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We play ball at the St. Bede field, which is on the same block as our parish church. Michael is the first to push out of the car. His
cleats dig into my white sneakers and I thwap his leg with my mitt.
"Slow down, will ya." Dad hates it when we get so excited. I settle down, pull myself out, and after me come John and Julie, jumping up and down next to Mom's belly that's large as a watermelon. Mom is about to have our new brother or sister. Mom loves babies. She and Dad tried for seven whole years after Michael to have me. She says she will take as many babies as God will give her.
When Mom is not having a baby, she throws the baseball left-handed. She calls herself a southpaw. I am proud to have a mother like that. She loves the Brooklyn Dodgers even though they are not in Brooklyn anymore. "Isn't it funny how the Dodgers followed us from New York to Los Angeles!" That is what Mom said to Dad once, like she had something to do with it. Dad hates the Dodgers. Mom says he is a Yankees man, even though he's just switched to root for the California Angels. They play not so far from our house, and very close to Disneyland.
"I get center field." Michael swings his arms around. He thinks he can take any position he wants since he is the oldest.
"Maura, why don't you stand in the outfield this time?" Dad pulls two fingers out of his green pants pocket, motions for me to go position myself. I scratch my head because I usually just hang around shortstop and pick up slow-moving grounders and try hard to get them back into Dad's mitt, even though I still can't throw that far.
Dad trudges to home plate and I follow. The closer I get to him, the farther away the outfield seems, so far away a covered wagon would have to pull me there. I walk on the dirt, which is red, like brick dust, and follow Dad's shadow, so quiet behind him he has no idea I am there until he turns around and almost hits my head with the bat.
"What are you doing?"
"I don't know."
"Come on, we don't have all day, get out in the outfield."
"Can you just tell me something?"
Dad lights up a cigarette. He stands behind home plate and signals Michael to scurry deeper in the field. He tosses the baseball, speaking through his cigarette smoke that I should back away so I don't get hurt. He tosses the ball again and swings, and the ball sounds like a greasy cheeseburger as it flies away. Michael screams "weeeee-hah" as the ball swerves into center field, where I am supposed to be standing.
"Okay, make it quick." Dad keeps his stare to the outfield, sending out puffs of smoke that look like small balloons.
"Those gold things in the car?"
"What are you talking about?"
Dad lifts his arm as Michael throws from center field, snatching the baseball flat in his naked palm. Dad backs away, pelts the next ball, this one sounding like a firecracker. A shriek, then it's gone, the ball whirling way out, past Michael's head, all the way to the boundary fence, where the St. Bede baseball field runs right into the Jacaranda Navy Base.
"The golden bullet shells, Dad. The trunk is filled with them."
Dad drops his bat, ignoring Michael's return ball, which goes sailing by, banging against the wooden backstop behind us. He bends to pick up the bat, gripping it in the middle.
"Who said you should be paying attention to those?"
"They're all over–they smell like gangsters." I watch gray cigarette smoke snaking all around him.
Dad wipes sweat off his thick arm, then lifts his cigarette so that it's staring down straight into my eyes. Its red lava glows as he sucks on it.
"You ignore the bullet shells, you hear. Otherwise"–he shifts his jaw–"otherwise, I'll have Michael be in charge of the equipment." He tosses the ball, once, twice, three times, snapping it up louder each time as I wonder how Dad can smoke and snap at the same time. "Now, are we here to field balls or talk about something we should not be talking about?"
Mom, in her green-and-white-striped shirt, stands up in the dugout like she is my coach, and claps her hands like maybe it's more important to catch balls than pester Dad. "Maura, aren't you going to play today?"
Michael yells from center field, "What's the holdup?" as Dad leans on his bat, folding his tight arms. I tie both my sneaker laces, then run past shortstop. It seems like it takes me forever before I leap into center field, stepping on boatloads of dandelions. Even though Dad doesn't say a word, I can tell by his posture he is pleased I am standing out in the field. I wonder if the next ball will come my way, but before Dad swings, I inhale deep into my mitt. It has the blue smell. Dad hits a high fly ball. I wobble, trying to spot it, my arms outstretched to the sun.
* * *
(continued on the next page)
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