The Fan

27

“ What else can we say, Bernie?”

“I don’t know, Norm. It’s a tragic, tragic situation.”

“A tragedy, in the true meaning of the word. What does it say, and this is the question that keeps coming back to me, what does it say about the kind of world we’re living in these days, Bernie?”

“Nothing good, Norm. But I suppose we’re going to have to wait till all the facts are in before we can really make a judgment. In all fairness.”

“Right you are, Bernie. It’s all still very murky at this point in time. There was a report on CNN a few minutes ago that the authorities are looking into a Mexican connection, that there may be some relationship to the troubles they’ve been having, since Primo’s wife’s family-”

“A lovely, lovely lady-”

“-is involved in politics down there. Her brother, or her brother-in-law, having some job with the ruling party, whose name escapes me at the moment. Fred, have you got that name? P-something. Fred’s getting it. In any case, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Just a tragic-”

“-tragic-”

“-situation. I don’t know what more we can say.”

“I think we’ve said what needs to be said.”

“Me too. And we’ve still got a few minutes to the top of the hour…”

“Think we should go to the phones?”

“Why not? Here’s Gil on the line right now. Gil?”

“Hi, guys.”

“Where you calling from, Gil? Sounds like Siberia or somewhere.”

“No place special.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Lots of things.”

“It’s a lousy line, like I said, Gil. Make it quick.”

“This… thing.”

“You’re talking about the Primo tragedy?”

“I was wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“If they’ll give Rayburn back his old number now.”

“Not sure I’m following you, Gil.”

“Onsay.”

“Excuse me?”

“Eleven. What he used to wear his whole career. Not that stupid forty-one.”

Pause.

“That’s kind of a strange question, Gil.”

Dead air.

Days later in an airport bar, Gil caught the highlights of the first post-Primo game on This Week in Baseball. When Rayburn knocked the first one out of the park, he pounded the table in triumph, as though he had done it himself. And, in a way, he had done it himself, hadn’t he? He was a player. A player in the game.

He pounded the table when Rayburn hit the second shot, but not as hard. He’d opened his wound the first time, felt blood seeping into the bandages he’d wrapped around himself. Gil didn’t mind the wound much: the wound was what made it self-defense. He hadn’t meant for things to play out the way they had, but, left with no choice, he’d taken care of business. That was what it meant to be a pro. Leaving his glass of Cuervo Gold untouched-he was losing his taste for it-Gil drained one last beer, and felt no pain.

No physical pain. Emotional: that was different. There the painful part was that although he was a player, no one knew. Perhaps pain was too strong a word. Confusion, that was more like it. He would have to sort things out. Looking up at a monitor, he saw the flight he was waiting for flashing on the arrivals list and went downstairs to the baggage carousels.

Standing outside the glass wall, a camera crew nearby, Gil watched the team coming down an escalator, watched closely. They looked tired and subdued; but not unhappy. He understood. On one hand was the Primo thing, on the other the fact that they’d closed out the west-coast swing by reeling off six straight, climbing out of the cellar.

And Bobby Rayburn was on fire. Sixteen for twenty-one in the last six games, with seven homers and fifteen RBIs. He’d had a good month last week, This Week in Baseball had just said, and Gil’s heart had leapt at the words. It leapt again as he spotted Rayburn walking toward the carousel, a bounce in his step.

“All right, Bobby Rayburn,” he said, under his breath. Had other fans been there to greet the team, he might have shouted it, but there were no other fans; the team had won six straight in July, not October. But they were on the way. Gil knew it. He was in a position to know.

Bobby came through the door, carrying his bags. Ordinary luggage, Gil noticed with disappointment: Bobby could have done better than that. A reporter asked him a question, stuck a microphone in his face. Gil heard Bobby say: “We’ll just have to go on, that’s all.”

The reporter said: “About your own play; you really seem to have turned things around.” And stuck the microphone in his face again.

Bobby said: “That’s the way the game is sometimes.” And pushed by.

He walked right past Gil, not two feet away. Gil felt a huge smile spreading across his face, but Bobby passed without looking at him. He left behind the scent of that coconut shampoo he used in the ads, and Gil made a note to get some.

Fishing pole in his hand, knapsack on his back, hair freshly washed and smelling of coconut, Gil walked along an endless beach that was sometimes sandy, sometimes shingle. The sea was glassy blue; a red sail cut across it toward the eastern horizon. On the other side of the beach rose big houses, separated from each other and the water by broad lawns, tall hedges, well-trimmed bushes. Gil stopped when he thought he’d come to the right one.

Unlike Bobby’s luggage, the house looked the part. Tall, sprawling, shining, it had chimneys, arches, balconies, decks, a terrace, and a pool, gleaming under the clear sky. Two lines of cedars marked the borders of the property from the house all the way down to the beach. Some dead branches needed clipping and the lawn needed mowing, but otherwise this was the model of life perfected. Still and peaceful: Gil gazed and gazed, losing track of time.

Then a movement caught his eye. By the pool a leg-bare, a woman’s leg-straightened, stretching up into the air. Red-painted toenails sparkled in the sunshine; Gil could see the color all the way from the beach. He walked along the shore to the nearest line of cedars and ducked behind the first one.

From that angle, he could see her better. She lay on her back on a chaise, wearing a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses, and a skimpy bathing suit, or perhaps none at all; Gil couldn’t tell. He began making his way up toward the pool, moving from tree to tree, silent, like a woodsman back home. Once he disturbed a crow. It took off, and spiraled cawing into the blue. The woman turned her head to watch it. He recognized her from the shots they always took of players’ wives in the stands: Valerie Rayburn. He crept closer, close enough to see that she wore bikini bottoms but no top, and stopping only when his next step would have brought him into the open. He crouched behind a cedar branch, with nothing in mind.

Somewhere nearby a radio played, quiet but very clear. Gil couldn’t see the speakers, but he heard the sound:

“… just missing, inside. Boyle walks around the back of the mound. He wanted that call. Two and two. Infield still at double-play depth. Boyle steps on the rubber…”

Valerie Rayburn raised her other leg, stretched, sighed. A long, well-toned leg of the kind SI liked to feature in the swimsuit issue. And Val was that kind of woman. Gil couldn’t take his eyes off her, and not only for erotic reasons. This was no Lenore, or Boucicaut’s woman, he couldn’t remember her name. This woman was fine. He didn’t even get aroused, at first.

French doors swung open at the back of the house. A man in a suit came out, carrying an enormous inflated great white shark. Val saw him, made no attempt to cover up. The man crossed the terrace, walked onto the pool deck. Gil didn’t recognize him.

“Sean napping?” he said.

“She put him down ten minutes ago.”

“Where is she?”

“I gave her the afternoon off.”

The man smiled. He put the shark down, went to Val, and lightly brushed the underside of one of her breasts with the back of his hand.

“Mmm,” she said.

He knelt beside her.

“… down by three, Zamora’ll lead it off. The little guy’s oh for two this afternoon with a sac fly in the…”

Gil looked around again for the source of the sound, without success. Was he imagining it?

Soon Val and the man were naked, except for their sunglasses, squirming on a towel by the side of the pool, skins glistening. “Oh, Chaz,” Val said. Gil parted the branches for a better view.

Chaz was a balding man with a paunch and a cock that looked average size or smaller. Why would someone like her want to fuck someone like him, especially when she was married to Bobby Rayburn? Gil didn’t get it at all. But Val said, “Oh, Chaz,” again, and wrapped her elegant legs around his flabby back.

“… and the crowd comes to life as Rayburn steps up. Bases loaded, two out, Rayburn representing the winning run. He singled up the middle in the first, doubled into the gap in right center in the fourth, hit the solo round-tripper that brought them within three in the sixth. Normally a fast worker, Mardossian is taking a lot of time out there. Looks in for the sign and here’s the pitch. Strike one, over the inside corner. That’s the call Boyle hasn’t been getting all day. Hard to call ’em from up here, of course, but…”

Val got her legs up on Chaz’s shoulders. Sweat dripped off his chin. “Oh, Chaz, I-” Gil thought she was going to say “I love you,” but she didn’t finish the sentence.

Chaz grunted and pounded harder.

“… and the pitch. Swing and a miss. A curve ball and a beauty. Dropped right off the table. Oh and two. Mardossian steps on the rubber…”

Val pounded back.

“… here it comes. Rayburn swings. And there’s a long drive, deep to left, a looooong drive, deeeeeep to left, it is going, it is going. See. You. Later. Grand slam, a grand-slam ding-dong-dinger for Bobby Rayburn…”

“I don’t believe it,” said Chaz, going still.

That’s when Gil knew the game was real.

“You didn’t come, did you?” Val said.

“No, I didn’t come.” And Chaz started moving again, but Gil could see that the mood had changed. “Can’t you turn that thing off?”

“The controls are in the kitchen. Come on, Chaz, I’m so hot. Don’t leave me here.”

Chaz reached down between them.

“Oh, Chaz, I’m coming.”

“Me too.”

And they did, but the mood had changed.

“… touch ’em all, Bobby Rayburn…”

Chaz and Val rolled into the pool, drifted apart. He paddled around for a while. She got out, wrapped herself in a towel, and went up to the house. A few minutes later, he got out too, dried himself, put on his suit, knotted his tie-red and black, much like the stand-up tie Gil had lost somewhere along the way-and followed, leaving the blown-up shark by the side of the pool.

“… believe we’ve got Jewel Stern down on the field. Can you hear me, Jewel?”

“Loud and clear. I’m standing with Bobby Rayburn, and, Bobby, I think everyone’s asking themselves-”

The radio went off.

It was quiet. Gil sat behind the cedar tree. He thought he heard a car start up, drive away. The sun, lower now, glared huge on the sea, much smaller on the pool. A breeze sprang up, rustling the cedars to life and cooling his skin; like Val and Chaz, he had sweated too, had heated up too, but not just from the voyeur part: he’d had an idea.

At first, his idea seemed full of possibility. In minutes, he began to have doubts. He lacked information: about Chaz, Val, and Bobby, and their various relationships. The idea began unraveling in his mind.

And then, as he had in the steam bath, he got lucky. The French doors at the back of the house opened again, and out came a boy in shorts. A boy younger than Richie, Gil saw as he came closer, but sturdily built, and graceful. He rose, and crouched behind the cedar.

The boy spotted the inflatable great white shark at once and went toward it. A gust of wind came off the ocean, bent the cedars, snapped Gil’s pant legs, and blew the shark into the pool, just as the boy was reaching for it. The shark floated in the water, a foot or so from the side of the pool. The boy knelt at the edge, stretched out his arm, got a hand on the shark’s dorsal fin. The shark slid away under the boy’s weight; and then he was in the water.

The boy went under right away. Gil straightened, stayed behind the tree. The boy came up, but under the shark. One of his hands splashed the surface wildly. There was no other sound. Then he went down again. Gil, still holding the fishing pole, stepped out from behind the tree and moved toward the pool. He looked down, saw the thrashing boy a few feet under, eyes and mouth open wide, bubbles streaming up. Gil dropped the pole, shook off the knapsack, took off his shoes, hesitated over the thrower, leaving it on; then dove into the water. It was the right thing to do, from every angle he could think of.

He got his arms around the boy, still thrashing but weaker now, and kicked up to the surface. Gil flipped the boy onto the pool deck, climbed out. He heard a scream from the direction of the house, but didn’t look up.

The boy had landed on his back. Gil knelt, turned him over. Water flowed out of his mouth, then a little mucus, then nothing. He made a sound, half sob, half cough, sucked in air, and started to wail.

A woman cried, “Oh, God.” Now Gil looked up, saw Val, wearing a pretty dress, running down from the house. She grabbed the boy in her arms, yelling, “Is he going to die? Is he going to die?” over and over.

“He’s breathing, isn’t he?” Gil said, but she didn’t hear him.

After a while, quite soon, in fact, the boy stopped wailing, put his arms around her, said, “Mama.” Then it was her turn to wail:

“It’s all my fault.”

For cheating on your husband? Gil thought.

“I didn’t get that fence built.”

She rocked the boy back and forth, back and forth. His wet body dampened her dress, making it transparent. Gil could see her nipples, tiny now, compared to what they’d been before.

“Well, no harm done,” Gil said.

Val stopped rocking, looked at him, seeing him for the first time. The boy looked at him too.

“Lucky thing I happened to be fishing off your spot here,” Gil said. “Never have heard him hollering otherwise.”

The boy kept looking at him.

“But he seems like a tough kid,” Gil said. “Probably would have done okay on his own.”

“Tough kid?” said Val, bursting into tears again. “He’s just a baby.”

“You saved his life,” said the doctor, about fifteen minutes later. The boy sat in a chair by the pool now, wrapped in a blanket and sipping a Coke. “Nice job, Mr.-”

“Onis,” said Gil, right off the bat. “My friends call me Curly.” So much like Onsay, and he remembered Curly Onis’s meager line from the Baseball Encyclopedia; and like Curly, he’d taken just one cut in the bigs.

The doctor smiled. “Your hair looks pretty straight to me, Mr. Onis.”

“It was different when I was a kid,” Gil said.

The doctor left. Val came forward, held out her hand. “Oh, Mr. Onis, how can I ever thank you?”

“That’s all right,” Gil said.

She didn’t let go of his hand. “I’m Valerie, by the way. Valerie Rayburn.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Sean, this is Mr. Onis.”

The boy’s eyes came up, fastened on him.

“Lookin’ good, Sean,” Gil said.

“Thanks to you, Mr. Onis,” said Val. “Thanks to you.”

Gil sat down, took off his socks, wrung them out, put them back on, and then his shoes. He rose, picked up the knapsack and the fishing pole.

“You’re not going?” said Val.

He looked at her.

“Oh, don’t go. We’ve got to give-I’m sure my husband will want to thank you personally. He should be home any minute.”

“You’ve already thanked me, Mrs. Rayburn.” He got a kick out of saying the name like that, casually, in conversation.

“But not nearly enough, Mr. Onis. There must be something we can… what do you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Gil glanced around. “Funny you should bring that up,” he said, “since I happened by chance to notice you could do with a little work around here. I’m a landscaper by trade.”

She clapped her hands. Actually clapped them. “Bobby and I-that’s my husband, Bobby Rayburn-” He registered nothing at the name. “-we were just talking about that. Consider the job yours.”

“That’s very nice, Mrs. Rayburn. But I really couldn’t.”

“But you have to. I couldn’t live with myself if you didn’t.”

Gil shook his head. “It’s asking too much, Mrs. Rayburn. See, I live a ways away. It would mean you putting me up somewhere at the beginning, at least while I got things in order.”

“That’s not asking too much. There’s that apartment over the garage, right, Sean? Just sits empty.”

“It’s full of spiders,” Sean said.

“We’ll have it cleaned, of course,” Val said. “There. It’s settled.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Rayburn, but I really-”

“And call me Val. Valerie.”

Gil shook his head a few more times, said he really couldn’t a few more times, and then they went up to the house. Val said: “I need a drink,” and poured an Absolut on the rocks for herself.

“And for you, Mr. Onis?”

“If I’m calling you Valerie, you better call me Curly.”

“Curly.”

“I’ll have a glass of milk,” Gil said.

Val was on her second Absolut when Bobby came in. She took a step toward him, stopped, started crying. The story came out in a jumble. The moment he had the gist of it, Bobby blew past her, took Sean in his arms.

“I knew something like this was going to happen,” he said.

“Because of the fence?” said Val. “It’s all my fault.”

“I didn’t say this, I said something like this.”

“What do you mean, Bobby?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then he said: “It’s the luckiest day of our lives, that’s all.” He closed his eyes and gave Sean another squeeze.

“Stop it, Daddy,” said Sean.

Bobby let him go, approached Gil. Gil stood up. Yes, he was just as tall as Bobby, and just as powerfully built, if not more: Bobby seemed a little smaller out of uniform. Bobby held out his hand. “I’m forever grateful to you, Mr.-”

“Onis.” They shook hands. Gil resisted the urge to squeeze hard. “My friends call me Curly.”

“Whatever I can do for you, just name it.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Valerie, and she explained her plan. Bobby nodded his assent right away. Gil said he really couldn’t a few more times. They had a drink together, Bobby a beer, Val another Absolut, more milk for Gil. Then Bobby took him out to the garage and showed him his apartment.

“This do, Curly?”

“Do? Better than that.” And it was: twice the size of any home he’d ever had, and far more luxurious. He didn’t see a cobweb. “But I really-”

Bobby held up his hand. “I couldn’t have it any other way.” He paused, and for a moment Gil imagined the unimaginable: that Bobby was about to cry. Then he said: “It’s a miracle.”

Gil didn’t know what to say to that. He laid down the fishing pole and knapsack.

“Maybe you can show Sean a little about fishing,” Bobby said. “Haven’t had much time for him lately.”

“What is it you do, Mr. Rayburn, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Bobby laughed. “I’m a ballplayer.”

“Baseball?”

“With the Sox.”

Gil nodded. “Sorry,” he said. “Don’t follow it much.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Bobby. “There’re lots of worlds outside baseball.”