Mosquitoland(50)

“WHAT TOOK SO long?” asks Beck.

“I got . . . held up.”

He eyeballs me. “I thought you were getting a pretzel?”

I lean over and put my head between my legs.

“Mim? You okay?”

“I threw up.”

“Are you sick?”

“What do you think?” I snap, harsher than I mean to be.

Walt turns to me with the most concerned of looks. “You’re sick, Mim?”

“No, Walt.” I give him a thumbs-up. “I’m fine. Just fine and dandy.”

My unenthusiastic response is rewarded with a double A-OK gesture.

Beck pulls his camera out of his bag. “Mim sure is lucky to have a friend like you, Walt. Damn lucky.”

Walt nods, smiling. “Damn lucky.”

A cool, post-rain breeze floats from the Ohio River, a small gesture of gratitude from what has otherwise been an unforgiving climate. Beck takes some pictures, and the Cubs, as they’ve done so beautifully for so many decades, go down in a glorious blaze of errors, stranded runners, and missed opportunities. In the symphony of losing, the Cubs aren’t just the first chair violinist—they’re the conductor, the bassoonist, the entire percussion section. And Walt, bless his heart, hasn’t lost one ounce of enthusiasm. He’s just wild with it, actually, cheering hard on the most mediocre of plays. The game draws to a close with the Reds winning twelve to three.

A little while later, the fireworks show starts behind the center field wall.

“Ha! Oh yeah! Ooh, look, Mim! Beck! Hey, hey, that was a good one!”

Smiling, I lean sideways toward Beck. “He’s like a kid on Christmas morning, huh?” I look from the explosive sky to Beck’s eyes—surprisingly, there’s not much difference.

“I lied,” he whispers.

Careful, Mary. There’s something fragile.

“Okay.”

“Ahhhhhh, Beck, look at that one!” Walt shouts.

Around us, the congregation of fans cheer, laugh, point, each of them gleefully oblivious to all but the fireworks. Beck and I are with them, but not with them. It reminds me of Thanksgivings growing up, sitting at the “kids’ table.” The grown-ups are right there, talking about important matters at work, upgrades around the house, goings-on in the neighborhood. What they don’t realize is that none of that matters. But the kids know it. God, do they ever.

“It’s not just a photography pilgrimage.”

“Wowwwwwweeee!” screams Walt, jumping up and down.

Beck stares blindly at the Reds program between his feet.

“Claire,” I say. “The phone call?”

He nods. “She’s my foster sister. Lived with us for a year in high school before she ran away. We were close, and the way things ended . . . I just need to see her again.”

I say nothing. I wait, listen as the pieces take shape.

“Kaaa—boooooooom! Hey, hey, that was a good one!”

“She’s near here,” continues Beck. “Just across the river. After getting kicked off the Greyhound, I was just gonna hitchhike the fifteen miles, but then I heard you guys trying to buy that truck.”

“Ha! Yeah, yeah! Ooooh!” Walt sounds like he’s about to have a heart attack.

“That truck,” I say, “has a name.”

Beck smiles, a movie star smile, a smile which my left eyeball takes a picture of and sends to my brain, which in turn, directs a lightning bolt straight to my heart, which melts on the spot.

“I called her six months ago,” he says. “Arranged this trip to come see her, but . . . she keeps calling back, telling me not to come. The whole thing’s been a disaster.” His voice is low, at once fleeting and infinite. “I don’t know what to do.”

For just a moment—just this one singular moment—we’re the only two people at the kids’ table.

I reach up and gently nudge his face toward the sky. “I think you do, Beck. And I’ll help. But right now, you’re missing one hell of a show.”

Together, the three of us watch the sky explode.

What I would give to see these fireworks with both eyes . . .





28


Devou Park





September 3—late at night


Dear Isabel,

I was eight.

Dad was drinking beer, working on his motorcycle. He never rode, just worked. This was one of the many missing pieces of my father, his aptitude for the unfinished. Whatever pleasure he found in the toiling means, he rarely found in the rewarding ends.

The three of us were in the garage. Mom was trying to explain how a record player worked. (I can’t remember exactly how these conversations went, because, well, I was eight. So I’m paraphrasing, but you get the gist.) “Yes, Mom, but how does the music get from that needle”—I pointed my chubby little finger to the record player—“to my heart.” My earliest memories of music had nothing to do with listening, and everything in the world to do with feeling.

“Right,” said Mom, blowing the dust off The Doors. “That’s called the stylus. And it runs along these grooves, yeah? And then something else about vibrations or something, and an amplifier I think, and then there’s another thing, and then voilà. Music.”