“Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Hank Greenberg, Eddie Murray, Buck Leonard . . .” Henry started muttering and rocking, “Mark McGwire, Harmon Killebrew, Roger Connor, Jeff Bagwell . . .”
“Millie!” I raised my voice in an effort to be heard over the earphones that covered her ears.
Millie yanked the earbuds from her ears and immediately tuned into Henry.
She slid the cassette player to the floor and climbed over the seat without hesitation. She swiped at her wet face with one hand as she pulled Henry into her arms.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I’m okay.”
“Cap Anson, Bill Terry, Johnny Mize,” Henry mumbled.
“Baseball players?” I asked, recognizing a few.
“First basemen,” Millie supplied. Her lips were tight, and I could see she was still trying to force back the grief that had gotten to her in the first place. Henry’s forehead rested on her shoulder, his eyes hidden from her tear-stained face, giving her a moment to pull it together.
“Andre Anderson,” Henry added, but didn’t continue listing names.
It took me a minute to put it all together. Baseball. First basemen. Andre Anderson. Henry and Millie’s dad.
“Rookie of the Year, Gold Glove, Silver Slugger.” Henry pulled out of Millie’s arms and touched her cheek. I was getting dizzy watching the road and watching my rear view mirror and the drama in the backseat.
“Rookie of the Year, Gold Glove, Silver Slugger, lousy father,” Millie said firmly. “I am not crying over dad, Henry.”
“Tag Taggert, light heavyweight contender, nineteen wins, two losses, eleven knockouts, lousy boyfriend?” Henry asked.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I did neither. But my throat ached from the effort of doing nothing. Millie laughed, but a quick glance in my rearview confirmed that tears streamed down her cheeks once more. It was tragically funny.
“No, Henry. It’s not the same. It’s not the same at all. Tag didn’t leave us. This isn’t about us, Henry. This is about Tag.”
I felt a rush of awe for Millie Anderson. People didn’t impress me very easily. I could count on one hand the people who had exceeded my expectations, but Millie had just joined the ranks.
“He’s still gone,” Henry insisted, making me flinch. Millie said nothing. I just continued to drive.
Moses
THE ARENA WAS bright flashes and swinging strobe lights, and the seats I’d garnered were just to the right of the announcer’s table on the left side of the octagon. I had it on good authority that we would be able to see Tag’s corner and he should be able to see us if I could get his attention. I would have to sell one of my lungs to recoup the cost of the tickets, but we were in. Axel, Mikey, and the rest of the guys had managed to come up with seats as well, but they were somewhere else in the arena, and I hadn’t spotted them yet.
Henry’s face was blank, but his eyes swung wildly, soaking in the celebrity sightings, the electric energy, the announcers, the ring girls, the music. Millie had her game face on, and she held Henry’s hand tightly so he could guide her through the crowd, but I was afraid the two of them were going to be swept away, so I reached down and held her other hand, the three of us linked like a line of kindergarteners in a crosswalk.
The crush of people made me nervous, and I could see. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for Millie, bumping through the crowd in total darkness, senses on overload, unable to get her bearings. She gripped my hand and flashed me a smile as we wound our way to our seats. Tag’s fight wasn’t the main event, but he was the last fight before the final, and there were two fights lined up before his.
He still wasn’t answering his phone. In fact, calling his number resulted in a message that the user’s mailbox was full. We had tracked him down the best we could, and now we had to wait.
Millie had been subdued on the trip to Vegas, her face shadowed and shuttered, looking after Henry and making quiet conversation with me, and beyond the tears that had leaked out when she had listened to one of Tag’s tapes, she’d kept her emotions close to her chest. Me? I was angry. If Tag didn’t get his ass kicked in his fight, I was going to kick it afterwards. The anger kept me from being afraid. I had enough self-awareness to know that. But I didn’t understand what Tag was thinking. Not really. I didn’t understand just cutting us off and leaving. I’d seen a documentary once about how old Native Americans left their tribes when they were ready to die. But Tag was twenty-six. And he wasn’t Native American. And I refused to believe he was dying. The rage built in my chest again, and I mentally changed the subject.
Henry was tuned into the announcer’s table, more interested in the commentators than the fights themselves, and his interest drew my own. They were talking about Tag, and I felt Millie stiffen next to me.
“For our viewers who are just tuning in, Tag Taggert was not scheduled to fight tonight. But when Jordan Jones pulled out at the last minute due to a shoulder injury, fight commissioner Cliff Cordova called Tag Taggert, definitely a rising star in ultimate fighting, and asked him if he wanted to step in. Tag defeated Bruno Santos by technical knock-out in the fifth round only a month ago, which is the second time he has completely obliterated his underdog status and beaten a highly-favored opponent.
And now, David Taggert is entering the arena wearing his signature Tag Team gear. But he’s completely alone. He has two arena security guards with him. That’s it. No corner help, no coaches, no team whatsoever. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. For a guy who has been building the Tag Team brand so aggressively, that’s a little odd.”