“Grandma told me. She said she could help.”
“No fair. What if I want to help?”
Chase shrugs. “You can, if you have time.”
“I do, bud.”
“Hey, is something wrong?” he steps closer almost as if he’s inspecting my red rimmed eyelids.
“Nah, just really tired. I had a long day.”
“Maybe you need to take a long, hot bath.”
I run my hand over his dark blond hair and smile. “You’re right, bud. That’s exactly what Mom needs.”
He smiles and runs toward his room just as my mom enters from the kitchen. She’s drying her hands on a dish towel and when we make eye contact, she sighs.
“What happened?”
I motion for her to go back into the kitchen with me where I pour myself a glass of wine that I fully intend to finish, and probably refill a few times, so I can put this night out of my mind. My mom and I sit at the small breakfast table. She’s drinking coffee and I’m on my way to becoming a wino. Once I start talking, the tears start flowing. My mom doesn’t ask any questions, and she holds my hand while I fill her in.
“I’m failing at this parent thing.”
She squeezes my hand. “You’re not, Bellamy. You’re doing everything you can to give Chase the life he deserves.”
“Maybe I should move back to Spokane.”
“So Chase can watch while Greg plays dad to his sister, but not to him? I think that’ll make things worse for Chase. Here, he’s the focus of our attention. There, he’s subject to the crap his stepmother pulls.”
“I know.” My voice is weak, and I don’t even believe my own words. “I don’t know what else to do for him. He just wants to play sports and make friends but those things go hand in hand here, and stupid Brett Larsen is making it impossible.”
“We’ll figure it out. I’ll ask around . . . maybe there’s a high schooler who can train with him or take him under his wing.”
“Like a big brother or something?”
She nods. “Exactly. Do you remember David Farmer?”
“Mr. Farmer? Yeah, I had him for gym class. He used to coach . . .” My eyes go wide. “Doesn’t he run the youth center?”
“Yes, he does. I’ll go talk to him tomorrow and see if he has some time to spend with Chase or if he knows of a young man who would be willing to.”
“Oh, Mom . . .” I reach across the table and hug her. “Why didn’t I think of him earlier?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “What matters is that we find someone to help Chase and I think David could be the one.”
By the time she leaves, I’m full of hope. Brett Larsen can go fly a kite as far as I’m concerned.
Seven
Hawk
All I need out of life is a hot cup of coffee and the view from my parents’ back porch. The sun is barely rising over the snowcapped mountain range that seems closer than it really is. There’s a fine mist lingering off the ground, making it look like the cattle are missing their legs between their knees and body. When I was younger, my mother used to take pictures from this spot and turn them into greeting cards. She’d sell them down at the local drugstore, which has always been a tourist stop — the place to buy Richfield Montana t-shirts, magnets and hand-painted cows wearing Christmas wreaths around their necks.
The peace and quiet here is a renewed calm. I went from this to the University of Utah, where I played one year of collegiate ball before I signed my major league deal and landed myself in one of the busiest cities in the US. It’s surprising I’ve survived in Boston as long as I have. It’s constantly noisy, filled with people always coming and going and the traffic is a bitch, but damn, there’s some kind of magic there. The people of Boston love their city, and they love their sports teams. The fans consider us their family. They’re not intrusive when they see us on the streets. They care when we’re ailing; the sheer number of gifts my manager has sent to my parents’ place alone shows me that they’re missing me . . . probably not as much as I’m missing them. I’d give anything to be back in Bean Town, wearing layers of clothing, and about to take the mound.
Still, I’m happy to be home. The weather isn’t all that much different so I’m still in layers, but now I’m wearing flannel shirts with long john’s underneath, and cowboy boots. The door behind me opens and closes. I don’t bother to turn around to see who it is. My brother-in-law, Warner, stands next to me with a cup of coffee in his hand.
He sighs heavily. Not once, but twice. There’s something on his mind. Thing is, I don’t want to know what it is. He and my other brother-in-law, Alan, hold the same grudge against me as my sisters do. They all think I chose wrong, that I should’ve given up my dream of playing professional baseball and worked the ranch like them. The thing is, working here was never in my blood. I hated doing chores, wrangling horses and chasing cattle through the fields. Being up before the sun never appealed to me and my father saw that early on.