Safe at Home (10 page)

Once the game started, fan reaction was mixed. Joe got a bigger than usual hand when the lineup was announced, mixed with some catcalls and ribald remarks. I spent the first few innings in the stands eavesdropping. I even talked to strangers. Of the dozen fans I interviewed, only a few were negative. Those thought he should be kicked out of the game.

“It sets a bad example for the kids,” said one middle-aged woman with a tight mouth. “They look up to baseball players, and you shouldn’t look up to filth like him.”

Her husband nodded his head in agreement. He was wearing a peaked cap with a plastic dog turd on the brim, and a t-shirt that read “Golfers do it in the rough.”

“How can he call himself a Christian?” he asked.

On the other hand, an elderly couple, from whom I expected shock, just shrugged.

“Different strokes for different folks,” said the husband, as the wife nodded approval. Amazing.

And no one I talked to was unaware of the story. Strangers who recognized me wanted to talk about it. Several of them expressed touching concern for Joe’s well-being.

Joe singled his first time at bat. When Sugar Jenkins, coaching at first base, reached over to give him the usual pat on the bum, he stopped in mid-gesture and contented himself with clapping his hands and shouting encouragement.

This did not go unnoticed. One yahoo over the dugout amused his cronies by shouting, “What’s the matter, Jenkins, afraid you’ll get AIDS?” Big yucks, all around.

Someone else yelled “Come on, Josephine, steal a base!”

That one was so popular it got picked up all around the stadium and was used intermittently throughout the game. There were also remarks about how he threw like a girl whenever he warmed up between innings in left field. But it was all pretty tame stuff. This was, after all, the home crowd. Detroit, next week, would be a different story.

I looked over at Sandy, sitting behind home plate, but didn’t go and talk to him. I figured someone might recognize me and make the connection.

Joe responded with aplomb. He ignored the taunts when in the field and at the plate, and went three for four with a home run. The Titans won, and I followed the herd down the elevators to the clubhouse.

It was quiet in there, more subdued than after most wins. Most of the reporters went in to see the manager, but I wanted to get to the players first.

Most of them were surprisingly noncommittal. They were obviously shocked and alarmed. It was as if Joe had somehow turned against them. He had joined a group they considered disgusting. I’m sure that more than a couple of them were replaying in their heads all the crude jokes about homosexuals they had made in his hearing. But most of them had been Joe’s friend for years. His announcement couldn’t change that.

“To tell you the truth, I’d rather I didn’t know,” said Tiny Washington. “But I don’t see what it has to do with what he does on the field.”

“I’ve always assumed that some ballplayers are gay,” Gloves Gardiner said. “I’m surprised Joe is one of them, but I admire his guts for admitting it.”

Stinger Swain was predictable. “It makes me sick. He doesn’t belong in baseball. I’ve told my agent to get me out of here. I’m not going to play with some pervert.”

His crony, relief pitcher Goober Grabowski, provided good-old-boy humour with comments about dropping soap in the shower and other original remarks. I remembered the road trip last year when I had shared the elevator with the two of them and a pair of giggling blonde twins who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. But, hey, that’s just normal behaviour, right? Male bonding in action.

For his part, Joe said he would rather talk about his game. He explained that due to the large number of requests for interviews from all over, he would hold a press conference on Monday, an off-day.

The reporters seemed almost relieved to go back to their usual questions about what type of pitch he had hit for the home run.

I popped my head into Hugh Marsh’s office to see what the outside response had been.

“Calls from all over the place,” he said. “We’ve been swamped all day. People want to interview him, send him messages of encouragement or hate. Sick Kids’ Hospital is having an emergency board meeting to see if they should cancel his visit next week. It’s nuts. Why didn’t he just stay in the closet? It would have made my job a lot easier.”

Poor baby.

“Oh, listen, we’ve made a player move. Owl Wise has to go on the fifteen-day disabled list with his ankle. It’s just not healing. We’re bringing up Watanabe.”

A Japanese player in the big leagues. That ought to take some of the attention off Joe. Hugh handed me a stats sheet. The kid was hitting .332 after a few weeks in Triple A and hadn’t made an error. One stolen base in two attempts. He’d been a pretty good base runner at spring training.

“Should be interesting,” I said. “I guess I’d better brush up on my Japanese.”

On my way back to the press box I ran into Joe coming out of the clubhouse, alone. I walked with him to the exit.

“Are you okay?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” he said.

“Listen, do you and Sandy want to come over for dinner on Monday after your press conference? Just a small group. Sally and T.C., Andy if he’s around. Family.”

“That would be great. I’ll check with Sandy and tell you tomorrow.”

I watched him go through the gate. The kids, pens at the ready for autographs, stepped silently out of his way.

Damn.

When I got home at 6:30 there was a note from Sally on my door, inviting me down to supper. The best offer I’d had all day. I dropped my gear and kicked off my reporter shoes as soon as I got in the door. Elwy came padding out of the bedroom, yawning, and rolled over on his back at my feet.

“Another hard day, eh, Fatso? Busy, busy, busy, moving from one soft spot to another. What a guy.”

He meowed indignantly, then got to his feet and walked towards his empty bowl in the kitchen. I followed him.

“Well, sure. After a day like that, you must be starving.”

I spooned the food into his bowl, then punched up Sally’s number on the kitchen phone while he wolfed it down.

“So, the queen of Queen Street West hasn’t got a hot Saturday night date?” I asked, when she answered.

“No, it was just that I had so many offers I couldn’t decide which one deserved the honour of my acceptance,” she said. “Are you on?”

“I happen to be free of engagements myself,” I laughed. “What time do you want me?”

“How about right now.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“We’ll be down in a minute.”

“We?”

“I thought I’d bring Elwy. I haven’t been giving him much attention lately.”

“I haven’t got that much food,” Sally laughed.

“It’s okay. He is dining as we speak.”

“Then he’s welcome. See you soon.”

I hung up my work clothes and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. On the way out the door with Elwy, I remembered to check my answering machine. There were two messages. The first was Sally, inviting me to supper. The second was Andy.

“I got your message. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. It’s five. I guess you’re still at work. I’ll call again later. I don’t know where I’ll be. Bye.”

I tried to reach him, but he wasn’t at his office or home. At least he’d called. I changed my message, leaving Sally’s number, and went downstairs. Sally was in the kitchen slicing tomatoes. I deposited Elwy on a chair and hugged her.

“Pour yourself a glass of wine,” she said. “There’s white plonk in the fridge and red plonk on the table. Is Sanelli’s pizza and a salad all right with you?”

“For something completely different,” I said, pouring myself some red, slightly less plonkish than the white. Sally has no discernible taste buds when it comes to wine. “Where’s T.C.?”

“He should be back any minute. He’s out with that friend of yours from work.”

“Who?”

“That guy that writes about kids’ sports. He’s doing a piece on T.C.’s baseball team. Is he ever thrilled!”

“Oh, God, not Dickie Greaves.”

“He seemed nice. He came by and picked T.C. up to take him to the park for a picture. He’s cute, too.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you worked at the next desk,” I said. “Besides, he’s too young for my tastes.”

“I’ve got nothing against cradle robbing,” Sally said.

“And he’s married.”

“Oh,” Sally said. “Happily, I suppose.”

“With a new bouncing baby boy and all,” I said.

“Oh, well, at least he’s made my kid’s day. How was yours? Big story today.”

“Don’t tell me you actually read something I wrote.”

Sally is not a sports fan.

“It was a great story. I can’t believe the guy came out of the closet.”

I had just begun to tell her about the reaction at the ballpark when T.C. arrived home, looking very pleased with himself. Dickie was with him.

“Hi, Kate. It’s an unexpected treat to see you,” he said. “This young friend of yours is quite a kid.”

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Sally asked, smiling at his charm, the silly woman.

“Well, just one. I have to get home to my own boy,” he said, then sat beside me at the table.

“That was quite a story, Kate. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“It took guts.”

“How so?”

“Not you, Kate. Kelsey.”

“He’s got a lot of courage,” I agreed.

“Kate was just telling me that things got pretty rough at the ballpark,” Sally said. “Red or white?”

“White if you have it.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said. “I thought the fans were pretty fair.”

“What happened?” T.C. asked. He looked a bit uncomfortable.

“Just some guys yelling things. Heckling him.”

“It will probably be worse on the road,” Dickie said.

“Well, I just think it’s gross,” T.C. blurted.

“Why?” I asked, exchanging a glance with Sally. Time for a little lesson in tolerance.

“All the kids say gay people are sick,” he said.

“Well, all the kids are wrong, then,” Sally said.

“Oh, yeah? What about that guy who’s killing kids?”

“That’s stupid, T.C., that’s not all gay people,” Sally said. “That man is a monster. Maybe he’s gay, maybe he’s not. But there are gay ministers and teachers and doctors, all kinds of gay people. Just like there are bad and good people who aren’t gay. What about Marc, at the gallery? He’s gay and you like him. He’s not sick. Come on, T.C., you know better than that.”

“I guess so.”

“It’s just prejudice, T.C.,” I said. “Like people who think that all black people are stupid or all women can’t drive or all Chinese people are smart. You can’t judge a whole group of people as if they are all the same.”

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding convinced.

“Come on. You and Joe are buddies. You liked him yesterday, didn’t you? You thought he was a good player and a nice guy, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He was gay yesterday, too, except you didn’t know it. So what’s the difference?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Right. Now go wash up for supper.”

“It’s tough on kids like T.C.,” I said, after he had left the room.

“I can think of a lot of grownups who aren’t going to have an easy time adjusting to it, either,” Dickie said. “Some of whom we work with.”

“I can’t imagine Harry taking it too kindly,” I laughed.

“And what about the other players?” Sally asked. “Are they going to be waiting for him with baseball bats in a dark alley somewhere?”

“Some of them are freaking out,” I said. “Others are being surprisingly enlightened. But I suspect it’s going to be a big story for the next few weeks.”

“I envy you,” Dickie said. “I wish I could get a scoop like that.”

“A scandal in the sandlots?” I asked, not too kindly.

“Something like that,” he said, then finished his glass of wine. “And there will be a scandal in my house if I don’t get home. Thanks for the loan of your son, Sally. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

He got up as T.C. came back into the kitchen. They shook hands.

“Kate will let you know when the article is going to run,” he said. “Her story is going to be filling the paper for the next few days.”

“Do I detect a trace of beat envy?” I asked, keeping it light. “A little bitterness from the kiddie corner?”

“Bitter? Me? Don’t be silly,” he said. “I love my work. Just because I make less money than you, never get to travel, and get buried in the back of the section, I’m not complaining.”

“Go home, Dickie. Take the rest of the weekend off,” I said. “You work too hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” he said. “Some of us have to work for our stories. See you Monday.”

T.C. saw him to the door.

“He really does go at it too hard,” I said to Sally. “There’s no reason for him to be working today. I think it makes him feel important.”

“You were pretty hard on the poor guy,” Sally said.

“Save your sympathy, Sally,” I said. “The poor, put-upon junior reporter is carving out quite a little empire for himself. He’s a nice enough guy, but he gets on my nerves in anything but small doses.”

T.C. came back into the room.

“That was really fun, Mum,” he said. “Mr. Greaves is nice. He bought me a Coke and asked me questions about everything.”

“And probably spoiled your appetite for supper,” Sally grumped.

“Not a chance,” he said. “I’m starved. When do we eat?”

“Soon. Pizza is ready to go in the oven. You’re making the salad. I’m sitting down and talking to Kate.”

“I hope you don’t plan to keep on treating me like your personal slave when I have my picture in the paper,” he said.

“Why, of course not,” his mother answered. “Then I’ll treat you like a very famous slave.”

“I never get any respect,” he groaned.

“I respect you,” I said. “I respect you so much that I will allow you to make salad for me. I won’t let just anybody do that.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said, then added, casually, “Where’s Andy tonight?”

“Good question!” Sally said, like a
Family Feud
contestant.

So I told them the story and they told me what a bum he was. What are friends for, anyway?

I was surprised by the knock on the door. Andy?

“Will you get that, T.C.?” Sally asked, casually.

“Do I have to?” he asked, then slouched down the hall telegraphing disapproval with every step.

I gave Sally a questioning look.

“David said he might drop by,” she explained.

“That explains the glad rags,” I said.