by Dana Mentink
Cal stood there, looking uncertain. “Are you… okay?”
“Yes,” she said with a vehement shake of the head. “Sure. What’s up?”
“I was, you know, looking through some things in the study, and I figured maybe you’d want this. For Tippy.”
He thrust a cardboard box into her hands. She peered inside. There were a few dog training books, a long and short leash, and a box of liver-flavored dog treats.
“That’s great. I’m sure the training books will help. Can I give you a hand in the study?”
He shrugged. “Nah. I can do it. Just going to box everything up and leave it until we need to show the place.”
“Have you put in on the market?”
He looked pained. “Been meaning to make a call.”
“Cal?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask why you don’t keep the ranch? You obviously have so much fondness for this place.”
“Keep it?” He blinked. “Don’t have time to run it, and Uncle Oscar isn’t up to it anymore.”
“Not to sound snide, but you have the money to hire someone else to do it.”
“Time to move on. Got to focus on baseball and not worry about this old place that’s falling to pieces. This isn’t home anymore.” His brown eyes drifted to the shelves behind her, the old tattered quilt.
“It doesn’t seem like San Francisco is your home either,” she said as gently as she could.
His eyes skimmed over the faded pennants and the kid trophies. “Home is anywhere there’s a pitcher’s mound.”
Anywhere. And nowhere.
There was a knock on the front door.
“Where’s my rascal of a nephew?” a soprano voice sang out.
Cal grinned. “Ready to meet Sweets?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
Eight
Cal bent down to kiss his aunt’s forehead, careful not to muss the poof of dark hair held in place with a complicated network of bobby pins. She was impeccably dressed, as always, in neat slacks and a purple sweater set, a strand of pearls around her neck. The sight of the pearls made him swallow hard. His mother had worn a matching strand until the day she died, the twin sisters having been given them on their sixteenth birthday by the father who adored them. Papa, they’d called him, the man who’d built Six Peaks Ranch.
“Look at you,” Sweets said, peering up at him. Her head was just about level with his shoulders. She plucked at the front of his T-shirt. “Skin and bones. Doesn’t your team give you food money?” She peered closer. “And what happened to your face? You’re all black and blue.”
“Took my eye off the ball.” He shot a look at Tippy, who stared vaguely. Gina blushed that cotton candy pink that fascinated him.
“Good thing you aren’t a professional bowler,” Oscar put in.
He laughed. “Yes, sir. Sweets, this is Gina. She’s taking care of Tippy for me.”
Sweets eyed Gina and smiled before her gaze swiveled to the dog. “Oh, put that horrible animal on the floor, honey. Who knows where those dirty paws have been?”
Gina reluctantly set Tippy on the ground. Tippy immediately rolled over, presenting her tummy for Sweets to scratch, stubby legs churning the air.
“Oh phooey, dog. You’ll get no fawning over from me. You know where you belong.” Sweets stretched out a perfectly manicured finger. “Right now.”
Tippy shot Sweets a look which communicated wounded pride, even to Cal, and then waddled over to a plump cushion in the kitchen corner and flopped there.
“My sister would treat that critter like the Queen of Siam,” Sweets said, “but not this lady. Dogs are meant to herd sheep and cattle, not take up space in the house. Besides, I wasn’t crazy about her former owner either. Never took the time to teach Tippy that she is an animal, not a person.” She extended a hand to Gina. “Very pleased to meet you, Gina. I hope Cal hasn’t been too grumpy with you. He takes himself way too seriously now that he plays a game for a living.”
Cal laughed. “How have you been feeling, Sweets?”
She took an apron from the peg on the wall. “Right as rain. I did a grapefruit cleanse which perked me up after that nasty flu. It’s all about eating healthy, you know. Oscar and I have been getting bushels of greens and fresh fish.”
He caught Uncle Oscar’s expression. Oscar, he knew, understood the gravity of Sweet’s situation. Three times she’d battled breast cancer. The last time, her survival was not certain and the doctors said it was likely a matter of time before the cancer would win, as it had in her sister.
Sweets was constantly switching up their diet according to the latest research on healthy eating. Oscar pretended not to know about the candy wrappers that she hid under her upholstered recliner. He made sure there was always candy in the cupboard, and he never pointed out the hypocrisy. It was one of the many idiosyncrasies that kept them married. If Cal ever had a shot at matrimony, he’d remember. Not that he would ever marry, he figured. He didn’t have the genes for a marriage like Sweets and Oscar.
“Oscar’s stomach was rumbling all the way over here,” Sweets said. “I’ll just get started on some dinner, shall I? Then you can tell us all about everything and we can get to know your pretty friend here.”
More blushing from Gina.
“That would be great,” Cal said. “How can I help?”
“Just keep that dog out of the way,” she said.
Cal grimaced. “Sorry, but that dog doesn’t listen to me most of the time.”
Sweets laughed. “Typical female.”
“You sure you don’t need me to get down some ingredients from the cupboard for you?” he teased.
Sweets huffed, extracting a long metal grabber from the lower cabinet, poking him in the chest with it. “I can do for myself, Cal Crawford. I’m sure this young lady will help me, won’t you, Gina?”
“I will, but the only thing I know how to make is pierogis.”
Sweets cocked her head. “That begins with a P so I can’t cook that.”
Gina looked confused.
Cal chuckled. “Sweets didn’t know how to cook when she and Oscar got married, so she bought a cookbook and practiced every recipe in alphabetical order of the index. Mastered every recipe until the end of the M section.”
“I figured that was enough,” Sweets said.
“It is,” Oscar added.
“It’s enough for me too,” Cal put in. “I could live on your meatloaf for the rest of my life.”
“Exactly what I’m making for dinner because I know that’s your favorite.”
“Better than pitching a no-hitter.”
She smiled and he bent to give her a hug. His hands felt enormous on her fragile shoulders. Had she always felt so small and delicate? As if one careless movement might break her? She and Gina started to work and he stepped away, standing next to Tippy and Oscar. For a moment, he watched the project unfold. Sweets wrapped Gina in an apron with roosters printed on it, the strings circling twice around her small waist. The two chatted as if they had been friends for a long time.
It was good, he realized, to see two women bustling around the worn kitchen, to hear the squeak of the refrigerator door mingled with the high-pitched voices. His mother would have enjoyed that blessing, chatting and laughing with them.
Blessings? He hadn’t thought about them in a long time. He let the silvery tones wash over him for a minute more and then he headed to the study, his uncle following.
Files were stacked in precarious piles on the tiny secondhand desk. A narrow bookcase was jammed with everything from cookbooks to bulging photo albums. It was a dusty mess, according to Cal’s ultra-neat standards, but the room had a window looking out on the garden which had been his mother’s joy. What were those tall frilly flowers she’d loved? Hollyhocks, like bits of crepe paper that unfurled in fantastic fashion on thick stalks. Were there any still growing? He could not tell because of the overgrown shrubbery.
I’ll cut it back before I leave.
A dog cushion, neatly dented in the middle from Tippy’s bulk, was positioned on the hardwood to catch the sunlight. Next to the window was a Falcons season calendar. His stats were noted in tiny block letters next to each game.
He read one of the squares. Four strikeouts over eight scoreless innings. Gave up only three hits and a walk. He’d been on fire that game. His mother would have been proud. So proud. Last few games of the season was another story. The last calendar box was empty. No stats. He’d wanted to be with her that day, but she’d insisted he pitch.
“I’ll watch it on TV, Cal,” she’d said on the phone. “You have fun, sweet boy.”
Sweet boy. His eyes pricked and he blinked them hard. Not sweet anymore, nor a boy.
Oscar shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Dusty in here,” Cal said. He picked up a file. Tax returns from ten years prior. “I guess Mom was trying to put things in order.”
Oscar shifted, leaning against the doorframe. “She… ” he cleared his throat. “She had some help the last six months.”
Cal smiled. “You and Sweets?”
He snorted. “I’m not the guy for paperwork. Meg didn’t want to ask Sweets to help either, her still recovering from the chemo and all.”
Something in his tone drew Cal’s full attention. “Who then?”
Oscar rubbed a hand over his shaven chin. “Been meaning to talk to you about it, but you haven’t been around. Not the sort of thing you mention in a phone call.”
Cal put down the file and moved closer to his uncle. “Who was helping my mom, Uncle Oscar?”
A long moment passed. “Cal… ”
“Tell me,” he said through the sense of dread that trickled through his insides.
“Your father,” Oscar said. “Mitch.”
Gina was good and truly amazed when the meatloaf came out of the oven, warm and succulent. Tippy yipped her appreciation, swiping a long pink tongue over her lips.
“You shush,” Sweets said. “This is food for people.”
Tippy was going to have a harder time winning over Sweets than Crabs the cat.
While the loaf cooled, Sweets handed Gina a whisk and she dutifully stirred up a milk mixture as it heated on the stove.
“Just until it comes to a slow boil,” Sweets said.
“What is it going to be?”
“Butterscotch pudding. I won’t have any of course, since Oscar and I are watching our sugar, but it’s Cal’s favorite.”
“I thought he only ate egg whites and bean sprouts.”
“Well no wonder he’s in a slump,” Sweets said.
“Do you watch all his games?”
“Of course. We pray him through wins and losses, Oscar and me.” She stopped, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “Sometimes I think the winning is harder on him.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fans. When he wins, they treat him like some sort of hero. They worship him. It’s not good for a man to be worshipped.” She sprinkled a slow cascade of sugar into Gina’s warming saucepan. “I mean forty thousand fans holding up signs, screaming Cal’s name, begging for autographs all because he plays a game. Then what happens when he doesn’t play well? He’s the bum, the rat who made the Falcons lose their shot at the series like last season.” She shook her head. “Horrible.”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” she agreed.
“He doesn’t need worship; that’s for God.” She sent a sideways look at Gina. “He needs love.”
“I’m not… ” she started.
“Not what?”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m just the dog sitter.”
“I guess that will have to do for now.”
Gina wasn’t sure how to answer that, so she didn’t. She whisked away until the pudding came to a boil in glistening bubbles.
When the fragrant dessert was poured into bowls to cool, she helped Sweets set the table and called the men to dinner. Tippy perked up. Gina offered her a bowl of kibble sprinkled with a tiny bit of the meatloaf drippings that Sweets had allowed her to siphon from the pan. The dog rolled on her side, back to the bowl. Gina suspected pique, or perhaps Tippy was waiting for Cal.
Cal and Oscar arrived, but it was clear that something had changed. Cal’s expression was grim, eyes burning. Whatever he’d found in the study had not pleased him.
Sweets said grace and they started in on the meal.
Cal fingered his glass of iced tea, his plate untouched. “So was my father pressuring Mom to deed the ranch to him?”
Sweets looked startled. “No. He was here to help Meg. I wasn’t happy to see him either, but I came to believe he was good for Meg.”
“Good for her?” Cal spat. “As if he didn’t dump her twenty years ago?” There was fury in his voice.
Oscar put his own glass down with a thump. “Watch yourself, son. You don’t talk to your aunt in that tone of voice.”
“Yes, sir.” Cal looked at his plate, breathing hard, striving for control. He looked up and reached for his aunt’s hand, face torn with regret. “I’m sorry, Sweets. I was wrong to take it out on you. I apologize.”
She clasped his hand between hers, fingers tiny in his big palm. “I know it’s a shock, honey. No one was angrier than I when your father showed up here.”
“Did my mom invite him?”
“No,” Sweets said. “But they’d been corresponding via e-mail for a while. He started to visit a few times a week and it really did cheer your mother. They talked about old times, better times. She asked him to help get things in order and he agreed.”
Cal closed his eyes. “I can’t believe this.”
Gina knew it was Cal’s worst nightmare, to know that the man he despised had been caring for his mother.
“Oscar and I wanted to tell you he’d been visiting, but Meg thought it would upset your pitching.”
“My pitching”—Cal heaved out a breath—“was already upset.”
Sweets nodded soberly. “Oscar told Meg and me about how sensitive the athletes were when he played for the Yankees.”
“Told them about the guys who would freak out if they couldn’t find their lucky socks or sleep with their bats.” Oscar chuckled. “Baseball players are a nutty bunch.”
“So you figured knowing my dad was around would mess up my mojo?”
“We didn’t want to risk it,” Sweets said. “You were already so tense. We could see it in your face every time you took the mound. Your press interviews were torture. You could hardly get through them.”
Cal flinched, gently removed his hand, and let out a deep sigh. “And I wasn’t coming home enough to check things out on my own. I should have been here more.”
The recriminating set to his mouth grieved Gina. Oh, Cal. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love.
“You were playing your game.” Sweets said it in earnest.
Cal looked at her, and his face cracked into a rueful smile. “You sound like Gina.”
Gina giggled. “But Sweets probably knows how many innings there are,” she said, relieved that the tension had temporarily lifted.
He smiled, and she felt as if she’d won a small victory.
“Dinner’s getting cold,” Sweets said. “Cal, if you don’t eat that meatloaf, I’m liable to sink into a depression and pack myself off to live in the wilderness.”
“Better eat it then.” Oscar tucked the napkin in his lap. “I’m gonna miss my recliner if we’re moving to the wilderness.”
Cal picked up his fork and took a bite. A look of bliss crept across his features. He groaned in pleasure. Gina was glad Luz wasn’t there to witness it. Egg whites and bean sprouts could never elicit such a reaction.
Sweets could not hide her delight. “Not bad for a two-bit singer.”
“Nothing two-bit about you, honey,” Oscar said. He turned to Gina. “This gal was a singer with a six-piece band when I was running a ranch in Colorado. Did a dinner show every night at the hotel. Boy, did I eat
my share of grub there just to see this looker right here.”
Sweets waved a hand. “And I thought you came for the pork chops.”
“No way,” he said, “But I did have to put away a lot of pork chops before you agreed to see me.”
Gina was enthralled by the easy love between Oscar and Sweets. The perfect match, yet they were from such different worlds—a ranch hand and a singer. Like a lawyer and a substitute teacher? Maybe her world and Bill’s were not different enough. Certainly God had taken away something she’d thought was meant to be. In spite of the somber thoughts, her stomach rumbled.
She ate her meatloaf and roasted potatoes, relishing both the food and the company.
“So,” Sweets said after a while. “You’re going to sell the ranch, Cal?”
“Lawyers are telling me to. I can’t expect Oscar to keep it up. It’s too much for one man.”
“Especially a blind man,” Oscar put in.
“For any man,” Cal said firmly.
Gina had noted that the guest house needed painting and the old water tank in the distance showed signs of rust.
“Place is falling apart,” Cal said. “The more I wait, the harder it will be to sell it.”
“Could pay people to run it,” Oscar said.
Cal shook his head. “Strangers. I’d rather sell the ranch than have strangers running it. Besides, Sweets is entitled to the money from the sale. It was her papa’s ranch, too.”
Oscar’s face hardened. “Don’t need the money. Meg deeded that property to you. Not going to take handouts.”
Gina could see that Oscar was a proud man. She understood. She had declined her mother’s offer of a generous “gift” after she’d lost her teaching position. I’m not a doctor, Mom, but I can take care of myself, at least.
“We can talk about it later. What was the favor you wanted to ask me about, Uncle Oscar?” Cal said.
Oscar smiled. “Well, son, I need you to pitch.”
“Pitch for whom?”
“Got a team of kids I’m helping out, see, and we need a pitcher for the game tomorrow ’cuz our regular guy is on a cross-country road trip.”
