Of
Listen to me. Do what I say and you'll live.
Oh great. A Schwarzenegger groupie.
Keep looking over your shoulder but don't be obvious. If you stop listening to me for even a second, you'll die. You understand?
Only the pounding of her arteries could be heard. Not by the psychotherapist, of course, but it was all Lindsay Palmer could hear in the office. The therapist said not a word and only looked at her long fingers. Pianist's fingers, her mother had called them. The silence stretched for nearly 15 minutes so that his first words sounded like little thunderclaps. It was a very passive yet effective form of hypnosis.
"Tell me about August 12th. Start from the beginning."
"Well, I got up at 5:30, like I usually do… Do you want me to include everything?"
"Tell me whatever you want."
"All I can think about is that bastard Baines."
"So start with him, if you'd like."
Who are you?
Nobody you know. Now listen... LISTEN to me!
I-I'm sorry. I'm listening.
From now on, nobody you meet will be whom they say they are. You have to adopt that attitude starting now.
It was a painful ambivalence. She wanted to talk about Baines yet knew that doing so would pry off the fragile scab that had only just begun to form over her psyche. But scabs do not heal the wounds beneath. Lindsay still hadn't slept more than three consecutive hours since the abduction nearly six months ago. Whenever she closed her eyes, Baines lived again. Trauma does that, Dr. Lewis had told her, resurrecting the worst memories with Lazarus-like tenacity. Only, in most cases, the terrible flashbacks get farther and fewer between. Yet, this didn't apply to Lindsay. Perhaps "wanting" was not the right word… "Needed" to talk about Baines.
Where had he come from? That was the question that she'd worried like a sore molar but was afraid to answer for herself in much the same way that you never dare look over your shoulder during a white-knuckler of a nightmare. She'd speculated on the madman's provenance, of course. Drifter from the railroad yards, or maybe, if he could get public assistance or menial work, a fleabag of a rooming or boarding house.
Why me? Why not me?, was a maddeningly circular, never-ending point/counterpoint. The two questions bounced off each other and against the sides of Palmer's skull ever since Baines had first approached her on Lansdowne Street in the Fenway.
"Lindsay…?"
"Y-yes, I'm thinking… I'm thinking of where to start…"
"Start anywhere you wish… but it may help if you began at the beginning."
How many K's do you think Martinez will get today?
"I know, I know… the cops even asked me what I ate for breakfast that day… Well, not really, but you know…"
"According to our preliminary interview, you said that Gus Baines had abducted you at a Red Sox game…"
"Well, not exactly, but that's where I met him…"
"Okay, I'm sorry. My mistake… You met him at Fenway Park and…?"
This is usually just before the screaming starts…
"How many K's do you think Martinez will get today?"
"Uh, excuse me?"
The line behind the Green Monster accordianed another foot or two.
"I'm Gus Baines, by the way. Pedro. How many strikeouts do you think he'll get today?"
"Well, I don't know… Gus. The Mariners are doing very well this year, even with Junior in a slump."
He looked as if he could hardly afford the price of even a center field bleacher seat, which ordinarily went for $11. The raincoat almost made him a cliché of a secret agent and stood out in conspicuous relief from the rest of the fans wearing khaki shorts, WWF tank tops, and Red Sox tee shirts. It was still 87 degrees in Boston by 7 pm.
"It's fascinating to look at Martinez' pitching, especially if you look at it scientifically. The poet Marianne Moore used to watch pitchers from Christie Matthewson to Bob Gibson and loved to analyze their different styles."
"What do you mean?" Lindsay had heard of Marianne Moore, of course, but never knew that she was a baseball fan. In fact, it was hard to imagine the frail little doyenne of American poetry sitting amidst a crowd of beer-swilling, peanut-crunching loudmouths.
"She would examine the physics of each pitcher's windup and delivery, from the rearing back of the arm to the kick just before the delivery down to the follow-through. Pedro has a nice, ragtime delivery, if you've ever studied the old masters."
Lindsay nodded her head and appraised the older gentleman before her. He seemed harmless enough and was probably just trying to make conversation to make the hot, frustratingly long wait on Lansdowne St. a bit shorter. Mother always said for her to trust her first instincts. Sure, Ma. That's why we have so many serial killing victims each year. Approximately 70-120, according the FBI's Behavioral Sciences gurus. Being a crime reporter for the Boston Tribune made her privy to conversation stoppers like that.
"That's interesting… Oh, finally." The Fenway ticket taker was now in plain sight. "Well, nice talking to you."
She'd hardly looked him the eye, afraid that he'd look rejected or, even worse, out of countenance, after the obvious brush off. But her peripheral vision told her that the scruffy-looking man with the day-old growth of beard took it in his stride. Walking through the concrete jungle of the concession stands and restrooms and seeing Fenway Park for the first time in years put Gus Baines out of her mind. For about seven minutes.
Lindsay wanted to get right to her seat in the hopes of watching the Red Sox taking batting practice, but, as usual, she didn't make it in on time. It frustrated her to no end that the Fenway people never allowed the fans in until after the Red Sox had taken their batting practice. If the Cardinals organization ever tried to keep McGwire's fans from such a treat, there'd be mutiny in the streets of St. Louis. Still, there was always Ken Griffey, Jr. to watch and that was always a thing to behold. Plus, he'd be playing his customary center field, just twenty feet below Lindsay.
It was her first time at historic Fenway Park since 1996. Like many discouraged Red Sox fans, she'd lost her taste for the game until the team had signed Nomar Garciaparra and Pedro Martinez. She'd meant to get to the Fenway to watch those two young hotshots play but the demands of her job made that almost as good as illegal. Last week, however, she'd logged onto the Internet on a whim and bought a centerfield bleacher seat purely on impulse.
The running joke at the paper was that a baseball fan like Lindsay Palmer should've become a sportswriter instead of a crime reporter so she could get into Fenway for free 81 times a year. Her response was that she already sees about 81 DOA's per year, so what was the difference? But the love for the Sox remained, a love for 25 irresponsible, untrustworthy men. Sort of like her love life, which was about as thriving and active as Father Flanagan's.
The left-handed Griffey belted a couple over the right field wall then made way for a less illustrious batter. During the inevitable lull in the Mariner's batting practice, Lindsay was reminded of how thirsty she was. Getting up and turning around, she saw Gus Baines sitting right behind her. Halting just a fraction of a second, Lindsay raised her eyebrows and gave him a tight-lipped smile before turning her eyes to the concrete steps leading to the concession stands.
Looking back, she noted to her relief that Baines didn't look over his shoulder and follow her with his eyes. Lindsay always wondered if her innate, big city paranoia was the cause of her celibacy status or the reason why she was still alive. The trouble with either supposition was neither was possible to prove. Either you meet Prince Charming or Mr. Goodbar or you don't. You're either damned or you're not.
After purchasing a five dollar draft beer and a too-tender hot dog that looked as if it had been steamed since Opening Day, Lindsay slowly elbowed and sidestepped through the crowd, finally making her way back to her seat. Baines was sitting to the right of her seat.
"Uh, I thought you were sitting up there, sir?"
"Gus," he said. "And, apparently, I had the wrong seat."
"And here you are, next to me. What're the odds, huh?," she said with a nervous laugh. It was a sold-out game, the Red Sox website had told her minutes after purchasing her ticket. Another man was sitting where Gus was before she'd gotten up.
Perhaps if I ignore him and it's a good game, maybe he'll stop trying to hit on me, she thought. That is, if he is hitting on me. Who says he is?
Making a show of settling into her hard seat (number 13, as her luck would have it, in the 5th row), Lindsay stole a glance at this Gus Baines again. He wasn't a bad-looking man, as far as ruffians go. It was notable that in the two times he'd introduced himself to her, he'd never extended his hand or otherwise tried to touch any part of her body. She stole another quick peek at his left hand. No ring, but she thought she saw the imprint of a band on the ring finger. Newly divorced? Widower? A down-on-his-heels salesman or serial killer trying to hide the fact of his marriage?
The game announcer rescued her from her paranoid revery and Lindsay tried concentrating on the game. By the fourth inning, however, Garciaparra and Martinez had conspired to make the game a 9-0 howler. Nothing short of a miracle of Biblical proportions would help the Mariners.
By the start of the fifth, the bombarded Mariners pitcher was sent to the showers and a reliever was brought out of the Seattle bullpen. Baines took advantage of the lull in the game.
"You never told me your name, by the way." This time, he'd extended his right hand, palm down and she looked at the left one again. There was clearly a ring impression on the ring finger.
"Uh, Meghan Barrett." Now, why did I say that? Meghan Barrett was her worst enemy in grammar school. Baines looked momentarily confused, either out of his hand not being accepted or because he'd heard something he didn't expect. Still, he nodded and smiled when the game resumed.
"You think Pedro will go the distance?," Baines asked during the seventh inning stretch.
"Hm?" Oh, God, please don't talk to me, anymore. I just wanna watch the game. "Uh, I don't think so. He's already got, what, 11 strikeouts? He's already won it. They'll probably put Gordon in, next."
"Maybe. Or, they may let him go for a personal best. What would that be, 17?"
"I don't… yeah, I think so."
A man who loves baseball can't be all bad, her old man had said. Sure, dad. Just look at John Dillinger. Still, this guy must be a Boston native, to know so much. Or just a diehard baseball statistics freak.
SHIT! Suppose he is from town? He'd probably know my byline. You know the one, the one with my picture just above it.
She stole another quick peek at Gus Baines and felt an overwhelming guilt. Soon, it turned into a tentative form of pity. Suppose the poor guy was an out-of-town salesman, just looking for a way to fill a few lonely hours?
"This guy won't last, either. Garciaparra and Daubach are just too hot tonight."
Lindsay was somewhat consoled by the fact that this Gus Baines was finally concentrating on the game. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten that she even existed, anymore. The pity turned back to guilt.
Maybe he knows I lied about my name and is hurt that I would go to such lengths. Oh, shit, Lindsay. No wonder you were a virgin until your junior year… in college.
By now, Lindsay couldn't have gotten back into the game if Babe Ruth had risen from the grave and ambled to home plate as he once did eighty years ago. Not in need of any such miracles, the latter-day Red Sox soundly thrashed the Mariners 13-1, the only run coming from a solo homer by an anonymous Seattle player. Griffey was 1-5, with three strikeouts.
"Well, that was a laugher," said Gus, more to himself than to Lindsay. To her surprise, he turned and looked her square in the eye. "Look, you want to go get a soda or something, preferably at some place that doesn't require collateral?"
Lindsay couldn't help but laugh. Even in her crime articles, Lindsay couldn't help but make mention of how criminal the concession and ticket prices at Fenway Park were.
"Sure, I'd like that."
They waited until most of the crowd had squeezed itself out of the exits before trying to sidestep out of the fifth row. Lindsay went out first, being closer to the stairwell and turned to see Gus talking to the man who was sitting behind her. The young man seemed mildly irked at him and in the post-game buzz, Lindsay couldn't hear what was being said. Then the young man's expression changed from anger to something not unlike fear. All she could see was the back of Gus' head but she couldn't help but notice that he wore a satisfied, savage smile on his face when he turned to face her. It was the smile that a fox would wear after exiting a quiet chicken coop.
After touching her for the first time by taking her right elbow, she could hear the young man's voice four or five people behind him, complaining to a friend-
"I mean, if you buy a fucking ticket for row six, you should stay there. What's his fucking problem?" As the crowd thickened at the Lansdowne St. exit, Baines' grip on her elbow tightened.
Enjoy! Let me know what you think. My email address is Crawman2@Juno.com
Don't panic.
The first thing that crossed Lindsay Palmer's mind as Gus Baines first approached her was, "How does he know that I'm single?" He was considerably older than she, perhaps 15-20 years beyond her twenty six. But there was such an intelligent bearing in his eyes that she couldn't help but look in them when he uttered his first sentence to her.