Page 33 of Too Old for This
But the best part is the sound.
It always reminds me of my father. Whenever he and my mother got into a fight or he had a terrible day at work, he would go out to the backyard. It was just a patch of overgrown weeds and some grass, but he had set up a net in the corner. Pitched it just like a tent and attached the bottom edge to the ground. That was my dad’s makeshift batting cage.
He had just enough room to throw a baseball into the air, swing the bat, and hit the ball into the net. Over and over and over. Getting all that anger out.
I never went out there when he was using it, but I watched. I sat in the family room with my knees on the couch, elbows propped up on the windowsill, and I watched as he exhausted himself. Sometimes he did it late at night, too. I would lie in bed and listen to him hit the baseball.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
It was the same sound Gary’s head made when he fell in the shower.
—
It’s true, the phyllo tartlet shells are store-bought. But I was up at four in the morning making dozens of cheesy chicken salad tartlets for tonight. I could’ve waited until later in the day to do it, but there was no point in lying in bed, tossing and turning, so I got up and started cooking.
Glenda, in her magenta dress with the flocked flowers, doesn’t know or care about any of this. In a glance, she knows the tartlet shells are not hand-rolled.
“These look tasty,” she says. “And simple.”
“Hope you like them.”
Before walking away, I wonder how Glenda would react if she knew that I had been accused of murder. Would her mouth twist up into a pucker, like she had just sucked on a lemon? Would her eyebrows shoot so high they’d end up in the middle of her forehead?
Or maybe Glenda would refuse to look at me altogether. That would be the worst.
I tried not to let Kelsie get into my head, but she got in there anyway. Now I can’t stop imagining what would happen if she did expose me. Would I lose every friend, every acquaintance? Even my church?
Like Mr.Porter over there, who can only see out of one eye and has to get a ride everywhere. If he knew about me, would he turn down a ride if I offered? And what about Dorie, whoalways has a kind word for everyone, no matter how obnoxious or offensive they may be? Would I be her breaking point? Would she give me the silent treatment?
I bet she would.
It wouldn’t just be my life, either. Archie’s would be torn apart as well. The media would try to get to him the same way they’d try to get to me. All those podcasters and reporters and influencers are always looking for something new.
Would it be as bad as before?
No. Yes.
Worse, probably. When everybody has a camera in their pocket, anyone can be the villain. All it takes is the right angle.
Sheila waves to me from our regular table, halting my mental spiral. She smiles as I walk over, having no idea who her friend really is. Before I can ask what she brought tonight, she asks if I’ve heard from Bonnie.
“No, why?”
“I got a text from her an hour ago. There’s some problem with Danielle. Bonnie has to babysit her kids.”
Is it weird Bonnie texted Sheila but not me?
I stop myself from answering that question. Paranoia won’t help anything.
“Danielle has three kids now, right?” I say. “With two different fathers?” Bonnie had Danielle later in life, so she’s maybe around thirty. And her children are very young.
“Baby daddies,” Sheila says. “That’s what they’re called now.”
I cannot possibly be expected to keep up with whatever words are popular today. It’s hard enough to maintain the vocabulary I have.
