Fragile Beasts (52 page)

She listens intently to all I have to say, but I don’t know if any of it impresses her.

For all those people present at the game who questioned the existence of a merciful god of baseball who believes in granting second chances, all doubts are put to rest in the top of the fifth when Brent Richmond, the goat of last year’s series, drills a high line drive between left and center fields that he’s able to stretch into a double.

The crowd goes wild not only because Richmond got a hit but because he proved it could be done.

Even the Cougar fans are happy. One of the problems with having the state’s best pitcher is that your games are usually pretty boring. Baseball just isn’t as good when no one ever gets a hit.

Donner isn’t fazed at all. As if to prove it, he strikes out our next two batters with a half-dozen fastballs that crack so loudly in the catcher’s mitt, I see people wince.

Klint’s up next.

There was a time in my life when I would’ve relished this moment, when I would’ve glanced back and forth between Bill and my dad, the three of us grinning from ear to ear, knowing that Klint’s ability to deal with pressure was what separated him from the merely great and the truly remarkable. He could hit and he could field, but what made him the player that people talked about for weeks afterward was his ability to perform in the clutch.

Now I know that what appeared to be an amazing superhero power of his was actually an outward sign of his inner damage or, as his shrink puts it, a dysfunctional coping mechanism that almost killed him. He never let anything get to him because he was able to keep himself from feeling anything at all.

What is he thinking about now? I wonder as I watch him step up to the plate. Is he thinking about Dad? Does he believe Dad’s in heaven watching him? Does he need to believe that? Or is it enough to know that Dad was here with us for a little while, long enough to make us who we are? Now it’s up to us to keep moving forward and finish becoming what we’re supposed to be.

The first pitch is a ball, low and outside.

The crowd likes that.

Shouts of “Good eye! Good eye!” ring out around the stadium.

The next pitch is outside, too.

Now things are finally getting interesting. Bored, grumbling fans set down their drinks and their bags of popcorn and start to sit up and take notice.

Working behind in the count is dangerous for any pitcher, even one as good as Shane Donner. On the rare occasion when a hitter puts a ball into play on an 0-2 count, he usually gets on base.

“What’s going on?” Miss Jack asks me.

I’ve already explained about balls and strikes.

“He has two balls,” I reply.

“That’s good,” she says.

“Yeah. Now the pressure’s on the pitcher. He needs to get the count even so he can get Klint to start swinging defensively and screw up.”

Klint doesn’t swing at the next pitch either.

The ump calls it a strike, and the crowd erupts into catcalls of disapproval.

“Are you blind? Are you friggin’ blind?” Bills screams at the top of his lungs.

“What the hell are you doing? That was a mile outside!” Mrs. Jack screams standing next to him.

Miss Jack looks up at her.

“Rae Ann,” she scolds. “You’re a mother. There are children present.”

“Screw them,” Mrs. Jack says and goes back to shouting at the umpire.

The Mann clan has joined in, and our entire section is accusing the umpire of everything from needing glasses and taking bribes to having a difficult time getting erections.

Klint steps out of the box.

My heart skips a beat, but it turns out everything’s okay. It’s better than okay.

He puts his bat beneath his arm and casually tugs at his batting glove, holds the hand up in front of his face, and flexes his fingers a few times as if testing for the right fit.

He takes his time and goes out of his way not to look at Donner or any of the infield. He’s doing a psych-out.

He’s seen enough pitches now. He’s confident.

He fouls the next pitch. It goes flying behind him into the stands and someone gets a nice souvenir.

With a pitcher like Donner who’s throwing blazing fastballs at a speed rarely seen at the high school level, the umpire is going to give all the borderline pitches to him and not the batter. Klint can’t wait for the best pitch. He has to swing at anything that comes near the plate and keep fouling off pitches until he gets something good to hit.

It’s 2-2, and Donner is feeling the pressure. The next pitch is a ball.

The crowd goes crazy as the Cougars call a time-out with a full count, and the coach and catcher join Donner on the mound.

“What’s going on, now?” Miss Jack asks.

“The other team called a time-out so they can talk.”

“They’re discussing Klint?”

“Yeah. He’s starting to worry them.”

“Good,” she says.

Donner’s next pitch is perfect. Right down the center of the plate between
the belt and knee. Klint gets a piece of it and sends it flying far into right field. Everyone’s on their feet but left with nothing to cheer for. It veers foul.

Klint doesn’t care. The damage is done. Donner’s seen him make contact, and now he knows he can send the ball far enough to put it away. All he has to do is move it a couple feet inside.

The next pitch is a foul tip.

The crowd groans.

Shane Donner has been forced into throwing an eighth pitch to the same hitter, a situation he rarely encounters.

Klint gets into his stance, legs anchored, eyes staring down the pitcher; then he gets ready to swing, his arms pulled back, pushing against nothing but quivering with the power of a loaded catapult, his body coiled for the attack.

Donner throws. Klint swings.

A pure clear crack rings out, that distinctive sound baseball fans know so well: when the ball meets the sweet spot.

As Klint completes his swing, he’s already running to first base, the momentum of the bat pulling his legs into motion.

The ball flies into deep right field. It hits the wall, takes a bounce, and comes to rest without anyone near it.

The Cougars’ outfielders had grown complacent and cocky. Even though they knew Klint was a power hitter and Donner had just been forced into throwing a troubling eight pitches, they weren’t ready for a long ball. They were too far up and not paying attention.

The right fielder runs after the ball. By the time he reaches it, Klint has rounded second and Brent is on his way home.

Standing spread-eagle, he rockets the cutoff throw to the second baseman in short center field. It takes a bad bounce, but he grabs it and turns to throw.

Klint doesn’t slow down at all for third. He picks up his already furious pace, keeping his eyes ahead, pumping his arms and legs, running for his life the same way I’d seen him do it a few weeks earlier, only then he was trying to get as far away from home as he could. Now he was determined to reach it.

The second baseman sizes up the play in an instant and throws to the catcher who’s crouched behind the plate waiting for the tag.

Klint launches himself into space, Superman-style, with his arms outstretched. Half the fans scream, and the other half suck in their breath.

Headfirst slides are never done in high school ball anymore. They’re
hardly ever done in the pros, either. They’re not only more dangerous, but most players are convinced they take longer than feetfirst slides. Common sense says they should be faster because the runner doesn’t have to interrupt his forward momentum, but most players hesitate. The fear of diving headfirst at top speed onto a hard surface is a difficult one to overcome.

I don’t think Klint has a choice. I think he suddenly becomes airborne the same way a plane does once it gets up enough speed. But if he’d been able to stop and think about what he was doing, I’m sure he would’ve done the same thing.

If there’s one thing both of us know, it’s how to survive being thrown to the ground.

The catcher takes the throw high and slaps down the tag.

For a split second the world stops spinning until the ump slashes his arms out to his sides and yells, “Safe!”

I look over at Miss Jack who’s on her feet cheering along with everyone else, her face flushed with color and lit up with the delighted smile of a little girl.

“Duende,” I whisper.

I
am a complicated and surprising man. I’ve had many love affairs, but I’ve never been in love. I’m lucky at cards, and I’m good at crossword puzzles. I have fantastic teeth. I play the lottery every week. I love basketball and Humphrey Bogart movies. I subscribe to
The New Yorker
, and I understand all their cartoons. I keep a bag of peanut M&Ms in my room at all times. I have a fear of heights and baggy clothing. My feet never smell. I can shoot a gun.
Don Quixote
is
not
my favorite book (but it’s a very good one). I cry at the end of
The Wizard of Oz
when Dorothy goes home no matter how many times I’ve seen it. I was deboning a trout on 9/11 when the terrorists attacked the World Trade Center. I’m an excellent chef. I’m an accomplished horseman. I taught myself English when I first came here, and then I taught myself French in case I ever want to go to France to try the food. (I don’t want to be harassed and misled by haughty waiters.)

If I were allowed to clear up three popular American misconceptions about my country and my people, they would be: Spain is nothing like Mexico; Antonio Banderas is nothing like a Spaniard; and Ernest Hemingway knew nothing about bullfighting.

Occasionally a man must examine himself and take stock of his life. I did that recently when Candace was hurt.

I don’t think she realizes how close she came to dying. She didn’t just break many bones; she had a heart attack, as well.

Her doctor explained to me that this wasn’t a sign of poor health. Considering her age and the extreme physical and emotional circumstances she experienced that night, it wasn’t surprising her heart gave out.

I’m aware that she’s getting old, but I had never thought about the inevitable conclusion of old age ever reaching her, which is death.

It doesn’t seem possible that she could die or at least not unless she made the decision. She’s too stubborn to be talked into anything she doesn’t want to do. Even death couldn’t succeed at this. Maybe death doesn’t want to argue with her and that’s why he’s stayed away so long.

I’ve been taking extra good care of her since she came home from the hospital. She is not an easy patient. Every time she makes me want to scream in frustration, I must remind myself of the sacrifice she made and the pain she is in.

Kyle has described to me everything that happened that terrible night. He told me about the unbelievable strength she showed for a woman of her age and size and how fast she ran down the road after him. He said she looked like a frightened ghost.

The only time I have ever seen Candace Jack running was across the yellow sand of the plaza de toros in Villarica to get to her dying lover. That day she looked like an anguished angel.

I’ve come to the parlor to check on her. Shelby and Kyle have just left after yet another afternoon of Candace regaling them with stories of Manuel. Her brush with death has been the key to opening the glass box where she’s been living with her memories all these years. Or maybe it was the trauma of seeing a strong, young man almost die before her eyes again.

Emotionally, she seems happier than she’s ever been, and mentally, she seems as strong as she’s always been—but she hasn’t recovered physically. Her progress has been very slow.

Miss Henry is carefully situating pillows around her. Miss Henry has shown a remarkable aptitude for tending to people with broken bones.

She picks up her feather duster as she’s leaving and completes a few departing swipes at the objects on the mantel, including Klint’s state championship trophy.

Now the golden torero on Candace’s clock has a golden baseball player to keep him company. They face each other, one with his cape raised and the other swinging a bat.

“Qué estás haciendo?” I ask Candace.

She gestures at the table in front of her where there are dozens of pictures spread over it. Old black-and-white photos of her and Manuel. Of me and Manuel. Of the cuadrilla parading into the ring with Manuel. Of Manuel and Carmen del Pozo. Of all of us having a meal together at a hotel, Manuel smiling
around a fat cigar clamped in his mouth with his arm around his beaming Candy. Of Manuel and Paco. Of Manuel alone. Of the Spanish countryside. Of cramped stone villages huddled against hillsides. Of orange earth dotted with green trees. Of massive, carved wooden church doors and shop front windows hung with cured hams. Of toros.

I stand in front of her, then I begin picking up the photos one at a time, reliving my wonderful, ill-fated youth.

Candace picks up a photo of herself, Manuel, and me. It’s after a bullfight. Manuel is wearing his
traje de luces
. He’s spattered with blood and his hair is damp with sweat. He’s smiling grandly for the camera while clutching Candace to his side; she is smartly dressed in a polka-dot dress, white gloves, and a hat. She’s smiling adoringly at him, oblivious to the blood and mud.

I’m standing on the other side of Manuel, only twenty years old: a boy who think he’s a man; a man who still thinks like a boy.

I’m not smiling.

“You never liked me,” Candace comments, slyly.

“Who says I do now?”

She puts down that photo and picks up one of the two of them sitting at a café in Madrid.

“Do you miss Spain?” she asks me.

“Yes, sometimes.”

“I was just thinking if Manuel had lived and I had married him, I would have lived in Spain for the rest of my life. Our places—yours and mine—would have been switched.”

“Not exactly. I doubt you would have been my slave.”

“You know what I mean. I would have been the immigrant. Not you.”

She puts all the photos down and stares straight ahead, thinking.

“I’ve never really tried to understand why I clung so to Spain, why I filled my home with Spanish art and objects, why I only want to eat Spanish food and speak Spanish to you.”