The Truth (4 page)

Both players are down, but Devon, after a moment, gets up. The catcher stays on the ground a while longer, but eventually, he's on his feet too.

Mom starts to stand, but I grab her arm. “Don't.”

“But he might be hurt.”

“You'll only embarrass him. Just wait. He's fine.”

Our coach is arguing with the umpire but to no avail. It's clear what happened. Running into the catcher is illegal, and as a result, he's out. Game over. White Sox lose.

“Why…why did he do that?” I hear Terry say next to me. “The coach had him held up.”

I don't answer. All around me, I hear people talking to each other.

“What was he doing? Didn't he see the stop sign?”

“Kid that size, he might have really hurt him.”

“Surely not on purpose. Not a nice boy like Devon.”

“What's the family doing here, anyway? Would you feel like playing a baseball game if your brother had just killed somebody in your own house?”

“Shhhh, Jack. They're right over there.”

I watch Devon as he is led back to the dugout bench and made to sit down. He seems fine physically, better than the catcher, who is limping away, his coach barking in anger at the umpire and pointing at Devon.

Mom can't wait any longer and goes down to see him. As I watch her head toward the dugout where Coach Neville is talking to Devon, his arm around his shoulders, the look I saw on his face as he headed toward home plate pops into my head.

It's the second time I've seen him look like that.

“I gotta go. Talk to you later,” Terry says before he walks away and heads toward Brady.

I watch Mom finally reach Devon, and I wait while she talks to him.

Now

“What,” Derek cuts in, “your kid brother never made a mistake before? Big star baseball player gets called out and doesn't get to be the hero this time, so boo-de-boo-hoo?”

I don't say anything. I don't know what to say.

“He's so good, he's perfect, I guess.”

“He's a better ballplayer than that,” I tell him, feeling defensive.

“I see. He gets thrown out at home plate, your mom makes him go to bed without his supper?”

“No. It's not—”

“What? It's not what, for Chrissake?”

“Look, you told me not to leave out anything.”

Derek stares at me for a moment. “True,” he says finally, the garden shears not moving. “Okay then. You were saying, ‘It's not…'?”

I take a breath. “It's not like him to knock the catcher down like that. Or to ignore what the coach told him to do. It's…”

“Mean,” Derek responds after a moment. “Christ, he's a ten-year-old kid. All ten-year-olds are mean.”

“No, you don't understand.” The look on Derek's face makes me stop. A look that says maybe I'm pushing things too far.

But after a long moment, he pulls back, letting out a sigh. “Maybe I don't understand. Explain it to me.” With one hand, he gestures magnanimously, emphasizing that I continue.

With the other hand, he still holds the garden shears in place.

Then

Devon goes up to his room as soon as we enter the house, and Mom follows. I wait downstairs. Two minutes later, Mom comes back, exasperated. “He won't say a word to me,” she grumbles. “You go talk to him. He talks more to you than to me anyway.”

Before I head up the stairs, I see Mom rooting in a drawer and pulling out a cigarette. I haven't seen her smoke in months. She sits and stares at it, struggling over whether or not to light it.

I find Devon lying on his bed. Seeing him like this reminds me he's going to need a new bed soon, as tall as he's getting. He still has his uniform on, including his muddy cleats, which he has up on the sheets.

“Get your cleats off,” I tell him. When he doesn't comply, I raise my voice a little. “Devon…”

He uses each foot to shove the cleat off the other. They fall haphazardly on the floor, and he turns on his side away from me.

This isn't like him. “What's going on?” I ask, sitting next to him on the bed.

His face remains in a scowl. I can see he's been crying.

“Are you upset because of the game?” I'm almost positive that's not it.

He doesn't answer.

“It just means you get to play an extra game. Heck, that's no problem. I know you guys'll do well.” Trying to keep things light.

Still nothing.

“Is it because you made the last out?”

After a few seconds, he shakes his head.

Part of me says to leave him alone for a while, that he'll tell me when he's ready.

But then I remember the look on his face as he came barreling in from third, and it scares me.

“You ignored the coach on purpose, didn't you?” I ask. “You saw him put up the stop sign at third, but you went through it anyway.”

Devon shifts his position but doesn't speak.

“You could have slid, but you put your arms up,” I push. “Did the catcher do something or say something to you when you were batting that made you mad?”

Silence.

“Devon?”

Nothing.

In a quieter voice, I say, “It's not like you. Talk to me. Did you want to hurt him?”

Devon mumbles something.

“What? I didn't hear you.”

“I'm sorry,” Devon utters. He's fighting back more tears.

“He's going to be okay. Nothing serious.”

“I lost the game for us.”

“No, you didn't. And it was just one game, Devon. No big deal. Do your best. Have fun. If you win, great. If you don't, it's okay. You know that.”

He nods.

“So if you're mad at yourself, don't—”

“I'm mad at
you
!”

His intensity shocks me. “At me? Why?”

“You shouldn't have—” He cuts himself off by shoving his face into his pillow.

I try to wait him out, but when it doesn't look like he's going to pull his face away anytime soon, I try, “Devon?”

He doesn't answer. Stays where he is.

“Devon!” I say more firmly. “Look at me.”

After a few seconds, he lifts his head. His face is streaked with tears again. He still looks angry.

My mouth feels dry as I speak. “Why are you mad at me? It's okay to tell me.”

Again, he says nothing.

“Devon?”

Silence.

“We've always been able to talk about stuff.”

“I'm tired,” he insists, defiance on his face.

“All right. Maybe later. You know you can talk to me about anything. Right?”

He wipes his nose with his hand.

“You need a shower before bed.”

“Okay.”

“Put your uniform in the hamper.”

“I
know
that,” he emphasizes. But sometimes, if I don't tell him, Mom or I will find it all bunched up on the floor near his bed.

“I think I better change those sheets. You got 'em dirty.”

“I'll do it,” he says, surprising me.

“That's all right. You get in the shower.”

“
I'll
do it.” He looks at me, scowling.

I don't push this time. “Okay.”

I watch him as he yanks the sheets off the bed and throws them onto the floor.

He doesn't look at me.

• • •

I find Mom in her room. I knew she was in there, listening to us. I could smell the cigarette smoke.

“He's just being ornery,” she says.

“It's not like him.”

“Oh, come on. He's ten years old.”

After a moment, I just shrug.

“Just talk to him later.”

“I guess.” I look at her. “Would you mind if I went for a walk?”

“No. Go ahead,” Mom says. “Take your time. I'll get him to bed if you're not back.”

Better she do it than me anyway, as angry as he seems to be with me.

Then

It's still muggy outside. The hot summer weather came early; we don't usually get this till August.

I don't know why I'm out here. I don't go for walks anymore. I used to go for walks with Dad. Something we started when I was eight. We'd do it after dinner, just to talk about stuff. If he were on night shift, we'd walk together to the station, which is just six blocks from our house. One of his fellow cops coming off shift would take me home.

The last time I walked with him was the night before he was killed. He was going on day shift the next day, and he'd had two days off to get himself acclimated again from a month of nights. But he had agreed to pull a double shift to help someone out and was working that night straight through to the end of the next day. I was a little nervous about it because I always felt better when he was on the day shift. My thinking back then was that night shift was more dangerous because more bad people were out at night.

What did I know? Police can get killed during the day too.

After Dad died, I worked hard at remembering everything about our last walk, everything we talked about.

There was nothing special about that night. It was late summer; school was starting in about a week. Eighth grade. As is inevitable, Dad mentioned the Phillies. “Things didn't work out for them this year,” he says, “but if they could just make the right move or two this off-season, they could be right back in the hunt, I'm telling you. Don't you think, Chris?”

“It'd be nice,” I offered. By the time I was thirteen, I'd pretty much given up pretending I liked sports of any kind. It still didn't stop him from trying to talk about baseball with me, his true sports love, or from hoping that I would change someday and begin sharing that same love with him.

Not that it had really mattered at that point. He had Devon. And Devon absolutely loved baseball. He'd play it every day year-round if he could.

Dad would tell us how, when Devon and I each were babies, he would hold us in his favorite chair and read baseball box scores from the newspaper out loud every morning.

With Devon, it stuck.

Devon has natural instincts when it comes to athletics. He has Dad's blond hair and fair complexion, and is big and strong through the chest and shoulders, like our father was. I have Mom's dark coloring, angular face, and I'm slender, like she is. And I have no athletic ability whatsoever. Comparing the way the two of us move, Devon has a smoothness and grace I've never had, even as big as he is. Me, I'm just gawky.

“I'm glad they're starting that fall league and Devon's going to get a chance to play baseball some more,” Dad said. “You wait and see. Your brother's hitting is going to get a lot better. His bat's slow right now because he's so big for his age and he's still getting used to his own body. But one day, maybe in fall ball, maybe next summer, the light's gonna go on, and then, watch out. When he starts getting hits, they're gonna be monsters.”

Dad never got to see the results of that light going on in his younger son's mind, or know the success Devon is having now, the reputation he's gained.

I know he'd be proud.

I don't know why I decided to walk this way; it's too painful, even after three years.

Time to go back. I'm standing in front of the police station as I turn back the way I came.

“Chris.” Detective Fyfe is coming out of the station. “Do you need something?”

I remember more about him now. Throwing a baseball with me at those barbecues when I was seven, eight years old. Giving me pointers. Not that they did much good.

Again, I remember him talking to me at Dad's funeral.

Don't worry, Chris. The punk who did this is gonna pay.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

I shrug. “Just walking.”

“Do you want a ride back home?”

“It's only six blocks.”

“Okay. I'll see you around then.”

I don't even realize I'm going to ask the question until he starts to walk away and I blurt out, “Can you tell me who he was?”

Detective Fyfe stops, looks back at me. “Who?”

“The kid I…shot.” I let out a long breath. “What was his name?”

He stares at me a moment.

Finally he says, “Come with me.”

There's a bench half a block from the station next to the Maple-Braden war memorial honoring the township's residents who have died in war. We sit.

“You haven't watched the local news reports about this on TV?”

I shake my head.

“Why are you asking then?” Detective Fyfe says.

“I don't know. He must have a family. Maybe I should…talk to them, try to explain—”

“You
definitely
should
not
do that. Got it?”

After a moment, I nod, and Detective Fyfe looks away. He stares straight ahead for a moment before looking at me again. “I'm only telling you this now because there's gonna be an article about it in the paper tomorrow. You'd eventually find out on your own anyway. His name was Caleb Brannick.”

“Was he from around here?” I ask.

“He lived a couple of townships over. We're pretty sure he did those other break-ins around here too.”

“He was in school?”

“No. He'd been on his own for about four months after he ran away from home.”

“How old was he?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus.” After a long moment, I whisper, “That's not…that's not even high school.”

“He was in seventh grade. Though, like I said, he was a runaway.” Detective Fyfe looks at me. “It doesn't change a thing, Chris.”

“What do you mean?” I blurt out. I feel myself shaking. “Christ, that's only three years older than Devon.”

“Chris, look at me.” When I finally do, Detective Fyfe says, “It doesn't matter if he was thirteen or thirty. You didn't have a choice. He
did
have a choice. He made a bad one and he paid for it. It's as simple as that.”

He takes a deep breath then says in a gentler tone, “This is a tough thing, son, I know. You're not gonna get over it just like that. But you did the best you could. You did the right thing. You keep telling yourself that, because it's true.” He takes another breath. “But you need to try to put it behind you. Not only for your sake, but for your family's too. 'Cause you're the man of the house.”

He pats me on the shoulder; he might be about to stand up when I suddenly ask, “How well did you know my father? I mean, were you friends?”

Detective Fyfe studies me a moment before he says, “I knew him pretty well. Well enough to be invited to his barbecues. He had a lot of friends on the force. A lot of people liked your dad. He was a good man. As good as they get.” He stands up. “Come on. I'll give you a ride home.”

“It's not far. I'll walk.”

“I said I'm giving you a ride home. Let's go.”

We drive the six blocks in silence. In front of my house, as I'm about to get out he says, “Hey.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a small card, writes something on the back, then hands it to me. “This has my number at the station on it. I've also written down my cell phone number. If you need something—to talk, anything—you call me, okay? Anytime. Your mother too. Anything she needs. Tell her that for me.”

“Okay.” I put it into my wallet as he pulls away.

I take a deep breath and wait a minute before going back inside my house. So now I know for sure who the intruder was—and how old he was. Caleb Brannick. Thirteen years old. Dead. If I hadn't gone downstairs, if I had just called the police and waited with Devon until they'd arrived, even if I had just tried to get him out of the house instead of me going into that kitchen, none of this would have happened.

Taking another deep breath, I look up at the window to Devon's room. Maybe I can still go in there and tell him good night.

But I decide it's better just to leave him alone as I go back in through the front door.