Page 53 of Curveball
This news doesn’t shock me. She’s given away tiny clues, probably without intention. I drop to a lounger and pull her down beside me. She struggles, tries to stand, and I tug her back down.
“Tell me about your ex, and what his father wants,” I say, because I need to hear it from her.
And Palmer fuckingunloads.
“Do you remember the year the Comets won the championship and played Boston in the Fall Classic?”
“Palmer,” I say in a warning tone. I’m done with games.
“Please. You know when I’m talking about?”
“Stretching my memory, but sure.”
Facing straight ahead as though she can’t force herself to look me in the eye, she nods, one curt, satisfied bob of her head.
“Right about that time, there was a court case in California—securities fraud, money laundering, a host of lesser accusations.”
“I remember that. The press called the guy Baby Bernie. It was huge.”
“Yeah, itwashuge. The guy’s name was Alejandro Lopez, Junior. Alex. He was my husband.”
Of all the situations she could have revealed, this is the comebacker. The line drive hit directly toward me—only, this time, I am distracted and unable to dodge it or stick out my glove. This ball lands in my gut and nearly knocks the air from my lungs.
I slide a foot or so away from her and take a moment—to breathe, to think. I’m going to need a lot more space and a lot more time, but that will have to wait. When my lungs are no longer on fire, I take a deep gulp and prompt her to continue the story.
“And where is he now. Alex. Is he?—”
“In prison. He’s been there since Dylan was five. He barely remembers him.”
“And this mess”—I wave my hand vaguely, to indicate the entire fucking thing—the article in my phone, my practice yard that may never feel safe again—“This is his father?”
She nods, her eyes closed, her head tilted back. “He wants Dylan.”
Whatever air I’ve managed to recapture leaves my lungs in awhoosh. I pinch the bridge of my nose, because why the fuck not? I can’t breathe anyway.
“It’s something like a custody battle with my father-in-law, except . . . it’s more. It’s harassment. It’s threats, and extortion.”
She lifts one shoulder in a weak measure of something like defeat. This woman who argues and fightsand cares forher son and those she holds dear, and she’s at the end of her rope. There’s got to be a knot she can hold on to.
“But you contacted the authorities? The police, the fucking feds? Can they help?Will they?”
There’s no teasing in her bleak French roast-colored eyes when she finally faces me.
“He lost everything to Alex, but now he has money again. His business is doing well so he has some clout, and he has influential friends. He won’t let up.
“He says I’m a terrible mother. I can’t give my son the life we had in California, and he’ll never stop bothering me because he’s certain I must be waiting for Alex. In his mind, I want our old life again—the big house and garage full of cars we had when we were married—and to be a family with him.”
I lean forward, prop my forearms on my knees, and stare at the flagstone between my feet. I don’t want to see her face when she answers.
“Do you?”
“No!”
She shouts her answer, and the word is swift and certain, full of fire and conviction. I can’t doubt her.
“No,” she says again, and the relief flowing through me is overwhelming.
“What if you ghost him? Can you simply not take his calls, send him to voicemail and use those as evidence with the authorities? Hell, I don’t know, but you have to have some kind of recourse.”
