Slide - Kyle Beachy [96]
“Hello. I'm Richard Mays. What's your name?”
“Ian.” They shook hands. “How come you're not at work? Did you get fired like him?”
“Nobody's been fired,” I said.
Richard glanced at me briefly before raising a hand to the glare and grinning at the boy.
“We can all use a day off from time to time. Gives me a chance to work through some physical motions, move around a little.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Good for the noggin.”
“My dad runs a jackhammer for the city. He works six days every week plus some holidays when they pay double.”
“That's mighty important work, Ian. The city would be in trouble without people like him. I bet he uses one of the big ones too. The eighty-pounders.”
“He says it makes your teeth jiggle. I could ask if you could do it too, if you want.”
Richard's eyes shut briefly as the grin expanded. “May just take you up on that.”
The longer the exchange went on, the more worried I became. At fifty-two, my father was in fine shape, but slight. He had a long-married lawyer's physique. Ian's father was a force, as I remembered him stomping into his house. This comparison must have been going on somewhere in Ian's head, even if subconsciously. Connections forming, spreading in a network of dots and lines.
“Dad here grew up in South City right, Dad? You should tell Ian about the trouble you used to get into. All the fights.”
“I don't think that's necessary, Potter. You ever play golf, Ian?”
“Nope.”
“Would you like to learn?”
“I guess.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “Swinging a golf club is about the worst thing you can do for a baseball swing. You start dropping your back shoulder, throws everything out of whack. He'll start popping everything up.”
“I think it'll be fine, son.”
“Alright,” Ian said. “Sure.”
He hopped down and took the club. My father illustrated the basic grip and outlined the simplest components of the swing. Arms go here, then here, then through here. Nothing beyond the general sort of tips that floated across airwaves and radio, waiting for anyone to take and apply. Feet about shoulder width, head down, don't overswing.
“Keep your left elbow locked,” I said.
Ian spoke to my father. “So I just hit it when I want? There's no signal or something?”
“Whenever you're ready.”
“What if I mess up?”
“You're going to mess up,” Richard said, teeing a ball before stepping back to stand beside his unemployed son. “That's why people come here. Mess up as much as they want.”
Ian's prestroke routine was impressive. He shuffled his feet into position, opened and closed his choked-up grip I could see an envelope poking out from his back pocket, the letter from his mother that he had refused to share. His first swing missed. Back into the routine like nothing happened. On the second swing he sent the ball spinning wildly off to the right. He bent down to tee another and began the routine over.
I could tell he was looking at me, underdressed father of mine, untucked shirt, tired eyes looking at me.
“When I first saw you there with him, I had no idea what was happening. I couldn't place you. That's my son, I thought. For some reason my son is standing with a blond boy.”
“It's like that Big Brother program. I met him during a delivery. We played catch. I'm not sure what else to say.”
We stood two paces behind the turf, far enough that our role was clear and defined. Ian took swing after swing, each more composed than the last. He caught one squarely, sending it fifty or so yards, and we clapped. He continued with mechanical focus.
“Is that true about your job?”
“The company has suspended operations under suspicion of widespread fraudulence. I have a feeling Debbie Dinkles is going down hard.”
“I don't understand how I didn't know that,” he said. “I've been out of town recently, but that's no excuse.”
“I forgot that you wear V-necks.”
I sat on the bench and my father sat next to me. He raised both elbows to the backrest, allowed his legs to spread naturally, while I kept mine crossed at the knee to conceal