Hardball Page 2

  “In New York.” I kissed his cheek. “We don’t privatize utilities here in paradise.”

  “Such a know-it-all. A real wisenheimer.” He turned his hand into a flat plane and shook it at me. He’d brought his comedy schtick right from his family synagogue in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn.

  Our kitchen was massive, and the appliances were from the same era as the furniture. Only Dad’s handy repairs kept everything in beautiful working order.

  I took the lid off the simmering pot. “Oh. Pot roast.”

  “You staying for dinner?”

  He looked at me with his brown eyes. Mine were an icy non-color. Almost blue. Sometimes grey. His skin was olive, and mine was peachy. But he’d been a father to me since I was born.

  As her divorce attorney, he’d fallen in love with my pregnant mother. He got her the house in the settlement and moved into it. I was six when my mom died. He hadn’t blinked, adopting me without my biological father’s interference. I didn’t appreciate that properly until I was twelve, when he’d brought a woman home to meet me. I didn’t remember her name, but she had red hair and was younger than he was. She ignored me so noticeably that Dad excused himself, picked up my plate, and he and I ate dinner in the kitchen while she finished alone.

  She never came back. When I’d asked him about her later, he said he only needed one woman in the house. It was then that I felt chosen, and that feeling had never left me.

  I put the lid back on the pot. I felt chosen, but I didn’t want him to stay single the rest of his life.

  “How did you peel the potatoes?” I glanced at his hands for signs that he’d aggravated his arthritis.

  “They come peeled at the store now. It’s like they read my mind. So I asked the deli to cut them. Then the lady back there, nice Spanish lady, she cut the carrots too. Even peeled the skins.”

  He shrugged as if to say, “I still got it.”

  “You didn’t close the door again. We should get those lever handles so you don’t have to grip a knob to lock it.”

  He waved again. “Such a mensch. Eat. Then go out.”

  “How did you know I was going out?” I got two plates and cups from the cabinet. They were my mother and bio dad’s good wedding china.

  “You’re single and beautiful. It’s Friday. You don’t need to be a genius.”

  I couldn’t stay home after that. He’d sulk if I did.

  I set the table, and he made his way to his chair, tennis balls sliding across the linoleum. Some days he didn’t need the walker and it was fine, and some days he broke my heart.

  three

  Vivian

  “Well? What do you think?” Francine fidgeted with the fringe on her vintage crochet poncho. It looked like an afghan with a hole, and she looked like a cover model in it.

  “He’s a nice-looking guy.”

  He was Latino, built like a god, probably sang like Enrique Iglesias and fucked like James Deen. But I was barely fifteen minutes late because of an accident on the 10, and he was already making small talk with another girl at the bar.

  “Those are real gang tats,” Larry, Francine’s boyfriend, said. He’d shaved his beard in favor of a Rollie Fingers curled moustache.

  “He’s reformed,” she said with an excited smile.

  My bones could feel how badly she wanted to jumpy-clap. I was her project. Sometimes I wondered if she put my face on Tinder and swiped right on my behalf.

  I had a book burning a hole in my Kindle, and Officer Hotpants was coming at me with an LED smile and two glasses of something I was sure was alcoholic. My mother had been killed by a drunk driver, so if I had the car, I drank Sprite or took a cab home.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking my drink. How long could I nurse it? Maybe ten minutes. And I was thirsty. But I couldn’t be rude and reject the glass, nor could I sound judgmental and tell him the real reason I wasn’t drinking. So I figured I’d just hold it then go home sober enough to remove my mascara and read myself to sleep.

  Francine took the glass from me. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.” She made an apology face at Officer Hotpants. “She’s allergic to lemon. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  “Cool, man, I hate lemon too.” Officer Hotpants took the glass. “They look prettier than they taste, you know what I’m saying?”

  He cocked his glowing handsome face at me. I had no idea what he was trying to say.

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling back.

  “Larry, honey,” Francine said, pushing Larry to the bar. “Can you get Vivian her usual?” She winked.

  “Come on.” Larry patted my setup on the shoulder, and they went to the bar.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Baseball’s on,” she said, indicating the TV behind the bar. “He likes sports. You can talk about that.”

  Francine didn’t know there was no baseball in January, because she thought of sports as played by other people and watched by men.

  And she thought baseball was just another sport, which was incorrect.

  I followed her gaze to the TV, where Youder stood on the Dodger Dreamfield in East Hollywood and said something, which was translated into the snaking black bars of closed captioning. I was going to explain to Francine that that wasn’t baseball, it was an event I’d been at just hours before, when I saw what was behind him.

  Me, taking a ball from Dash Wallace.

  He was ten times more popular Youder was, but he didn’t give interviews. He hadn’t appeared in front of the cameras to accept any of his three Golden Gloves. He was never on television unless it was on the field during a game or in the background of some charity event giving a fan a ball, and when he made the gossip column with this girl or that, he wasn’t facing the camera.

  I watched myself tell him to fuck off and turn my back to him.

  I watched him stare at me walking away.

  I watched him put his fingers to his lips and blow me a kiss before shaking his hand as if I was too hot to handle.

  Then it cut away to a beer commercial.

  The whole incident was so small on the screen it wouldn’t have been noticed by most people, but it was now taking up more space in my head than any other single event in my life.

  Poor Officer Hotpants. He didn’t stand a chance against the heat of my new fantasies. Oh sure, the kiss could have been a “fuck off, lady,” and the shaking hand had shades of “bitch with a hot temper,” but it didn’t. Not on the HD screen. I could see it all because I was looking, and he thought I was cute. Even in my loose jeans and Hobart Elementary hoodie. Even with no mascara.

  I sucked down my Sprite and claimed a headache, then I drove home on the empty freeway with Dash Wallace on the brain.

  four

  Vivian

  Despite my fantasies, it never occurred to me that I’d actually see Dash again. I was a public school librarian with a reading habit, and he was a mysterious and gorgeous athlete with the grace of the wind. Our paths had no reason to cross. So I just put my hands under the sheets and took care of my business, letting the whole thing fade over the weekend.

  Except that one time I looked up Youder’s interview on the Internet. Which I counted as one time even though I watched it about a hundred. I never closed the window and looked it up again. So, one time. Blow kiss. Blow kiss. Blow kiss.

  He for sure thought I was hot, which was true in my little world, but from a guy who could have anyone he wanted, it was a Big Deal.

  I bounced into work on Monday with springs in my shoes and a smile on my face.

  Jim was getting coffee in the faculty room.

  “Good morning!” I said, dropping a bag of apples on the counter.

  “You look chipper.”

  “I am. It’s just nice out. You know, the smog’s all gone in winter, and the sky’s blue. The air’s crisp but not too cold.”

  “Probably a good time to ask you for a favor.” He poured half and half from a tiny plastic pre-serve cup and ripped open another.

  “Another
Dreamfield trip?”

  “Ah, no. I have this thing on Thursday night. The Petersen’s doing a fundraiser party, and I’m a donor.”

  The Petersen Automotive Museum stored classic and prototype cars in its comic-book behemoth building on Fairfax and Wilshire. He couldn’t make enough to donate that kind of cash. We worked for Los Angeles Unified, after all.

  I grabbed a cup from the stack by the coffee pot. “How much do you have to donate to get invited to stuff?”

  “Small potatoes. But I won a raffle. It’s formal. Want to go with me? Not a date or anything. Just I have two tickets and no sisters.”

  “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Ugh, sorry.” After my breakup with Carl, simple sympathy was all I’d wanted to hear, so that was all I gave.

  “Yeah, well…” He drifted off as if looking for words.

  Seeing a big muscular guy broken-hearted hurt my insides. I blamed it on too many romance novels. “You all right?”

  “She’s going to be there with this guy…” He shook his head. Smiled to deflect. Shrugged to lighten the words. “Movie producer. She says they’re friends, but I think it doesn’t matter.”

  I took a sip of the cheap black coffee. Cream and sugar never helped it, so I just drank it black in all its bitter badness.

  “You want me to make Michelle jealous? I’m all for it, but…” I didn’t like seeing my friends hurt, but I’d met Michelle. She was a bodybuilder. I looked down at myself. There was nothing wrong with me, but a bodybuilder I wasn’t. “I’m not the ‘make the ex-girlfriend jealous’ type.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “My friend Francine? You’ve met her. She might do the trick, and she loves cars.”

  “Okay.” He put down his coffee so he could talk with his hands. His mother was Sicilian, and he’d gotten his gestures from her side. “I want you to know it’s not like that between us. You’re my friend. I enjoy the hell out of you in a totally platonic way. But you’re gorgeous. Even with the glasses and baggy shirts. You’re bomb sexy. Not for nothing.”

  I looked at my coffee and cleared my throat. He wasn’t lying, but that didn’t make him right. “If I argue, you’re going to think I’m fishing for compliments.”

  “I won’t think that. But don’t argue. Come on. If you’re sexy enough for me, you’re sexy enough. It’ll be fun. They have games and exhibits. It’s crazy. I’ll drive so you can have a drink.”

  Why not? I had contact lenses and a closet full of designer dresses. If I didn’t make Michelle jealous, so what? I could keep Jim company and have a good time with him.

  I was totally putting on mascara for this.

  “Let’s go have fun then,” I said. “I’ll take a cab over to your house, and we can go sit in the Batman car. I have a dress that will knock you over. I hope she sees it.”

  “You’re a good sport, Viv.”

  The bell rang.

  “This is going to be the height of my week,” I said.

  I grabbed my bag of apples, turned on my springy little heel, and walked out.

  Carl hadn’t been a bad sort. There was nothing technically wrong with him. He wasn’t scary or arrogant. Wasn’t too confident. Just an approachable, low-key guy who didn’t shine too bright or demand too much. I’d felt comfortable about him right away, and we slipped into three years together without thinking. He took my virginity without hurting me or being intentionally gentle. He freaked out a little after at what he’d done and who he’d be for me for the rest of his life. I told him to take it easy. It wasn’t that big a deal.

  We never fought either, which had seemed great. Who wanted to fight? I didn’t. I wanted to come home and relax, watch some tube, have sex (or not), and go to sleep. So that was what I got. Everything was copasetic.

  Then there was a day like any other. I came home from a rough day at Hobart. It was a Friday, and I was looking forward to going out for a drink with Francine and a few of Carl’s friends. He was on the couch after his own rough day of cranking out coffee and saying “yes” a hundred times, binge-watching a show about people who actually did things.

  I asked him if he wanted to come with me to meet Francine and the guys.

  He kept his eyes on the TV. “Nah. You go.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll stay here with you.”

  I texted Francine to bail on Friday and plan for Saturday and plopped onto the couch.

  I don’t know if it was ten minutes into the show, after a few jokes and bonding comments, or an hour later. I just don’t remember. His feet were entwined with mine and half-buried in the space between couch cushions.

  “I’m bored,” he said.

  “Wanna go out? It’s not too late.”

  “No,” he said, poking at his popcorn as if he was unsure what he wanted out of the conversation. “I’m bored overall.”

  “I get it,” I said, not getting it at all. “Maybe take some art classes? You can do nights at the coffee shop.”

  “Listen to me!” he hissed. “I’m dead inside. I’m dead in this apartment. I feel like I’m a rat in a glue trap.”

  For months, I couldn’t get over how he’d seemed angry at my suggestion. How he’d tightened his jaw as if I was a complete imbecile. He’d never spoken to me like that. We’d never raised our voices at each other. I thought that was the mark of something good and strong, but it left me unprepared for his venom that night.

  “This is going absolutely nowhere in the biggest hurry.” He tossed the popcorn aside as if he’d just had it with everything.

  My eyes must have been the size of saucers. I’d never been so surprised by anything he’d done.

  “Okay?” I tiptoed around his emotions, which seemed more toxic and messy than usual. “So what do you want to do?”

  He leapt off the couch. “Be done! Just done! I can’t be here anymore!”

  “With me? You’re breaking up with me?”

  “Yes!”

  In retrospect I understood that he really wasn’t angry with me but had to whip up his emotions to initiate the breakup. He was a complete pussy, but I didn’t really believe that until months later. At the time, I was convinced I’d done something to piss him off.

  “What did I do? I don’t understand.”

  He leaned on one foot. He had a flake of popcorn on his T-shirt. I always remembered that. Focused on it. The way he didn’t notice it. I thought it was because he was so mad at being stuck with me that he was a mess, but no. He always had crap on his shirt. He always looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed. He didn’t give a shit and blamed it on me.

  Pulled between the sure knowledge that this horrible turn of events was my fault and the fact that it had nothing at all to do with me, I stood, upending the popcorn onto the carpet. “I’m moving out.”

  The words came out of my mouth before I’d thought them out, but I knew they were right. I felt the relief in my guts, the lightening of my shoulders, the way every corner of my mind was suddenly illuminated.

  “You’re a loser, Carl. You’re the biggest loser I’ve ever met. I’m not responsible for making your life exciting. No woman is. And I swear to God, you’re going to regret this until the day you die alone in some cheap studio in East LA.”

  He left while I packed, probably to meet Francine, Victor, and Larry, which was what I’d wanted to do in the first place. I was mad and hurt and victimized by my own hard words to myself.

  I moved back in with Dad and then… nothing. I was the same. I went out more, read a ton of books, made some friends, got deeply involved in my job, and ran away from romance. Even when Carl tried to bring back the friendship, I pushed him away. His idea of friendship involved kissing me, and as heartbroken as I was, I wasn’t interested in going backward.

  Carl got his life together because he had to. He’d taken the risk of breaking up with me, and he had to prove he’d been right to do that. At least that was how it looked from where I sat. He got a job at
Disney as a receptionist, then he got promoted to development. I saw him at Trader Joe’s buying wine. I didn’t even recognize him, he was so cleaned up and put-together. I was stopping for apples on the way back from work, and I looked as if someone had wrung me out.

  Maybe it hadn’t been Carl. Maybe it was me. Maybe I really had been a dead weight on him. Maybe I was my own dead weight—living with my dad, working a government job that paid in the smallest satisfactions.

  I made conversation with him at the checkout, deflecting from talking about myself so I could hear all about his blossoming adulthood. Every one of my victories and good days seemed clouded by the fact that I’d kept my boyfriend from reaching his potential. He’d been a loser because of my presence in his life.

  Naturally, I went home and cried. Then I got over it. Then months went by, and I stayed numb. I had ups and downs, but they blurred into one another.

  The Monday after Dash Wallace had blown a kiss behind my back was no more up than any other up. I was amped and happy walking to the library, swinging my bag of apples. I had a fun event to go to with a nice guy. Dad’s ball was almost finished in time. I had a job I loved. The sun was shining, and all the world was…

  I turned the corner. The world was… weird.

  The library was locked, and outside it stood a man in charcoal pants and a jacket. Pale blue shirt undone at the neck. I almost didn’t recognize him in dress shoes. I thought he was some overdressed LAUSD administrator coming with a surprise talk about a reduction in funding for libraries, how there was a public library three blocks away, how they were going to just have some shelves in the hallway, how they needed the space for a classroom. I was already listing the phone calls I would have to make to stop whatever it was he’d come to do.