Pablo never blamed anyone else. After suffering bankruptcy, his father had re-opened his bakery in the DV and, exhausted from twenty-hour days, fell asleep smoking, burning down the whole building on Gerard Street. Pablo blamed himself for not working late that night with him. His now widowed mother washed clothes and developed skin cancer from the chemicals. Pablo blamed himself for not supporting her sooner. The whole world just waited for Pablo to take responsibility for something. Allahs, the destruction of Washington, D.C., tacos with insufficient hot sauce.
He sat on a bench overlooking Eastchester Bay. An HG sailboat passed with the waving passengers. Pablo refused to wave back.
He should go to the mixer in his apartment building tonight. Maybe he’d meet someone. Or would they say he was trying too hard to find a partner to beef up his chances at Fifth Cousin.
Who’d put up with him anyway?
An elderly man shuffled past, his white hat stained, shoes worn, bare ankles crusted with eczema. Pablo smiled, giving the grateful man the brown socks and returning to the office three minutes early.
• • • •
“YOU’RE BURNT,” PUPPY pointed to Zelda’s forehead.
“I worked outside today.”
“I thought you were a slave to the business world of windowless offices.”
“Salmon is a different world.”
The waitress slid through the crowded dance floor at Monroe’s, jiggling to Van Halen’s Jump, and laid the large platter of fries on the table.
“We need an extra plate,” Zelda complained.
“She doesn’t want my food touching hers,” Puppy explained.
“That’s not it.”
The waitress only cared about the consequences to her tip and pushed back toward the bar.
“Why do you tell people that?” Zelda sipped her beer.
“It annoys you. Back to your hard day at work.”
“I had a research field trip. And you, First Cousin Puppy? Tell me what you did to advance America today.”
He brought her up on the meeting with Fisher and his new players; Zelda salivated as he ever so slowly ate fries. Finally the waitress delivered her from torture and set down two plates. Zelda scooped up the potatoes and drowned them in ketchup.
“Those old boys really are nuts,” she said.
Puppy shrugged dismissively. “I just wonder if they’re crazy.”
Zelda sighed. “I knew you shouldn’t have let the second one stay with you.”
“His name’s Ty Cobb.”
“Sorry. When he told me how intelligent I seemed for a Negro, I shut down.”
Puppy took a long swallow of the Gilligan’s Ale, laid his backpack on the table and slid the Baseball Hall of Fame book onto his lap, nervously looking around.
“I don’t think you have to worry, Pup. Been a long time since someone with a Yankee cap was arrested.”
Puppy still had her walk around and read over his shoulder. “This is what the real Mickey Mantle looked like.”
Zelda squinted in the half-light at the black and white photos. “Okay.”
“That’s what the HG today looked like. And here.” He turned the thick book to a marked page. “This is what Ty Cobb looked like as a player and this is exactly, I mean, exactly what the HG captured.”
“But that’s the point of HGs, to make the players look young.”
“Creating an exact double of the person they say they are? Don’t you think that’s a little odd?”
“Maybe they’re related. Great-great-great-great grandchildren.”
“I think that’s too many greats.”
Zelda returned to her fries, chewing. “That would account for their athletic abilities. In the genes. And the resemblance. In the genes.”
“And them knowing their statistics, home runs, stolen bases?”
“They could look it up.”
“Access to baseball stats is restricted to historians.” Puppy pressed forward. “Ty rattled off his numbers for every year of his career. Every year, Zelda. Twenty-four seasons.”
“He’s sharp for a bigot.”
“Mickey doesn’t remember much.”
“Then he’s stupid.”
“You’re missing the point.” Puppy ordered another round.
“I can’t imagine another point.” She gave him a curious stare. “Unless you think they’re really Mickey Mantle and Ty Cobb.”
“Of course not.” He shrugged weakly, only strengthening her smile.
“Grandma’s bra straps, you do. Are they ghosts? Oooooh.” She swayed in her chair and shoveled down more fries.
“Maybe you should slow down on the potatoes.”
Zelda’s nostrils flared. “You’re mocking my weight because I don’t agree?”
“No, I think you’re getting fat even if you weren’t being obnoxious.”
The waitress put down their drinks. Zelda ordered onion rings.
“Mickey got into your apartment somehow…”
“How?” he demanded.
“He picked the lock. You remember what guys that age in the DV can do. Then he let his buddy Ty in. I’m not saying they’re bad guys. Since this is the last season, it somehow makes sense they would show up…”
“Exactly.” Puppy smacked the table, making the fries jump. “The last baseball season. And here they are.”
Her eyelids fluttered mockingly. “Puppy.”
“You have a better explanation?”
“No. You’re probably right. The theory makes perfect sense the more I ponder.”
He frowned suspiciously. “It does?”
“Yeah. They’ve returned to help you. Guardian angels from the great baseball stadium in the sky. Watching over you…”
“Screw you, Zelda…”
“They might be here now. Oh look.” Zelda picked up a fry between her thumb and forefinger, making the potato dance. “It’s the baseball ghosts…”
Puppy angrily dumped all her fries onto his plate; Zelda shook her head pityingly.
“Do you see how stupid you sound?” She waved down the waitress for another order.
“Not really.”
“Until you do, get Ty a Lifecard. You don’t need any trouble.”
“Already done. I saw The Pumpkin.”
“Why’d you go to that pig?”
“I couldn’t ask Pablo again.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. Zelda twisted his forefinger until he cried out.
“You can’t say you know. Because I’m not supposed to know.”
“He met someone?”
“Sooooo far off.” Zelda
