High Heat (4 page)

I was afraid he'd want to make small talk as we drove, but instead he tuned the radio to KJR, and for the entire ride we listened to callers grouse about the Mariners or the Sonics. As we pulled into the parking lot by the field, he reached forward and flicked the radio off. "Look, Shane," he said, turning toward me, "I read the newspaper. I know this is a tough time for you and your family—"

"I know what you're going to say," I said, interrupting. "That you're not going to pitch me for a while. I understand. I've stunk it up; it's what I deserve."

"You should let people finish, Shane. Because I was going to say the exact opposite. I think that you need to keep pitching. That you need baseball; that baseball might keep you from going crazy." He paused. "Besides, without solid relief pitching, Clarke and Parino will wear out, pure and
simple. If we're going to get anywhere in the playoffs, we're going to need you. But you've got to be clear in your head. When you're out on the mound, you have to think baseball and leave the other stuff behind. So what do you say? Can you do that?"

"I'll try."

In the early innings, I kept checking the parking lot, half expecting to see my dad's Lexus. But it wasn't there and it wasn't there and it wasn't there. Finally I knew he wasn't coming, and I was able to watch the baseball game.

It was a tight game. Inglemoor's pitcher had been All-League the year before. A lefty, he had long brown hair and a fastball that seemed to come from first base. He had our batters backing away from the plate, taking feeble swings. The only hit we got was a little dribbler up the third base line in the fourth that Greg beat out.

Terry Clarke started for us. He wasn't as good, but he was lucky, and that works too. Inglemoor had some solid hits—a couple of doubles and one triple—but they couldn't put anything together. After six innings the game was scoreless.

Then, with one out in the top of the seventh, their pitcher plunked Beanie Cutler in the back with a sailing fastball. Cutler went down hard, and stayed down for a couple of minutes. That seemed to rattle the pitcher, because he walked Stan Cantfield, our next hitter, on four pitches—all of which were way outside. Two on with one out was the closest thing to a rally we'd had all game. If we could squeeze across one run, we might steal a victory.

That's when I heard Levine's voice. "Hunter, get ready."

There are some days when you just have it. The ball fit perfectly between my fingertips, as if it were made only for me. My pitches were popping Bill Diggs's glove. I felt loose and fast.

But it didn't look as if I'd get in, at least not then. Whatever their coach said worked, because our next hitter, Alvin Powell, went down on three fastball strikes. That meant it was up to Andy Chase, and Chase had already struck out swinging twice. If he made an out, Levine would probably send Clarke back out to the mound and save me in case the game went into extra innings.

The pitcher got two quick strikes on Chase, then barely missed getting a called strike three. The next pitch was some sort of changeup. Chase was way out in front, but he did manage to hold back his swing enough to slice a pop-up down the first base line.

It was trouble for Inglemoor the minute it left the bat. The right fielder got a bad break on the ball, and he wasn't the fastest guy anyway. Their first baseman turned the wrong way as he headed back. When he tried to right himself, his feet got tangled up, and he flopped to the ground. The ball landed two feet fair and then immediately spun into foul territory. With two outs, Cutler and Cantfield had taken off at the crack of the bat and scored easily. We had the lead.

Robby Richardson struck out on three pitches—no changeups for him. As our guys took the field for the last half inning, I looked to Levine, and he pointed his finger at me. I threw one final warm-up pitch to Diggs, then ran out to the mound.

Our fans rose to their feet and cheered for me. "You can do it, Shane!...One, two, three!...Show 'em your stuff."

I tried to throw my warm-up pitches just like I always did. Maybe ninety percent, maybe less. But it was hard not to let everything fly. The umpire signaled that I had one more. I fired it in. Ted Hearn threw the ball down to second; it went around the horn. "Batter up!" the umpire called, and I stepped onto the rubber.

The parents behind our bench kept cheering, but at that instant, my world got small. It was only me, the plate, and the catcher's glove—and I knew I was all right. I worked the ball inside and outside, up and down in the zone. With each strike, with each out, the roar from our fans grew louder, but it was distant, like thunder in the mountains. Not until the last Inglemoor hitter went down swinging did I let myself see or hear anything other than home plate and the umpire's voice. When his right arm went up in the air and he shouted "Strike three!" my teammates surrounded me, pounding me on the back and shaking my hand. By the time I reached the bench, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

On the ride home, as Levine told me how awesome I'd been, I looked out the window at the shiny sports cars flying by us in the fast lane. I felt I belonged in one of them. I dreamed baseball dreams, imagining how sweet it would be to pitch in the major leagues, to get the final out to win a big league game.

When we pulled off the freeway, the stop-and-go traffic snapped me out of it. In ten minutes I'd be home again. Home. When I'd see my dad, he'd ask me how I'd done. I'd describe the strikeouts, and he'd smile. "I won't miss your next game. I promise."

How could I tell him the truth? How could I tell him that I
wanted
him to miss my next game, and the game after that, and the game after that? That it was
because
he'd missed the game that I'd pitched well?

Levine stopped at the Sound Ridge gate. I leaned toward the driver's seat to wave to Simon. Instead of smiling at me and saying something, he barely made eye contact, waving the van through quickly.

Levine drove slowly. "It's left up here, isn't it?" he said.

"Yeah, and then two quick rights after that."

"I sort of remember. But tell me if I go wrong."

Normally our neighborhood is quiet, but that afternoon people were on their front lawns in groups of two or three, whispering.

The road bent around a corner, and my home came into view. Two aid cars, a fire truck, and a police car were in front. Levine looked at me quickly. "That's your house, isn't it?"

I nodded.

He pulled up to the curb. "You stay in the car. Let me find out what's going on."

It was my home and my family, but I sat and watched as he went up to a uniformed policeman standing in front of my house. I saw Levine talking to the policeman and the policeman answer. I saw Levine's shoulders slump, his body sag. He
turned and looked at me and then turned back to the policeman. For a long time he simply stood there. Finally he walked back toward the van.

As he approached, a wave of panic came over me. I didn't want him to reach me, ever. I was safe in the van. The windows were rolled up; the doors were closed. If I could sit in the van forever, then nothing would ever touch me.

Levine opened the door and slid into the driver's seat. For a while neither of us said or did anything. We just sat. Finally he turned in his seat and looked me in the eye. "Your father is dead. He shot himself."

I stared at him. "That's not true."

"Shane," he said, but I didn't wait to hear any more.

I jumped out of the van and raced toward the house. A policeman tried to stop me. I pushed right past him. That's when I saw my mom. She had her arm around Marian. When our eyes met, her face seemed to crumple. Still hugging Marian, she reached out toward me. I went to her and she hugged me.

When she let me go, Rausch came over to us. I wanted to hit him the instant I saw him. I thought Mom would tell him to go straight to hell, but she didn't.

"I called the Ramada Inn over by Northgate," he said. "I got you a suite. A couple of small rooms, a little kitchen area. If you'd like, I could take you there now."

"Thank you," she said. "I would like to leave, at least for tonight."

"Would you like me to have an officer pack some clothes for you?"

Mom shook her head. "No. We'll do it."

Rausch nodded and stepped aside.

"Now listen to me, both of you," Mom said. "I want you to go up to your rooms and pack what you'll need for a couple of days. As soon as you have it, come right back out. Don't take too long, okay?"

There were two policemen sitting on our sofa in the front room, a police photographer in the kitchen, and a medic coming down the stairs. As soon as they saw us, they stopped talking and seemed to try to melt into the walls.

Upstairs I saw a piece of yellow tape across the doorway leading to my father's study. His body was probably still in there. That's why we had to leave so quickly. Mom didn't want us to see them take his body out, and I didn't want to see it either.

I went into my room and quickly grabbed two pairs of pants, a couple of shirts, underwear, socks. I stuffed everything into an old duffel bag I had in the closet. Then I hurried downstairs and onto the front lawn and waited for Mom and Marian.

Rausch drove us to the Ramada Inn. The three of us sat in the back seat of his big police cruiser. Mom held Marian's hand. I looked out the window at all the cars on all the roads.

That night in the hotel, Mom called Marian and me to the kitchen table. "You need to see this," she said as she carefully placed a single sheet of paper on the table. The handwriting was shaky, but I recognized it as Dad's:

I'm sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen.

My aunt Cella came in from San Francisco the next morning. There are a ton of details after someone dies, and she took charge of them. She called the funeral home, the church, the florist, the newspapers, my father's brothers back in Philadelphia, and about a dozen other people.

All that time Mom sat at the little kitchen table, chainsmoking. Marian sat with her; in fact, Marian couldn't stand to be away from her. But I hated being in that crummy room in that crummy hotel, so I'd go for long walks, hours and hours.

North Acres Park is near there. Those days were bright and sunny, but I was drawn to the forested part of the park. It's not safe back there. Two years ago some crazy kid with a gun shot his girlfriend in those woods, and that part of the park is used for drug deals and sex deals. My dad had told me to stay away. But now I didn't care about the danger. I'd walk the dark trails, thinking how I'd been grinning away on the baseball diamond while he'd been sitting upstairs in his study, a gun in his hand.

The funeral was on Saturday. We were never churchgoers, so the minister who spoke didn't even know my dad. The stuff he said—that Dad was kind and loving and cared about his family and friends—you could have said about your dog.

Our neighbors were there, and so were my teammates. Greg, Coach Levine, Cody—they had sad looks on their faces, but I knew what they were thinking: that my dad was a criminal and he'd taken the coward's way out. A coward! As if any
one of them would ever have the courage to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger.

On Tuesday Aunt Cella left. Before she did, she took me aside. "It must seem like the world is over for you right now, Shane," she said, "but it isn't. Time doesn't stop. You've got to go on with your own life, or it'll pass you by. There are people who end up like pieces of lost luggage. Don't be one of them."

"I won't," I said, but it was lie. I wasn't going to go on with anything. I wanted to be a piece of lost luggage.

A few days later we moved back into our house. We'd always had a cleaning lady twice a week who vacuumed the house and mopped the kitchen and bathroom floors, but Aunt Cella had had the entire place cleaned, top to bottom. The kitchen and bathroom floors, the porcelain, the windows—all of them shone like one of the new cars in my dad's showroom. The only place I didn't enter was my dad's study. No one did. That door was closed when we stepped into the house at ten in the morning, and it was closed when I went to bed at ten that night.

I was tired but couldn't sleep. I kept imagining how the gunshot must have sounded, how my mother must have rushed upstairs, what she must have said to Marian to get her downstairs, and how she must have been terrified to open the door.

But she'd done it; she'd opened the door and gone in.

I got out of bed. A long hallway led from my bedroom to the study. Enough moonlight came through the skylight so that I could make my way without turning on a lamp and running the risk of awakening Mom or Marian. When I
reached the door to Dad's study, I put my hand on the knob and stood there for a long time. Finally, I turned the knob and stepped in.

Once inside, I quietly closed the door behind me, then flicked the light on. At first everything seemed the same. Dad's desk was right where it belonged, pulled up in front of the big double windows. His green desk lamp stood in one corner, his sleek Bose radio on the small table. The leather chair was there, and so were his computer and his printer and his fax machine and his paper shredder.

I sat in his leather chair. My eyes went around the room again, but more slowly. Everything was in its right place, but it was all wrong. Dad never let our cleaning lady into his study, never let Mom straighten anything. His desk was always cluttered, and usually stacks of papers were piled up on the floor. Now it was too clean.

Something else was wrong, too: the carpet. It was new. It had the same deep red color and Turkish design with curlicues and intricate patterns. But this one had more blue in it, while the old one had been creamier. It struck me as odd. Why would Aunt Cella buy something brand-new? Then I knew. Blood. There must have been lots of blood.

I don't know how long I sat at Dad's desk, five minutes or twenty-five. I don't know how long I would have stayed if the door hadn't opened and my mother hadn't stepped in.

"Shane," she whispered, "what are you doing in here?"