“I and I Ted,” Ted finally said.
“Respect yourself.” Virg smiled.
Virgil and Ted sat on the bench to roll and smoke and eat jerk chicken and read and respect themselves. A perfect summer afternoon.
25.
Ted was awakened before his father by the Times banging off the front door. The kid who made the deliveries had a good arm, but wild. He reminded Ted of Sandy Koufax before he found control, or Nolan Ryan. Ted decided to go down to Benny’s kiosk for the Post and the Daily News. From down the block, he could see the old men loitering and squawking like a bunch of crows. A voice called out of the ether from the direction of the kiosk, “Ted! Teddy boy!” Ted looked and saw the top of Benny’s head.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Ted said.
“Mornin’, Ted,” the old men said in ragged unison.
Tango Sam danced forward. “Ted, you look terrific, very handsome, loan me fifty.”
Benny pushed the Post and the News toward Ted. “Knew we wouldn’t be seeing the old man today.”
Ivan added, “Not after the Sox lose, no.”
“And if we did, he’d be in the wheelchair,” Tango Sam said.
“Psychosomatic,” said Schtikker the Viennese. “Mind over matter.”
“Malaise days.”
“Am I the only one that cares about this Polanski thing?” asked Ivan, but that was apparently a nonstarter today. “Or the ozone?” Another nonstarter.
“One time,” said Benny, “as an experiment, when the Sox lost, I ripped out a page with an old box score from a day they won and replaced it in the paper. Your dad came in the wheelchair that morning.”
Tango Sam jumped in with some color commentary. “He’d fallen asleep when the Sox were down and assumed they’d lost.” The old men began and finished one another’s stories like they were of one mind, a hive. Sometimes it was like watching an a cappella group sing in the round, or a team of broadcasters narrating the game of life. Rizzuto and White times two.
Benny took over again. “We lied to him and told him they’d made a comeback. And I handed him the phony box score. He didn’t smell a fake. Guess what?”
“What?”
“Walked home,” said Ivan.
“Danced,” said Tango Sam.
They let Schtikker have the capper-
“Fuck you, wheelchair; fuck you, cane.”
26.
The young girl was named Christina, and she was dying. She knew that. Bone cancer. Leukemia. They called it first names like that, but she knew its last name was death. She felt it in her bones and accepted it. Everybody dies. Some would have many years. She would have just a few years. It made her sad to think she would never fall in love or make babies, but she didn’t really even know what it was she would be missing. It was more like ideas of loss the adults and movies and stories put upon her. She knew she would marry Jesus. Handsome, blue-eyed Jesus. Death didn’t worry her so much as her mom. She felt guilty about her mom. She could see what her sickness was doing to her. It was killing her, too. But her mom wasn’t sick and didn’t have to die. Her mom would live and keep them both alive, because Christina would stay alive in her mom’s memory. But Christina was sad that her memory, what would remain after her spirit went to be with Jesus, would give her mother pain. She did not want her future life in her mom’s mind to be a source of pain. She wanted Jesus to talk to her mom, to let her know Christina would be all right, that she would be there on his right hand, she’d heard. But Jesus hadn’t done that yet. She could see in her mom’s eyes that Jesus had not spoken to her. She wondered what could be keeping Jesus. Did he have so many people to console? Probably. What about Mother Mary? Was she busy, too? So much suffering in the world to help. I can wait for Jesus, but Mom can’t. But she didn’t quite have the words. The words to tell her mom to live and not feel guilty. What was guilt, even? Was it, like, gilded? Gold braided like on the dresses of her dolls? Could you pull it out of your life like stitching?
She heard the footsteps coming down the hospital corridor. Clip clop clip clop. She knew if the hurried steps stopped just outside her door, it would be her mother. The doctors came right in, but her mother paused just before the doorway, unseen. Clip clop clip. Composing herself, Christina knew. Knew her mom needed a few moments of being invisible to breathe and tamp down the wailing sobs that crouched every second just inside her throat. About five seconds of wait. One two three four five like clockwork. And here she is-the love of my life, Mommy. How do I set her free? How do I make her free like me? Mommy says my name and sits on the edge of the bed. She is making her mouth and face smile, but she can’t make her eyes smile. Her eyes do not lie. She takes my hand and kisses it. That feels so good. I like to be touched. How can I set you free, Mommy? What are the words for that? The girl thinks and thinks and thinks and can’t think of the good words. So why not try just those words as they appeared to me just now? Why not? Maybe Jesus put them there in a hurry and rushed off to some other place of sadness. Okay. She cleared her throat.
“Mommy?” she said.
“Yes, sweetheart,” her mother said.
“Don’t die too. Okay? You live. Not guilty. You live.”
Her mother’s eyes cleared; it seemed as if she could see right through into her. She was hoping her mom would now smile and laugh and be free. But her mom buried her head in the little girl’s chest and gathered her up in her arms, crying like she never wanted to in front of her girl. “Baby, baby, baby,” she repeated over and over, “my sweet, sweet baby,” as she cried and heaved.
Well, whoops, Christina thought, opposite day. I guess those weren’t the words. I’ll keep praying for them. Jesus will whisper them in my ear. Et spiritus sancti. The spirit will thank thee. The lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. But I do want, I do, I want those words. I’ll keep looking. I’ll find them soon. I’d better.
27.
“Yo yo yo! Mr. Peanut, ¿por favor? Mira mira, Señor Peanut!”
The Yankees were beginning a homestand that day, and Ted was working it. He brought “The Doublemint Man” with him to the stadium, and was able to read through it during the lulls in the sale of peanuts. He was impressed with his father’s fiction and noticed certain stylistic tics that he shared, and figured it was genetic. Why would genes determine only physical traits, eye color and left-handedness? Why not other, more subtle, bodiless proclivities such as a love of the semicolon and a propensity to string modifying clauses ad infinitum? Reading Marty’s writing made him feel more his father’s son, biologically, than he had his entire life. He had always felt like a clone of his mother, and if she could have told the story her way, that’s the way she would’ve told it. He was 100 percent hers. Marty saw it similarly. “I told your mother to go fuck herself,” he was fond of saying back in the day, “and nine months later there you were.” But the flow of words on these partially incinerated pages was like a positive paternity test for Ted, made him feel good and nauseated simultaneously. He read: