“…it’s the bottom of the sixth inning and Nelson is pitching. Alomar hits a line drive down the left-field line for a double. Palmeiro is approaching the plate. The count is two and one. Nelson throws a fastball down the middle and Palmeiro is going for it. What a hit! It looks like it’s going to clear the right-field wall. It’s over! Palmeiro is rounding the bases with a two-run homer that puts the Orioles in the lead…”
At the seventh-inning stretch, Jeff stood up and looked at Dana. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Dana looked at him and nodded. “Yes.”
Back in D.C. after the game, they had supper at Bistro Twenty Fifteen.
“I want to apologize again for the way I behaved the other day,” Dana said. “It’s just that I’ve been living in a world where—” She stopped, not sure how to phrase it. “Where everything is a matter of life and death. Everything. It’s awful. Because unless someone stops the war, those people have no hope.”
Jeff said gently, “Dana, you can’t put your life on hold because of what’s happening over there. You have to begin living again. Here.”
“I know. It’s just…not easy.”
“Of course it isn’t. I’d like to help you. Would you let me?”
Dana looked at him for a long time. “Please.”
The next day, Dana had a luncheon date with Jeff Connors.
“Can you pick me up?” he asked. He gave her the address.
“Right.” Dana wondered what Jeff was doing there. It was in a very troubled inner-city neighborhood. When Dana arrived, she found the answer.
Jeff was surrounded by two teams of baseball players, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, dressed in a creative variety of baseball uniforms. Dana parked at the curb to watch.
“And remember,” Jeff was saying, “don’t rush. When the pitcher throws the ball, imagine that it’s coming at you very slowly, so that you have plenty of time to hit it. Feel your bat smacking the ball. Let your mind help guide your hands so—”
Jeff looked over and saw Dana. He waved. “All right, fellows. That’s it for now.”
One of the boys asked, “Is that your girl, Jeff?”
“Only if I’m lucky.” Jeff smiled. “See you later.” He walked over to Dana’s car.
“That’s quite a ball club,” Dana said.
“They’re good boys. I coach them once a week.”
She smiled. “I like that.” And she wondered how Kemal was and what he was doing.
As the days went on, Dana found herself coming to like Jeff Connors more and more. He was sensitive, intelligent, and amusing. She enjoyed being with him. Slowly, the horrible memories of Sarajevo were beginning to fade. The morning came when she woke up without having had nightmares.
When she told Jeff about it, he took her hand and said, “That’s my girl.”
And Dana wondered whether she should read a deeper meaning into it.
There was a hand-printed letter waiting for Dana at the office. It read: “miss evans, don’t worry about me. i’m happy, i am not lonely, i don’t miss anybody, and i am going to send you back the clothes you bought me because i don’t need them, i have my own clothes, goodbye.” It was signed “kemal.”
The letter was postmarked Paris, and the letter-head read “Xavier’s Home for Boys.” Dana read the letter twice and then picked up the phone. It took her four hours to reach Kemal.
She heard his voice, a tentative “Hello…”
“Kemal, this is Dana Evans.” There was no response. “I got your letter.” Silence. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m glad you’re so happy, and that you’re having such a good time.” She waited a moment, then went on, “I wish I were as happy as you are. Do you know why I’m not? Because I miss you. I think about you a lot.”
“No, you don’t,” Kemal said. “You don’t care about me.”
“You’re wrong. How would you like to come to Washington and live with me?”
There was a long silence. “Do you—do you mean that?”
“You bet I do. Would you like that?”
“I—” He began to cry.
“Would you, Kemal?”