The Game of Love and Death(2)

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said. “I thought I’d return the ball faster that way.”


The coach snorted and shook his head. He looked up at the sky, grimaced, and scrutinized his athletes. The practice continued a few minutes more, until something in the air shifted. Henry felt it as it happened, this sudden burst of pressure. The rain turned from a light mist to a regular shower, darkening the players’ shoulders. Puddles, sizzling with falling water, filled the low spots on the diamond.

Holding a clipboard over his head in a fruitless attempt to keep the rain at bay, the coach blew his whistle. “Hit the showers! Everyone but Bishop.”

Henry jogged over and looked down at his coach.

“Usual drill. Bring in the equipment and clean the mud off the bats and balls. Make sure you get them good and dry or we’ll have to replace them, and that’s just not in the budget.” He glanced at Henry’s sagging socks.

“Yes, sir,” Henry said, half expecting the heat on his face to turn the rain to steam.

A sparrow lighted on the grass nearby and tugged at a worm that had been lured by the pounding drops. The bird cocked its head at Henry, appearing to study him intently. Henry pulled up his socks.

“Once you get this cleaned up, you can go,” Coach said. “I’m heading in. It’s a mess out here.”

Henry nodded and bent to pick up the closest ball. He winged it into a bucket and did the same with the next and the next, never missing a throw, even as he moved farther and farther away from it, creating a steady thup, thup, thup of baseballs as they piled up. Rhythm. Connection. They went where he did, like shadows, like ghosts.

Henry whistled as he worked, the theme from a Russian ballet he’d played in the school orchestra. He lifted his cap to wipe water from his forehead and moved on to the bats, gathering them into bouquets that he swung as he walked. He rinsed them, dried them, and lowered them into a wheeled cart, which he pushed toward the storage shed with one hand as he carried the ball bucket in his other, his face angled away from the rippling curtain of falling water.

The beauty of the all-boys preparatory academy invariably filled him with awe. It was a symphony of red brick and white paint nestled in an evergreen forest. Even on a rainy day, it was a splendid thing to behold. He was glad for the scholarship that secured his spot on its edge, and hoped for another to carry him forward through the University of Washington in the fall.

When Henry arrived in the locker room, Ethan was still there, wrapped in a white towel, although everyone else had gone home.

“I should’ve given you a hand,” he said, rubbing a smaller towel against his dripping hair. “I can be a real heel.”

“My job,” Henry said. “Not yours.”

“Well, if that doesn’t stink,” Ethan said. “You’re soaked clean through. And your shoes … I don’t know why you just don’t take my old pair. They’re in much better shape —”

“It’s fine, Ethan. Really.” Henry set his cap on the bench, pulled his wet shirt off over his head, and let it fall with a slap to the concrete floor. “Don’t worry.”

By the time Henry finished his shower, Ethan was dressed, looking neat and confident in his school uniform, his hair parted sharply. He turned toward the fogged-up mirror, cleared a circle with his fist, and adjusted his already smartly knotted tie.

“Malt sound good?” He looked at Henry’s misty reflection. “Guthrie’s is always crawling with girls this time of day.”

“Nah,” Henry said, ruffling his hair to peaks with his towel.

“You’re certain?” But even as he asked the question, Ethan looked relieved. His expression was strange. But Ethan could be complicated, especially about how they spent their free time together. Henry had learned not to ask. He moved the fingers on his left hand, practicing the melody of a new piece he was working on. He itched to have his double bass in his arms for real. The feeling and ritual always soothed him.

“Say, you don’t have other plans, do you?” Ethan asked, a vaguely hurt look in his eyes. Ethan always hated it when Henry made other plans, as if he didn’t want Henry to choose any other best friend. Not that he ever would.

But Henry didn’t want to admit he intended to spend the evening in the carriage house, practicing. Ethan would give him an earful. “Oh, say, I’d meant to ask about your English thesis.”

“Henry, that’s not due for more than two weeks and this is Friday. The weekend, for chrissakes.” Ethan slung his satchel over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t have to be tonight,” Henry said. “I thought you might like to get started.”

Ethan tugged the hair on the top of his head, ruining his perfect part. “No, no. I know what I want to say in it. There’s no rush. But this isn’t going to get in the way of your own schoolwork, is it? Because I can probably —”

“It’s no trouble,” Henry said. He balled up his towel and tossed it into the bin. “I like doing it. Stop worrying.”

Ethan grinned. He drummed his fingernails against the doorframe, a quick rattle of sound, and then pushed on the door. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the world around Henry still felt as though it was about to crack open. He hurried after his friend. The world could fall into pieces if it wanted. Ethan — and everyone else — could count on Henry to hold up his part.