tying up loose ends.
journeymen
For keri, myr, and mara
It’s not like they were never gonna see each other again.
It’s not like the off-season wasn’t a month away. Crosby will be in Long Beach and Zito will be in Hollywood and that’s not very far.
But things will be different.
Zito gets to Sacramento and he is terrified beyond words, because on the plane he at last figured out what made him so good all year, and Crosby is still shrinking in the rearview, speechless in the terminal window, fifteen hundred miles away.
He does all right. The Rivercats have been gutted and nobody notices anything else, and Zito excels on novelty alone. He doesn’t have to locate the curve very well for it to be effective, not the first five times he sees a guy. So he gets by.
In Triple-A, the A’s are not the dream, they’re the enemy. Because the roster expanded, but the ‘Cats are trying to win a pennant too. It’s weird. But it’s California and that’s all that matters.
He calls Crosby but of course Crosby’s not very good on the phone. Crosby’s not even very good in person, as far as conversation goes, so what did he expect? Something else, something more, but fuck it.
Crosby leaves him brief voicemails that consist of the details of the game, and that’s it. Zito keeps thinking that that’s all he should need. A week into September, Crosby’s voice on his phone is saying: “I can make a fist again.”
Twenty-nine days in Oakland once upon a time, and now thirty in Sacramento, and Zito’s got to convince himself every morning that he can’t leave, not yet. Not again.
Then the season ends, unremarkably, with another Pacific Coast League Champions banner to hang on the outside wall of the Rivercats’ stadium, and the A’s have a six-game lead in the West and they’re pulling away. Zito doesn’t know which team he belongs to, anymore. He doesn’t care. They’ll tell him in the spring, where to go, what to do. Just like always. But the winter is before him, long and clean and perfect.
He flies to Texas and his truck is right there where he left it in long-term parking, though the back window has been shattered and the radio ripped out, torn wires hanging down like hair. He tries to call Crosby, over and over again, but Crosby’s phone is turned off. Crosby’s apartment building looks condemned, and there’s a ‘For Rent’ sticker on the window of his place.
Zito is not doing so well. He looks like he’s in withdrawal, eyes all sunk back and his face shiny. He just needs this one thing, and it’s not too much to ask. He thinks, maybe Crosby is feeling the same, and drives out to his old house, because if Crosby had left, that’s where Zito would be living until he returned.
Under the power lines, his phone loses the signal, and there’s dust in his mouth, sweat in his eyes, and what if Zito can’t find him? What if Crosby doesn’t want to be found? His hand is better now-he doesn’t need anyone.
The screen door’s been ripped off the hinges, beat all to hell on the front porch, and their footprints of a month ago have long since been blown away. Zito tries the lock but his key doesn’t work. He knocks and yells and no one comes. No one’s here. No car in the driveway, no Coors cans on the crabgrass. Zito sits down on the steps and puts his head in his hands.
And his phone buzzes, a new voicemail message. The signal’s back. Zito wipes his eyes and puts the phone to his ear and Crosby’s recorded voice says, all hoarse and staticky, “Where are you? I’m in Sacramento, but you’re not here. Man, what the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m heading south, man, meet me in Los Angeles. Come as fast as you can. We’ve got to get home.”
Zito breaks down, breaks apart, but not for too long, because he’s got a plane to catch. He’s got someone waiting.