Chapter Seven: Separation

Donna and I stare into each other’s eyes, then hug, a lingering embrace with more than a touch of urgency. We have spent an intense two days together, camping out on sun-drenched southern California beaches, making love each time as though it were the last time.

Now, at the Los Angeles Airport, we are saying good-bye. Donna will fly to San Francisco, then drive back to Sonoma County, to her house in the redwoods and her waitress job. I will pick up Charlie and drive back through time until we reach Amarillo, opening day in the Texas League for two soon-to-be-lonesome umpires. Donna and I face  nearly six months of separation.

I look into her sad, brown eyes and wonder, Can I do this? Of course I have to work—man cannot live on nude beaches forever—but does it take such a sacrifice?

I find myself saying, “Be strong, honey. The time will pass quickly.” The words ring hollow. I fear just the opposite.

She straightens my collar. “Be a good umpire. Make me proud of you.”

“That part will be easy. It’s all the motel-driving-restaurant time that worries me.” Then washed by a wave of sadness that nearly fells me, I murmur, “Gonna miss you.”

“Miss you too.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

With a last embrace and a flickering wave, she turns and leaves. I watch, trying to memorize her perfect body as she strides purposefully across the street and into the airport, never looking back. “A terminal loss,” I mutter, watching long after she’s gone.

*     *     *

 An hour later, I am gathering Charlie in Compton. He has spent the last two days holed up in a weedy trailer park with his girlfriend, Lana, and her two kids. That park is home for Lana, and for Charlie during the off-season. Inside Lana’s trailer, one of many crammed onto two urban acres, it’s dark, cluttered, and low-ceilinged. It is ridiculously small for four.

Lana is big and robust, a strong no-nonsense black woman, a single mom and a survivor. I like and respect her, but we have little in common. She is desperately loyal to Charlie, would marry him in a second. It would be a second marriage for both, and Charlie is not anxious for a rerun. Lacking faith in the concept of matrimonial bliss, he puts her off.

I say good-bye to Lana, then leave her and Charlie to linger for awhile. Surprisingly, Charlie emerges seconds later, apparently ready to go.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Sure. Let’s sky up. How far to Amarillo?”

“Almost twelve hundred miles. In the van, about twenty-four hours.”

“Damn! That far?”

“We can take turns driving. When one gets tired, he can sleep in the back while the other drives . . . What’s this? You bringing golf clubs?”

“Gotta have my golf clubs, Boga. Gotta have ‘em.”

We cram Charlie’s golf clubs, clothes, and equipment bag into the 1969 VW pop-top camper van with fifty-two horsepower and plenty of road miles. As I back out of the driveway, Charlie waves to Lana, sighs, and says, “Only a hundred and forty games to go.”

*     *     *

 Amarillo, 25 hours later

“I feel like death on a soda cracker,” Charlie says, opening his eyes. He has been sleeping on the pull-out bed.

“Welcome to Amarillo.” I pull into the Quality Inn parking lot and turn off the engine. “What say we just turn around and sneak back?” I say.

Amarillo is gray and blustery cold. This part of Texas is as flat as pita bread, a land of horizons interrupted only by the man-made: high-rise buildings, freeways, shopping centers, fast-food restaurants, and used-car lots.

“It can’t all look like this,” I say hopefully.

Charlie grimaces. “What makes you say that, Boga? For all you know, this is the garden spot of Amarillo.”

It’s four hours until game time, and we need sleep like the Donner Party needed snowmobiles. We grab our bags and stumble into the motel office. The Quality Inn, like at least one motel in every Texas League city, gives umpires a special rate—$16 for an antiseptic double. After two seasons in the California League, I’ve decided all motels look the same: floral wallpaper, white porcelain, and a TV that generally favors one hue over the others. The best part is the beds, firm and wide and seductive.

We dump our bags on the floor and Charlie says, “Hold all my calls, Boga. I have a date with the bed.” He is undressed and between the sheets in seconds, and asleep within a minute.

I lie awake for an hour, body weary, mind racing. I think of Donna, visualizing recent lovemaking scenarios, pale replicas of the real thing yet vivid enough to ward off sleep. Already loneliness is a physical pain that stabs my heart like a sliver of ice.