Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum Read Free Book Online Page B

room. He points at the front door. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
    My grandfather stands in the entryway, shoulders hunched under a wet slicker. Pop twists his cap around in his hands as if he’s lost and afraid to ask for help. Tufts of white hair stick up in every direction.
    I glance at Marty. “Sorry. Rain check on that coffee?”
    “Sure. Call me.” Marty pulls on his windbreaker, high-fives Pop from a distance, and takes off.
    I hurry over. “What’s up, Pop?” As if I didn’t know. I’m still winded after the last race. “Hope you didn’t see my feeble freestyle—I sucked.”
    “Don’t use that word,” Pop says. “And fourth isn’t so bad.” He peers up at me and frowns. “Since when are you taller than I am?” Before I can answer, he says, “Stupid question.” He points to the street. “The van’s outside. I need some coffee. You can drive me to the bakery and explain why you’re avoiding me.”
    No use arguing. Mom may have returned his phone calls, but I certainly haven’t. Still, he shouldn’t be so grouchy. After all—Pop’s not the one with the surprise sibling.
    Traffic is snarled and we’re both quiet. The clutch shudders as I shift into third gear. “Transmission going, Pop?”
    He grunts. “Maybe. The van’s almost as old as I am. Your mother wants me to downsize. Says I don’t need a van since I’m no longer a working electrician. But where would I keep my gear?”
    “You can’t sell this rig, Pop! It used to be my playroom.” From the time I was a little kid, I was fascinated by the inside of Pop’s van. I loved the cubbyholes bulging with wires and plugs, weird gadgets and shiny tools. It’s not so organized as it used to be, but it still looks like the electrical aisle in the hardware store where Pop works part-time now. “I can’t imagine you in a regular car. Although if you’d like to go car shopping, we could stop by the Audi dealer, see what he’s got.”
    “Dream on,” Pop says. “They’ll have to bury me in this thing.” He sets a hand on my arm as we idle at the light. “Sorry. That was a careless thing to say.”
    I shrug. The wipers swipe at the rain as I maneuver the van into a parking space. Pop shuffles through the puddles and I hold the bakery door for him.
    The place is mobbed and steamy. “Coffee for me. Buy yourself a decent snack.” Pop hands me a crumpled ten and stumps to a corner table, clearing the way with sweeps of his cane as if he’s blind. I slop Pop’s coffee when I set everything down. “Sorry.” I grab extra napkins to mop up the spill, wedge myself into a seat, take a bite of the elephant ear and uncap my juice before I finally meet Pop’s eyes. “Guess I know why you’re here.”
    “Your father’s craziness. I’m mad as hell.” He turns his washed-out blue eyes on me. “Aren’t you?”
    No matter how pissed I am, there’s no way I’ll trash Dad in front of Pop. I crumple my paper plate. “It’s confusing.”
    “Not to me,” Pops says. “Bad enough he betrayed his country—now he’s betrayed you and your mother. How can you not be angry?”
    An older woman at the next table cocks her head at me as if to ask: You okay ? I nod at her. “I’ll be eighteen soon,” I tell Pop, keeping my voice low. “If I join the Marines and go to Iraq, will that make you happy? Will you stop ragging on Dad then?”
    Pop draws back, stung, but I don’t care. The bakery is suddenly too hot and steamy with people in wet shirts and jackets. I push back from the table. “Meet you outside.”
    I shouldn’t leave an old man in the lurch. But crap—he’s still giving Dad grief, after all these years? I unlock the passenger’s door and wait. Pop holds up customers in the doorway while he pulls on his slicker, then marches to the car, his cane splashing in the puddles. I help him in. When I’m settled in my seat, I turn on the car and adjust the mirror, avoiding his gaze. I play with the gearshift until I finally get