Pause.
Ross said: “So. Agreed. But. What do you think he’ll do?”
“Ah. I don’t know.”
“You think he’ll go play on the Coast because he loves the game? Because he never really played for the money?”
“Don’t know.”
“What would you do?”
“Me? Why the hell ask me?”
“What would you do?”
“I been traded … enough. Makes no more difference to me. To a lot of guys. So. I’d go. Just to play some more.”
“Yes. And so would almost everybody. But Billy.…”
Chapel opened the door, came out into the room.
Ross: “Well, Billy?”
Chapel shook his head.
Ross: “Billy Boy, Billy Boy, how can you quit?”
Chapel looked round for his jacket. Go for a walk. Ole buddy.
Ross: “What about you pitchin’ … today?”
Chapel stopped.
Ross: “They have you scheduled for today. Nobody’s supposed to know. But … what do you do now?”
Chapel saw the jacket, picked it up.
The phone rang. Gus was there, lifted it quickly.
“Hello hello. Listen.… What? Jesus.” He looked wide-eyed at Chapel. “Hey, man. It’s Carol.” Pause. “What do I do?”
Chapel went for the phone, hand extended. He said: “Hello?”
Soft, breathy voice: “Billy?”
“Yep.”
“This is me.”
Carol. Where?
“Hi,” Chapel said.
“I’m over in the park. Cross the way.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Billy?”
“Yep.”
“I’m over by the fountain. I’ve been there looking up at your window.”
Pause. Ross was tapping fingers on top of the couch; Gus was signaling him to shut up, finger at the lips.
Carol: “You know the fountain. The one you can … almost see me from your window.”
“Oh, yeah. I know.”
“Well. I … didn’t want to come up there this morning. I’m sorry. Last night was … bad. Well. I just quit my job. I’m leaving town. But before I go … would you talk to me for a minute? Would you come down here and talk to me? The crowd over there … Would you do that? Please?”
“Oh, sure,” Chapel said.
“You will? Oh … thank you. I’ll … when will you be here? I can wait.”
Chapel: “Be right there. A few minutes.”
He put down the phone. Dazzled brain. Glad she called. Got to talk. What to wear? Got the jacket. Fine.
Ross was saying: “Billy, there’s not a hell of a lot of time. What are you gonna do?”
Chapel: “I’m goin’ down to the park.”
Ross: “Are you gonna pitch today?”
Gus: “Carol. Good thing, buddy. Hope it works.”
Knock on the door: Chapel opened it: the blue-clad stewardess: Bobbie, Gus’s girl. Dark-haired, slim, trim. She gave Chapel a lovely smile.
“Hi there.”
Chapel started out by her. Ross came, caught his shoulder.
“Billy, dammit, I need to know. There’s just no time.”
Chapel: “I’ll let you know. But I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll see you at the ballpark. By that time, maybe.…”
But Ross hung on to him:
“Billy, I think you’ve got the pride. I don’t think you’ll go. Not anywhere. I think you’re through, Billy. I think it’s all over.”
Chapel turned, looked at the round white face. Moment of silence. Then Chapel said: “You may be right.”
“Can I print that?”
Chapel closed his eyes. Then he said: “Just a little while. I’ll tell you … at the ballpark.”
He pulled away, started down the hall.
Ross said: “Billy, I did you a favor. Don’t you owe me?”
Chapel looked, paused, nodded. He said: “Soon as I can. I … appreciate it. But … well. See you.”
He went away down the hall. The last he heard was the voice of Bobbie:
“Hey. Did you find out? Do I have to tell everybody we’re married?”
THE PARK
THERE HAD BEEN rain that morning, much rain; there were pools on the grass and a low gray misty sky, and Chapel thought: no ball game today? Solve everything. Thanks, Boss. Pack up tonight. Off to Colorado. Home.
As he came out of the hotel the doorman saw him and bawled aloud: “Hey, Mr. Chapel! You pitchin’ today? Jeez, I hope not.” Heads turned to look his way, but he hopped on across the street and into the park and there were very few people there in the morning, a few joggers, and Chapel jogged himself toward the fountain where Carol was waiting, splashing his way through cold puddles. He was very glad she had called. He did not know who or what was waiting. Met her four years ago, almost to the day, at that party: flashes now in the mind’s clear eye of that tall stately blonde on the far side of the room, one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, lighted up the magic lantern—what poem was that?—and they were to kid about that sight across the room, the “crowded room,” one night while watching South Pacific on the late movie: “Some enchanted evening, you will see a stran-gerrr across a crrrrowded room. And somehow you know, you know even then—” And by God, it was true. She met what she called “the great one.” Not long after that one All-Star Game where he struck out the side with the bases loaded in that one great inning which made him as much of a celebrity as he was ever to be, and so she met him knowing that. She had never known ballplayers. Not the type. She was an educated, beautiful woman in the publishing business who had traveled widely overseas and spoke several languages, and who had married a rich and mean bastard and managed to stay married in pain for almost ten years and was now divorced, at that party perfectly, permanently free, and more or less permanently drunk. But drunk or not, witty and educated and cocky or not, she was genuinely funny. She laughed him into the wall. He began to have good moments with her—he saw them in her eyes. He saw the eyes lighten, sparkle, beautiful, steamy eyes. He remembered suggesting that he go find the ex-husband and “lean on him.” They went out and talked and went to bed and she passed out. He was odd in the morning, woke up looking down at her and feeling somewhat eerie. When she awoke she was—different. He was sorry she had been so mechanical. Lay there. So warm, so chilly. There was a new thing in her eyes that morning, someone sober looking at him who he did not understand at all. He remembered her sudden voice: “I won’t do it again. I promise.”
“Do what?”
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“No. Too … casual. Sorry. Won’t do that again.”
“What, never?”
“Well.” Smile began again. “Well, hardly ever.”
Then she said: “Let’s you and I … have fun. Together. I promise to be good to you. You’re a good man, Chappie. You’re just … a straight shooter. From the hip. Honest as a boy. I want to help you enjoy life a little. And you, me. You didn’t really want me to fuck like that last night … because we didn’t really know each other yet and it was too soon. I won’t do that again. Please don’t hold it against me.”
He didn’t hold it against her. They spent that day together. They sat and walked and talked all day and into the night. About marriage—hers—and death and God and school and baseball games and music. They went out that night and danced—that was a thing at which she was superb and he was not, and so she started to teach him, and she had real talent as a teacher, but he didn’t as a dancer, and then he took her back to her apartment very late, almost dawn, and she did not even kiss him good night. She saluted him, as the lieutenant to the captain. Then she was gone. And from then on they saw each other every day he was in town … the ballplayer—she had never known an athlete of any kind at all and she was fascinated by the way he talked about it, living it with him. Then he left. And called when his team was back. And she was present in a splendid glow, and it was al
l very clear: they stopped seeing other people. She met him where he was playing in other towns: still didn’t go to bed. Didn’t talk about it. He played down in Atlanta and she came to stay with him for a week, and the right night came, and he felt the gigantic need and she opened, and it was in that enormously personal way different than it had ever been with anyone else, however much joy there had been in bed, where there had always been joy. From then on they bedded down as extraordinary adventurers, differently every time, in so many ways that for a short while it was a wild new game to two talented athletes, and then that passed and tenderness came, and they held each other wordlessly for a magic time, and never mentioned love. They were playing the greatest of games, but to Carol life was all a game, and she was going to play the damned thing from here on out and never again take anything seriously, the way poor Billy did too often when he lost, and so they did not use the word “love.” She did not want to talk any more of normal life and marriage and she did not ever want to go back to “meditation,” which had taught her nothing and made her very blue. She promised him: “Champ, we’ll have a ball, as you fellas say, one way or the other. You’ll never see me cry. Never. I’ll cry to myself. And don’t you cry to me. Billy, bless your head, you’re more fun than any kid I’ve ever known. And you’re such a lovely boy. A sweet sweet boy. So. Let’s do it. Now. Chumley.”
Four years. They would see each other three or four days at a time. Then nothing for perhaps a week, never longer than a month. In the winter he went home to Colorado for the Indian summer and she came out and then he came in, every month, and then they went one winter to New Zealand, but she stayed only three weeks because of her job, and then next year they went again, and it was better and then … this summer past … her birthday … she was weary. In the late innings. Hot summer. Work. Never ask questions. She’ll tell you. But she was always there and he never told her troubles and sometimes she’d bitch a bit about the job, but never truly seriously in detail, never to lean on his shoulder and sob. They were light to each other whatever the darkness. But Billy Chapel needed no help against sadness. He took the death of his parents alone, no other way, no possible help. And that was true of the rest of it. He was playing toward the end with a very bad team that was there behind him and around him every day and was a weight, a growing weight, and he hated to lose but he had always been able to take that with faith that it was only temporary, that he’d win the next time, and they knew it, they knew it was only luck that beat him. He often lost now but he went right on with no less faith … and he did love the game, did love to play, he loved just to be out there throwing, planning, dreaming, thinking, and was cheered to rest and dream between the endless games, waiting, and then came that day, that night, when she did not come. All this was summing itself up in one long, wide picture flowing across his mind, reaching an end, a true end that morning, as he jogged down a winding puddled path toward the high-spouting fountain he saw at a distance—and there she was sitting, the golden blonde, the long and perfect, yes, perfect legs, sitting on a green bench dressed in a classic gray raincoat leaning forward staring into the fountain, both hands in her pockets, herself tucked inside the raincoat, huddled. Slight jolt to the eyes to see her. She looked up. He slowed, stopped, lifted the right hand, small salute.
“Howdy, ma’am.”
“Hey.”
She did not look into his face. She moved over a small way on the bench. He sat.
He said: “How you doin’?”
“I’m sorry.”
“S’all right. I knew there was a good reason. I sure did miss you.”
He saw a tear on the corner of her eye. She turned her face away.
She said: “I tried to make a telephone call. Couldn’t. Dammit. When I tried to call, I’d start to cry.” She pulled out a Kleenex from her purse, squeezed it, didn’t put it to the eye. “I hate that. Goddammit. You never saw me cry. That was … the agreement. The deal.”
“Why did you have to cry?”
“Ah.” She shook her head. “I was drinking too much. Much too much. You know, Billy, honest, I sometimes drink too goddam much. I know, hard for you to believe, you know how … prissy I get … but, oh, hell. I was smashed. And when I get smashed, lately, you know? I get very sad.” She glanced at him for the first time, then quickly away. She so rarely talked seriously about herself. He knew she was trying to break ground into something funny, but it wasn’t going to work. She put up the Kleenex, covered her eyes. She said slowly: “Didn’t want you to see me … too drunk. Really. It’s unbecoming. There are things I say … Billy.…” Long pause. “We’ve had a good time, Billy.”
Billy said: “Yep.”
A couple came jogging by, round the fountain. On the sweatshirts: Harvard. Carol had settled a bit, composed, something firmer now in her voice, no longer that waver, but … there was something else. Billy watched.
Carol said: “Four years.” Summing it up. As if: done. Truly done, over, finished. It hit him; he blinked. He said: “What’s the matter?”
“I’m going home.”
“Home?”
“I’ve quit the job.”
“Oh.”
“I did that this morning. I was going to tell you, but … ah. Well. You don’t need me, Billy.”
“I don’t need you?” Amazed.
“Billy.” She turned to look at his face, put out a hand, touched his shoulder. Her face had that deep, sweet softness. He realized she was saying good-bye.
“Billy Boy. I’m … back at my birthday. Do you remember? Thirty-four. I don’t know what happened, what it was, that number doesn’t mean anything, but suddenly, no, not even suddenly, it’s been coming up out of the dark all this year, coming out of the old back of the aging head: time to move on, move on. Take … the new path. Into old age. I was married all that time and it was bad and I wanted something else and got out, thank God, with you, sweet Billy, and the last four years have been.…” Her voice began to fail; she squeezed his shoulder. “It’s been the best time, Billy. I’ll always … but now … things have changed. Oh, God, how do I say this? Last spring I began to look in the mirror. But it wasn’t that. I began to look out the window at the city, and then on the job at all those faces … and finally, Billy,” the tears were swelling, “one day I just wanted to go home. Rest. Start over. Somewhere else. I went back to see Mom. You knew about that. You’ve never met Mom. She said … come home for a while and just putter in the garden. Just get away from that place for a while. So I quit the job, but they’ll let me come back if ever I … but I won’t. I’m going … I won’t be back. I won’t be in this town anymore. And you … Billy … you don’t need me.”
“Don’t say that again,” Chapel said. Then he said: “There’s also a man involved in this. Fella who needs you. Are you thinkin’ of … getting married?”
Carol looked into his eyes. Voice very quiet. She said: “I haven’t decided yet. Not yet.”
“But there is a guy.”
“Yes.”
Chapel said nothing. No promises broken, no word ever given. Free. Carol said: “I didn’t hide anything, Billy. I didn’t do anything with … him. But he’s a good, quiet man. Gentle. I don’t love him. Understand that. Please, Billy? He’s a good, quiet man who seems to love me. Has from the beginning. Wants to take care of me … ‘forever.’ He has a fine home … we’d go overseas a lot. He’s much older than you, Billy. He first asked me early in the summer.”
“You going to marry him.”
“I don’t know.”
Chapel put his hand to his face, rubbed his nose.
“Handsome fella?”
“No.”
“That’s good.” Chapel shrugged, blinked. “Christ,” he said. “This is my day.”
“Billy?”
He looked up. She moved her hand down to his. “There was nothing wrong you ever did. But, Billy … time goes by. I saw this title of a book: Childhood’s End. I’m getting old all of a sudden, Billy. I don’t know why. I w
on’t be fun anymore. When you go away now.…”
“I’ll be far away,” Chapel said.
Another couple came jogging by. Coincidence. This time: Yale.
Chapel said: “They never can trade you there. Never. Never from Harvard to Yale. Ah. But that’s for kids.”
He looked back to Carol. He said: “Time to grow up, I guess. Me, too. You go home, I go home. What was that book? Childhood’s End. Remember the one you gave me: You Can’t Go Home Again. Christ. Nothing makes sense today. Everything’s gone haywire.”
Carol was watching. She knew him well enough to know that something large had happened. She caught it quickly.
“Billy? What happened?”
“I’ve been a nice kid, you know that? Big good-natured kid, all my life. We were great kids, you and I. Why is it, when you grow up, they can trade you? Parents can’t trade you. But I guess that’s been done, too. In the real game. I bet there have been people who traded kids. Christ, no, couldn’t have been.”
“Billy. Billy, what happened?”
“I got traded.”
“What?”
“I just found out this morning. They traded me away, to another ball club out on the Coast. They say I’m over the hill.”
“Oh my God. But I thought … you said they could never.…”
“That was back in the old days. When the Old Man was alive and I was young. He made the promise. ‘I’ll never trade you, Billy. Never. When the time comes to hang it up, you hang it up here, on my wall. This is your team. This is your home.’ Ah. Everybody who knows me … knows that. I always said: If I’m not good enough here, I’m not good enough anywhere. When it’s time to go home, just let me know. Well. They just did.”