Terry Brooks: The Hook (1991)

There was a ringing in their midst. Everyone looked around. Finally Brad realized it was his holster phone. He drew it out and clicked it on. "Yes? What?" His jaw dropped. "Peter, why are you breathing so hard? You sound like you're running a marathon or something. What's going on?"

At the end of the hallway, the stairway door burst open and Peter labored into view. The assembly in front of the elevator doors turned to stare.

"Never mind the phone!" Peter gasped, shoving his own back in its holster. He was gasping for breath. Gonna have a heart attack if I keep this up, he thought. "I need one more look at the interim reports before I head off to London. Only take a minute."

Brad swung into step beside him as he charged back up the hall. "Peter, you're late for your kid's game!"

"Don't worry," Peter assured him. "I know a shortcut to the ballpark. Plenty of time."

The others fell in behind him, wordless. The elevators disappeared from view.

"Hey, there's a joke I'd like to try out on you guys," Peter announced, trying to slow his breathing, smiling his boyish smile. "I read recently that they're now using lawyers as surrogate mothers. Know why?"

No one did.

Jack stood at the plate, bat cocked, chin tucked in against his shoulder, and watched ball two whiz by. Two and two. He took a deep breath and stepped back. His eyes lifted to find the scoreboard. 9th inning. home 8, visitors 9.

"Keep us alive, out there, Banning!" yelled his coach. "C'mon, hang in there!"

His teammates were yelling at him, screaming directions, encouragement, prayers. The sporting-goods logos provided by the team sponsors were jumping around like action toys on the front of their uniforms. Jack looked down at his shoes, then scuffed at the earth. He hadn't looked into the stands for almost two innings now, afraid of what he would find. Or wouldn't find. The game was almost over. Had his dad made it?

"C'mon, son, play ball," the Santa behind the plate said gruffly.

Jack took another deep breath and stepped back into the box. He took his practice swings, and while he was doing so and despite his resolve not to, he found himself looking into the stands.

His mother and Maggie were standing side by side, cheering. Next to them, directly over the red seat cushion, was a man with a video camera. Dad? Jack's heart leaped. Then he saw that it wasn't his father, that it was somebody else, a man he'd seen once or twice who worked at his father's office.

Standing there where his father was supposed to be, filming him with the camera.

Jack went numb. He faced the pitcher, cocked the bat, and dug in-all without being aware of what he was doing. He felt tile catcher crouch behind him, watched the pitcher nod, go into his windup, and throw. A huge, hanging curve. It seemed to take forever to get there. Jack slashed at it with no hope.

"Strike three!" roared the umpire.

Ecstatic yells erupted from the visiting team, groans of disgust from his own. For a moment he could not move. Then mechanically, dismally, fighting back the tears that were building behind his eyes, he lowered the bat and began the long walk back to the bench.

The sun had gone west and the late-afternoon chill stung Peter's face as he exited the heated interior of his BMW and started toward the ballfield in a rush, raincoat draped over one arm, phone holster slapping on his hip. His eyes lifted to the scoreboard: 9th inning. home 8, visitors 9. Still time, he thought, running now, feeling heavier and slower and older than ever. Gotta start working out.

He rounded the end of the bleachers and stopped short.

The stands were empty, the ballfield deserted. Even the bases had been removed. All that remained were a few stray candy wrappers and discarded cups. Peter waited for his breathing to slow, trying to steady himself. He looked again at the scoreboard and shook his head.

Jackie.

He felt foolish and ashamed.

He turned finally and walked back toward his car, realizing for the first time how silent everything was.

He was almost there when the holster phone rang. He pulled it out and clicked it on, listening.

"Oh, hi, Brad," he greeted woodenly. "Yeah, glad you called."

To England

The muted roar of the 747 was a backdrop of white noise for the endless crying of a baby several rows back. Peter heard both without really being aware of either, his thoughts concentrated on the gleaming screen of the laptop computer settled on the lowered tray before him. In large block letters, the screen read:

GRANNY WENDY CALLS ME HER FAVORITE ORPHAN. I DON' T KNOW WHY.

Peter stared at the screen, at the words he had typed, trying to fathom the riddle they posed. It was a secret from long ago, from a distant, lost past he could no longer clearly remember. Granny Wendy. Wendy Darling. His grand-mother.

Why did the words stick with him? Why did they hang about like whispers of something he should understand and didn't?

He placed his finger carefully on the delete key. The flashing cursor began to move backward across the screen, gobbling up the letters of the riddle. One by one they dis-appeared until all were gone and nothing remained but a blank screen.

The 747 hit an air pocket that sent the computer skidding off the tray and into Peter's lap. Peter clutched the arms of his seat frantically, trying to balance the computer with his knees. The turbulence continued, sharp and unrelenting bumps that made him feel like he was on a sled racing down a rutted hill.

Seated next to him, closest to the window, Maggie looked up. "1 want a bigger bump."

Peter sat rigid. "That one was big enough for Daddy."

She grinned. "Just pretend it's a big, bouncing bus, and you won't be scared."

Doubtful, Peter thought darkly, wishing he were anywhere else but cooped up on this airplane. He hated airplanes. He hated flying. He hated anything at all that had to do with heights, for that matter. He liked the grounds- good, old, solid terra firma. If man had been meant to fly, he would have been given…

Maggie nudged him, and he looked over indulgently. His daughter's blue eyes stared back. She had Magic Marker all over her hands and face. Before her lay a sheet of paper that the markers had transformed into a riotous collection of colorful lines and squiggles.

She took the drawing and handed it to him. "It's a map of my mind," she explained. "So I won't get lost in my thoughts. See? This is our house in San Francisco, California. This is where Great-granny Wendy's house is in London, England. This is the orphan hospital they're naming after Granny."

Peter released his grip on one armrest long enough to take the drawing from her. He pretended to study it, all the while conscious of the airplane shaking beneath him. Another heavy jolt sent the laptop sliding down his legs toward the cabin floor. Dropping Maggie's drawing, he gripped the armrest anew.

"Daddy, look what Jack drew," Maggie persisted, shoving a second drawing at her father.

Reluctantly, Peter accepted it. In the picture an airplane crashed earthward in flames. Moira, Jack, and Maggie were parachuting to safety. Peter was falling headfirst beside them.

"Where's my parachute?" Peter exclaimed.

He glanced over the seat top to where Jack and Moira sat one row back. Moira was studying the back of a baseball card. Jack was watching her from his window seat, his hands closed protectively over the large stack of baseball cards resting on the tray in front of him. If he saw his father looking at him, he didn't let on.

"Okay, Mom, ask me another. Ask me another one."

Moira spent a further moment studying the back of the card she held, then said, "Give me the American League batting champion, 1985."

"That's way easy. Wade Boggs. He's probably the best third baseman ever. Why? Because after seven seasons in the majors, he has the third highest batting average ever. Did you ever see him play, Mom?"