Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum Page B

lands in Halifax, Joni is singing Cary, get out your cane , and Dad’s letters to Cora are short. The Canadian version of Dad sounds like the guy I knew—working in a group home for boys, running a private practice—except that he was homesick, and worried about his own father, who was dying.
    Of what? Heart disease?
    I jot down a few questions: Ask Aunt Cora re Granddad’s death . And: Where did Dad meet girlfriend? Did Cora know about her? Dad doesn’t say much about his parents—except, in one early letter, he writes:
    Cora, it stinks that the FBI came snooping. Sorry you were there alone. I’m sure you handled it okay—but don’t ever let them in unless Mom and Dad are home.
    The FBI was looking for Dad? Did that mean my grandparents were in trouble, too? If only I could call Dad at work, ask him what the hell was going on.
    As the years pass, Dad’s messages dwindle to birthday cards. I do the math: my aunt would have been in college then. Maybe, since Dad had a steady job, they were talking on the phone more—or she stopped saving his letters—or both. At the bottom of the pile I find an actual Western Union telegram (now that is ancient history), addressed to my aunt in New York City, and dated February 2, 1977. The telegram is in capital letters, as if Dad was shouting:
    HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY STOP COMING HOME FRIDAY STOP WARN MOM AND DAD STOP LOVE PAT STOP
    The buzzer sounds as I close up the box. Marty. He trudges up the two flights and collapses on the couch, out of breath. “Perfect timing,” I tell him. “I could use your skills. What’s up?”
    “Killer practice,” he says when he can talk. “Coach put Tarcher in your spot, told us you can’t swim for health reasons. I thought you were okay.”
    “Hope so. The doc said no practice until the blood tests come back clean; another day or two. Coach is following the rules. He said I’d have to work my way back from the bench. I’d rather quit.”
    Marty sits up straight. “You serious ?”
    I glance at my watch. “I’ll do what I need to do. Listen, Mart—Mom will be home soon. I have to phone Ray in Canada, tell him the situation is urgent. You can give me moral support.”
    “Hold it. You can’t leave the team. You’re the one who persuaded me to join—remember?”
    “Sure. That’s because I knew you’d be a star; better than I could ever be. Now can we call this guy?”
    He shrugs, starts to say something, clams up.
    “What?”
    “I’m sorry about your dad; believe me. But you can’t give up. You said yourself: I forget everything when I train . And we swim together. Who will I hang out with?”
    “Tarcher, Bromley. They’re okay.” Now I’m pissed. “Look: you know I’m sluggish in the pool these days. And since I found out about this possible brother, nothing makes me forget. I gotta solve this thing. You with me, or not?”
    “I guess.” He fidgets, then gives me a long look. “You’re not a quitter, man.”
    “Right. That’s why I need to make this call.” I pick up the portable phone. Marty hesitates, then follows me down the hall.
    I close the door. “Sorry to let you down.” When he doesn’t answer, I study the number. “This is weird. What’ll I say?”
    “Tell him who you are, why you’re calling. What have you got to lose?”
    “Not much, since Dad’s dead. Hey, want to try? You’re better at cold calls.”
    “It’s your deal.”
    “Right.” I punch in the number. Six rings, seven. The answering machine comes on, a man’s voice. I’m about to quit when a woman answers. “Yes?” She sounds annoyed.
    I swallow. Marty kicks my foot. “Is Ray—is Mr. Graham there?” God, I sound stupid.
    “We’re having dinner,” she says.
    “I’m sorry.” I check my watch. Dinner at 5:30? “I can call back.” And then, because Marty nudges me again, I tell her, “It’s important.”
    A man’s deep voice rumbles in the background. “Find out who it is.”
    The woman’s words are muffled. She