and switching it on, the cleaner lurching as the worker lost control of it for a moment, then hissing as he began steaming the carpet. He and Collier headed out to the sunroom.
“I won’t dillydally,” Collier said even before they had settled into the recliners that looked out on the town. Below—far below—pockets of people were sandbagging, along the edge of the parking lot for the elementary school, near one of the Baptist churches. Until that moment, Edward Everett hadn’t realized that the town was flooded: was it possible he had been so caught up in his own turmoil that he’d missed the news? At the high school football field, just the tips of the goalposts rose above the water, a soccer goal bobbing in it. Beyond that, an entire neighborhood was submerged, water lapping against front doors and bay windows, a police johnboat puttering among the houses.
“It’s a good-news, bad-news thing,” Collier said. “What do you want first?”
Edward Everett saw no point in delaying. “Bad news, I guess.”
Collier laughed. “Attaboy. Get to the problem first. Bad: the ballpark is for shit. Turns out the asshole who snaked the drains called the health department. I won’t go into details but it’s some big fucking list of reasons the ballpark is the A-number-one killer in P. City. Drains, asbestos. All kinds of crap. When they got into it, they kept digging. It’s cheaper to knock it down than fix it up. Short answer: no more games at Francis P. Collier Field.”
“We’ve got another thirty—”
“Yeah, I know. Home games. I got Mavis working on that. We got a contractual obligation to finish out the season, and as I said, we’re not going to pull a Piedmont.”
Mavis has to work fast, Edward Everett thought.
As if Collier knew what he was thinking, he said, “Got a lead on a place. It’s … well, a sweet country spot, and it’s regulation. We talked to the league. Beyond that …” He shrugged.
Edward Everett imagined a meadow somewhere, baselines marked by an umpire pacing off distances, paper plates tacked down in place of the bags.
“Two,” Collier said, holding up his index finger and thumb. “The good: found a buyer. Contacted me almost right away, soon as the broker got the news out.”
There are brokers for sports teams? Edward Everett thought.
“Three,” Collier said, holding up his thumb, index and middle fingers. “Bad is, he wants to move the team to Corn Row, Indiana.”
“Corn Row?”
“That’s not what it’s called but it’s some town he comes from. It’s a sad day for P. City; baseball’s been here since Ike was president.”
“Who is this guy?” Edward Everett asked, thinking simultaneously, Get the house ready for the market; find an agent in Whatever Town, Indiana. Then the idea struck him: I have no idea whether I’ll be with the club next year.
“He does something in TV. I haven’t met him; just on the phone and a couple emails. Lawyers doing most of the talking. But …” Collier hesitated.
“What?” Edward Everett asked.
“What are your bosses saying?”
“About …?”
Collier regarded him a moment; had they called him about Webber’s accident?
“What have you heard?” Edward Everett asked, his neck prickling.
“We’re changing affiliation,” Collier said. “That’s good for me, since I couldn’t’ve sold her without an affiliation. Cincinnati.” He shrugged. “You sure your outfit never said anything to you about what they’re doing to replace P. City in the organization?”
Edward Everett shook his head; he had the sensation of growing physically smaller. Why wouldn’t Marc Johansen, MS, MBA, have said anything about this? Maybe that was why he hadn’t contacted him about Webber’s injury: it didn’t matter; Edward Everett was obviously persona non grata with the big club. He saw himself getting his mail a few months down the road, maybe the day after Christmas again, another thin envelope: Your services are no longer required.
“Those fucking bastards,” Collier said. “How many years you been with them?”
“I don’t know,” Edward Everett said. He couldn’t think clearly: how long had he been with the organization? Before Perabo City, he’d been with another single-A team for a year, in Lexington. Eleven years and out, a man with no savings to speak of; a man with no 401(k), no IRA, an old man but still someone too young to collect Social Security.
“You all right?” Collier was saying.
He stared out of the bank of windows, the glass so clear it might not even have been there. Three years ago, the organization had wanted him to move to Danville, double-A, be a hitting