Usual disclaimers apply about owning not a thing. Author's note at the end.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………........................................................
"…Nineteen…twenty…twenty-one…twenty-two…twenty-three…twenty-four…twenty-five."
Trey waits. He's sitting cross-legged on the bed he shares with his younger brother and he has an open book in front of him. Matt Christopher's "Return of the Home Run Kid." He's not reading, though. He tried, earlier, after Ryan and Dawn had left for the church and when he knew it was still too soon for his dad to be coming home. When there was no chance he'd miss the headlights. He'd read the same paragraph four times. He still couldn't tell you what it said.
The shade on the window is up and the only light in the room comes from the small lamp on the table next to his side of the bed. He's kept the overhead light off because knows that, in the relative darkness of the small bedroom, the twin beams from his father's pickup will be noticeable as they illuminate the room for that brief second when he pulls into the drive. Not that he needs the lights to signify his father's imminent arrival. The house is silent and he'll hear the truck's distinctive rumble even before he sees the headlights. He'll hear the truck when it's still blocks away.
Trey looks down at the book again, but gives up without processing a single word. He knows that any attempt to read is futile when he's this anxious. When he's this on edge. So he sits on the bed, stares out the window and counts to 25. He tells himself that his father will absolutely, positively pull into the driveway by the time he reaches 25. But he doesn't. Just as he hasn't the half dozen other times Trey's counted to 25. John and the truck are still nowhere to be seen. They're nowhere to be heard.
Trey's not even aware that he's been holding his breath until he releases it in a long, exasperated stream. He takes the book and hurls it away from him with as much strength as he can muster. It bounces off the closet door with a loud thump and lands on the floor a few feet away. He can see that a page has come loose from the glue of the binding by the way it sticks out at an odd angle from the rest of the pages. Which is just perfect—it's just his luck.
He briefly entertains the idea of ripping the page completely free, discarding it and telling Mrs. Marks that it was already missing when he took the book out on loan. Or not saying anything at all. But, he disposes of the notion almost as quickly as it comes to him. Because, if he does that, the last kid who took the book may get blamed. Or the next kid will. Or some other kid. So, Trey knows that when he returns the book, he'll point out the damage, and he'll take the lecture, the note, the detention, the—the whatever—he's got coming to him for being a moron and throwing the stupid book.
"…22—David McCarty; 23—Steve Scarsone; 24—"
Trey's hung up on 24. He's corresponding the numbers he's counting to this year's expectant Giants' roster. He'd been stuck on three and four until he remembered they were retired. Three was Bill Terry, four was Mel Ott. Five—he couldn't come up with a five and a few others, 15, 16, 20. And now 24. 16—okay, 16 is a crap number. He could maybe see why no one's wearing 16 right now—but 24? Somebody's got to have 24—
Until it comes to him that 24 is also retired. It's been put to rest like the three, the four, the 11. And he's amazed that he didn't remember this immediately. He's more distracted than he thought. Because, any other minute of any other day, he wouldn't have had to hesitate to know that 24 is no longer active. That it's not only retired, but it belonged to the best and most famous Giant ever. Fr. Kevin's favorite player. Arguably the greatest player of all time.
"…24—Willie Mays; 25—Barry Bonds."
Trey's beginning to worry that his father stopped off for a drink on his way home. That his father's at The Grog right now, downing boilermakers with his coworkers, or he's throwing back beers with his buddies at the neighborhood bar. He's tempted to run the three blocks to The Oak Table so he can search the parking lot for his father's truck. He's tempted, but he doesn't. He can't. He needs to be at home when his father arrives and—more importantly—he can't risk not being home if his mother and brother get there first.
Ryan had been so scared this afternoon. Trey thought he was going to piss his pants when Dawn held up the pack of Marlboros, told them where they'd been found and asked Trey to come clean. Oh, she'd made the demand of both boys, but she'd been looking straight at Trey. She'd been staring right at him when she asked the guilty party to fess up. Trey hadn't said a word, he'd stared right back and he didn't say a damn thing. He was quiet for so long that it was Ryan who finally broke the silence. It was his brother who finally mumbled.
"I took them, Mom. I'm sorry."
And that wasn't what Trey expected. It wasn't what he intended, or wanted. It wasn't even close. He'd been on the verge of telling his mother that he was the one who took the smokes when Ryan spoke. So much so that his mouth was even starting to form the words. But he broke it off as soon as Ryan confessed. And in the seconds that followed, in the face of his mother's visible disappointment and in the face of his brother's almost palpable anguish, Trey stayed mute. At the time, he'd been rendered speechless more from the surprise of hearing Ryan's mumbled admission than anything else. But—now that he's had a chance to think about it—he's decided that he's okay with the way everything's played out. In retrospect, it's perfect.
It's perfect, because if both boys had stayed quiet or if Trey had confessed, his mother would have hauled him kicking and screaming to church with them. She never would have permitted him to stay at home. She would have insisted that he go with them and dig through all the depressing piles of worthless crap that other people threw away. He'd have had to see Fr. Kevin and pretend that everything is okay. That he has no worries other than the baseball strike and the major league season that's doomed to open with a bunch of scabs. He'd have to explain why he isn't signed up for baseball this year and he'd have to act like he understands and accepts that his father can't come up with the $50 for him to play.
Even though he doesn't understand and he doesn't accept it. He doesn't accept it at all. It sucks. It's completely and totally unfair. His father still comes up with the money to buy things for himself. He still manages to find the money to buy the cartons of Marlboros, the cans of beer, the nights out with his friends at the Oak. His mother finds the money to buy the makeup, the hair dye, the bottles of liquor. So, really, the only ones who've been asked to give up anything at all are Trey and Ryan. And Ryan never asks for anything, anyway. So it's really only Trey. And the one lousy thing that Trey wants is to play baseball.
It's not like he's even asking to play real Little League—the Babe Ruth League with the uniforms you get to keep, the decent ball fields and the occasional night games under the lights with Todd Morales and the rest of the good players from school. All he wants to do is to sign up for stupid CYO with the cruddy fields the churches borrow and the used uniforms you return at the end of every season. Heck, he doesn't even want to play in the Babe Ruth League. He wouldn't play in the Bambino League if it was even an option. Not that it is. He wants to play for Fr. Kevin. He wants to play for the only coach in the CYO league who was actually a professional player. Even if he's the only coach in the CYO league who is actually a priest.
Fr. Kevin is an amazing coach and it's awesome to play for him. Part of the fun comes from learning from a real pro and not just some random player's father who's learned everything he knows from the softball beer league on Saturdays. Part of the fun comes from watching the expressions on the faces of opposing players as they go from undisguised scorn and pity for the losers with the priest for a coach, to absolute awe and envy when Fr. Kevin starts to warm up his team. Because, when Fr. Kevin steps onto the field and starts running BP, starts hitting long flies to the outfield, starts a game of pepper, all the other kids just stop what they're doing and watch. Every time. It never gets old. They stop and stare, because it's patently obvious in no time at all that the priest in the black shirt, the clerical collar, the shorts and the Tevas—the priest from the run-down crappy parish with the torn up fields and the gaping hole in the right field fence—the priest who is Trey's coach—the priest who was Trey's coach—has game.
Trey'd even gone so far as offer to give up his birthday and Christmas presents just to be able to play ball this season. A suggestion that hadn't gone over particularly well, since it earned him his last appointment with his father and the belt. But, at least he'd obtained something valuable from his suggestion. At least there's no longer any doubt that he's going to have a crap birthday next week. So he won't be the least bit surprised—he won't be the least bit disappointed—he won't even react—when he gets absolutely nothing. He expects nothing.
Trey's glad he didn't have to encounter Fr. Kevin tonight and put on a big act. Mostly, because Trey's sick and tired of pretending. He's sick and tired of pretending that everything's okay. Because, he's been doing that all day. Or, at least he's been doing it since he came home to his mother waving around the stupid pack of cigarettes and Ryan's surprise confession. He'd had to pretend to Ryan and to his mom that everything was fine. That he didn't have a care in the world, since Ryan's the one who confessed and Trey's the one who's getting off scott-free. It was a lot harder fooling Ryan than it was fooling his mom. Because Ryan is always able to read Trey so well. Better than anyone. So, the only way Trey could pull it off was to avoid being alone with his little brother. Avoid eye contact. A plan that momentarily backfired when he managed to be so consistently and annoyingly underfoot that his mom finally demanded that the boys go into their own room to play. Though when they did, he made sure the bedroom door stayed open, knowing that Ryan wouldn't risk asking him what was going on with their mother within earshot.
It worked, too. Because he pulled out the baseball cards, climbed onto the bed and started reading the stats on the back, and when Ryan climbed on the bed to join his brother, Trey quizzed him on them. Quizzed himself, too, his eyes never leaving the back of the cards. Because, if he was looking at the back of the cards… if he was reading from the back of the cards… well, then he couldn't see the disappointment—the confusion—the accusation—the questions—in his brother's eyes. And Ryan couldn't see what was going on in him. Because if Ryan could see what Trey was planning, he'd mess everything all up. It was better to have Ryan think that he was abandoning him. It was better to have him think he was going to let him take the blame than have him mess everything up. And Ryan would most definitely mess everything up.
"…19-Bob Feller; 20-Frank Robinson; 21-Roberto Clemente; 22-Jim Palmer; 23-Ryne Sandberg; 24-Willie Mays; 25-Barry Bonds."
Trey's corresponding the most famous baseball players with the jerseys they wear…or wore. Ryne Sandberg's a stretch, but he can't think of another number 23. He's cheating with Willie Mays and Barry Bonds. He used them before, but Willie Mays has to be the best 24 and Barry Bonds is convenient. He's a good player and he's a Giant. But, even as he gets through number 25, there's still no sign of his father. Again, he thinks briefly about running out to the Oak. Because there's a chance, however slim, that his father is there. But, he doesn't entertain the thought too seriously. Not really. Because, there's really no way his dad stopped off. His dad's all kinds of pissed off and eager to kick Trey's ass. And Trey doesn't believe for one minute that bull his mom handed them earlier about how Ryan would get the belt if he didn't come clean. That his dad would be gunning for Ryan just because the smokes were found in his drawer. That's not how it works. Not when everyone knows that Ryan didn't take the cigarettes. Not when everyone knows that Trey took the smokes.
Except he didn't.
Except it was Ryan who took the stupid cigarettes. Ryan took the cigarettes and Trey didn't have a clue. Not even when his dad was in his face last night, holding him by the hair on the back of his head, shoving the carton under his nose and demanding to know where the missing pack was. Not even then. Because Trey didn't even think there really was a pack missing. He thought his dad was drunk and mistaken. Or, he thought his mom had taken them, but didn't want to tell his dad when he was already so loaded, so angry, so mean.
Trey didn't even know that Ryan took the smokes until this afternoon when his mother was holding them up, waving them around, staring at Trey and demanding that he come clean. He's still a little pissed off at Ryan, since he would have liked some warning. He hated the feeling of being ambushed when he came home to the sight of his mother and the pack of smokes. He hated being thrown off balance like that. He hated being at such a complete and utter lack of words. And—and, seriously—what a dumb-ass. What a spectacularly stupid thing to do. Who takes an entire pack of smokes? Trey's been pilfering cigarettes from his parents for years now—since he was Ryan's age—but he'd never been caught. He's always taken one here, another there. Always a couple days, a couple weeks in between. Never more than one at a time. Never a whole pack.
Trey may have even have considered letting his little brother face their father tonight. He may have considered not shouldering the blame. Except he owed Ryan one. He owed Ryan a couple. He owed Ryan more than a couple. For the other night when he'd eaten dinner with the Lawrence twins and he hadn't come home until after Home Improvement ended and for the countless times Ryan got into trouble simply because he went along with Trey and one of his stupid plans. Ryan's been on the receiving end of his father's belt—his father's fist—enough times because of him. So, tonight, Trey will take one for his brother. That is, if their father gets home. If their father beats Ryan and their mother home.
If their father gets home first, Trey will meet him at the door and he will offer his false confession. He will tell his father that he did what everyone already thinks they know. He stole the smokes and he put them in his little brother's drawer. He will take the punishment and, by the time Ryan gets home, it will be too late. His mother will think that Trey finally did what he should have done hours ago. And Ryan won't say anything. Ryan won't say anything because there's really no sense in both of them getting beaten—and because if Ryan says something, it would negate what Trey did. It would make what Trey did all for naught. And Ryan wouldn't do that.
Trey throws himself back on the bed, stares at the ceiling, and glides twin prayers heavenward. He prays that his dad gets home before he counts to 25—and he prays that his mother and his brother get delayed at the church.
"1—Billy Martin; 2—2's not retired; 3—Babe Ruth; 4—Lou Gehrig; 5—Joe DiMaggio; 7-Mickey Mantle..."
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Author's note: There's still a little fight life left in Trey, yet, TeacherTam. I think this is why the Ryan chapter was so hard to write. I'm lousy at keeping secrets…and apparently at keeping reviews. Urgh!
Feedback from all is always appreciated.