Be My Baby Tonight (12 page)

She loved Tim coming home to her, her coming
home to him. They were like illicit lovers then, grabbing all the
time together that they could manage... spending most of those
hours in bed.

It still amazed Suzann to realize the depths
of her passion, the hungers Tim had discovered inside her.

All her dreams about Tim had been about his
eyes, his smile, the house they would build with the white picket
fence around it, the children they would have together. How she’d
bake him cookies, and they would sit on the porch swing at night,
holding hands. Mushy stuff. Romantic stuff.

The wild, hot sex had come as a bit of a
surprise.

A nice surprise.

Suzanna stepped out of the shower, wrapped a
hand towel around her wet head, began smoothing a lightly scented
oil on her still-wet skin.

She was so aware of her body now. Tim had
done that, too, awakened her to her own body, even her ability to
reduce the man to a mass of heavy-breathing, sweating passion that
left them both limp and shaking.

So much to be happy about, rejoice over.

Except they didn’t talk.

Oh, they talked. They talked about the games.
They talked about the past, a lot. They talked about their parents,
how it felt to be an orphan, even at the advanced age of
twenty-nine. Those were deep talks, holding a lot of truths, even a
few tears. So they did talk.

They spoke to each other in general terms
about the world, politics, even the cats. But whenever she wanted
to get more serious about their relationship, talk about anything
even vaguely resembling his feelings for her, hers for him,
why
he had decided, out of the blue, to marry her, he found
a way to get her into bed, where she couldn’t talk or think at
all.

“This time,” she said to her reflection as it
was revealed in the mirror after she rubbed a towel over its
steamed surface. “This time, we
talk.”

* * *

“It really smells great in here, Mrs.
Butterworth,” Tim said, strolling into the kitchen, his hair still
damp from his shower. “Thanks a lot. I know Suzanna will be tired,
flying in from Saint Louis and then taking the shuttle from Philly
to here. She left her car parked at ABE when she flew out, or I’d
go pick her up, take her out to a nice dinner I wanted her to have
more than some warmed-up pizza when she finally got home.”

Mrs. Butterworth, who should have been short
and soft and gray-haired, to match her treacle-sweet name, hitched
up her denim overalls that threatened to slip off her slim
shoulders and turned to look at Tim.

“Are you going to tell her about Margo
tonight?” the woman asked, narrowing her eyes behind small, round
wire-rim gold frames, the same frames she’d worn when Tim was in
high school. Mrs. B. called it her John Lennon look. What was scary
was that with her mop of brown hair, parted in the middle and
swinging in at her chin, with the glasses, and with that beak of a
nose the woman had, she sort of
looked
like John Lennon.

He was surprised that she hadn’t said, “Hey,
Jude, I’m going to bring you down.”

Before she could say it, or anything close,
he reminded her, “Now, Mrs. B., we can’t be sure.”

“The hell we can’t,” the woman said, turning
back to the counter to spoon soft butter into the potatoes in the
mixing bowl. “I may have taught history, Tim, but I minored in
biology in college. One minute little Margo is dragging her belly
all over the floor, howling like a banshee, and the next day she’s
curled up on the couch, no more pitiful howling, and looking like
the cat that ate the canary. We won’t even talk about the
absolutely disgusting
smirk
on Lucky’s face.”

Tim pulled out one of the wooden kitchen
chairs, turned it around, then straddled it. “But Margo’s still a
kitten, Mrs. B. Suzanna said so, said she wasn’t quite a year old
yet. Lucky’s only about a year old himself.”

“So Lucky robbed the cradle. Color me
shocked.”

“This isn’t good, you know. Suzanna said she
was thinking maybe she’d breed Margo. You know, with another
pedigree Persian? Does it really take only one time?”

“With cats, with dogs, sometimes with people.
Weren’t you listening during Sex Ed?”

Tim dropped his head into his hands. “In my
next life, I’m inventing condoms for cats,” he grumbled under his
breath.

“I heard that,” Mrs. Butterworth said, then
turned on the mixer. “Stop sitting there feeling sorry for yourself
for lying to Suzanna, and fetch me the milk carton from the
fridge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tim said, slowly unwrapping his
long legs from the rungs of the chair and heading for the huge
refrigerator that had been covered to match the cabinets—just one
more of Keely’s little tricks. First time he’d come into the
kitchen, it had taken him a full minute to locate the damn
thing.

“So, Mrs. B.,” he asked, handing over the
milk carton and watching as she opened it, poured some into the
potatoes being smashed to smithereens by the electric mixer. “How
long before Suzanna figures out I didn’t have Lucky snipped?”

She looked over her shoulder at him.
“Planning to build a bomb shelter out back to hide in?”

“I don’t know. I mean, how mad can she
get?”

“Suzanna? Oh, I don’t know. Let’s see. Do you
remember the time Kurt Wheeler said something nasty about that
sweet little Diane what’s-her-name after the junior prom? Said
he’d—well, you know, hit a home run with her? Poor Diane, the child
wouldn’t say boo to a goose, or whatever that saying is. But not
Suzanna, when she found Diane crying in the girls’ bathroom. Your
sweet, dear Suzanna went looking for Kurt and then all but picked
him up and slammed him into the lockers, told him to keep his dirty
mouth shut or she’d shut it for him. She’s got a righteous temper,
Tim, and you know it.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, shoving his hands in the
pockets of his jeans. “I know it. So, how long have I got before I
get my head shoved into a locker?”

“Well, according to the care and feeding of
cats book I picked up at the supermarket last week, the first thing
to notice is if Margo’s nipples begin to turn pink and become
erect.”

“Oh, cripes,” Tim said, half collapsing
against the counter. “I don’t want to hear all of this.”

Mrs. Butterworth turned off the mixer and
reached into the drawer in front of her for a spatula which she
used to wipe the sides of the bowl before turning the mixer on
again. “Well, tough toenails, Tim. You’re hearing it. You’ll also
notice the fur around the nipples sort of becoming sparse, probably
so the kittens will find it easier to nurse. At least that’s the
conclusion I came to. Not that I needed the book all that much,
because Margo’s little belly is growing.”

“So there’s no doubt?”

“None. From my calculations, and I used the
night those two animals kept me up to all hours, running around my
apartment and howling at each other until I could finally corral
Margo and lock her in the bathroom—and knowing now that you can
calculate gestation as one mating day plus sixty-three days—I’d say
we’ll have kittens in, oh, about another six weeks, give or take a
few days.”

“But Margo’s already getting fat?”

“I’d say so, yes. She’s so little beneath all
that fur, it wouldn’t take much to give her a belly. The
instructions in the book were very clear. Don’t touch the cat’s
belly, especially long-haired cats, or you could injure the babies.
So I haven’t prodded at her or anything. Oh, and Margo should
not
have been mated during her first time in heat, not
long-haired cats. I’m worried about that little girl.”

She turned off the mixer once more, then
glared at Tim overtop the rim of her glasses. “You men, you’re all
alike, thinking with your hormones.”

“Hey,” Tim said, stepping back and raising
his hands, “how did I get dragged into this?”

“I’m not sure, other than your lie to
Suzanna; but you’re standing here, I’m worried about Margo, so
you’re getting whatever I want to hand out. Okay, that’s about it.
Roast is sliced and wrapped in foil in the oven. Gravy’s simmering
on the top of the stove, salad’s in the fridge. Now, what time is
Suzanna due home? I have a date.”

Tim lifted one side of his mouth in a smile.
“A hot one? Has he been snipped? You’d better be careful, Mrs.
B.”

“Ha-ha,” she said, taking out a dinner plate
to cover the metal mixing bowl, keep the potatoes warm. “Better you
should ask that question about yourself. I swear, I’m surprised you
ever let that poor girl out of bed when you’re home.”

And with that parting shot, Mrs.
Butterworth—tall, slim, denim-overall-and-navy-knit-top-clad recent
inductee to senior citizenship—sashayed out of the kitchen on her
sneakered feet, on her way back to her garage apartment.

Leaving Tim to sink slowly back into his
chair, desperately trying to recall Suzanna’s answer to his
question about birth control that he’d asked that first night.

“Cripes,” he said, blinking. “Two out of
three? Oh, Suze, get home. We have to talk....”

* * *

Tim sat in his favorite chair in the den,
glowering at his brother.

Suzanna hadn’t been home long enough to do
more than eat dinner, load the dishwasher, and change into soft
pink sweats before the doorbell had rung and Jack and Keely had
come barging in.

Oh, all right, so they hadn’t
barged.
They had seen Suzanna’s sedan as they were coming out of their own
drive, on their way to the grocery store with Candy, and had waited
another hour before packing up the kid and driving over, for a
“visit.”

When had the idea sounded so good—building
his own house not a half mile away from his brother’s?

So now here he was, sitting in the den with
Jack, while Suzanna, Keely, and little Candy were in the kitchen,
talking about whatever women talked about when there were no men
around.

Him and Jack, probably.

And not that he wasn’t glad that Keely and
Suzanna had hit it off so well. They kept each other company when
Jack was doing his TV and radio color commentaries for the Yankee
games, and while Tim was on the road with the team. That was what
baseball wives did when they didn’t travel with their husbands.

Or when they weren’t jetting all over hell
and back, playing computer genius and leaving their husband at home
to stew, or on the road looking at a redheaded townie who most
definitely was
not
Suzanna.

“Who’s pitching for the Mets tomorrow night?”
Jack asked, sipping the beer Tim had tossed to him earlier, when
they had both been banished to the den.

Tim shrugged. “I don’t know. Rimes? All they
toss at me anymore are lefties.”

“Yeah, like Sam’s going to lift you for a
right-handed batter. Good old ambidextrous Tim-bo just sashays to
the other side of the plate. Your average is only twenty points
lower from the right.”

“And I’m batting .325 leftie,” Tim reminded
his brother, for there had always been a friendly competition when
it came to their batting averages... considering that Jack’s
average had never risen to more than about .200. “Hey, we’re
identical twins. You could have tried the same thing. I learned how
to catch and throw rightie, bat from both sides. Think what it
would have been like if you could have said screw the bad left arm,
now I’ll pitch with my right.”

“That would have gotten me into the record
books all right,” Jack said. “Get real. You started throwing
rightie when you were seven or so, once you knew you wanted to
catch. You don’t start that stuff at twenty-eight. Besides, good
average or not, you’re not all that great from the left side every
time. You looked pretty lame against Colon the other night. He had
you swinging from your heels.”

“He got lucky,” Tim said, thinking about the
left-handed Giant reliever who had struck him out swinging. “I
wanted it low and inside so bad, and when it came in low and
outside, I couldn’t lay off it. I can’t hit them all, you know,
bro.”

“No? I could have sworn you thought you
could,” Jack said, grinning at him. He lifted his beer can,
gestured toward the kitchen. “You and Suze still doing okay? She
doesn’t mind the road trips?”

Tim looked into the opening of his beer can
as if he could see straight to the bottom of the Black Hole of
Calcutta, or something else just as depressing. “No, she doesn’t
care. I mean, she hasn’t said... I haven’t asked. And it isn’t like
she isn’t always flying off somewhere, putting out fires for her
company.” He put down his beer. “Damn.”

“Uh-oh,” Jack said, sitting forward on his
chair. “Want to talk about this?”

Tim eyed his brother coolly. “I don’t think
so. Besides, there’s nothing to talk about. We’re good. Hell, we’re
great.”

“That’s good. But you two did sort of rush
into this marriage stuff, you know.”

Tim sneered. “Here speaks the man who married
his interior decorator,
after
he’d moved her in to take care
of Candy. So we’re not the sanest two guys out there. Are you
saying you did it any better?”

“No, Tim, I’m not. And I think Suzanna’s the
best thing that could ever happen to you. But there’s something...
I don’t know. Call it twin telepathy, the way Mrs. B. does. But I
get the feeling something’s bothering you.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, standing up. “You’re
bothering me. I’ve been out of town for ten days, and now my wife’s
home, I’m home, and I’m knee-deep in relatives. Go the hell home,
bro, okay?”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” he said, then
grinned. “Interrupted your seduction scene, did we? Sorry about
that, Tim. But Keely wanted to invite you guys over Sunday night,
after the games, to celebrate Aunt Sadie’s seventieth.”

“Aunt Sadie’s going to be seventy? You’re
kidding.”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it? She only retired
five years ago and moved into my garage apartment and regressed to
psychedelic teenager.”