League clay-dirt.
He looked at me and smiled. 'Remember the year your momumped?'
'A little, I guess. What was I, four?'
'Yeah, something like that.' He shook his head, still smiling, lost in the memory. 'This was during the height of your mother's women's lib stage. She wore these slogan T-shirts that said A WOMAN'S PLACE is IN THE HOUSE AND SENATE, stuff like that. Keep in mind that this was a few years before girls were allowed to play Little League, okay? So somewhere along the way, your mom learned that there were no female umpires. She checked the rule book and saw that there was nothing forbidding that.'
'So she signed up?'
'Yep.'
'And?'
'Well, the elder statesmen threw a fit, but the rules were the rules. So they let her jump. But there were a couple of problems.'
'Like?'
'Like she was the worst umpire in the world.' Dad smiled again, a smile I rarely saw anymore, a smile so firmly rooted in the past that it made me ache. 'She barely knew the rules. Her eyesight, as you know, was terrible. I remember in her first game she stuck up her thumb and yelled 'Safe.' Whenever she made a call, she'd go through all these gyrations. Like something Bob Fosse choreographed.'
We both chuckled and I could almost see him watching her, waving off her theatrics, half embarrassed, half thrilled.
'Didn't the coaches go nuts?'
'Sure, but you know what the league did?'
I shook my head.
'They teamed her up with Harvey Newhouse. You remember him?'
'His son was in my class. He played pro football, right?'
'For the Rams, yeah. Offensive tackle. Harvey must have been three hundred pounds. So he took behind the plate and your mom took the field and whenever a coach would get out of hand, Harvey would just glare at him and the coach sat back down.'
We chuckled again and then fell gently into silence, both of us wondering how a spirit like that could be smothered away, even before the onset of the disease. He finally turned and looked at me. His eyes widened when he noticed the bruises.
'What the hell happened to you?'
'It's okay,' I said.
'Did you get in a fight?'
'I'm fine, really. I need to talk to you about something.'
He was quiet. I wondered how to approach this, but Dad took care of that.
'Show me,' he said.
I looked at him.
'Your sister called this morning. She told me about the picture.'
I still had it with me. I pulled it out. He took it in his palm, as though afraid that he might crush it. He looked down and said, 'My God.' His eyes began to glisten.
'You didn't know?' I said.
'No.' He looked at the photograph again. 'Your mother never said anything until, you know.' I saw something cross his face. His wife, his life partner, had kept this from him, and it hurt.
'There's something else,' I said.
He turned to me.
'Ken's been living in New Mexico.' I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what I'd learned. Dad took it in quietly and steadily, as if he'd found his sea legs.
When I'd finished, Dad said, 'How long had he been living out there?'
'Just a few months. Why?'
'Your mother said he was coming back. She said he'd be back when he proved his innocence.'
We sat in silence. I let my mind wander. Suppose, I thought, it went something like this: Eleven years ago, Ken was framed. He ran off and lived overseas in hiding or something, just like the news report. Years pass. He comes back home.
Why?
Was it, like my mother had said, to prove his innocence? That made sense, I guess, but why now? I didn't know, but whatever the reason, Ken did indeed return and it backfired on him. Someone found out.
Who?
The answer seemed obvious: whoever murdered Julie. That person, be it a he or she, would need to silence Ken. And then what? No idea. There were still pieces missing.
'Dad?'
'Yes.'
'Did you ever suspect Ken was alive?'
He took his time. 'It was easier to think he was dead.'
'That's not an answer.'
He let his gaze roam again. 'Ken loved you so much, Will.'
I let that hang in the air.
'But he wasn't all good.'
'I know that,' I said.
He let that settle in. 'When Julie was murdered,' my father said, 'Ken was already in trouble.'
'What do you mean?'
'He came home to hide.'
'From what?'
'I don't know.'
I thought about it. I again remembered that he had not been home in at least two years and that he'd seemed on edge, even as he asked me about Julie. I just didn't know what that all meant.
Dad said, 'Do you remember Phil McGuane?'
I nodded. Ken's old friend from high school, the 'class leader' who was now reputed to be 'connected.' 'I heard he moved into the Bonannos' old place.'
'Yes.'
During my childhood, the Bonannos, famed old-time mafiosi, had lived in Livingston 's biggest estate, the one with the big iron gate and the driveway guarded by two stone lions. Rumor had it as you may have surmised, suburbia is rife with rumors that there were bodies buried on the property and that the fence could electrocute and if a kid tried to sneak through the woods out back, he'd get shot in the head. I doubt any of those stories were true, but the police finally arrested Old Man Bonanno when he was ninety-one.
'What about him?' I asked.
'Ken was mixed up with McGuane.'
'How?'
'That's all I know.'
I thought about the Ghost. 'Was John Asselta involved too?'
My father went rigid. I saw fear in his eyes. 'Why would you ask me that?'
'The three of them were all friends in high school,' I began and then I decided to go the rest of the way. 'I saw him recently.'
'Asselta?'
'Yes.'
His voice was soft. 'He's back?'
I nodded.
Dad closed his eyes.
'What is it?'
