The Fan

20

Bobby Rayburn put one arm around his wife and gave her a squeeze. Val turned to him, gazed up into his eyes, and smiled her brightest smile.

“Very nice,” said the photographer from the New York Times Magazine, changing lenses. He had a faint accent, the r in very more liquid than an English r and slightly rolling.

“All done?” said Val.

“Your part is,” the photographer replied. “Thanks so much.”

Val slipped out of Bobby’s grasp, her smile fading fast. Bobby walked down toward the pool. Wald was sitting at the edge, talking on the phone, his suit pants rolled up, his bare feet, pale and hairy, dangling in the water.

“This is pissing me off,” Bobby said.

“Almost done,” the photographer called. “Perhaps one or two more with the piscine just a little in the background?”

“Pissing me off big time,” Bobby said.

Wald lowered the phone. “No one knows where the hell she is.”

“I’m splitting.”

“Ten more minutes, Bobby.”

“Why should I?”

“It’s important.”

“To them, maybe. Not to me.”

Wald took off his sunglasses. “I’m going to tell you something crucial right now, big guy.”

“Crucial?”

“The world-our world, Bobby-sits on four pillars. The owners, the agents, the players, the media. It’s just like this house. If one of the pillars is shaky the whole thing comes crashing down.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Simply this: you’ve got to learn how to use the media.”

“Mr. Wald, is it?” said the photographer. “If you would be kind enough to clear the shot?”

Wald got out of the way. The photographer took a few more pictures. “Perhaps with the chemise removed? On the diving board?”

“What’s he talking about?”

“I think he wants you to take your shirt off,” Wald said.

“Forget it.”

Val, on her way up to the house, stopped and turned. “Come all over shy?”

Wald laughed.

The photographer smiled a puzzled smile. “It’s up to you, of course,” he said.

Bobby thought: I’m in the best shape of my life. And: It might be good for a GM or owner somewhere to see that. Use the media. But sticking it to Val was reason enough. He took off his shirt, stepped onto the diving board. Val crossed the patio, disappeared through the French doors, closed them hard enough for the sound to carry down to the pool.

“If you would maybe sit on the end of the board,” said the photographer.

Bobby sat.

“And be looking directly in the lens.”

Bobby looked. The lens was a big indigo eye. He could see his reflection in it, tiny but very clear. There was nothing wrong with the eyes that did the seeing, nothing wrong with the reflected body they saw.

“Relax,” said the photographer.

That annoyed Bobby. “I am relaxed,” he said.

“Of course.” Click. “Very nice.” Click click. “All finished. Thank you so much.” The photographer started packing up.

Bobby felt the evening sun on his bare back. He closed his eyes. A minute or two later the photographer said good-bye, and Bobby, eyes still closed, nodded. Was he relaxed? No. He knew that. Out on the end of the diving board, he tried to relax, to the marrow of every bone, to the nucleus of every cell. Not easy, with his ninth-inning at bat replaying itself in his mind. He didn’t watch it, but it was there, looping around over and over. Bobby told himself: I’ve still got the eyes, the body, the hands, good as ever. A gift, like Einstein’s brain. He’d tried everything, gotten nowhere. The solution was obvious: he had to play on a team where number eleven was available. All his problems, even the fiasco of his stupid, broken promise to Chemo Sean and the lost four-leaf clover, stemmed from not wearing it.

“I meant it,” Bobby said. “About trading me.”

No answer.

He opened his eyes. Wald had gone too. Bobby stood up, took off the rest of his clothes, dove into the water. It was warm. He floated, gazing up at the purpling sky, quieting his mind. He could almost have fallen asleep like that, except for an awakening tension in his groin, caused simply by the warm water and his nakedness, but sparking desire for a woman. He thought at once of the scraps of paper jammed in his glove compartment, scribbled in girlish hands with names and phone numbers. Easy to dial the numbers, easy to meet somewhere; the problem was he couldn’t picture the faces that went with the names. A bar, then? That sports bar, Cleats, for example. Almost as easy.

A hand touched his shoulder.

Bobby jerked his head out of the water, twisted around. A woman knelt by the side of the pool, her arm still outstretched.

“Didn’t mean to frighten,” she said, “but you didn’t hear me.”

“My ears were underwater,” Bobby said. “And you didn’t frighten me.”

The woman almost smiled. She seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place her. No chance that he’d slept with her, though, so nothing embarrassing was about to happen: she was older than the women who hung around ballplayers, her dark hair streaked with gray along the sides. But not unattractive, despite her pallor and a nasty scrape along one side of her jaw.

“Sorry I’m so late,” she said. She glanced up at the house. “Your wife told me to just walk down.”

“Late?”

“Jewel Stern. For the Times interview. I was… unavoidably detained.”

Bobby had forgotten he was pissed off. He slipped back into the mood. “I’m on my way out,” he said.

“I don’t need long.”

Bobby shook his head.

“Fifteen or twenty minutes.” No pleading in her tone, he noticed, a little surprised; just announcing the fact.

“I’ve got other commitments.” Bobby swam to the ladder, started pulling himself out. He was halfway up when he remembered he wasn’t wearing a suit. He turned to see if she was watching.

She was. “Catch,” she said, and tossed him a towel.

Bobby caught it, wrapped it around his waist, climbed out.

“Funny how no one ever goes into a fielding slump,” she said.

On the top step, Bobby paused. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just an observation.”

Bobby started up the slate path that led to the house. She drew alongside after he’d gone a few steps.

“Beautiful,” she said.

“What’s beautiful?”

“The flowers. I didn’t take you for a gardener, Bobby.”

“I’m not.” He hadn’t even been aware of the flowers bordering the path. Who took care of them? He hadn’t noticed anyone working on the grounds. Now he saw that the flower beds needed weeding, and the lawn needed mowing. He would have to speak to Wald.

The woman went up the patio steps ahead of him. She had a nice body. Use the media, he thought. Then he realized he’d forgotten her name.

“Why don’t we start with the tour?” she said. “We can talk after.”

“Tour?”

“Of the house. Didn’t Wald mention that?”

“You don’t seem to be hearing me,” Bobby said. “I’m on my way out.”

“I hear you,” she said.

They went into the kitchen. There were drop cloths on the appliances, wires dangling through holes in the ceiling, pink-and-green marble tiles forming the beginning of a checker-board pattern at one end of the plywood subfloor.

“What’s this?”

“She’s remodeling. Valerie, if you’re going to mention her in the article.”

“Not Val,” the reporter said. “She already covered that.” Again, she seemed to be on the verge of smiling. “But how can there be an article with no interview?”

“Not my problem,” said Bobby. “Can you find your way out?”

“Of course,” the woman said. She reached into her shoulder bag. “Your wife asked me to give you this.” She handed Bobby a note.

He unfolded it and read: Gone to dinner w/Chaz. Sean’s eaten. He’s in his room. V.

Bobby looked up. The woman was watching him. He thought of the girlish handwriting on the scraps of paper in the glove compartment. This woman’s handwriting wouldn’t be anything like that. Without a word he turned and went upstairs.

Sean was at the space console, the crusts of a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich on a plate beside him. “You have thirty minutes, eighteen seconds,” came a deep voice from the computer. “Then your entire planet will be sprayed with the gas Sorgon B, and all oxygen-based life will be vaporized.” In an on-screen window, a video previewed the catastrophe.

Not looking up, Sean said, “What’s oxygen?”

“The stuff you breathe. Is the baby-sitter here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is she coming?”

Sean, tapping at the keys, didn’t answer. He paused, waiting for a response from the computer.

“Negative,” said the deep voice.

Bobby returned to the kitchen. The woman was sitting on the bottom rung of a stepladder. She had known the whole time, of course, known he wasn’t going anywhere. He was forming a stinging remark when he saw that her face was even paler than before.

“I’d like some aspirin, please,” she said.

Bobby searched three or four of the seven bathrooms, without success. Then he remembered that the Moprin people had sent him a case. He found it in the basement, brought her a package. She was where he had left her, motionless on the bottom rung of the ladder.

He handed her the package. She removed the bottle, fumbled with the plastic seal around the top. She couldn’t get it off. He took it from her, ripped the seal, popped off the top, pierced the foil, drew out the cotton. Her gaze was on his hands the whole time; another one of those women who noticed hands. He waited for her to say something about them, but she did not. Instead, she took the bottle-her fingers felt cold-shook out two pills, and asked for a glass of water.

Bobby found a glass in a box in the pantry, turned on the tap. No water came out.

“Christ.”

“Never mind,” the reporter said. She put the pills in her mouth and swallowed them. A little color returned to her face almost at once. He could still get rid of her, invent some other excuse; but he was no longer pissed off.

She glanced around the room. “What sort of house did you have in California?”

“Nicer than this.”

The reporter looked surprised.

Bobby hadn’t considered his answer; it had just popped out. Was this part of the interview? He began to see ways it could be used to make him look like a spoiled asshole. “Not fancier,” he explained. “Nicer.”

“In what way?” She took a legal pad and a mini tape recorder from her bag. “Mind if this is on?” Bobby did mind-that was one of the things he hated about reporters-but before he could say anything, she added, “Just so I don’t misquote you,” and he said nothing. “Nicer in what way?” she asked.

“In every way,” he said, wondering for a moment what this had to do with baseball. But now that he was started on this subject, he found that he wanted to finish the thought. “See those tiles?” he said, pointing to the unfinished pink-and-green checkerboard. “They’re from Italy. You wouldn’t believe how much they cost.”

“How much?”

Bobby couldn’t remember. Perhaps he hadn’t been told. He just knew no one would believe their cost.

“Probably worth every penny,” the reporter said. “They look like something out of Tiepolo.”

“I don’t know what town in Italy.”

The reporter smiled. “I’m ready for that tour now,” she said.

Bobby had forgotten about the tour. He began to get pissed off again.

“You need me,” she said.

“Why is that?” Bobby asked, thinking of Wald’s four pillars.

“Because I did a lot of baby-sitting in high school.”

Bobby looked at her: an older woman, yes, but good-looking. And smart. He smiled too. “Where do you want to start?”

“Wherever you want,” she said. She rose. A nice body, but not very strong-looking. And was it his imagination, or did she sway just a little as she stood up?

“Are you all right?” he asked, surprising himself. He couldn’t remember ever expressing, or feeling, concern for a reporter.

“Never better,” she said.

What the hell was her name? Jewel? That couldn’t be right.

They started downstairs. Bobby led her from room to room.

She said: “What did you pay for this place?”

Bobby remembered standing by the pool, remembered Wald bullying the real-estate agent, but he couldn’t remember the price.

“Off the record,” the reporter said.

“You’ll have to ask Wald.”

She took out her pad, made a note. They were in one of the bathrooms. It had a black-marble floor, matching Jacuzzi, mirrored walls.

“Tell me about Wald,” she said.

“He’s smart,” Bobby replied, conscious of her many reflections on the walls. It was a big bathroom and she was small, but he felt surrounded by her. For a moment or two it was unpleasant. Then not.

“Can you give me an example?”

“He’s got it all worked out. Mentally.”

“How so?”

“The whole game. It’s like a house with four pillars. Knock one down and everything collapses.”

“What are the pillars?”

Bobby counted them off on his fingers. “Owners, agents, players, media.”

Her head tilted slightly, as though she were lining up a target; the movement was reflected simultaneously in mirrored distances. “Didn’t he forget something?”

“What?”

“Or maybe it’s not a pillar, but more the ground the others stand on.”

“What’s that?” asked Bobby.

“The fans,” she replied.

They went into Sean’s room. “This is Sean. Sean, say hi to…”

“Jewel Stern,” the reporter said immediately, not giving him time to squirm, or showing the slightest embarrassment. Not bad looking, smart, and tough as well.

“Hi,” said Sean, eyes on the screen, fingers on the mouse.

“Negative,” said the computer voice.

Jewel stepped up to the console, glanced at the screen. “Caught in the Arcturian Web?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“How long till they spray the Sorgon B?”

“Five minutes.”

“Did you try Alt F4?”

“No.”

“Try it.”

Sean pressed Alt F4. Bobby moved closer. A new menu flashed on the screen.

“Click on Trade Goods,” Jewel said.

Sean clicked on Trade Goods.

“Two minutes, thirty seconds,” said the computer voice.

“Click on Tobacco.”

Sean clicked on Tobacco. A message appeared on the screen: “Offer Arcturians Earth’s entire tobacco supply in perpetuity and at no cost? Y/N?”

“Y,” said Jewel.

Sean pressed the Y key. New message: “Offer accepted by Arcturian Grand Council. Web withdrawn to Galaxy 41-B in the Crab Nebula. Earth saved.”

The computer played a trumpet fanfare. “Congratulations, Captain Sean,” said the computer voice. “The Federation hereby authorizes me to promote you to commodore, effective immediately.”

“Hey,” said Sean, turning to Jewel. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, Commodore.”

“How did you know?” Bobby said.

“That’s all they ever want,” Jewel answered. “They’re completely addicted.”

Sean went to bed a few minutes later. He asked to say good night to the nice lady. Bobby showed her into his room.

“Sweet dreams,” she said.

“I don’t have dreams.”

“Be polite,” Bobby said.

“That’s all right,” said Jewel. “If he doesn’t have dreams, he doesn’t have them.”

Sean nodded. He gave her a long look, one Bobby didn’t recall seeing from him before. “Do you like Bradley?” he asked her.

“Bradley who?”

“It’s my middle name. Instead of Sean. Daddy likes it better.”

Bobby felt Jewel’s gaze on him. He shrugged, as if at some childish fantasy.

“I’m sure your father wants you to be called whatever you want.”

“Even if it’s bad luck?”

Bobby saw Jewel tilt her head again at that measuring angle, but all she said was, “Sleep well.”

They sat in the entertainment center, Jewel with the legal pad on her knee, the tape recorder on the couch between them. Much more than fifteen minutes had passed. She’d asked him a lot of questions he’d been asked before, but for some reason Bobby wasn’t bored yet.

“A beer, or something?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Wine?”

“Not for me.”

She flipped through the pages of the legal pad, sighed. “What kind of ballplayer do you think Sean will be?”

That was a new one. He looked at her. She was waiting, her head tilted again. Bobby imagined he was seeing deep inside her, to some essence beyond the fact of her being a woman. That had never happened to him before either.

“No idea,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want him to be a ballplayer.”

“Why not?”

“I just wouldn’t.”

“Do you think you’re just saying that because of the slump?”

Bobby’s guard was down. He almost said yes, almost told the truth, because it was the truth, although he hadn’t known it until she’d spoken. But he got a grip on himself and said: “I’m not in a slump.”

“You’re a lifetime. 316 hitter, Bobby, and as of today you’re batting. 153.”

“They’re just not falling in, that’s all.”

There was a long pause. Bobby could hear the tape recorder whirring. “Do you feel any pressure because of the big contract?”

“How many times do I have to answer that? No.”

“Never again. I promise.” She scanned her notes. “What about your new teammates?”

“What about them?”

“Getting along okay?”

“Sure.”

“No problems?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes there are problems when a big star comes to a new team. You know that. Especially if…”

“If what?”

“If he gets off to a rocky start.”

Bobby rose, crossed the room to the wet bar, got a beer from the small refrigerator beneath it. “There are no problems,” he said.

“Not with any of the players?”

“Correct.”

She opened her mouth as though to say more, stopped herself. They sat in silence, broken only by the whirring of the recorder. He still wasn’t bored.

All at once, she began to pale again. She took a deep breath. “You’ve been generous with your time, Bobby.” She rose, again slightly unsteady. “Just one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you ever heard of someone called Gil Renard?”

Bobby thought. “I’m bad with names,” he said.

She laughed, seemed to lose her balance, reached out, touched his forearm. “Don’t I know,” she said.

“Is he in the minors?” Bobby asked.

“No.”

“Why do you ask?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jewel put the legal pad and the tape recorder in her bag.

“That it?” said Bobby.

“I might have a follow-up or two when I pull everything together.”

“Just call.” I said that? he thought, and felt a strange thrill that was almost of danger.

She tilted her head again. “Thanks, Bobby.” Then she was gone. Her touch lingered on his forearm.

Jewel walked toward the parking area in front of the four-car garage. She had a sharp pain in her head and a deep, dull one in her jaw, throbbing in some infernal harmony. She got in her car, parked next to Bobby’s Jeep, closed the door, rolled down the window, breathed in the cool night air, hoping for clarity, or simply the strength to drive home. Pull everything together? She didn’t know where to begin.

Jewel was about to turn the key when a car swept into the circular drive and stopped on the other side of Bobby’s Jeep. She sat motionless. The night was quiet, and what breeze there was blew her way. She heard Wald speak, low but clear: “And now the asshole wants to be traded.”

Then came Val’s voice: “For Christ’s sake, where to?”

“It’s a pipe dream,” Wald said. “No one would touch him. That contract makes him a leper.”

“So what’s going to happen?” Val said.

“Who knows?”

“Can’t you do better than that?”

Wald’s voice rose. “You’re complaining?”

“Shh. I’m not. It’s just that I’d like to know what’s going to happen. Is that so awful?”

Wald snorted. “This one’s up to him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s going to have to start hitting. It’s as simple as that.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He’s through.”

“But he’s only thirty-one.”

“Thirty-two in a few weeks. Almost geriatric in this game, even though he’s still seventeen in real life.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Val said.