smile widened.
Keep it up, baby brother and I’ll give you a wedgie. This whole thing didn’t feel right, it was like a boat listing and it would keep on till it capsized. But Chuck was sick of things not feeling right. He had to get over what he couldn’t change, namely the past. Now was as good a time as any. Grit your teeth and just do it, pal.
A Native American-style artwork—beads and feathers on a buff backdrop—hung on one wall, right over a small entertainment center with a TV, receiver, and set of small speakers. He remembered an old joke about Indians without electricity, having to watch TV by firelight. The joke did not make him smile. For some reason he felt the juxtaposition of the two images was just not right. Things were together that shouldn’t be.
Or maybe he was just nervous. Standing outside Wendy’s door, only a few short minutes ago, he felt like he was sixteen and going out for the first time with a pretty girl, hoping he wouldn’t come off like a doofus with pimples and non-matching socks.
Now, inside, seated, he was still trying to work himself into fitting here, being comfortable. He knew it was the knife guy and the fire and the stirring up of his bruised and battered psyche, but come on! He couldn’t let things outside him dictate his every move forever.
Wendy had music going from an iPod in a dock. Somebody that sounded like Nat King Cole was singing. And then Chuck reminded himself that no one sounded like Nat King Cole except Nat King Cole. He smiled at last.
On the coffee table was the big book Baseball, from the Ken Burns documentary. Chuck and Stan loved it when it first appeared, watching it together while eating popcorn and peanuts and even hot dogs. “You a baseball fan?” Chuck said toward the kitchen.
“Totally,” Wendy said.
“Me, too,” Stan said. “I’m Stan the Man.”
Wendy appeared at the pass through. “That was Stan Musial’s nickname.”
“Yes!” Stan said.
“One of the greats,” Wendy said.
“You know about Musial?” Chuck said.
“My grampa is a die-hard Cardinals fan. He told me so many Stan the Man stories I began to think he came from Mount Olympus.”
“No!” Stan said. “Donora, Pennsylvania. Born November 21, 1920. Stanislaw Franciszek Musial. Career batting average .331. Hit total, three thousand, six hundred and thirty. Four hundred and seventy-five career home runs.”
“Wow!” Wendy said.
“Ask me about Dizzy Dean,” Stan said.
Chuck put a hand on his brother’s arm. “Maybe after dinner—”
“Real name Jerome Herman Dean, or Jay Hanna Dean. Career Earned Run Average 3.02. Win-loss—”
“Thank you, Stan,” Chuck said, squeezing the arm.
“Ow,” Stan said. He took his arm back and rubbed it.
“I’ll ask you more later, Stan,” Wendy said. “You’re amazing.” She went back to the kitchen.
“I’m amazing,” Stan whispered hard, in firm rebuke.
“So true,” Chuck said.
“She likes you.”
“Slow down, Stan the Man.”
“I’ll look away and you can kiss her.”
“Almost ready,” Wendy called from the kitchen.
“See?” Stan said.
“She meant the dinner,” Chuck said.
Stan punched Chuck’s shoulder, with a little extra oomph than usual. “I was just joking you. You think I’m stupid or something?”
What was no joke was the paella de marisco. In presentation and aroma and, most important, taste. As they all finally sat around the table, Chuck lifted his wine glass. “Here’s to baseball, fine food, and good company.”
Wendy smiled and joined the toast, as did Stan with his preferred drink, 7-Up.
Then Stan said, “Do the knife trick.”
“What’s that?” Wendy said.
“Nothing,” Chuck said.
“Chuck does magic!”
“ Did magic,” Chuck said. “A long time ago.”
“Oh please,” said Wendy. “Do it.”
He did not want to do it. He did not want to do any of those little magic tricks he’d done as a kid, then for awhile at a bar during the summer after
Keep it up, baby brother and I’ll give you a wedgie. This whole thing didn’t feel right, it was like a boat listing and it would keep on till it capsized. But Chuck was sick of things not feeling right. He had to get over what he couldn’t change, namely the past. Now was as good a time as any. Grit your teeth and just do it, pal.
A Native American-style artwork—beads and feathers on a buff backdrop—hung on one wall, right over a small entertainment center with a TV, receiver, and set of small speakers. He remembered an old joke about Indians without electricity, having to watch TV by firelight. The joke did not make him smile. For some reason he felt the juxtaposition of the two images was just not right. Things were together that shouldn’t be.
Or maybe he was just nervous. Standing outside Wendy’s door, only a few short minutes ago, he felt like he was sixteen and going out for the first time with a pretty girl, hoping he wouldn’t come off like a doofus with pimples and non-matching socks.
Now, inside, seated, he was still trying to work himself into fitting here, being comfortable. He knew it was the knife guy and the fire and the stirring up of his bruised and battered psyche, but come on! He couldn’t let things outside him dictate his every move forever.
Wendy had music going from an iPod in a dock. Somebody that sounded like Nat King Cole was singing. And then Chuck reminded himself that no one sounded like Nat King Cole except Nat King Cole. He smiled at last.
On the coffee table was the big book Baseball, from the Ken Burns documentary. Chuck and Stan loved it when it first appeared, watching it together while eating popcorn and peanuts and even hot dogs. “You a baseball fan?” Chuck said toward the kitchen.
“Totally,” Wendy said.
“Me, too,” Stan said. “I’m Stan the Man.”
Wendy appeared at the pass through. “That was Stan Musial’s nickname.”
“Yes!” Stan said.
“One of the greats,” Wendy said.
“You know about Musial?” Chuck said.
“My grampa is a die-hard Cardinals fan. He told me so many Stan the Man stories I began to think he came from Mount Olympus.”
“No!” Stan said. “Donora, Pennsylvania. Born November 21, 1920. Stanislaw Franciszek Musial. Career batting average .331. Hit total, three thousand, six hundred and thirty. Four hundred and seventy-five career home runs.”
“Wow!” Wendy said.
“Ask me about Dizzy Dean,” Stan said.
Chuck put a hand on his brother’s arm. “Maybe after dinner—”
“Real name Jerome Herman Dean, or Jay Hanna Dean. Career Earned Run Average 3.02. Win-loss—”
“Thank you, Stan,” Chuck said, squeezing the arm.
“Ow,” Stan said. He took his arm back and rubbed it.
“I’ll ask you more later, Stan,” Wendy said. “You’re amazing.” She went back to the kitchen.
“I’m amazing,” Stan whispered hard, in firm rebuke.
“So true,” Chuck said.
“She likes you.”
“Slow down, Stan the Man.”
“I’ll look away and you can kiss her.”
“Almost ready,” Wendy called from the kitchen.
“See?” Stan said.
“She meant the dinner,” Chuck said.
Stan punched Chuck’s shoulder, with a little extra oomph than usual. “I was just joking you. You think I’m stupid or something?”
What was no joke was the paella de marisco. In presentation and aroma and, most important, taste. As they all finally sat around the table, Chuck lifted his wine glass. “Here’s to baseball, fine food, and good company.”
Wendy smiled and joined the toast, as did Stan with his preferred drink, 7-Up.
Then Stan said, “Do the knife trick.”
“What’s that?” Wendy said.
“Nothing,” Chuck said.
“Chuck does magic!”
“ Did magic,” Chuck said. “A long time ago.”
“Oh please,” said Wendy. “Do it.”
He did not want to do it. He did not want to do any of those little magic tricks he’d done as a kid, then for awhile at a bar during the summer after
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