Choosing Sophie

by Leslie Carroll

  “Cheers to the Cheers,” I responded, clinking my glass against Dusty’s. I took a sip of the rosé. It wasn’t half bad, actually. And it was the perfect complement to the lobster roll, which was pretty delicious. I took another bite of the sweet, chewy meat, enjoying the crunch of diced celery and the tangy taste of mayonnaise on my tongue. “Maybe we should sell these at the concession stands, in addition to hot dogs,” I suggested. “You think we can turn enough of a profit on them?”

  Dusty shook his head. “I like the idea, but they’d probably cost more than a bleacher seat. It don’t sit right with me when a fan ends up spending more on food than he does on a ticket. It just ain’t right.”

  “I take your point, but how are you supposed to run a team and maintain a stadium when your top ticket is only fifteen dollars? You’ve got to make it up somewhere. At cinemas, in arenas, people have gotten used to spending more money on concessions than they do on admission. They factor it into the cost of the entertainment.”

  Dusty thumped his fist against his chest. “This conversation is giving me heartburn.”

  “Are you all right?” I asked gently. His face had begun to turn crimson. My nerves took a nosedive. Perhaps I should run back to the locker room and grab the first-aid kit. Or phone 911.

  He pounded his chest again and coughed several times. “Forgive me. I tend to get a little worked up over things like this. I don’t know if you get it, Venus. Ya see, baseball is sacred. To me, it’s not about dollars and cents. It’s a beautiful thing—baseball. When you listen to a symphony, do you think about how much the musicians are getting paid, or how much you shelled out for your seat, or whether you can afford a ginger ale at intermission? Nah—you just sit back and enjoy its beauty. Pure and classical. That’s baseball. Your father understood that. He didn’t care about the bottom line, so long as there was enough chalk on hand to mark the baseline. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re nothing like him.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” I sighed.

  “I didn’t mean it as a compliment. Don’t get me wrong, old Augie could be a pain in my keister more often than he wasn’t, but he loved this game, and his team, more than—”

  I finished the sentence. “More than he loved his own daughter.” I smudged away the beginnings of a tear with the back of my hand. After all, to quote Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own, “there’s no crying in baseball.” I glanced away, blinking back any other tears that might have had thoughts of trickling down my cheeks, and took a big sip of wine.

  “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t, aren’t I?” I said to Dusty. “I mean, if I find ways to bring the team into the black for the first time in seven seasons, I’m considered a soulless businesswoman. And if I don’t seem to care about turning a profit, I’m a clueless bimbo. Either way, no one thinks I know anything about the game, let alone care about it.” I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees, chin in my hands. “Come to think of it, they think I’m a bimbo no matter what I do. I’m feeling…overwhelmed…do you think I don’t know that I haven’t got their respect?” Dusty refilled my glass and let me vent between bites of lobster roll. “Half the players hate me, and half of them want to fuck me.”

  “And the other half hate you and want to fuck you.”

  I wondered whether his Yogi Berra–style math was deliberate—an attempt to make me laugh. For his sake, I tried to muster a smile, but it was hard to make light of an issue that had upset me so much. “You know, Jicama Flores has been learning English by listening to pop music. The other day, I overheard him paraphrasing a lyric—singing ‘Sophie’s mom has got it goin’ on.’ Then Pinky Melk joined in. No wonder the kids don’t respect my authority!”

  “None of them have had had the gumption to hit on you though—have they? If anyone’s actually said or done something, I wanna know about it, because I’ll kick their sorry butts from here to Baltimore. By the way, you’re murdering that lobster roll.”

  “Whoops.” I looked down at the scrap of sandwich between my fingers. I guess I had been kind of letting my emotions drive my appetite. “And I don’t quite know how to handle Sophie—who’s feeling her oats, trying her wings—testing me, like you say. I know that some of the players have put the moves on her. Romeo Hicks, for starters—a couple of times I’ve come this close to decking him myself. Our first baseman can hit and he can field, and he also goes after anything in a bra. It’s another situation where I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I’ve haven’t found that delicate balance between smother and mother.”

  Dusty slipped his arm around my shoulder and gave me an affectionate squeeze. “Aww, I think you’re being a little bit hard on yourself. For a new mom, I think you’re doing a helluva job.”

  I tried to ignore the fact that he’d touched me, even if it had only been in friendship, but the cuddle felt pretty good. I told myself he was just being kind, and I should gracefully accept it, so I didn’t pull away. Maybe if I didn’t acknowledge his hug, it would be easier to deal with. “I know she’s a grown woman, and I can’t force her to behave in a certain way. On the other hand, if I don’t step in, Sophie could get very badly hurt. Yet it delights me that my daughter is basking in masculine attention for the first time in her life, it seems. How do you do it?” I asked Dusty. “How do you play The Dad so well and not have the guys resent you when you have to come down hard on them?”

  He touched my hair and gently guided my head onto his shoulder. “Years of practice, Venus. How’d you handle your girls when they were dancing for you? I bet you had to be the Mama Bear a lot of the time. They’re just people, you know. You can’t think of them as showgirls, or minor leaguers.” In silence we looked out at the field, where the sprinklers had just come on. The hss-bzz-fft sound they made as they rotated was strangely mesmeric. Dusty stroked my hair. The sensation simultaneously relaxed and excited me, so I decided to stay there and just enjoy it. “I got a couple of questions to ask you…that is, if you don’t mind my asking.” His index finger tenderly traced the line of my chin. I smiled into the night. “I’m a little embarrassed to say this, because…well, I don’t know how you’ll take it, but seeing as you’re not running for the dugout, I figure I better say something before I lose the nerve.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Do you…are you…do…do you have a fella?”

  I found myself charmed by his phraseology. “A fella?”

  “Yeah. Oh boy,” Dusty sighed nervously. “A boyfriend. A beau. A…aw, you know.”

  I thought about Tom. Tom and MaryAnne. “No, Dusty.” I was almost whispering. “No. I don’t. Have a boyfriend, I mean. Or a beau. Or a fella.”

  “Then can I ask you my second question?”

  My head bounced against his shoulder when I laughed. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

  He exhaled deeply. “Can I…kiss you?”

  I tilted my chin to gaze at him. “I would like that.”

  “You would?” He sounded surprised.

  “In fact, I’ve been thinking about that since the last one you gave me.” It was true. I’d debated with myself incessantly over whether it had been a bad idea or not. I was searching for something—love, really—and maybe, though I’d never thought about Dusty in that way, maybe he had, or was, the answer.

  A gull swooped perilously close to our picnic. “He can have it,” I muttered, dropping the last bite of my lobster roll through the gap in the bleacher planks, where it settled somewhere in the grass. Dusty cupped my face in his hands and brought his lips to mine. They were soft and supple, and just as I began to feel a little embarrassed that I probably tasted like lobster—but then again, so did he—I discovered that Dusty was a man who really knew what to do with his tongue. The thought sent a tingle along the edges of my spine, and I smiled into our kiss, suddenly feeling happier and giddier than I had in weeks.

  We awkwardly readjusted our position on the bleachers, straddling the plank so we could face each other. Dusty pulled me toward hi
m into a hug. If felt comforting. Safe. Exhilarating. He looked me squarely in the eye and asked, “Now what would such a captivating woman like you want with an overweight old guy like me?”

  I kissed him again, passionately, before replying, “I’d like to find out.”

  “Really?” He sounded like he just been given a 1941 baseball autographed by Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio.

  I nodded. “Really.”

  “Just a sec, then.” He tossed the dirty plates into a plastic bag, shoved it into the picnic hamper, and gently laid our wineglasses inside the basket before closing the lid. Then he grabbed the tablecloth, the second bottle of rosé, the corkscrew, and my hand, and said, “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going? And why am I whispering?”

  We both burst out laughing. “Watch your step, honey,” Dusty cautioned protectively as we picked our way amid the planks of the bleachers and descended the flight of steps onto the outfield. We stole another kiss at the bottom of the stairs. “C’mon, c’mere,” Dusty whispered, taking my hand. Like adventurous little delinquents we ducked behind the giant Cheer Detergent billboard that covered the length of the fence in front of the bleachers, into the dark labyrinth of green steel girders and beams that supported the stands above us.

  I began to laugh. “It’s almost like that pop song—under the boardwalk”—I sang. We sank to our knees beneath the highest part of the stands.

  “Wait—I don’t want you to get your white pants all dirty.” Dusty helped me to my feet. He sent the tablecloth fluttering into the air, and let it float gently to the grass. Then he pulled me onto the cloth and into his arms.

  “I feel like such a teenager!” I giggled. And I’m not a woman who giggles.

  “You’re nothing like any woman I’ve ever been with,” Dusty observed. He opened the wine and took a slug from the bottle as though it contained a soft drink instead.

  “In what way?” I said softly. He handed me the wine and I took a swig before passing it back to him.

  “Well, for starters, you’re fun. Rosa was…don’t get me wrong. Rosa was a good woman. And I miss her. But, believe me, this is the first time I’m using the words Rosa and fun in the same sentence.”

  I touched his hand. “It’s too soon. Maybe we shouldn’t think about doing this. Not for a while, anyway.”

  Dusty shook his head. “Venus, when someone you love dies, trust me, you always miss them, no matter how much time goes by. But Rosa and me…we didn’t act like lovers for a long time before she passed.” He grew thoughtful for a moment, and scratching his head, he added, “Truth told, I don’t even remember what it feels like to make love…so I hope you won’t be too critical of my performance. You’re a pretty spectacular woman, and I’m well…look at me,” he said, self-deprecatingly, patting his belly. He took another gulp of rosé and handed me the bottle again. “Most women who look like you take one look at a guy like me and they see a train wreck upholstered in polyester. But I…I want you…and the only thing that would stop me from doing anything about it tonight is your feelings about whether you want me, too.”

  I reached for his belt and undid the buckle. “I do.” Dusty began the hunt for my pants zipper, which felt quite nice, although he was surprised when I guided his hand to my hip. “It’s on the side,” I whispered, suppressing another giggle. “But my bra clasp is where you’d expect it to be.”

  We peeled off our clothes with such excited determination that it was hard not to laugh about it, even as we undressed, falling into each other’s arms. For the next several minutes I was treated to a new definition of “splendor in the grass.” I was delightfully surprised by how well, how comfortably, our bodies fit together, how wonderful I felt with my bare breasts pressed against his smooth barrel chest as I rode him toward a very mutual ecstasy. For several weeks, as I’d grown to know him, I’d been thinking about what a wonderful man Dusty was—a kind, strong presence, a man of immense integrity and heart—and most decidedly passionate about certain things, baseball being only one of them, evidently.

  “Maybe making love is like riding a bicycle: you never altogether forget how to do it, no matter how long ago you last tried.” Dusty cradled me in the crook of his arm, and I placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. Catching our breath, we gazed through the underside of the bleachers at the slats of sky above us. I wriggled a bit, and Dusty asked, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. My back is feeling a bit wonky—I was trying not to hit my head on the metal when we were—you know. Next time we do this, a bed might be a good idea.”

  He considered my point. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Roll over.” He placed his hands along my spine. “Here?” I nodded, and he began to massage away the soreness, kneading my muscles with such dexterity that I became horny again. I should have remembered from that team bus ride back to the Bronx how great his hands were.

  “That feels wonderful,” I murmured.

  “Glad to hear it.” Dusty planted a soft, lingering kiss on each of my shoulder blades. “You almost ready for that bed, now?”

  I rolled onto my back again and looked at him in amazement. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Not a chance.” Dusty shook his head.

  “Wow.” I let it sink in. Hmm. Good for him! Good for me! “I guess we should…then can I invite you down to my place?” Dusty’s house was a lot closer—within walking distance, in fact—but I could not imagine sleeping with him in the bed he’d shared with Rosa for so many years. The bed she might even have died in. Ewww. Of course, he’d said they hadn’t been lovers in years, but still…

  “You okay, Venus? You look a little…I dunno…upset about something.”

  I leveled with him about Rosa. After all, she’s only been gone a few months, I said.

  “I…maybe I really hadn’t thought it through,” he admitted. “And I can see your point about not coming back to my humble abode. But, if your offer’s still open to head down to yours…at the very least I could use a snuggle this evening.” Dusty took me in his arms and tasted my lips again. “Even if we don’t do anything more tonight, I really wanna wake up with you. If that’s okay.”

  I smiled and kissed him softly. “It’s okay.” As long as you don’t mind Sophie knowing about us. She sleeps in my downstairs bedroom. She’s probably still out clubbing, but if you want to wake up with me, I’m giving you fair warning that she’ll be staggering into the kitchen for some decaf sometime after dawn.”

  “I think I can handle seeing Sophie,” Dusty said, “if she can handle seeing me.”

  We collected the picnic hamper and, giddily dodging the sprinklers, headed to my car. “Motown okay with you?” I asked Dusty.

  “You bet.”

  I slipped a Marvin Gaye CD into the car stereo. Apart from the slinkily seductive music, our drive into Manhattan was quiet, occasionally punctuated by exchanges of enigmatic glances and shy, slightly self-conscious smiles.

  Dusty had never seen my duplex. I hoped it looked presentable; I couldn’t remember whether I’d made the bed that morning or left dirty dishes in the sink. Oh, well.

  I unlocked the door and found a dark apartment. I suppose Sophie hadn’t made it home yet.

  “Do you hear music?” Dusty asked me. He was right. Faint strains from the same Marvin Gaye CD we’d just been listening to, emanated from somewhere in the apartment. I felt like I’d entered The Twilight Zone. Dusty touched my arm. “Do you own two copies of that album, or do I just have that song stuck in my head now?”

  “If you do, I do, too.” I followed the sound, reflexively opening the door to the guest room and flicking on the lights.

  “Ahhh!” There was a gasp from an obviously naked Sophie, who yanked the covers over her bright red face, revealing the lower end of an athletically built male, who had been burrowing under the comforter—pleasuring Sophie would have been my best guess.

  “Don’t you knock?!” she shouted in an embarrassed panic.

  I stood in the doorway, rooted to the spot, too mortif
ied to move. “Everything okay?” Dusty asked, stepping up beside me. “Oh, boy,” he said, covering his eyes with his hands.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I had no idea you were home!” I glanced at the hairy blond legs sticking out from the end of the bed and added, “I see you have company.”

  “Mom!”

  “Huh?!” A sweaty, tousled, and equally naked Kyle Angel—or was it Lyle?—emerged from under the comforter. “Oh, uh…hello, Ms. deMarley. Excuse my bare feet,” he said, utterly thrown for a loop. “Hello, Dust—oh, shit!” Nothing like the team’s owner and its manager catching you in bed with the owner’s daughter. He jumped out of bed and fell to his knees, hunting for something, which turned out to be his underwear. Tighty-whities. I suppressed a smile. How wholesome. I bet he drank milk, too. Straight from the carton.

  “Good evening—Kyle?” I tested the waters. What if it was Lyle? What if Sophie thought she was going to bed with Kyle, but he’d sent Lyle in his stead, just like he’d done with his pitching audition? Did it matter? Did she care?

  Oh God, I think my daughter lost her virginity tonight!

  The pitcher threw on his clothes with the speed of light, as Sophie sat bolt upright in bed, clutching the covers to her body. Only her head stuck out above the comforter. “I see you have company, too, Mom. Hey, Dusty. Dusty, you have grass stains on your pants.”

  Dusty glanced up at me, his expression sheepish, yet giddy, like a little boy with a big secret. Then he turned back to Sophie and said, “I…uh…slid into home.”

  Bottom of the Seventh

  “Would anyone like some coffee?” I asked breezily, turning to leave the room. Honestly, I hadn’t a clue how to handle the situation. A fresh pot of strong-enough-to-stand-a-spoon-in java, seemed like a good busy-making diversion—like boiling water when a woman’s about to deliver a baby. What I really wanted was a belt of whiskey.

  “No caffeine, remember!” Sophie admonished me.

  Kyle, self-consciously tugging on his jeans, tried to be smooth. “Uh…yeah, Ms. deMarley, coffee would be great. Got milk?”