* * *
Jack knew what was wrong with this house. There weren’t enough doors, that’s what was wrong. The rooms on the main living level all just sort of flowed together into one big room with some divider walls tossed in to push the furniture against. Screw the couches, he wanted doors. Doors that closed, locking out aunts and babies and a woman who always seemed to be where he didn’t want her to be, tape measure in hand, ways to sink his bank balance at the ready.
He picked up the telephone in the den and walked into the powder room, shutting the door behind him. He felt like an idiot. Big Baseball Star (has-been baseball star) Hides In Bathroom. Film at eleven.
Yeah, well. He punched in the numbers on his brother’s cell phone.
“Paradise Hotel, open all night. Bedwarming a specialty.”
“Oh yeah? Well, book me two rooms overlooking the park, okay?” Jack said, shaking his head.
“Oh, hi, Jack,” Tim Trehan said. “Sorry about that. I was expecting somebody else.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you were. What’s her name, if you even remembered to get her name.”
“I remember, I remember. Give me a minute. Trixie? No, that was Cincinnati. Okay, I got it now. If this is Chicago, then it must be Suzanne. See? And you thought I was the love ’em and leave ’em type.”
“You are,” Jack said, leaning against the sink, wondering if Tim could hear the echo in the tiled room across the new, wireless world. “Nice game yesterday; I saw it on cable. You’re still taking too big a lead off second, though, you know, hot shot. Somebody’s gonna burn your ass one of these days. Nothing looks dumber on the highlight clips than some clueless boob caught leaning the wrong way off second.”
“Yeah, well, you never made it as far as second, brother mine,” Tim shot back, laughing. “Good thing you could throw the ball, because you sure as hell never could hit it worth a damn. So, what’s up?”
“Nothing. I’m watching grass grow. You should try it, it’s very relaxing.”
“I’ll pass, thanks. And I mean it, what’s up? You sound kind of... hollow.”
Okay, so Tim could hear the echo. “All right, I do have a favor to ask.”
“Ah, a favor. If it has anything to do with me peeing into a cup and impersonating you at a paternity hearing, forget it. Besides, I think we have the same DNA.”
It was an old joke between them, but still Jack smiled. As identical twins, they’d traded places for school tests, dentist appointments, and even a date or two. “No, it’s nothing like that, I promise. But I could use your help.”
“Spill it,” Tim said, and Jack could hear him moving around the hotel room, probably getting ready to head to Wrigley Field for the four o’clock game.
“Mort has a scout coming here Friday morning,” Jack said, then waited for Tim’s response.
“Scout? What kind of scout? Indian scout? Talent scout? Mort’s got you auditioning to play a part in a movie? You were great as Mr. Dental Floss to my Mr. Six-year Molar in Mrs. Harrison’s class, but I don’t think you’re really ready for the big time, bro. But, hey, that’s just me. What do I know? You go for it.”
“Baseball scout,” Jack said, then went on quickly, explaining himself, trying to sell himself. “I retired, sure, but the Yanks were ready to cut me loose, my contract’s up next month, and they don’t care if I play again, as long as it isn’t here. So Mort arranged for a scout to come see me, a scout for a Japanese ball club. I don’t want to do mouthwash ads, I want to pitch. And I can still pitch, Tim. Not a full game anymore, not at the major-league level, here in the States, but my name would be enough to fill seats in Japan for a couple of years.”
There was silence, complete and utter, on the other end of the phone.
“Tim? Tim, you still there? Look, don’t give the opinions, okay, just help me out. I can’t leave the game yet, Tim. I’m not ready. The tryout has to be secret, because I don’t want the press anywhere near this. You’re back from your road trip late tonight, and you can drive up from Philly tomorrow morning, meet me at the high school ball field, and catch for me. Just like the old days, Tim. I pitch, you catch. It’ll just look like the two of us, working out. Nobody’d know the difference. Tim? Say something, Tim.”
“You’re nuts,” Tim answered at last.
Jack was beginning to sense a trend here. That made two—Keely, and now Tim. They both thought he was nuts. Mort didn’t think he was nuts, but then, Mort got 10 percent of every penny Jack made, so maybe his couldn’t be called an objective opinion.
“Okay, Tim, I’m nuts. Now close your eyes for a second and think about this. There’s a knock on your door in the next five minutes, and the coach comes in to tell you you’re being unconditionally released if you don’t voluntarily retire. You’re through and, in his opinion, there isn’t a franchise in the country willing to pick up your contract. And, damn, he’s right—there isn’t. What would you do, Tim? Take it on the chin, be a man, go home and find a hobby for the next fifty years? Maybe whittling. Would you like whittling, Tim?”
“Jack... Jack, Jack, Jack,” Tim said, and Jack could see his brother in his mind’s eye, pacing the floor, shaking his head. “You don’t want to go out that way. Pitiful, some sad, pathetic shadow of your former self, hanging on past your prime...”
“My prime? I was just hitting my stride, Tim, and you know it. If it hadn’t been for my rotator cuff, I’d still be out there, taking my—”
“Jack,” Tim interrupted firmly, “you’re probably going to the Hall of Fame. Sure, you only pitched in the majors for seven years. Sandy Koufax didn’t do much more, and he got there. Okay, maybe not on the first shot for you, but you’ll get there. You’ve got two Cy Youngs, three World Series rings. You want to risk all that to play mediocre ball with a mediocre arm? People remember best what they see last. Do you want them to remember you in Yankee Pinstripes, or bowing to the batter before you lob him a fat one that goes over the fence?”
Jack sat down, on the only seat available to him. “I can’t hack it, Tim. I’m trying—God, I’m trying—but I just can’t hack it. I’ve got to give it another shot, at least try to get back in the game.”
There was another small silence, and then Tim said, “Okay, bro. You talking the field at Whitehall High? I can be there by nine. Friday morning, right? Is that good enough?”
Jack felt his body collapsing with relief. “Thanks, Tim. I knew I could count on you.”
“Yeah? Well, you can. Because I’m catching that ball you’re throwing, remember that And if I say you don’t have it anymore, then you damn well don’t have it anymore. Are you ready to hear that—from me, from your brother?”
“No, I’m not ready to hear that,” Jack answered honestly. “But I’d believe you. See you tomorrow morning. And thanks.”
Jack hit the disconnect button and let himself out of the bathroom, wondering where Keely, the Wonder Woman Decorator, was lurking now, ready to jump out at him asking if he liked cherry or blond woods.
Nothing. She wasn’t in the living room, measuring for drapes. She wasn’t in the den, making the evil eye at a perfectly fine television set. She wasn’t in the kitchen, although something sure smelled good—he was pretty sure the smell came from something in a pot on the counter. Stew? He walked over, lifted the lid so that steam escaped into the air. Yeah, stew. He liked stew. Not that he’d tell her that.
He looked up at the clock Keely had hung above the sink, mentally figuring out how much time he had between now and dinner, then deciding to go out to the garage and throw a little. He’d gotten a tire, hung it from a rope inside the garage, and backed it up with a strong net. Standing outside the open door, on a mound of dirt he’d hauled onto the driveway, he’d created a crude but workable setup for working out his arm, the inside of the tire making a strict strike zone. It was how he had learned, all those years ago, and it was how he chose to work now.
He reached up to his right shoulder, rubbing at it. Okay, so he was sore, a little worse than
just sore. Who wouldn’t be sore? He hadn’t pitched in two months. And maybe he was pushing a little hard; three workouts a day. But, then, he had the rest of his life to rest, if this didn’t work out... and three kinds of liniment in his medicine chest.
He was just heading for the back door when he heard it, stopped. M and M crying. The sound came to him down the back staircase. He waited a second, then headed toward the door once more, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob. The kid was still crying, and getting louder.
Where was Keely? Why wasn’t she picking the kid up? She had that kid on her hip so often, anyone would think the two of them were attached, for crying out loud.
M and M’s wails grew louder, angrier.
“Aw, hell,” Jack said, letting go of the doorknob, heading for the stairs.
This wasn’t a part of his plans, any of his plans. He needed M and M around like he needed another rotator-cuff surgery. Damn Cecily. Damn Keely for not living up to her end of the bargain. Damn him for getting himself into this mess in the first place. He should have called Joey, better yet, Child Welfare, within minutes of finding M and M on his doorstep.
That’s what any sane man would have done.
Jack walked down the hallway, peering into each room he passed, looking for Keely. It was as if the woman had disappeared into the ether.
The door to M and M’s room was open, and her wails filled the upstairs hallway. Jack sighed, squared his shoulders, and walked in, to see M and M sitting in the middle of the crib mattress, flowered jammies riding high on her chubby legs, blond curls stuck to her head by a combination of perspiration, tears, and probably snot. Her cheeks were red, her huge blue eyes looking like drenched violets. Drenched violets? Where’ the hell had that come from?
Jack shook his head and approached the crib. “Hey, kiddo, what’s up?” he asked.
M and M shut up, looked at him. Her bottom lip trembled, her entire body shuddered. And then she raised her arms to him as yet another tear rolled down her chubby cheek.
“Oh, no,” Jack said, backing up a step. “Not in this lifetime. I had a year of you for a couple of hours the other day, and that was more than enough, okay?”
M and M shuddered again, whimpered. She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a hiccuping half sigh, half sob.
“Not working, kiddo. I’m not feeling the least bit guilty. I took you in, got you this great crib. But nobody said I was going to play daddy, you got that? No daddy. No, no daddy.”
“Da,” M and M said, waving her arms. “Da-da-da!”
Jack’s eyes opened wider. “Who taught you that?”
“Da-da-da-da-da!”
“I am not your—” Jack looked around behind him, saw that he was still alone in the room with M and M. “Oh, hell,” he said, surrendering. Did he have any choice? If he walked away, she’d just go off again, so he might as well pick her up.
He looked at the crib railing, wondering how to lower it, because it looked as if it could be lowered. And it probably could, he decided about a minute later, by someone with a degree in mechanical engineering. That wasn’t him.
He reached over the bars, gingerly grabbed M and M beneath her arms, and hefted her out of the crib. M and M immediately shoved two wet, sticky hands into his face, one grabbing onto his ear, one unerringly closing around his bottom lip.
“Da-da-da-da-da!”
Da-da—that is, Jack—in a move made purely in self-defense, carried M and M over to the changing table, laid her down, pried her fingers loose. He grabbed a small terry-cloth square from the shelf under the table and began wiping M and M down as she looked up at him, dark eyelashes kissing with moisture, her rosebud mouth still open, still singing the same “Da-da” song.
“There? Better now?” he asked, not realizing that his voice had gone rather soft, gentle. “Now, do you want to tell me what’s wrong? Hmmm?” he said, careful to hold on to her little wrists. “Come on, tell Jack what’s wrong. Did that big bad Keely leave you here all alone? Bad Keely. Bad, bad Keely.”
M and M’s bottom lip did its thing again, and Jack quickly smiled once he realized he’d been frowning. Grinning ear to ear, even as he wondered why he was doing it, he repeated, “Bad, bad Keely.”
M and M cooed, or gurgled, or whatever it was she did. Whatever it was, it was darn cute.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, encouraged. Keeping his tone light, his smile in place as he leaned over the baby, he went on, “Keely bad. Jack good, but Keely b-a-a-d-d. Not bad-looking, grant you... but she’s got a mouth on her... and an attitude...”
M and M cooed.
“Oh, you know that, do you? Well, I guess you should, being with her all the time. Poor kid. But she’s a real pain, isn’t she? She fell as flat on her face as I did on mine, and now she’s swaggering around here, acting like she’ll be back on her feet in no time. Shopping, cooking, decorating, taking care of you, and making it all look so damn—er, so darn easy. Letting me know she’s pulling herself back up by her own bootstraps, while I’m just sulking. Bootstraps! Cecily used that word, as I remember, which should tell us something, right? But that’s what she thinks, you know. I can tell. Grinding my face in it, that’s what she’s doing.”
M and M frowned, blinked.
“What? You think I’m overreacting?” Jack asked the baby. “I’m not, you know. She made it plain that first day. She’s resourceful, and I’m a self-pitying idiot. Yeah, well, as long as she’s being good to you, huh, sweetheart? And you are a sweetheart, aren’t you? When you’re dry, and don’t smell bad. And you’ve got the fattest belly...”
Jack lifted the hem of the pajama top, exposing that firm, fat belly, then gave in to an impulse he’d never understand. He bent his head, pressed his lips to M and M’s belly and blew... blew air bubbles against that soft skin.
And M and M giggled.
She really giggled!
Jack lifted his head, smiled at the baby. “You liked that?” he asked, feeling pretty proud of himself. Five minutes ago, the kid had been yelling to bring the house down, and now she was giggling. Who said this taking care of babies stuff was so damn hard? Anything Keely McBride could do, he could do better, or at least just as well.
He bent his head again, blew more air bubbles... and M and M giggled again.
He let go of her hands as she began kicking her feet, and her fingers quickly gripped his ears, her tiny nails digging into him as he bent, blew more bubbles.
M and M giggled.
Jack laughed.
And Keely, standing just inside the doorway, watched for a few moments, blinking quickly so that her eyes would stop their sudden stinging, then turned, pulled her terry robe closer around her body, and went off to get dressed after her shower.