Asymmetry - Lisa Halliday Page 0,30
old childhood fears, was to ride out and perhaps even allay such moods by being as still and quiet as possible. But the bourbon had different ideas.
“I love that color,” she said when the screen cut to a wide shot of Yankee Stadium with its grass mown into stripes that were actually two slightly different shades of emerald.
Several seconds later, Ezra replied in a low and even voice: “Yes. Night-game green.”
When Jon Lieber took to the mound, Alice got up again to refresh her drink. “Would it be all right if we turned the sound on now?”
It was too loud, as though the night before they’d been watching with a dozen friends all laughing and chatting at once, and one of the announcers had a slight Southern accent that sounded almost stoned in its serenity, the other a rich, reassuring baritone not dissimilar to the one that narrated the Viagra ads. Babbling away about the bullpen, Curt Schilling’s tendon, and the “difficult conditions” presented by the weather, their voices filled the little room like disembodied dinner guests trying to ignore the tension mounting between their hosts. Forecast: Drizzle. Wind speed: 14 mph, left to right. Superimposed against the misty skyline, her and Ezra’s reflections in the yellow glow of his reading lamp had the trapped and inanimate look of dollhouse detainees. Alone together, together alone . . . Except of course they weren’t alone. Ezra’s pain was with them. Ezra, his pain, and Alice, barely tolerable envoy from the enraging world of the healthy.
“Red Sox on top here, four–nothing, and due to a technical error tonight’s game is being brought to you by AFN: the American Forces Network. Our friends at AFN are delivering coverage to the US Armed Forces serving in one hundred seventy-six countries and US territories and of course aboard navy ships at sea. We say welcome to our men and women in uniform, serving so far from our shores, and thank you for everything you do.”
In the stands, three men with their hoods pulled up against the rain juggled plastic cups of beer and hand-painted signs: ON LEAVE FROM IRAQ. 31 ST CSH HOLLA: GO YANKS!
“Not a city in this country,” the Southern voice mused, “that reminds me more of the sacrifice and freedom that we enjoy because of our men and women . . .” Jason Varitek adjusted his chest protector. “. . . What a—What a guy. What a leader, man. He hit that fly ball . . . Take a look at this. Look at this guy, if you think of all the innings he’s caught, all that he’s done . . . Now watch what happens: he continues to hustle, into the dugout, so that he can get the gear on, and get back out, and catch as many pitches from Curt Schilling as he can, to get him comfortable for the bottom of the sixth . . .”
“On very tired legs . . .”
“Just makes you think he mighta made a pretty good soldier . . .”
Ezra pressed mute.
Alice stared at the screen a moment longer before finishing what was left in her glass. “Are you hungry? Do you want to order something?”
“No, darling.”
“I’ll get you some Q-tips tomorrow if you want.”
He leaned over to look for something on the floor. “Thank you, dear.”
“I wish they would stop showing that.”
“What.”
“His sock. It’s making me queasy.”
Ezra took a pill.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to take it every day.”
“Thank you, Little Miss Elephant Brain.”
“Whoa! Did you see that?”
“What?”
“A-Rod slapped him!”
They watched as the ball dribbled over the foul line and Jeter sprinted home. “He was running to first and Arroyo went to tag him and A-Rod slapped the ball out of his glove!”
Francona came out to complain. The umpires huddled. When they reversed the call, New York fans booed and pelted the grass with trash.
“I can’t believe it,” said Alice. “That was incredibly childish.” She looked at Ezra, but Ezra was looking at the screen. “If I were a Yankee I’d be ashamed, trying to get ahead like that.”
“If you were a Yankee,” Ezra said quietly, “they wouldn’t be in the playoffs.”
Alice laughed. “Can we turn the sound back on now?”
Slowly, he rotated to face her. “Mary-Alice . . .”
“What?”
“I hurt.”
“I know you do. But what am I—”
Ezra flinched. “But what are you supposed to do about it?”
Uncertainly, Alice nodded.
“Wait a minute,” she said then. “I do a lot actually. I go to Zabar’s for you, and to Duane Reade, and to the