Whistling on the Stair

By Saylor D Smith

Ambition, deceit, and revenge, driven by feelings first of love and then of hate, motivate the major characters in Whistling on the Stair.

It begins in 1981, when D.C. ONeill, a minor league baseball player, finds himself pulled in several directions by conflicting forces in his life. Leaving his wife Jane and daughter Bobbi behind in Lincoln, Nebraska, he heads off for his third year of spring practice with the California Angels in their Arizona training facility. There he meets the mysterious Kovacek brothers; are they friendly, disinterested baseball fans, as they claim? he wonders, or dangerous characters intent, for reasons only they understand, on disrupting his life?

Back home, Jane attempts to help a neighbor and friend deal with the abuse she is suffering at the hands of her husband; Bobbi begins her acting career at the age of four; and Jane faces mounting frustration brought on by the complexities of a life that doesnt challenge her long-stifled creative self. Then, D.C.s professional baseball career reaches a critical juncture.

Matters come to a head when one of the Kovacek brothers decides to take drastic action on what seems to be a revenge motive.

Finally, D.C. sees the possibility of advancing to the major leagues, while Bobbi experiences notable success as an actress. Then, a bright future for both of them takes a dramatic turn when a family tragedy puts their dreams on hold.

D.C. has to unravel the mystery of the Kovacek brothers as he attempts to establish himself as a professional baseball player and, at the same time, hold his family together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469776514

Saylor D Smith

Saylor Smith spent most of his working career as a high school English teacher and publications adviser in Southern California and Oregon from the late 1960s until the spring of 2002. He has published four other books, including one with his daughter Evynne. He lives in Eugene, Oregon with his wife Karen.

Book preview

PART ONE — SPRING TRAINING

CHAPTER ONE

OF THE EARTH

HOWIE STROLLED — NO, he ambled — into my room at exactly 3:31, stepped up to the chalkboard and wrote, in large, shaky, barely legible letters, Nothing matters! I sat, not moving, elbows resting on my desktop, chin in my hands. He glanced over at me.

Hmmmf, I said.

Yeah, I know what you mean.

He sighed and turned away to hide a smile. Howard imagined himself inscrutable, but he was as easily readable as an elementary schoolbook.

I sighed.

He forced himself into a student desk on the far side of the room and mimicked my posture. We both stared at his written words. I chuckled to myself. All right, I admit it: this was my favorite time of the school week. Howard loved to think, and he loved to make me think.

Just imagine how all those little no-neck monsters feel, he mumbled. They have got it even worse than we do.

I sat up, feigning a look of shock.

You can’t possibly mean that!

Why? he asked.

I pointed at the chalkboard.

He struggled out of the desk, marched to the front of the room. Eraser in hand, he rubbed out part of the first word, then amended his message to Not much matters! He loved toying with me; it was all part of the game, our weekly ritual.

Oh, Howard, my friend, you are mellowing, mellowing in your middle years.

Back in his desk, he rubbed his neck and said, Well, to tell the truth, if nothing or no one else matters, Hazel definitely does.

You old softie, I said.

Howie shrugged his shoulders, smiled and asked, So, what is the question of the week? I know you have to have some problem or issue or doubt you need to express. What is it?

I straightened in my chair, drummed my fingers on the desktop several times and studied his eyes for some sign of sarcasm.

Are you suggesting, even hinting, that I’m a man looking for trouble? That I’m driven by a need to find the chink in each person’s armor, the fly in everyone’s ointment…

No, no, no, he said, interrupting me. "Au contraire, my friend. You are the most distressingly contented schmuck in the state of Nebraska, maybe in the entire Midwest. I just meant to say that you are a curious rascal who is always pursuing answers to what are usually unasked questions."

Oh. Well then…

I moved up to the chalkboard and wrote three words, beach, shore and coast.

He looked puzzled, knew enough to wait for the punch line.

It all came to me last summer, on one of my few days off. Kicking rocks on the gravelly ocean-side sand at Florence, Oregon, I began to wonder… Why is it that Southern Californians go to the beach, New Englanders go to the shore and Oregonians go to the coast?

He smiled wisely, but before he could answer, I went on. I spoke quickly because I didn’t want to give him too much time to formulate what I knew would be a pedantic response.

Have you noticed that most coastal cities in Oregon have names that are not even nautically inclined, Yachats, Lincoln City, North Bend, Bandon…

He started to speak. I held up a hand.

I looked it up — while I was in Portland, a city, by the way, on a river not on the ocean. Of the towns with names that are at all ocean-related, very few include ‘beach’ in their titles: Seaside, Coos Bay, Waldport, Newport.

Again, he started to speak, but I continued.

In California, there are any number of cities with the word ‘beach’ in their names: Newport Beach, Manhattan Beach, Redondo Beach, Laguna Beach, Seal Beach, Long Beach, Pebble Beach, and on and on.

He gave me an impatient look, nodded sarcastically — his sarcasm was never far beneath the surface.

Looked those up too, huh?

I ignored the comment.

"And on the Atlantic shore, there are few beach-related names: Boston, New York City, Miami, Cape Cod, Portsmouth."

Howie kept his counsel. I shook a finger at him.

O.K., I said, explain.

Howard Feinberg was chunky, tending toward plump, short but not stubby. His thinning hair always seemed to be waving in the air above his head like threads of seaweed caught in an underwater current. He dressed well but not neatly, his tie undone, collar loose and sport coat slightly rumpled; his belt sort of looped down below his small, round Santa Claus belly, and his pants cuffs fell to the floor; in fact, when he walked you couldn’t be certain he was even wearing shoes. It was not an impressive sight, yet somehow whenever Howard entered a room, all eyes turned his way. He had a presence that probably came from a lifetime’s involvement with theatre. There was something altogether dramatic about his every movement. Yet there was an unstudied naturalness about him that was perhaps his most endearing quality. We had known each other for less than three years but had become good friends, probably because he tolerated my constant, probing questions and I put up with his well-crafted answers. Mutual respect resulted.

Now he strode to the front of the room, the master of his art, swept up a piece of chalk and turned toward me as I settled in behind my desk. I was ready for the lecture; he was prepared to give it. We both knew our parts well.

First, he said, in his most professorial tone, "I need to point out that Southern Californians are notoriously lazy; their primary purpose in life seems to be lying around. That purpose, combined with the warm weather afforded them most of the year and combined with the wealth of soft, white sand available for lying around on causes them — nay, drives them — to the western edge of the state where they plop down inch-thick, three-foot-long towels called — please notice — beach towels and go immediately to sleep. You can always tell a Southern Californian: he’s the one with sand in his ears who’s always saying, ‘It’s cool, man.’"

I started to applaud, but he wasn’t done.

"Second, when a California citizen takes time to go to a coastal area, he goes not because of the Pacific Ocean but because of that huge expanse of sand in front of it. Much of the California ‘coast’ is rocky, not sandy, but the denizens of the state act as though it is all sand. The sun worshipper does not really go to the ocean; he does what he says he is going to do; that is, he goes to the beach — to the sand."

He gave me an emphatic, so-it-goes nod.

"Now, then, a New Englander works hard but requires rest and relaxation, not as much as his California counterpart but a few weeks a year, at least. Similar to the California devotee of the Pacific Ocean, the lover of the Atlantic Ocean goes not to the water, per se; nor does he go to the beach, to lie around shiftlessly — it is often too cold for that; rather, he strolls along next to the water, lost in busy and important thought, following the constantly changing curves and angles of … the shore. An Oregonian has little reason to go to an Oregon beach, even though it may be just as grand as a California beach. An Oregonian is a motivated, hard-working individual with an appreciation for aesthetics. When he needs a break from the busyness of life, this hard-driving character also chooses to go to the westernmost section of his state; he goes to the coast to experience the ocean. He may walk upon the sand, or stroll along the shore, dig or fish for clams, but first and foremost and finally, he does what he says he’s going to do; that is, he goes to the ‘coast,’ which is to say the land nearest the water, to see and appreciate that most dynamic and magnetic of earthly powers, the ocean itself. In fact, I believe it is not altogether unusual to hear an Oregonian state that he is going to retreat with his family to the ‘ocean.’"

With a loud clack Howie smacked the chalk into the tray below the board.

My hands came together in one resounding clap, but he stopped me with a glance.

One more thing, he went on: an Oregonian uses the beach for such difficult tasks as jogging, fishing, crabbing; one doesn’t name towns after such activities — Lobsterville? Deepsea Fishertown? Halibutburg? Trottown? Ergo, he chooses to ignore the term ‘beach’ or ‘shore’ or even ‘coast’ when naming the cities and towns along the edge of the Pacific. But, when he goes there for rest and relaxation, he is fully and completely, in his own mind, at the coast. He stopped for just a second then added, parenthetically, You probably did not notice Cannon Beach or Gold Beach on the map, huh?

Pausing in his recitation, he pointed at me and added, Surely you discovered the Oregon manner of ocean visitation during your recent summer there — and, in your usual way, probed all the inner meanings and hidden messages therein.

I nodded weakly.

He took one long moment before expressing a closing thought.

"In the final analysis, however, if you look up ‘beach’ or ‘coast’ or ‘shore’ in your trusty Thesaurus, I am willing to wager that you will find all three words cross-referenced. So the difference is, after all, merely a semantic one. I have to add a footnote to this treatise: Nebraskans have no coast, beach or shore to visit, nor do they have the inclination for wasting their time sun bathing, whale watching, crabbing or even strolling; a Husker works; he uses his hands to turn the soil, to plant the seed, to harvest the crop. Pshaw! He has no time for trivialities such as the ones that keep those non-productive Easterners and Westerners occupied. He has no beach, sand, coast or, alas! ocean, nor has he need of any of them. While the water, sun and sand worshipper to his far right and far left are wasting their wastrel lives away, he heads not for the coast, the beach or the shore — he trudges his daily way to the south forty. He, we are proud to report, is of the earth."

I clapped loud and hard. He bowed once again and exited stage left, his usual smug look of self-satisfaction pointing his way out the door.

A minute or two later Howard stuck his head back in the open doorway. I was packing a used lunch bag and empty thermos into my briefcase. I glanced up to find a look of panic on his face.

What? I asked.

Your last day, he said.

I nodded.

Oh, D.C., my boy, he said. What will I do without you?

I laughed.

Find another audience, I expect.

Aw, faith and begorrah, there be none like ye.

"Yeah, that could be right. How many other Irishmen would listen to a Jewish comic make fun of their mighty race of supermen?

Howie laughed out loud.

Seems to me there was a guy with a German accent who took that view some years ago, and it did not pan out for him.

I slapped my forehead.

Yikes! You discovered my anti-Semitism; and I thought I hid it so well.

Walking with me while I locked the classroom and moved to the office, Howie was quiet.

Now what’s bugging you?

I really will miss having you around, he said. Nothing much matters, I know, but, uh, well…

I flipped the key into a mailbox and turned to face him.

Go on.

You know that Hemingway story about a clean, well-lighted place?

Uh-huh.

That is the feeling I get when I invade your classroom every afternoon. It is always clean, usually quiet, mostly calm — even if you are replacing one of our more boneheaded colleagues.

Sir, I responded, indignantly, you can’t be referring to a Monroe professional! One of the elite! The few! The proud!

We are not exactly Marines, my friend, he said, the sarcasm dripping.

He blushed, thrust his shoulders back. We walked out of the office and down the hallway toward the faculty parking lot.

And, he said, stopping to face me, there be far too few thinking men or women from whom I can learn valued life lessons; sometimes you try to look a little too deeply into what are really shallow subjects, but, for the most part, you make me use my head. To whom shall I go, now that you are leaving?

You need to meet my pal Abe, I said.

The pitcher.

Yeah.

Why should I meet him? he asked. We alike?

Hardly. He’s uneducated, damned near illiterate, crude…

At the end of the hallway we stopped.

This is a guy I should meet?

He’s got a good heart, in spite of his failings; each of you would benefit from knowing the other. The country boy and the city boy; the intellectual and the instinctual (is there such a word?).

Howard nodded.

But not as a noun.

Well, I said, you get the idea.

Yeah. So this Abe — he a Jew, maybe?

I laughed.

"Alfonzo Biracci, a good Italian Catholic."

Howie shook his head.

Well, if he is capable of turning my cerebellum onto meaningful concepts, I would, indeed, like to make his acquaintance.

Hmm, I said. I’m not so sure about that. He is a good old boy, though, has an honest, direct way of studying the world — a lot like you in that regard.

We looked out the window. Low clouds hung down over the city, occasional snowflakes dropping. A three-inch dusting of white covered everything, but the streets looked clear. Howard tilted his head toward the wintry scene.

Spring is on its way.

Yeah.

When do you leave?

Spring training begins before spring, I said. I’m due in Phoenix the day after tomorrow. Jane’s dreading it.

Well, one of these years I am going to retire and follow you all the way to the sun.

You’ve got at least fifteen years until you’re out to pasture, I said. I’ll be long gone from baseball by that time.

Oh, man! You know how to ruin a man’s weekend. Fifteen years! It might as well be an eternity, an eternity spent with no-necked monsters, no-brained trolls, no-eared cretins, rug rats…

You love every one of them, you know you do; and they love you. It’s a match made in heaven, don’t you know.

Hummmf, Howie snorted.

He slapped me on the back.

I must needs get out of here, he said. And I absolutely guarantee you it will not be anywhere near fifteen years. Send me a postcard from the Valley of the Sun, will you? One of those with sun-tanned, big-bosomed babes on it.

I stepped back. I held my right hand to my mouth and said, Howard Feinberg, you’re a pervert through and through, a dirty old man.

Well, he said, pulling the school door open, a slightly over-weight, pasty-white middle-aged Jewish guy can have his fantasies too, you know. Of course, Hazel is the girl of my dreams — and she always will be.

We walked into the cold afternoon.

I’ll be in touch, I said.

He pulled his coat close and shivered.

Okay, he said. Go play your silly game; just remember us little people back here doing the real work.

Then he stopped.

"It is just a game, you know."

I nodded.

A game, he repeated. Played by boys.

Uh-huh.

But is it real life? Or is real life back here with us boring old working folks?

I shrugged.

Your point?

I have no point, he said. I was just wondering why you do it — why you leave the two people you love the most to go play the game.

He stepped back inside the school. I looked away but followed him.

I — I don’t know, I said. That’s the honest answer. I do know I’ve dreamed of playing in the Bigs since I was a kid, a little kid. I’ve tried to develop other goals, but it all comes back to baseball — I love playing the game.

And the Angels, he added. You love the Angels. Behind the plate in Disney Town — that would be your dream.

I smiled.

Yeah, the Angels, but mostly it’s the game. Remember when you were a kid and you wanted to be a fireman or an old-time western cowboy or a one-eyed pirate, you know, one of those childhood fantasies? Well, I couldn’t ever shake my fantasy — and I got encouragement from a lot of folks I respect all along the way. Then I married Jane and she’s been standing behind me too. I don’t know — I’m a third-generation ball player so maybe it’s in the blood. Plus, these days I have an opportunity to make pretty good money — enough, if it all works out, to support Jane and Bobbi in style. I guess that appeals to me some too.

Howie grabbed my shoulder.

You are a good man, he said. Do not let my simple-minded questions plant a moment’s doubt with regard to your ambitions. I am just a jealous, out-of-shape non-athlete, still a Brooklyn Dodger fan, who would change places with you in one-tenth of a split-second.

He paused.

Of course, I would have to find a way to bring Hazel along — could not get by without her — and as for spending every waking hour wearing a cup — oh, the chafing…

I laughed.

Enough said.

We slipped out the door and walked down the steps together.

Brooklyn? I said.

Yeah, born and raised — Hazel and I. We made our escape to the great Midwest, and, like the Dodgers, we do not plan on going back, just like your Jane.

Not exactly, I said. Jane’s from the Bronx and a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee fan.

I actually knew that, he said. I have never exposed my Dodger roots before; do not tell her.

I laughed.

In the parking lot we moved away from each other. I unlocked my car, pulled open the door and turned to watch Howie. He stood at his open car door, one arm raised high in the air.

See you in Anaheim, superstar! he called. Then, in a somber, fatherly tone, he said, Watch yourself, Daniel. Stay safe.

I waved back, dropped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. As I pulled out of the parking lot I could see Howie’s round face staring out the windshield of his car at me. At a stop sign two blocks from the school I glanced back. His car hadn’t moved.

He’d had no plan, I knew, to plant doubts in my mind, but they were already there — he did fertilize them though. Leave Jane and Bobbi alone and traipse off to pursue my frivolous dream? Or hunker down to life as a teacher and be a steady, predictable, Howie-like part of my family’s life? Along both sides of the street I could see three- and four-bedroom bungalows, each with a happy family, I concluded, happy in their mediocrity, their middle-class values, their unexamined lives. I drove on home.

CHAPTER TWO

LEAVING HOME

THE SILENCE IN THE house was an uncomfortable, almost palpable presence. I began to whistle, just to fill the void. As I stepped through the back door from the garage into the house, I could see Jane sitting on a kitchen chair, one hand idly clutching a coffee cup in front of her, eyes directed out the window toward the backyard. I stopped there for a moment and studied her profile, with its upturned nose, pouty lips and delicate chin. She turned slowly, almost lazily toward me, blinked herself back to the present moment and gave me her thinnest smile.

Hi, honey, she said, in a soft, cheerless voice.

I read sadness and resignation in her tone. I moved into the room. She hopped to her feet and stepped toward the counter.

Ready for that afternoon cuppa? she asked with a forced smile and artificial enthusiasm.

I nodded.

She had already begun to fill a tall glass mug with water; she shoved it into the microwave and punched some buttons. A soft, electronic hum filled the air. Jane pulled a tea bag from a drawer. I stepped close to her. She smiled nervously up at me, swinging the tea bag by its string.

I tilted my head.

Quiet.

Um-hm.

She rose on tiptoe and kissed me lightly on the lips. I pulled her close, and we held each other for several silent moments. I felt her sigh. She pulled away and immersed the tea bag in a boiling cup of water.

Where’s Bobbi?

She tilted her head toward the backyard. I sat in a chair at the kitchen table and looked out the window; Jane stood behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

There she is, she said.

Bobbi stood on a tree stump, one arm high in the air, a serious, almost somber look on her face. She was frozen in place, a department store mannequin. She listed to one side, corrected her balance and held her body as rigidly as she could. I could see her peeking at us out of the corner of one eye. I waved at her, but she remained in position.

To my questioning look, Jane explained, The Statue of Liberty.

What?

"We were looking through a book today, one of those alphabet books for beginning readers; this one was all Americana. S was for the Statue of Liberty. She asked me all about it. A moment ago, when she went outside, she climbed up on the stump and voila!"

Bobbi was beginning to wobble now.

I pushed the window up and hollered, Bravo!

Jane and I clapped loud and hard. Bobbi held her position several seconds longer, then turned toward us with a dazzling smile and bowed several times.

Mom, can I have a jootce? she called.

With a wave of her arm, Jane beckoned her daughter inside.

What in the world is a jootce? I asked.

Juice, Jane said. Our daughter just says it better than the rest of us.

I nodded again.

Bobbi leaped from her perch and dashed into the house. Jane poured a small glass of apple juice.

My daughter’s enthusiasm for life was more contagious than the Black Plague. As she slurped her drink, I studied her face. Those bright brown eyes literally sparkled with excitement, and she bounced up and down like a broken spring as she talked.

Daddy, did you know the Statue of Libby is really, really high?

Liberty, I said.

What?

Her bouncing stopped, temporarily — she studied my lips as I spoke.

"It’s called the Statue of Liberty — you know, like freedom."

Oh.

She was quiet for a long moment, then began bouncing again.

I thought her name was Libby.

Jane and I exchanged smiles.

No. Most folks call her Lady Liberty, I explained. Because we live in a free country — understand?

Her gigantic smile was back.

Lady Liberty.

She stood stock-still and said it slowly, letting the words roll off her tongue and said it again.

Jane stepped sideways to the refrigerator.

Time to get dinner going, she said. Anybody feel like helping?

I raised my hand. Jane and I stared at our daughter

Bobbi looked at me, then at her mother. Slowly she raised her hand.

I’ll help, she said. But —

Jane and I waited.

Staring out the kitchen window toward the tree stump, Bobbi said, Do you think Lady Liberty makes dinners?

Jane and I looked at each other.

I’ll let you deal with that one, she mumbled.

She pulled a glass casserole dish from the refrigerator and placed it on the counter. Then she reached down to twist a knob on the stove.

I sat, frozen in place. The silence enveloped the three of us. Bobbi looked up at me, head tilted in innocent curiosity. I noted a sly grin on Jane’s face as she turned away from us.

Well, Peanut, I said, stuttering, Uh, L-Lady Liberty is a statue; she’s not a real person. She represents our country.

Bobbi puzzled over that; Jane kept her eyes on the casserole but shook her head.

Huh?

"Well, she’s not the real country; she’s just someone, er, some thing that, when you think of our country, you think of her — uh, it."

Jane nodded appreciatively.

Bobbi frowned.

I stood up from the table.

Our daughter’s eyes blinked like the nearest star.

But she has an uncle.

Jane and I exchanged confused looks.

So she has to be real, Bobbi concluded.

Huh? was all I could manage.

Hot pad glove in hand and on hip, Jane pointed to her daughter and exclaimed, Uncle Sam! That was U. Is that what you mean, honey?

Bobbi nodded, And, she added, he’s more important than Lady Liberty because he’s a man.

Jane glared at me. I spread my arms to proclaim my innocence.

Th-th-there are important people who are not men, I stammered. And — and important people do too cook dinners. Pause. Sometimes.

I picked Bobbi up and turned toward her mother.

There, I said, pointing at Jane.

What?

Two large, innocent eyes glanced at Jane, then turned back toward me.

She’s as important as they get, I said.

With an impatient wave, she struggled from my arms and jumped up and down on the floor.

Oh, I know, Daddy. I know Momma’s important. But just to us, not like Lady Liberty.

Then she leaped straight into the air and clapped her hands.

Lady Liberty! she said. She’s important and she’s a lady. Important to everybody, I mean.

Yeah, I said. See? And she’s just as important as her Uncle Sam, maybe more important. Yeah, I added, looking sideways at Jane, "I’d definitely say she’s more important than old Uncle Sam. He’s not even a statue; or if he is, I never saw it, uh, him."

"So does he cook dinner?"

I felt the beginning forehead ripples of a headache.

Listen, I said, he’s not real either…

I knew that wouldn’t work so I decided to lie, to lie just to end the inquisition. Bobbi stared at me.

Yes. Uncle Sam cooks dinner. Absolutely. He sure does. Yep.

I was certain a definitive answer would satisfy my insatiably curious daughter.

Not every night, you understand; once in a while. He… he isn’t too bad a cook either, from what I hear.

Jane just shook her head.

"But you never cook dinner," Bobbi said.

I sat back down at the table and took a deep breath.

I turned toward Jane and mouthed a question: Is she really just six?

Jane smiled again and nodded.

Okay, I don’t cook dinner, but I — I set the table, I said, jumping up.

I took plates, glasses and silverware to the dining room and began distributing them around the table.

There, I said, aware that the family’s biggest little critic was watching my every move.

I bent down to arrange the forks perfectly at each place. Then, deciding that the best defense was a strong offense, I turned to Bobbi.

"Now, what are you going to do?"

Marching past me, she said, "Help Momma make the dinner!"

At the other end of the kitchen, Jane glanced up and grinned.

That would be nice, she said. How about rinsing off some carrots?

Wrinkling her nose, Bobbi nodded and stepped up onto the bench we kept in the kitchen for her use. Jane handed her two large carrots and a vegetable brush. Bobbi accepted them solemnly and set to work. When she glanced up at me I leaned down once again to re-arrange the place settings. Jane, a nearly silent witness to the family drama, giggled softly. I made a point of walking all the way around the table, readjusting knives and forks as I moved along.

Finally, I could stall no longer. I cleared my throat loudly, said, There! and slipped out of the room. I could hear the two women in my life chattering happily for the next ten minutes. I dropped onto the couch in front of the television and tried to follow the nightly news. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept asking myself how I would get along for the next several months without Jane and Bobbi. The three of us had established a comfortable life pattern; my decision to abandon them for my childish dream now seemed patently wrong. My eyes glazed over during the evening weather report; I could still hear my wife and daughter jabbering away as they finished dinner preparations.

It’s not childish, I told myself. And this time next year we could be ready to invest in a new home, in a Southern California neighborhood — pool, barbecue pit, country club membership, the real deal. When the dream becomes reality and we’re back together again, no one will ever say I was selfish, narrow-minded, a pathologically linear thinker, as Howard might put it.

I pushed the television’s off button and strode toward the kitchen, confused but determined.

All right, I said, let’s get this show on the road.

At dinner Bobbi told me more about Lady Liberty.

Do you know that she is there to meet all the visitors who come into America?

I scooped a second helping of tuna casserole and nodded.

Do you think she says ‘hi’ to each one? she asked, wide-eyed.

Oh, I think she’s pretty busy just standing there with that big torch in her hand, I mumbled. That’d give me a back ache.

Hmm.

She addressed her mother.

What do you think?

Jane set her fork down and gave her daughter a serious look.

Honey, the Statue of Liberty is just that, a statue; she’s made of rock… or something.

She looked at me.

Copper, I said.

Yes, copper; so she’s not alive, not a real person. She’s a statue that stands there looking out to sea. But for a lot of people coming to this country, she is a welcome sight. When they see her they know they have reached America.

Bobbi looked puzzled.

She’s not real?

Jane shook her head.

She’s higher than a lot of buildings, Jane said, so she couldn’t be real, could she?

Bobbi’s serious little face turned sad.

I — I guess not.

I pushed back from the table and piled my glass and silverware onto my plate. I picked them up and carried them to the sink.

You remember those big cement lions that sit outside the museum we visited in New York?

Bobbi nodded.

Well, they’re not real, are they?

She shook her head.

They’re statues, just like Lady Liberty is a statue.

Hmmm.

Two things you got wrong today, I said.

Bobbi perked up.

What?

"Important people do fix dinner sometimes, and women are just as important as men, more important in lots of cases."

Never missing a beat, she said, Like in our family?

Jane’s eyebrows raised and lowered.

There was only one answer to that question.

I pointed at Jane, then back at Bobbi.

Yep, I said, like in our family.

After dinner mother and daughter marched triumphantly into the kitchen.

Who’s going to dry? Jane called.

I slumped, humbled, to the sink and picked up a towel.

The man of the house, I mumbled.

CHAPTER THREE

LIFE STINKS

TWO HOURS LATER, AFTER the evening’s ritual, which included family reading time, tooth brushing, storytelling and goodnight kisses, Jane and I tucked Bobbi into her bed and slipped into our side-by-side easy chairs in the living room. ’Twas a comfortable moment.

Phew! she said.

She’s just a little Jane, you know.

Jane shook her head. I hate it when she shakes her head, especially if I happen to be right at the time. I was right this time.

I was never like that.

So what were you like then?

She waved me off, another annoying habit of hers.

Oh, I was lively, I guess, and smart, but Bobbi is way out there! She’s smart, and she’s creative — quite a combination.

I chuckled.

That’s for sure. Are we going to have to find a special school for her?

The public schools here in town are very good, from what I hear in the neighborhood. Pre-school and kindergarten were fine; this year should give us a better idea of how strong the elementary teaching staff is; so far I’m impressed.

We may not be here for the entire year, I managed to insinuate into the conversation.

There was a long silence. She glanced over at me. I looked away. Her blue-green eyes always spoke volumes to me, and this time they were saying how much she regretted that tomorrow would be a day of goodbyes.

Better do some packing, she said, so softly I barely heard her.

Yeah.

I took her arm, and we walked to the bedroom together. There are few grander moments than those that occur when Jane and I stroll to the bedroom. Ah, yes. But, anyway, for the next hour neither of us spoke, except to discuss whether or not I needed to take along a particular article of clothing.

Ten pairs of underwear, she observed. Not a lot.

I laughed.

I’ll be wearing a jock and cup most of the time; no need for much in the underwear department. Or is that more information than you need?

I pointed at her accusingly.

You’re visualizing now, aren’t you?

She shook her head.

Well, it’s not a pretty sight, I can tell you. Howard told me the chafing would get to him.

She smiled weakly.

Finally, I snapped my suitcase shut, tugged it into the living room and fell into a chair near the front door.

Home, I thought. This is home. Howard asked me why I would leave the two most important people in my life. At moments like this, I wondered the same thing. Jane sat on a couch facing me. I noted her glum expression.

C’mon, hon; you aren’t making this any easier, you know.

She glanced up at me, flashed a genuine smile and snapped her fingers.

You’re right! Okay, let’s talk baseball. Are you ready to show the Angels what you’re made of?

I nodded. My antenna vibrated to attention; gems of baseball wisdom, I realized, were coming my way. Jane should have been a manager — well, a hitting instructor at the very least.

You might want to do a quick half-hour of t-hitting before bed. I’ll come out and watch, just to make sure your swing is grooved.

First I nodded, then I shook my head.

I don’t know if I can manage in Arizona without you, I said. You know my swing better than I do. What’ll I do if it gets out of whack?

We walked to the garage.

Can you get somebody to film a batting practice session?

I think so.

Well, you’ll just have to send me the film, see if I can spot anything; I think I’ll be able to.

She pushed me ahead of her out the door into the garage. I was tempted to ask her if she’d help some of my teammates with their hitting, but she already has a job…

But it’s not going to get out of whack. Your swing is in such perfect shape now that you won’t have any problems hitting in spring training or all summer, wherever you’re playing — even Anaheim.

I nodded, but I know it was a nod full of doubt.

Which is where you’re going to be. Right?

I nodded again, forcing conviction into the gesture this time.

Right? she said, louder.

Yeah, yeah, YEAH! I said.

She pushed the rubber batting-t into place while I pulled two bats out of a bag. I placed a heavy donut on one and began to practice my swing. She grabbed a bucket from a garage shelf, placed it next to the batting-t. It was full of plastic baseballs.

You just need to concentrate on defense, she said. The low ball to your left is still a problem; keep working on it. See if Abe will toss you a couple dozen in the dirt every day. His left-handed curveball should drop right into your trouble spot.

She walked to the other end of the garage and pulled on the loose hanging end of a heavy canvas sheet; it was attached to a clothesline and fell all the way to the floor. I placed a plastic ball on the batting-t, stepped back and hit it. The ball whapped into the sheet and fell to the garage floor. I glanced at Jane. She nodded. I hit ball after ball into the sheet. After ten minutes I had worked up a light sweat, and the bucket was empty. Jane helped me gather up the balls and re-fill the bucket. I repeated this exercise for thirty minutes. Jane was silent the entire time.

You usually go inside after the first few, I noted.

She shrugged, leaned to pick up the last ball.

It’s a line-drive swing, she said. Keep it that way. You know you have a tendency to drop your back shoulder once in awhile. She demonstrated. Resist the temptation. The homeruns will come; keep hitting those liners.

Yes ma’am.

I re-bagged the bats, secured the bag with a cord of nylon and placed it in the trunk of the car.

Can’t forget your favorite weapons, she said.

Yeah, I reckon I’m ready to go.

This is the year, Danny.

This is the year.

Bye, bye, Triple A — hello American League.

I held the door for her as we moved back into the house.

You be okay?

Jane snorted; it was a rather unpleasant nasal sound that she made when things were slightly out of order — as they obviously were now. But as she obviously wasn’t going to acknowledge.

Ha! Me? What are you talking about?

I grabbed her by the shoulders and looked hard into her eyes.

Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

She looked away. If only I could have seen whatever it was she was seeing…

Not much challenge in this life, is there? I observed.

Oh, Bobbi provides some challenges, she said. And my job…

That calls for a baseball expression, I said. Bullshit!

She pulled away from me and started down the hall toward the bedroom. I hurried after her. I found her sitting on the bed, staring at the floor. I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she’d turned her back and walked away from me. It was clear that her casual dismissal of my concerns was part of her well-developed masquerade, her attempt to hide from me the depth of her anxiety. For pioneer women it came in the form of what was once called cabin fever, the deadening power of isolation; for Jane it must have been a feeling of missing out, or falling short, of seeing a goal but knowing it was out of reach — isolation of an entirely different kind. I wish I could have seen it then.

What do you expect me to say? she asked. "That housewifery is my dream? Well, you know that’s not true. I have things I’d like to do… things I — can’t do here. But I’m committed to you and your dream; I feel the dream myself. How long have you had it?"

I dropped down beside her.

"I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have it. Some of that is probably Pap’s fault. He most likely planted it there. Catcher for the Anaheim Angels; catcher for the Anaheim Angels — it’s almost a mantra with me after all this time."

I paused.

Remember the night we met?

She smiled.

Every minute of it.

Well, do you know when I fell in love with you? The exact moment?

She wrinkled her nose in thought.

It happened that night?

I nodded. I knew Jane loved guessing games like this; it was part of her competitive nature — she was an athlete at heart. And I loved tossing her these curve balls.

Hmmm.

I had her attention.

Was it when I refused to let you pay for the hot dogs? she asked.

I laughed.

No, but you were mighty attractive at that moment.

She studied my eyes.

When I told you I didn’t really hate the Angels, even though I was a lifetime Yankee fan?

I shook my head.

I never really believed you on that one, I said.

Well, I’m sorry, she said; I don’t usually lie about things like that — but I wanted you to like me. And you were such a big boob about the Angels.

I admit it.

She was right — I was wacko about the Angels — still am.

And, by the way, the Angels have wormed their way into my heart, thanks to you and your fanaticism.

She wrinkled her brow in thought. Now that was one of my favorite expressions, the one that meant she was giving serious thought to something.

Okay. I give up. When did the light of love strike you?

The home half of the third inning, I believe it was, runners on first and second, one out, a pop-up to third…

Infield fly, she said, interrupting me.

I gave her an injured look. She always had this aggravating ability to steal my thunder.

That would be an infield fly, she explained.

You don’t remember, I said.

With a puzzled look she said, Remember what?

You said the same thing that night: ‘Infield fly!’ I challenged you to explain the infield fly rule — you did it, and then you explained why there is such a rule — in amazing detail.

Oh yeah, Jane said.

To tell you the truth, I couldn’t believe it. And, I concluded, I was in love.

She stood and hugged me. Oh, my, was I going to miss those hugs!

You are only slightly balmy, you know, she said. "Well, I fell in love with you when I found out how serious you were about baseball — which