Tell Me A Story...

ROUNDING THIRD


He saw the ball clearly as it left the pitcher’s right hand, picking up the rotation immediately: it was a curveball, starting waist high over the plate, intended to break down and away, out of the strike zone. He saw it hanging there, spinning, spinning like a big lazy melon with red seams. Hell, he could nearly count the stitches. He stayed back, back, weight over his right leg, bat back and high, coiled and ready to unload. Then he turned his swing loose – strong, controlled, even – and felt the solid contact, no sting, no vibration, just the beautiful “crack,” the sound of horsehide against northern ash.

The ball jumped off his bat, screaming high over the shortstop’s head, heading toward the wall in left field. He broke hard out of the box and sprinted down the first base line, looking up just in time to see the ball thump off the Green Monster. The ball caromed off the wall and directly to the left fielder, but that didn’t matter: with two outs and the runners going on contact, they would score easily from second and third. He rounded first base and then retreated to the bag, clapping his hands, looking into the dugout where his teammates were shouting and saluting him with raised fists. He looked to the first base coach who was yelling “Atta boy!”

“Damn, Mac!” he said. “That was a hanger. I should have taken it outta here.”

And then the scene was reset. He saw the ball again, leaving the pitcher’s hand, spinning, spinning… and the realization came over him: this was not reality; it was a dream. He opened his eyes, saw that the room was pitch black, and closed them again quickly, a little smile playing at his lips. For a few seconds, he was suspended in that delicious state, somewhere between wakefulness and dreamland. Maybe he could get back into this dream… maybe take it over the wall next time… maybe beat the Red Sox on their home turf… maybe…
_____


“Henry. Henry, wake up, darling.”

“Hello?” He opened his eyes, blinking in the pale morning light. “Marie? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be, sweetheart? Do you have other women come to your bed here?” She was sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling at him playfully, wearing a white terrycloth robe, her hair wrapped in a white towel.

“Did you shower already, sweetie?” He knew the answer. She always came from her morning shower like this, smelling of Ivory soap, her robe drawn around her and tied at the waist, her hair smelling of that shampoo with the wonderful scent of tropical fruit.

“Yes, I did. And I thought about you. And I couldn’t wait to come sit with you and…” She was smiling at him now.

“And what, darling? What is it?”

“This,” she said and leaned down to kiss him full on the mouth, gently but with clear intent.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet angel. Do that again.”

And she did, again and again, with that wonderful skill that comes from decades of practice. He cupped her face in his hands, breathless from her kisses, and looked into her lovely eyes. She was a beauty, a great beauty, and that beauty had never faded, not for Henry. From the time he first laid eyes on her, all those years ago, there had never been another woman in his life. He slid his hands inside the collar of her robe, intending to open it and gaze at her lovely body.

“Wait, Henry. Not here, darling.” She closed her robe around her. “There are no locks on these doors. They’ll walk in on us.”

“What? No locks? I don’t know…”

“We’ll go home, Henry, to our room, to our own bed. And we’ll make love there, no interruptions, no little intruders.”

“But, Marie, wait…” She was standing up now, moving toward the door.

“Just give me a few minutes head start, darling. I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t make me wait too long.” With that, she was gone.

Henry swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, waiting for his head to clear. He saw the slippers arranged neatly at the side of the bed, slipped his feet into them and headed for the door. He opened it and looked out into the wide, empty corridor, the linoleum floor polished to a high gloss reflecting the fluorescent lights from the ceiling. He saw a white-clad figure disappear around the corner at the end of the corridor. He hurried in that direction, wondering why Marie could not wait for him.

All along the hallway were doors to other rooms, securely closed, the occupants sound asleep on this early Sunday morning. He turned right at the end of the hall and found himself in an empty lobby, couches and chairs arranged neatly around the low tables. At the far end of the lobby were floor to ceiling windows with wide doors that opened to a covered portico and a driveway that led to the boulevard beyond. As he looked out toward the driveway, he saw that white figure turn to the right, heading east on the sidewalk along the boulevard.

Henry hurried out through the doors as they opened with loud swoosh. He had to try to catch up before Marie was completely out of sight. He turned right, just as she had, and made his way along the sidewalk. The sun was rising to the east and soon the glare caused him to shield his eyes with one hand, wishing he’d had time to find his sunglasses. Maybe it was the glare, or perhaps she was just too far ahead, but he could not see Marie’s figure any longer. Still, he was sure she had come this way, and so he trudged on, determined not to disappoint her.

The sun rose steadily in the morning sky and Henry realized that he was tiring, his pace slowing to crawl. His feet began to hurt and he cursed himself for not putting on his walking shoes instead of the damned slippers. And still he went on, ignoring the pain, ignoring the occasional car that rushed by on the broad, four-lane street.

The pain became intense, running from his feet up through his calves and into his knees. A short distance ahead, he saw a bench and a sign that said “Bus Stop.” He made it to the bench and sat down hard, the pain in his legs throbbing, more than he could stand. He decided to rest here for a while, just until the pain subsided, and then continue on after Marie. Had she come this way? Did he miss a turn? Suddenly he was afraid and very tired. He leaned back against the bench and closed his eyes.
_____


The police cruiser moved deliberately along Oak Boulevard, the officers scanning both sides of the street, searching for their target: an eighty-six year-old male Caucasian, about 5’10”, 160 pounds, probably dressed in blue pajamas and house slippers.

“Look, up there at the bus stop, Jack. That’s probably him.” The officer named Jack quickly pulled over to the curb and stopped, switching on the emergency lights to warn other drivers away.

“Sir… hello… Mr. Logan? Time to wake up.” The voice came to Henry from far away, growing closer, growing more intense. He opened his eyes to see a young man in a police uniform standing over him. “Sir, is your name Henry Logan?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“It’s him, Jack. We got him. Call it in.”

Henry heard the crackle of the radio and the strange voice responding to the officer’s call, and he saw the colored light bar flashing in sequence on top of the car.

“Mr. Logan, come with me now. We’re going to take you back to the home. Your son is there and he’s really worried about you. Come on now.” He placed a firm hand under Henry’s left arm and helped him to his feet. In a minute or so, Henry was secured in the back seat of the patrol car.

“Oh geez, Marty!” It was the other officer speaking. “Did you get a whiff of him? We’ll never get that smell out of the car.”

“Take it easy, Jack. It’s a short ride. We’ll take the car in and they can clean it up. Mr. Logan, we’re taking you back now. Your son is waiting for you there.”

“Thank you… thank you both.” Henry could see that the younger officer, the one called Marty, was more sympathetic to his plight. It seemed strange, talking to them through the heavy wire screen that separated the back seat from the front.

“Henry Logan,” the young man said. “Sounds familiar. Say, are you any relation to Hack Logan, the ballplayer?”

“That’s me,” Henry said. “Or… it used to be me.”

“Damn, Jack, we’ve got baseball royalty in the car with us. This is Hack Logan, the best ballplayer that ever came out of this town. Had a fine career! Mr. Logan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you, son.”

“What teams did you play for, sir?”

“San Francisco... mostly San Francisco. And St. Louie.”

“The Giants and Cards!”

“No… the Seals and the Browns.” Then softly, as though to himself, “I met my Marie in Frisco.”

“Geez, Jack, isn’t this something?”

“Yeah, we’ll install a plaque back there: ‘Hack Logan shit here.’” Jack was in a foul mood.

As they turned into the driveway leading to the entrance of the retirement home, the officers could see a balding, heavyset man who looked to be in his forties pacing nervously on the sidewalk. With him were two very sheepish looking orderlies in their white uniforms, one of them holding a wheelchair.

“Okay, Mr. Logan. You’re home safe and sound.”

It wasn’t long before Henry was out of the patrol car, into the wheelchair and on his way into the building with the two staff members. A doctor had been called to examine him and make sure there were no ill effects from his adventure. His son John stayed behind to thank the officers for finding his father, and to take a card from Marty with a promise to have his father sign some piece of memorabilia and send it along to the station house. With that, the officers were on their way, the windows of the cruiser rolled down in hopes of clearing the air.
_____


Within the hour, Henry was bathed and powdered, buttoned into a fresh pair of pajamas, and safely tucked into his bed. The doctor’s prescription had been for plenty of fluids and lots of rest. The staff quickly delivered a pitcher of water, freshly squeezed orange juice, and a steaming bowl of oatmeal. They were determined to smother Henry with attention. And head off any liabilities.

John, who had delivered a stern lecture to the staff about keeping an eye on the residents, waved them out of the room and was prepared to deliver an equally stern lecture to his father.

“Dad, listen to me now… this can’t happen again! Do you understand? You cannot wander off and go hiking up Oak Boulevard. Dad? Are you listening?”

Henry looked into his son’s eyes and felt terrible. In a very short time, he’d seen John’s emotions range from relief to elation, from dismay to anger, and then repeat the whole cycle. He hoped he could make him understand.

“Johnny,” he said, “she came for me. Your mother came for me. She sat right here, on the edge of the bed.”

John looked at his father and felt his heart drop. “Dad, stop it now. You know Mom has been gone for more than nine years now. You can’t do this…”

“Johnny,” Henry said, wrapping his fingers around his son’s wrist and tightening his grip, “can you feel this?”

“What?”

“My hand. Can you feel my hand?”

“Yeah, Dad, of course. I can feel your hand.”

“That’s how real it was, son. She sat right here… in her robe… with a towel wrapped around her hair. And she kissed me, Johnny.”

John’s eyes were welling now. He wanted very badly for this conversation to be over. “Dad, you’ve got to stop it! Mom is gone and that’s that! You’re just going to make yourself sad. Do you hear me, Dad?”

Henry could see that there was no way to win this debate. Now, he too wanted the conversation to end. “Okay, Johnny,” he said, patting his son’s hand. “I’m fine now. You go on home. Go be with your family. I’m very tired now. I need to get some rest.”

“Are you sure, Dad?”

“Yeah, Johnny, please go… go be with the kids… give them my love.” And with that he closed his eyes. He could sense John standing there, waiting and watching him carefully. Finally, he felt a gentle kiss on his forehead and heard his son turn and head for the door.

Henry knew that John was wrong. None of this had made him sad. Not in the least. He took a deep breath and exhaled, glad to be in his bed, scrubbed and clean, his head resting on the pillow. He couldn’t wait to drift off to sleep. Surely Marie would come for him again. He could almost taste her kisses.
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