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The Padres played at home against LA, so Mike spent that Sunday at Dave’s house. It still felt strange parking his truck in the driveway instead of across the street and a house down.
Dan welcomed him with a quick hug before Robbie found him and dragged him to the backyard. Dave was already out there, grilling.
“I know you like your steak charred, Mikey, but the cut this time is too good to kill twice.”
Mike raised an eyebrow at two grilled steaks swimming in blood. “Can you kill mine once?”
Dave waved him off with a laugh like his own. It felt strange, anticipating his father ruining his steak.
He threw with Robbie until dinner. Kid was a gifted lefty with a wicked changeup. The last time Mike threw with him, Robbie pitched a near-perfect circle. This time, a solid trekkie. Mike fumbled a few times trying to palm it.
“Where’d you learn that?” Mike asked the third time he dropped.
“I saw Baker working on it during spring training,” Robbie answered between pitches.
Mike nodded, impressed. “You ever thought about playing professionally?”
“Padres must really be desperate to sign a twelve year old,” Robbie said.
“Baker teach you attitude too?”
Robbie grinned. “Nope, that’s all me.” He threw a straight fastball straight into Mike’s glove.
Dinners with Dave and Mags weren’t particularly exciting. With Blip and Evelyn, ribbing and arguments over trivia were mandatory. Food went cold, everyone busted their gut at least three times, Mike seemed to always preside over a long-brewing family argument. And while he might have wanted the same type of heated discussion about water rationing over scalloped potatoes and steak, Mike was grateful to hear the gentle ebb and flow of boring conversation. At least he was there.
Later, Mike helped Dave organize the garage. There wasn’t much in the way of stuff, just an obscene amount of tools. Mike ended up doing most of the lifting, moving, and sorting, while Dave sat on a stool near the workbench and sipped a beer.
“I think you have two hundred and twenty-five wrenches and eighty-six Phillips-head screwdrivers,” Mike said.
“You never know when something needs tightening or loosening.”
“Or a good screw?” Mike winked at Dave.
“Ha,” Dave tipped his beer at him, “walked right into that one. Good catch.”
Mike pulled up a stool and started trimming the pile. Dave watched him for a few moments.
“Hey, how’s the new position? You haven’t talked about it.”
“Uh, well, it’s easy on the body, tough on my nerves,” Mike shrugged, “but I’d take it over sitting behind a spaceship console, barking stats on cue like a fucking seal.”
“And you’re back in San Diego, so that must be good.”
For some reason, Ginny came to mind. Not her face breaking into a smile or anything like that, but her voice, her cackling laugh, her imitations, her throaty morning voice, her silky wino voice. Mike grinned.
“Who is she?”
Mike blinked. “Who’s who?”
“The person making you grin like a teenager with a crush.”
Ginny. Why he equated San Diego to home to her voice or home to her dimples, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to count the time since their last phone call. He didn’t want to, but it was involuntary at this point. Ginny Baker was a synapse in his brain. The last conversation they had rushed back and he cringed.
“And now you look like you're stranded in Haight-Ashbury with two bucks and no credit card.”
Mike toyed with a wrench. He glanced at Dave, sighed, and squinted at a spot somewhere near the overhead light. “Five years ago I got on a plane to Chicago and left someone behind. Did a damn good job pretending it was for the best. But I’m a shit liar, so now I have to be that sorry guy who cries into his lager.”
Dave took another sip of beer. This was unexpected, but a relief. His kid had inherited the family trait of keeping it light even when the smiles tightened. Dave took his time unpacking what he learned and adding it to what he knew. He didn’t feel it was right of him to give Mike advice, but he looked at the set of his son’s shoulders, sitting on a stool in the garage, doing a favor for his old man of three years. A burn started at the back of Dave’s throat.
“The biggest regret of my life was leaving you with your mom.”
Mike stopped. Dave continued. “I didn’t want to deal with the fallout. So I let you go and I buried it. Convinced myself that you’d be fine, watched you go from star athlete in high school to major league catcher. You played thirty minutes from where I lived. You lived an hour away. I never thought to reach out to you. I thought, ‘It’s too late, he’s gonna hate me.’”
Dave looked away when Mike turned around. “I made it about me when it should’ve been about you. I let you grow up without a father, a family, all because I was afraid.”
“But you’re better than me, Mike,” Dave glanced at him, “you reached out first. And you forgave me. Only a better man could do that. So don’t regret. Don’t turn gray and still be chained by regret.”
Mike stared at Dave until he was a blurred figure. Dave dashed a tear from his eye and cleared his throat.
“Doesn’t really apply to what I'm assuming is a romantic thing, but --”
“It applies,” Mike said. He nodded. “Thanks, Dave.”
It wasn’t ‘Dad’, but it was said with the same kind of sincerity. Mike went back to picking through screwdrivers and Dave went back to admiring his kid.
A week later, as Mike tried not to lose his mind watching Dries throw one wild pitch after the other, the bullpen phone rang.
“Mike, news.” Dougie held the phone out.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Dan.”
Mike went cold. He listened for the ten seconds it took, then hung up. Dougie called to him, but the crowd drowned it out. Home run on Dries’ shitty curveball. They needed to change the order. Mike took off his hat and left the bullpen. He managed to make it to his truck before grief overwhelmed him.
***
Ginny didn’t know the protocol for burying hatchets, at least temporarily. Two days had passed since Mike’s dad died. She should have called as soon as Livan told her, gave her condolences, offered to buy him a drink. That’s what normal people did. Except they weren’t normal people.
Ginny called Elliot. “You know Mike Lawson’s father died?”
“And you want to crash the funeral.”
The statement pulled her up short. “Do I do this alot?”
“Yes. But the pay is good. Give me two minutes.”
Two minutes was plenty to pull on a black shift, sweep her hair back into a low bun, and moisturize. Elliot came back and Ginny entered the address into her phone.
She shoved her feet into a modest pair of slingbacks, slipped on her sunglasses, and rushed from the house. She started driving towards the funeral home, but something nibbled at her to turn left when she should’ve turned right and drive thirty-five minutes out of her way to Mike’s place.
Ginny thought it would be like that glass cube cut out in the hills all the single, douchey celebrity males dicked around in, but Mike’s house was a warm little bungalow fringed by palm trees located on the curve of a normal looking cul-de-sac. She parked by the mailbox, resisted the urge to apply a smear of lip gloss, and walked to the entrance gate. A truck sat in the driveway. The gate swung open after she held down the intercom button five seconds beyond common courtesy.
Ginny walked the tiled path to the door and stopped five feet from the rubber mat. Mike stood in the doorway, bare chested, face shadowed, sweatpants loose on his hips. His eyes were probably red. Ginny didn’t want to look too closely.
“The funeral is in an hour,” Ginny said.
“I know.”
His voice did not sound like his voice. She saw herself moving towards him and doing something completely and totally fucked up, like wrapping her arms around him, holding him as he sank into her. Ginny swallowed.
“Finish getting ready. I’m driving.”
Mike sighed, about to speak, when she held up her hand. “Just...can we not argue about it?”
He sighed again, but turned back into the house. Ginny waited in the car. She didn’t think this through, although that seemed common course when it came to him. She thought of him disappearing into the dark of his house. She took off her sunglasses to apply mascara and lip gloss. Her eyes were too round, too open. Ginny knew she had to keep them hidden.
Mike knocked on the passenger window five minutes later. Ginny scrutinized him as he buckled in. Vetiver scented the air. He combed his hair, moisturized his beard. He wore black on black, even the shades were blacked out. His shirt collar was a little crooked. Ginny lifted a hand to adjust it, then dropped it to push the start button.
“Your collar needs fixing.”
Mike wordlessly obeyed. Ginny gripped the wheel for the entire forty-five minute drive.
They sat in the parking lot and watched people dressed in similar shades drift into the funeral home. There were more people than Ginny imagined. Much more. An odd sense of vanity made her tell Mike to go in first.
“You think these people care you’re Ginny Baker?”
“I’m not saying I’m not going in. I’ll go in with the stragglers, grab a seat in the back.”
The muscle in his cheek pulsed in a quick beat before he left the car. Ginny watched him walk up to the entrance, hold open the door for a flight of old birds, start to walk in after them, duck back out and return to the car, to the driver side, face tight.
“I can’t do this,” Mike pulled at his tie. “I feel like I’m going to either vomit, start crying, or both. I can’t.” His voice cracked.
Ginny let go of the steering wheel. “Okay. Okay.” She inhaled. “Don’t puke. I can handle crying and snot, but not puke.” She left the car and held out her hand.
Mike laced his fingers with hers. Even though she remembered what he felt like naked, Ginny can’t recall holding his hand. They didn’t do that, not when it was more expedient to kiss and slip hands beneath bands. Ginny glanced at their joined hands. He had a strong grip, hot and dry. He had calluses, she remembered them running over her back and ass and breasts, but now they aligned with hers. They walked like this, hands threaded together. They entered the funeral home like this. Mike didn’t know what to do with his sunglasses, so Ginny held them, along with his hand. Someone who looked similar to him came up to hug him, but Mike didn’t let go.
They held hands as Mike introduced Ginny to Dan, his brother. She met Grace, his sister and Jean, her girlfriend. His nieces and nephews. Mags, his father’s wife, who whispered her gratitude in Ginny’s ear. All the while Mike didn’t let go. Ginny had to sit next to him in the front row, at the end. It was surreal. She realized her sunglasses were still on mid-way through the second eulogy.
The service ended and the procession began. Mike released her to bear his father’s casket. She didn’t breathe until everyone filtered out. She missed the sudden pressure of his hand, the heat. During the service, he rested their hands on his thigh, his thumb absently stroking hers. Ginny felt each swipe in her stomach. If this were a church, she’d get down on her knees and pray to every single deity in existence to help her out of this, because the first time was horrible. Awful. Mind-meltingly terrible. A second time might kill her.
“You’re Ginny Baker, right?”
Ginny glanced over to see a boy, about twelve. Robbie. The oldest nephew.
“Yeah,” Ginny cleared her throat. “Yes. But I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“Got it. Uncle Mike sent me to get you. Says you’re his ride.”
Ginny gathered herself. Robbie nodded to her arm. “My Grandpa said you have the best changeup pool in the league.”
“Did he?” Ginny was touched. “I wish I could have told him thanks.”
“Grandpa wasn’t big on compliments. Just facts.”
Ginny grinned. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”
They walked down the aisle. Robbie paused at the door. “Are you coming to the house later?”
“Uh,” Ginny touched her ear, “I don’t know, honestly.”
“Well, if you do, wanna throw a little?”
Robbie stared at her with such earnestness, Ginny said sure before her brain could stop her.
“Cool,” Robbie said and pushed open the door. The setting sun threw her for a moment, then Mike came towards her, reaching for her hand again, and Ginny decided, for the next few hours, to take it and call a hand a hand.
***
There had been so much to do that Mike didn’t notice her absence until half the house had emptied and he was wrapping roast chicken in foil. Baker might want some of this, he thought, and then recalled he hadn’t seen her since an old uncle broke open the brandy to start a new round of tears.
“Have you seen Ginny?” Mike asked Grace.
“I think she’s out back with Robbie.”
Mike unwrapped the chicken. “Hold on putting the string beans away,” he told Dan. “I’ve got to feed my chauffeur.”
The look passed between Grace and Dan did not go unnoticed by Mike.
“She’s a friend, guys.”
“Yeah, a friend . Uh huh,” Dan said.
“That’s what the celebs say when they’re trying to keep it on the “down low”,” Grace said, complete with air quotes. Everyone in the kitchen erupted in groaning laughs.
“Grace, you’re my sister, I respect you, but please, don’t go around saying ‘down low.’ It’s passe.”
“Denying the obvious is what’s passe,” Grace replied. She eyed at the plate he assembled and elbowed Dan. “Look how lovingly he placed the carrots next to the lentil salad.”
Dan made little hearts with his fingers. Mike ignored them and took his lovingly crafted plate to the backyard.
Ginny was at bat. The bun was gone as well as her shoes. Some idiot gave her gum. She smacked it hard before pointing to the neighbor’s yard.
“You’re calling on my pitch?” Robbie asked, aghast.
“Damn right,” Ginny said.
Mike winced while Robbie practically burst from joy. Real, honest-to-God tough talk from a real, honest-to-God MLB pitcher. Any other kid would shit from fear, but Robbie took a second to feel joy, then pitched a circle. Shabby, but hittable. Baker narrowed her eyes, set her hips. There was a crack, then a rustle of leaves as the ball sailed through the neighbor’s tree and hit their ground with a thump.
Ginny ran a goofy lap around the lawn chair diamond. She passed close to Mike, all shining skin and dimples and wild hair. She stuck her tongue out, then bounded to Robbie.
“You owe me two warm brownies, five dollars, and a glass of ice cold chocolate milk.”
“Are you sure you’re an adult?”
Ginny nodded. “Yes. Now skedaddle. I’m starving!”
Robbie trudged off, disappointed yet happy. Mike knew the feeling well.
Ginny collapsed in the third base lawn chair. Mike grabbed home and settled beside her. “Here,” he placed the plate in her lap.
Ginny shook her head. “Later. Dessert first.”
Mike leaned back to observe her. He kept seeing her at a distance, imagining her talking and walking around her house, climbing the sofas, balancing on a skateboard, painting her nails. All of his imaginings paled in comparison.
“You’re staring at me,” Ginny said, eyes closed.
“Because you’re sweating all over the place.”
“It’s been awhile since you played, but that happens when you work. ”
She leveled an eye at him. “You okay?”
Mike scratched his beard, wished he had a beer label to pick, settled for fiddling with the tip of his tie. “It’s good to be around Dan and Mags and Grace. Doesn’t hurt as much.” He looked at her. “And it’s good to be distracted when it does hurt.”
Ginny held his gaze for a moment too long. She leaned forward suddenly.
“I haven’t been this close to you in five years,” her eyes lingered on his lips, “but it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long.”
Mike dropped his tie. He had been trying all day to not let his eyes drift over her face, because that led to wanting to touch her, getting his thumb tangled up in the thin gold necklaces draped over her collarbones. He wanted to fit his head on her shoulder and breathe in, settle in the space next to her, Ginny was always warm, and tactile, her fingers running along his nape. It comes out, unbidden. “I’ve missed you.”
Ginny blinked. She edged back. “You know what I hate?”
Her eyes drop to the plate before meeting his, this time with a small, tight smile. “That cliche, the one where the person in mourning has sex with someone because they are in mourning. It’s weird. And it’s always awkward as hell. Putting on funeral wear the morning after.”
It used to bother him, her straight talk, back when he was allowed to be bothered and show it. He used to want the drama of hidden meanings and fraught silences. Five years of distance made him realize how much of a risk she took every time she leveled with him.
To be that to her now would mean to blow up this thing they were doing, this newfangled dance of bad timing and moving on. Mike cast his eyes around the yard. “I don’t know. I guess, it’s about,” he searched for the direct opposite of what it would mean to him, “getting lost in someone else, to forget about the pain. You know, to celebrate being alive.”
“Maybe,” Ginny eased back and stretched out her legs. “But it’s only momentarily. Fucking the pain away is a myth.
“But it feels good,” Mike said.
They glanced at each other with soft smiles. Something passed over her face, and her smile turned sad.
“Mike,” Ginny started, but Robbie hollered that the brownies were ready.
Mike took her plate and nodded towards the house. “Dessert first.”
Ginny hopped up. “Coming?”
“Yeah, in a moment.”
In the thirty seconds it took for her to collect her shoes and enter the house, all the wants coloring his future faded. He blinked, his vision crystallizing, until the house was just a house, the yard just a yard, and Ginny Baker just Ginny Baker.