Montana the next day. He shoved the few things he had of Rafe’s into a garbage bag — his small plastic tricycle, stuffed animals, picture books, water colors, a miniature golf set and some plastic trucks — and set them by the curb. The only things he took to remind him of Rafe were some photographs.
His whole life he had looked forward to playing professional ball, but when it finally happened, he couldn’t enjoy it. He spent the entire summer missing his son — his smell, his feel, his laugh, his walk, the sound of his voice when he said “Daddy,” the way Rafe followed him around the apartment as he put away laundry or got dinner ready. No matter what town he was in — Idaho Falls or Great Falls, Butte or Helena — when he passed playgrounds with their mazes of ladders and slides he imagined Rafe scampering to the top of a jungle gym or arcing into the sky on a swing. At night, lying awake in swayback beds in the cheap cowboy hotels where the Mustangs stayed on the road, he imagined hearing his son’s soft even breathing, or the muffled percussion of his feet across the bedroom floor. He wavered between shame and anger with himself for giving up on Rafe, the same way his father had given up on him.
Then after the Mustangs’ last game, he knew what he had to do. As Marks had told the court, his son needed him, and he needed his son. Vicki was working in San Francisco for Morrison & Foerster, one of the city’s largest and most prestigious law firms, as an associate in their Trademark and Patents Division. He reached her on the phone at her office.
“Hi, I’m back in Palo Alto. I want to see Rafe.”
She snorted with disbelief. “The court said every other weekend, not every three months. This is exactly what I was talking about, Jason — ”
“My schedule says I get Rafe Friday at five o’clock. Tomorrow’s Friday.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Vicki said. “You can’t just walk out and walk back into his life.”
“Sure I can. I just did.”
THOSE FIRST weeks back were some of the longest and loneliest in his life. Vuco was gone. He didn’t want to look up any of the old coaches and players and admit he was losing another round to his ex-wife. He went to movies, worked out, watched baseball in the boarding house on California Street where he stayed. One morning he picked up a copy of Bay Area Parent from a sidewalk box to look for fathers’ support groups. He thumbed through it a half-dozen times and found two-and-a-half pages of listings for mothers’ groups — and not one listing, not one phone number, for fathers.
The only relationship he could count on was with his lawyer, at $275 an hour. They filed a motion claiming obstruction on Vicki’s part, countering her claim of abandonment with a notification that Jason’s custody schedule was made obsolete by his obligations as a professional baseball player. They requested a new schedule consistent with the rhythms of the season — every other weekend and every Tuesday-Thursday during the off-season, and vacation time in the winter rather than summer. The new request meant more responses and countermotions from Vicki — and more delays.
It took seven weeks and another $4,700 in legal fees before he could get the court to order Vicki to abide by the original custody schedule. It was mid-November before he saw Rafe — the first time since July. They arranged for Vicki’s mother — “Gramma Anna” — to bring him to West Campus Playground at Stanford, where they had played during his year off from baseball. Rafe exploded from the back seat of Anna’s Cadillac.
“Dada!” he cried, running as fast as he could towards him. He looked gigantic, nearly 3½ now and more like a miniature version of Jason than ever. Rafe buried his face in his father’s chest, circled his neck with his arms and squeezed. It was Jason, not Rafe, who broke down and cried. Rafe stared at him, alarmed.
“Don’t cry, Daddy,” he said with his small, sweet voice.
“It’s OK, Rafey. Sometimes people cry because they’re happy.” He turned to Anna. “Thanks,” he smiled. His right to see Rafe didn’t begin until 5:00 PM, but Anna had agreed to bring him over early so they could have some extra time — and she could have some time off.
“Have a wonderful time,” Anna said. “Call if you need anything.” She handed over a bag of cookies she had saved from lunch, and tucked a perfumed handkerchief of her own into the pocket of Rafe’s overalls. “So long, Rafey,” she said, kissing her grandson loudly on the cheek. “Have fun with your daddy.”
They stayed at the park until twilight. He chased Rafe up and down the ladders and slides, amazed by how agile he was. And strong. His shoulders were thick and already defined — a slugger’s shoulders. He could see a lot of Vicki, too — her luminous eyes and hair, her gracefulness and self-assurance. Everything, he hoped, except her stubbornness and hatred of him.
Afterwards they stopped at a Chinese restaurant where they ordered Rafe’s favorite dish — Chow Fun, tasty rice noodles smothered in black bean sauce and mixed with chicken and beef and shrimp and broccoli. When they finished they went to the Stanford Mall for some shirts and shoes and a cool Gymboree jacket with a rocket ship for a zipper grip. Then to Macy’s for the rest — underwear, socks, bathing suit, a bright orange cotton blanket Rafe picked out, and three stuffed animals who would sleep at Daddy’s even when Rafe wasn’t there. And a camera. Jason started taking photos right away. Rafe with his new shoes. Rafe with his new animal friends. Rafe in his new jacket, posing with the pretty sales clerk who helped him choose the right size.
As they left Macy’s, Rafe spied a display of lawn furniture outside the store and went straight for the glider. He climbed on and started to rock. “C’mon, Daddy, take a ride,” he called, throwing his shoulders again and again against the plastic cushion. Jason climbed on beside him and they rocked back and forth with delighted smiles on their faces. Jason reached down and covered Rafe’s hand with his.
“It’s really good to see you.” Rafe rocked harder, then suddenly squirmed from the seat. “I want to go home,” he said, heading for the doors. Jason smiled as he followed Rafe out. He loved the way he said “home.”
During the long legal delay he had found an apartment and furnished it for the two of them. It was a large two bedroom on Junipero Serra in a California-style courtyard complex with two-story buildings separated by a faux stream and bridges. It was expensive, but he could afford it. He’d already signed a contract to play next year in the Reds’ system. Despite his depression, he’d had some success with the Mustangs. Vuco pitched him out of the bullpen at first, limiting him to games they were either far ahead in or too far out. He was happy with his progress, although the team thought he could do better with a 98-mile-per-hour fastball. But then, teams always thought you could do better, especially at contract time.
He pushed open the door to the apartment. There was a broad open living room with wall-to-wall beige carpeting. The furniture was classic Abbey rents — full sofa with a stiff, blue-patterned cover, matching easy chairs, maple coffee table and end tables, TV/VCR, a round dining room table, and a hanging light fixture with obligatory decorative chain connecting it to the ceiling.
“Wanna see your new room?” He swept Rafe up and carried him across the living room. The door to his room was open and Jason gazed in proudly. He had painted it himself — pale yellow with light blue trim — and hung three Japanese kites he’d bought in an Asian strip mall outside Menlo Park. Each bedpost was carved with the likeness of an animal — a fox, an alligator, an egret, a giraffe — and the bed was covered with a Stanford quilt. There was a half-filled bookshelf, a chest of drawers waiting for Rafe’s new clothes, a small writing table and chair with decals of leaping dolphins, and a large wooden box half-filled with new toys he’d spent several afternoons gathering.
Rafe bee-lined for the bed. “Daddy’s team!” he shouted, rolling himself up in the comforter. For the first time since the whole mess began nearly a year ago, Jason felt relaxed. No chaperones, no lawyers, no ex-wife. Just him and his boy, in his own home ... their home.
“C’mon Buddy,” he said. “Let’s get you ready for bed.”
In the bathroom, Rafe took great care in brushing his teeth,