John Domini - Highway Trade and Other Stories

Bro made sure the young woman from the radio was there, then ducked into the showers. He had another player bring him his towel and slacks. As soon as the pants were on, he went after the woman and backed her into a corner. He hooked his forearm against her shoulder, so close that when her startled face came round her hair brushed his naked chest. She had that working-blond wave; Bro flashed on a TV commercial when it flared round her face.

Then they were huddled by the doorway. Bro announced that he was dedicating this season to his brother. Just announced it, loud enough to carry through the ghetto blasters and the usual tomcatting.

She punched her recorder, he ran down the facts.

“Whoa,” she said the first time he paused. “How long have you been sitting on this?”

He blinked. “Ahh, I’m not sure you’re understanding what I’m saying.”

“Well you’ve been awfully strong. You don’t even know if he’s dead or alive.”

“No. No see, this isn’t about me. This is about my brother. I want it to be like all the bats and all the balls, everything you see around here…plus whatever skills or like, knowledge I may have picked up so far…”

He was bent close to her machine, trying to think; deliberately, she wrapped her hand round his bicep. “You want it to be like all that’s for him?”

Bro nodded, but already the doubts had set in again. When he straightened up she was slow letting go of his arm, and he started thinking twice about that tickle at his chest earlier. Why come to this white girl? He had something so simple to get off his chest, why complicate it right at the start? When he’d gone after the woman he’d told himself it was the radio thing, getting the exact quote. He had a lot of respect for the men in the bigs who wouldn’t talk to the newspapers. Now Bro had to take a moment, resting against the locker-room wall. And though she must have noticed how badly the concrete would soak her sweater, she wedged herself between him and the corner. Of course that was her job, she didn’t want the guys hustling past to interrupt. But she was close enough for him to pick up her day smell even with all the cologne and deodorant nearby. And couldn’t he at least have buckled his belt? One of the other bad boys on the club ambled past, and he gave Bro that little grin, that little look while he slowed down, rolling easy sideways hip-to-hip going past — and Bro found himself smiling back.

Smiling. How could he have forgotten: this was still so new for them. A woman in their busy, stinking room, all the uptight wisecracks. Hey, check out the new piece from the radio. After Bro caught himself smiling he couldn’t help glancing sideways, worrying what she thought. But she was busy with her recorder. He noticed instead that she’d dressed down again, granola and jeans even on Sunday. If only she were more like the townies who waited outside the park, the eyeliner, the beaded feather earrings dangling almost to their shoulders. The accessories would have cooled whatever wildcat pump had carried him out of the game.

But he’d cornered her, she’d grabbed him. Now what was she asking?

“How old am I?” he repeated.

He saw that she must have five years on him at least. He wouldn’t have been able to tell if she hadn’t stood so close; all the rain out here kept the skin elastic.

“Bro?” she said. “I mean are you old enough to come have a drink with me? This is no place to talk.”

The other faces were no better. The guys who weren’t watching him had their backs squared, shower-drops clinging to their shoulder blades as if they’d turned to chrome.

“Bro? You there?”

The equipment manager swung by, fingering a hefty watch out of the valuables bag. Bro nodded, yeah that’s me. When the reporter took it for an okay it seemed like a nitpick, like the kind of thing a wimp would do, to slow down and tell her different.

She drove some kind of soft-shoulder foreign car, looked exotic just sitting in the lot. Not that Bro needed any help. Already he was seeing lingerie. She said her name was Robin, “but I like it when guys call me Rob.” She said she had to run an errand before dinner, and when he asked where, she smiled. “It’s outside town, Bro — but let me keep it a surprise.” All these white girls had lingerie .

But the little car’s front seat was a hassle. His thinking became more ordinary while he struggled for legroom. A bad sign; for a long time now he’d believed the head-trips had something to do with his success. About the same time as he’d discovered he could hit the long ball, Bro had noticed how quick and beefy the dreams would come. Announcers going hoarse and the whole works. Bro even used them as part of his pre-game, the way other players had superstitions about how to lace their cleats or when to start their run. He thought it gave him an advantage, having an invisible prep. Nobody knew about it, when he stood picturing the shots leaving the park or what the situation would be with men on base. Nobody could mess, and so nobody was ever going to know. Nobody except his brother anyway. Bro had always figured he’d tell Sly sooner or later, the only other man in the family after all. He would have confided in him already if the boy hadn’t been so much younger. The boy still clung to their mama more than Bro liked to see.

Bro caught an awful smell, thick machinery rubber. He discovered he had his body curled onto one haunch, away from the woman, his nose buried in the rubber lips of the window. He squared round and tried to look like he was scoping out the view. But Salem of course was nobody’s idea of a city. Five minutes beyond the ballpark and you never saw a house bigger than ranch-style, while the cross-streets came out of scrubby open landscape like a line drawn on a map.

“Can we talk now?” Robin asked. “While we’re getting there?”

He saw she’d set up the tape recorder on the console between the seats. And the surprise of her prettiness, when she turned and the hair halved her face — that too only made Bro aware of how his head had cooled. If this were a game he’d be off his stroke. He tried to relax, but the seat’s headrest barely came up to his neck, and the best he could do for starters were the week-old facts of the kidnapping. Robin appeared to understand. She let the tape run a few moments. When she spoke, she sounded careful.

“Is your family…are they working with all the agencies? Will you know as soon as anything happens?”

“They say something like this, you just can’t tell.”

“They? They who?”

“My mama. I mean my mama tells me what all those agencies or whatever tell her.”

Robin nodded, but her eyes were active.

“They all say,” he went on, “you can’t make no plans on the boy for certain. You could be thinking he’s dead and in the ground a long time, and then one night like, his face might all of a sudden flash by on the TV.”

Nod again, then silence again. The road was so straight the tape must have picked up nothing but its own hum.

“Was he big, Bro?” she asked suddenly. “Like you?”

“Naw, not like me.” The numbness remained, this was more of his mother talking. “He might still shoot up in high school, though.”

“High school?”

No hand-me-down lines for that. Bro sat up awkwardly; something under the seat jabbed the tendons in his heels, so hard he winced. Bending, he whacked his head on the glove box. “Gyahh.” And then Robin started being nice to him of course. Touching his shoulder, gently repeating his name. His first clear thought was, The media . The woman wasn’t even saying “Bro,” now, but his full, press-guide name. This couldn’t have been what he’d wanted. He took a moment, his cheek against the warm dash, and he could pin it down exactly: he’d wanted to get someplace real for the first time in days. Not this — reporter’s trick. A stray rocket and then a scene out of a Roadrunner cartoon. A sexy Roadrunner cartoon, to boot. Robin was halfway to giving him a back rub by now.