I looked up at the ceiling for a moment and then cast a glance at Nina, who was looking at me expectantly, questioningly.
"Tracy," I told her honestly. "I don't have the slightest idea."
There was a long pause. Finally, pouting, "Bill, this doesn't hurt anything. How is this different than you taking advantage of stocks you know are going to go up? I could win twenty-five hundred bucks from this!"
"It doesn't Tracy." I said, lowering my voice a little so Nina couldn't hear. "If I knew, I'd tell you. But I don't know."
"How could you not know?" She nearly screamed, pissed at my refusal to supply her with this information. "You've already lived through it! You know! You just don't want to tell me for some moralistic, bullshit reason."
The biting edge of her words cut through me like a knife, deflating my desire like a punctured balloon. "Tracy," I said carefully. "I really don't know. I'm not a baseball fan. I've never paid attention to baseball in my life, just like Dad. How the hell would I know who was in the series in 1984?"
"Because you've already been through it!" She cried. "You HAVE to know. You just don't want to tell me!"
"Tracy?" I asked, looking at Nina again, she was now definitely sensing that something was wrong. "Tell me who won the World Series in 1982."
"What?" She asked.
"You've already lived through it." I said, mocking her tone. "It's only been two years from your perspective instead of," I thought for a second, doing some quick mental addition, "Seventeen years from my perspective. So tell me, who won the series?"
"That's different!" She said desperately. "You're a boy. Boys know this shit!"
"This boy doesn't." I told her, feeling my own anger starting to rise now. "But let's put that aside. Let's ask you some girl shit. Who won best supporting actress in 1982?"
"What?" She asked, confused.
"You heard me." I whispered harshly. "That's girl shit if I've ever heard it. So who won it?"
There was silence on the line for a moment. "I don't know." She finally said.
"And I don't know who won the fucking World Series in 1984." I told her. "And if you call me back in October and give me the names of the two teams who are actually in the fucking thing, I still wouldn't know who won it. I don't watch baseball Tracy. I don't give a rat's ass about who was in it or who won it. You should know that. You're right, this information is harmless, and I would tell you if I knew, but I don't know. And I don't appreciate you screaming at me because of this. And I especially don't appreciate your indignant tone with me because of it."
The silence on the line was longer this time. "I'm sorry Bill." She finally said. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."
"Goddam right you shouldn't have." I said.
"I just thought that maybe…, well, you know."
"Tracy," I told her, calming a little. "You're going to be all right. You don't need to be so greedy. Isn't it enough that you're alive?"
She didn't have an answer for that.
The rest of our conversation took less than thirty seconds. When I hung up, Nina was looking at me quizzically.
"Your sister?" She asked carefully.
I nodded.
"You seemed mad at her." Nina said. "Anything wrong?"
"Nothing I can't handle." I told her.
"Bill," She said softly. "What's wrong? You can talk to me about anything you know?"
"I know Nina." I answered. "And usually I do. But this is something of a family secret if you know what I mean."
"Like what my Dad told you?" She asked sharply.
"Kind of." I agreed. "But much more secret than that. I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She said, pouting a little.
The mood for the day was effectively broken. By the time my parents got home that evening Nina was long since at her house and I was long since releived of my testosterone by my own means. I spent the rest of the day with Mike, drinking some beer he'd managed to get hold of. It was fun but not as fun as what Tracy had interrupted.
It was late April when I went to Nina's house to pick her up one evening. It was Friday night and we had a date to go see the release of the movie 1984 based on the Orwell novel that had been the basis of the first conversation we had shared. I pulled to the curb at her house at 6:30 and stepped out of my car, heading for the front door.
I was no longer nervous about picking up Nina at home. The impasse with her parents was holding strong. Nina had told me that her parents had gone back to their usual relationship, as I'd predicted, but that I was never discussed in their household. It was taboo apparently. When she told them that she was going out with me they would give a small grunt in reply and question no further. That they weren't happy about her continued relationship with me was obvious but they never tried to stop her or talk her out of seeing me. She said they treated it as a phase she was going through, a phase that would eventually end. The fact that they still, after all this time, didn't trust me, that they still, after seeing the obvious happiness of their daughter, didn't trust my intentions, spoke volumes about how badly they'd been stung by the Bob Simpson episode. They really thought that I still intended to dump their daughter like a bag of garbage. All I could do was hope that someday they would come around. Didn't they realize what they were doing to Nina?
Because of this impasse, an unwritten set of rules had developed about my picking up Nina for dates. I did not enter their house or speak with them in any way. Nina would simply answer the door when I was expected and then leave upon my arrival. They, in turn, would be out of the room when I arrived, keeping us from even having to look at each other. I expected nothing different on this day. But something different was what I got.
I rang the doorbell and stood patiently, waiting for the door to swing open.
It didn't. I rang the doorbell again, pushing longer this time and finally was rewarded with the sound of footsteps approaching the door. It swung open and there stood Nina. She was wearing a robe tied tightly around her. Her hair was a frazzled mess, as if she'd gotten out of the shower and dried it but had not combed it. She most definitely didn't appear ready to go to the movies any time soon.
"What's wrong?" I asked, puzzled.
"I'm sorry Bill." She said, her voice worried. "I don't think I'm going to make it tonight. Daddy's sick."
"Sick?" I said, "What's wrong with him?"
She shook her head. "He says it's just the stomach flu but I don't think so. He was sitting in his chair after dinner and he started getting all fidgety. Then he started throwing up. He's all pale right now and sweaty and he looks like he's not breathing right."
"Sweaty?" I asked, feeling an instant return of my paramedic instinct. When people were sweaty for no good reason, something was usually very wrong. That in conjunction with "not breathing right" made me immediately concerned.
"Yes." Nina nodded. "I've seen people in the ER that look like he does now." She told me. "And usually they're very sick. I'm worried about him Bill. I've been trying to get him to let me take him to the hospital but he's being stubborn. He's scared, I can tell, but he won't go. I want to stay here in case something happens."
"Let me see him." I said suddenly.
"Bill," She shook her head. "I don't think…"
I wasn't going to take no for an answer. I pushed past her and entered the Blackmore house for the first time in many months.
"Bill!" Nina protested.
"Where is he?" I asked her.
She looked at me for a moment, her eyes scared, her own face pale. She pointed to the kitchen. "In the den." She said. "Through there."
"Come on." I told her, heading that way.
Mr. Blackmore's den was a room that had been built to house a bedroom. He had long since converted it to his own personal use. An oak, roll-top desk was the dominant piece of furniture. It sat against the far wall. It's surface was scattered with books containing lovingly placed stamps beneath plastic covers. On the wall above the desk a deer rifle sat in a rack. On either side of this were large racks taken from an elk and a deer. On a small love seat next to the desk was Mr. Blackmore.