Mohawk

him of it.”
    “And that prevents him from being a true son of yours.”
    “I guess not,” Price admitted, grinning suddenly at his own seriousness. “But sidearm is a tough way to go through life. I’d spare him if I could.”
    “Did it ever occur to you that he might end up a lawyer?”
    “There are sidearmed lawyers, too. The majority, come to think of it.”
    “You have the soul of a satirist.”
    “Bullshit,” he said. “I have the soul of a third baseman.”
    August came and went. In the middle of September Price took a job as a bartender in a Manhattan hotel where he’d worked several off-seasons. But as the WorldSeries approached, he became increasingly morose, and in the end he refused to watch. They spoke no more about marriage, and each seemed to fear that the other would bring the subject up, if only to clear the air. Their work schedules didn’t mesh and they spent fewer evenings together. At times Price seemed more interested in the boy.
    In February he got a call from the Met organization. They wanted to know if he’d thought about the possibility of becoming an advance scout. He said he’d get back to them.
    “Why not?” Anne said.
    “Because I’ve got another year in me, maybe two. I wasn’t in shape last spring, thanks to all the screwing around. I’ll be ready this time. I feel good.”
    He was running and was up to two hundred situps a day. There was blood on his shorts from the floor’s friction on his tailbone. He’d made some calls and two teams had promised him a look. “Jesus Christ,” somebody said. “I thought you’d hung it up.”
    Then something happened. The morning before he was supposed to go to Florida, he came by early to take Anne out to breakfast. The “Today Show” was on, and Price stopped to watch a segment on spring training. A nice-looking young black boy, all of seventeen, was interviewed at length. Price watched it all, then suggested to hell with breakfast. They made love and right from the bed Price called the front office and accepted the scouting job.
    Then he was gone. Perhaps because she didn’t see him for weeks at a time, Anne noticed the change each time he came home. He put on weight, especially in the face, and his hard, battlescarred body began to look soft. When he was in New York, he worked with Randallevery day. The boy was determined to try out for Little League. He seemed not to have extraordinary talent, but Price said talent wasn’t the issue, was never the issue. One afternoon he brought Randall back to Anne’s apartment with a broken nose that had swollen so badly that his eyes were mere slits. Price himself was white-faced, but he pushed the boy roughly toward the sink. “Stop crying,” he said. “It was just a bad hop. Life is full of ’em.”
    Anne wet a washcloth and gently bathed Randall’s bloddy chin and lips. Both eyes would blacken, that much she could tell. In a few minutes the boy was quiet, the pain reduced to throbbing numbness. Price poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down as if he would have gone right to the floor if the chair hadn’t been there. “What happened?” Anne said finally.
    Price needed only to look at her to know that the question was an accusation. “Like I said, a bad hop.” He looked down at the linoleum.
    “You hit it too hard,” Randall said dully.
    “Is that what you’re going to tell the batter,” Price asked. “Don’t be a baby.”
    The baseball lay on the table between them. Randall picked it up and hurled it as hard as he could. Though he was only ten years old, they were within six feet of each other and the ball caught Price below the cheekbone. The surprise sent him over backwards in the chair and onto the kitchen floor. He started to rub the throbbing spot on his cheek, then caught himself. Before Anne could get between them, Price, his face distorted, dragged the boy from where he sat and pounced, his knees pinning Randall to the kitchen tile. For an instant Anne thought he was actually going to hit the boy with his raised fist. But then the fist went to his cheek andhe rolled off Randall as if someone had snatched him from behind. He crawled all the way to the corner on his hands and knees and began to sob. Randall stood up his hands clenched as if he expected another attack. Anne went to him, but he pushed her away. This was between him and Price, and the expression of hopeless defiance on the boy’s face terrified her—so black, so unconscious of pain,