Dry as Rain (5 page)

I hadn't realized I wasn't breathing until I finally allowed myself to suck in air. “Thank God,” I said. “You okay now?”

“Yeah, I'm sort of weird looking, swollen and stuff, but I'm fine. They gave me a shot that's helping.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Nah, it was just an allergy. The only thing is—” he hesitated—“one of the medics says they can give me a medical discharge for this.”

“For an allergy?”

“He's kind of a smart-aleck type, so I don't know if he was just messing with me or what. Hang on; my sergeant just walked in.” After a pause, Benji said, “He wants to talk with me. I gotta go.”

Knowing the conversation was already coming to an end made me start missing him before we'd even said good-bye.

My words were fast and clipped as I tried to shoehorn in the million-dollar question. “Is it everything you thought it'd be? The Navy, I mean?”

“I was born for this. Hey, I really gotta go. Don't tell Mom, okay? I don't want her freaking over nothing.”

“You got it,” I said, trying not to sound as worried as I felt. “I love you, Son.”

“You too,” he mumbled before hanging up. In so many ways he was still a teenager, even if he was a man.

Setting the phone on the table, I lay back on my pillow. With my arms bent behind my head, I stared at the window watching dusk turn to dawn, wondering if Benji really could be kicked out over an allergic reaction. I didn't think so and I couldn't allow my mind to dwell too much on that possibility. It would devastate him. Being a sailor was the only thing my son had ever wanted for himself.

Trying to push the worry from my mind, I closed my eyes and attempted to fall back asleep so that I could get another few minutes before having to get showered for work.

Birds chirped outside my window. I'd started to grow used to their sounds, which were different from the ones at my house. The kind in my yard just chirped and sang like normal birds. Here they sounded like they were spewing accusations and naming names. I listened to one screech, “Stell-a! Stell-a!” over and over.

Trying to get comfortable and keep the sunlight streaming in through the untreated window out of my eyes, I flipped to my stomach and pulled the thin cover over my head. No sooner did the Stella bird shut up than another cried what sounded an awful lot like “Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.”

After a while, irritation won out over fatigue. I huffed, climbed out of bed, and banged on the glass. The judgmental bird finally shut up.

I hurried back to the couch, hoping to fall asleep before the birds could start their racket again. As soon as I closed my eyes, my phone beeped. Thinking maybe Benji had sent a follow-up text message, I snatched it up, but it was from Danielle.

I can't stop thinking about you. xo

Right on cue, the bird restarted his obnoxious chirping, “Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.”

I jumped up and threw open the window. “Shut up!”

A bang sounded from the wall connecting the living room to Larry's bedroom, and I knew he'd either elbowed or kicked it to tell me to do the same.

Feeling sick to my stomach—over Kyra, Benji, and now Danielle—I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and decided that maybe taking a walk might help clear my head or at least get me away from that stupid bird.

Six

I should have been hungry. Except for a few stale donut holes, I hadn't eaten since lunch the day before, but still I had no appetite. Particularly not after coming through Larry's front door, fresh from my walk, to find him sprawled on the couch in a T-shirt and boxers with a half-eaten breakfast sandwich parked on his protruding gut. His hairy legs rested on the cluttered coffee table between a stack of
Runner's Life
magazines and a mangled box of tissues.

I closed the front door, shutting out the morning light, and hung my keys beside a well-worn Miami Dolphins cap on the wall rack.

With one giant bite, he shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and set his feet on the floor. He managed to speak around a mouthful of egg, cheese, and—by the looks of it—bacon. “Please tell me I didn't get our days off backwards. Today is Tuesday, not Saturday, right?”

“It's Tuesday,” I said, taking off my Nikes. I lined them up side by side next to a small mound of sneakers and shoes, most of which still had dirty socks tucked inside them.

Larry's arm lay draped over the back of the couch as he looked over his shoulder at me. “So, why are you home?”

“I called in sick.”

“Seriously. Did Thompson's burn down or something?”

“You think I can't get sick?” I knew I sounded defensive and I guess I was.

“Chill, dude. I'm just saying you'd go to work if you had a chainsaw lodged in your skull, that's all.” He turned back to look at the TV weatherman apologizing for the promise of rain that hadn't materialized.

“Sorry, man, I'm just—”

“Forget it.” He scratched at the fur on his forearm. “What happened between last night and this morning anyway? You look rougher than a drunk on payday.”

“That's better than I feel.” I rubbed my gritty eyes and gave him the lowdown on Benji.

He grabbed the remote off the table and pointed it at the TV, silencing it. “Listen, why don't I get out of here so you can have some quiet?”

“No way. I'm not kicking you out of your own house.”

Waving a paw in dismissal, he said, “I've got errands to run anyway.”

Of course he was just saying that to be nice. As tempted as I was to pretend to be clueless to my friend's need for downtime, my conscience wouldn't let me. “What errands?”

His gaze roved around the room, finally settling on a balled-up napkin sitting on the windowsill. “Uh . . . toilet paper.”

“Toilet paper—that's the best you can do?”

He shrugged.

“How about a compromise? You stay, but maybe keep the noise down to a dull roar?”

“Deal.” He pulled at the gray patch in his goatee. “Listen, why don't you go crash in my room? My bed is a heck of a lot more comfortable than that block of cement I've got you sleeping on. Besides, it's like a cave in there.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but then surrendered. A dark room and soft bed sounded pretty good. “You sure you don't mind?”

“If you don't mind a little mess, it's all yours.”

Helping myself to Larry's bedroom, I shut the door. The smell of kitty litter was immediate and pervasive. It emanated from an open bag leaning against the wall by the closet. In the divorce, Tina had traded her claim to their small house in exchange for custody of their three cats and the Lincoln. Larry said he missed having pets but decided, with his long work hours, it wouldn't be right to replace them. I guess maybe the smell still reminded him of them. To me, it just plain stunk, but I figured after a few minutes, my nose would stop registering it. At least I hoped so.

Larry's bed was nothing but a couple of mattresses piled atop a metal frame, but under the circumstances, it looked fit for a king. Stepping around an empty bowl lying on the carpet beside an unused paintbrush and a bent spoon, I pulled off my T-shirt, then crawled into bed.

The sheets were a soft flannel and looked clean enough. So was the brown comforter, although a bit threadbare. Finding no pillow, I leaned over the edge of the bed and peered down. Sure enough, I spotted one lodged between the mattress and wall. After yanking it free, I folded it in half to double it and slid it under my head. I pulled the cover up around my waist and lay there on my side staring at the empty computer desk. It was the only clean area in the room.

When I closed my eyes, I tried to imagine what Kyra might be doing right then. Would they have her in a group therapy session where she'd ramble on about what a horrible husband she'd been saddled with?

I thought of Benji and the chance, however slim, that he might be medically discharged from the Navy. My cell phone beeped and I knew without pulling it out of my pocket that it would be another message from Danielle, asking why I hadn't answered her last one and maybe asking if I was really sick or just trying to avoid her. The answer, of course, was a little of both. Restless, I turned from my back to right side, then left, then back again, and finally sat up. A soft tap came from the closed door.

“Yeah?” I called.

“I'm running down to Quick Way,” Larry said through the closed door. “You want anything?”

“Just a noose if they've got one.”

There was silence, followed by the sound of the knob turning. The door opened and he stuck his head in. A white splotch of what appeared to be toothpaste clung to the corner of his mouth. “You're not laying there naked, are you?”

I made a face. “What? No.”

“Good. I don't want to have to burn my sheets. Get ready. You're going with me.”

“I'm trying to take a nap, remember?”

“Sorry, you lost the privilege of being alone when you mentioned hanging yourself.”

“I was joking.”

“Get your shoes on.”

I yanked the pillow from behind me and chucked it at the door. He ducked just in time. It thumped against the doorjamb and hit the floor. “Get out and let me sleep.”

He eyed the room like a cop. “Not a chance. You're coming with me if I have to drag you.”

I wanted to either bawl or brawl but didn't have the fortitude for either. “Come on, man, give me a break.”

His expression hardened. “I'm counting to three, then coming over there and yanking your skinny butt out of bed.”

I gave him a dull stare.

He held up a finger. “One.”

I didn't react.

“Two.”

I could tell by his face, he wasn't playing. Since he was built like a grizzly, I didn't stand a chance. “Thr—”

With a groan, I yanked the blanket off and swung my feet over the side of the mattress. “Would it matter if I swore on my father's grave that I was only kidding about the noose?”

“It might if you actually liked the man. Get your shoes on.”

* * *

My father was more obsessed with baseball than any American. Most of the memories I had of him centered around the game. He couldn't play to save his life, but that didn't stop him from expecting great things from me.

The last memory I had of him was the day he taught me to hold a bat. I was five and kept spacing my hands too far apart.

“Not like that,” he'd said. Or at least that's how I remember it.

My mother kept my hair sheared in a tight buzzcut back then and the summer sun baked my scalp. I wanted to go inside to escape the heat but was too afraid of my father to ask. I had, after all, seen his temper directed at my mother and didn't want it aimed at me. And so I tried again.

He took the bat from my hands. “Why can't you get this? It's so easy.”

I felt my breathing come fast and my eyes try to fill with tears, but I knew better than to cry. Dad said tears belonged only to women and the weak. I was neither, so I swallowed them down and watched his flash of anger disappear.

“Let's forget about baseball a minute and play a different game,” he said.

Relieved, I smiled.

“Make two fists like I'm doing.”

I did.

“Good. Now keep them there.”

He took his own fist and gently tapped mine with it. “One potato.” Then he tapped my other fist. “Two potato.”

I watched him, confused. This was a baby game. When he got to “seven potato more,” he kept his fist on mine. I tried to move my hand away, but my father grabbed my wrist keeping it in place. “Now, look at our hands.”

I studied his big fist resting on top of my own small one.

“That's the way you hold the bat.”

And that is the way I still, to this day, hold a bat. After getting an ultimatum from Larry that I could either take a trip to the ER or the batting cage, I reluctantly chose the latter. It was there that I gripped the aluminum shaft and raised my elbow behind me.

“You ready?” Larry held the knob on the red metal box that controlled the pitching machine.

I slid the heel of my right sneaker around in the dirt and lifted my elbow. “Ready,” I said.

He turned the knob on the box. The tire operating the pitching machine turned, followed by a loud
shoop
indicating a baseball was flying at me. I kept my eye on the white orbit until it flew within range, then swung hard. I heard the ping, felt the force of impact as the vibration moved down the bat to my hands, and finally heard the sound of the ball jangling the metal fence.

Larry watched it roll to the corner of the cage. “Good one.”

Resuming the position, I waited for the next one. I hit baseball after baseball, until my muscles ached and I stood drenched in sweat. I glanced at the barrel of balls the pitching machine fed from. It was still three-fourths of the way full. I'd planned to empty it but was already on the verge of complete exhaustion.