Chapter 28
Luke
I probably shouldn’t be here. But I can’t not be here.
Trinity sets her recorder on the coffee table next to a neat stack of coasters.
Outside, the early-March darkness presses against the windows, the kind that feels more like late winter than almost spring.
Inside her townhouse, lamps with warm, amber bulbs pool light over the gray walls.
A single string of lights woven along the bookshelf casts gentle reflections on the glass picture frames.
A candle flickers on the sideboard, its jasmine scent subtle but steady.
The overall effect is cozy, almost cocoon-like, as if the night can’t quite reach us here.
I sit on her sofa, the cushions deep enough to swallow me.
Finley takes the armchair across from us, his face half in shadow, foot tapping a restless rhythm on the rug.
Other than some quick small talk when he walked in, he has largely avoided me.
But he turns to me before we begin. “I haven’t, uh, mentioned this to Allison.
That I’m helping with this documentary. Y’know, it annoys her, and she’s got the trial and all. ”
In other words, you’re afraid of your own wife.
But I keep my powder dry, because I want to hear what he has to say tonight. “Your secret’s safe with me,” I say.
“Oh, by the way, Trin.” Fin snaps his fingers. “You wanted some home movies of us when we were kids for the documentary? I found one from not long after Luke’s accident. Allison is showing Luke how to throw a slider.”
“Allison? Taught Luke?”
Finley laughs. “Oh, yeah. Luke just threw fastballs before that. The old saying, ‘If they can’t hit your fastball, don’t throw anything else’? And nobody could hit Luke’s fastball.”
“Okay…?” Trinity smiles along, glances over at me with a question.
“Allison was determined that I’d pitch again,” I explain.
“She always gave me pep talks. We’d go through a mantra every day.
She’d say, ‘Will you let this break you?’ And I’d say, ‘No.’ And she’d say, ‘Are you gonna get to work or feel sorry for yourself?’ ‘Is your story gonna be a sad one or an inspirational one?’ So…
after the labrum tear, we knew I wouldn’t have near the velocity on my fastball.
She decided that I’d make up for it other ways.
I’d have to be smarter, more strategic. I’d have to learn how to change speeds and locate pitches and throw the right pitch in the right spot at the right time.
I’d have to learn how to throw a changeup, a slider, a cutter.
I would’ve learned those pitches, anyway, as I got older.
But she wanted to use that time, while I rehabbed, when I couldn’t throw at all, to work on the mental side of pitching. ”
“She got books from the library,” Fin jumps in.
“She bought videos of pitching instructors. She’d watch the Cubs on TV and record the games and analyze the pitchers.
She’d sit there with Luke and talk strategy.
‘He’s coming inside with a fastball. Now he’s gonna throw a change on the outside corner. ’ Stuff like that.”
I remember other parts, too. Those first weeks home after the hospital, when I was woozy from painkillers, she’d sit and read some baseball-related book or magazine to me until I fell asleep.
When my eyes closed, when she thought I was out, she’d stay with me a while.
I would drift away to the sound of her quietly weeping.
“Anyway.” Fin nods at Trinity. “So, you think this documentary, it could be on, like, Netflix or something?”
“Could be,” she says. “A definite possibility.”
Finley seems buoyed. He probably fancies himself the star of the documentary, or at least the constant thread through it. That’s fine by me; I’d prefer to be on-screen as little as possible, if at all.
“I can help with the marketing,” says Fin. “That’s my thing.”
“Sounds good.” Trinity clicks on the recorder. “Okay, whenever you’re ready. Recording is live. Talk about what happened that day. I might prompt you, but it’s best if you just talk.”
“This is a practice run-through, right?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “Just to get a sense of it. We’ll do this on video for the final run.”
“We were fourteen,” Fin says. “Near the end of the school year, May. Hot as hell. We played this game called ‘Ride the Hill.’ Idiotic in hindsight, but…we were idiotic.”
As he speaks, he leans back, arms lying across the top of the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, self-assured and in command.
Finley has that way about him. He can put on an impressive front, the guy Allison fell for—confident, charming, handsome, quick with a quip.
If he could earn a living making a good first impression, he’d be a millionaire.
It’s only when you peel back the surface layer that you see the real Fin, full of insecurity and self-doubt.
Which is why he prefers settings where things remain superficial.
The country club, these days, running around with trust-fund babies, playing golf and having drinks afterward.
He can pretend he’s a winner, as he defines winning.
“Then it was Luke’s turn down the hill,” Fin goes on.
“When he rode the hill, he rode it fast as anyone. So down he went.” His shoulders lift.
“It happened so fast. One second, he’s burning down the hill, probably trying to set the record, then the next, he loses control and goes into the street.
And then.” Finley leans forward, pauses, scratches his cheek.
“The rest is a blur. We all ran down the hill. Someone—someone must’ve called the police. ”
Trinity bows her head, gives him time to continue. When he doesn’t, she says, “So you hadn’t ridden your bike down the hill yet?”
“Um…no.” Fin shakes his head. “I remember running down the hill after the crash. Half of us fell over, trying to sprint down a slope like that. It’s like…I remember running before I even realized what had happened.”
“What about climbing the fence?” I interject.
He looks up at me, eyes narrow. “The fence? The gofer fence?”
“Yes.”
“Was I the gofer that day?” he asks. His head tilts back, eyes at the ceiling. “I was on the other side of the fence when you crashed?”
“You were the gofer,” I say.
“I was? You sure?”
Oh, yes, Fin, I’m positive. Don’t play dumb. It demeans us both.
“You handed me my bike over the fence,” I say.
“I’ve interviewed some of the others who were there,” says Trinity. “Charlie Gennaro. Kevin Galloway. They all remember that you were the gofer.”
“Huh.” Fin throws up his hands. “I honestly don’t remember. It’s been, what, twenty-eight years?” He nods to Trinity. “I guess the stress of it, your memory plays tricks over time.”
Trinity glances in my direction. My eyes drop to the floor.
“That must be it,” I say, my jaw tight. “The stress of it.”