Love's Home Run, page 2
Bob walked across the car, waiting on the passenger side while Vivian put on her jacket. Jack stopped at the hood of the car and asked to speak to her. She looked at Bob, who was looking at Jack suspiciously. She moved out to meet Jack.
“I thought you didn't like this place?” Jack asked.
“Jack, look, I don't want any trouble. We'll leave. I know this is a Crowns' hangout.”
“Naw,” Jack threw up his arms. “You and him ain't got to leave on my account. I just needed to say something to you...”
Vivian cut Jack off. “Listen, we'll always be friends. That is how I want it.”
Jack looked into her eyes and was surprised to find he didn't mind agreeing. In the background, O winced and covered his eyes. He was afraid Jack was about to spill his guts. In the foreground, Bob could not wait any longer. He couldn't bear seeing Jack cry for love.
“You ready baby?” Bob said with his eyebrows raised.
“Yes.” Vivian noticed Jack's smirk. “Good-bye, Jack.”
She began toward the club. Bob stopped and turned, he was not pleased with the look on Jack's face.
“Problem?” Bob asked as he passed Jack. He stopped as if waiting for an answer.
Vivian stopped also. She recognized Bob's tone. It was his masculine, I'm gonna do something voice. She hoped Jack was calm, then slid her body between them.
Jack never replied to the question. But his eyes never left Bob and his smirk widened.
“What the fuck is he doing?” O mumbled as he approached the scene.
“Take a walk before you get hurt,” Jack finally said.
Intimidated, Bob hit Jack quickly. The punch to Jack's left cheek stunned him more than it hurt. Bob moved in quickly. Jack grabbed him by his shoulders and forced him to the ground. Rolling around was all that really occurred before O and others separated the two non-fighters.
Vivian scolded Jack, “I knew your ass was immature. That’s why I left you. Fight. That’s all you want to do, is to hit somebody.’’
“Shut the fuck up!’’ Jack replied before he could control his anger.
“Yo, don’t speak to my woman like that. I’ll kill you,’’ Bob threatened.
The three filled the damp night air with profanity.
Vivian fired the parting shot: “That's exactly why I left your ass! Your temper is going to get you hurt!”
O shoved his teammate from the club and toward his Pathfinder. “Walk. Just walk, New.”
They walked back to Jack’s ride. Jack ripped open the door of his Pathfinder and slammed himself inside as Vivian and Bob drove off in a cloud of dust and gravel. O leaned on the next car.
“I’m going to get us a beer,’’ Oscar said, speaking through the truck’s closed windows. “Do you think you can chill here for a minute?’’
O took Jack’s silence as agreement and disappeared into the club. Jack planted his head on his steering wheel and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER THREE
Jack left the Tunnell before his best friend returned. His desperate need for solitude hung over him like the odor of Mike Colbert's stale, sweaty baseball uniform after a doubleheader. He sped his Pathfinder across the wet streets of downtown Portland. The downpour had stopped as suddenly as it had began.
A stiff wind made the damp night air cool; yet Jack was riding with his window down. The steady breeze helped ease his anger. He felt that his chance to pound out his frustration was blown. The frustration of another lost relationship.
The Pathfinder hydroplaned across Main Street toward the Hawthorne Bridge. The highway would have been quicker to Jack's suburban home, but he felt a long ride would be helpful. He had anticipated the wet streets being empty. He was cruising at 70-miles-per-hour, rap music blaring, and he did not stop for many red lights. He thought about what he would say to the police if they pulled him over, he would say, in his best angry Negro voice: “Yeah, I was speeding. Whatcha going to do about it?’’
More than likely, he'd take the ticket and pay it in the morning.
Approaching the intersection of Tenth Avenue and Main, Jack gained speed to make the changing streetlight. Gliding across the intersection his headlights picked up on a figure of a human frozen in the far crosswalk. In a sobering panic, Jack swerved the four-by to the right behind the person and then back to the left, avoiding parked cars. The black automobile skidded a circle across the double yellow lines and stopped.
After a deep breath, and thanking God there was no other traffic, Jack looked into the rearview mirror. He could see the pedestrian still standing in the crosswalk. Jack got out slowly, surveying the scene. Who had seen him run a light and almost kill someone? No one was in sight, still. He jogged over to find a woman with her hands covering her face. She was drenched from head to toe.
“Are you all right?” Jack asked.
The woman’s lipstick was smeared across the corners of her mouth, as if it had melted in the rain. Her hair was soaked, dripping and hanging above her puffed eyes. She had been crying, and a heck of a lot, too, Jack deducted. Beads of raindrops, or tears, covered her round, milky brown colored cheeks. Jack caught himself staring, not stopping though. He took in a full view of her body.
Jack was instantly infatuated.
Djuana Pioneer did not answer the man who almost hit her with his speeding car. She was too tired and disoriented from the combination of her long walk, sleepless nights and the alcohol. Djuana hadn't slept much in the past three weeks due to a combination of nerves and sickness. This pregnancy was not going to be easy. Her upper body was heavy and legs weak from the steady walk. She wanted to say something and resume her journey home, but the sudden shivers caused by Jack’s warm presence trembled her body.
She collapsed into Jack's shoulder and arms as he came closer, shaking her head side-to-side crying softly that she did nothing wrong.
Guilt stabbed at Jack the more he looked her over. He allowed her into his chest. Fighting the urge to squeeze her, he removed his jacket and placed it over Djuana's wet shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on, her head embedded in his chest. Jack led her to the Pathfinder, asking if she would like a ride home. She did not respond. Jack awkwardly put her inside the front passenger's seat.
After getting the car started and moving it back on track, Jack checked on his passenger to find her asleep. “Now what do I do?” he wondered out loud.
He first lowered her seat to ensure her comfort, then looked through her purse. He watched her eyes, and the road, while sifting through the small pocketbook. He saw a small knife, seven single dollar bills, some change, tissue and a compact. Some other womanly junk but no identification, what woman doesn’t roll with ID?
Jack sat under the traffic light at Second and Main through two changes before he decided to take the pretty lady to his home. The ride was quiet and quick...even though Jack’s heart was pounding with anxiety.
Once in his garage, Jack shook Djuana lightly. With a stretch and a yawn, she rolled over to the door–her back to Jack.
Jack cursed.
He ended up carrying Djuana's plump body up the stairs to the townhouse. He angled her down the slim hallway and into his bedroom. Because he rarely had guests, the guest bedroom was filled with junk and trophies and the bed was sheetless. So, putting her in there was out of the question. He laid her in his bed and Djuana spread herself out. He stood there wondering what he had gotten himself into.
Jack thought for a second about leaving her in her wet clothes, but he realized that idea was wrong. So, with care, Jack removed her dress. He undressed her down to her set of white lace panties and matching bra. The sight of her curved body choked Jack, freezing him in place. He stood tall.
Djuana’s wet skin glowed in the dimly lit room. He hand dried whichever parts of her body he had the courage to touch. He patted her with a thick cotton towel, all the while dreaming of making passionate love to her.
Jack looked through his closet several times before settling on his first professional baseball jersey—a prized possession—to cover that body. It was also an extra large button-up that was in the best condition of any other jersey in his closet. He put it on her, one arm at a time. His knees on the bed, and towering over her, he slowly buttoned the jersey up her body. Djuana moaned once under the warm sheets, blanket and comforter. Her gentle smile and light snoring attracted Jack all the more. He stood over Djuana for a few minutes watching as she settled in.
Jack went into the living room on edge. Half his mind wondered why he wasn't in bed with his guest. The other half of his decent brain wondered why he had brought her home in the first place. He and his split-conscience sat up most of the night.
Jack only slept a few torrid hours. The aches in his back from sleeping on the sofa woke him for good near seven. Rising off the sofa, his body wanted to know why he hadn't slept in the guestroom. Or in his own bed. He smiled at the last question. He began to make coffee in the kitchen when the telephone's ring pounded his heart. “Shit.” He hoped it hadn't awakened his guest.
A loud voice told him to check the morning newspaper and abruptly hung up. It was Crowns pitcher, Danny Gross. Danny enjoyed the gossip reporters would write and would call the player it affected. He probably saw a trade rumor or story involving Jack, Jack imagined.
The small Saturday morning paper was laying across his welcome mat as if the paperboy had gotten out of his dad's car and placed it there with care. On the cover of the sports pages was a picture of Bob and Jack sprawled on the ground. The headline read: CROWN GETS CROWNED.
“Wonderful,’’ a smirk cornered Jack's mouth as he reentered the house.
Trouble loomed.
Djuana lay still in the large, comfortable yet foreign bed. The comforter on top of the sheets was a smooth fluff. Djuana's eyes had been open before the phone's ring completely woke her. A look around the room startled her. Her dress was hanging on the back of the door. Her stockings and slip in a chair. She ran her hands over the buttoned up baseball jersey on her body. She tried, but couldn't remember.
She climbed out of the bed and the thick, plush burgundy rug cushioned her toes. She walked to the door, enjoying the feel of the rug under her feet, and opened it slowly. The hallway was filled with the smell of bacon and freshly brewed coffee. She held her nose as the smells churned her stomach. Was it the affect from a night of drinking, or was it the baby? She hoped neither; vomiting now would not be good timing.
Djuana followed the corridor to the opening. In front of her was a living room with leather sofas, a huge wall-unit stereo and television and an easy chair. On her left were steps leading down to the front door. And on the right, in a lighted opening was the kitchen, with a tall, caramel-colored man wearing shorts and a T-shirt cooking breakfast.
Djuana startled Jack. “Good morning,” he said with a thin smile. He didn't know what else to say.
Djuana placed her hand atop of the baseball shirt. Her bust held the v-neck jersey up, yet nothing was revealed. Anger chilled her bones. What was this man smiling about? she wondered. What had he done? What had he enjoyed? Hatred engulfed Djuana. She stepped to Jack and slapped him with all her 5-foot-7, 147-pound frame could muster.
“Bastard, I hope you enjoyed it!”
Djuana darted back to the bedroom. She forced the chair under the doorknob. She sat back on the bed; the soft comforter almost distracted her. She covered her nose and lips with her right hand.
“Oh, God, what is happening to me?”
Jack sat at the kitchen table nursing a cold mug of coffee. What a pretty lady he had bolted-up in his bedroom, he mused.
Quickly, Djuana reappeared dressed and dashed down the stairs and fought open the front door. Jack bolted up after her. He met her on the porch, making sure not to touch her.
“Don't put your hands on me!” Djuana screamed as she finished the steps and was out on the sidewalk of the cul de sac.
“Look, you are too far to catch a bus or walk,” Jack began to reason. “Come in and call a cab. Or, I can take you where you want to go.”
Djuana stopped. Her eyes surveyed the scenery. All the homes were identical. The street signs were of a different color than she was accustomed. She felt alone and lost. She returned, walking past Jack and into the house. Jack entered seconds after to find her by the phone in the kitchen with her mini switchblade out.
“Call me a cab.”
Jack wheeled into his parking space at Adkins Stadium. Most of his teammates had arrived and the player’s lot was filled. A few kids, some with parents, crowded the players' entrance, a daily ritual. Jack signed balls, gloves and assorted sized pieces of paper. He only gave his autograph to children and only the polite.
Kristen Eisen greeted Jack in the corridor that led to the Crowns clubhouse. Kristen covered the Crowns for the Portland Gazette; the city's only daily newspaper. She possessed a combination of anchorwoman beauty and encyclopedic sports knowledge. The players enjoyed talking with her until she refused advances. Some believed she might, if asked right.
Kristen, a brunette, was small yet her wide hips curved the many fitting jeans and slacks she wore. During the playoffs she would stop hearts with knock-dead skirt suits. Today, she approached Jack with her all-familiar quick smile and serious tone. “You want to talk?” she asked.
“About last night? Nope.” Jack was expecting as much.
“No, something more serious. The national media will get you on that.” She took Jack by his arm and led him away from the clubhouse and toward the empty box seats in the stadium. They selected two, among the thousands of empties, three rows from the field.
She had his attention. Jack stared into her eyes wondering if she knew he had almost killed a woman and then took her to his home, wanted to sleep with her but didn’t, and then had a knife pulled on him.
She began, “I hear Slight is shopping you around. What do you know about this?”
“What are you talking about? Where did you hear this?”
“Come on, Jack. I am doing the story for my Sunday column tomorrow. Haven't you heard anything? Don't try to tell me you know nothing of this.”
“I don't. It's news to me,’’ Jack looked out across the playing field, where his teammates and members of the New York ballclub were already dressed and practicing. “You tell me who your source is and we'll talk.”
Kristen bit her bottom lip. She was good at bluffing. Secretly she had desired to ride on the laps of at least six Crowns' players. However, she was respected because no one knew.
“Jack, you know me better than that. I've been covering this team three years, and I have never betrayed any trust.’’
Kris shifted in her seat to mover closer to Jack. “But I will tell you this much. I know that Slight wants to give Hector Aponte right field this season and trade you for pitching prospects. I heard this from a source in Buffalo. They want you and Lee Spencer.”
“Really?” was Jack's only response. He again turned and looked out across the outfield at his teammates jogging and laughing with players from New York. He became bitter, not against the question or the questioner, but at the fact the question had to be asked.
Jack felt he had produced for Slight, helping make the Crowns one of the best teams in the league. He felt he should be enjoying his time by now, with no worries. Last season he signed a three-year contract and expected to extend it beyond that. The thought of dumping him should not have crossed Slight's mind.
But he also understood baseball to be a business, more than a sport.
The Crowns manager caught a glimpse of Jack sitting in the stands with Kristen. “Shit. What the hell that boy think he doing?” Juris asked anyone near him stupid enough to answer. He yelled out to Jack, “New, Git your ass dressed! Ain't you in enough fucking trouble?”
Jack waved and stood. Kristen grabbed his arm and almost begged for a reply.
“As of now, I am the Crowns right fielder. Have been for the last five years. That's that.”
In the clubhouse, it was business as usual. The game was three hours away and Don Cruz, Juan Santos, Mike and Oscar were playing cards. Neither man was fully in uniform. Floyd Young was at his locker reading the Bible. And, pitcher Scott Wilson went from person to person talking shit about the opposition.
Jack grabbed a couple of sandwiches and fruit drinks off the lunch table. He brushed off Scott, then a television crew. One interview was enough, until after the game, he told the media.
When he got to his locker he found the picture from the front page of the Gazette blown up and one of his teammates had written 'Clubber Lane Newhouse' in huge red letters below it.
The beer-bellied Juris came bustling into the clubhouse and made his usual announcement, “Saddle up, ladies! We got another ass to ride!” Then he approached Jack and barked at him to join him in his office.
Jack hesitated. He removed Vivian's picture, putting it on the floor of his locker. He put on his pearly white uniform slowly.
“Don't rush, Newhouse!” Juris barked.
Jack tucked in his jersey and belted his pants. He tied his high-top cleats and jogged into the smoke-filled office.
Juris removed his cigar. “You're benched for this game and Slight's gonna fine you. You can appeal if you want, but I wouldn't if I had done something that stupid.”
“Whatever,’’ Jack replied before spinning on his cleats and leaving the smoke filled office. He didn’t mind the day off. The money went to charity and the game was only the fifth of what was looking to him to be a long season.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tudor Street was its lively self on a bright and warm April Saturday afternoon. Children had come from blocks away to play in Tudor Park. The variety of swings and the sandlot were major attractions in the mini playground centered between two tenements. Their parents and other elders would sit on the wide stoop of building 657 in folding chairs, or on the deep steps, and share gossip.
Djuana was in her own little world sitting on the fire escape of apartment 3B. Djuana sat, holding her knees and admiring the cloudless skies. Despite all the commotion below, she saw and heard different than the sounds of the neighborhood and the television blaring a baseball game inside the apartment. The fire escape had become Djuana's place of solitude.
