The Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball game droned on in the background, a blur of white uniforms and green field that neither of them were watching. Maria sat on the edge of the hotel pool, her legs dangling in the water, while James stood by the glass door, nursing a whiskey he'd been nursing for hours.

"You're going to lose that job," she said, not looking at him. "And for what?"

"For dignity," James said, though the word tasted like ash in his mouth. The truth was, he didn't know anymore. Three weeks ago, he'd discovered his boss had been embezzling from their clients for years. He'd gathered the evidence, prepared to blow the whistle. Then he'd hesitated.

Now the corporate lawyer had offered him a choice: take the fall, or take the payout and silence. A bear of a man with dead eyes and a voice like gravel. James had walked out without answering.

A cat appeared from somewhere—a stray, skinny and patchy—jumping onto the pool chair beside Maria. She stroked its head absently, her mind somewhere else. Probably back at their apartment, wondering how they'd pay next month's rent if everything fell apart.

"My father loved baseball," she said suddenly. "Season tickets, fourth row. He took me every Sunday until I was twelve. Then he just stopped."

James had heard this story before. Her father had been gambling away the college fund, the mortgage, his marriage. The small betrayals that accumulate like silt until the river chokes.

"What did you tell him?" James asked.

"Nothing." She pulled her legs from the water, droplets trailing down her calves like tiny, reluctant goodbyes. "That was the problem. I should have said something. Anything. Instead I just watched him destroy everything, one season at a time."

She turned to face him finally. Her eyes held that look—that terrible, patient look that said she was waiting for him to become someone else. Someone she could respect. Someone she could love without reservation.

"The cat," James said, desperate to change the subject, to redirect the conversation away from the precipice it was approaching. "Where did it come from?"

"From the decision you're not making," she said softly. "From the silence between us. From the fact that we're in this beautiful hotel room that we can't afford, having this conversation again, and you still think you have time to choose."

She stood up, water dripping from her skin onto the concrete. The cat watched them both with ancient, indifferent eyes.

"Bottom of the ninth," she said, heading toward the door. "Two outs. Full count. Swing the bat, James. Or don't. But this is your last at-bat."

The television announcer's voice swelled with excitement as someone hit a home run. The crowd roared. In the reflection of the glass door, James saw himself—alone, still holding the whiskey, still frozen between who he was and who he might have been. The cat licked its paw and began to wash its face, utterly unconcerned with the fate of men.