The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(67)

“I didn’t—” I started, but Mickie was on a roll.

“And yes, I like getting laid. I like the feeling when I watch their faces contort in sheer, unadulterated joy, when they gasp with pleasure and look at me completely and totally disarmed. And do you know why?”

I didn’t dare answer.

“Because at that moment, they would do anything, anything that I asked of them to experience that feeling again. But I don’t ask anything of them. Not one goddamned thing. I’m not in a committed relationship, Sam. I haven’t moved in with anyone. I also haven’t told anyone I love them and they’re the person I want to spend the rest of my life with, because when I do, that will be the last person I ever sleep with.” She opened the door and wheeled on me. “You deserve better. You use your eyes as an excuse for not believing you could do better and for not standing up for yourself and telling women they’re not good enough for you. You want to settle for someone like Eva, someone who cheats on you, who mistreats you, go right ahead. But for God’s sake, at least get a prenup, because I am not ever giving her any part of our damn business just because you’re blind.”

As the door closed, I was uncertain what had just happened or what exactly had set Mickie off, at least to that level of intensity. Then I thought of what she’d just said to me and I realized something else, something I had never really considered before.

Eva had never told me she loved me.





3

Just before three in the afternoon, Eva had still not called. She had a built-in excuse; her flight from Boston left at six in the morning East Coast time, which was three in the morning my time. Maybe she’d say, “I didn’t want to wake you,” and I could reply, “I didn’t want to wake you two, either.”

She had a six-hour flight to concoct a story. Maybe she’d play dumb, deny receiving the phone call at all and make me think that I had called the wrong room . . . and what type of person did I think she was, anyway? Or maybe she wouldn’t even bother with the charade; maybe she’d do us both a favor and just admit she’d been cheating on me from the start. Maybe she’d get it over with and say she didn’t love me, we had no future together, and she’d move out. I’m a coward, I know, but it would have been so much easier that way. Easier because, as angry and hurt and bitter as I was, there was still a part of me, the part that had been willing to go back to Donna Ashby in high school even though I knew she had used me, the part so afraid that I could never find anyone else and that I would spend my life lonely and alone.

I made the decision not to tell Ernie about my encounter with David Bateman or Eva’s infidelity. I knew how much he was looking forward to attending a World Series, and I didn’t want to be a downer. Even the weather was cooperating—still unseasonably warm, high eighties. The rest of the nation would tune in to see Giants fans clad in black-and-orange T-shirts instead of the parkas and ski hats we traditionally donned to attend games at the wind tunnel known as Candlestick Park.

Ernie arrived in full Giants attire, shirt and hat. Mickie once threatened to shoot me if she ever saw me wearing a professional team’s jersey unless it said “Loser” across the shoulders, but I slipped on my Giants jersey for that day. When I got in his Mercedes, Ernie handed me a hat just like the first time I’d gone to his house to play three flies up. This one was new, black with an orange SF stitched on the front. “My father bought it for the client. I see no reason for it to go to waste.”

“Neither do I.” I adjusted the size, slipped it on my head, and pulled down the visor. “We look like a couple of really big Little Leaguers,” I said.





4

Candlestick Park was draped in red, white, and blue bunting that made even the concrete mausoleum look festive. The grass was a rich green, and the cloudless sky radiated a pale blue. I could smell steamed hot dogs, popcorn, and roasted peanuts.

“Let’s get a beer,” Ernie said as we walked through the ticket gate. “I want to be in our seats for the opening festivities.”

We bounded up the concrete steps and found the shortest beer line. It didn’t take long for the first admirer to say, “Hey, aren’t you Ernie Cantwell?”

“Not today,” Ernie said. “Today I’m a Giants fan, just like you.”

“I used to love to watch you play,” the man said. “What the hell happened to you?”

Ernie got these kinds of questions all the time, and though he did a good job hiding it, I know it bothered him when people thought of him as some washed-up former athlete who walked off the field and disappeared. “I retired,” he said. “Now I work for him.” Ernie pointed to me.

“Yeah, what do you do?” the man asked.

“I rehabilitate washed-up ex-jocks,” I said, which ended the conversation.

I looked out and watched the last stream of cars inching into the parking lot just as the stadium began to shake. Ernie and I looked at each other and would later recall we had the same initial thought—that we were missing something inside the stadium, something so incredible as to cause sixty thousand fans to stamp their feet in unison. Then we both stumbled off balance. It felt like waves were rolling beneath the stadium. Out in the parking lot, car alarms blared in unison.

“Earthquake!” someone yelled.