July 4th
"You up for some baseball?"
Greg sets down his beer and looks at Roz. She puts a blueberry pie into a picnic cooler with all the careful precision of a surgeon who performs microscopic surgery. Her tone is casual too, but he's not fooled. She won't look at him; he can sense her apprehension.
"Same deal as last time." She nods. "Sure, what the hell. Why not." Will's got him on a new TENS unit and it works a bit differently than the one he had before—it'll take some time to adjust, but he likes it better already. Roz looks in his direction. A slight smile tugs at her mouth.
"Rick wants us on his team."
"Hah," Greg says, struck by the thought. "I don't think so."
Roz closes the cooler, latches it shut and comes around the island. "Good," she says, and puts a hand on his bicep. She squeezes it gently. "You'll hit it right out of the park. You always do," she says, and kisses him. They take their time; she tastes faintly of coffee. When the kiss is done she strokes his cheek, her forehead against his. He nuzzles her a little, while he cups one of her small breasts.
"What happens when I don't?" he says finally.
"Then you'll try again." The sardonic inflection so natural to her is gone for the moment, replaced by a warmth he knows is meant for him alone. "I've never met anyone who works as hard as you do to get it right every time. It's sexy as hell."
"Now I know why you hang around. You like a breadwinner."
"I like you," she says. "That's just one part of you I find particularly nice. Among others." Her small palm slides gently down the inside of his good thigh, which catches Greg Junior's attention. "Maybe we could be a little late to the picnic," she says softly.
They spend time to make her wish come true, and play their own leisurely game of baseball right there in the kitchen. It feels so good to have her under his hands; he's missed the slight curves of her slender body, warm and supple. "Bring some jeans," he manages finally. "The band's playing tonight and I don't want to waste time picking gravel out of your legs when there's beer to drink before we do a set."
"I love you too," Roz says. She's clearly taken Sarah's advice to say the words but she means them, it's not just therapy work. "Can't wait to hear you guys play." Then she's gone, the cooler carefully balanced in her arms.
A few minutes later Greg is about to leave the kitchen when he hears Jason's voice from the back porch.
"But he never liked me . . ." The boy's words are choked and thick. "Not even when I was little."
"Your dad doesn't like himself," Sarah says quietly. "There's no love in him to give to anyone else, Jase. It has nothing to do with you."
"What if it does though? What if there's something wrong with me? How do I fix it?"
Greg stands frozen as he listens to the same thoughts he'd had at the age Jason is now, and every year since then. What if I'm unlovable? He waits for what Sarah will say.
"There's nothing to fix," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "I like you the way you are. So do other people."
"You're just saying that." It's a sullen reply, but under it the question still remains. Greg remembers the yard at Mayfield, and Sarah's echo of Cait Milton's words: who says you need fixing?
"Well, I sure don't see it that way," Sarah says. "I'd be happy to find you feeling better about yourself but everything else is top of the line, cara."
"You call me that all the time," Jason says. Some of the anger is gone now, replaced by a grudging curiosity. "What does it mean?"
"It's the Gaelic for 'friend'. One of the first words my grandma ever taught me in the old language." Sarah sounds a little wistful. Greg knows she didn't hear many positive words of any kind from her grandmother.
"You can speak another language?" Jason's impressed. Greg's lips twitch. The kid's got geek written all over him; small wonder he's picked on in school, but that means his progress follows the right path. This boy's got potential—'top of the line', as Sarah said, and no exaggeration either.
"Sea, is féidir liom labhairt teanga eile." Sarah says. She laughs, warm and sweet. "Now you've got me showin' off and we have a picnic to get to. Why don't you ride with me to the park? Gene can go with Bob. Do you have your catcher's mitt? We'll play some baseball in the afternoon if it isn't too hot. You and I at least can have a pitch, if you want."
"What's that?" Jason says it with suspicion.
"Just throwin' the ball back and forth. It's good practice. I'm not a bad pitcher for a girl, but Gene's better."
"I didn't know Gene was a girl." The kid made a funny—lame, but still a good attempt. Greg congratulates him. Always preferable to find the humor in the situation and use it whenever possible to protect, deflect or defend oneself.
"Ha ha, smartypants," Sarah laughs. "C'mon, let's go pack up some lunch and have fun."
They arrive at the park a half hour or so later. It's a warm muggy day, but there's a breeze and it isn't so bad under the shade trees. Gene makes short work of the set-up, as he strides back and forth from the truck to the blanket where they've set up their spot. Greg lowers himself to the blanket and unpacks things, mainly to steal a few bites of food here and there while Sarah teases him. She's in a white tee shirt and soft blue plaid seersucker capris, her curls held back in a ponytail; she helps Gibbs and Jason get their blanket spread, and lunch set out too. Mandy Faust and her mom are next to them. That's not a surprise, Jason and Mandy are fast friends. The Buttermans are set up on the other side. Greg hasn't seen Chelsea for a few months and he's amazed at how big she's gotten. She's begun to lose a bit of her baby fat now, and it's plain to see she'll be a real heartbreaker; every boy in town will be after her when she gets a shape. She comes over to him and as naturally as if she did it every day, she sits with delicate precision on his good leg—it's plain she remembers she'd hurt him the year before by being careless-and puts her arms around as much of him as she can in a fierce little hug.
"Unca Greg," she says with evident happiness. He sits motionless, startled by her embrace and the genuine delight behind it. Then he slowly brings his arm up to hold her—no more than the lightest and most tentative of touches, but she settles in and leans against him, completely at ease. After a few moments he has to admit to himself at least that maybe it isn't so bad. She doesn't squirm around or chatter at him, she's just happy to be where she is. He holds her a bit more firmly and glances over when Roz comes up beside him. She smiles, first at him and then at Chelsea.
"Hey," she says. "Thought I was your best girl."
"All the women want me," he says with a smirk. "It's my irresistible manly charm." He pats the spot on the other side and Roz takes it, dropping down with that quiet grace he always admires in secret. She slips an arm around him, her hand on his hip.
"I'll share you just for today," she says, and leans in to give him a kiss as Marti and Rob Butterman walk up, laden with picnic paraphernalia.
"Here you are," Marti says to Chelsea with evident relief. She glances at Greg, a silent query: everything okay? He gives a little nod, but Chelsea is already up. She moves toward her dad, still careful of Greg's bad leg. Rob swings her into his arms and on his shoulder with an ease that jabs at Greg, nods and moves around to their spot.
The next hour or so is taken up with lunch, some desultory chat, and visitors. He's amused at the number of people who come up to congratulate him and Roz on their wedding; it's amazing what a difference two gold rings make. Of course some of well-wishers are there simply to scope them out and report back to other gossips later, but the majority seem to be sincere.
"Weddings are a big deal around here," Roz says when he makes a comment. "Ours in particular, since nobody ever thought I'd have one after I refused Rick." She says it quietly but he can still hear an edge of pain in her words. He doesn't say anything, but later on after they've eaten and are on the edge of a post-prandial nap, as they lie together in the sun-dappled shade, he kisses the nape of her neck and slides an arm around her waist. She leans back against him with a soft sigh, puts her hand over his.
All too soon he wakes up to find Sarah on her feet next to them. "C'mon, they're choosing teams," she says.
This time when they hit the field, Rob waits for them with a grin. "My best player," he says, and holds out his hand. Roz puts hers over it, and after a moment Greg does too. "Just do what you can, and we'll see how things go."
To Greg's distinct lack of surprise he sees Jason is on the team as well, with Sarah as mentor. She's crouched next to him, and talks in a low voice that holds encouragement without condescension. Jason looks nervous but willing to try. His hands grip the catcher's mitt, knuckles white. He doesn't want to disappoint her and he knows he will, Greg thinks. After Sarah moves away he waits a few minutes, then limps over to where the kid waits to be assigned a position.
"They're gonna stick you in right field because you're a rookie. You'll get bored, but don't daydream when you're out there. Pay attention to the action. Watch the pitcher and see how he decides what kind of style to throw. Study how each batter hits. Everyone's got their little quirks. If we go through the rotation enough times you'll see what I mean."
"You gonna bat?" Jason eyes him doubtfully. Greg gestures at Roz, who limbers up with a long, careful stretch of both legs, one at a time, then together.
"I bat, she runs."
Jason's eyes widen. "Wow," he says, and smiles a little. "That's really cool."
Roz heads over to them in time to hear his comment. "We think so too," She smiles at Jason. "I'm glad you're on our team."
The kid turns red and mumbles something, his gaze on the ground as Roz pats his shoulder. Greg narrows his eyes. Big time crush, he thinks. Out loud he says "You need to practice. Grab a bat." He taps Roz's mitt. "You catch."
The kid is clumsy, but mainly because he's inexperienced. By the fourth pitch he does better, his eye on the ball. Greg makes his pitches a little faster, a little less predictable and Jason quickly picks up on the change. He averages about three hits out of ten, pretty respectable for a beginner. After a few minutes Greg says "Okay, enough," and they all go in to meet with Rob as the game begins.
Their side is up first. Sarah starts them off against Rick, who of course pitches again this year. Greg watches as he gets a good mix of curves and sliders past her for two strikes and a ball. Sarah isn't flustered; she keeps her calm and waits. When the pitch comes in high and a little outside she smacks it hard and earns a double. She just makes it to second base in time.
Now it's Jason's turn. He steps up to the plate and looks nervous as hell. He glances over to Sarah who gives him a nod, then brings the bat to his shoulder and waits.
Rick doesn't spare him—no soft or easy pitches, but at least the kid doesn't swing at anything that comes his way. He fouls one ball, then gets struck out fairly quickly and walks away from the plate, shoulders hunched. Sarah calls him over and they talk for a few minutes while the next batter also strikes out. Two down now, and Greg and Roz are up. It's funny as hell to see everyone in the outfield go back clear to the creek in anticipation of a big long line drive. So when Rick obliges by trying a sinker, Greg bunts it. Sarah and Roz have both gained a base by the time Rick runs up to grab the ball and makes his decision to throw it to third. He glares at Greg but there's a slight edge of unwilling amusement in that look too, an acknowledgment of strategy from one good player to another.
Over the next couple of innings Greg watches Jason strike out two more times, but with each step up to the plate he has more determination than ever. In the fourth inning he hits a grounder, more by mistake than anything else, and makes it to first. The grin on his face is epic; as far as Jason's concerned he just hit it out of the park.
Greg's kept things quiet over the course of the game, just to mess with everyone. They don't know what to expect from him now . . . but Rick is wise to what's coming. He takes his time with the first pitch, refuses the first three suggestions the catcher gives him. Greg knows the lineup now though. Slider, curve, knuckle . . . it'll be a fast ball. He moves his hands down on the bat a bit and circles it as he waits. As the pitch comes toward him he starts to swing and feels a sensation like a bee sting on his thigh, sharp and unexpected, so that he fluffs the attempt and has a strike called on him. The electrode wire has pulled out of one of the pads and lies on his bare skin.
"Dammit," he growls under his breath.
"You okay?" Roz asks. Greg nods and brings up the bat. He'll have to ignore it; there's no time for him to go someplace and fix the problem.
Use it, that little voice says. Channel the pain. Send it into the bat.
He lets the next pitch go by, he knows it'll be called a ball. What comes up next, that's the make or break pitch. He readies the bat and watches Rick take the signal for a slider. When it comes in Greg waits until it starts to break; then he hits it for all he's worth, and winces as pain jars through him. There is a sharp crack and the ball soars into orbit. Outfielders stand with eyes shaded as they try to find it against the bright sunshine. Roz flies around the bases while Sarah brings in the run, then turns to cheer Roz in. She's almost home when the ball drops to earth and is piled on by nearly the entire outfield, and that guarantees another run for their team. While everyone yells and carries on in appropriate fashion, Roz comes up to him.
"What happened?" she asks quietly.
"Wire pulled loose," he says. She puts her arm through his as Sarah trots over.
"What's wrong?" she asks, her voice sharp with worry. "Are you all right?"
"Fine. Just pulled a wire."
Ten minutes later the problem is taken care of, he's examined and pronounced unharmed (something he tried to tell Gene throughout the procedure), and the game is over.
The band plays for about an hour before the fireworks start. There's ice cream and cake, and little kids run around with sparklers while the adults keep an eye on them and exchange gossip and news. Every now and then Greg is tempted to pinch himself. He'd never in his weirdest dreams expected to end up somewhere like this; what's even stranger, he doesn't mind-not too much, anyway. At least he receives some compensation; he gets to play music with guys who enjoy it as much as he does, and a woman waits for him at the end, if not with a cocktail, at least a bowl of ice cream and a kiss.
They stay for the fireworks. For a small town this place does a good show. Then it's time to pack up and go home. As they put bits and pieces into coolers, Jason comes up to Greg.
"Would you teach me how to hit a ball?" he asks, and stares at the ground.
"Why?" Greg asks, to see what the answer will be.
"I want to learn," the kid says. "I want to do it right. You know how."
In the soft darkness Greg smiles a little. "Yeah, I do," he says. "Okay. Be at the house tomorrow after dinner."
"Cool," Jason whispers, and walks away. Greg's smile widens a bit as he turns back to put away the last of the pie.
Sea, is féidir liom labhairt teanga eile—Yes, I can speak another language