Returning to Normal (Locked Out) Read online

  Tio laughs and mumbles something foul out of the side of his mouth about Coach Baldwin.

  “Knock it off, Tio,” I say. Tio gives me a hard look but walks back to his buddies. Funny, he’s cracking on me for wearing a uniform when he and his banger buddies all look alike, dressed the same from head to tat to toe. “Come on, Marcus, let’s get ready to blow smoke,” I say as I head to the bus.

  As we climb on, Marcus says, “You know going to Eliot don’t make you tough.”

  “What does it make me?” I ask.

  “It means you got caught,” he says. “It either makes you stupid or a lousy criminal.”

  9.

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 7 / LATE AFTERNOON EAST BOSTON HIGH SCHOOL BASEBALL FIELD

  “Xavier, you just need one more out.” My catcher, Ryan, pats my butt to fire me up, but I don’t need any more motivation than a simple glance at the stands behind our bench. There’s a few moms, a few girlfriends, and a grandpa or two, but no fathers. There’s nothing like dead-beat dads to inspire us to be better.

  “I got this.” I pound the ball hard into my glove. First guy took strike three for the KO, and the second hit a weak grounder to me. I personally tagged him out. We’re ahead 4–1, and it’s the bottom of their lineup. Mark up a W for the Townies and an SV for the X-man.

  The opposing catcher waddles to the plate. He looks like he’s spent more time pigging out at Hong Kong Buffet than squatting behind the plate. Still, he’s got power, hitting two long doubles in the game. Ryan puts down the sign. Fastball, strike one.

  He fouls off another pitch that’s fast but high, and then he lets one go that’s faster, but too low. Ryan calls for a splitter, which I learned last summer at a baseball camp that Mr. Baldwin paid for. It’s a hard pitch to control, but I snap my wrist tight, and he fights it off—foul.

  “I thought you threw hard,” the fat batter shouts. “My grandma throws harder than you.”

  I yell back about his mom, and he yells trash about my mom and dad. I’m steaming now; he’s going to get burned. Ryan calls for a change, which is the right pitch. I shake him off and hurl smoke, high, inside—at the guy’s head. He hits the dirt like a two hundred pound turd.

  In an instant, we’re both halfway between the mound and the plate. I hear Coach yelling, “Cool it!” but I don’t care. I’m too pissed about what I didn’t hear: my dad yelling from the crowd, “Come on, son, strike this guy out!”

  I get the KO, except this time it’s a knockout, not the box score. It’s going to be hard for him to talk trash again with a busted-up mouth. Coach Baldwin pulls me off the guy. The ump ejects me and then I’m in his face, cursing him out. I’m ready to cold cock the ump when Coach Baldwin wraps his arms around me. Coach gets the save this game, not me.

  10.

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 7 / LATE AFTERNOON CHARLESTOWN HIGH SCHOOL TEAM BUS

  “Xavier, what was that?” Coach Baldwin leans into me. He’s got me sitting alone at the front of the bus like I’m in solitary in prison. That was when I lost touch with Dad in fifth grade, when he did three months in the hole.

  “I own the inside of the plate,” I tell Coach. He doesn’t seem convinced that I made a baseball related decision and not just another angry, impulsive move.

  “You’re sitting the first game on Saturday,” he says. “Think about what you did.”

  I act all remorseful when he walks away. Soon as he’s out of sight, I pull out my phone and text Jennie. We go back and forth, pretty hot and heavy. But I hide the phone when I hear somebody coming toward the front of the bus. The rest of the team is steaming mad at me. Normally the rule is we can be on our phones after a win, but Coach is punishing the whole team for me getting ejected. “X-man, what the hell was that?” Marcus whispers from behind.

  “Nobody talks trash about my family,” I whisper back.

  “Except you,” he replies, and I stifle a laugh. He goes back to join the team. It gets pretty loud and I hear Coach join in the conversation, so I pull my phone out, dip my head and call home. When there’s no answer, I try Mom’s cell. It goes to voice mail. I text Jennie again about when we can hook up next, but then a call comes in from Mom. I sink deeper in the seat.

  “We’re on the bus back. Is Dad home?” I whisper, even though I feel like screaming.

  “No, not tonight, Xavier.”

  “Where is he?”

  There’s a pause. A long pause. “Out.”

  “You picking me up from school or do I gotta take the T?”

  Another long pause. It’s like I’m calling the moon instead of Charlestown. “The T.”

  “What’s going on, Mom?” There’s no answer.

  “I’ll see you soon, Xavier.”

  Then my phone shows the call ended. I bury the phone and my anger in my pocket and look out the window at all the people in Boston who should be happy that they’re not me.

  11.

  THURSDAY, MAY 8 / EVENING CHARLESTOWN APARTMENTS

  “Xavier, is that you?” Mom asks, like she doesn’t know. Who else is going to be walking in our door?

  I throw my bag, bat, glove, and spikes by the front door. “Is Dad avoiding me?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer as I breeze past her like a fastball. I grab leftover Chinese food, which wasn’t here this morning, from the fridge and open it up. “That’s your dad’s food,” Mom says.

  I close the sweet-and-sour-smelling carton and put it back. “Then where is he?”

  “Out.” Is that going to be her answer every time I ask?

  Instead of Chinese, I make myself two bologna sandwiches. Mom and I don’t talk while I slap some bread and deli meat together. Finally, just as I take a bite, she starts. “Xavier, you have to understand, for ten years he’s been locked up, not able to come and go as he pleases. Having to eat whatever food they served, always having to answer to someone. Give him a few days.”

  I nod. It makes sense. “I have a game Saturday, a double header at Cambridge. I won’t pitch in the first game.” I don’t tell her why. “But probably will in the second. It’s Saturday, so you two could—”

  Mom’s lips tighten. If I don’t ask them to come, they can’t say no. She answers by cleaning the already clean kitchen. I chew, text Jennie, and stare at the door. It doesn’t open. I tell Jennie to meet me at the Fenway T station in an hour. “I’m leaving.”

  “You just got home.” Mom breaks her silence routine. “Don’t you have homework?”

  I answer by leaving the table, and fixing to meet Jennie. I get myself sharp, smelling fine, and ready to roll. Mom’s standing by the front door, arms crossed and frown unmatched.

  “Xavier, I’m sure your father will be home soon. You should wait for him, please.”

  I turn my Townie cap backwards so I can get closer to her face. I can smell that she’s sneaking smokes. “You need to stay here,” she says as I walk past her. “Where are you going?”

  Just before I slam the door loud enough to wake the dead, I hiss one word. “Out.”

  12.

  FRIDAY, MAY 9 / MORNING CHARLESTOWN APARTMENTS

  “Xavier, here’s your coffee.” Mom puts the cup on the table. I open up a breakfast bar and go to throw the wrapper away. I jam it in the now-empty Chinese food carton on top.

  “Where were you last night?”

  I rolled in around three again; their door was shut again. I ignore the question by putting in my earbuds. I see my bag’s still by the front door, so I open it, pull out my math book and notebook, click the calc app on my phone, and act all studious at the kitchen table.

  “You can’t just come and go like you please.”

  I turn the music up louder.

  “There will be consequences,” I think she says. I’m trying to lose myself in the rhymes so I don’t have to hear her telling me what I can and can’t do. “Xavier, listen to me!”

  She pulls the bud out of my right ear, but I put it back in. We do this dance a couple times before I let her know with a cutting, cold stare
that I’m done with it. And her.

  The buds go back in my ears as she walks away. I struggle through the first problem—like I need to know any of this stuff. So I close the book and I’m looking up scores when I feel mom’s hand on my back. I almost jump, ’cause I don’t like nobody touching me like that.

  “What the f—” I start when the touch turns into a heavy hand. I turn around, and there’s Dad standing behind me, all six-foot-three of him. When I hug him, it’s clear he’s still got some height on me.

  He doesn’t say a word or make a sound. I have to sniff loudly to hold the snot in as my eyes suddenly well up.

  “Stop crying like a baby!” Dad lets go of the hug. “Your mom told me ’bout you leaving when she told you to stay last night. You disobey me, little man, and I’ll knock you across the room. You get me?”

  He doesn’t need to hit me—his tone just slapped the taste out of my mouth.

  “I said, you get me?” His voice is different than I recall, like he swallowed sandpaper.

  “I get you,” I mumble.

  “I get you, sir,” he says. I nod and for the first time in ten-plus years, I see Dad’s smile.

  13.

  FRIDAY, MAY 9 / EVENING HONG KONG BUFFET

  “Xavier, get me more crab legs!” Dad yells as I start toward the buffet line again. Mom looks happy to see him enjoying it all. For a lean guy, my dad can sure put away the Chinese food. He’s on his fourth plate and fifth beer.

  I don’t remember Dad drinking this much before, but then again, I don’t remember much about him. What I do remember, I get confused with my dreams and nightmares.

  The line for crab legs is long, but I manage to get the last four. I pile more eggs rolls on another plate and head back to the table. Dad’s talking to the waiter. Make that six beers.

  Dad takes the plate. He doesn’t offer the legs. “Sorry ’bout the game. I got busy.”

  “With what?” I ask. Mostly Dad’s been asking us about people he used to know.

  “You want a list, little man?” Dad cracks one of the claws. Juice flies across the table. “You my probation officer? I got to answer to you and to him and your mom. I just spent ten years explaining every move I make.” He dips the meat in the butter and lets it rest for long time.

  “Xavier, what your father means is that—” Mom cuts off as Dad fixes her with a stare.

  “I don’t need no translation service to talk to my son.” He swallows the buttery meat. “I got to get a job, for starters. Then …” It’s a symphony of cracking claws, gulps from a Bud bottle, and a bitter list of complaints. Pretty soon I’m sorry I asked; now he won’t shut up.

  “I understand,” I say when he takes a breath to flag down the waiter for a seventh beer. “It’s a long season. You’ll get to a game.”

  “You any good?”

  I nod.

  “I never had time for no sports and such, too busy on the hustle.” Dad tells war stories from back in the day without an ounce of regret in his voice. In his old letters, he talked about turning his life around, and I guessed I believed him. But back then I believed in Santa too.

  14.

  SATURDAY, MAY 10 / MORNING GOODWILL

  “Xavier, how you think I look?” Dad asks. We’re at Goodwill buying him a suit for job interviews. Nothing seems to fit right. Like me, Dad’s too tall and too skinny.

  “Sharp,” I say, mostly because I want to get out of here so I don’t miss the team bus. I haven’t asked Dad if he’s coming to either of the games. “How about the blue one?”

  “I ain’t never wearing blue again,” Dad says, laughs. It’s a forced laugh, almost like he forgot how or something. “That’s the only color I wore for ten years inside.”

  I nod and smile, but I’m not interested in hearing more about how tough it was for him on the inside, like anything I went through on the outside don’t matter.

  “Let’s get me this suit,” Dad says, motioning to the gray one he has on. “Then go start looking for jobs and get my PO off my back,” he says.

  Another nod. I’ve heard him on the phone talking to his probation officer. Dad already told his PO that he was looking for work. I wonder if lying to a PO is violating probation.

  “I worked in the laundry first couple years, then the kitchen …” And it’s prison story time again. I steal a glance at my phone, but Dad sees and he’s not happy with it.

  “What you doing with that? Seems like everybody’s looking in their hands more than looking people in the eyes,” Dad says. “Back in the day, when someone was talking to you, teaching you something, you’d look them in the eye and say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’ But I guess it ain’t that way no more.”

  “You trying to teach me how to cook oatmeal in prison?” I laugh; he doesn’t.

  “You got quite the mouth on you, little man,” Dad says. I really wish he’d call me something other than “little man” since it implies he’s a bigger man. “Come here!”

  I pull myself off the chair and do as I’m told. He’s got me standing next to him, looking into the mirror. He presses down the collar on the gray suit. “What you teaching me then?” I ask.

  Dad turns from the mirror to look me in the eye. “Teaching you what not to do with your life.”

  15.

  SATURDAY, MAY 10 / LATE AFTERNOON CAMBRIDGE HIGH SCHOOL BASEBALL FIELD

  “Xavier, you’re not concentrating!’ Coach Baldwin is all flies on crap over me. He stands next to me on the sidelines as I warm up before the second game of our double header.

  “I’m out of my groove.” Jennie and friends are in the stands. Mom and Dad are not.

  “Your grades at school aren’t up to snuff, and not everybody wants you to play ball.”

  I don’t ask, but I know Williams has an F next to my name.

  “Is everything okay at home? Is something bothering you?” Coach asks.

  I let it pass and attempt a confident stare. “I got this, Coach.”

  He shakes his head and jingles the keys in his pocket of his windbreaker. “Maybe I put too much on you, trying to make you a closer. I thought you were mature enough to handle—”

  “You calling me a baby?” I shout. “I’m a grown-ass man, if you haven’t noticed!”

  “Lower your voice, Xavier.” He goes to put his hand on my shoulder, but I move back.

  I bang my left fist hard into my glove. The smack of the leather is one sweet sound. But Coach has had enough.

  “Go grab some bench! When you’re ready to listen and learn, we’ll talk.” Coach points at the dugout, but I don’t move a muscle. I feel all tensed up like just before a 3-and-2 pitch.

  “I won’t tell you again.” Don’t he know by now that I take suggestions, not orders?

  “I know you won’t.” I circle my left arm like I was getting it loose before a pitch.

  He’s in my face now, not a place anybody ever should be when I’m hot like this. Sometimes it’s like the faucet broke and there’s no way to stop the hot water from pouring out.

  “Unless you want to get kicked off this team, you’ll do what I say. You understand?”

  I slip the glove off my right hand and crack my knuckles. Coach is talking at me, but it’s as if I had my buds in my ears and I don’t hear a word until he yells my name again. The sound that follows is a sour smack as I drop him like a bad habit with a right to the jaw.

  16.

  MONDAY, MAY 12 / MORNING ELIOT JUVENILE DETENTION CENTER GYM

  “Xavier, you going to play or what?”

  I hold up my taped-up right hand to show the Eliot JDC gym teacher, Mr. G. At least it wasn’t broken.

  “Then run some laps, you can’t just stand there!” Mr. G shouts.

  “A’right, Mr. G.” Typical Eliot garbage—if you’re doing nothing, they yell at you to do something, then the other half of the time, they’re yelling at you to stop doing something. We’d rather I was at school. By “we” I mean Mom, me, and the court appoint. Dad still don’t seem to c
are where I am, long as it’s not in his way.

  I start jogging nice and slow. This little guy with mean blue eyes and more tats than anybody that young should have runs beside me. “You not playing ball?” I ask the short guy.

  “Nobody here can handle my game,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not. Mr. G. yells at us to stop talking and run faster, so we half obey and pick up the pace. I ask him what he’s in here for, and he starts telling stories way worse than I got. “How about you?” he asks.

  “I punched out one of my teachers,” I tell him. He doesn’t look impressed, but since he’s facing a weapons charge that don’t surprise me none. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen with me. Just got to get back to the pitcher’s mound.”

  “It’s all about if they think you’re a risk or not,” he says. “If you’ve done time before, how serious the charge, how many times you lied to the judge, even if your old man did time.”

  “Really, about your father?” I whisper since we’re passing Mr. G. “Why’s that?”

  “That’s what a CO told me,” he says. “He says kids of criminals are a higher risk.”

  I run away fast as I can from the little guy with the big mouth. I work up a sweat, so I get permission to duck into the bathroom. I run cold water over my hot face and look in the smudged mirror. I take off my gray overshirt, the color of my dad’s interview suit that hasn’t landed him a job, and stare at the blue undershirt, just like dad’s old prison uniform. Like father, like son.

  17.

  THURSDAY, MAY 29 / MORNING ELIOT JUVENILE DETENTION CENTER LOBBY

  “Xavier, you got everything?” Mom asks as I walk out the double-lock door at Eliot. Not that I’m going free right away. They’re gonna shackle me with an ankle bracelet like a slave.

  I don’t ask about why Dad ain’t there. I didn’t ask why he didn’t visit me at Eliot. She drives me to school. “You’re lucky they took you back. Thank Mr. Baldwin.”