomed past
him. That intentional ball paved the way for an
unintentional
ball two, followed by a ball three that proved
the pitcher’s concentration waned.

A full count—and with two men on base.

Now the pitcher looked agitated. This was the sort of
snag that had led to his team’s less-than-desirable record.

The sound of a Native-American drum pounded from the
loudspeakers, which sent reverberations through the stadium like a
tamed electric current. Jesse felt it buzz on the concrete beneath
his feet. The fans filled the stadium with an ominous growl.

Tension hung in the air. At the last moment, as if to
prolong Beckett’s anxiety, Harris stepped away from the plate.
Beckett, in response, wiped sweat from his brow. Harris’s
capabilities were notorious in the enemy camp—including his
reputation that he, in times of weak pitching, tended to chase
balls to deliver a hit.

Drew bit his lip. Beckett wound up for the pitch.
Jesse kept one eye on the game, the other eye on his son, eager to
see how Drew might react to a combustion of victory.

Beckett released the pitch. The ball sped toward home
plate. And Harris made contact.

Deep contact.

Some players report that they can sense when a ball
is a home run as it sails halfway across the field. This ball
soared like a laser into right field and into the stands. Harris
noted the home run on his way to first base and hopped on his
feet.

The crowd roared. A flurry of white team towels waved
around the stadium as spectators jumped to their feet.

Both Jesse and Drew shot up and screamed with
excitement, arms up in the air, as Creed Harris rounded the bases
in a celebratory trot. His team had improved its score to a winning
5-3.

As Harris rounded third base and jogged to home
plate, motion seemed to slow for Jesse as he glanced down at an
ecstatic Drew.

Jesse stood dumbfounded.

So this is what my son looks like when he
cheers.

* * *

When he slipped into the house that evening, Jesse
removed his shoes at the door. He found Eden in the living room,
curled up on the sofa. The television, which she had on mute,
flickered from the other side of the room.

She looked up from the book on her lap. “How was the
game?”

“We won, 8-3.”

“Blake thinks they’ll win the division this year. But
it’s so early in the season; I don’t think he can tell.”

“Male know-how.”

“Whatever. Harris is strong at second base.”

“Another home run and two more RBI’s today. The guy
had a .412 batting average when he headed into the game.”

Eden looked impressed, then shot him a look of
suspicion. “You follow baseball?”

“I have my sources.”

“Speaking of your source, how’s Drew?”

Jesse’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “He had a
blast. You should’ve seen his thrill when the home run occurred—he
yelled his lungs out. And you wouldn’t believe how much food the
kid eats! Such a smart guy, too. He takes after his mom.”

Eden checked the clock. “Did you just take him
home?”

“I grabbed a bite to eat after I dropped him off,
then went for a drive.” He nodded toward the television. “Good TV
show tonight?”

Based on her reaction, she’d forgotten she left it
on. “No. I started to watch a reality show, but the bickering got
on my nerves.”

Jesse angled his head to peer over Eden’s lap. “What
are you reading? Oh—Bible?”

“I’m winding down before bed.”

“I don’t think I even know where mine is anymore,”
Jesse half joked.

Like their dad, Eden took reverential care of her
book. As she continued to read, Jesse stared at its leather
binding. Thin as tissue paper, the pages crackled when turned. A
few days ago, unknown to Eden, he’d flipped through those pages,
their text underlined in various places and Eden’s margins speckled
with handwritten notes about the pages’ contents. Some people
seemed appalled that someone would write in a Bible, but Jesse and
Eden had watched their dad do just that all through their
childhood. To them, it was commonplace.

Over the years, as Jesse had talked to her on the
phone and watched Eden’s lifestyle here at home lately, he could
tell she had peace with God.