The Ripples From Little Lake Nellie

He met his brother-in-law. "Are you crazy?" his brother-in-law said. "They'll never let you in the country. They'll arrest you at customs. They'll give you a body-cavity search. Do you know what you look like now in the mirror?"

No. Two weeks straight without looking in a mirror. He bought the Delta ticket. He stuffed the wad of bills into the carry-on bag, next to the underwear, the socks, the shirts, the book, the passport, the plastic cylinder of sleeping pills. It was opening week in baseball.

You're not serious, Laurie. Not the dock. Not already. Not today. Christ, she's Clint Eastwood.

No, somebody said, she's tougher than Clint.

John Wayne, then.

No, tougher than John.

John Eastwood. That's who Laurie Crews is, they were kidding. She's John Eastwood.

The five men glanced at each other. Christ, she was serious. The lake. The dock. Just a few hours ago, they had buried her husband.

The uneasy teasing stopped. They started walking. Fernando Montes, the Indians' conditioning coach, and Perry Brigmond, a buddy of Tim's—the two men who waded in that night and dragged the boat with the ballplayers ashore. Kirk Gibson, a teammate of Tim's for three of his six years on the Dodgers, and Mark Ostreich, a workout pal, and Bobby Ojeda. Bobby took a few steps, and everything spun. Laurie took one of his arms. Kirk took the other. They walked that way to the edge of the water and stared across at the dock.

This was Laurie, pure Laurie. Don't put it off. Step right back up to it. Talk to Tim and Steve. Fix it, now. "You're comin' back, Bobby," she started saying that day. "You're gonna pitch again, hear me? Don't you worry about me. I got people comin' out of the woodwork supportin' me—worse 'n termites. You worry about you. I'll kick your butt if you don't come back. I mean it."