contentedly feeling the night fuzz drop from my brain. I’d always wanted a family.
But on the other hand two women could be lots more than twice as scornful as one. My life might become nothing but the object of snappy banter. I was glad when Hank showed up with the paper.
“Dibs on the funnies,” Maurey said.
Lydia affixed herself in Hank’s arms and gave him an open-mouthed kiss that lasted like three minutes.
“Ish,” I said.
Maurey rolled her eyes up under her eyelids. “I’ll never act like that in front of my children.”
“Me, either.”
Lydia broke off the kiss and went all smug. “You’ll never have a sexual technician like mine.”
Hank looked more embarrassed than pleased, but I could tell he was somewhat pleased. Not many good lays get public appreciation. I flipped a pancake wrong and batter glomped all over the griddle.
Lydia ate like a hog. Her appetite must be connected by direct wire to her crotch—one orgasm and she turns into Johnny the Lumberjack.
Maurey didn’t eat any.
Hank and Lydia got into a fight that just about snuffed the afterglow. Lydia tore a comic page down the middle. “Red Ryder and Little Beaver are ethnic perverts.”
“Don’t make fun of Little Beaver,” Hank said.
“Look at this yellow headband. He’s an embarrassment to beavers everywhere.”
Hank looked. “I have a headband that color.”
“Ethnic pervert.”
The sports page was all Boston Celtics and Winter Olympics. Skiing just wasn’t my gig.
I was making a second pot of coffee when someone knocked on the door.
Maurey’s face went happy. “That’ll be Dad.”
Hank and I traded a quick guilt glance. Males must be born with a fear of fathers at the door.
I said, “Buddy?”
Maurey set down her mug. “I figured he’d be down from the TM this weekend. Thanks for letting me stay here.”
Lydia said, “You’re welcome.”
Throughout the whole deal, Maurey and Lydia always knew what was going on and they never told me. I didn’t find out Maurey was moving in until she was in, and now the same thing was happening on the move out.
The knock came again. As she walked barefoot into the living room, Lydia said, “I’ve been waiting to meet the fabulous Buddy Pierce.”
I looked at Maurey’s eyes. “Are we splitting up?”
She was still smiling on account of her dad. “Oh, Sam, we were never together. I’ll still be over every couple of days.”
“What about the baby?”
She glanced behind me to see if Buddy was in earshot. “We’ll name him after he comes.”
“Where will she live?”
“We’ll know when it happens, no need to worry about stuff like that until he’s here.” I knew she was lying. I’d bet anything that Maurey and Lydia both knew what sex, what name, where it would live, and what sports it would go out for. In their little brains they’d already planned its life; they just weren’t telling me.
Lydia’s voice came from the living room. “Would you care for some coffee?”
“No, thanks, I’ll pick up my daughter and be gone.”
Then they were in the kitchen and everyone was shuffling around being awkward on the deal.
“Hank,” Buddy said.
“Buddy,” Hank said.
I guess Buddy felt odd about working out a family crisis in front of people he didn’t know. “Get your things,” he said to Maurey.
“I’m already packed.”
Buddy stood next to me, which made me nervous and itchy. I mean, how far had Annabel filled in the details? She couldn’t very well say, “Sam fucked our baby,” without spilling the disgusting details of Howard Stebbins and Rock Springs. Any hint of truth would disorder the dickens out of her order. But then, the very term “make a clean breast” might appeal to Annabel.
I risked a look up, but he was so close all I could see was a plaid shirt, an unzipped red parka, and that black bush of a beard. He stayed put while Maurey went off to our room to gather up her suitcase and bear. When had she packed anyway? Had to be while I was in the shower, but you’d think I would have noticed when I got dressed.
“Get an elk this year, Hank?” Buddy asked.
“Yes. You?”
“Killed a cow up on Goosewing.”
“Goosewing has always been a good location.”
Both men were trying to out-stoic the other. Lydia took the pot from my hand and ran water. “Maurey tells us you went to art school at Stanford.”
Buddy’s beard nodded.
“What kind of art interested you?”
“Bronze.”
“I love bronze, don’t you, Sam?”
“It’s my favorite metal.”
After that no one said anything until Maurey came in and stood next to her father. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for taking care of my daughter. I hope she wasn’t trouble.”
Lydia smiled at Maurey. “No trouble. You have a fine little girl, Mr. Pierce.”
The beard nodded again.
“See you in school, Sam,” Maurey said.
Then they were gone and, at thirteen years and six months, I discovered the pain in the ass of a woman walking out the door.
My loved ones and I survived to baseball season. Praise the Lord.
I discovered that if I tipped the radio onto its left side and held my thumb on the speaker I could pick up about every other word of the Dodger games on KFI Los Angeles. The games didn’t start till 9:00 and the signal drifted every twenty minutes, but I never missed a one, even though Sandy Koufax pulled a muscle in his pitching arm and the Dodgers dropped ten of their first eleven. It’s not who wins or loses in baseball, it’s how clean you feel when you play it. Or listen to it.
My hero object went from Don Drysdale, who actually played the games, to Vince Skully, who announced them. Vince knew more facts about more subjects than anyone else on earth. I counted—he averaged eight facts between each pitch, and when you figure 250 pitches a game, that’s 2,000 facts in nine innings. Even if he repeated one every few weeks, you spread 2,000 facts a game over a 162-game season and you’ve got a hell of a lot of information.
