* * *
At six-thirty, Jack was already up, shaved and showered, dressed, and heading to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee. It was June, the sun was shining, the weather was already warm, and he should have been in even sunnier California, getting ready for tonight’s game between the Athletics and the Yankees.
Instead, he was here, in Whitehall, a stone’s throw from the larger city of Allentown, and he had nothing to do, nowhere to go... and precious little to sit down on, considering that his furniture consisted of the mattress and box spring, a couple of lamps, a flat-screen television set, and one lumpy chair.
Jack had mastered the coffeemaker his Aunt Sadie had lent him—hey, anything Joe DiMaggio could do, Jack Trehan could do, damn it—and his morning coffee was hot and waiting for him. He stood, leaning against the kitchen counter, and looked around the room. Big. Modern. Empty.
The whole house was empty, and smelled new, which it sort of was. There was an echo, thanks to the hardwood floors and the cathedral ceilings. There was sunlight pouring through huge, floor-to-ceiling windows.
There was no privacy, little comfort, and Jack was still kicking himself for allowing his agent, Mortimer “More and More” Moore talk him into buying the ridiculous mansion. A great tax write-off, Mort had told him at the time.
Yeah, well, maybe. And he could use the tax write-off, he supposed.
In truth, the house was already a year old, even if it was still empty. Jack had thought the place would remain empty until he retired from baseball. Instead, it had remained empty for only that one year, until he’d been forced out of the game.
Big damn difference, and now Jack looked at the house as if it were some sort of punishment he had to endure. Being home again, back in Pennsylvania, back in the Lehigh Valley. What a comedown.
He should have stayed in Manhattan, where he owned this own condo on the forty-seventh floor of one of the classiest addresses in the city. And he could have, too. Except that being in Manhattan reminded him that he wanted to be in the Bronx, at the ball field, working on his curve ball.
So he’d locked up the condo and run home, run to the house Mort had talked him into buying, even run to his Aunt Sadie, who lived above the four-car garage... five snug rooms she jokingly called “the dower house.”
Aunt Sadie had furniture. She had pots and pans. She had more than two towels.
She also had a guest room, but Jack would rather sleep on a park bench than in Sadie Trehan’s guest room, which was furnished in early kitsch. Hell, the Hawaiian hula-skirt girl lamp had been about the most normal thing in the entire room.
“Yeah, well,” Jack said, pushing himself away from the counter, “today, Jack old boy, is the first day of the rest of your life—whatever that means—so you’d better get on with it.”
Getting on with it meant meeting with the interior decorator Sadie had hired, and hoping the guy wasn’t a fan of Sadie’s decor. Getting on with it meant trying to figure out how he was going to fill his days, his nights, his weeks and years, now that he’d lost his first and only love, baseball.
Getting on with it, since he was feeling pretty down and small steps were probably all he could take at the moment, meant going to the front door and praying Sadie had kept her word and ordered the morning paper for him.
The Yankees were on a West Coast road trip, and Jack knew last night’s game stats probably hadn’t made the newspaper, so he grabbed the remote off the bar separating the kitchen and den, aimed it at the television. Nothing like a little morning ESPN to make him feel like going out in the backyard and wailing like a lost soul.
Auto racing. No scores, no stats. ESPN was running a frigging rerun of a frigging auto race. Jack hit the remote once more, shutting off the set. “Life just keeps getting better and better,” he grumbled, once more heading for the front door.
The phone on the bar rang, stopping him, reminding him that he’d heard the phone ring in the middle of the night, stupidly answered it, and found Cecily on the other end.
This time he’d be smarter. This time he’d check the Caller ID before he picked up.
“Mort,” Jack muttered out loud, then raised his eyes toward the ceiling, debating whether or not to answer. Last time Mort had called, it had been to try to talk him into doing a mouthwash ad for Japanese television. According to Mort, Jack had to strike now, while he was still relatively “hot,” before he became “yesterday’s news.”
Mort was a real brick. Supportive. A friend in need and a friend in deed.
Yeah. Right.
Jack pushed the button, lifted the cordless phone to his ear. “Morning, Mort,” he said, once more heading for the door. “What is it today? Hemorrhoid cream for the Netherlands? Erectile dysfunction medications for—oh, hell, I wouldn’t do one of those for anybody.”
Mort’s booming voice had Jack easing the phone away from his ear. “Good one, Jack. Good one! Hey, ever wonder why Bob Dole couldn’t have helped his fellow sufferers with a public service message instead of taking big bucks from a drug company? I have. Smart man, Dole. A man after my own heart. You can make bucks from anything if you just angle it right. Free for nothing is good for nothing, I say. Anyway, glad to hear you’ve got some of that old fight back.”
“A compliment, Mort?” Jack said warily. Mort Moore had all the sensitivity of a killer shark. “What do you want?”
“Want? Me? Want something? Jack, Jack, Jack. You know all I ever want is what’s best for you. I just wanted you to know I nixed that mouthwash ad. You were right on with that one. Not your thing, definitely.”
“Uh-huh,” Jack said, his right hand on the front door knob. “What is my thing, definitely?”
“Corvettes,” Mort said, and Jack could almost see the wicked grin on his agent’s face. “A two-day shoot in Arizona—lots of open space there, or something like that. You, the car, a beautiful girl in the seat beside you. Some drivel about the pitching ace and his new driving ace—lame, but they’re working on the copy. And you get to keep the car, Jack. So? What do you think?”
Jack removed his hand from the doorknob, rubbed at his chin. “A Corvette? Beats the hell out of mouthwash, Mort. Okay, but let me think about it. I’m still not so sure about going the endorsement route. My name on a glove is fine, but I wonder if it’s really honest to start putting my face and name out there, outside of sports.”
“Strike while the iron is hot, Jack,” Mort reminded him. “Not every ex-Yankee has a Mr. Coffee in his future. Now listen up—I’m heading South this morning. Gotta check out this kid from Florida State who’s thinking of coming out early for the NFL draft. Big, big boy. Hits the line like a ton of bricks, scares the crap out of the offense, but won’t take a step in any direction without his mama being there to watch out for him.. So I’m going down to charm the mama, size up the kid. I wouldn’t want to see anybody take advantage of him, you know?”
“You’re a real prince, Mort,” Jack told him, shaking his head. “Your percentage of the kid’s contract means nothing to you, right?”
“And don’t forget the signing bonus,” the agent told him, chuckling. “Okay, that’s it from here, Jack. I’ll be in touch in a few days, sooner if I hear from the ad agency. Don’t get in any trouble while I’m gone.”
“Trouble? When did I ever get in—oh, forget it,” Jack muttered, hearing the dial tone in his ear. “Trouble,” he repeated, reaching for the doorknob yet again. “Mort’s thinking about the wrong Trehan. I’m not Tim. I’m Jack, the good twin.” He turned the knob, pulled open the front door, bent down to pick up the newspaper. “I never get in trouble. I just get injured and retired at twenty-eight, along with an empty house and an agent who’s letting me know I’m soon going to be yesterday’s—holy shit!”
Jack looked down at the huge wicker wash basket sitting at the base of the three steps leading to his front door. Looked at the pink plastic bits and pieces of luggage stuffed into it. Looked at the plastic seat or whatever it was wedged in the center of
the basket. Looked at the thing inside the plastic seat.
Nah. Couldn’t be. He was hallucinating.
Jack closed his eyes, opened them again. Looked again. The thing in the seat looked back at him. Grinned at him, showing pink gums and one small tooth. Kicked at the blanket over its feet.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
His first instinct was to run back into the house and slam the door. Lock it. But that wouldn’t work.
He gave a moment’s thought to the neighbors, but since his house was located on three acres and his nearest neighbor was at least two blocks away, there wasn’t much fear that anybody would see him standing outside, looking down at a baby in a basket.
A baby in a basket?
Whose baby?
His baby?
Jack repeatedly slapped his arms against his sides and looked around, trying to appear nonchalant.
His baby? Could that be possible? He’d never been a playboy, never really slept around with all the women who just about threw themselves at major league baseball players.
But he hadn’t been exactly celibate, either.
His baby?
Possible. Anything was possible, right? Oh God.
He tossed the newspaper and phone behind him, into the foyer, flapped his arms some more, swallowed hard, did a small, nervous dance on the top step.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“Knock it off, knock it off,” he told himself. “Get a grip here, Trehan. This could be anybody’s baby. Doesn’t have to be your baby. But, just to be safe, go down the steps, pick it up, get it inside before anybody sees you.”
That all sounded good, except that Jack’s feet hadn’t been listening, so that he was still standing on the top step, and the baby was still sitting right there, out in the open, grinning up at him.
“Sadie,” Jack breathed at last. That was it; he’d call Sadie. His aunt would know what to do.
“No, no, not Sadie,” he corrected himself quickly, picturing his aunt and what she’d say. “Not until you know what the hell’s going on.”
That much decided, Jack finally went down the steps, bent over the basket. The baby reached up both arms, tried to grab at his nose as he lifted the heavy basket, carried it inside the house.
Kicking the door closed with one foot, he stood in the empty foyer, looking toward the empty living room. Where to put the basket? Like it mattered where he put it. What mattered was that it was there.
Jack carried the basket through the house, into the kitchen, finally depositing it on the tile floor, his head bent low over the basket because the baby had somehow gotten one hand into his mouth and was digging tiny fingernails into his gums behind his front teeth. He had to pry the little fingers away, one by one. The kid could probably bend iron, with a grip like that.
Running his tongue around his mouth, wondering if he now needed a tetanus shot—or if the kid did—Jack finally noticed a business-size white envelope tucked into the basket.
Ah, the obligatory note left with the baby in the basket. The note that would explain everything—just like in the movies. “Man, I hate when that happens,” Jack grumbled, only slightly hysterical as he gingerly picked up the envelope.
Written on the envelope were the first three nails in his coffin: To Darling Jack. He recognized the handwriting at once. Nobody but his cousin Cecily dotted her i’s with little hearts, crossed her t’s with small bows.
The note inside was short and not very informative, as Cecily wrote just as she spoke, in circles and as the spirit hit her:
Darling Jack,
Thank you so much for agreeing to take little Magenta Moon for me. You always were such a darling, as opposed to Joey, who’s such a jerk. She’s about six months old, I think, but hasn’t had her shots because I didn’t get around to it—Blue Rainbow tells me you should know this. He also said this letter must tell you that I give you all rights to take care of her. So you have all rights, okay? There’s also some official-looking papers stuffed in her diaper bag, in case you need them. Blue Rainbow once thought he wanted to be a lawyer, but that didn’t work. Something about his rap sheet, whatever that is? Oh, she’s probably going to be hungry soon. There’s some bottles for her in one of the bags. Well, gotta run. Just think, Jack—Katmandu!
Love,
Cecily (Moon Flower) Morretti
“Jesus H. Christ.” Jack sat down on the floor, still holding the note, and looked at Magenta Moon. The inner child, the child inside. It all made sense now. Too late, it all made sense. Well, Cecily kind of sense, anyway.
“You never could get anything right, could you, Cecily?” he asked as Magenta Moon began to cry; then he lowered his head into his hands. Given his druthers, he’d rather be in Tokyo... gargling.