Be My Baby Tonight (25 page)

“Aunt Sadie will be there, and Mrs. B.”

“Mrs. B. is going to Tampa, to visit her
sister. She leaves Tuesday and won’t be back for at least two
weeks, remember? Then, when she gets back, there’s rehearsals every
night.”

“I forgot,” Tim said, edging closer to her
again, looking like he might want to kiss her. “Still, there’s Aunt
Sadie, right?”

“Tim,” Suzanna said, sighing. “How do you
want Keely to get to the hospital? In Aunt Sadie’s little red
sports car, or after trying to climb into that four-by-four with
the Tweety Bird on the hood? And, before you answer, remember that
I’ve driven with the woman. She’s got a lead foot and thinks Stop
signs really only mean
pause.”

Tim was silent for a few moments, a silence
broken only by Sam Kizer’s bellow of “Get your ass on board,
Trehan!”

Then he said, “This is a conspiracy, isn’t
it? I’ve got this whole pack of women conspiring against me.
Cripes, Suzanna, when will you think I’ve suffered enough?”

“This isn’t about suffering, Tim. I’m not a
vindictive woman. This is about learning what you want, and why you
want it.”

“I know why I want you, Suze,” he said
sincerely.

“Yeah. You won tonight. I know. And I’ll be
here tomorrow night, and again on Sunday. I promised Mort, who said
I owed it to the team, even if I didn’t owe it to you. But after
that, Tim, you’re on your own. I’m not expecting you to give up the
pasta, or the bubble gum, or any of the rest of it. I just want you
to decide if you want me because I seem to have stopped the curse
from getting you, or because you want
me.”

“I just
said
that I—”

“Tim, your bus is waiting. Jack and Keely are
waiting, and if she has to wait much longer, she’ll want to go back
inside and visit the ladies’ room again, and we’ll never get out of
here, and I’m exhausted. So go. Please go.”

He went.

She glared after him. He’d just shut his
mouth, and he’d gone, without looking back.

Suzanna glared daggers after him. Since when
had he become so damn amenable?

* * *

Tim sat in the last row of the chartered
plane, scribbling on a notepad.

Jack knew Suzanna was pregnant, because Keely
had told him, and Jack had told his brother.

Keely knew Suzanna was pregnant, because
Suzanna had told her, and then Keely had told him.

Aunt Sadie and Mrs. B. knew Suzanna was
pregnant, because either someone told them or they read it in the
vegetables swirling around in their witches’ cauldron, along with
the bat wings and eye of newt.

Mort knew that Tim had been told by both Jack
and Keely that Suzanna was pregnant.

The only one who knew nothing more than the
fact that she was pregnant was Suzanna.

Interesting. The major player in all of this
was the only one who seemed to be out of the loop.

But only Mort knew about the morning sickness
and all the rest of it. And, unless the man wanted to see all of
his toupees strung together, weighted down with rocks, and tossed
into the nearest river, he’d keep his mouth shut.

Which meant, realistically, bottom line, that
only Aunt Sadie and Mort knew about the morning sickness.

Mrs. B. was out of the picture, at least for
two weeks, visiting her sister in Tampa.

Margo was nesting, or so Aunt Sadie called
it, constantly having to be dragged out of closets and boxes and
back to the padded bed Suzanna had bought for the birthing.

Lucky had come back from the vet yesterday
morning, okayed for surgery, and was hiding out at Aunt Sadie’s.
According to his aunt, the cat would not be allowed back in the
main house until the kittens were at least six weeks old, because
otherwise he might hurt them.

Banished. Just like his master. Tim decided
he was lucky he wasn’t Lucky, or he’d be “snipped,” too.

It was October eleventh, and the Phillies had
won the playoffs, three to two in five games, and were now on their
way to the next series, and the pennant. No time to go home, only
time for meetings and more practice and Sam’s latest innovation,
Yoga.

Except that the manager had canceled the Yoga
sessions after Romero’s right leg had gone into such a cramp in the
Lotus position that Jerry had had to get out of the whirlpool to
help unbend him.

He still phoned Suzanna every day, and she
still said she was fine when he asked her, and he still said he was
fine when she asked him. Then they talked for a few minutes about
the games, about Margo, about how much he hated his hotel rooms,
and they hung up again.

Tim looked at his watch, then at the phone
stuck into the back of the seat in front of his. It would be too
late to call when they landed.

He grabbed the phone, read the directions,
and dialed.

“Trehan residence,” a male voice said after
five rings, just as Tim was wondering if the machine would pick up
and he’d end up talking to his own voice again.

Tim took another quick look at his watch. It
was after nine. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, sitting forward,
so that his seat belt grabbed at his hips.

“Oh, is that you, Tim? This is Sean. Sean
Blackthorne. I’m afraid Suzanna can’t come to the phone right
now.”

“Wanna bet?” Tim said, breathing heavily
through his nose. “Get her... now.”

“No, really, Tim, she can’t. You see, Margo
has gone into labor.”

Tim closed his eyes, tight. “She’s having the
kittens?”

“Yes, she’s gone into labor. Since I breed
Persians—Margo’s from one of my litters, you know—Suzanna asked if
I’d come over when the big event was imminent.”

“To answer the phone for her?”

“Oh, oh no, no, of course not. It’s just that
Margo seems to have decided to have her kittens under your bed,
Tim.”

“My bed?” Cripes! Why didn’t she rent a
billboard? Tell everyone they slept in separate bedrooms.

“A lovely piece, Tim,” Sean was saying. Tim
barely heard him through the red haze that was building behind his
eyes, inside his ears, everywhere. “Tester. Early Tudor. A very
good reproduction.”

The haze cleared a little. Blackthorne was
talking about
his
bed. His and Suzanna’s bed. Okay, okay, he
could deal with that.

“So why can’t Suzanna come to the phone?”

“Why? Because, Tim, she’s under the bed, with
Margo. Thankfully, it’s a very high bed, but we still have to get
her out from under there. Really, Tim, I hate to be rude, but I
really do have to go help Suzanna.”

“Uh-huh, okay. Sure,” Tim said, stabbing his
fingers into his hair. “Look, Suzanna already knows where the team
is staying tonight, but she’d have to call before midnight, because
Sam makes sure the switchboard won’t put calls through to the rooms
after that. So have her call me just as soon as Margo... just as
soon as you know anything. Leave a message at the desk if she has
to, okay?”

“Fine,” Sean said, then added, “You’re doing
very well, Suzanna tells me. Congratulations.”

“Don’t watch, huh?” Tim asked, sure Suzanna
could never be attracted to a man who didn’t like baseball.

“I play the occasional game of handball at my
gym,” Sean said rather proudly, “but I’m afraid I don’t really
follow sports, per se.”

Wuss. No wonder she’d dropped him after a
couple of dates.

“That’s great, Sean,” Tim said, trying to
relax. “Look, Margo’s okay, right? I mean, Suzanna’s crazy about
that cat.”

“She’ll be fine. Unless, of course, she
isn’t. Breech births, things like that. She really is too young to
be having a litter. She’s already ruined for showing, mating with a
common domestic shorthair, and who on earth would want nonpedigree
kittens? I told Suzanna to have her aborted, but she wouldn’t hear
of it.”

Tim hadn’t known about that. But if he had
heard about the option of aborting the kittens, he could have told
Sean that Suzanna wouldn’t go for it. Not unless a vet had told her
it was the only way to save Margo, which obviously he hadn’t,
because Suzanna had taken the cat straight to the vet.

“Again, I really have to—oh, good, Suzanna,
you’ve got her. Wonderful. Tim? I have to hang up now.”

“You’ll tell Suzanna to call me—cripes!” he
ended, talking to a dead phone.

There’s no crying in baseball.

— Tom Hanks,

in
A League of Their Own

Suzanna stood in front of one of the large
windows in the living room, watching the rain, watching for
headlights coming up the drive.

She’d been standing here, in this same spot,
for over an hour, ever since Mort had phoned to say that finally
Tim was on his way home from the stadium.

To lose, that was bad. To lose in front of
the hometown crowd, that was awful. Terrible. The pits.

They had lost the first game of the league
playoff, the one that would give them the National League Pennant.
Then it had rained, for four straight days. And not just rain, but
a minimonsoon.

How many hours had Tim spent on the phone
with her from his hotel room? She’d played cheerleader, shoulder to
cry on, devil’s advocate and, all too often, weather person,
telling him she was sure the storm would blow out soon, and they
would be able to play again.

But when the rains stopped, the losing went
on. They had come home down two games.

She’d wanted to go to the stadium, wanted to
see him. Wanted. Just plain wanted.

But Dr. Phillips had put Keely to bed because
she’d spotted a little, and Candy was just too much for Aunt Sadie
to handle all day long. So she’d had to say no, I’m sorry, I just
can’t. “But I’ll be watching every game, and cheering so loud
you’ll probably be able to hear me.”

How hard it had been to sit in front of the
television set and watch those games in Philadelphia. The Phillies
had won one, and Tim had hit a home run; but they had dropped the
next game when their ace reliever had walked the bases loaded in
the tenth, then walked in the go-ahead run as Tim had argued
vehemently that the last pitch had been a strike.

“Umpires always hate Philly,” he’d told her
later that same night, on the phone from his hotel. “We not only
have to play better than the other team; we’ve got to work twice as
hard to get past the bad calls.”

“I know, Tim,” Suzanna had said, glad he
couldn’t see her face.

“It’s true, damn it. Oh, okay, most of them
are pretty good, pretty fair. But there’s a couple who really do
hate us. It just figured that one of them would be behind the plate
tonight.”

“It was a ball, Tim. I saw the instant
replay, five times. And, if that one had been a strike, the next
one would have been a ball. He had you diving all over the place to
save him from wild pitches. Sam should have taken him out when he
walked the leadoff batter.”

“And put in who? We’ve been working the
bullpen hard, Suze. And Dave is our closer. He’s had forty-eight
saves this year.”

“I know, Tim, I know, really I do. But I wish
you could have taken him out. He was just plain wild tonight. He
didn’t have it.”

“Whose side are you on?” he’d shot back, and
she’d just sighed, then waited for him to calm down. He had a
temper, but it always blew hot, then cooled quickly. She just had
to wait him out.

“Okay, enough of that,” he said in a few
moments. “Can you come down tomorrow night?”

“Maybe, since Jack might be home before the
Yanks go on the road. But I think it’s going to rain.”

And she’d been right.

Down three games to one, the rains had made
it across country, to Philadelphia. Two more days of postponements
followed before they finally took the field in a fine drizzle that
soon turned into a near downpour.

But they played. The Yankees had already won
the American League Pennant, although Jack couldn’t get home, with
all the pre-Series telecasts to do, and October was rapidly
approaching November.

They had to play.

“Poor baby,” Suzanna said, wiping away a
tear. They had tried so hard, but trying to come back from a
four-to-two deficit when the rain just got worse and worse as the
innings went on was darn near impossible.

Suzanna closed her eyes, able to see how the
national television cameras had zeroed in on Tim as he sat in the
dugout and watched, through a veil of rain, as the new National
League Champs celebrated on
his
field.

She would have expected him to stand in the
dugout with his teammates for a few moments, and then take off for
the clubhouse, to throw a few things, to kick something. That she
could have understood.

It had been so eerie, watching him.

He’d just sat there, holding his bat, because
he’d been due up next if only Craig could have gotten on base. Two
out, two on, down two runs, and Craig had popped up to the pitcher
in the bottom of the ninth, leaving Tim to stand on deck, his bat
in his hands. His useless bat in his hands.

Five minutes, maybe more, Tim had been shown
sitting in that dugout. All by himself. Holding that bat.

Finally, as Suzanna sobbed, he’d picked up
his catching gear, angled his mask over the top of his head, and
walked away.

Half-drowned puppies dragged out of a sack
tossed into a river didn’t look so pitiful.

“Did they have to keep the camera on him so
much?” Suzanna said now, wiping away new tears.

It was her fault, of course. She should have
been there. Not because of any stupid curse, or superstition, or
anything like that. But because she was Tim’s wife, and he’d wanted
her there. She had failed him, plain and simple.

Mort had kept her up to date on Tim’s
symptoms. The poor guy still got sick in the mornings. She wished
she could tell him that she didn’t, but how could she do that, when
he believed that she didn’t know he knew about the pregnancy?