Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Iggy paid the breakfast check, and he wasn’t surprised when he and Malcolm both ordered coffees to go. Their food had arrived not long after Iggy’s ridiculous comment about Malcolm showing interest in Old McRainey’s property. Who knocked on someone’s door and said they wanted to buy their house?
People in rom-coms, maybe, but not real life.
It had, however, made Iggy incredibly curious how McRainey was doing now, all these years later. And if he’d remember one of the teenagers he’d once saved from nearly drowning in a tent, because they hadn’t thought to check the weather forecast. Not that Iggy would dare drive out to the property.
He hadn’t forgotten the gun rack near the cabin’s front door.
Without being asked, Iggy drove over to West Maple Street and parked in front of the house Malcolm pointed out. He could just see the side of a cream-colored camper at the end of the driveway, hidden by a few trees, and partially blocked by Malcolm’s pickup.
“Seems quiet for a house with four kids,” Iggy quipped as he shifted into park. He left the engine idling.
“They’re probably all out at activities or errands.
” Malcolm ran one fingertip around the rim of his coffee cup’s lid.
“Saturday’s are pretty crazy with stuff, and it’s the one day Melissa tries to take off for the kids.
Sometimes, if she gets a good rate for wedding hair or something, I’ll help out with driving everyone around, but… she’s doing real good.”
The pride in Malcolm’s voice and smile warmed Iggy.
He’d never had a real conversation with Melissa Ricardo, and he hoped to one day soon, especially with the way Malcolm talked about her.
Her kids, too. Iggy wasn’t huge on kids, but he could fake it for Malcolm’s sake.
He was also seriously glad no one else was home, so he didn’t have to make an excuse not to meet everyone today.
Things with Malcolm already seemed to be barreling forward, what with them spending the night and having breakfast. Despite no real sex lines having been crossed, there had still been intimacy.
“I’m glad she’s doing well,” Iggy replied. “It’s not easy. Starting over after your life crashes and burns.”
“Yeah.”
Malcolm’s hesitation hinted at another request, something to prolong this interaction, so Iggy blurted out, “See you at one o’clock, yeah?”
“Yeah, see you at one.” With another long stare that made Iggy’s insides quiver, Malcolm got out and strolled down the driveway, past the garage, toward his camper.
Iggy took a few centering breaths, then backed out of the driveway and headed toward the highway.
Spending two hours with Uncle Howie and speaking to both his internist and his neurologist put Iggy in a stellar mood when he left the hospital for the sports fields.
Howie was alert, able to stand and go to the toilet with help, and his appetite was good.
He had all kinds of things scheduled for this afternoon, like visits from both a physical and occupation therapist, plus a swallow test.
If all went well, he’d likely go home on Monday.
“He’s extremely lucky he was brought in when he was,” the neurologist had said. “And that the ER attending preemptively gave Howie the antitoxin. I’ve read papers about the long-term effects on patients with botulism toxicity, and his recovery is, quite frankly, remarkable.”
Iggy had done some reading of his own, and the stories he’d found were heartbreaking.
Young people left immobile for months, some never regaining their full strength again.
He wanted to give Malcolm a medal for listening to his gut and breaking down the door.
Uncle Howie wasn’t fixed, and he wouldn’t be back to normal anytime soon, but his recovery could have been so much slower.
Stupidly, it didn’t occur to Iggy until he was searching for the correct baseball diamond, that he was about to spend time with Malcolm’s sister and nieces/nephews, because of course they’d be here watching Tommy play.
The sports center had three diamonds, all of them occupied by games in different innings, other uniformed players wandering around just because it was opening day.
He texted Malcolm, who seemed to appear in the moving crowd of parents, friends, kids, and players like a mirage in the desert. He wore a blue ball cap with a bird on it. “Tommy’s team is the Blue Jays,” Malcolm explained. “We’re over this way. Game’s about to start.”
Their field had a small set of metal bleachers, but at least half the crowd was seated on lawn chairs or standing. Iggy was stunned by the sheer number of onlookers, but some localities took little league very seriously. What was more American than ranches and baseball, except maybe apple pie?
Melissa was seated on the oddest contraption Iggy had ever seen, and it took him a moment to realize it was a canvas wagon that converted into a two-person bench.
Everything she’d hauled there, including a green cooler, was stacked behind the bench-wagon, and more than just her three kids seemed to be running around nearby.
She wore a blue visor and a Blue Jays sweatshirt, and she stood to shake Iggy’s hand. “You seem shorter when you’re not behind the bar.”
“Thanks?” Iggy adored the random statement, though. In bright daylight, he better saw her resemblance to Malcolm. “It’s nice to meet you without alcohol being involved. This is quite the setup.”
“I’ve got four active kids and a full-time job.” She waved at the wagon-bench. “Monte bought this for me last Christmas, and it’s a lifesaver.”
Iggy’s eyebrows rose on their own accord, still a touch miffed that someone else called him Monte.
The national anthem began playing, so they had to hold off on introductions for a few minutes.
Amy was the oldest at fourteen, and Melissa’s only child with her first husband.
Sofia was eleven, followed by the youngest, Nelo, who just turned seven last month.
Nine-year-old Tommy was on the team. “He’s number twelve, and I think he’s fourth at bat. ”
“Excellent.” Iggy didn’t know much about baseball beyond three strikes, three bases, and a few lines from that Abbott and Costello skit, but he settled in to watch anyway.
Melissa was on her feet more than she sat, and Malcolm cheered the team like a proud papa, even though the Blue Jays kind of stunk.
The opposing team wasn’t much better, but they were kids.
The point was having fun, right?
Sometime in the second inning—the top? The bottom?
Why did innings have those designations, anyway?
—Malcolm invited him to the concession stand.
Melissa had been passing out juice boxes and snacks from the cooler, so Iggy appreciated the excuse to get up and walk.
The score was 0-0, so the game wouldn’t be won or lost in the next twenty minutes.
They silently joined the line for the concession stand, which carried the scents of popcorn and hot dogs. Iggy hadn’t eaten lunch, so he debated braving a hot dog with mustard, and if it would play nice later when he was at the saloon. Maybe he should wait and get a burger when he went into work.
“Hey, guys,” a vaguely familiar male voice said, directly behind them in line. Iggy didn’t assume it was directed at himself, until Malcolm turned around.
“Oh, hey, Clive,” Malcolm said.
Clive Denison. High school classmate. At the saloon Thursday night.
Iggy glanced over his shoulder and yep, that was him.
Unwilling to reminisce about the past, and irritated he didn’t have a bar between them, Iggy gave Clive a vague “hey” in greeting, then angled forward again.
Rude but whatever. He wasn’t here to make friends.
Iggy wasn’t particularly eager to make small talk with Clive, but Malcolm was too damned polite to ignore the interloper. “Do you have a kid on one of the teams?” Malcolm asked.
“Nah, my cousin’s kid is playing on field two in about twenty minutes,” Clive replied. “Wanted to get my red Gatorade before it starts. For luck.”
Iggy’s stomach clenched, and a bizarre, phantom pain jolted through his wrists from being cinched too tight.
The zip ties are cutting off circulation.
Then it’s gone, and his throat’s parched, and he’s sipping red Gatorade, but only because someone left it there still sealed—Iggy stalked away from the line, not paying attention to where he was headed, determined to find a private place in case he hurled.
He found a privacy fence and, behind it, a long row of porta-johns.
The smell wasn’t going to do his roiling stomach any favors, but he found one with a green “Available” on the lock and went inside.
Turned the plastic lock and closed his eyes.
Breathed through his mouth. Ignored the tepid air and the obnoxious mix of bleach and urinal cakes.
He hasn’t had a flashback like that in a long time, not since he got a bad stomach flu once while he and Darren were living in Atlanta.
Darren had brought him saltines and red Gatorade, and it had been an uncharacteristically thoughtful gesture.
Iggy hadn’t been able to do more than symbolically sip the sports drink before throwing up in Darren’s favorite mixing bowl.
Stupid, stupid, calm down, you didn’t even taste the stuff!
Maybe it was being back in and around Chance after all these years, because hearing the name of a drink should not have brought up those ancient memories.
The moment was passing, though, and Iggy hid in the porta-john for as long as he dared.
The thing had a hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall, and he used that out of habit, even though he hadn’t done more than exist inside the bacteria factory for five minutes.
He wasn’t surprised to spot Malcolm lurking nearby, pretending to do something on his phone.
“Dude, you feeling okay?” Malcolm slipped his phone into his back pocket, forehead creased with concern.