“I don’t think the Brits are into bowling that isn’t done on lawns,” I said.
The staircase expelled us into a low-ceilinged basement hallway, the walls dotted with portraits that had been hung fairly carelessly and painted with even less rigor. One of them was of Queen Anne, but seemingly by way of Picasso; next to her hung a rendition of Marta in which her head was three sizes too small. There was also a portrait of Richard on horseback that looked like it was meant for the front of a romance novel.
“It’s a wall of shame,” I breathed. “These are horrific.”
“I hope you’re never down here,” Lacey said.
“I hope I am,” I countered. “That way only about three people will ever see my portrait.”
Althorpe threw open a set of heavy double doors to reveal the spacious in-house movie theater, furnished with about twenty high-end leather couches and captains’ seats that had their own tables for snacks. Lacey and I were agog. The Cubs—my Cubs—were about to play for their lives on the wall of Buckingham Palace.
“An immense moment demands an immense screen,” came Eleanor’s voice.
When she rose with some effort from her seat, I blinked. It looked familiar. But it couldn’t be.
“Eleanor,” I said, dropping all formality. “Is that…?”
“A Coucherator,” she said. “Nicholas spoke to your mother and had one flown in. There is a treat in it for you.”
She opened the refrigerated compartment of my dad’s life’s work, so roundly mocked by the British press and Eleanor alike. Inside was a perfectly chilled case of Miller Lite. It was only then that I noticed a side table stuffed with Cracker Jack, Doritos, Pop-Tarts, and hot dog condiments.
“Althorpe will deliver the tube meat momentarily,” Eleanor said.
What the hell, I thought, and threw my arms around my grandmother-in-law’s satin-clad shoulders.
“Yes, you’re welcome,” she said, patting my back with a stiff palm. “It was mostly Nicholas’s idea. He spoils you.”
“Enough blathering,” said Marta, sitting up from one of the couches. “I am ancient and I could die at any minute and I do not want the last thing I see to be you two blubbering.” She peered at Lacey. “Something is different about you,” she said. “Did you cut your hair?”
Lacey looked down at her prominent bump and then shrugged. “Yes,” she said. “I actually did do that.”
“She’s right. Enough talking. Beer me.” I plunged my hand into the cooler of the couch-fridge, sitting there like my dad’s proxy, and pulled out a can and cracked it open, licking off the foam that spurted from the top.
“Disgusting,” Eleanor said.
“If we win, you have to drink one. While wearing a Cubs hat.”
“I accept, simply because if you’ve taught me anything, it’s that we are going to lose this game in agonizing fashion,” Eleanor replied, claiming her side of the Coucherator with an irritated expression. Then she wriggled a little. “This is not uncomfortable. I might keep it.”
The game was a seesaw. Our 3–0 lead became 5–1 and then 6–3, and then suddenly in the bottom of the eighth an exhausted and overused Aroldis Chapman gave up the tying run.
“Whyyyyy,” I moaned, sliding into a heap on the floor. This was it. It was over. In my entire lifetime of rooting for the Cubs, they finally decided to push it as far as possible before breaking my heart. Game seven. Kill me.
“My stomach hurts,” Lacey said. “From the Cracker Jack,” she added when I sat up quickly and squawked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
“And I’m sorry I dragged you over here to witness my emotional ruin,” I said. “You’re getting married in a week. You need to be sleeping.”
“I was sleeping during about four of those innings,” she said. “You just didn’t notice. I think Eleanor was ranting about Jon Lester’s pitch count.”
“She’s the best student I’ve ever had,” I said. “It kills me that I can’t take you to Wrigley someday.”
“Says who?” Eleanor said.
“Your doctors, probably,” I said. “Also, I can’t imagine anyone letting you get away with asking an ump if he’s as blind as a bat, or just doesn’t know what a swinging wooden one looks like.”
“Her trash talk needs work, Bex,” Lacey said.
“That’s a season two project.”
“That’s enough from both of you,” Eleanor said, but I could see the corner of a smirk.
The Cubs blew a chance to break the tie in the ninth, and right before the tenth inning began, a freak cloudburst sent them into the locker rooms.
“Ohhhhhhh,” I moaned. “Extra innings. In game seven. In a rain delay.” I clutched at myself. “I can’t do this. It’s torture. My skin is going to crawl off and move to Tahiti and leave me here in a pulpy pile of innards.”
“Vivid,” Marta said, yawning.
“I must say, this has been a gripping program,” Eleanor said.
Lacey popped a cube of cheese into her mouth. “I wonder what they’re doing in the locker room.”
“Banging their chests and talking about destiny,” I suggested around the thumbnail I was biting to the quick. It was the only nail I had left. “Maybe one of you should kill me now and get it over with.”
“Toughen up,” Marta commanded. “They’re coming back. You’re going to miss it.”
But instead, I witnessed a miracle. We scraped together two runs after an intentional walk. (“Hit him with a pitch if you want to give him a base,” Marta grumbled. “Much more fun.”) My spleen nearly exploded when we got the first two outs of the bottom of the tenth. My appendix considered bursting when the Indians stole a base, then drove in a run. But unbelievably, improbably, the hitter at the plate who could have been the winning run for the Indians—the one whose RBI took game three from us—grounded out. One hundred and eight years of futility were wiped off the board with a textbook toss to first base. We won. We…won?
“WE WON!” I screamed, hurling my Cracker Jack in
