If You Lived Here, You'd Be Home Now (34 page)

My mother rose to her feet and carefully picked her medium-heeled-pump way to the edge of the bleachers, right next to where
the men were standing. “Excuse me,” she said, leaning toward them.

“What?” one of them said, squinting up at her.

“We’d all appreciate it if you’d shut up.”

He took a surprised step back but then recovered enough to say defiantly, “We can talk if we want to.”

“Not if you’re going to say rude things about the coach and our kids.” She raised her chin high. It occurred to me my mother
was someone you wanted on your side in a fight.
“You’re welcome to emotionally destroy your own children any way you like—I’m sure you’re very good at it and will eventually
pay the price in drug abuse and therapists’ bills. But if you say one more nasty thing about my grandson or the coach, or
any other kid on this team, I will get you thrown out of this league so fast and so hard that you won’t ever be able to find
a way back in.”

“Crazy lady,” the guy muttered. He and his friend moved farther away from the bleachers, not exactly contrite but moderately
subdued.

Mom carefully made her way back to me, the bleachers vibrating gently under her feet. The woman did not tread lightly. “They
still don’t get it but maybe they’ll shut up.” She sat down.

“Thanks for saying something.”

“Someone had to.”

“Why are some guys like that?” I said. “How can they care more about winning some meaningless little game than about hurting
a kid’s feelings?”

“Just don’t ever marry anyone like that,” she said. “That’s all I ask.”

Something about the way she said it made me turn to look at her—like she had personal experience with men like that. Dad wasn’t
anything like those guys, of course, but Mom had been married once before, for almost ten years. I often forgot about that
because she never talked about her first marriage. I was twelve before I even knew she’d
had
a husband before Dad.

“Did you?” I asked. “Marry someone like that?”

“Joel wasn’t as bad as them,” she said. “But he could be mean.” She tapped me on the arm. “Just remember that in the long
run it doesn’t matter how charming or charismatic a guy is. What matters is whether or not he’s nice all the way down.
It sounds corny but it’s true.” She tapped me again in the same place—a few more times and it would start to hurt. “Your dad
can drive me crazy—Lord knows he can drive me crazy—but he’s never said or done a cruel thing in his whole life and I know
he never will.”

“You couldn’t have taught me that lesson seven years ago?”

“If I had,” she said, “we wouldn’t have Noah. So it’s just as well I waited.”

I looked down at the field in front of us, tears stinging my eyes. “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, and then we sat in silence,
waiting for him to come to bat again, which he did a couple of innings later.

He looked up at me as he trudged to the tee and called out, “My stomach hurts. I want to go home.” Someone—a kid—snickered.
Andrew squatted down in front of Noah. He spoke to him quietly, his face serious and gentle. I watched him talking to my kid
and felt that feeling again: that tiny bit of pleasure that someone else cared about Noah’s happiness and dreaded his pain.
Then Andrew stood up and helped Noah get into position, moving his arms up into a batting stance and whispering some last
bit of encouragement and advice before withdrawing.

Noah swung weakly and the bat just touched the ball. It was a foul.

Mom said, “His swing looked a little better to me this time.”

“What difference does that make if he still can’t hit it off the tee?” I said irritably.

Andrew darted forward again, whispered to Noah, molded him into place, helped him raise the bat, clapped him encouragingly
on the shoulder. “You can do it, pal,” he said as he backed away.

And he did.

He hit the ball hard, right off the tee.

It didn’t go all that far, but it went far enough, more than the five feet it needed to go to not be a foul. And no one caught
it. There was some racing around, some diving, some movement from the other team. Meanwhile Noah was still holding the bat,
frozen in place, staring at the ball in play in disbelief. “Drop the bat and run!” Andrew yelled at him and Noah, after one
agonizingly long moment of uncertainty, dropped the bat in the dirt and trotted slowly to first base. The second baseman on
the other team threw the ball to the first baseman, who dropped it, and by the time he retrieved it Noah had one foot safely
on base. I screamed and got to my feet. “You did it!” I yelled down to him. “You did it!”

Mom was on her feet beside me, also hollering away at Noah, who raised his eyes to us with a sort of stunned and bewildered
pride.

I’m sure the other parents thought we were crazy, screaming over one small base hit after the other kids on both teams had
made dozens of them. I didn’t care. The only other person there who mattered was Andrew, and he was smiling this huge smile
like he’d just gotten a birthday and Christmas and Chanukah present all rolled up in one quick swing. “That a boy!” he kept
saying. “That a boy, Noah! That a boy!” The next kid stepped up to bat, which seemed to bring Andrew to his senses. As he
passed the bat to the kid, he glanced up at me. I mouthed the words “Thank you.” He grinned. We stared at each other over
the kid’s head and then I sank back into my seat, my legs suddenly and inexplicably weak.

“Whatever else happens,” my mother said as she plunked down solidly on the bench, “Noah got a hit today.”

“Maybe something else good will happen today,” I said, watching Andrew as he coached the next player.

“Let’s not get greedy,” said my practical mother.

Noah had two more at-bats during the game, and while he wasn’t in the running for MVP or anything, he didn’t embarrass himself,
either. One time he hit the ball solidly, and even though a kid caught it, so it was an out, a couple of the parents called
out, “Nice hit!” which made me want to kiss each and every one of them.

The jerky fathers stayed off to the side and kept their thoughts to themselves. My mother must have made an impression on
them.

The other time he was at bat, Noah made it to first base on his first hit.

“Look at him,” I said to my mother. “Have you ever seen such a serious look on anyone’s face?” He was crouching intently,
his eyes moving back and forth between the next batter and his goal of second base.

“He’s really focusing,” she agreed.

I gazed down at him. “God, I love that kid. Even though he makes me nuts most of the time.”

“That’s how it works.”

I glanced over at her, and she smiled calmly at me. “You’re a little smug—you know that, right?” I said.

Noah never made it to home base that morning, but that was okay. Their team won by a couple of points, and he was grinning
ear to ear as they filed past the other team to give them high fives. Mom and I made our way to the bottom of the bleachers,
and Noah ran over to us.

“Did you see that, Mom?” he asked, his voice high with delight. “We won!”

I hugged him and told him he did great, and then my mother did the same.

“Thanks. Can I get a snack?” He pointed to the other side of the diamond, where a couple of parents were setting out some
food and drinks on a picnic table. “Come on, Grandma.” He tugged on Mom’s arm and she let him lead her toward the food.

I was following them when Andrew called out to me. I moved toward him as he came closer.

His baseball hat was pushed high on his forehead and you could see the red line from where it had rested before. He was wearing
aviator sunglasses and his temples were damp with sweat. “Our boy got some nice hits today,” he said with an enormous grin.

“Thanks to you.”

He shook his head. “He made them all by himself.”

“Yeah. The hours and hours you’ve spent helping him… they probably had nothing to do with it.”

He acknowledged that with a noncommittal shrug. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you today,” he said.

“Why?”

“I needed to tell you something.” He hesitated then said all in a rush, “I wanted you to know that I didn’t cancel on Sunday
because I was out of town. I canceled because Gracie and I broke up on Saturday night and had some… sorting out to do.” Another
pause. “I wanted you to know that,” he said again.

I looked down at my feet. Weeks earlier, Noah had taken a Sharpie to my Converse sneakers—with my permission—and drawn stick
figures all over them. I studied his drawings now like they were suddenly new and fascinating. “You guys broke up?” I said.
“Really?”

“You can’t be that surprised,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh. “You were there for part of it.”

“I kind of figured you’d made up,” I said. “You disappeared with her.”

“We had to talk. We’d been together almost two years. I didn’t want to rush anything.”

No, he wouldn’t want to rush anything. If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that Andrew Fulton never wanted to rush
anything. I risked a glance up at him. He had tugged his baseball cap back down low, so it almost met his sunglasses. He was
in hiding. “So what made you decide it was time?” I asked.

“She said something—” He shook his head. “It was just one of those moments when you see something clearly. Made me realize
there was no point anymore.”

I was desperate to know what she had said. But clearly I wasn’t supposed to ask. “I’m sorry,” I said, even though I wasn’t.
I was glad. “It can’t be easy to break up after you’ve been together so long.”

“It’s certainly time-consuming,” he said with another short laugh.

A mother came toward us, but something about the way we were talking together made her hesitate and then move away again.

“I’ve been thinking,” Andrew said after she’d retreated.

“Of course you have.”

“I—” He stopped. He seemed stuck.

Another mother came up to us, pulling her kid behind her by the arm like she was towing a broken-down bicycle. “Same time
next week, Coach?”

He jumped to attention and seemed slightly relieved by the interruption. “Our game’s at nine-thirty,” he said. “It’s on the
schedule. But I want the kids here early so we can fit in a practice first, so try to get here by nine.”

“I didn’t ever get a schedule,” she said.

“Really? I handed them out last week and e-mailed them.”

“Not to me.” She sounded slightly affronted, like the oversight was personal.

“Hold on, I have some more in my bag.” He put his hand on my arm. “Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

“Okay.”

He took care of the woman and then there was a dad who had a question and another mother who needed something. He couldn’t
get away but he kept looking over at me and giving me the just-one-more-second raised finger.

Noah and Mom came back over to me. Noah’s lips were orange.

“Looks like they had cheese puffs,” I said.

“GF ones,” Noah said happily. “I took two bags.”

“Shall we go?” my mother asked.

I didn’t know how to tell her that I needed to wait. That I wanted to wait. “Let me just say good-bye to Coach Andrew,” I
said instead. I went back over to him.

My hair had grown out so much that I had to shove it out of my eyes as I approached him. I touched his arm and said “Excuse
me” to the father he was chatting with. “They want to leave,” I told Andrew. “My mom and Noah.”

He thought for a moment. “Could
you
stay? Let your mother bring Noah home?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“I can drive you home.”

“Oh. Okay.” I wandered back to them. I said, “Mom, do you mind taking Noah home and watching him for a little while longer?”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. It’s just… Andrew wants to talk to me.”

She studied my face. “About Noah, you mean?”

“I don’t know.” I avoided her gaze. “Can you just—?”

There was a pause. Then: “All right,” she said. “I can take Noah. But, Rickie—”

I cut her off. “It’s okay, Mom. Really. I’m not being stupid or anything. It’s okay.”

She nodded. I couldn’t tell if she believed me or not. “Come on, Noah,” she said.

“You’re not coming with us?” Noah said to me.

“Not right now, but I’ll be home soon.”

It was a sign of what a good mood he was in at the moment that he didn’t object, just said good-bye and let Mom lead him away.

His terminal cough had completely disappeared.

The two teams who were playing next were already moving onto the diamond by the time Andrew got rid of all the parents who
wanted his attention. One of the mean dads was the last holdout. He was talking Andrew’s ear off about something while his
kid stood there listening, his brow furrowed in a Little-League imitation of his father’s unpleasant scowl.

I moved closer and heard Andrew say calmly, “If you’re not happy with the way I coach, please feel free to find another team.”

“He has friends on this team,” the father spat out. “The
team
is fine—I just want you to do your job right.”

“I have to go now,” Andrew said. He clapped the boy on the shoulder in a friendly way. “Bye, Jordan. You played great today.”
He walked away from them and, scooping up his gym bag, said to me, “Come on, let’s go.”

“Where to?” I asked, falling into step with him.

“Anywhere away from him.” We walked in silence for a
moment and reached the parking lot. “I’m hungry,” Andrew said. “You have time for lunch?”

“Sure.”

He opened the passenger-side car door first and held it for me while I got in, then carefully closed it behind me before going
around to his side.

As he drove, we talked about Noah and the moment when he had gotten that first hit. Andrew said, “I’ve never wanted anything
so much in my life.”

“Me too,” I said. “The whole world became that one ball.”

But I got the sense this wasn’t what he wanted to talk to me about, not what he had “been thinking” about.

The sandwich place he picked was noisy and crowded. We ordered at the counter—he paid for both of us—and took our food to
a booth where we ate quickly, hungrily. I told him how my mother had shut up the evil dads, and he whistled admiringly. “I
love your mother,” he said.