gig since he’d handed the ball to the Yankees’ pitching coach and walked into the dugout, accompanied by a guy he heard, clear as day, yelling, “Get the fuck out, ya fuckin’ head case!”
He walked out onto the grass, crossing from the dugout through the infield until he was on the pitcher’s mound where Evvie had once found him surrounded by flashlights. With his hands on his hips, he stood and stared at the plate. He thought about her, and about smashing the dishes in her kitchen. She’d been so calm and so determined, one plate leading to the next and the next, and he hadn’t been sure she even knew he was there at times. He’d looked down and seen her bleeding, and for a second, he’d known what to do and been able to do it.
He kicked the dirt once and walked off the field, thinking about the way he had peeked at the back of her neck when he was standing next to her at the sink, pressing down on the cut on her hand.
* * *
—
The next few weeks were an exercise in plotting. Liza spoke to the manager of the Claws, and he in turn spoke to the team about Dean. One or two of them expressed surprise that he wanted to do it, but who could resist the pull of a comeback story that would get written up everywhere, that might happen on their own home field? To a player, the guys who had met Dean liked him, found him funny and surprisingly smart for someone who’d been talked about like he was a bit of a nut.
They made Dean a uniform that said TENNEY on the back. They asked him whether he wanted his old number, but he said no. Instead, for luck, he asked them for 26, because Evvie’s address was 26 Bancroft Street. When he got home and he showed the shirt to Evvie, she said, “Hey, look. That’s my house number. Maybe it’s lucky.”
He’d folded it up, saying, “Maybe.”
The weather for the Spring Dance could not have been better. There was a lazy breeze, and there were almost no clouds. People packed blankets into car trunks for lawn picnics and threw in light jackets for when it got cooler later. In the parking lot, it already smelled like hot frying oil, girls were trying on earrings that a woman in Camden made from recycled plastic, and they were setting up the speakers by the stage where the band—brought up from Boston—would be playing before the game.
Back in the kitchen at 26 Bancroft, Evvie packed a canvas tote bag with her sunglasses and her Claws seat cushion and a long-sleeved shirt Dean had loaned her after he noticed that the zipper on her jacket was broken. He had his door shut, and after putting her ear close to it and hearing that he was still listening to one of the podcasts she was trying to hook him on, she opened a side cabinet and took down the champagne bottle by the foil at the neck. She put her hand on the label and closed her eyes for luck, then swiftly moved it into the refrigerator, hiding it behind a pitcher of iced tea.
As she was getting ready to make herself something to eat before she left, he emerged from his apartment in jeans and a green Henley, with his duffel over his shoulder. “Okay,” he said. “I’m taking off.”
She put down the tote. “You feeling all right?”
“Sure, yeah.” He hitched the bag up on his shoulder. “Little nervous, I guess.”
She nodded. “You’re going to be great.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said. “It’s going to be a real shitshow if I’m not.”
“It’s a fun game to raise money. It’s not that different from coaching. You’re doing what you know how to do.”
“Everybody’s kind of forgotten my sad ass,” he said. “I don’t know if reminding them is that smart.”
“I chased what’s-her-face off the porch, didn’t I? I can do it again if I have to.”
“You’re ready to be the muscle, huh?”
“Whatever it takes.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re fantastic. I just…feel like you should know. I don’t know if you know.”
She leaned back against the sink. “So are you. And as scary as I know this is, all you have to do is the same thing I’ve already seen you do.”
“If I fuck it up, it’s going to be the biggest flop this place ever saw.”