The Closer (22 page)

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Authors: Alan Mindell

BOOK: The Closer
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"We'd manage."

"I've put
some
money away," she said. "And Steven told me he'd help. But the medical bills and children are expensive."

"We'd manage," he repeated. "I'm getting a big league salary now."

"You think it would be easy?" she continued her theme. "Watching me waste away. Possibly having to raise the children all by yourself."

"You're raising them all by yourself."

"And you're willing to finish the job if that's the way things work out?"

"Yes," he replied emphatically. "I would be."

"You'd like to be
the closer
..." she sounded just as emphatic. "That's your role. In baseball
and
in
life.
Am I right?"

He'd never thought of it that way. She sneezed. And coughed. Both hearty ones. So that what he thought at that moment was how cute she looked as she tried to cover her nose and her mouth at the same time with one hand. While wearing the same frumpy housecoat she had on yesterday and last night.

"Try to eat a little and then go back to bed," he suggested.

"What will you do?"

"Go pick up the kids later. Then go to baseball."

"What about till then?"

"Make myself at home," he pointed inside, toward the living room couch.

She offered no dispute. No doubt because if she did, it would only invite more sneezes and coughs

Chapter Thirty

"Sleep?" Terry asked from his usual station on the couch as Lauren entered the room.

"Quite a bit."

"Oh, I checked into a transportation service," he motioned toward some notations on a pad. "They'll take the kids to school or pick them up in a pinch."

"Good resource development, Mr. Closer. Baseball doesn't work out, you could always try counseling."

He laughed. She sat down next to him. She was wearing the same housecoat. He noticed how red her nose was.

"There's food in the fridge for lunch," she offered.

"I know. I made us a couple of sandwiches."

"Making yourself at home," she said, a tinge of accusation in her voice.

"Told you I would. Someone once told me possession is nine-tenths of the law."

She smiled. They got up and went into the kitchen. He took the sandwiches out of the refrigerator and put them on the table. When they sat down, he caught her fighting off another sneeze.

"Hope you like it," he said. "You hardly nibbled at breakfast."

She nibbled now, and then nodded approvingly. He felt relieved when she took a second bite, much bigger than the first. Possibly to encourage her, he took a very large bite of his own sandwich.

"I want you to know something," he spoke soothingly while touching her left elbow.

"Yes?" she gazed at him.

"I admire your strength."

"Strength? What strength? Look at me coughing and sneezing. Sleeping half the day away."

For emphasis, she both sneezed and coughed. He pointed to her sandwich and she took another bite.

"You know what I mean," he said. "If it were me..."

"What did you think I would do?" she interrupted. "Give up! Sit around feeling sorry for myself. I don't have that luxury. Not with the kids."

He nodded. Of course none of this surprised him. Not if he knew her in the least. He pointed to the sandwich again, and she took another bite.

"Speaking of the kids," she sighed. "You know my biggest regret...?"

"What?"

"Maybe…not getting to see them grow up."

She sighed again. He shook his head. He could see tears beginning to form in her eyes. Once more he pointed to the sandwich and she took another nibble.

"Once you finish," he said, "we're going to go into your bedroom and take another nap."

"We?"

"Yes, we," he spoke firmly. "I want to hold you."

 

There was nothing distinctive about her bed, and certainly nothing fancy. Probably its best feature was its jet-black fluffy down bedspread. The room itself was small and furnished simply. Numerous drawings by the children, at various ages, dotted the white walls.

For sleepwear, Terry borrowed a heavy oversized brown sweatshirt from her. Meanwhile, she stayed with her ubiquitous housecoat. It was she who slipped back the bedspread and blanket, without the slightest ceremony.

"I hope you don't catch my cold," she said as she slid into bed.

"If I have, I already did," he replied, joining her.

"More knuckleball logic?" she laughed.

But he could tell her laughter was tense. And he was far from relaxed himself. No question, neither of them had anticipated the afternoon winding up like this.

She lay on her back. From her left, he put both arms around her. At first he held her loosely, and then he tightened his grip. Her body, slim and lithe, felt good against his as she rolled over on her right side. He nudged even closer.

Seemingly within seconds, she was asleep. It took him much longer; however, he did manage to doze off.

 

How it happened could probably only be explained by a combination of factors. When they woke, she was obviously drowsy from sleep, from her cold, and from cold medication she was undoubtedly taking. He, on the other hand, regularly felt amorous after sleeping. Plus, when she tried unsuccessfully (her drowsiness was clearly overwhelming) to edge out of bed, her housecoat slid high up her thighs.

Her legs were beautiful. The only other time he noticed them was during their "Saturday night date," when they went dancing. She definitely had dancer's legs—long, slender and femininely athletic. And, after reaching out to touch them in his own drowsy state, he found them to be very soft and malleable.

"I hope you don't catch my cold," she repeated her warning from earlier.

"If I have, I already did," he snickered his same response.

Once her housecoat slid up, it never came back down. And there was only a short flimsy nightgown underneath. She made only a brief attempt to resist, one that seemingly merely heightened their lovemaking.

It took a while for him to move his focus away from her legs, but when he finally did, he found other parts of her no less delightful.

 

Terry was sitting on the living room couch, putting on his shoes, about to leave to go pick up the kids, when Lauren surprised him by coming out of her bedroom fully dressed. They'd already agreed that he'd pick them up by himself. In fact, when he'd left the bedroom half an hour ago, she was just beginning another nap.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going with you."

"There's no reason," he disagreed.

"There's one
big
reason," she said firmly. "I want to be with you."

Chapter Thirty-One

Terry picked up the ball in the center of the diamond and began his warm-ups. He was already perspiring heavily. He glanced toward the facade below the top deck of the stadium, at the digital thermometer there. Ninety-five degrees. Ninety-five degrees at ten o'clock at night! Where else could this be but Texas?

It was the start of the bottom of the ninth in the final game of their final road trip of the season. Things had gone well in the first five games. Two out of three in Chicago, and a split of the first two here. Terry had recorded saves in the Chicago wins, but had yet to appear here.

They still trailed Texas by four and a half in the division. A win tonight, though, would boost them into a tie for the wild card, since New York had lost earlier that evening. All Terry had to do was protect a 7-4 lead.

Seven-four. Wasn't that the exact score when he'd entered that first game of the season, on Easter Sunday right here in Texas? When he'd blown an easy save, surrendering a grand slam in the ninth inning. That was in the minor leagues, however. And in El Paso, not Dallas where they now were.

Yet the memory was strong. The oppressive heat. Pitching Coach Collum's negativity. His own anger and disappointment over not making the majors. The anxiety regarding whether he'd soon lose his job. And, finally, the humiliating loss.

The first Texas batter rudely brought him back to the present, lining his first pitch to center for a single. The next hitter walked on a close 3-2 pitch. The following batter grounded a two hopper to shortstop Oates, a perfect double play ball. Except he booted it. The bases were loaded.

Wasn't this exactly the way that opening game in El Paso had gone? With the next hitter slugging the grand slam. Would the script be identical? Or could he somehow alter it?

Rick came out of the Oakland dugout. For an instant Terry mistook him for Collum. Was the heat playing tricks? As Rick reached the mound, Terry shook his head vigorously, trying to clear it.

"You okay?" Rick asked.

"Like a bad dream,” Terry muttered, more to himself than to Rick.

"Better wake up."

Once Rick left to return to the dugout, Terry shook his head again. This was no dream, it was very much reality. It was a definite test. His test—bases loaded, no outs, Texas—the heat.

He felt as if he was dealing with both the present and the past. With so much at stake. For him. And for the team. He couldn't blow this save. Blow their chance to tie New York in the wild card race.

He walked off the mound, toward second base. Briefly, he thought about Lauren. About how he'd phoned her at least once a day while he'd been away. About all she'd been through. About how much he loved her.

Then his mind switched back to Texas. In particular to that awful first month of the season in El Paso. How hopeless he'd felt. How he'd come so close to quitting.

That seemed so long ago. With so much happening since. Was he actually the same person? As he'd told Lauren, he was going nowhere then. Stuck in El Paso. Yet, soon after Karen had asked for his autograph, he'd managed to change the direction of his life. If he could do that, maybe he could change the direction of this game. Alter its script.

He stepped back on the mound. He glanced again at the digital thermometer. Still ninety-five. After removing his cap, he wiped his forehead with his arm. Then gazed at Bailey for the sign. Fastball. No, not a fastball. Hadn't that been what the batter back in El Paso had hit for the grand slam?

He rubbed his glove along his belt, shaking off the sign. What was wrong with the diver? But Bailey seemed adamant, flashing fastball again.

Terry reluctantly gave in. Maybe it was a good idea, especially if the hitter was looking for a knuckler. Plus, he didn't have to throw the fastball for a strike. At the last second, though, he decided to try to throw it for a strike. And threw a perfect one, over the outside corner at the knees. The batter, fooled, reached for the pitch and tapped another grounder to shortstop, this one to Oates's left. This time Oates fielded it and, without breaking stride, stepped on second base and threw to first. Double play. A runner did score, making it 7-5, but now there were two outs.

Terry began the next batter with the diver. He swung, lifting a little pop fly behind the mound. Terry quickly scanned the infielders racing toward the ball, and saw none of them would get it before it fell. Billy's catch, ending the game the night of his no hitter, flashed through his mind. Hurrying back toward the ball, Terry reached up over his head and behind himself, and snagged the ball in the webbing of his glove. Exactly as Billy had done.

The game was over. He had gotten the final three outs on just two pitches. He had survived Texas. He had survived the heat. He had passed the test. In celebration, he tossed the ball high into the air.

With only nine games left on the schedule, Oakland had tied New York for the wild card.

 

"Another attack,” Lauren's voice sounded very weak and distant over the phone.

"Oh, no!" he gasped into his bungalow phone. "Where are you?"

"Hospital."

"Which one?" he stammered, becoming more and more alarmed.

"Near the house."

"I'm on my way."

He scrambled around the room, trying to get dressed. He was groggy himself, her early morning call ending a night's sleep already abbreviated by a 3:00 a.m. arrival home from the road trip. He had many more questions to ask her, but at least he was thinking clearly enough not to ask them during the phone call, as weak as she sounded.

Moments later, he rushed out the door.

 

It took Terry much longer to reach her than he'd hoped. The morning rush hour traffic crossing the bridge into San Francisco was very heavy. Although he had no problem locating the hospital (he'd driven by it several times while taking the kids to or from school), he did have trouble finding her room because the hospital was so spread out, with a couple of areas under construction.

When he finally did get to her, he was even more alarmed than earlier. Asleep, she looked pale and lifeless, much like Carly after her overdose. He sat down in a chair next to her bed. Eventually, she opened her eyes and smiled faintly at him.

"Feeling okay?" he began with the questions he would like to have asked during their phone conversation.

"Not so good."

"The attack? Was it bad?"

"Bad. The worst one yet."

"When did it happen?" he probed on, since she seemed to be getting more alert.

"Middle of the night."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I tried. You must have been flying. So I called my brother."

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