Beloved Stranger (6 page)

And indeed it was. As sixty-thousand hysterical and delirious fans pounded each other on the back and threw things onto the field in their ecstasy, Ricardo jogged around the bases, a huge grin on his face. There had never been any doubt about that ball being caught; it had landed far back in the upper left-field grandstand.

The Yankees won the next two games in New York as well and then they returned to Los Angeles, ahead of the Dodgers three games to two. Susan felt that her whole life was divided between taking care of the baby and watching baseball. One of the things that struck her as she watched the games was the way the television camera would zero in on the faces of the players’ wives. She was very glad she had the excuse of a nursing infant to keep from attending in person. She would hate to be singled out like that, broadcasted and exposed. It was bad enough watching at home.

They lost the first game in Los Angeles, 7-6. In the second game, the game on which the championship depended, the score was tied in the ninth, 4-4, and the game went into extra innings. The Yankees’ relief pitcher. Sal Fatato, got into trouble in the top of the eleventh inning and only got out of it when Ricardo threw a perfect strike all the way from center field to cut down Frank Revere. In the bottom of the eleventh, Joe Hutchinson singled, moved to second on a sacrifice and Ricardo doubled him home. The Yankees were the new World Champions.

“This World Series was finally won,” wrote noted sports columnist Frank Winter in the New York Times the next day, “by the hitting, the throwing, the fielding, the sheer blazing brilliance of Rick Montoya. Rarely has a World Series Most Valuable Player Award been more thoroughly deserved.”

“Congratulations,” Susan said when Ricardo arrived home the following day. “I almost had heart failure half a dozen times and Maria was even worse. Couldn’t you have won in a less dramatic fashion?”

He grinned. “It wouldn’t have been as much fun.”

“Fun,” Susan said faintly. She thought of the dreadful pressure of all those screaming fans. “You call that fun?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, Señor Montoya,” came a high-pitched voice from behind Susan, and Ricardo laughed.

“Oh, Maria,” he mimicked, and catching her in his arms, he kissed her soundly. Maria’s worn face glowed with pleasure. Ricardo had not kissed his wife. “Where’s my son?” he asked.

“Upstairs asleep,” she answered slowly.

“I won’t wake him, then.” He took off his jacket and threw it on a chair. Maria hurried to pick it up, “Did the paper come?” he asked.

“Sí, Señor Montoya.” Maria picked the Times up from a table and handed it to him. Ricardo sat down in a comfortable chair, stretched his long legs in front of him and opened the paper. “I’ll have some coffee,” he said from behind the sports page.

“Sí, Señor Montoya,” said Maria again, and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Susan stood in the middle of the room and stared at the paper that concealed her husband. The baseball season was over, she thought, and here he was—home until spring. Maria returned with the coffee, which she set on a table at his elbow. He grunted a thank you. Quite suddenly she was furious.

“Perhaps if I knelt down in front of you, you could rest your feet on my back,” she said in a voice she had never used with him.

He lowered his paper and stared at her in astonishment. “What did you say,
querida
?”

“You heard me.” She stared back at him steadily, clear gray eyes like slate under the surprisingly dark and level brows.

“But why are you angry?” he asked in genuine bewilderment.

“You’re so wonderful,” she said acidly. “You figure it out.” And she stalked from the room.

Chapter Five

A week after the World Series was won, the Yankees’ owner threw a dinner party for his team. It was held at a very elegant New York hotel and Ricardo told Susan he expected her to attend with him.

“But I can’t leave the baby,” she protested feebly.

“Nonsense. Maria will stay with him for the evening. I’ll drive her home when we get back.”

“But what if he gets hungry?”

“He can drink a bottle. Or he can wait.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to invite someone else, do you,
querida
”?”

Susan lifted her chin. “I’ll come,” she said.

“Good.” He smiled at her engagingly, willing her to be pleased. “You’ll have a good time. You need to get out more.”

It wasn’t that she wouldn’t enjoy going out to dinner, Susan thought as she went through her wardrobe in search of something to wear. It was just that she quailed at the thought of meeting all those people who knew, who had to know, that she and Ricardo had been married only two months before Ricky was born.

She closed the closet door on her schoolgirl clothes and went over to look down into the bassinet at her sleeping son. Ricky’s face, she thought with a flicker of extreme tenderness, was the surest proof of his paternity. He was a miniature of his father. Not that Ricardo had ever, in any way at all, even hinted that he might wonder if the baby she had been carrying was really his. She had always felt immensely grateful to him for that trust. She still did. It was one of the things she always remembered when she found his lordly masculinity getting on her nerves. He had believed her word, and on the basis of that word he had married her. She doubted there were many men—particularly men in his position—who would have done the same.

She settled a light cover on her sleeping son and sighed. She would have to buy a dress. And have Sara’s black coat altered. Her old camel hair would not do for the St. Regis. She was going to have to talk to Ricardo about money.

Ever since she had come to live with him, Ricardo had continued the same financial arrangements he had always had. He gave Maria a housekeeping allowance and out of it she bought the groceries and took care of the laundry and the dry cleaning. Over and above that, of course, she got her salary. A salary that was extremely generous, Susan realized, when Maria told her what it amounted to. Ricardo had also bought his housekeeper a car so she could drive from her home in Norwalk to his in Stamford and so that she could do the errands. Maria thought that God was simply another name for Ricardo.

He certainly had never grudged his wife money either, but Susan didn’t enjoy playing the beggar maid to his King Cophetua. The purchases she had made—which consisted mainly of furniture and clothing for the baby—he had agreed to immediately and generously. “How much do you want,
querida
’?” he would say, and unhesitatingly hand over to her the amount she requested. The problem was, she hated having to ask.

She hated having to talk to him about this, too, but it was going to have to be done. She arrived downstairs just as he was coming in from raking leaves. “
Dios
!” he said to her humorously. “I think half the leaves in Connecticut have found a home in my yard. The more I rake, the more leaves there seem to be. At least I can dump them in the woods. I’d hate to have to bag them all.”

“We used to burn them,” Susan said nostalgically. “I loved the smell of leaves burning in the fall. It seemed like such a big part of the season.”

“Well, if I burn them now I will get a summons,” Ricardo said practically. He took off his down vest and dropped it on a chair.

“Ricardo,” Susan said with exemplary patience, “there is a closet right behind you. Do you think you could hang that up?”

He looked surprised. “It doesn’t go in that closet,” he said simply. “It goes upstairs.”

There was a short silence and then Susan decided to fight this particular battle another day. She cleared her throat. “I have to talk to you, Ricardo. Could we sit down for a minute, please?”

“Of course.” He followed her into the family room. There was a chill in the air and he said, “I think we could use a fire.”

She sat down on the sofa and watched as he expertly stacked wood in the stone fireplace. The shoulders under his plaid flannel shirt looked so wide, so strong, so—impervious. Could she possibly make him understand how she felt? He sat back on his heels and watched as the fire grew. Then he turned and looked at her. “So?” he said. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

“Well—I need a dress for the dinner on Saturday, for one thing,” she began.

“Naturally.” He sounded surprised that she should need to mention this obvious fact.

“Ricardo,” and now her voice began to sound tense, “can’t you see that I hate to have to come and ask you every time I need money? It isn’t that you aren’t generous—you’re only too generous—it’s just that, well, it’s just that I hate it.” She looked at him a little desperately, a mute appeal in her large gray eyes.

He looked back at her and his own face became very grave. “Susan,” he said, “forgive me. Of course you should not have to come and ask me for every penny. I am sorry. I should have made you an allowance long ago.” He gave her a faintly rueful, utterly charming look. “I was preoccupied with other things,” he said. “Shall I give you a monthly allowance for you and for Ricky? How about . . .” and he named a sum that made her blink.

And that was it. It had been so easy. He had, surprisingly, understood. “Thank you, Ricardo,” she said a little breathlessly. “Honestly, I don’t mean to be a millstone around your neck forever, but I am rather tied down with the baby at present. I just don’t think I can get a job right now.”

“A job!” He looked utterly thunderstruck. “What are you talking about, Susan? You are not a millstone around my neck. You are my wife. The mother of my son. Of course I expect to support you. I won’t hear of you getting a job.”

She stared back at him, startled by his vehemence, even more startled by his point of view. Her own mother had always worked outside the home. She herself had always assumed that was what educated women did. “Not now, of course, while Ricky is still little,” she began tentatively.

“Not now, not ever,” he said firmly. “You have a job. You are a wife and a mother. You are a very good mother,
querida
. I always knew you would be. And we will have more children. You’ll be busy enough, I promise you.”

Susan felt her heart lurch a little at that mention of more children. She ran her tongue around suddenly dry lips. “Ricardo.” She spoke very gently, very carefully, “I am twenty-two years old. I have a college degree. I had—I have—plans for my life that involve something more than being just a housewife.”

Ricardo’s mouth set in a line that was not at all gentle. “And what are these plans?” he asked in an abrupt, hard voice.

“Well,” said Susan weakly, pushed to the wall and forced to admit out loud and to someone else what she had scarcely dared admit to herself, “I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”

The set of his mouth got even grimmer. “On a newspaper?”

“No. Oh, no. I’ve wanted to write—novels.” The last word came out as barely a whisper. She was desperately afraid that he would laugh.

His face relaxed but he did not laugh. “Oh novels,” he said. He smiled at her, his good humor restored. “I have no objection to your writing novels,
querida
. That is something you can easily do at home.”

“Yes, I suppose I could,” she said slowly.

“We even have a library for you to work in,” he said magnanimously.

She stared at his splendid dark face. He was humoring her, she thought. He did not take her at all seriously. “Thank you,” she said, her voice expressionless.

“Not at all.” He waved his hand in a gesture of magnificent dismissal. “And what is all this foolishness about being ‘just a housewife.’ You aren’t a housewife, you’re my wife.” His eyes glinted at her and his voice became softer. “I realize we have been somewhat delayed in starting a normal married life,” he went on, “but that should be over with soon. When do you see the doctor again?”

She could hear her heart hammering way up into her head. “In three weeks,” she got out.

“So long. Ah well.” He leaned back in the armchair and closed his eyes. “I’ve waited this long. I suppose another three weeks won’t kill me.” There was absolute silence in the room. Susan couldn’t think of a thing to say. He opened his eyes a slit. “I’m thirsty after all that raking. Could you get me something to drink?”

It was definitely not the time to take up a feminist stance. Susan stood up. “What do you want?”

“Some ginger ale would be nice.”

She nodded and left the room, shaking her head ruefully.

* * * *

The dinner party turned out to be a very enjoyable evening. Susan had bought a pale gold dinner dress in Bloomingdale’s and was conscious of looking really smart for the first time in almost a year. Her shining, fawn-colored hair, so fine that it wouldn’t hold a curl, fell, sheer and glistening to her shoulders. She wore high-heeled gold sandals and Sara’s black coat and she felt pretty as well as smart. It didn’t hurt either, she thought as they went in through the doors of the hotel, to have an escort as impressive-looking as Ricardo. Even if he had never played baseball in his life, his tall, broad-shouldered figure would have commanded attention.

It was the first time that Susan had ever met any of Ricardo’s teammates, with the exception of Joe Hutchinson, and it was fun actually seeing in person the people she had been watching so assiduously on TV. They sat at a table with Joe Hutchinson, Bert Diaz, Carl Seelinger and their wives. The conversation, after the first few minutes, drifted away from baseball and Susan found herself talking to the quiet, shy wife of Bert Diaz. Sonia Diaz’s English was halting, so Susan, who had been getting in a lot of practice with Maria, spoke with her in Spanish. The Diazes had a six-month-old daughter, and the two women happily talked babies during the appetizer and soup courses. Susan’s attention was wrested from this fascinating topic, however, when she heard Carl Seelinger ask Ricardo, “And what are you going to do this winter, Rick? If you do any more skiing, George will have a heart attack. He does not want you reporting to spring training with a broken leg.”

Ricardo looked amused. “George is a worry wart.” He sipped his wine. “We’ll be leaving for Bogota before long. I don’t want to delay Ricky’s christening forever and my mother and sisters are dying to see him.”