And she didn't have much money for groceries. Sometimes, in the supermarket, she would pick up a package of chicken breasts and look at it longingly for a minute. But then she would say, "I just can't afford two ninety-nine a pound for chicken breasts, Caroline." Caroline would nod understanding^, and her mother would put the chicken breasts back. She would reach for the chicken livers, which cost ninety-nine cents a pound. Caroline would sigh and plan to eat a peanut butter sandwich for dinner.
Now, in Des Moines, right before her very eyes as she fed the babies their supper, Caroline watched Lillian take two packages of chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and unwrap them.
"What do you think, Caroline?" Lillian asked. "Shall we grill these outside tonight? I could make a barbecue sauce."
Caroline nodded appreciatively as she spooned some of a disgusting apricot and tapioca mixture into Ivy's mouth.
Ivy stuck out her tongue, made a sound that was something like "Bpheeewwww," and grinned as the apricots and tapioca flew into the air toward Caroline.
J.P. looked up from his notebook, where he was working on the baseball team statistics. "I taught her to do that," he said, "while you were out in the yard with Poochie this afternoon. The twins woke up from their naps, and I went in and played with them for a while. I was trying to teach them to whistle."
"Thanks a lot" Caroline said sarcastically as she wiped the apricots and tapioca off her own face.
"She couldn't get the hang of it," J.P. explained. "She can only do that "Bpheeewwww."
"You have to have top teeth to whistle," Poochie announced, looking up from the TV cartoons. "They don't have any top teeth."
"Wrong," said J.P. "That's what I thought, too. So I was conducting this experiment. And look." He stood up and came over to the highchairs.
Caroline spooned some apricots and tapioca into Holly, and held her hands firmly so that she wouldn't smear the food on her face.
"Hey, Holl," J.P. said, leaning over the highchair. "Give a little whistle." He whistled at her, and then stood back.
Holly puckered up and whistled. A splat of apricots and tapioca landed on Caroline's shoulder.
"See?" said J.P. "Holly can whistle. But Ivy can't. And they both have the same teeth—just on the bottom—so it isn't the teeth. I'm trying to figure out what makes the difference."
"Bpheeewwww," said Ivy, and more food flew.
"Here," said Caroline angrily and handed her brother both bowls of baby food. "You find them so fascinating—you feed them."
The chicken breasts were terrific. The family ate outside on the picnic table in the yard, and there were more than enough barbecued chicken breasts to go around; and there was a mountain of salad, with blue cheese dressing—Caroline's favorite—and there was strawberry ice cream for dessert.
The babies' playpen had been moved outside, and Holly and Ivy gurgled and kicked happily.
"Can I practice batting again, before I have my bath?" Poochie asked, with his mouth full of ice cream.
"Sure, fella," Herbie Tate boomed. "Coach here'll hold a little b.p. after dinner, won'tcha, Coach?" He thumped J.P. on the shoulder.
J.P. winced. "B.p.?" he asked, looking puzzled.
"Batting practice," Caroline translated. Sometimes J.P., for all his IQ, was so thick.
Her brother groaned. "Do I have to?"
"I'll do it," Caroline suggested. "I was helping Poochie this afternoon," she explained to her father.
Herbie Tate was swinging an imaginary baseball bat and hitting imaginary home runs over the roof of the garage. He wasn't paying any attention to anything else. "Gotta go," he said after he had watched the final invisible ball disappear into a neighbor's tree. "Gotta lot of paperwork to do down at the store."
He kissed Lillian. "Great dinner, Diamond Lil," he said.
He shot each baby with his imaginary pistols. "Blam. Blam. Love ya," he said. They giggled and waved their arms.
Then he took on a boxing stance, did some quick shuffling with his feet, and aimed some fake punches at Poochie, who was still shoveling ice cream into his mouth. "Go for it, Champ," he said. Poochie put his spoon down and gave him a halfhearted left jab into the air. "Right, Daddy," he said.
Herbie turned toward Caroline and J.P.
"Good night, Dad," they both said quickly in unison, like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
"Thank you for taking over the batting practice," J.P. said to Caroline. They were out in the yard, sitting by the picnic table, slapping at occasional mosquitoes and watching the coals in the charcoal grill turn white. The babies were in bed, and so was Poochie. Lillian was washing her hair, and Herbie hadn't come back yet from the sporting goods store.
"You're welcome," Caroline told her brother. "I don't mind, ah, b.p." She giggled. "Actually," she said, "Poochie's getting better. I think I figured out what his problem—"
J.P. interrupted her. "I don't care what his problem is. My problem is that I'm not going to survive this summer, Caroline. I may not survive this week. Not with that big baseball game on Friday. Caroline, I hate baseball more than anything in the whole world. You remember in that book, Caroline, and then they made a movie of it—1984—they chose a special torture for everyone. The guy in the book, his torture was rats, remember? Because he hated rats more than anything in the world. But me, Caroline, my special torture would be—my special torture is—"
"Baseball."
"Right," groaned J.P. "Baseball."
"Mine is babies," muttered Caroline.
"I think those babies are cute," J.P. said.
Caroline took a long deep breath. "Maybe I'm an unnatural person," she said, "but I think those babies are about as cute as—as cute as—" She paused, trying to think of her least favorite thing in the whole world.
"Tarantulas?" J.P. suggested, trying to be helpful.
Caroline glared at him. "J.P.," she said in her paleontologist's voice, "tarantulas are actually very fascinating creatures. I would much rather have a pet tarantula than a baby."
"Well, I'd rather have a baby than a baseball team," J.P. replied gloomily.
They were both silent for a moment. Then they heard the car approach, turn into the driveway, and pull to a stop. They heard the car door open and close. They heard their father's booming voice as he headed for the kitchen door.
"Ta-DA!" called Herbie Tate. "Here he is, folks: the Indestructible, Late, Great, Herbieeeeee TATE!"
They heard Lillian greet him, laughing.
"I'm going to do my revenge tomorrow," whispered Caroline to her brother.
J.P. gave a sudden, sinister laugh. "Guess what," he said. "I already did mine."
10
Caroline jumped, startled, when she heard the footsteps coming toward the back door. She looked at her watch—only 10:30. Too early for J.P.'s baseball practice to end.
The babies were still asleep.
Lillian was at her real estate course.
And Caroline was feeling guilty, because that morning, alone in the house—except, of course, for Holly and Ivy—she had performed her act of revenge.
Now it was done. It could never be undone, even if she wanted to undo it, which she didn't.
But she felt guilty. And there were—she listened more carefully—footsteps coming toward the back door.
The police? The police couldn't possibly know what she had done.
Caroline crept nervously over to the kitchen window. She peered out, laughed in relief, and went to the door.
"Hi," she said to her father.
Herbie Tate looked surprised to see her. His shoulders were slumped, the way Poochie's were sometimes. He appeared a little confused and finally began to reach halfheartedly for the imaginary pistol with which he usually greeted them. Then he sighed and didn't bother.
"Hi, Caroline," he said. "I forgot you'd be here. Stupid of me."
"The babies are asleep," Caroline explained. "After they wake up I'll walk them down to the park where J.P. and Poochie are practicing."
<
br /> Her father slumped onto the couch in the family room and shook his head. "Of course. I forgot. Lil's off at that real estate thing. Poor Lil."
"Why 'Poor Lil'?" Caroline asked a little defensively. "She's got a great baby sitter—cheap, I might add."
Her father stared at her. "We haven't thanked you enough, Caroline. I'm sorry. I guess I ought to explain. I said 'Poor Lil' because she hates that real estate course. She doesn't want to be a real estate agent. Lil would rather stay home and be a mother than anything else in the world."
"Well, why doesn't she? Why on earth would someone become a real estate agent if she didn't want to?" Caroline asked, confused.
Herbie shrugged. He looked embarrassed. "Money," he said finally. "Things aren't so good down at the store, Caroline."
"But I thought—"
He shook his head. "It's only temporary. A temporary slump. Don't tell Poochie. Please don't tell Poochie."
Tell Poochie? Why on earth would she tell a six-year-old kid that his father was having financial problems? And speaking of Poochie, Caroline thought—
"Does he have a name, Dad? A real name? Something that isn't Poochie?"
Her father smiled. "Of course he does. David Herbert Tate."
"Then why—"
"After Lillian and I got married, I wanted a kid right away. Because I missed you guys, Caroline. I missed you and J.P. It was really fun having you around when you were little. Your mom and I didn't have a very good marriage, but we sure both liked you kids a lot."
"Well, if you missed us so much, you could have made us come for the summer," Caroline pointed out.
"I know," her father said. "But—well, maybe you won't understand this, Caroline. But I wanted my very own full-time kid again."
"So you had one, and you named him—"
"Wait. Hold it. Lillian didn't want to have a child right away. She wasn't sure she'd be a good mother. We had a big argument. I wanted a kid. She wanted a dog."
"And you won."
Herbie chuckled. "I won. And Lillian turned out to be the best mother around. But for a little joke—well, we named him David Herbert. But we've always called him Pooch."
"Oh." Caroline squirmed. Pooch was a disgusting nickname, she thought. But she didn't want to tell her father that.
"Anyway," her father went on, "like I said, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention what I told you to Poochie."
"I wouldn't do that, Dad."
"Because he has his big game coming up and all. Don't want to distract him, right?" Herbie Tate stood up. Caroline could almost see him putting his other personality back on, as if he were putting on a coat "Gotta get back to the old store. I just came home to pick up some ledgers from the study. The ole federal marshal's comin' into town on his horse, to check over my books."
He moved heavily down the hall toward the study, and after a moment he came back with a handful of papers and a briefcase. He sorted through the papers, stacked them, and put them into the briefcase. He sighed.
"This will all get cleared up," he said. "This will all be cleared up real soon. I'm sure of it." He turned the briefcase over and over in his hands. Caroline watched him.
"Dad," she said, "you're really worried, aren't you? You're talking about big trouble, aren't you?"
He nodded and was silent for a moment. Then he said in a puzzled voice, "I really can't understand it. The store's always been successful. Okay, so maybe a sporting goods store isn't impressive like a huge corporation—so it's not IBM or GE. But it's always been a good store, Caroline. People in Des Moines have always come to Tate's Sporting Goods for their tennis rackets, for their golf clubs—"
He shook his head and stared out the window. "I've just never had any problems. A couple of months ago I had to fire someone because I caught him stealing some things. That was the biggest problem I've ever had at work." Herbie laughed sadly. "Big deal. I had to let the fellow who ran the computer go, because he took two tennis rackets. We didn't even prosecute.
"But I guess that was just the start of a run of bad luck. It's been a nightmare since then. I thought we were making plenty of money—we've always made plenty of money this time of year—but the money isn't there.
"I don't know where it went. And I'm in charge—it's my responsibility—it's my store. Meet your fate with Herbie Tate, right?"
He stood up with a rueful smile. "Back to the salt mines. I have three accountants in there trying to sort things out. And they're costing me seventy-five dollars an hour. Apiece."
Slowly he took out his imaginary pistol. This time he aimed it at his own head. "Blam," he said. Then he added quickly, with a nervous laugh, "Only joking."
Caroline watched through the window as he backed the car out of the driveway. Her throat hurt. He should have explained before, she thought. I wouldn't have minded baby-sitting. I would have come to Des Moines to help out, without even complaining, if I had known.
And I sure wouldn't have done what I did this morning, she thought, feeling a little like crying. Because I can't undo it.
Through the closed bedroom door, down the hall, she heard the little thumping and laughing sounds as the babies began to wake up.
Caroline arrived at the ball field with the babies in their carriage at the usual time, just as practice was about to end.
Out in center field, Matthew Birnbaum was industriously picking his nose. In right field, Eric the Beaver was hopping up and down, in circles, as if he were practicing ballet. Someone unidentifiable was lying on his—or maybe her—back in left field, getting a suntan.
Poochie was at bat, and J.P. was throwing to him.
"Pooch!" Caroline called. "Don't forget to—"
J.P. glared at her. "Do you mind?" he asked sarcastically.
"Well, I was practicing with him yesterday, remember?" Caroline called. "And I realized—"
"You want to take over as coach?" J.P. yelled angrily.
Yes, Caroline thought. I'd love to. And I could do a better job of it, too. But she didn't say that. "I'm sorry," she called to her brother. "I'll wait for you over by the bleachers. I want to talk to you after practice."
She steered the heavy carriage toward the bleachers and parked it so that the babies were in the shade. One of the twins—she peered in and saw that it was the one in the yellow hat—was fretful. She whimpered and pulled at her hat. Her face was flushed.
"Shhh," Caroline said impatiently and jiggled the carriage.
When practice, followed by all the usual after-practice insults, punching, kicking, name-calling, and crying, had ended, J.P. and Caroline walked home with the babies and Poochie. Caroline wanted to tell her brother about her conversation with Herbie. But she had promised not to tell Pooch, and Poochie was walking beside them.
"You know what we were talking about before, J.P.?" Caroline asked. "Something that you were going to do—actually, you already did it—and something that I was going to do?"
J.P. looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. She gestured toward Poochie to explain why she was being so secretive. "Yeah," J.P. said finally. "What about it?"
"Well, ah, is yours undoable?"
J.P. considered that. "If I undid it right away, it would be," he said. "But there's a time limit on that. Why?"
"Well," Caroline explained miserably, "I did mine this morning, and there's no way to undo mine. And I wish there were. I'll tell you why later."
"It had better be good," J.P. said. "Because only some gigantic reason would make me undo mine."
"This is truly gigantic," Caroline said emphatically.
Poochie looked up. "Like the Incredible Hulk, I betcha," he said.
"Exactly," Caroline said.
11
"Well, I don't understand that at all," J.P. said. "How can he be on the verge of bankruptcy? We had steak for dinner the other night. And he gave me that baseball glove. Even though I hate it, it's probably worth forty bucks."
They were sitting privately on the back patio afte
r lunch. The babies were having their naps, and Poochie was, as usual, crouched in front of the TV with his thumb in his mouth.
"I know it sounds weird," Caroline explained, "but I think when you're in HUGE financial trouble, you can still eat steak and chicken breasts. It's small financial trouble, like Mom has, when you have to eat hamburger and chicken livers. This is different."
J.P. picked at a splintered corner of the picnic table. "Yeah," he said, "I guess. And I feel bad for him in a way. But it must be his own fault. He must be a bad businessman."
Caroline stretched her legs out in the sunshine. She watched a bird hop from one end of a tree branch to another. She yawned. One of the babies had fussed during the night and woken her up several times. "I feel sorry for him," she said. "He said everything had always been just fine. And then a couple of months ago he had to fire somebody, and that started a whole run of bad luck."
"Why did he have to fire somebody?"
Caroline laughed. "The guy stole two tennis rackets. What a stupid thing to do. He probably made a good salary. It was the guy who ran Dad's computer. Wouldn't you think he could afford to buy tennis rackets?"
J.P. sat up straight suddenly. "Dad has a computer?"
Caroline shrugged. "That's what he said. What's the big deal about that? Don't most stores have computers these days?"
J.P. looked stricken. "I don't believe it," he groaned. "All this time, he has a computer down at the store, and he didn't even tell me. He's got me coaching this ridiculous baseball team, and I could have been down at the store hacking around on his computer. I could have been having a decent summer."
Caroline stood up. "I have to do the lunch dishes," she said. "I wish you'd quit feeling so sorry for yourself and start feeling sorry for Dad. You're having a rotten summer, true. But he's going to have a rotten life if he goes bankrupt."
But J.P. wasn't listening to her. He was slumped over, with his head hanging down and his elbows on his scrawny knees. "He didn't even tell me," he muttered. "I could have been in there all day. I could even have worked for him, running the computer. I wouldn't even steal stupid tennis rackets."