in the kitchen. He still has this look on his face like he’s trying to recognize me.
Kel, I say, that’s what everyone calls me.
Me too, says Francis Keller, and grins suddenly, shaking his head. How ’bout it, he says, two Kel Kellers walk into a room.
Then he looks alarmed. Your last name still Keller?
I nod.
Kel Keller, he says. Back to shaking his head and grinning.
I’ve just noticed that part of his ear is missing. The left earlobe, as if he were a dog who lost a fight. He fingers it absentmindedly.
How’d you find me? he asks.
Google, I say.
Google, says the other Kel. Jesus. I can’t even begin.
He puts the beer to his mouth and tilts it for too long, until it must be almost gone. Suddenly I wonder if he’s the one that did it to my mother. Got her drinking. Taught her how to.
You in school? he asks.
Almost done, I say.
—Gonna go to college? Gonna work?
Don’t know yet, I say. And then for some reason I want to tell him—it’s the rage in me that wants to—about baseball, about what I can have if I want it.
I play ball, I say.
Baseball! he says.
I nod.
You was always good, he says, and it’s the first time he has acknowledged having memories of me. He must have millions. He must think about me. He must.
Are you my father? is echoing inside my head. Dad, Mom is dead. Mom is dead, Dad.
We used to have a catch in the backyard. Remember that? he asks.
No, I say. I’m lying.
—You don’t?
I don’t remember anything, I say, and he looks hurt, or else I am making it up.
—You any good?
I got the Mets looking at me, I say.
—No shit.
—I have a private practice this month with a recruiter.
On the 10th. With Gerard Kane and his clipboard and his sunglasses hanging around his neck. It occurs to me that I should eat, that I should practice, that I should find my strength someplace.
You grew up big, says the other Kel. You haven’t changed much. Hair’s darker. You was white-headed as a kid.
He puts his flat palm three feet from the ground.
Mets, huh? he says. Good thing we got you started early, I guess. Too bad it ain’t the Yanks, though.
The Yanks. But your things, I want to say. It occurs to me that the box in the basement could belong to anyone. Believing the Mets things were his was very possibly a fantasy of my childhood.
Now I am waiting for him to apologize to me. If he is my father he will apologize to me, or offer an explanation, an excuse.
How is she? he finally says, and because I want to shock him I tell him, She’s dead.
—No kidding.
She’s dead, I say again, and it’s the third time I’ve said it and the first time I’ve meant it: that she’s gone, my mother is gone, I cannot ask her anything or tell her anything ever again.
Sorry to hear that, says the other Kel. That’s a damn shame for you.
I shrug.
—Recently?
—Yeah.
She was a good lady, he says pensively. Now I’m gonna get emotional. You know I knew her from the time she was a girl.
He drains the beer, crushes the can, and tosses it on the floor.
When we was in school, he says, I wasn’t good at anything. Not anything. And she was always nice to me, always had a nice thing to say to everybody when they needed it.
So you got anyone left? he asks.
Nope, I say.
Me neither, he says. Makes you feel any better.
Then he says, I guess. I guess you found me for a reason?
I freeze. I don’t know what to say.
—You wanna know anything about her? You wanna ax me something? I’ll tell you.
I say, No—it’s not—
She loved you, he says. I remember how much she loved you. There wasn’t anyone else she cared for.
It is not what I want to hear and I turn my head away sharply and look out the window.
How come you left? I ask him.
He breathes out hard. Well, he says. That’s a tough one. I guess I got the bug to travel, and then I got the bug to be—my age, which was only a little older than you right now, you know?
I say nothing. It is not enough. I would not have left me.
Did you ever live in Arizona? I ask him.
He laughs loudly.
For about five minutes, he says. Too damn hot out there.
Then his face changes, as if he’s realized something.
You’re not mine, he says. Oh,