By Terry Trott
I step off the elevator and head into Crane Hall’s writing center, psych paper in hand. Every tutor is busy, so I find an armchair by the windows. Pines and maples surround the campus below. The apartment sits on the other side, just out of sight. A bruise shows below my top, purple under the fluorescent lights.
Last night comes back—one swing at a time. I pull out my travel mug. I take a swallow and slide it back into my bag. I hear voices behind me and pull my top down a little.
***
After a twelve-hour shift laying asphalt in the Michigan heat, he lets the storm door slam and drops his boots by the wall. He showers and puts on his shorts and blue jersey. He snatches the broken, taped-up bat he’s kept since quitting college—the one on the dresser beside his worn-out glove and my photo. When he gets like this, he steps into the batter’s box, raises his bat, and swings at a pitcher only he can see. I keep editing my paper. I grab my drink.
He taps the plate. I’d be in the minors if it weren’t for you.
I said you should try out.
Like you really meant it.
We did agree I’d start college.
He digs in. No, you agreed.
He swings. Strike one.
***
Across the room, some huddle over drafts. Others pass pages back and forth. My side throbs. I turn back, twist open the mug, and taste the warm vodka and tomato juice. Maybe my sister can help me get out. Except he’d still find me. But when he’s not like this, he’s so gentle.
***
This place is a mess, he says. Can’t you ever get your ass off that computer?
I’m so far behind. You don’t get it.
I get you like to drink.
So, you think you’re a pro. Now you’re my life coach? You try living my life.
He swings again—strike two.
I flinch as whiskey and ice splash across my jeans.
Just missed, he smirks.
I should burn that thing.
The next pitch catches me below the ribs. I don’t remember dropping the glass. I remember that sound. I make it to the couch and spend the night holding a pillow against my side.
***
I leave the center with my marked-up essay and look down the hall. My heart jumps—that looks like him. I don’t wait to find out. I turn into the stairwell and take the rail down. I push the bar and shove the heavy metal door. It bangs shut behind me.
Outside, I rush for the woods. My side aches as I glance back. I slip into the trees toward the apartment. I’ll grab my clothes, keys, another bottle. Then his bat. I’ll toss it in the dumpster by Tom’s Tavern on the way to my sister’s. No—I’ll take it.
I leave the woods and cross the open lot. His pickup is gone. Inside, there’s a note on the table.
If I don’t catch you at school, I left you food in the fridge. I took my name off the electric and cable.
I go to the bedroom. Just empty drawers. On top, his bat lies wrapped in his glove beside my photo.
I go back to the cupboard. I pour a shot.
***
Every morning, I pass by them on the dresser.
Weeks later, I pour whiskey into my lunchtime coffee when he texts me from a tryout camp near Cleveland.
I’m getting hounded by electric and cable even though my name is off.
I breathe and take a sip. I give him what he needs.
Don’t worry about it.
Then out of nowhere, he gives me the name of the camp. That’s it. I type—Why did you reach out? I delete it.
Some nights I wake up replaying that text. Other nights, I remember the dream he’s carried since high school. I’m back in the bleachers. He hits balls my way off a tee against the backstop. After practice, we go downtown for ice cream. He holds the bat in one hand and mine in the other.
***
The bus door opens. I climb aboard and take a seat by the window.
He’ll love the surprise.
My rib hardly hurts anymore.
He just needs to look at me—the way he did our first night.
I’ll say I’m sorry—tell him I was scared.
I brush a lock behind my ear the way he likes.
I step up to him. I straighten his blue jersey.
I hand him the bat. Maybe he’ll laugh—and hold me.
He steps into the box.
The crack splits the air—
a line drive blazes straight at me—
***
The bus jerks to a stop. Brakes hiss. I let go of the armrest. Outside, Cleveland is hazy and hot. The door opens. Everyone stands and pulls down their bags.
I stay seated. His glove in my lap, the bat checked and loaded below.
Terry Trott is a former criminal defense and family law attorney who later taught developmental writing at Washtenaw Community College in Ann Arbor. He lives in southeastern Michigan.