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 The Homecoming On a trip in the late 1980s to his old hometown, a tender-hearted young man witnesses a crime and, to protect his young daughter, must confront dark memories of his childhood. They beat the Brewers, but it'd started to rain in the fifth and the sparse crowd filed out early. He saw Tess yawn, and she was drawing in her diary, no longer keeping score. When Ripken popped to third to end the seventh, they packed up to go. A cold August night now, Tess in his denim jacket. O's cap on the back of her head, her auburn ponytail draped over the black plastic band. Smiling, but she was dragging. By the time he warmed up the van and headed south on Ellerslie, she was asleep, stretched across the seats, hands folded under the side of her head. Mind wandering, listening to Chuck Thompson call the ninth, he missed Lombard, and then he was lost on the way back to a Holiday Inn standing less than two miles from his childhood home. A detour sign pulled him into the construction site for a ballpark where the B&O train yard once stood: orange cones and wooden horses pressing him toward the long, narrow warehouse looking ghostly, hovering above a hole in the ground where the freight shed had been. Eutaw Street blocked off like they were going to make it disappear, and he muttered, "Where the hell...?" Tess mumbled, brought her legs close to her chest, using his jacket now as a blanket. He didn't know where he was, the rain a thick mist. Lost in his old hometown, streets gone. Yellow bulldozers parked haphazardly, oily balls of light, flames flapping in the wind, and he decided he'd go east, away from the warehouse and toward the harbor. Find Lombard and get Tess to bed. The Aquarium tomorrow, a drive over to the Peabody and then Obrycki's for lunch on the way home. He stopped, using the side view to see if he could turn around without winding up in the muck. A man shouted loud, harsh, and he snapped back startled. Bursting from the darkness, a girl scrambled as she raced away, terror in her eyes. Naked above the waist, her blouse torn, she tried to hold her heavy breasts in her arms as she ran, her skirt ripped too, her olive skin glistening in the van's harsh headlights. And the shouting man drew toward the high beams. Pockmarked and stern, short-cropped curly hair and vacant, wide-set eyes, he tugged angrily at his slacks as he splashed through a puddle and another. The girl hurried toward the old roundhouse, her face gripped by fear. The man stopped, his shoes catching in the mire, and he looked directly into the van, raising his hand to block the beams. Two fists clutching the wheel, his daughter asleep behind him, and he recognized the man. Bigelow was his name, and he could tell Bigelow didn't know whether to chase the girl into shadows or to come over to tell whoever was in the driver's seat to go the fuck home, sealing his mouth forever along the way. Walking relentless toward the van, Bigelow tucked in his shirt and did up his zipper. He saw Bigelow eye the Massachusetts license plate. "Dad?" Tess said, sitting now, rubbing off the sleep. Appears in Baltimore Noir (Akashic) edited by Laura Lippman. Published in Spring 2006 All stories © Jim Fusilli 2005. Reprinted with permission. For permission to reprint, contact the author at jimfusillibooks@aol.com. |