Mooshie laid two pillows between them.
“I’m sure we could find barbed wire cheap.” He reached for the wine. She slapped away his hand.
“You got a game tomorrow. You got enough to do working off that gut.”
Puppy self-consciously edged further away. “What’d you think of tonight?”
“Is this the part where couples lay in bed and gossip about the evening?”
“Yeah. It’s called communicating.”
She made a face. “I never was good at that.”
Somehow he wasn’t surprised. “Annette’s not terrible, right?”
Mooshie shrugged and dabbed cream on her face.
“I mean, not to spend much time with because then she’s overbearing. But she deserves to be happy…” Mooshie cut him off with a loud and sarcastic yawn. “Sorry. What were you and Kenuda talking about?”
“He showed me his spectacular view. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I lived in that neighborhood with a place twice the size where you could almost touch Manhattan, just before.”
“He seems to like you.”
“Oh yeah.” Mooshie mischievously tossed her hair, absently undoing the top button on her blue pajamas.
Puppy stared at her breasts and nearly slipped off the bed; Mooshie grabbed his collar.
“You’re gonna sleep on the floor if you don’t watch those eyes.”
“Actually that’s illegal now that we’re engaged. We must sleep in the same bed.”
“What about sex?”
He paled. “What about it?”
“Ain’t happening.”
“Fine,” he said, relieved.
“You gonna report me since that’s also illegal?”
“I’ll just smile in the morning and everyone will assume.”
“Happy ain’t the emotion I leave my lovers with.”
He didn’t want to imagine. Below, the pugs marched past for their midnight walk. Studies had shown the sound of their barking and padding feet quieted people even during sleep. And those still awake, troubled, tired after a long job shift, plain bored, unwilling to brave the chilly late night air for a furry hug, would often stand by the window, smiling, soothed.
“I never had a dog. You?” Mooshie let the curtains fall, settling into the single rickety chair.
“This your way of changing the subject, dear? So much to learn about each other.”
Her sudden glare iced his grin. “Why’d you do that commercial, Puppy?”
He sighed. Somehow he knew this was coming. “It makes money. Fisher and Boccaccelli whine constantly about expenses. I had to grovel to paint the seats behind the dugouts because everything goes on their bottom line. The Commissioner authorizes, but the teams pay. I mean, shit, Moosh. I got Kenuda’s attention.”
“By using a funeral home?” she snarled. “Have you no respect? I can’t believe the White Grampas did it.”
“Maybe they understand the importance of promotion.”
“They weren’t there on 10/12. You don’t mock that.”
“I’m not mocking anything. Where’d you see 10/12 mentioned in the advert?
“You showed the whole goddamn stadium. What they did.”
“Because it’s the law, Moosh.” He lowered his voice. “Baseball isn’t exactly a hot ticket item for advertisers, bones and bullets and all. Besides, I’m working for Hayden after the season.”
“Embalming?” she sneered.
“My baseball historian job goes away, so welcome to the world of the living dead.”
“You sold out.”
“Like hell. I’m going to be forty years old and I don’t have a goddamn career. You know how that reads, Moosh.”
“You’re dabbling.” The fiery Lopez temper exploded; wine dripped down the wall. “Mick says it’s a wake during the games.”
“It’s hard to generate exuberance when almost all the fans are DVs.”
“Sitting there on their hands, mouths sealed. I know how we are. Never draw attention. Never act improperly because Grandma’s clit, we’re always judged.”
He smirked. “We?”
“Always we.” Her voice was ugly. “Do you really think of yourself as a Reg? Ever? Or always the DV, hoping no one realizes it, no one sends you back. Hey, how’d this guy get through? Guess what, asshole. The people who cared about this country were always DVs. Miners, baseball, almost all of them were DVs, asshole.”
“Could you please stop calling me an asshole? I feel like I’m back with Annette.”
Mooshie turned off the light on her night table, closing her eyes. He kept staring until she opened them again.
“Yes, darling Puppy?”
“Will you help?”
“It won’t stop you from asking anyway.”
“You can say anything to those you love. Grandma’s Sixth Insight.” Mooshie groaned. “My arm’s holding up.” He twisted his shoulder in a little show and tell. “But my mechanics are off. I need help. Mick and Ty aren’t pitchers…”
She turned on her side, staring leadenly. “No.”
“Why not?” Puppy asked angrily.
Her face softened beneath the cream. She looked like a sad ghost. “I don’t know. I just know you have to do it alone. Otherwise it’s too easy. Idol comes back from the dead and shows adoring, simple-minded former stud muffin how to properly throw a curve.”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone.”
Mooshie draped her legs over his knees and cupped his chin. “Hot buns, just pitch. Throw. You have talent.”
“How do you know if you’ve never seen me play?”
“I’m here. Ty’s here. Mick’s here. Why else?” She smacked his eyebrow. “Hate the batter. Hate the other team. Hate like you hate, all stored inside.”
“I don’t hate like you do, Mooshie.”
“Yes, you do. Everyone does. You just gotta find it.” Mooshie kissed him on the forehead. “Now get some rest. And stay on your side of the bed.”
26
Zelda wanted to summon a thunderstorm of barf hail on all these happy couples. Two thin men who looked like they shared the same toothbrush bowed their heads together. A stout woman and a stout man, definitely a king-sized bed pair, clenched fingers, staring straight ahead as if already imagining high school graduation for the kid. And two especially pretty women, slick black hair around their shoulders, tongued away the wait.
And Zelda. She surreptitiously popped a buttered roll into her mouth, piece by piece. Butter always helps, she decided. Chocolate’s such a cliché. A woman with a flat face smiled across the exquisitely furnished room, thick leather chairs swallowing up the biggest asses. No comfort was
