The Peach Seed: a Novel by Anita Gail Jones

Author:Anita Gail Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.

A name bears so much, and that day Siman had spoken his mother’s name for the first time. He always cherished his name story, knowing that even the spelling had been part of her plan for him: she wanted him to grow to be a man who listens and hears.

After work, he joined Patricia and her family for dinner. She made him a birthday cake and said, “If this isn’t what it means to be born again, I don’t know what is.”

* * *

Roasting in summer heat, Siman wiped hot dog grease from his hands, sharpened his pencil, and prepared to record the bottom of the ninth. Olga followed through on having Ursula email Altovise Benson’s contact info and Patricia joined him in tracking down her albums; three down and three to go. Beyond several unanswered texts and one failed video chat with Bo D, Siman had yet to make a move toward his new family. Olga had been strangely quiet about Bo D.

The smell of outfield grass and home plate dust took him back to his agonizing days on the bench. Now, except for the sweltering heat, sitting with Patricia, Thatcher, and Trinity at ThatcherJr’s games was a relaxing diversion from the growing situation down in Georgia. Unlike people all around him, Siman did not keep records on a laptop or tablet. Numbers were meant to be drawn, transforming each numeric idea into a carbon mark on paper; the glorious Ø, the graceful 7, and 9 curling into itself and back out again. He ran his hand over neat columns with boxes and tiny diamonds waiting to be filled in.

But numbers were useless in dealing with Altovise Benson. He would have to rely on his gut to calculate the implied return on investing in new blood relations.

Their team was up 3–2. He didn’t have to feel bad for his nephew; dusty and sweating between second and third base, no matter the weather, ThatcherJr loved this game. If asked, Siman will claim to show up purely for moral support, record keeping, hot dogs, and beer, when in fact—despite his lackluster history as a player—baseball was under his skin. His collection of baseball books was proof: from The Natural to Shoeless Joe to Only the Ball Was White. From his early days he had always grasped the power of pitcher against batter, and fielder against ball, shortstop being his favorite. Although Siman was never good enough to play the position, at nine years old, ThatcherJr was already showing signs of having what it took to master the art: the ability to repeat each move with numeric, machinelike precision, understanding that the shortstop is where all things converge in an instant of agility and speed. Siman watched pure choreography, his nephew’s baseball dance of pregame fielding: stepping up, looking left, looking right, then throwing the ball to meet a catcher’s glove with a WHAP! Boys practicing to be men, and each coach reliving his own boyhood.

“Let’s go Bucks!” Patricia and Trinity shouted as their batter walked up to home plate.

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