Flights by Jim Shepard Read Free Book Online Page A

shoulder into center field. Lou Piniella drove one into right field and the lead runner came around to score when Ben Oglivie of the Brewers slipped fielding the ball. The box was quiet. His father had no particular favorite and Dom felt that rooting for the Yankees was like rooting for IBM. Biddy was an Orioles fan and they were two games behind New York in the pennant race. Louis cheered decorously. Dave Winfield stepped to the plate. The sky was blue and clear and tracked by birds in the distance. The Milwaukee outfield was spread pleasingly against the green of the grass and wall beyond. Thomas arched his back in center, legs spread, and Oglivie stood relaxed and poised, despite his error, waiting for the pitch.
    Over his shoulder Dom suggested beers, and insisted he had it and that Biddy’s father could pay for the next round. After searching briefly for one of the wandering vendors, he stuffed some bills into Biddy’s hand and told him two beers and to take Louis with him, since he was eighteen, and to have him do the ordering.
    Biddy walked up the steps, looking back every so often at Winfield’s cuts, with Louis following, crunching popcorn.
    â€œWhat do they want?” Louis said, standing in line.
    Biddy shrugged, hearing a roar, and craned his head around to try and see back out onto the field.
    The line moved up. “Two beers,” Louis said loudly. The man across the counter flicked the taps back and filled two yellow paper cups with foamy beer. “Two-fifty,” he said. Louis laid two of the singles Biddy had given him on the counter and fished in his pocket for change. He set a quarter on the glass.
    The man stared at him evenly. “One more, pal,” he said. Louis blinked, out of bills.
    Biddy stepped closer. “A quarter,” he said. “He needs another quarter, Louis.”
    â€œA quarter?” Louis said.
    â€œWhat is he, retarded?” someone said from the back of the line.
    Biddy pulled him out of line. Louis told the story back at the box. Dom left, Biddy’s father calling after him, asking what he was going to do. Winfield was on second. After Dom disappeared, Biddy asked what had happened.
    His father returned his attention to the field. “Oh, Oglivie again. The son of a bitch looks like he’s on skates out there. They better get him some new shoes or new feet or something.”
    Dom came back down the aisle escorted by two policemen. He stabbed the air with his finger, looking back over his shoulder and saying, “And I’ll tell you what. If that yim-yam says something like that again, I’ll kill him. You tell him that.”
    â€œAwright, siddown,” the policeman said. “And thank Christ you’re still here.”
    Ginnie and Judy were too embarrassed for anything but anger, and they didn’t move or speak the rest of the game.
    â€œSon of a bitch,” Dom said to himself.
    The game limped on, the box quiet. In the seventh with the score 3–0 New York, Ben Oglivie blasted a home run into deep center field with two Brewers on base. Dom stood to applaud and sat back down. Biddy watched Oglivie round third, struck by the efficiency with which he had redeemed himself.
    In the ninth Willie Randolph homered for the Yankees and they all got up to go, collecting bags and hats while everyone was still cheering.
    â€œThose poor bastards aren’t going anywhere,” Dom said, looking back at the disconsolate Brewer dugout. “No pitching.”
    At the top of the aisle Biddy turned and saw the scoreboard in center blink and change, proclaiming a final in Cleveland: CLEVE 5, BALT 4, dropping the Orioles three back, and he turned to follow his family and friends down the exit ramp.
    Kristi had two turtles, Foofer and Kid, and killed them both. Foofer had crawled onto a small stone she had put in the clear plastic terrarium where the turtles were kept and had gotten out, flopping onto his chin with a distinctly