Be My Baby Tonight (23 page)

Jack laughed. “I’ll bet you can. I’ve been
teasing Keely that I’m going to be out of town the last two weeks
of October. She isn’t amused.”

“Keely’s due already?”

“Nine months isn’t that long a time, bro.
She’s due October twenty-eighth. Do you want to know when Suzanna’s
due? Seems like you were a busy boy in Pittsburgh.”

“In Pittsburgh? How would anyone know
that?”

“The sonogram, Tim. Pay attention. Now, do
you want to know the doctor’s estimate on the due date, or
not?”

“Go ahead,” Tim said, lowering his head
almost between his knees, because the nausea was coming back.

“April fourteenth. I checked the schedule for
next year. Lucky for you, that’s three days into a ten day home
stand.”

“April,” Tim repeated. He’d been throwing up
for two weeks, every damn morning for two weeks, ever since he
found out about the baby. April? He wouldn’t live until April. “Is
she... Is she okay? Or is she still having that morning sickness
stuff?”

Maybe, just maybe, if Suzanna stopped, he’d
stop. Which was about the damndest, dumbest thing he’d ever thought
of, because that was just not possible. He was sick, damn it!
Sick!

“I really don’t know, Tim. I do know that she
and Keely made hot fudge sundaes last night after dinner. When I
was stupid enough to say that maybe Keel shouldn’t have whipped
cream, she shot some at me, straight out of the can. So, mostly,
I’m staying away right now.”

Tim bit down hard, clenched his teeth for a
few moments. “How can she eat that crap?” he asked, his mental
picture of ice cream, fudge, whipped cream, all making him want to
head for the porcelain bowl again.

“That’s the way it goes, Tim. First they’re
sick, and then they’re eating all the time. Although Keely’s
getting heartburn at night, a lot. She did that in the beginning,
but it had gone away. Last night, she slept sitting up in the
recliner in the den. I’ll be glad when this is over, although
probably not as glad as Keel will be.”

Heartburn? Tim relaxed his shoulders. He
didn’t get heartburn. Not ever.

“What else?” he asked, pulling the notepad
and pen from the bedside table. “We’ve got morning sickness,
heartburn... and what else?”

“You’re worried? Don’t worry, Tim. Suzanna’s
going to be fine.”

“I know that,” Tim said quickly. “Just humor
me, okay?”

“Okay. Let’s see. Keely had morning sickness
for, oh, about three months, to tell you the truth. And some
heartburn. Then she was pretty good for a while, until her ankles
started swelling. That’s when she had to cut out salt, salty foods.
And she did start to gain a little too much weight, so we had to
watch her diet. Still do, except she keeps slipping those sundaes
by me. Now heartburn again. Some aches and pains she says are
nothing. Oh, and the mood swings. How could I forget the mood
swings?”

“I have to buy a book, or something,” Tim
muttered, pretty much to himself.

“Don’t bother, bro. We’ve got plenty. I’ll
sneak them to you when you get back home. Because, you know, it’s
not just the woman anymore. Everything is directed at both mother
and father.
We
are pregnant, not just Keely.”

“Uh-huh,” Tim said, reaching for his can of
soda. Ginger ale. It settled his stomach sometimes. So did soda
crackers. They came free when he ordered soup. He’d started
collecting little packets of soda crackers.

Jack was talking again. “And then there’s the
classes. That breathing stuff for natural childbirth? Keely says
she’s pretty sure she’ll want drugs, lots of them, but she felt she
should at least take the classes. You can do those over the winter,
Tim, be Suzanna’s coach.”

Tim’s head was swimming. He was getting way
too much information. “Hey, gotta go. Sam wants me at the stadium
early, for some extra batting practice. Good luck to your Yankees
tonight, Jack. Shame we’re going to beat them in the Series.”

“In your dreams you’ll beat them, Tim,” Jack
shot back, “But let’s not jinx it. We still all have to get through
the playoffs, take the pennants.”

Tim hit the button, ending the call, and
slowly got to his feet. He felt so old. Too damn old.

He stepped into a pair of jeans, then frowned
as he noticed that the waistband seemed big. How much weight had he
lost? He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a belt, and slipped it on,
pulled it two notches past the worn bit of leather that indicated
where he usually wore it.

“No good,” he said to his reflection in the
mirror over the low bureau. “I guess it’s time to see Jerry.”

The bathroom door opened, disgorging Dusty
Johnson and a lot of steam. “Jerry?” Dusty repeated, rubbing at his
wet head with a hand towel. “Who needs to see Jerry? You? You sick
again?”

“Not really,” Tim said, turning away. “I just
thought I’d check with him, see if he could give me something to
settle down my stomach.”

Dusty nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. He
ain’t a doctor, but he’s close.”

Tim picked up his jacket and headed for the
door. “I’ll meet you over there, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Dusty said, hanging on to the
towel wrapped around his waist. What a kid. He undressed in the
dark, carried his underwear with him to the shower room after a
game. Mr. Modest. His mama probably told him never to get naked
with anybody he wasn’t already married to—if even then.

Tim grabbed a cab to the ballpark and hunted
down Jerry in the training room making use of the whirlpool.

“What did you do, Jer,” Tim asked, pulling up
a chair next to the whirlpool, “throw out your shoulder wrapping
Rick’s ankle? Or maybe you’re just checking the temperature, to be
sure none of us burns in there?”

“Put a sock in it, Trehan,” the trainer said,
sinking lower in the tub. “What can I do for you?”

Tim picked up a ten-pound weight someone had
left on the floor and absently began doing curls. “Nothing much.
I’ve just got... a small problem.”

Jerry sat up, displacing a good bit of water.
“Tim, there are no small problems. Not when we’re three games out
of first, with five to go, two of them against the Mets. Now
give—what’s the problem?”

“It’s my stomach,” Tim said, standing up,
beginning to pace the room. “I keep... I keep throwing up. In the
mornings mostly.”

Jerry was out of the whirlpool, wrapping a
towel around his ample middle. “Any pain? Like, on the right side,
or around your navel?” He put a hand on Tim’s forehead. “No
fevers?”

“No, why?” Tim asked as Jerry dripped all
over his imported loafers.

“Could be chronic appendicitis, that’s why.
How long has this been going on?”

Tim mentally counted backward, ending at Aunt
Sadie’s birthday party. “Today’s eleven days.”

“And you’re sick every day?”

“Yeah,” Tim said nervously. “Chronic
appendicitis, huh? How do we know for sure?”

“We don’t. Usually, it’s pain, elevated white
blood count, fever. That’s acute. But chronic? That one’s harder.
We can start with blood tests, but it really doesn’t sound like
appendicitis, Tim. You said you’re only sick in the mornings?”

“Once or twice at night,” he said, trying to
steer Jerry back to that appendicitis thing.

“But mostly in the morning?”

“Okay, yes, mostly in the morning.”

“And no pain, no fever?”

“Cripes, Jerry. You want I should put it in
writing? No pain, no fever.”

Jerry shrugged. “Then, that’s it. You’re
pregnant.”

“
What!”

“I said, that’s it, you’re—”

“I heard what you said,” Tim shot back,
glaring at him.

“Hey, I’m kidding, Tim, I’m kidding. Men
don’t get pregnant.”

“Gee, and we all wondered why you didn’t go
all the way, become a doctor. You’re such a freaking genius.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll have you know, buddy,
that even if men can’t get pregnant, they can
feel
pregnant.
My cousin, Fred? You remember him? The guy with the six kids, all
girls? Fifth one, he got pregnant along with Maryanne. She threw
up, he threw up. Her breasts got sore, his... chest got sore. She
burped, he did the encore. She waddled like a duck, he—well, you
had to be there, Tim. We were sure he’d go into labor with her, but
it didn’t get that bad.”

Jerry chuckled. “Of course, that’s only
because Fred passed out when Maryanne’s water broke, bam, smack in
the middle of our Fourth of July picnic. Hit his head on a croquet
mallet, got a concussion, and was admitted to the floor above
Maternity. We’ve got it all on video.”

Tim was shaking, but he hopefully hid his
reaction from the trainer. “Jerry, that’s a great story. What the
hell does it mean?”

“It means, Tim, that sometimes the man gets
symptoms, right along with the woman. It’s all mental, of course.
We think that with Fred it was because he wanted a boy so bad that
he talked Maryanne into another pregnancy. Once they had the tests,
learned it was another girl? He started getting sick. But it didn’t
happen again, with the sixth girl. Fred just said that with six you
get eggroll, something like that. And it was Maryanne who wanted
the sixth one. Probably to see if Fred would start barfing
again.”

Tim chewed on this for a few moments. “So,
Fred was feeling... guilty?”

“Guilty? Yeah, I suppose that was it. Guilty.
But it doesn’t matter, right? Your wife’s not pregnant. Or is
she?”

Tim shook his head. As long as Suzanna wanted
the pregnancy kept a secret, he wasn’t going to say a word to Jerry
the Mouth. “Nope. So we’re back to that appendicitis stuff?” he
added hopefully.

“All right, I guess we have to follow up on
this. I’ll arrange for blood work at the local hospital, some time
this afternoon. And, now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some ankles
and knees to wrap.”

“Sure, thanks, Jer,” Tim said, collapsing
back into the chair once the trainer left the room.

Guilt? He could be throwing up because of
guilt? And who could he ask about it, anyway? Suzanna? No. Because
he wasn’t supposed to know she was pregnant, and because she’d
taken those psych courses in La-La-Land.

And no shrinks! No way was he going to a
shrink. Sam went to a shrink, and look where that got him, for
crying out loud. The man had started humming some sort of mantra
when he got his shorts in a knot. And eating sunflower seeds. Now
he was making noises about group meditations before games.

So no shrink. No Suzanna. And no Jack,
because he liked his brother, and if the guy laughed, he’d have to
kill him.

Which left... What? Who? Who could he talk to
who wouldn’t go running to Suzanna? Who could he talk to who
wouldn’t start rolling on the floor, laughing at his expense?

Who else cared that his game had gone to
hell, his life was going to hell? That he was two quick seconds
away from calling a cab, heading for the airport, and saying screw
it to the rest of the season?

He headed back outdoors, pulling out his cell
phone. He pressed the second button on the speed dial, waited.
“Mort? You got a minute...?”

They usually show movies on a flight like that.

— Announcer Ken Coleman,

calling a long home run

“Well, here we are,” Keely said, settling
into her seat in the private super box Mort had wrangled for them
at Shea Stadium. It was Friday night, and the first of the last
weekend of games in the regular season. The Phillies were two full
games behind the Mets, with three games to go.

“Yes,” Suzanna answered nervously, “here we
are. Thanks for coming with me.”

“You’re welcome, although Jack can’t quite
understand why I didn’t go to Yankee Stadium with him. Big deal,
they clinched their division weeks ago. Although I can’t believe
I’m going to be rooting against my very own Mets.”

Suzanna looked at her new friend, her dear
friend. “Jack says you can’t name a single player on the Mets
team.”

“Can so,” Keely answered, lifting her chin.
“I just won’t give him the satisfaction, that’s all.”

Suzanna laughed, shaking her head. “You’re a
nut; you do know that, right?”

“Oh, absolutely. Jack’s still a little
torqued that I didn’t recognize him as the great Jack Trehan when
we met. And then, when I did find out, I told him I’m a big Mets
fan. Mets fans are
never
Yankee fans, Suzanna. It drove Jack
nuts. You have to keep them in line a little, Suzanna, keep them
guessing. Although I now can name every player on the Yankees, and
if Tim’s Phillies end up playing them in the Series, I’ll be
rooting for the Yanks. I hope you don’t mind.”

“With Jack as a former Yankee, and now their
color commentator? How could you do anything else?”

“Oh, look, Suzanna, some little kids are
going to sing the Anthem. Aren’t they cute? Isn’t that sweet?”

Suzanna stood and watched as Tim joined his
team at the edge of the dugout for the playing of the National
Anthem, then took his place on the bench.

“He doesn’t look sick,” Keely said, turning a
pair of binoculars on her brother-in-law. “Maybe Mort just said
that, so you’d show up.”

Mort’s voice came from behind them. “What?
Me—lie? I never lie.”

Keely gave Suzanna a quick poke in the ribs.
“Did you hear that? More and More Moore, super agent, never lies.
Duck, Suzanna, I think there might be a lightning bolt heading in
this direction.”

“Very funny,” Mort said, making his way down
the steps inside the super box, planting kisses on their cheeks.
“Suzanna, you can’t tell Tim that I talked to you about anything
other than offering you this super box for the weekend. I think he
thinks I’m like a priest in the confessional, or something like
that. What we talk about is sort of sacrosanct.”

“Okay, that’s it, definitely a lightning
strike,” Keely said, pushing herself to her feet. “And I’ve got to
go visit the little girl’s room again. Remind me not to drink too
much, Suzanna, or the limo will be making pit stops every ten
minutes on our way home.”