Part 34 (1/2)
”No. No. I'd never want you to do something that'd get you in trouble.”
I receive one of those condolatory head-tilts from her.
”Thank you, Lou. I should...” I throw a thumb over my shoulder, ”get going.”
”It was nice to see you, Rose. You really do look great.”
I smile and walk out the door. I don't feel like saying thank you again...not when it sounds like a lie.
I'm almost at my car when I hear my name being called behind me.
”Craig?” That was his name, right?
Still running up to me, he says, ”Wait up,” out of breath. I wait up, and when he reaches me, he hands me a slip of paper. ”Ben's address. I heard about Johnny. Figured it had something to do with that.”
”Yes, it does. Thank you so much.”
”Tell Ben I said hi. He was my favorite patient.” Craig's eyes crinkle with his admission.
I hold up the note. ”Thanks for this.”
”Anytime. Just...keep it between us.”
”Definitely.”
An hour and a half later, I pull up in front of Ben's house in Cherry Hill. My stomach is in dire straits, but I talk myself into getting out of the car and walking up to the front door. It takes me a few seconds once I'm there to ring the bell, but I do.
A short, stout Italian woman answers the door.
”Hi,” I say first.
”h.e.l.lo. Can I help you?” she asks in a strong Italian accent.
”Yes,” I mutter, wiping my palms on the tops of my thighs. ”I'm a friend of Ben's. Is he home?”
”Oh. No. Benito not home, but...you're Rose?”
I smile at the thought of Ben mentioning me to his mother. ”Yes, I'm Rose. Do you know...is Ben up at school?”
”No. Benito took glove and baseb.a.l.l.s...he probably at field down the street.” She points to her right.
”Down this street?”
”Yes. At end of street, make left, then right. It's at dead end.”
I love her accent. ”Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
”Rose.” She stops me from walking away. ”My Benny...he talk about you all time. I think he in love.”
I can't keep the smile from spreading across my whole face. I try to tamp it down, but I can't, so I bring my hand up to cover my mouth.
”Go. Go by Benny. He need you.”
I nod and turn away. He needs me?
I'm back in my truck, but I don't go anywhere. I don't even start it. What am I going to say to Ben? I drove all this way, concerned with getting here but with no inkling what I would say when I got here. What if he doesn't want to talk to me? Maybe he needs to be alone. I've never had to deal with the grief of losing someone close to me. Would I want to mourn alone? Or would I need a shoulder to cry on?
When I was mourning the loss of my leg, however, I wanted no one. Is mourning a person the same thing?
I sit up straight, swallow some courage, and start the car. I don't second-guess myself again, and I just go.
It's February. No one is at the baseball field. Except for him. There's one of those padded walls behind home plate and Ben is on the pitcher's mound, a metal bucket of baseb.a.l.l.s at his feet.
He doesn't see me, so I take advantage and watch him throw a few pitches. He's fast. And he throws hard. Through the padding, the wall vibrates, and a sound like thunder echoes through the empty field.
It's a frightening sound.
An angry sound.
And I'm suddenly afraid to approach him.
32.
BEN.
I've pitched the last of my b.a.l.l.s.
It did nothing to release the anger boiling inside of me. It made it worse.
I yank up the bucket, nearly swinging it into my nose, when I see her red hair.
”Rose,” I breathe through my lips.
She doesn't hear me, but she knows I see her. As soon as my eyes connect with hers, she looks away. She's scared. Why shouldn't she be? If she caught my pitches, there's no doubt in her mind she'd feel threatened.
There are so many things I want to say to her. So much I want to do to her. I want to run my hands through that hair and kiss those lips. I want to hold her. I want to feel her cheek against my cheek. Feel her skin against my skin. I want to do and say so much to her.
But I just stand there. My bucket hanging at my side. My gloved hand pressed against my chest. Her eyes finally meeting mine. But I can't move.
I can't move.