Peter Abrahams - The Fan

Clouds had rolled in, hiding the stars. No traffic. Gil drove past the rest stop, over the bridge. They were silent again. Now and then, Gil glanced at Boucicaut. At first Boucicaut’s eyes were open. Then they were closed.

“You asleep?” Gil said.

“Nope.”

Then silence again, until Gil couldn’t stand it any longer, and spoke once more. “Remember that season?” he said.

“What season?”

“What season. When we won the state. The championship season.”

“So?”

“You ever think about it?”

“Think what?”

“I don’t know. That things could have been different.”

Gil waited for an answer. None came. He glanced over. Boucicaut’s eyes were closed again.

“You sleeping?”

No answer.

Gil pulled to the side of the road. Boucicaut fell against him. Gil twisted free, opened Boucicaut’s jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, examined the shoulder. Only a little blood, now sticky.

“No blood, Co,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”

Boucicaut opened his eyes. “That’s good,” he said. Then came a gurgling sound, and blood, shiny green in the dashboard light, poured from his mouth.

“Oh, God,” Gil said, fighting to get free, fighting to get his hands on the wheel, to get to that hospital. But Boucicaut’s heavy arms were around him and he couldn’t move. He’d been in that embrace before, more than once but long ago, halfway between the plate and the mound, pitcher and catcher in victory. He put his arms around Boucicaut now, their masked heads touching, side by side.

“The catcher is the father,” Gil said aloud.

Boucicaut’s blood ran onto Gil’s jacket and down his back.

“Hang on, Co. I’ll get you there.”

But there was no answer, just the warm wet flow.

Gil began to cry. “Oh, Co, you were the greatest. You could have played in the bigs.”

Then Boucicaut spoke his last words. His voice was soft and thick, but right in Gil’s ear. “You’re an asshole, Gilly, you know that? It was Little League. We were twelve years old.”

Bobby Rayburn, sitting at the space console in Sean’s room, was still a prisoner of the Arcturian Web. He’d done everything: offered to trade the uranium planet Bluton for his freedom, revealed the secret hidden at the core of the Cloud Nebula in Orion, read the software manual from cover to cover. “When dealing with the Arcturian Web,” it said under Troubleshooting, “remember that the first error is never fatal. If caught, use creative thinking. (Press F4 for complete creative-thinking menu.)”

Bobby tapped at the keys. Outside it was morning; inside, with Sean’s heavy curtains drawn, dark as night. After ten or fifteen minutes of frustration, his hands grew still, his mind began to wander. The first error is never fatal. What was the first error? That was easy: losing his number. Wald’s fault. And the second error? He could identify it as well: the second error was getting mixed up with Chemo Sean. That was the community-relations guy’s fault. Fatal? Or correctable, through creative thinking? Bobby pressed F4 and scrolled through the headings of the creative-thinking menu: Analogies, Making Connections, Brainstorming Trees, Beginning at the End, Redefining the Problem. He clicked on Redefining the Problem, clicked again on the subcategory Naming and Renaming, read what came up on the screen. Then he closed the files, saved the game, and went down the hall to the entertainment center.

Sean, in pajamas, was watching cartoons on the big screen, an enormous teddy bear beside him. Bobby put it on the floor and sat down.

“Hi, Sean.”

“Hi.”

“How’s it goin’?”

“Good.”

“What’re you watching?”

“Bullwinkle.”

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

“He’s a moose.”

“What?”

“Bullwinkle. Rocky’s the squirrel.”

“Did you ever notice how many-”

“With the goggles. ’Cause he’s a flying squirrel.”

“Would you shut up for a minute?”

Sean turned to him for the first time; his lower lip quivered, but he stuck out his jaw at the same time.

“Sorry. I just meant pay attention. Okay?”

Sean nodded.

“I was wondering something, that’s all.”

Sean didn’t respond. He watched Bullwinkle step onto a diving board.

“Do you want to know what it is?”

“What?”

“I’ve been wondering if you ever noticed how many Seans there are.”

“No.” Sean rubbed the teddy bear’s head with his foot.

“I mean what a popular name it is. All the other kids around named Sean.”

“I don’t know any Seans.”

“A dime a dozen. Take my word for it. You’ll see when you get older.”

“I know Corey. And Tyler.”

“I said take my word for it.”

Sean nodded. “Got a game today?”

“Yeah. The thing is-”

“Can I come?”

“Not today. What I’m saying is that maybe your mother and I made a-”

“Is it on TV?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The game.”

“Hell, I don’t know. Aren’t they all? The point is, Sean’s a lousy name.”

Sean’s lower lip quivered again, but a little less this time. And his jaw stuck out more.

“I don’t mean lousy. I just mean… dime a dozen. Like I said before.”

“Dime a dozen?”

“All over the place. Not like Bradley.”

“Bradley?”

“Your middle name. Didn’t you know that?”

“I know my name.”

“There you go, then.”

“I don’t like it.”

“What don’t you like?”

“Bradley.”

“Bradley’s a fine name. It’s Grandpa’s name.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Would Grandpa want to hear you say that?”

“And Mommy doesn’t like it either.”

“Don’t make up stories.”

“I’m not. She told me.”

“But it was her idea, for Christ’s sake.”

“She told me.”

On the screen, Bullwinkle sprang off the diving board and saw that the pool was empty. Freeze frame. Commercial. “You could be Brad for short.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Why the hell not? Brad’s a cool name.”

“I like Sean.”

“Well, I don’t. So think about it.” Bobby rose and headed for the door. The commercial ended. Bullwinkle resumed his fall. His antlers caught in the cords of Boris Badanov’s descending parachute and he wafted safely down.

…

On the way to the ballpark, Bobby tried to picture a perfect white baseball with red-stitched seams, tried to feel the feeling of hitting it on the sweet spot of the bat. As hard as he tried, all he could visualize was a blurred, generic baseball, not even that, more the idea of a baseball; and he could feel nothing at all. He gave up. At that moment, another image rose in his mind, complete to the finest detail: the painted farmhouse on the hypnotist’s wall, with the glow of the hearth fire just visible through the window with the deep-crimson shutters.

“Goddamn it,” he said aloud. “I’m not centered.” The back of his hand began to tingle, where he’d hit Primo.

Bobby parked in the players’ lot, got out of the car, put on the headphones, pressed PLAY. The music was just a jumble of unconnected noise. He pressed STOP.

“See you a minute, Bobby?” said Burrows as Bobby entered the clubhouse.

They went into Burrows’s office. Burrows sat at his desk, a metal one with nothing on it, and lit a cigarette. Bobby took a card-table chair on the other side.

“How’s the rib cage, big guy?”

“Fine. Jesus.”

“Hey. Gotta ask. Valuable commodity.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” said Burrows. He gazed into the distance, although there was no distance in the windowless room. “Thinkin’ about restin’ you today, is all.”