pester him to pay it back. He thought, It’s entirely possible that Vincent will choose this moment to come by. When he knocked, Nelson would say, Don’t.
If I don’t answer, he’ll know something is wrong.
Okay, but no funny business, Nelson would say.
At the door, Edward Everett would find a word that Vincent would understand but Nelson wouldn’t. Vincent would leave and call the police. But, Edward Everett realized, that was only something that happened in movies so that someone could save the day at the last instant.
“Let’s talk about how to fix this,” Edward Everett said.
“Just shut up for a minute, Skip. I have a headache.” He rubbed his temples.
It must be past ten o’clock, Edward Everett thought. Meg would not be on her way here but at her house, having a cup of coffee, no idea of what was happening to him. Vincent and Dominici would be at St. Aloysius, the rest of the team coming in, the players jittery with the idea of winning a professional title, none knowing the decision that the organization had made already; you stay, you go. The ones going didn’t know yet that the game wasn’t interested in them anymore, that they had only filled a role, shadows in the background for players like Sandford, and like Webber should have become. They all hated Nelson, he thought, but they were more like him than they realized.
The game had told Edward Everett the same thing thirty years ago, had tried to throw him out, but he’d come back and come back and come back and was on the edge of reward for his tenacity. I don’t deserve this, he thought. I deserve Costa Rica and the four years’ pay for three years’ work and the cheap real estate that could make it a good place to retire.
“Skip,” Nelson said, his voice quiet, almost a little boy’s voice—the boy that Nelson would have been when Edward Everett first came to Perabo City. Back then, Nelson had been, what? Ten, a child with a soprano voice that was still several years from changing, a boy nursing an inkling that, yes, maybe, yes, he could do something with a baseball other boys couldn’t. But not enough. Most of them could never do enough.
“Skip,” Nelson said again. “I can’t lose my family.” He was playing with a small switch on the gun, flicking it one way and then the other: the safety, Edward Everett realized. One way, the other, one way, the other, clicking it, clicking it. Which was on and which was off?
“I know how you feel,” he said, his eyes on the switch Nelson was flicking.
“Yeah, Skip?” One way, the other, one way, the other. “I had a boy. Like your boy,” he said, not certain what he would say next.
“I didn’t know, Skip.” One way, the other. One way, the other.
“But his mother—she took him away.” He shook his head. “Before I had a chance to meet him.” In the closet, Grizzly was quieter, his seizure nearly over. Soon, he would fully come out of it, start barking and lunging at the door. It would set Nelson off again. How long until then? One minute? Five? “See, I know what you’re going through.”
“What do you mean, Skip?” One way. The other.
Edward Everett told him about Julie, about Montreal and getting hurt, about asking her to marry him, about the woman, Estelle. He remembered her name when he hadn’t in a long time. Herron. Two “r’s,” not like the bird. About Julie finding him with Estelle and leaving him there, his not knowing about the boy until he got the first photograph and then the next and the next. “I spent years looking for that boy,” he said, telling him about the towns and the phone calls, but telling it so quickly, he had no idea if his story made sense. He paused, listening for signs of Grizzly’s waking, wondering if that was the moment it would all come crashing down, the dog fully aware and barking, Nelson hysterical again. He had stopped flicking the lever, Edward Everett realized. Was it on or off?
“So, you see,” he said. “I’ve been where you are.”
Nelson sat up, the gun still dangling between his knees. “You’re nothing like me.”
“What?” Edward Everett said.
“I never cheated on my family,” Nelson said.
Edward Everett was confused. This was not what he intended. They were brothers, of a sort. “We’re brothers, of a sort,” he said.
“You did a terrible thing,” Nelson said. “We’re not