Free Blond Cargo by John Lansing

?”
    “Now.”
    Jack crossed the street just as his son pushed through the door of the hotel. When he looked back, Peter was in the wind. Father and son headed up University Avenue toward the baseball stadium.
    “You okay? You didn’t eat much,” Jack said.
    “Not hungry.”
    “You look tired.”
    “Not sleeping,” he said, slipping on his Oakley sunglasses.
    “Want to talk about it?” Jack said, knowing the answer. Had to ask.
    “Not really.”
    Jack wasn’t crazy about the attitude, but he was too worried to push it. “I need some caffeine. You want an iced Americano?” he offered, knowing it was Chris’s favorite.
    “Sounds good.”
    Was that a thaw in the ice floe? Jack hoped. He’d take anything he could get because his son was obviously in turmoil, and it was killing him.
    At a break in the traffic, Jack and Chris did a New York dash across the street. A large truck sped up and then leaned on the air horn and brakes at the same time. Chris blanched. He froze in the middle of the road at the sound of the squealing tires. And then he recovered, flipped off the driver with his good hand, and finished crossing. Head down.
    Jack pretended he hadn’t seen, but they both knew. He threw a protective arm around his son. He couldn’t help it. Chris spun, disengaged, and power-walked up the street away from his father.
----
    Jack exited the tunnel that led to the Sunken Diamond playing field. Old-growth eucalyptus trees surrounded the well-appointed stadium. The sky was blue and the sun hidden behind huge, white, billowing cumulus clouds.
    The Stanford baseball team had been broken into small groups, going through the rigors of batting, fielding, and pitching practice. Five players were running laps and Jack could see one of Chris’s teammates give a thumbs-up to a solitary figure sitting in the nosebleed seats in right field.
    Jack sat down next to his son and they watched the action in uncomfortable silence. A leggy freshman at the plate went after a fastball and swung from his heels. The crack of the bat and the hustle of the outfielder were usually enough to put a smile on Jack’s face. Today, they fell short.
    “If it’s any help, that truck scared the hell out of me too.”
    “Doesn’t help.” And then, “Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to go through this alone. You can’t do it for me.”
    Jack understood with his brain, but not with his heart. He got that after being run down by a seven-thousand-pound vehicle, no warning—one minute you’re fine, the next you wake up in an ICU—he got that his son would never really be the same. And he understood painfully well that he was to blame.
    He and his ex-wife had set Chris up with a psychologist. Their boy shrugged it off. They couldn’t force him to go. His head was as thick as Jack’s. He was willful, stubborn, and Jack found himself at a total loss.
    “Team looks sharp.”
    It was all Jack could think to say.
    “It’s hard to watch. Really,” Chris said. “I get rid of this thing in three months and two days,” he said, referring to his cast, “and then I can start strength training. They want me to build the muscles in my arm again before they’ll let me throw. If I can still throw.”
    Jack felt the fear, honesty, and anger in that statement and it shut him down.
    “Makes sense.”
    Chris stood up and looked down at his father. Jack met his gaze.
    “I don’t blame you,” Chris said.
    “Good to know.”
    “Mom does, but I don’t.”
    Chris eased out of the aisle and started walking down the steep cement stairs. He turned and looked back up at Jack. “I’ll call you next week. Don’t worry about me. And tell Mommy I’m fine. I don’t need the pressure.”
    Jack fought the impulse to follow. He watched his son walk down the stairs, past his team, and out of the stadium. It felt like a knife through the heart.
----
    The Boeing jet looped over the San Francisco skyline. The lights illuminated the Golden Gate