Petey had been pitching the baseball against the house for the last hour. He kept an eye on the street, watching for his father’s car. It would be too early for him to be getting home, but his father had been getting more suspicious by the day. Petey tried not to think on that too much. He threw at the panel siding just under the side window. Hitting it meant a strike and missing was a ball. If he didn’t make the catch when the ball sprung back, that was a base hit. When he hit the hardwood paneling under the windowsill, a hard thud upset the world around him.
On and on he threw. Suddenly he startled and looked behind him. His father came up the drive. To show how good he’d been getting, Petey hurled sidearm. The ball knocked against the shutter and bounced over to the car. His father moved quickly and caught it against his dress shirt. Petey stood in front of the door, saying they should play. His father said he’d get into better clothes, but Petey held himself still and said they should do so now. They stood for a moment looking at each other. Eventually, his father sighed and smiled. The wind momentarily calmed and the sounds of sighing from the open window above them clashed against the passing cars and talk of the neighbors. His father stared at the window above them for a moment before he put down his briefcase and suitcoat.
They first practiced popups, his father tossing the ball high in the air, so far up that Petey couldn’t make out the speck in the blue sky before it suddenly emerged and dropped onto him. Petey made a few catches in a row and then he missed one. He pounded the glove with his fist and his father said for him to keep his eyes on the ball before he threw it again. The next time, Petey had to dive for it. But it was stuck in his webbing when he opened his eyes and he lobbed it back with a happy grin. His father rolled the ball a few times over the well-sheared lawn. He pitched gently and Petey got them in one hand easy enough.
A few of the grounders he had to run after, sometimes all the way to the base of the house. There was groaning from the window above and then a sudden, sharp gasp that startled him. Petey looked back, trying to tell if his father had heard it. His father was looking up at the sky. His face was plum-colored, and he brushed back his thinning hair. Petey threw the ball back. His father jiggled the ball in his hand before lashing it across the lawn, so hard that it popped up and struck Petey in the chin. He scrunched his eyes tight to stop the reflexive tears and threw it back off his back foot. It felt good. The last few months, he’d been getting good at keeping himself serious and tough. No matter if he got hurt, he kept his face low. Especially when it came to baseball. There wasn’t anything more important than baseball to him, and he’d better learn not to stay hurt if he was going to make it to the majors.
Then a thrown ball hit a rock and spazzed past him, rolling all the way to the side door. Petey went after it. The ball was lodged against the porch and he was reaching his hand to get it, already imagining how he was going to spin and chuck it back. As he was digging for it, the door opened and a man with a beard came out and looked down at him. The man tried to smile. But he looked more uncertain. Petey stood up with the ball in his grip. Then his father was shouting for him and Petey bit his teeth down hard on his lower lip and ran around to the front of the house.
They hadn’t played for too much longer before his mother came and stood on the porch. She swayed in the breeze, looking at them playing with her face absent of emotion. She folded her arms over her front and didn’t seem to know what to say or do. Petey didn’t look at her. He only watched his father to see what he should do. His father bounced a few more grounders to him and then stood up and looked at Petey’s mother. Petey flipped the ball from his mitt to his free hand. They stood there without saying anything, and then Petey’s mother clapped her hands and said how surprised she was to see him home so early. She asked how everyone’s day was and that there were peanut butter cookies if they wanted a snack and asked what they wanted for dinner. Petey and his father looked at each other before they walked into the house after her.
Hunter Prichard is a teacher from Portland, Maine. He is a writer of fiction and drama.
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