A Forty Year Kiss

40

The game began at 1:20 in the afternoon. A beautiful early summer day. Green leaves shimmering on the trees like so many sequins. Flowers blooming in the planters along Michigan Avenue. Sunlight reflecting boldly off Lake Michigan, where lines of waves broke gently on the beaches or concrete embankments. Children played on the shore. Seagulls wheeled above. They spent the morning drinking coffee, walking, and eating pastries. They weren’t as ambitious today, and that was okay. They sat down frequently. Jessie people-watched behind huge sunglasses as she ate a croissant. Melissa called Jill and talked to the girls.

At eleven thirty they took the steps down into an L station and bought tickets for the Red Line.

Do you know what you’re doing? Vivian asked.

Not really, he admitted. But we’ve got time.

Anyone from the city could see that they were out-of-towners. Charlie struggled with the order of operations at the turnstile. But someone helped him, and he pushed through. Vivian could see the sweat beading on his forehead. But then that same person helped Jessie and Melissa. By then, Vivian had the knack and joined them beyond the turnstiles.

We want to go north, Charlie said.

Are you sure? she asked.

Positive, he replied. The White Sox are the South Siders. Cubs are the North Siders. There, he said, pointing at the Red Line map. We need Addison, I think.

They waited for a train to roar into the station. Jessie plugged her ears with her fingers while Melissa crinkled her nose. The air was hot and still under the wail of a saxophone from far down the platform. The train arrived in a rush of wind and noise, and when it came to a halt, they waited for other passengers to board before pressing forward themselves. Viv held Jessie’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. The doors closed, and the train moved forward. Their eyes widened. This was not Chippewa Falls. Or Spooner. The farther north they rumbled, the more riders pushed into the car, most of them wearing Cubs hats or jerseys, more than a few of them wearing Pirates gear.

When I bought the tickets, Vivian said, they told me the Pirates weren’t a good team.

She leaned closer to Charlie. They have some player named Andrew McCrutchen? He’s supposed to be very good. At hitting.

He leaned back into her, kissed her lightly on the lips, and said, McCutchen.

Who?

Andrew McCutchen.

Whatever.

At every stop, more and more people boarded the train until it seemed unimaginable that they could fit even a single other person amongst them. And yet they did. People squeezed themselves into corners. Sat on rails. Sat on laps. Held their arms up in the air or tightly pressed to their sides. Some young men were happily, drunkenly chanting, Let’s go, Cubbies, then clapping their hands five times in quick succession. This delighted Jessie, who began chanting as well, much to the delight of the rest of the train.

The train labored forward, north. The day was bright, and sunlight slammed into the graffitied windows of the train. Even though she didn’t care for baseball, Vivian perceived that they were suddenly part of a tribe, a people. All moving in the same direction, all unified by a common experience. It wasn’t so different from all those afternoons and evenings of watching Charlie play softball, except on a much grander scale. A sensation multiplied by thousands of people, tens of thousands of people.

The train came to a stop at the Addison platform, and when the sliding doors parted, passengers spilled out into the daylight and the steady breeze blowing off the lake. Their own little group accounted for what seemed the very last four people off the train, moving awkwardly together, as a single unit. It was slow walking down the steps to street level, into the deep shadows below the platform where pigeons maddened the air and street musicians pounded drums, blared horns, and sang nearly as loud as the vendors, who howled and barked, hustling their wares.

Vivian glanced at Jessie to see how her daughter was managing with the crowd, the city, all the hullabaloo. But she seemed perfectly content. Or happily dazed. From time to time, she leaned her weight against her half sister.

It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it? Charlie said to Jessie.

Yeah, she agreed. But everyone’s happy.

A child walked by, holding on to his father’s hand while also clutching a pink nimbus of cotton candy up to his mouth.

Jessie swiveled her head, said, I want one of those.

To which Charlie said, Then you shall have one, my dear.

Suddenly, the stadium, so massive on television, was right there. Right there in front of them, beside them. It seemed the epicenter of the neighborhood, in the way some colleges are, or cathedrals. WRIGLEY FIELD HOME OF THE CHICAGO CUBS, read the great sign over the entrance.

Do you want your picture taken? Vivian asked Charlie.

He looked around, a somewhat pained expression on his face. She sensed that he did, he did want a picture, but was embarrassed to say as much.

Jessie, Melissa, Vivian said, you two and Charlie get together. In front of that sign. There. Perfect. Now smile.

She glanced down at her phone, and there they were: father and daughter, smiling broadly, arms around each other, while Melissa clutched on to him as if he were her favorite uncle. Charlie sidled over to Vivian, peered over her shoulder at the phone, and she knew from his silence that he wasn’t just pleased; he was truly touched.

Come on, she said, touching his arm gently. Let’s get Jessie a hat. She’s always getting sunburned. And that cotton candy she asked for.

They strolled around Wrigleyville. Bought souvenirs for Ainsley, Addison, and Jill. T-shirts, sweatshirts, and hats.

We’re going to a baseball game, Charlie said, but it looks like we’ve been to the mall.

You’re traveling with three women, Melissa snickered. What did you expect? That we’re here to watch baseball?

You’re right though, Vivian said. Enough trinkets. Shall we find our seats?

There was a gravity to the stadium, pulling fans in off the street, out of Ubers and taxis and Lyfts. Away from the Red Line. Out of businesses and taverns and restaurants. Hundreds of fans drifted to the stadium, thousands of them—holding out phones, processing past security guards, turnstiles, and then the easy distance between gate and field, between concrete and the greenest grass imaginable.

They moved as if riding an easy current, flowing, spinning even, as they looked this way and that. All people, every kind of person, what seemed the whole of humanity—walking, jumping, running, singing, dashing, galloping, skipping, dancing, hugging, holding hands, pointing, praying, rejoicing, lamenting, hoping that no matter what might come, this was the year, their time, the moment of their glory and faithful reward. She couldn’t help but smile. No matter how little Vivian herself was invested in the Chicago Cubs or baseball in general, she loved seeing Jessie this ecstatic. All that might have been too much was just a little bit more than all right. Such smiles and laughter. The kind of laughter and glee that Vivian did not see enough of in Jessie’s life. At the group home. Or at the jobs she occasionally worked. Even with Vivian herself, she thought with some sadness. But no, this wasn’t sad. Here was her Melissa, an arm wrapped around Jessie’s shoulder, smiling. This was just spectacular. A day among days.

They sat in the bleachers. Pressed in among happy strangers. The air smelled of beer and ketchup, hot dogs and mustard, popcorn and salted nuts and nacho cheese and french fries. Everyone was drinking, and she chanced a look at Charlie, but if he noticed, or was tempted, he wasn’t letting on. He had an arm around Jessie as he pointed out various players to her and brought her attention to the dated pennants flapping in the wind. They walked to the very edge of the bleachers now, as close to the field as they could get. Charlie pointed to the ivy along the outfield wall. Vivian drew closer, trying to listen to him. Her fiancé. Her once and future husband.

Hey, Charlie was calling to a man out on the field. A player. Hey, number seven. Swanson. Hey, Swanson, number seven. This is my niece, Jessie. She loves baseball. But you’re her favorite. Maybe you could get her a ball? Whaddaya say? And sign it for her? C’mon, buddy. This is her first time at Wrigley.

She could hear a rising in the crowd surrounding them. More than mere murmurings too. There was a collectively rising volume of encouragements, a small group chanting, Swan-son, Swan-son, Swan-son. Melissa held her arms over her head, clapping loudly, whistling, screaming, Swan-son, Swan-son, Swan-son. And then she saw the player, number seven, smiling and laughing, catching a ball thrown from a teammate, and then catching a Sharpie thrown to him by the fans. He signed that baseball, and then lobbed it gracefully to Charlie, who duly caught it, and then, after passing the ball to a delighted Jessie, bowed to Swanson, bowed like he had just been granted a magic wish, and Swanson placed his two hands together, in the seminal pose of gratitude, before turning his back to flash that number seven and resume the pregame loosening up as if nothing remarkable had happened at all.

The crowd cheered. Vivian saw all this from a distance of maybe thirty feet. Which, she thought, was another way of seeing it all perfectly. Everything specific and close, however small a detail, in the vast entirety of the bleachers, the stadium, the city. The crowd on the bleachers surrounding them, not just witnesses to this feat, but accomplices, as they applauded Charlie and Jessie, tipping plastic cups of beer towards the sun.

And then the national anthem. Sung by a blind man, very old. But he stopped everything with his voice. Stopped traffic. The jets in the sky overhead. The very clouds seemed to dissolve in the waning wind, like sugar in warm water. Vivian felt her hand on her chest as the man sang. The heat of her skin, the sun there. Then they applauded. Everyone was happy. It was summer, glorious summer, in this grand lakeside city she had just discovered. Here, at Wrigley Field, with her family, she was happy, and amongst Chicagoans, who seemed to welcome them as their own.

The game settled in now. Smart pitching. Crafty baserunning. Bunts begetting stolen bases, and brave runs. Stellar defense. A ball hit to the warning track, run down before the ivy, and then absolutely rocketed to second base where a tag was applied, neat as can be. The crowd lived and died and was born again.

Before the bottom of the sixth inning, he leaned towards her and kissed her. It was a slow kiss, in no hurry to finish. Eyes closed, she sensed they were being watched, then heard a wave of noise surrounding them, and when she opened one eye, she saw that everyone sitting around them was standing and pointing at them, and at the giant screen just above them, and on another screen beyond right field. The whole stadium, it seemed, was cheering for them.

Then, just as quickly, their faces were gone from the stadium jumbotrons. But he was still kissing her, and now she turned fully towards him, and wrapped her arms around him, her hands in his hair.

There was booing now, riotous booing, a righteous booing. Thirty-five thousand fans broadly booing. Not near them, no. Near them, people were simply talking and drinking. But a few were booing right here as well. Someone on the jumbotron was wearing a Yankees hat; he looked like a broker, skipping work for the afternoon, not a care in the world. Louder booing. She opened her eyes again, and now a young couple was on the board, disengaging from a kiss.

And then it was them again. Her and Charlie. Up on the jumbotron. Still kissing. The crowd roared. Then roared louder. She smiled and laughed into that never-ending kiss and squeezed him tighter and tighter still, kissing him passionately; she wanted everyone to know. That they were in love. That love was still possible, still something a person could have.

Yay! Jessie yelled. They love you!

Melissa jumped up and down, up and down, cheering.

They kissed and kissed and kissed, and the crowd made such a joyous noise. And there was applause. Louder and louder; it was thunderous, that applause. People yelling and cheering. Still, the ovation continued. Applause and applause and applause. Stomping feet, clapping hands. She imagined the applause ringing through the city, from block to block. It sounded like that. Like people opening their apartment windows and applauding. Honking car horns. Traffic cops blowing their whistles. Chefs and cooks and servers and dishwashers banging on pots and pans. Cymbals crashing outside the symphony hall. Louder and louder and louder still. Such cheering, such happiness. No one wanted their kiss to end.