The Last Inning

The baseball card was still taped to the dashboard where Marcus had stuck it twelve years ago, the edges curled and yellowed. 'Dad's Opening Day, 2012.' His father's handwriting had faded to a ghostly gray.

Marcus shifted in the driver's seat, the suspension of his parked car groaning in protest. Below the power lines, the cable sagged like a noose forgotten by the executioner. He'd been sitting here for twenty minutes, working up the courage to ring the bell.

His father's hair had been the first thing to go. Not the gray—that had come early, at forty—but the thick black waves that Marcus inherited. By fifty, the chemotherapy had taken it all, leaving behind a scalp as smooth and pale as a moonlit river. Now, at seventy-two, what remained was white as cotton candy, spinning in wild directions whenever the wind caught it.

The dog appeared first. Barnaby, an ancient golden retriever with hips like rusted hinges, nosed Marcus's hand through the open window. The same dog who'd guarded Marcus's crib, who'd curled at the foot of his father's bed during the long months of recovery.

"Hey, buddy," Marcus whispered, scratching behind those velvet ears. "He still up?"

Barnaby's tail thumped twice against the door panel, then stilled. That was answer enough.

The hospice nurse had warned him: mornings were hardest. The pain medication wore off overnight, leaving his father raw-edged and lucid, the cancer metastatic in his bones and his temper. But Marcus had driven three hours through rain-slicked highways to catch what might be their last baseball season together. The Red Sox were playing tonight.

He killed the engine. Silence rushed in, punctuated by the distant hum of traffic and Barnaby's wheezing breath. On the passenger seat, Marcus had brought the old glove—the one his father had oil-treated and broken in, summer after summer, until the leather formed perfectly to Marcus's childhood hand.

The front door opened. His father stood there, frayed bathrobe cinched tight, grasping a cable-knit blanket around his shoulders. Their eyes met across the small stretch of overgrown lawn.

"You coming in or what?" his father called, voice rough with sleep and pain. "Game starts at seven."

Marcus grabbed the glove. Barnaby limped beside him as he walked toward the house, toward whatever remained of their time.

"Coming, Dad."