Somewhere Sarah was pumping her fist in satisfaction.
“I’m happy to help. Really, whatever you need.”
“I know you are, son.” He paused, looking ready to say something else, but the ice pack slipped off his hand and he went to make a grab for it, then flinched.
“I got that, Pop. Don’t worry.” I adjusted the icepack back onto his hand. “I picked up your medicine, let me go get it.
I motioned to Max to take off one of his headphones. “I’ll be right back. You want to come with me?”
“You can feel free to stay here with me, Max.” Pop piped up. “I’d love some company. I can’t keep score today ’cause of my arthritis, if you’d like to do it for me.”
“I’m not sure how,” Max replied.
“Here,” Pop held out the score sheet and pencil to Max, who eventually took it.
“You go on and take a look at that, Max,” Pop said, “and we’ll just see how things go.”
Pop was just starting in on how baseball was a blend of strategy, skill and teamwork when I made my way to the kitchen, wondering what kind of standoff I’d see between Ryla and Momma. I hadn’t heard any explosions so it must be going ok. I found them at the kitchen counter, their backs to me. Ryla was standing on a chair next to Momma, a too-big apron tied around her waist.
“It’s all squishy!” Ryla’s little hands were mixing something together in a bowl.
“It starts off that way, then you gotta mix and knead it with your fingers so it’ll turn all soft. Then once the soup’s boilin’, you drop it into the pot. A few minutes later, you have a nice, soft dumplin’.”
Ryla continued to chatter and my momma gave gentle encouragement as she taught Ryla how to make one of her staples, chicken and dumpling soup, which she made whenever we were sick.
“Smells good,” I said, walking into the kitchen, making my presence known. Then, the strangest thing happened. They both stopped talking and looked over their shoulders at me.
In unison.
And they gave me the exact same look:May we help you?
I held up my hands, then grabbed the pharmacy bag from the table. “Just bringing Pop his medicine. As you were.”
They turned around as if I hadn’t spoken, continuing their conversation without missing a beat. I doubled back down the hall, slowing when I heard Max’s voice.
“And that’s called a ball?”
“Yep. If it’s outside that little square there, that’s called the strike zone, that’s a ball. And if you get four of ’em before you get three strikes, the guy at bat gets to go to first base without hitting the ball first. It’s called a walk.”
“Because they like, don’t have to run there?”
“Exactly right! You got it. Now what you need to know about the strike zone is . . .”
I stayed outside the living room, leaning against the wall, feeling a strange contentedness listening to Pop teach Max about baseball, just like he’d taught me when I was young.
* * *
“No!”
“Did they call that strike?”
“What a load of horse manure!”
That’s what me, Max, and Pop, respectively, yelled at the TV when the ump called a strike on an obvious ball at the bottom of the ninth. The Braves were tied with the Twins at three a piece, and we had a runner on first and second.
“Yeah, they called that a strike.” Pop looked over to Max and winked. “But we got one out left.” He leaned over and patted Max on the leg, which meant that the pain meds must be working a bit. He hadn’t been wincing as much since he took his first dose of medication over an hour ago.
“Though that ump should get his eyes checked if you ask me,” Pop grumbled under his breath. Max and I looked at each other in silence, stifling our laughter.
