May
May
Lexa hadn't slept that first night in Clarke's apartment. She'd stared into the quiet darkness, the only noise the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Clarke was the daughter of Jacob "Wild Man," Wechadtowski. The thought became an infinity loop, as Lexa stared at the sleeping girl curled up against her chest.
Long into the night, Lexa had wracked her brain for a way to broach the subject when morning came, bringing with it the incontrovertible realization that Clarke's secret was out. "But why on earth was it a secret?" Lexa wondered. A second date being what it was, keeping one's personal information precious was understandable. On the other hand, choosing not to mention that one's father was a famous sports icons seemed a somewhat deliberate subject to avoid. What was more, despite several opportunities she'd had to bring it up, Clarke had chosen to withhold; going so far as to play coy with Lexa.
In the wee hours of the morning, it had finally dawned on Lexa that Clarke's omission was nothing if not purposeful. Thus far, everything she'd learned about the girl had proven her to be an intensely guarded person. The reporter had apparently gone to some lengths to conceal her father's identity, and bearing that in mind, Lexa decided to put aside her many questions. She would allow Clarke to bring the subject up organically, whenever she was ready.
To that end, Lexa had remained silent about what she'd seen. When Clarke finally woke up, the pitcher pretended she'd been fast asleep all night, avoiding any glances toward the bedside table. Luckily, even with the truth lingering like an itch, there had been plenty of other things to distract her that morning.
Much to Lexa's relief, Clarke had risen sans hangover, pleased to find the pitcher's arms were still wrapped protectively around her. The blonde had been all sleepy smiles and roaming hands. It was one of the best wake-ups Lexa had had in a while, and with Clarke's fingers ghosting over Lexa's shoulder bicep, the moment had felt almost perfect for a first kiss. The brunette had leaned forward, determined not to waste her opportunity.
That was until Lexa's phone had exploded to life unapologetically, interrupting their almost moment with it's demanding alarm. A second later, Lexa had flown out of bed frantically, realizing that she was in danger of missing a meeting with her field manager. She'd hurriedly made her excuses, giving Clarke a sincerely apologetic look as she'd raced to gather her belongings.
"I had a good time last night."
"Me too."
"I'm so sorry about rushing out like this. I swear this is not representative of my normal post-sleepover behavior."
Clarke had laughed, taking the situation in stride. "And here I was beginning to think you were the cut and run type."
"No. I save that for the fifth date."
Lexa lingered in the bedroom doorway, overcome with the impulse to ask Clarke to attend the day's game. As soon as she'd issued the invitation, the mood shifted. Clarke had become distracted, excusing herself due to a weekend full of catching up on work. They attempted to rain check, discussed schedules and time off with little success. Clarke worked days, and Lexa had night games all week, followed by eight days on the road.
Clarke had stretched out in bed suggestively, adding an extra element of difficulty to Lexa's attempts at making a hasty exit. "What about the week you get back? We could do first Friday fireworks on the river."
"Sounds perfect. Text me!"
Leaning over to hug Clarke goodbye, Lexa had been rewarded instead with a sweet, soft kiss on the corner of her mouth.
"What was that for?"
"For being such gentleman last night… Gentlewoman, I mean."
"No thanks necessary," and with that and a wink, Lexa had been out the door.
By the beginning of May, the weather had finally started to turn, bringing with it the first sweltering days of the year. They passed slowly, heralding the scorching summer that was just around the corner.
More than two weeks had passed since she'd last seen Clarke, and the more Lexa thought about it, the less she knew what to make of the photograph on Clarke's nightstand. Part of her was sure that the reporter had meant for her to see it, though, on the other hand, she rationalized that Clarke had been half asleep, mostly drunk, and had probably forgotten it was there.
Even so, Clarke must have realized by now, and surely she'd be wondering if Lexa had, indeed, noticed it. And, if that was the case, why had she not mentioned it during any of their phone calls while Lexa was on the road? Was it a test? Was she waiting to make sure that Lexa was honest enough to come clean about what she'd seen? Then again, perhaps Clarke was too shy, or too private to broach the subject. The many possibilities made the pitcher's head spin.
To make matters worse, Lexa genuinely disliked withholding information, primarily when it was from someone who had just begun to trust her. It had kicked her supremely guilty conscience into overdrive, making her feel like an overinflated water balloon, fragile and ready to burst at the slightest provocation. By the first Friday of the month, she'd decided she could no longer keep the matter a secret, unwillingly. Lexa was determined to come clean to Clarke about what she knew; consequences be damned. But, before she had a chance, fate intervened on her behalf.
It began as a brief article in USA Today; a few short paragraphs tucked away in the middle of the sports section. The Mets had called up a pitcher from their farm system, a young Venezuelan with a dirty, breaking curveball that was purported to be nearly unhittable. He was handsome, talented and flashy, but what drew people's attention the most was his age. At 20, he was the youngest pitcher to start for the Mets since the Wild Man. People had been bound to liken the two to one another. It wasn't long before sports commentators were dissecting the men's similarities ad nauseum, reviving the long-dead ghost of Jacob Wechadtowski, pulling his specter from the grave, and plastering televisions and newspapers with his visage.
In the years since his strange and untimely death, Wechadtowski's name had faded from the spotlight. His the more infamous elements of his career, including his frequently raucous off-field antics, had been forgotten over time, leaving behind only the legend of his numerous records. In a week, however, all of that changed, and suddenly he was everywhere again, both a reminder of athletic greatness and a cautionary tale regarding wealth and fame achieved at a young age.
In the middle of the frenzy, a detail emerged that provided an additionally stark, almost eerie contrast between the two men. Bartolo Montillo, the Mets' new star pitcher, was revealed to have fathered a child during his time in the Mets' farm system. His progeny had been kept a secret, due in part to Montillo repeatedly failed to meet his mandated financial obligations.
The young player's defenders argued that, during his tenure in the minor leagues, Montillo had made barely enough to pay his club fees and feed himself, much less support a child. Supporters were quick to point out that, what little money he had saved had been sent to his mother and siblings in Venezuela.
Still, Montillo's detractors would have their say too, and they were quick to bring up the paramount responsibilities that were inherent to parenthood, willingly come by or not. These individuals frequently brought up the legality of Montillo's relationship with the child's mother, though he was, in fact, younger than her by her several months. Critics painted an especially hyperbolic picture of the poor example set by the pitcher, bemoaning how frequently professional athletes fathered illegitimate children who failed to support them.
And, of course, the story had immediately sparked comparisons to Wechadtowski, who had been hounded by rumors of lackluster fatherhood throughout his career. By that Friday, the media storm had culminated in a New York Times article regarding the similarities between the two men. Its characterization of the Wild Man was, to say the least, deeply unflattering.
"Wechadtowski's incredible talent, as well his colorful, on-field antics, made him a favorite among fans. In spite of his success, however, the Wild Man seemed unable to find balance or control. At his best, he was nearly untouchable, but at his worst he was confrontational and reckless, arguing with referees, and employing inside pitching to a degree that many considered negligent, even dangerous. Off the field, Wechadtowski was equally unpredictable, his hard-partying lifestyle frequently landing him in the tabloids and resulting in multiple game suspensions.
Towards the end of his career, the pitcher's behavior became even more erratic. Unprecedented winning streaks were punctuated by periods of remarkable inconsistency, during which Wechadtowski would throw wild balls, start on-field fights, and insult officials. He also fell into legal trouble, incurring several disorderly conduct charges, and injuring his pitching arm in a drunken car wreck that would ultimately cut his playing days short.
What was perhaps most troubling, however, were the rumors that Wechadtowski was an absentee parent, maintaining little if any no contact with the child he fathered at eighteen. Wechadtowski barely mentioned the relationship during his career, the famously cagey pitcher remaining tight-lipped when it came to the subject, insisting that he preferred to keep family matters a private affair. The following is the only known photograph of Wechadtowski with his daughter, Clarke Griffin, raised in Atlanta, by her mother and grandparents.”
The picture that accompanied the article showed a young, burly Wechadtowski, on the field after a decisive win, his hand held high to the crowd, and a small blond toddler clutched in one of his arms. Lexa had seen the photograph before, in the glossy pages of Mets: The Complete Photographic History. The book that had graced her family's coffee table growing up, Its pages worn and fingerprinted from countless rereading and referencing, as though it were a family Bible. Lexa had always liked the picture, imagining the little girl lucky to have such a famous, talented father. But with her childhood hero's dirty laundry airing for all the world to see, Lexa now saw the picture in a new light. The sweaty young man in the photograph looked overwhelmed, anxious even. He clutched the little girl in his arm awkwardly, as though he might break her, as though it was the first time he'd held her at all. The tiny blonde child had her face turned away, frightened by the crowd, terrified by the strange man holding her.
Lexa sat on a bench along the riverway, staring at the photograph and she balanced the newspaper on her legs. When she'd seen the New York Times article that morning, she'd been sure that she'd be receiving a call from Clarke canceling their plans. After all, what girl would want to go out after having the ghost of her absentee father dragged through the mud all week. When Clarke had texted, around noon, Lexa had been sure the message would be a polite request to raincheck. She was shocked when, instead, it had turned out to be a note confirming their plans for the evening.
Clarke snatched the remote off the counter, thrusting her hand aggressively toward the television, where impassioned sports personalities were hotly debating what was quickly becoming the bane of her day. One especially red-faced man gesticulated wildly at another, practically yelling his comments across the semi-circular desk they sat behind.
"The man was a legend, pure and simple! How he behaved in his personal life, and what kind of parent he was is beside the point."
Clarke groaned, pointing the remote at the screen and hammering the off button as hard as she could. She pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. For the most part, she'd been able to avoid the media storm the had rolled in over the past of the week. Sports shows could be ignored, as could the television news, and radio programs. It was a kind of storm she'd weathered before, and given the new city and her relative unimportance in it, she'd managed to remain comfortably anonymous, for once. That was until the morning's Times' article had mentioned her by name.
Growing up with a father whose face was frequently fixed to front pages, Clarke was indeed no stranger to public scrutiny. The unwanted attention had been her constant companion during childhood, acting as a proxy in Jacob's absence. In the years since his death, and with her decision to attend college in California, Clarke had finally begun to enjoy a degree of anonymity. It was something she'd longed for in her more formidable years, and by the time she'd moved back to Georgia for work, she was able to blend in, flying blissfully under the radar. Jacob was gone, her name was her own, and the people she surrounded herself with didn't follow baseball. In Savanah, people barely even noticed her, and Clarke reveled in the feeling of being a "nobody," rather than someone famous's poorly kept secret.
But, when Clarke arrived at work that morning, the office had been buzzing with excited chatter and whispered conversations, all of which had stopped the moment she entered. The reporter was no stranger to the feeling of walking into a room, only to realize that everyone had just been talking about her, and it didn't take long to understand what all of the spare copies of The New York Times littering the office meant.
She'd spent her lunch break locked in a supply closet, pouring over the damning article, forcing back tears of indignation at the article's callous inclusion of her private information, which was more than enough to blow her cover. Clarke's inner sense of justice raged at the nerve of the Times reporter, though she knew well that it was within his legal right to write what he had. The remainder of her day had been a have of fielding questions from overzealous co-workers, and trying to ignore people's lingering, obtrusive looks.
Clarke shook her head, clearing her mind of the fog of the terrible day. She shifted uncomfortably, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror and eyeing her worn-out jeans and the soft, old raglan. Her appearance wasn't impressive, it wasn't sexy, but it was honest, and as much as the blonde pined for the mischievous smirks that her dresses elicited from Lexa, tonight seemed like the wrong time for that kind of effort. Clarke took a deep breath, hoping that the pitcher would enjoy her in faded cotton and flats as much as she did in sundresses and heels. A moment later she caught herself, wondering why she was worrying in the first place.
"Stop that," she scolded her reflection. "It isn't even a date," she thought. "Not really." Her conscience strained against the thought, knowing its relative falsehood, though it had become a mantra of late. She found herself repeated it over and over on her walk toward River Street. "Not a date." "Not a date."
Date or not, she had bigger things to worry about that evening. The week's media storm was sure to have caught Lexa's attention, and with a newspaper article exposing her name, Clarke was going to have to address the issue, whether or not the pitcher had put two and two together by now. Clarke thought back to the last time she'd seen Lexa, nervously wondering if she'd managed to notice the old photograph in the bedroom.
She turned the corner onto River Street, making her way through the crowd until she spotted an old bench with a single occupant. Lexa was leaning casually against the old wood of the backrest, cradling a newspaper in her lap. Clarke's heart sank as she realized what the pitcher was reading.
Clarke was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run. Whether it was to the brunette's arms seeking comfort from the awful week, or away from the awkward conversation that was waiting for her, she wasn't sure. But in either case, her feet compelled her to move in one direction or the other, and fast. She had begun to favor the later, when Lexa finally looked up, folding the paper and setting it down with a shy smile. Clarke approached Lexa slowly, half looking at her, half glancing at the sidewalk. "Hey, you."
Lexa smiled the kind of smile that was all restraint and propriety, unsure of what the appropriate reaction was. She grabbed the paper and set it aside, patting the bench for Clarke to sit down.
"Hey."
"Welcome home." Clarke sat down, giving the brunette a quick but sincere hug. She tried not to notice the warmth that radiated off of Lexa's sun-kissed skin or the way the pad of the pitcher's thumb felt as it gently stroked her arm. Clarke pulled away, barely able to make eye contact with the tanned pitcher. The girl kicked the ground anxiously as she tried to remember the speech she had prepared. Suddenly her pulse was racing. She felt the way she had coming home with a C on her middle school report card, all shame and nerves and poorly articulated excuses. Her words began to flee her as panic took hold.
"So…"
Lexa bounced a knee up and down anxiously, feeling as though she were seven years old again, waiting for to be punished for breaking a window or tipping over a vase by accident. The overinflated balloon that was her conscience had stretched to its limit, and Lexa finally burst, mumbling through a rushed apology before Clarke had a chance to speak.
"Clarke I know about your dad."
Clarke screwed her eyes shut, frustrated with her inability to confront the topic.
"I take it that means you read the article."
"No. I mean, yes, but I knew before. I saw the picture on your bedside table the night I stayed over. I'm sorry. I should have said something sooner."
Clarke nodded slowly. "Why didn't you?"
Far too flustered to articulate the hundreds of internal conversations she'd had regarding that very question, Lexa merely shrugged. "Because I wanted to see you again. You knew I was a fan of your father, and I was worried that if I admitted it, you'd think my wanting to spend time with you was some kink."
"Is it?"
"Of course not!"
Lexa leaned back again, staring out across the water before turning back to the reporter. "Clarke, why didn't you say anything?"
Clarke's brow knit, her forehead creasing as she picked the bridge of her nose. "It's hard to explain." She considered the brunette for a moment, looking down at her feet as she continued to kick loose pebbles around with a toe.
"Did I ever tell you that I had five different boys ask me to my high school prom?"
The pitcher cocked her head, taken aback by the seemingly tangential statement. "How is that…
"All within a day of each other, no less." Clarke continued, unswayed by Lexa's confusion. "I was surprised by it because honestly, I wasn't popular. I mean, I wasn't unpopular. I suppose I had popular friends, but for the most part, I wasn't that social. I was too busy studying, or participating in student government, or doing model U.N to notice anything else."
Clarke ran a hand through her hair, glancing over at Lexa with a melancholy smirk. "It's a little cliche, but I was pretty excited at the idea that five different people could have been harboring secret crushes on me."
"But they hadn't?"
Clarke shook her head. "The next day, my best friend Octavia found out from her boyfriend that those guys all had a bet going about who could get Wild Man Wechadtowski's daughter into bed. I suppose I should have known; they were all on the baseball team. Stupid me."
Lexa frowned. "Clarke, don't say that. What those guys did was awful."
Clarke sighed, "No, it was predictable. Lexa, stuff like that defined my whole childhood. Jacob Wechadtowski's shadow followed my mother and me around everywhere we went. If he had a big game, everyone at school would ask me for an autograph. If he got into trouble, reporters would come knocking on my mother's door for a comment. If he showed up to see me, there'd be a news van camped across the street the whole time."
Lexa recoiled at the thought of the many intrusions Clarke had suffered because of her famous father. It made her regret ever feeling jealous of the little girl in the glossy photo of the Mets' history book. She studied Clarke's face, wondering how much more there was to her story.
"All that horrible stuff about him being an absentee parent, was that true?"
"It's not wrong," Clarke admitted, "but there is a lot more to the story than that."
"Would you tell me?" Lexa looked at her hopefully, not wanting to press the issue if Clarke wasn't ready to open up.
Clarke looked around nervously, surveilling the people on the sidewalk. She didn't want to seem paranoid, but after the events of the week, the conversation wasn't one she felt comfortable having out in the open. "Look, I know we said we'd do the fireworks tonight, but if this is something you want to hear, I'd feel better telling it to you in private. Would you settle for beers at my place?"
The pitcher stood, smiling as she took Clarke's hand to help her off the bench. "I thought you'd never ask."
Lexa perched on a tall stool along the kitchen island, the rigid uprightness of her back betraying her nerves as she watched Clarke lean into the depths of the refrigerator and retrieve two beers. The blonde reached reflexively towards a wall mounted opener, popping the caps off with a practiced fluidity. She slid one of the long-necks across the granite countertop to her companion, before leaning against the other side of the island, pawing at the glass of her bottle.
"So," she paused, staring at her hands absentmindedly. "What do you want to know?"
Lexa rotated the bottle of beer, focusing on the sound the tiny glass ridges along its base made as they scraped the stone counter.
"Well, I gave you my origin story. I think it's only fair you share yours."
"It's long."
"I've got time."
"You might not like what you hear."
"Try me."
Clarke studied Lexa's face, analyzing it for any sign of insincerity. Her jaw clenched as she pulled in a slow breath, her mind made up.
"Lexa, look… You have to understand that what we're talking about is privileged information shared by less than a handful of people. If I tell you this stuff, I have to know that you won't repeat it. Not to anyone. Not ever." Clarke stared hard at the pitcher, studying her face for signs understanding.
Lexa ran a hand through her hair, exhaling a breath that she felt as though she'd been holding forever. "Clarke, I don't know what happened between you and your father, but I do know what it's like to have things about you, about your life that you don't want people to know. No matter what you tell me, I won't repeat it. You have my word."
Clarke sighed, crossing her arms. "Alright, I trust you."
She took a long sip of her beer, hoping a little liquid courage would assuage her nerves. "The first thing you need to know is that my mother wasn't some random woman or a short-term girlfriend."
Clarke frowned, tapping the folded copy of the Times that was now laying on the counter between them.
"Articles like this one always seems to be insinuating that, but it's not the case at all."
"They were high school sweethearts who had known each other since they were children. Mom grew up in Madison Georgia, and my dad was from Rutledge, the next town over. That part of the story, at least, is sweet."
Lexa watched Clarke's face shifted, her mind lost in what she was saying.
"Jacob had a rough start in life. His father was in prison by the time he was born, and his mother died of cancer when he was young. His uncle Royal raised him, a guy who was a green beret in Vietnam, but never worked a steady job after that. Roy was a bit of a wild man. He hunted and fished, he drank steadily, the whole middle of the woods, bushmaster thing, and he raised Jacob the same way. He also wasn't much for rules and didn't care about school, so Jacob ended up skipping whenever he liked. Uncle Roy did teach Jacob how to play baseball and pitch, though."
Clarke smirked, thinking back to the single time she'd met her great-uncle, on a trip to Rutledge with Jacob. Royal had been heavily tattooed and had smelled of stale Marlboro Reds and cheap beer, but he'd made her laugh, and used slight of hand to pull candy bars from her ears, so she had liked him all the same.
"The older Jake got, the more out of control his behavior became."
Clarke paused, suddenly pensive. "My mother has always described him as emotionally labile. He'd be on top of the world one day and moody and irritable the next. He was in trouble a lot, mostly for drinking and causing trouble with his friend, but the police let most of it slide because he was a such a standout athlete. By the time he was a sophomore in high school talent scouts were showing up to his games."
Lexa rubbed the back of her neck, considering the characterization Clarke was providing, noting how the blonde always called her father by his first name.
"Did he treat your mother well?"
"Yes. My mom has always insisted that Jake was incredibly thoughtful, really sweet and gentle. In some ways, I think the relationship meant more to him than it did to her."
Clarke took another sip of her beer. "Which is not to say my mother didn't love him. She did a great deal. For Jake, though, my mom and baseball were his whole world. Unfortunately, my mom's father hated him, partly because he was a problem child from a troubled family, but mostly because he didn't trust Jake with his daughter."
Lexa bobbed her head, secretly thinking that Clarke's grandfather's concerns had been reasonable.
"My grandfather was a doctor, and he wanted my mom to follow in his footsteps. Just before my mother's senior year of high school, he was offered a job teaching at Emory's medical school. My mom was supposed to matriculate there in the fall, but by that time Jacob was being scouted by major league teams. My grandfather was afraid that if mom stayed with him, she'd end up dropping out of school, getting married young and ruining her life. Relocating the family to Atlanta mean putting fifty miles of distance between them, so he leaped at the opportunity."
"Since you're standing here, telling me this story, I take it the distance didn't stop your parents from seeing one another."
Clarke shook her head, smiling. "If anything it only encouraged them. Jake would drive up to see her whenever he got a chance, and my mother would sneak back to Rutledge on weekends. She'd pretend she was staying with friends when she was camped out at Uncle Roy's house with Jake."
"I'm assuming that's how you got here."
Clarke pressed her right index finger to her nose. "Correct. As soon as she told him that she was pregnant, Jacob went straight to my grandfather, and insisted that he wanted to marry my mom."
"Your grandfather must have been thrilled about that."
Clarke rolled her eyes, recounting the many times her mother had told her the story. "He was mortified. He threatened to disown my mom if she went through with it."
Clarke finished the last sip of her beer and tossed the bottle into a bin under the counter. She opened the fridge and grabbed two more, sliding one over to Lexa.
"Grandpa was old-fashioned, very prim and proper, relatively conservative. The idea of abortion was off the table, but he was convinced that he'd lose face with colleagues if people found out his unmarried, teenage daughter had gotten pregnant. When my parents graduated high school that May, he made her defer her admission to Emory, and sent her sent her to live with his sister, in Boston, for the rest of the pregnancy. That's where I was born, by the way."
She smirked. "Go, Sox."
Clarke winked at Lexa, eliciting a grimace from the native New Yorker.
"Ugh! And here I was starting to like you, Griffin."
Clarke stuck out her tongue playfully. She walked around the counter, taking a seat next to the brunette.
"Where was your father in all of this?"
"Stuck in Rutledge. As soon as he was declared eligible for the draft, he went to my grandfather to try and convince him of his good intentions."
Clark drummed her fingers on the granite counter, blowing out a steady breath. "My grandfather was an intelligent guy. He realized that if he refused to support my parents outright, it would only make them more determined to be together, so instead, he got in my father's head about his draft prospect. Grandpa pointed out that if Jake let the world know he had a baby on the way, it might sour scouts on him."
Lexa shrugged. "Why would that have mattered?"
"Maybe. My mother hadn't turned eighteen yet, and that brought legal issues into questions. My grandpa warned him that if major league scouts found out, the potential negative press could scare them away, and he might end up getting drafted low, or not at all. He also pointed out that teams were less likely to offer him a substantial bonus if they knew my father had gotten his girlfriend knocked up and was desperate for money. Anyway, what he said struck a nerve. The next time Jacob spoke to my mother, he told that they should wait until after he'd been signed to make any big decisions."
"What happened next?"
"In June, Jacob was drafted. The Mets selected him in the first round and sent him to Kingsport for Rookie ball. He played well, and halfway through the season, he got bumped up to short-season A ball, in Pittsfield Massachusetts."
"Did he get to see your mother?"
"Not exactly. Pittsfield is on the other side of the state, about two and a half hour away from Boston. Plus, you know how schedules are at that level. There are games every day and lots of traveling. He was only able to visit my mother a few times during the season, but he swore to her he'd be there when I was born."
"Was he?"
Clarke shook her head. "Their season was supposed to end in early late August, but because of weather, it ended up running long. Then his team made the playoffs. My mother was due at the end of September, so on the sly, Jake explained his situation to his field manager, who agreed to let him slip away when my mother went into labor. But, on the day that call came, he was pitching the final game of the league's championship series."
Lexa's eyes went wide as she blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing. "Wow."
"Wow, Indeed. My mother's aunt called during the seventh inning to let Jacob know what was happening, and he swore he would leave as soon as he could."
"But?" Lexa looked at Clarke incredulously.
"But, the game went extra innings, and there was a coach from the Florida State League there evaluating him. He ended up closing out the game with a win."
"And then he left?"
"Yes, but not before having a few celebratory beers in the locker room with his teammates."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Jake took the backroads to avoid getting caught, but somewhere around Belchertown he fell asleep at the wheel."
"Was he ok?"
Clarke shrugged. "He got lucky. It was late, and there wasn't anyone else out. His foot slipped off the pedal, and he rolled into a shallow ditch on the side of the road. A cop woke him up just before dawn, and he ended up getting to Boston a few hours after I was born."
"Your mother must have been furious."
"She was. It was the first time Jake been genuinely unreliable when it came to their relationship, and the fact that it had all been due to alcohol and the game wasn't irrelevant to her. Jake promised that he'd never do anything like it again, but I think the whole thing rattled my mom. After that, it was easier for my grandfather to get in her head about things. He encouraged her to think about what her future might look like if things didn't work out for Jake, and offered to let her move home. A month later we were back in Atlanta, living with my grandparents."
"Jake spent fall and winter for that year working construction back in Georgia. He was getting bumped up to Advanced-A the following season, and he wanted my mother and me to come with him. Initially, my mom agreed, but then my grandparents offered to support her and hire a nanny for me so she could honor her spot at Emory. Mom knew if she didn't go back to school she might never finish, so she decided to stay."
"How did Jake take that?"
"Not well, but he finally agreed that it was for the best, at least until his career prospects were more secure. The next season, Jake started to get some media attention. There was talk about him making the jump straight to the Majors, but he ended up getting into a fight during a game. The Mets front office decided that Jake needed more time to mature, so they sent him to the Double-A affiliate in Williamsport for their postseason, then to the Arizona Fall League. He was gone for the next eight months, and when he came back, I was walking and talking, and my mother was in school full time."
"That must have been a strange adjustment."
Clarke leaned over the counter, crossing her arms and closing one eye as she considered the statement. "I was too young to remember any of it, but I think it was for my parents. My mother said that when he came back from Arizona, Jake was different. He was moodier, easily irritated, a little possessive. He was frustrated that she was studying so much, and he'd get jealous when she spent time with friends from school. It didn't help that my grandfather made it impossible for Jake to see me when my mother wasn't around. Still, Jake was determined for us to be a family."
Clarke stopped abruptly, walking over to the stove as though she'd just remembered that a lit burner. Two canisters full of cooking utensils sat on the counter to the right, and these she pulled aside, fishing a small, frame out from between them. She resumed her seat next to Lexa, pushing it towards her.
Lexa accepted the offering with great care, handling it as though it were a rare collector's item. She peered down, examining the images inside thoughtfully. A figure lay motionless on a floral print couch, asleep with his mouth hanging wide open, He looked more boy than man, despite his strong arms and rough stubble. A tiny toddler was sprawled, belly down, across his chest, dead to the world as well. Clarke leaned over, peering down.
"When Jake got home from Arizona, I was teething and waking my mom up every few hours during the night. Jake was having trouble sleeping anyway, because of the time difference, so he volunteered to stay up with me when I was fussy."
Lexa studied the scene a moment longer. "So he was trying?"
Clarke ran a finger slowly over the glass of the frame. "He was." She turned the frame over, placing it face down on the counter.
"Jake was gone again in February. He'd been invited to the Mets spring training in Port St. Lucie, and it seemed likely that he'd be called up sooner rather than later. Still, with no guarantees that he'd be in one place for more than a few months, he and my mother started arguing about long-term plans. In the end, they agreed that she and I would stay in Atlanta until he was called up to the majors."
"That spring, Jake was added to the 40 man roster and sent to Norfolk, Virginia to play Triple A. He got the call in the middle of June, and a few weeks into July he was headed to New York City to make his Major League debut."
"Youngest Mets starting pitcher since Dwight Gooden."
"Ok, so you're a fan."
Lexa blushed, biting her lip. "Sorry."
Clarke rolled her eyes, poking Lexa in the ribs playfully to ease the awkward tension. "Anyway, I'll spare you the professional details since you already seem to know them. Jake did well, but he hated the city. He was a country boy, and New York was too big, too noisy, too full of people for him. He missed my mother and begged her to visit him. When the Mets made the postseason, she and I flew up to visit. That's when this photograph was taken."
Clarke unfolded the paper, pointing to the picture that was attached to the article. "Jake wanted to try and go public with details about my mom and me. He convinced her to let him carry me onto the field after a particularly big game. I hadn't been around Jake enough to get used to him, and by then he'd started growing that ridiculous mustache and those massive sideburns. I didn't recognize him at all, and when my mother handed me off, I got hysterical."
Clarke looked down at the newsprint. "There were a bunch of photos taken of us that day, but that was the only one where I didn't look like I was being kidnapped."
It was a funny joke, so Lexa laughed, but the sad reality of where Clarke's story riverway was becoming evident. The blonde folded the paper closed again and sighed.
"His plan backfired. We were barely a side note in articles, and seeing my picture in the newspaper made my mother nervous. It freaked her out even more that every time she and Jake were out together, photographers would follow them. She felt like they didn't have any privacy, and she was worried that he'd gotten too into partying and staying out all night. Even so, she agreed that if the Mets offered him a Major League contract at the end of the season, she and I would move up permanently to be with him."
"So why didn't you?"
"A week after we left Jake and some other players were photographed drunk at a strip club. She and Jake started fighting after that, but my mother was still planning to keep her word. When the postseason ended, the Mets signed my father to a new contract with a no-trade clause. Mother agreed to move up at the end of the school year, but a few months later the thing with the woman in New Jersey happened.
"What thing?"
"Some woman in Atlantic City claimed to be pregnant with Jacob's baby. Suddenly, that photograph," she tapped the paper again" was everywhere. People wanted to know who I was, and whether or not Jake was some lothario, leaving a slew of illegitimate children in his wake. It didn't help that reporters found out that my mother had been seventeen when Jake had gotten her pregnant. They had a field day with that one."
Unsure what to say, Lexa took a long swig of beer. She glanced at Clarke nervously, unwilling to ask the uncomfortable question that was lingering on the tip of her tongue.
Clarke seemed to realize what Lexa was thinking. "It turned out not to be true about the woman in Jersey, but the fact that it had happened convinced my mother that Jake had probably been unfaithful. He swore up and down that he hadn't slept with her, and that the whole thing was a publicity stunt, but it was too late. My mother's mind was already made up, she told Jake that it was over, and she was staying in Atlanta."
"And Jake?"
"He lost it a little bit. He accused my mother of letting my grandfather brainwash her. I think he felt like she had abandoned him. The fallout was a mess. Lawyers were hired, custody arrangements were argued over. In the end, they awarded my mother full custody of me, but Jake was allowed yearly visits. That's why he bought the apartment here. Savannah was close enough that he could see me without my mother having to put me on a plane, but far enough away that reporters wouldn't catch on to where she and I lived. Every winter break, my mother would drive me down, and I'd spend the holidays with Jacob.
"Your mom trusted him?"
"Not at first. When Mom was still in college, she would come down with me. I think she and Jacob were still on and off with each other then, but after she started medical school, she couldn't get the time off. She agreed to let me go on my own, provided I call every night and Jacob promised he wouldn't drink while I was there."
"And he kept his word?"
"He did actually. My father was different when he was around me."
A loud boom could be heard in the distance as the Friday fireworks began over the river. Clarke hunched over the counter, her elbows propping her up as she began playing with her thumbs. "He wasn't a perfect guy, but I do think he wanted to be a good father."
Lexa smiled, watching for a moment as fireworks broke in the distance. She stole a glance at the girl next to her, her blue eyes grown glassy, still preoccupied with her digits. Gently, the pitcher reached out and took one of Clarke's hands in her own, turning it over and tracing small circles into its palm before lacing their fingers together.
"What was he like, Clarke?"
Clarke sniffed, her voice cracking a little as answered the question. "Funny. He used to make me laugh so hard that I could barely breathe. He was always telling jokes or doing something silly. He was pretty patient too. I'd talk his ear off for hours, and he'd just sit there and listen, even though I think it was hard for him to hear about my life when he wasn't a part of it.
Lexa took Clarke's other hand, wrapping her long fingers around it. "What was your favorite thing about him?"
Clarke laughed. "His terrible narration. Jake was quite a slow reader, but even so, he insisted on reading me to sleep every night during my visits."
"That's pretty charming."
"That was Jake. Petty charming, but not very consistent."
"No?"
Clarke shook her head. "When we were together, he was present, focused, but when we were apart, his life always seemed to eclipse me. He'd say he was going to call after a game and then he'd fall asleep or forget. He'd promise to come see me for school plays and soccer games, but then he'd cancel because of training or show up days late because he'd had to do an interview, or got into trouble."
Clarke wiped the beginnings of tears away from her eyes, refusing to let her emotions get the better of her. "That photograph in the bedroom, it wasn't even my birthday. Jacob missed the real party because he'd gotten arrested for being drunk in public. He showed up a week later and insisted we have another so he could celebrate with me."
Lexa felt heartbroken at the knowledge that Clarke had experienced so much disappointment so early in life. She thought of her childhood, guiltily remembering the many times she had imagined her father was something more than a town plumber, now profoundly thankful that he'd been so dependable and ordinary.
Clarke straightened up, pulling her hands from Lexa's. Her composure regained, she began clearing away the empty beer bottled on the counter. As she moved around the island, she continued to talk, her eyes never glancing up.
"When I was still little, I'd see him on the cover of tabloids and magazines, but I didn't understand any of it. Back then, he was my hero. He'd show up out of nowhere and take me out of school so we could spend the day going to the movies or getting ice cream. He'd send me gifts out of nowhere. But, the bigger his career became, the more often he got into trouble. As I started getting older, Jake's problems became more visible to me. For a while, I didn't believe any of it, but then he got his first DUI."
Lexa's brow knit, remembering her uncle and father discussing the debacle in their family's kitchen. "That was right after the world series, right?"
"Yep." the reporter continued to busy herself with straightening up the counter. "Suddenly kids at school were telling me what a jerk my father was. She paused, filling a glass with water. "It's the first time I remember being embarrassed about who my dad was."
Clarke sipped her water, tentatively looking at the woman across from her. "After the DUI, my mother insisted that a nanny had to supervise my visits to Savannah."
"He must have hated that."
"He did. He stopped coming."
Lexa's eyebrows shot up several inches. "He stopped coming all together?"
"When I was ten, he told my mother that he was going to start spending the offseason in New York. He offered to fly me up to see him, but my mom wouldn't let me go, and he didn't put up a fight about it. He still came home to see me once in a while, but his visits were getting less and less frequent. Right before my twelfth birthday, he got into that big car crash. I saw him about a month afterward. He came home for this important softball game I was playing in. Like an idiot, I got all excited, because for once he'd showed up when he'd promised to. Afterward, he took me out to dinner. I thought it was to celebrate, but instead, he ended up telling me that he thought it was best if we didn't see each other for a while."
Lexa had known the detail was coming. She remembered Clarke telling her that she hadn't had much of a relationship with her father towards the end, but somehow she'd imagined a less abrupt falling out.
"That's… That must have been so hard."
Clarke shrugged. "Actually, no. It helped. Granted, it hurt at the time, but I finally realized the kind of man Jacob was. That was the last time that I saw him before he died."
Something in Clarke's face shifted then, the lines becoming harder. Her shoulders tensed, and the muscles in her neck strained ever so slightly. "Lexa…"
Lexa held up her hands. "It's all right Clarke. We don't have to talk about the accident if you don't want to."
Clarke held in a breath. "There was no accident."
Lexa froze, suddenly understanding the oath of secrecy Clarke had asked from her. At that moment, there was nothing to be said, and so she sat, her stomach coiling as though she were watching a bomb fall from the sky.
"Lexa, my father shot himself."