Out of Left Field Read Online Free Page A

Maybe this Patrick, Junior was born after he came home? Maybe Pat found out before he died—and that’s why he revised his will?”
    “That’s a lot of maybes.” I feel tired, like after a swim meet, when you ache inside your bones. I struggle to my feet. “Sleuthing” with my aunt doesn’t appeal. I hold up the Lone Ranger photo. “Could I borrow this?”
    “No problem. Keep it as long as you like. Read the letters at home, when you’re not so tired.” She gives me a half laugh. “Who am I fooling? Grief is exhausting. You notice?”
    “Yeah.” The thought of my bed is suddenly appealing.
    Aunt Cora stows everything in the shoebox. “Take good care of this stuff. They’re all I have left from that time in our lives.”
    And what do I have? Dad’s beat-up baseball cap and his Sox jacket, too tight across my shoulders. His prize possession: the Jackie Robinson baseball card. Some photos. His favorite songs. A jumbled bag of memories. The sound of his voice on the answering machine—which Mom says we need to erase soon. Sometimes, I can hardly remember his face. That scares me.
    “One suggestion,” Aunt Cora says. “Read a few at a time. They’re like raw oysters—you can’t eat too many at once.”
    “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I hate oysters.”

Second Inning
    Letter of December 5, 1969
    Dear Cora,
    When you get this, I’ll be over the border. I’ll lose my nerve if I say goodbye in person.
    I used to think it was sweet, being born on Valentine’s Day. Who knew that the Day of Love would end up as Numero 4 in the Draft Lottery? My induction notice will come any day.
    Dad says I’m a coward. Too bad. I can’t fight in this rotten war. If I were a better Catholic, maybe Father Finnegan would help me get CO status—but the government’s cracking down. No more grad school deferments.
    Dad told me to join the National Guard. He doesn’t get it. The lines for those slots are endless. You have to know the right people. Anyway, the Guard supports the war.
    Tell Ma not to worry. There’s a whole network up there. I’ve got phone numbers. Can’t say where I am or where I’m headed, except it’s cold as hell.
    Hope you like the Polaroid. Dad will be happy I finally cut my hair. Thought I should be presentable at Customs.
    Any chance you could take Bandit? Greg will keep him for a while, but his girlfriend hates cats. And Bandit likes you. Sorry to miss your play next week. You’ll be great. I’ll be there in spirit. You’re the best.
    Love, Pat
    *
    Letter of December 21, 1969
    Dear Cora,
    I’m safe. Good folks here. They run a store called the Yellow Ford Truck. Hippie gear, beads, long skirts—your kind of place. Tell Ma I have a warm bed and a place to eat Christmas dinner. It will be strange without you. I don’t dare call but I’ll be thinking about you.
    Did you pick up Bandit? I can’t stop thinking about that cat. It made me feel like a grownup, choosing my own pet for my first apartment. Scratch his chin for me. And PLEASE WRITE to the P.O. Box above!
    Love, Pat
    *
    Letter of February 2, 1970
    Dear Cor—
    Happy Groundhog Day! I don’t think they celebrate that up here. Too many months until spring.
    Sorry I haven’t written. Things are looking up. I’m in Montreal. I came after Christmas to get a degree in social work. The school will take my BC credits. I start classes this summer. Meantime, I’m working in a home for disturbed boys. (And no, I’m not a patient, although Dad thinks I’m off my rocker.) The job will help me get legal here.
    I met this great guy Ray, who needed a roommate. Here’s a photo of the two of us. (Ray’s situation is complicated, so keep the photo to yourself.)
    I owe you one for adopting Bandit. Maybe his crooked ear will win Ma over. Meanwhile, the old U.S. of A. looks strange from this side of the border. And it’s lonesome here. Come visit. We could go to the Shakespeare festival in Ontario, eh? (I’m ‘talking Canadian’ now.)
    I