The Bottom of the Ninth

Frank sat on the back porch, nursing a whiskey that had long since gone warm. Barnaby—his golden retriever, now gray around the muzzle—rested his head on Frank's knee. The old dog had been Martha's, really. She'd picked him out from the litter eleven years ago, when they still believed they had forever ahead of them.

That was bull, of course. The forever part, anyway. Martha had been dead three years come Tuesday, and Frank was still trying to figure out how to be a person without his better half.

He checked his phone again. Still nothing from Michael.

The last time they'd spoken, Frank had called his son ungrateful. Michael had called him emotionally stunted. Both had probably been right. Michael had moved to Seattle after college, and Frank had stayed here in the house where every room still held Martha's ghost.

Barnaby whined and nudged Frank's hand with his wet nose.

"I know, buddy," Frank said softly. "I know."

In the garage, buried beneath boxes of Martha's things she'd never gotten around to sorting, sat a box of Michael's old baseball cards. Frank had found them last week while looking for something else—what, he couldn't remember anymore. He'd spent three nights going through them, remembering the father-son games in the backyard, the way Michael's face had lit up when Frank had finally taught him to throw a proper slider. How long had it been since they'd played catch? Too long.

Frank set down his glass and rubbed the dog's ears. He was tired of being right. Tired of winning arguments that cost him everything.

He picked up his phone and typed: "Found your old cards. Thought you might want them. No pressure. Dad."

His thumb hovered over send. What if Michael didn't respond? What if he did, and it was just polite distance? Either way, Frank would have to live with it.

Barnaby lifted his head, ears perked toward the road. A car was coming.

Frank's heart hammered as headlights swept across the yard. The car slowed. Then kept going.

He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and pressed send.

Two minutes later, his phone buzzed.

"I'll be there Saturday."

Frank looked down at the old dog, who had already gone back to sleep. "Well, Barnaby," he whispered. "Suppose we'd better clean up the guest room."

For the first time in three years, the house didn't feel quite so empty.