Summer Light: A Novel (40 page)

Chapter 24

T
HE SUMMER BREEZE BLEW THROUGH
the prison yard and gave the prisoners a little relief from the heat. When Serge looked out through the bars of the yard, he saw a young boy standing there with a baseball glove. It wasn’t visiting day, but even if it was, the person this kid had come to see was no longer there. Serge recognized him as Ricky, Tino’s son.

“What’s he doing?” Serge asked Jim, the guard.

“Sad case,” Jim said. “Comes here every chance he gets.”

“His father’s dead.”

“Tell him that.”

“He doesn’t believe it?”

Jim shook his head. “They had a funeral and everything, but the kid refuses to accept the truth.”

“What does he do?” Serge asked, staring through the bars. The boy was about eight, small and wiry, dressed in a blue T-shirt and Yankees hat. He held his baseball glove on one hand, and he was thumping the ball into it, like a pitcher waiting for a batter to take his stance.

“Stands there. Throws his ball against the wall till I tell him to go home.”

“What about his mother?”

“She’s got trouble all her own.”

“What does he want?”

“Who knows?” Jim asked, watching the boy. “Maybe he’s waiting for his turn to come inside. Like father, like son.”

“That’s a lousy thing to say.”

“I didn’t write the statistics,” Jim said. A skirmish across the yard attracted his attention, and he went to see about it.

Serge stared at the boy. What had he bothered asking Jim for? Serge knew what he was doing: waiting for his father to come play ball with him. Reason didn’t play any part in it. Even after Agnes had banished him and Serge had taken off for the big time, he had always plotted to return for a big father-son reunion.

But something always got in the way: the next game, the next party, the next horse race, the next woman. His kid hadn’t deserved his abandonment. Martin had never stopped waiting and hoping, looking out the window or down the ice, wishing for Serge to come around the corner. Serge knew; no one had to tell him.

“Hey, kid,” Serge called.

The boy was standing across the narrow street, and he pretended not to hear. He just kept throwing his baseball into the glove, staring at it with total and fierce concentration.

“Kid,” Serge said again. “Ricky.”

At that, the boy’s ears perked up, but still he didn’t look over. The ball kept whacking the leather glove, harder and harder.

“Good boy,” Serge said. “Don’t talk to strangers, especially cons.”

Now the kid turned his back, so he wouldn’t see Serge at all. His throwing got more intense.

“You miss your dad,” Serge said. “I miss him, too.”

The kid threw and missed, and the ball went bouncing down the sidewalk and hit a tree. Running for it, the kid might have been fielding a line drive down the left field line. He dug in, slid, came up with the ball. Then he returned to the spot where he had been standing and started throwing the ball into his glove again.

“Your dad was a good man,” Serge said.

The boy said something under his breath, and although Serge couldn’t swear to it, he thought he’d heard a correction: “Is,” the boy said.

“He said you’re a good ball player,” Serge said. “That true?”

Instead of replying, Ricky just wound up and threw the baseball as high as it would go. It exploded out of his hand in a straight shot to the sky, then fell into his glove with a perfect “thwack.”

“Excellent,” Serge said.

Ricky resumed his private game of catch. The day was hot, a beautiful summer day. Serge thought of Lac Vert, wondered where there might be a nice lake or pond around here. Boys should be spending their summer days swimming, playing with friends, not haunting the prison gates for a glimpse of their murdered fathers.

Serge looked at the boy and thought of Tino. There was a strong resemblance: the sinewy build, the high cheekbones, the intense dark eyes, the crew-cut hair. How old had Tino been when he had become more interested in the streets than in playing catch?

“My son played a lot of ball,” Serge told him.

The child seemed not to hear.

“He never stopped. He worked and practiced, day in and day out. Now he’s a professional athlete.”

In spite of himself, Ricky glanced over. He broke his rhythm, and the ball rolled away. This time, when he retrieved it, he took a step closer to the bars and started playing again.

“Yeah, he’s one of the greats,” Serge went on. “Next year he’ll win the Stanley Cup, plays hockey for the Boston Bruins.”

Ricky glanced over, as if trying to discern whether Serge was lying or not. He’d probably heard plenty of lies from his father along the way. Serge had become expert at delivering half-truths and non-truths, telling himself it didn’t matter, that what he did was no one’s business, justifying every lie with a reason.

But he was a liar from way back, and he deserved the kid’s suspicious look.

“Martin Cartier,” Serge said. “The Gold Sledgehammer.”

Ricky lifted his eyebrows as if to say “Maybe yes and maybe no.” Then he began throwing the ball against the wall, catching it on one hop.

“He never stopped practicing,” Serge said again. “He never took his eye off the ball, and don’t you, either. Keep your eye on the ball, Ricky. Make your father proud of you.”

Throw, hop, catch. Throw, hop, catch.

The guard came back from the melee, and he stood at the gate and clapped his hands, scaring Ricky. The boy caught his ball and faced the guard with a mixture of fear and defiance in his eyes.

“Go home, now,” Jim said. “Don’t make me call someone to come get you.”

“I’m waiting for my dad.”

“You know you’re not,” Jim said. “You know your father passed away. Now, I’m sorry about that, but you can’t be hanging around here.”

“I’m waiting for him,” Ricky insisted.

Jim shook his head. “You’re gonna make me call the cops to come get you.”

Ricky’s eyes widened. That had done it: the mention of police. Eight years old, and already he was afraid of the law. Serge felt sorrow for what Tino had done, left to his only boy. If only fathers could live life backward, take their sorry lessons and carry them back to the early days, when their sons were small, when there was still time to make things right.

Scowling, Ricky started to back away.

“Kid, keep practicing,” Serge yelled. “Don’t ever quit.”

“Won’t make a difference,” the guard muttered under his breath.

Ricky tilted his head, as if he’d heard, but he didn’t say anything. He just kept walking backward, one step at a time, throwing the baseball into his glove.

“You a Yankee fan? Who’s your favorite player?” Serge asked.

Ricky opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something. Instead, wheeling around, he revealed the name emblazoned across the back of his T-shirt: MARTINEZ. Serge was proud of him for not speaking.

“Tino Martinez,” Serge said. “Good man.”

Ricky nodded: Serge saw his head bob up and down. He started to walk faster, and then run.

“Don’t come back,” Jim said.

“Practice harder than ever,” Serge called. “And don’t talk to strangers!”

He wondered whether the mail was in yet. Every day he checked. Writing that letter to Martin had given him something to dream about, to hope for. He had a new reason for getting up in the morning, and all it had taken was a stamp and an envelope. He started walking across the yard, to check his mail, and then he began to run.

The Cartiers had decided to stay out in Black Hall instead of the town house, because the country air was a little cooler, fresher, more like Lac Vert, and because it was easier to leave Kylie home during the day.

“Anything you need,” Tobin had said, now that May had filled her in. “I mean it, May. Ask me. He has to be okay. An athlete like Martin…”

“I know,” May said, breaking down. She hadn’t wanted to cry in front of Martin. They still had hope. Teddy hadn’t told them anything definite yet. “It’s so unfair,” May sobbed. “He’s scared, Tobin. I hate to see him scared.”

“He’s got you,” Tobin said. “You’re going through it together.”

They had a long ride up to Boston, and this time he didn’t even try to get behind the wheel, and she knew his vision had changed dramatically since the beginning of the summer.

Neither of them had slept the night before. May had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, knowing that Martin was awake and staring at the wall. She had watched the stars set one by one, into the western sky. By the time the neighbor’s rooster crowed at dawn, she hadn’t even been to sleep. She focused on Serge’s letter. She had brought it from Lac Vert, and she still wished Martin had read it. Thinking about anything else seemed too terrifying.

Today had seemed endless. Neither she nor Martin had been hungry for dinner; en route to his after-hours appointment with Teddy, they had traveled northeast on 395.

“Are you okay?” she asked him now, driving east on Route 90. The Boston skyline was visible, the Prudential and John Hancock towers twinkling above the city, and she felt her stomach flip, wondering what they were heading into.

“Fine. You?”

“Fine,” she said. She knew they were both lying.

It felt strange, driving Martin. May had gotten her license at sixteen, had been driving ever since, and she loved being on the road. But when they were together, Martin always drove.

To break the silence, she turned on the radio. She found a station playing good music, and they listened to a few songs. She felt herself relax and begin to feel as if everything just might turn out all right. Martin must have felt it, too, because he put his hand on her thigh.

“Thanks for driving me,” he said.

“It’s the least I can do,” she said.

“Not just in the car,” he said. “I mean in general. You’ve really been there for me, May.”

“Thank you, Martin,” May said, hearing Tobin’s words of strength. She glanced over, saw him covering one eye then the other, testing his vision with his hands, as if somehow during their long ride the problem had corrected itself.

Following Teddy’s directions, they pulled straight into the hospital parking garage and walked through the skyway to the office tower. Through the glass bridge, they could see the dark waters of Boston Harbor alive with ferries and tanker traffic. Party boats passed by, and faint orchestra music penetrated the glass. Outside, people were enjoying the pleasures of a summer night, but the Cartiers were entering the medical world of air-conditioning, disinfectant, and tension.

In stark contrast to her home office, Teddy Collins’s office at the Boston Eye Hospital was sleek and modern, all gleaming white and chrome. She called them right in, the moment they arrived, to minimize the likelihood of their being seen by other people.

When May started to follow Martin into the exam room, Teddy stopped her at the door.

“I’d like to examine Martin alone,” she said.

“Of course,” May said, feeling sharply hurt. She didn’t want to take it personally, but she couldn’t help feeling a lurch in her stomach.

“Go on in, Martin,” Teddy directed. “Just sit in that seat by the table. I want to show May something.”

Martin nodded, moving inside. Teddy brought May into her inner sanctum and told her she could wait there. She laid a white leather album on the desk before her, placing one hand on the cover.

“My wedding photos,” Teddy said. “With lots of pictures of you and your mother. I thought you might like to see them.”

“Thank you,” May said. She stared at the richly embossed leather, the initials “T & W” entwined in flowing script, and she looked questioningly at Teddy. Had they been wrong in choosing Teddy as Martin’s doctor? To come to her at a time like this, when they were both nearly paralyzed with fear, and to have her show May her wedding photos?

But at the sight of Teddy’s lined and compassionate face, the sense that she was completely present and focused, May’s own eyes filled with tears.

“I love him so much,” May said.