“Gone to bed, dear,” she said, her eyes on the young Marlon Brando.
Bobby went into Sean’s room. It was dark, except the space-station control panel, glowing in the corner. Bobby went to the bed, gazed down.
Sean was fast asleep. In the light from the space station, Bobby could see that he didn’t look at all like the other Sean, the bald, hollow-faced chemo kid from the hospital. His Sean was almost as big, but he was not yet six, and the other Sean had probably been at least ten. His Sean had thick blond hair, a broad face, broad forehead, well-knit frame. His Sean wasn’t dying. He was sleeping peacefully, recharging the batteries, his hands lying relaxed on the covers. His Sean had nothing in common with the other Sean. The other Sean wasn’t even around anymore, for Christ’s sake. Still, it was bad luck, two Seans, and no amount of rationalizing could change that.
Bobby went over to the space station. Did Sean like it? Bobby didn’t know: he’d been on a road trip almost the whole time since they’d moved in. He sat at the console. There was a message on the screen: “Captain Sean: Invasion of the Arcturian Web requires heroic action. Awaiting instructions.”
Bobby pressed a button. A menu appeared on the screen. “Choices. 1. Abandon planet. 2. Activate Weapon X. 3. Send negotiator bearing intergalactic white flag of peace.”
Bobby rubbed his rib cage. No pain at all, and he felt loose, as loose as he’d felt on the first day of spring training. Point one four seven. Just a stupid joke. In a month, two weeks even, no one would remember. No heroic action required: he just had to get up there and do what he did.
But a hero is what he had been to the other Sean. Hit a home run for me, and you’re my hero, and all that shit. Was hitting home runs on request heroic? It was luck, pure, blind, and simple. And what was luck? The residue of something-preparation? — according to some old baseball saying he’d heard from some coach along the way. Still, he could have handled the other Sean situation, the chemo Sean situation, differently, could have said that the grand slam in the opener had been for a little boy he’d met on a hospital visit in spring training. Or, better, let the facts slip out through that DCR guy, whatever his name was. Or Wald-Wald would have known the best way. A good idea-he was still learning to play the game-but too late.
Bobby selected 3. “Send negotiator bearing intergalactic white flag of peace.”
The screen went blank. A new message popped up. “Alien invasion successful. You are now a prisoner of the Arcturian Web. Awaiting instructions.”
The next day-the first hot day of the year, with the sun shining and the breeze blowing out-Bobby was on the field before anyone else. He ran for a while, feeling loose and strong, stretched, ran some more, broke a sweat. In BP the ball was a perfect white sphere with perfectly even red-stitched seams, and he punished it, sending six drives in a row over the wall in left, the last two over the lights as well. Punished it and felt good.
In the clubhouse Burrows handed him a printout, showing his lifetime stats against Pinero, the opposing pitcher. He was hitting. 471, 24 for 51, with eight doubles, a triple, and six home runs.
“Just remember what I think of stats,” Burrows said.
“What’s that?”
“Half the time they’re bullshit.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“They’re bullshit the other way.”
Bobby smiled. He was starting to like Burrows.
At his stall, Bobby pressed PLAY, listened to a few tunes, then put on his game shirt with number forty-one, not even seeing the digits today, for the first time not bothered by it at all. Then he took the field and went 0 for 4, lowering his average to. 138. The Sox fell to last. Primo hit for the cycle.
Bobby got home after midnight, driving with a beer in his hand, and then another. So what? He wasn’t some salesman on the road late after an office party, or some other-he couldn’t think what; he was Bobby Rayburn, he was under pressure, and he had to relax, had to let go, let go, let go.
Val was in the kitchen with the ponytailed guy, drinking white wine.
“Can I see you?” Bobby said.
Val followed him into the hall.
“What the fuck’s he doing here?”
“Planning, Bobby. The kitchen. You know all about it. And I’d prefer you didn’t talk to me so rudely.”
He gave her a push, not hard. She fell against the wall, her eyes opening wide in surprise. He’d never laid a hand on her. Then she started to cry, or would have, if Philip hadn’t stuck his head around the corner.
“One little point of clarification, Valerie, if you don’t mind.”
“Some other time, Slugger,” Bobby said. “Nighty-night.”
Meaning that Philip should leave. But he just stood there and said, “Sleep well.” So Bobby went upstairs by himself: he didn’t want to do any more pushing.
He took the phone out on the balcony, called Wald. Wald answered after four or five rings, his voice grainy with sleep.
“Missed the game, Bobby. How’d it go?”
“I’ll pay what he wants,” Bobby said. A ship slid across the dark sea, far away. He could distinguish every light showing: there wasn’t anything wrong with his eyes.
“Sorry, Bobby, I don’t get you.”
“Primo. My number.”
“You’re talking about the fifty grand?”
“Right.”
“You’ll pay it?”
“That’s what I just said.” Why not? He was spending twice that or maybe more to fix a kitchen that didn’t need fixing.
“You’re the boss,” Wald said.
“I want you to do it now.”
“Now? It’s-”
“I know what time it is.”
“I’m not sure I can reach-”
“Try.”
“Whatever you say.”
Bobby stayed on the balcony watching the ship sail out of sight. The phone buzzed.
“Yes?”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I offered them fifty and they turned it down.”
“Who is they?”
“His people.”
“Did they talk to him?”
“They said they did.”
Another ship appeared, smaller than the first, but every light on it just as clear to him. “Offer them more.”
“How much more?”
“Offer them a hundred. Isn’t that what they wanted in the first place?”
“That was then.”
“So?”
“So nothing. A hundred grand’s still a lot of money, Bobby, that’s all.”
“We can always bag the goddamned kitchen.”
Wald was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Bobby. I kind of like Philip’s vision.”
Peter Abrahams
The Fan
15
