Gary already had his Yankees cap on as he bounded into the kitchen, sitting on one of the new plastic swivel chairs at the table and placing the softball next to Esther’s good china plate with its border of tiny red rosebuds.
“Gary! What have I told you? No baseballs on the kitchen table!” she scolded as he complied by shoving the ball between his knees.
With his fork, he stabbed a couple of the pieces of french toast that Esther had already sliced into neat bites and filled his mouth so that, as he turned toward Zalman, his words came out garbled. Even Zalman couldn’t suppress a laugh as he reached over the table for the jar of strawberry jelly, dipped a butter knife inside, and meticulously spread the jelly over the remaining pieces on Gary’s plate. “Thank you!” said the boy, burping simultaneously as he spoke so that they all nearly doubled over with laughter.
“Gary, you are quite the jokester!” Jacob said, a smile materializing on his face. He bent toward his son to place a kiss on the top of the baseball cap.
“A jokester without manners,” replied Esther, and turned back to the pan on the stove, glad that the dour mood of the household had been lifted, even if only for a short while. Jacob turned to Zalman, who, having finished only one of the two slices on his plate, was about to stand.
“So, my friend, are you ready for a game of baseball with me and Gary? You can be catcher again.” Zalman shook his head as he shimmied past Esther and placed his plate in the sink.
“Not today, Jacob. I have too much packing to do,” said Zalman, and then, almost as an afterthought to Esther, “Thank you for the delicious breakfast,” as he walked toward the front of the house and headed up the stairs. Jacob ate slowly as Esther began washing the dishes, setting aside a plate for herself for later, as was her habit. Neither seemed to notice that Gary had begun to fill the silence left in Zalman’s wake with a torrent of words. He was talking about the other kids on the team, telling them that even though he wasn’t nearly the best player, but with more practice, a lot of practice, anything was possible. Wasn’t that what Jacob always told him? That anything if you just tried hard enough was possible. But Jacob was only half listening as Gary’s words continued to invade his thoughts. Since Zalman had told Esther of his plans to leave, Jacob had refused to discuss the issue—neither with Zalman nor even Esther. It was almost as if he felt his silence would prevent Zalman’s departure from becoming a reality. But he realized as his son chattered on excitedly that he could no longer prevent what was soon to be a fact. He resolved that that evening, after dinner, he would sit down with Zalman to discuss his prospects, maybe even make him a generous gift as a down payment for a home. Now he turned to his son.
“We’ll work on that pitching stance of yours. You’ve got a good eye, Gary, so practice makes perfect. We’ll get going as soon as I’m finished with my coffee.”
“Finished yet, Dad?” piped Gary, without a note of sarcasm, as his father quickly took a last sip from the mug of steaming Sanka. He was proud of his son who, he had to admit, preferred books and music but had slowly developed an interest in Jacob’s favorite hobby. In the last year he had caught Jacob’s enthusiasm, so that the two, sporting matching Yankee caps and jackets, were nearly always the first to arrive at practice and Little League games. Jacob reliably told Gary that he was destined to be the best shortstop, or even pitcher, on the team, maybe even in the whole league. And, after the past month, Jacob was more convinced of this possibility than ever.
“Finished yet, Dad?”
“Yes, sir!” announced Jacob, and rising, watched Gary pop a last piece of french toast into his mouth, then adjust his cap, leaving a red slash of jelly across his forehead. He decided not to remark on the matter—after all, like the saying “Boys will be boys . . .” Jacob grabbed his cap as the two walked out the side screen door, sending a ripple through the yellow cotton curtains as a whoosh of cool lilac-scented air sailed into the room where Esther stood silently, the dry kitchen towel still in her hand.
SIXTEEN
Esther
Esther heard the sound before she saw what happened. It was like the howling of a wolf, but at a lower pitch, more guttural. Only later did she learn that it had come from Jacob just at the moment of impact.
She flew out the screen door, not stopping to glance out the window a second time, leaving the curtains rippling in her wake. Once outside, she saw Jacob, cap still on his head, his tall frame bent over Gary. The wailing had ceased and was replaced by the repetition of her son’s name. “Gary! Come on, Gary! Gary? Gary!” Esther stopped, frozen, afraid of what she might see, before taking a few steps toward the two, who were positioned at the base of the giant oak tree. It was not long before Esther’s wails blended in with those of her husband, for lying cradled inside his father’s arms was her child, her Gary, his lifeless eyes a sea-glass blue, wide open, waiting for the hit.