Read Online The Spoiler by Domenic Stansberry - Free Book Online Page A

had been a small dark woman who spoke with an acerbic tongue and always wore sunglasses, as if she were in the movies. She and his father fought long and bitterly, always, up to the minute she left him for that stranger who came to the games, a thin man with a frightening presence, or so Lofton remembered him, though he had never seen the stranger close enough to know his face. He knew only the smoky haze that seemed to surround the man and envelop his mother.
    Mrs. Lofton died of cancer, a malevolent growth that spread from her lymph glands through her body like a small, angry fire. She knew she had the disease when she left her husband, Lofton found out later, and the stranger knew as well. What bitterness inspired her leaving Lofton did not know. He had given up pondering. He remembered his father crying—drunk, Lofton guessed now—when he thought his sons asleep. And he remembered lying awake, the transistor radio on the bed beside him broadcasting the ballgame, and trying to imagine the land of the dead. He would close his eyes and try to talk with the people there. At first, nothing. No shadows. No whispers. He would keep his eyes closed until, eventually, he saw himself on the street, following the back roads through the city, under the freeway, past the railyards, the cracked porch stoops, and into the ballpark. He saw himself standing alone on the soft outfield, listening to the outfield grass whispering his name over and over.
    Now he stepped back to the plate. He crouched at the knees, flexed his wrists, and stared at the mound. The moon hung over center field, fat and silver. He cocked the bat tight, saw the imaginary pitcher rear back, his foot kicking high. Lofton kept his eye on the moon. When the pitcher let loose, Lofton swung hard, hard as he could. He imagined the smooth crack of his bat against the ball and saw the moon high over the park. He ran to first, rounded the corner, and kept running. I can’t tell if it will clear the fence, a double at least . The stands were full, the Amanti woman and Brunner and his brother and Maureen and Nancy, all the people he knew, watching silently from the bleachers as he ran. A gathering of the dead .
    He rounded second, digging toward third. Off the center field wall, a triple . He wanted more. He ran faster now, faster than he knew he should be able, effortlessly, as if fifteen years of cigarettes and beer were nothing. His invisible opponents scurried after the ball in the dark, trying to nail him before he reached home.
    The catcher waited in a crouch. The relay’s coming from center; I’ll have to slide . Lofton imagined the play as he’d seen it unfold on television, the camera replaying it from every possible angle, the runner diving headfirst to the plate, stretching out with one hand while the ball rifled in, bouncing hard off the infield grass, a perfect shot into the catcher’s glove, which whisked down to tag the sliding player, but too late, the umpire’s arms already outstretched, palms down: Safe at home!
    But that was not what happened. He did not get a chance to go into his slide, to evade the imaginary tag. Headed down the third base line, he slipped, almost as if an invisible hand had pushed him face forward into the dirt. He lay with his cheek against the ground, his hand outstretched toward the plate. He was out, the game was over, the winning run did not score, and the park was empty. The fans had left, forgotten his name as they piled into their cars and drove home to sleep.
    Lofton got up slowly. His body hurt. His arms were abraded, small bits of gravel stuck in his palms. His cheek was scratched and bleeding, his slacks torn at the knees. But when he walked back to the street, his body sore and aching, Lofton felt good, better than he had felt for a long time.
    The heat did not break. Lofton waited on his meeting with Amanti, on the return of the Redwings to MacKenzie Field, and stayed away from the Dispatch ,