“I remember,” I said, and for a moment I was back in a small-town motel room, listening to my crazy roommate talk half the night away.
“So you want to hear it?” he said.
“Hear what?”
“Why I came all the way out here.”
“I figure you’d get to it when you were ready.”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about 1971 lately,” he said. I couldn’t see him in the darkness. There was only the sound of his voice. Maybe that’s the way he wanted it. Just his voice and not having me look at him while he told me.
“About the game?”
“Not so much the game,” he said. “Everything else that happened. You know, that was the best time of my life. Being called up to the big leagues, getting to go to Tiger Stadium, wearing the uniform, getting to sit in that dugout. You know, those dugouts in Detroit are tiny.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to-”
“Go on,” I said. “Tell me what you’re gonna tell me.”
“There was a lot going on that week. Outside of the ballpark, I mean. I’d never been to Detroit before. There was a lot to see.”
“In Detroit?”
“All around Detroit,” he said. “They’ve got a great art museum there, a pretty nice zoo. They’ve got that- what do you call it, the Boblo boat?”
“The Boblo boat,” I said. “I haven’t thought about that in years.”
“You ever go on that?”
“Sure, when I was a kid.” It was a big old-fashioned riverboat that would take you down the Detroit River to an amusement park on an island.
“And Greenfield Village? And the Henry Ford Museum? I’m going to all these things, and it’s like everything is just great because I’m going there as a major-league baseball player. I mean, it’s not like anybody’s asking me for my autograph. Nobody even recognizes me. But for the first time in my life, I felt like I was somebody important, you know? Everything was just… perfect.”
“What was her name?” I said.
A long silence. “Maria.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “The museums, the zoo, the Boblo boat
…”
“With Maria, yes.”
“So what happened?”
“When I got shelled in that game, I sort of wasn’t myself for a few days. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to see anybody.”
“So you didn’t see her again?”
“No.”
“And now, it’s been almost thirty years…”
“I want to find her.”
“Randy, you can’t be serious.”
“I want to find her, Alex.”
“You came all the way out here…”
“To ask you to help me, Alex. You’ve got to help me find Maria.”
CHAPTER 3
The woodstove almost killed him the next morning. Five hundred pounds of cast iron came hurtling off the back of my truck, turning the wooden ramp into splinters. If he had been a half a second slower, Randy would have been flattened like piecrust under a rolling pin.
“I told ya those boards wouldn’t be able to take it,” he said. “Good thing I still have the reflexes of a jungle cat.”
I had already torn the old woodstove, worthless piece of crap that it was, out of my second cabin and hauled it away to the dump. When I bought the new one, they wanted three hundred dollars to deliver and install it, so I told them just to put it in the back of my truck. It sat there for two weeks under a plastic tarp, waiting for me to figure out a way to move it. This was a great source of amusement for Jackie, and he never missed a chance to ask me if I was still hauling it everywhere I went. Jackie would have helped me himself, he said, for a flat fee of $350.
When Randy and I had finally muscled the thing into the cabin, he stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “You see, Alex,” he said. “I knew coming here was a good idea. It’s already paying off.”
He hadn’t said a word about Maria that morning. I figured he’d get to it when he was ready.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he said.
“What feels good?”
“Stuff like this,” he said. “Having to use your body again.”
“Yeah, I feel great,” I said, rubbing my shoulder.
“You still got your glove?”
“What glove?”
“Your catcher’s glove.”
“Yeah, in my closet. Why?”
“And a ball?”
“Oh no,” I said. “No way.”
“Come on, while we’re warm. Let’s toss a few.”
“You gotta be kidding.”
“When’s the last time you threw a baseball?”
I had to think about that one. Before I could answer, he was out the door.
“Come on, McKnight!” He was already jogging down the road. “I’ll race you back to your cabin.”
“Will ya wait a minute already,” I said.
“All right, we’ll walk,” he said. “It’s what, a whole quarter mile?”
“Something like that.”
“And you got how many of these cabins?”
“Six in all,” I said. “The old man built them.”
We walked down the road, through the pine trees on what had once been an old logging trail. The sun was out, fighting a hard battle to warm up the heavy air. There were patches of ice that would slowly thaw during the day and then freeze again at night. It would be the middle of May before they were all gone.
“And you came up here when?” he said.
“1984,” I said. “After I left the police force.”
He nodded. “After you got shot.”
“Yeah,” I said. “After I got shot.”
“You’ve been up here ever since?”
“I spend my winters in Monte Carlo,” I said. “I have an estate there.”
“No, really,” he said. “You’ve been up here all this time?”
“Yes,” I said. “Is that so amazing?”
He shook his head. “You still got another glove besides the catcher’s mitt?”
“Yes, but we’re not going to play catch, Randy.”
Five minutes later, he had dug out my old catcher’s mitt, along with my first baseman’s glove. Every catcher has a first baseman’s glove or an outfielder’s glove, because every catcher dreams about the day when the
