It was hot.
Maybe the hottest afternoon of the year so far.
"A swing and a miss! Wait! Somebody missed the sign," said the sports commentator on the small TV. "For whatever reason Medina is going to third base and... he's out!"
"Oh, for Pete's sake!" Abraham shouted, putting his empty beer bottle on the ground.
"Language," reproached Ismael.
"Sorry, compadre, but I mean... Come on! Did you see that? The guy is missing at least two chromosomes!" His voice raised even louder. As usual, Abe was using sports as an escape valve. "Want another cold one?" He asked while popping his fourth beer with his Navegante del Magallanes keychain bottle opener.
"Cold one?" the priest stared at his own Polar. It was almost full and very foamy.
"I know," Abe admitted, aware of the irony that their 'cold ones' had been lukewarm since before the first inning. "Hey! It's not the taste, but the numbness waiting for you at the bottom of the bottle, right? Anything to ease the pain."
"Why get all rattled up about Medina? There's no way he would have stolen third and gotten away with it."
"Why?" Abraham wondered.
"Because stealing is a sin."
"That's a bad joke, even by your standards."
"So you say."
"Yeah. And in my house, my word is the law."
Abe clanked his bottle against Ismael's as if to toast. They were both sitting on comfortable plastic chairs in the half-built room by the hawthorn tree in his patio.
"What are you going to use this room for once it's done?" Ismael asked him.
"Keep all my stuff."
"Right, because you are a hoarder."
"Rather be a hoard-er than just a plain whore." Abe laughed.
"Language," Ismael said, failing to keep a straight face.
Once his laughter died down, Abraham looked up. "Actually, once I finish the home office here, I'll be able to spend more time with my two ladies."
As sweltering hot Sunday afternoons went, this was one for the ages. Neither the shade nor the drinks did much to ease the heat, and yet Abraham wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. The deep cobalt blue sky above them was gorgeous, and that peaceful quietude unique to San Isidro—sprinkled with Ofelia's voice as she played cops and robbers with Marcelo inside the house—was all he needed to recharge his batteries before Monday morning came all too soon, accompanied as always by a deluge of stress.
Not that he wasn't stressed out now. Just like every year, once the Round Robin started, stress took hold of him and wouldn't let go; something that had everything to do with the turncoats among his men. He was not fond of Medina. The guy had played for a different team not two weeks ago! Abe detested the concept of reinforcements in the LVBP.
Why would they bring 'more talented' players from other teams to replace the ones that got you to the finals? he thought bitterly, convinced it sent the wrong message. Whatever happened to loyalty It's irrelevant if your team doesn't make it. As long as they deem you special, you can still win a championship if you jump ship. That's bullshit. Besides, they are abandoning their players.
"'For many are called, but few are chosen.'"
Abe snapped out of his reverie.
"Said somethin', compadre?"
"Thinking about why you hate Medina."
"I don't hate hate the guy..." He took another gulp of beer. "It's not like I want to kill him or anything."
"Shoot him in the knee?"
"Nah. The foot, maybe. Nothing too serious, though."
Ismael's eyebrows shot up as a cynical smile appeared on his lips.
"When you get to hell, send me a postcard."
"Ofelia, baby!" Abe said, reacting to the ruckus inside the house. "Please be careful."
"I already told them to keep it down," shouted his wife from the kitchen.
After a breath, Abe frowned at the priest. "So according to you, there's a frying pan in hell with my name on it?"
"Demons are getting the olive oil ready."
"Olive oil? Fancy." Abraham watched the next batter hit the ball to deep center field. For an instant, it seemed like the player would make it to second base. He didn't. "Oh, for Pete's sake! Language, I know. Don't give me that look." A sigh. "Okay, so humor me. What bought me a ticket to hell? My cursing?"
"Besides wanting to maim a professional baseball player?"
"Nothing a visit to the confessional and a couple of Hail Marys won't fix."
Ismael shook his head in mock disbelief. "Right."
"So, what's my sin?"
"It's your car fetish, compa."
"Not a fetish," Abe said. "If it were, every Vin Diesel fan would be a pervert and every garage shop a sex dungeon." Despite the sports commentator going on and on about how nothing quenched his thirst quite like a Pepsi, the silence of expectation between the two friends was almost palpable. "Well? I'm waiting for an answer. What's my sin?"
"Alright, let me put it this way." Ismael folded his arms. "Baseball has a lot in common with our faith."
"Blasphemous!" Abe said jokingly. "But continue."
"One of the main draws of Catholicism is the hope that angels will come and gather the chosen ones when the end is near, and this baseball season is almost over."
"Right." Abraham grabbed Ismael's beer from his hand. "No more booze for you."
The priest laughed. "Think about it. Medina is an All-Star. He's been chosen to 'ascend' to a team that can win."
"So, the Round Robin is like the Rapture?"
"Minus the Second Coming."
"And Medina is one of the Elect?"
"Attaboy."
"Let me guess, I'm doomed because I don't jibe with the Rapture policies."
Ismael clicked his tongue and winked at Abraham.
"Well, now you just rained on my parade."
"Then find an umbrella, Abe, because your mood will only get worse."
"Huh? Why?"
"Rodriguez is up to bat next."
"So?"
"Your team needs someone who can run, and I've seen nightstand tables with longer legs than this guy."
Abraham burst into laughter. "Now that is funny." He used his Magallanes shirt to wipe his tears. "I swear, Ismael, you'll be the death of me."
The phone rang.
Abe woke up, startled.
And the phone rang again.
For a moment, in a state of semi-consciousness, he had every intention of getting up from his comfortable plastic chair to pick up the receiver. But that was impossible. It was the middle of the night, and he was not at home.
Where am I?
The smartphone kept ringing and vibrating on his car's dashboard. He hated those damn things. Despite having accepted their usefulness in the past few months, and finding out he might have an untapped knack for technology, he still loathed smartphones.
"Marta?" Abe hesitated after reading his wife's name on the screen.
If the stiffness in his neck didn't kill him, the stabbing pain in his lower back would. As much as he loved his Malibu, its seats made for terrible beds. Why was he here? Sleeping in his car at the police station parking lot? He was just having a drink with his friend, watching a baseball game.
No. That was years ago. This is now.
Abe noticed the time, and something dreadful stirred in his stomach. A phone call this late at night could only mean one thing—bad news.
"Honey, what happened?" he asked. "Is it Ofelia?"
"No, she... I haven't heard from her yet." His wife's voice was thick with tears. "Where are you? Are you alone?"
"I'm at the station."
"You need to come home right now."
Abraham's heart skipped a beat. If this call had nothing to do with his daughter, perhaps... No. It was not possible. You need to stop doing this to yourself. The shit won't hit the fan, he told himself. Not tonight, not ever.
After all, no one else knew about the secret he'd kept for so long.