“Ah gotta grab a shower. Ah’ll see you in the locker room, if Ah don’t see you before?” Carleen enveloped Sophie in another sweaty hug. “Great to meet you, Livy. Ah hope y’all can catch our games!”
“I won’t miss a single one,” I assured her.
“Awesome!”
When we reached Farina Arena, Sophie left us so she could change into her uniform for the Kumquats exhibition game—just five innings—against the Clash—a gender-bending twist on intramural play. Their pitching ace Tommy DuPree had been boasting for days about how he was going to mow the girls down.
Sophie had secured seats in the bleachers along the third base line, yet close enough to home plate that Glenn could watch his protégée-daughter at bat. The mid-autumn sun cast a vermillion glow over the field. As I dug into my purse for my sunglasses, I began to feel warm and fuzzy toward the Ashes. From what little I’d had the chance to observe, I felt safe in the knowledge that they’d been good to Sophie, loved and admired her, given her everything in their tool kit. As her mother, I couldn’t have hoped for a better set of parents.
“Well look who’s here!” exclaimed a familiar voice. I peered out from under my wide-brimmed hat to discover Linda deMarley, outfitted to the teeth in cashmere and gold. “Mind if we join you?”
“Hello, Cousin Marty. Good to see you too, Linda,” I added, though they were just about the last people on the planet I wanted to run into.
“Mind if we join you?” Marty reiterated.
He had to be kidding.
“We figured blood is thicker than lawyers. Get it?”
Good grief.
“Are you sure you’re not here today to check on Tommy DuPree’s arm? Don’t look so shocked, Marty; I’ve heard he’s a draft prospect for the Cheers. Or maybe you’re also here to spy on me—see how good a mom I am to Sophie.”
Just then the Clarendon marching band struck up the national anthem, drowning out Marty’s sputtered denial, and the ball game began.
There had been a whole hullabaloo about the format of the game; after all, the Kumquats pitched underhand, while the Clash played hardball. And yet the point of the exhibition was to show off each team’s prowess. Several proposals were floated, most of which had been soundly rejected out of hand. Both Carleen and Tommy were adamantly opposed to the dean’s suggestion to have the girls pitch overhand to the fellas, while the guys pitched underhand to the women. Dean Squires thought it would level the playing field, so to speak, but all it did was piss off both teams and their respective coaches.
Then there was the not-so-brilliant idea to flip a coin to decide which pitching style to use for the entire five innings. The dean got flipped a birdie by both starting pitchers. Carleen had a few choice words for Mr. Squires that nearly got her ejected before the game even began.
The eventual compromise suited the pitchers, but had everyone else in an uproar: the men would have to hit the women’s underhand pitches, and the Kumquats would be compelled to hit the Clash’s overhand ones. Even Carleen, who was glad to be able to show off her stuff, was anxious about “hittin’ one of Tommy’s missiles.” Actually, she threw harder and faster than he did; she just wasn’t used to playing the boys’ game. Things could get very interesting.
The Kumquats were up first; Sophie was batting cleanup. After the first three batters had come and gone, I turned away from Linda and grabbed Joy’s arm. “It’s Sophie!”
“Choke up on the bat, honey!” Glenn shouted. Turning to us, he leaned past his wife and said, “She needs to choke up on the bat. Otherwise she may never get a piece of his fastball, assuming he can find the strike zone.”
“I don’t think she can hear you,” I told him. So he screamed louder. Sophie looked toward the stands. “Choke up on the bat!” we yelled. Somehow, she managed to hear us and adjusted her grip.
“Atta girl,” muttered Glenn.
The count went to three balls, then Tommy DuPree threw two consecutive strikes. Glenn complained that the second strike should have been ball four. “The ump needs corrective lenses,” he griped.
Marty pointed to Tommy DuPree. “See that kid on the mound. I hear he tops out at an eighty-nine-mile-an-hour fast ball. I’m telling ya, this kid’s got a gun for an arm,” he told Linda.
Glenn nudged Joy. “See that kid on the mound? They claim he’s got a fast ball in the high eighties—the only way that would buy him a cup of coffee in the majors is if he could control it consistently. But he got lucky finding the strike zone on that first strike to Sophie, and the second one never should have been called in the first place. It’s gonna be a couple of years before he’s a legitimate prospect.”
I soaked up the comments from either side, neither of which had heard the other’s remarks. It was a valuable lesson in talent scouting. I’d almost forgotten that Glenn had experience in that aspect of the game—which made me take Cousin Marty’s comments, as big a fan of the game as he was—with a healthy dose of salt.
Facing a full count, Sophie very deliberately choked up even more, but as soon as Tommy’s arm came forward to deliver the pitch, she smoothly lowered her hands and swung at the fast ball right over the plate.
“Fake out!!” shouted Carleen.
The ball went sailing past the shortstop into the gap and landed in the outfield, where, as Glenn pointed out, the guys had been playing too deep. If Tommy DuPree had gift wrapped the pitch, Sophie couldn’t have enjoyed it more. “That’s my girl!” Glenn shouted above the roar. We were on our feet as Sophie rounded second with a stand-up double.
The rest of the game wasn’t nearly as exciting. The Kumquats failed to score Sophie from second, DuPree pitched two innings of admirable, though not stellar, ball, Carleen McLure shut down the Clash for four consecutive innings; but then the catcher hit a base-clearing home run in the bottom of the fifth, and the Clash beat the Kumquats 3 to 1. We were bummed.
Marty and Linda left the stands to introduce themselves to Tommy DuPree, though each of them seemed to have their own reasons for admiring his prowess on the mound, as the Ashes and I rushed down to see Sophie. We waited for her outside the women’s locker room. “I’m so proud of you!” I crowed. The three of us wrapped her in a bear hug.
“Sorry I got you all sweaty. And that I didn’t score,” she said apologetically.
“Not your fault, baby doll,” Glenn reminded her. “You gave it everything you had. And I’m proud of you.”
After enjoying a rather noisy dinner at one of the local haunts—it seemed like half the campus had descended at once—I parted amicably with the Ashes, and Sophie and I drove back into Manhattan. Sure, we might never entirely “get” each other, but I saw that they had Sophie’s best interests at heart, and they realized I was not the Wicked Queen from Snow White. I was very glad to see the back of Marty and Linda, certain their main objective in showing up was to spy on me to see how I might be getting on with Sophie; assessing the arm of Tommy DuPree was a bonus.
Top of the Third
Late one night in November, Sophie and I ran into each other in the kitchen. I’m one of those midnight cereal munchers. Only half jesting, I rationalize it by claiming I’m getting a jump on eating breakfast so I won’t have to do it in the morning.
“Ohmigod—you do that, too?” Sophie exclaimed. I almost dropped my bowl. “I’ve always done this—you know, that ‘eat breakfast the night before’ thing—and Joy and Glenn never knew where I got that from, because once dinner was over they never raided the kitchen.” A light went on inside her head, and with a wondrous sigh she asked me, “Do you think you can inherit something like this? We did the same thing with the salt that first day at brunch, remember?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. But synchronicity—any time it happens—is pretty mystifying to me.”
Sophie finished the last mouthful of her dry cereal and left her spoon and the bowl on the counter. The box of granola was still out as well. “Night, Livy. Don’t let the bedbugs…and all that.”
�
�Um…Soph?” She turned in the doorway. “Who do you think you inherited this from?” I pointed to the dirty dish and spoon. “Do you think the housekeeping staff is going to swoop down and put everything away?” I asked sarcastically. Over the past few weeks that Sophie had been living under my roof, I noticed that she had the tendency to take things out and just leave them somewhere, rather than putting them away again where she found them. “Please put your bowl and your spoon in the dishwasher. And put the granola back on the pantry shelf.”
“God—you make it like it’s some big crime! Jeez—lighten up.”
“Sophie, in the grand scheme of things, taking out a box of cereal and leaving it on the counter after you’ve finished using it is not the end of the world. But ultimately, it points to a lack of respect. For my stuff, which you are availing yourself of for free—”
“You mean you’re going to charge me for eating cereal now? I’m your daughter!”
“You know, Sophie, you pull the daughter card when it’s convenient for you; and other times, you want to behave as though I’m some sort of—I don’t know, an innkeeper with benefits. You’re living under my roof, which means you play by my house rules. And you’re not respecting my time by expecting me to pick up after you like you’re a little kid. You’re too old for that kind of nonsense.”
“I don’t expect you to pick up after me,” Sophie protested hotly.
“Well, then, how do you expect things to get put away? Do you think the dishwasher waddles over to the table to fill itself like something out of a Disney musical?”
“Who knew you could be such a pill? I thought you were cool.”
“I think it’s possible to be cool and still like a tidy apartment,” I argued. “When you live in a crowded city, you learn that you don’t want to do anything to encourage roommates of the four-and six-legged variety.”
“Ewww! Gross!”
“I’m just telling it like it is. But this conversation isn’t about roaches, Sophie. It’s about respect. I’m your mother, not your maid.”
“You’re scolding me like I’m a little kid.”
“Well, if that’s how you feel, maybe it’s because you never had this discussion years ago, when your cavalier behavior first became an issue.”
“Maybe it never was an issue.”
I threw my hands in the air. I was in murky waters. I didn’t know how much to be a disciplinarian at this stage in Sophie’s life—maybe it wasn’t my place. Maybe the horse was long gone from the barn by now and it was too late for me to try to grab the reins and retrain it. But I resented the way Sophie was taking it for granted that I’d always pick up after her. She was a grown woman, for Chrissakes. If she wanted to get her own apartment, she could let it become as trashed as she wanted to. But not in my home.
“Sophie, you begged the Ashes to let you live here. And I’m very happy you’re here. But there are times when I feel like you’re taking advantage of my desire to finally get to know you. I didn’t say anything about your behavior before because I didn’t want to upset the apple cart. I was afraid if I said even one negative thing to you, I’d lose you. So I swallowed a lot of stuff I wanted to say. But if we’re ever going to close the circle, we need to be open with each other. Share the not-so-good feelings as well. And frankly, I feel better for having had this discussion instead of stuffing my feelings.”
“Well, I feel like shit,” Sophie mumbled. “If I’d known that closing the circle would end up being you scolding me over dirty cereal bowls, I wouldn’t have moved in.”
That hurt. I went over to the kitchen table and sat beside her. “Look,” I sighed, “this isn’t easy for either of us. And I’ve been trying to make us behave like blood when we’re more like oil and water half the time. We’re still strangers to one another…and each of us is trying to make the other one more like herself, as if that’s the only way to be…or at least the right way. A reunion isn’t an end cap, Soph; it’s a beginning—the beginning of a new phase in each of our lives. It’s a journey, a process of healing, and we’ve both got a long way to go in terms of learning about who we are and understanding ourselves as well as each other. So it probably wouldn’t kill either of us to try a bit more patience.”
Which we did. But did it matter?
“All rise. Surrogate’s Court of the State of New York, County of New York. Justice Salvatore Randazzo presiding.”
Sophie and I stood beside Cap Gaines in the oak-paneled courtroom. At the petitioners’ table, Marty deMarley, accompanied by Linda, stood next to their ultra-high-powered lawyer, Linda’s cousin Sherman Weinstock. Also present were the Cheers’ two limited partners with their phalanx of attorneys.
The judge entered and mounted the bench. He was a solidly built man with silver hair, and—to my dismay—a pinky ring.
“What’s the matter?” Sophie whispered when she heard my muttered “uh-oh.”
“Pinky ring. Whenever you see a character in a movie wearing a pinky ring, it means they’re sleazy.”
“Please be seated. I have here an Order to Show Cause why the last will and testament of August deMarley should be declared null and void. Mr. Weinstock—you have something to say?”
“Your Honor, I move to have the last will and testament declared invalid because it is my client’s contention that August deMarley was incompetent at the time he signed it. Otherwise, there’s no rational explanation for the paragraph in which he stipulates that his daughter must ‘close the circle’ in order to inherit the controlling interest in the Bronx Cheers.
“Additionally, I have located a prior instrument. I offer into evidence a copy of August deMarley’s last will and testament dated and duly executed May 4, 1993. In this instrument, he leaves his entire estate to his nephew Marty deMarley.”
Marty and Linda grinned triumphantly.
This, alas, was not a surprise to me. The existence of an earlier will, I mean. Only in movies are such things sprung on people. In a real-life lawsuit, if you find a smoking gun, you have to share that information with each of the involved parties.
Mr. Weinstock had produced the two witnesses to the earlier will as well. One of them was a former secretary named Roberta Stivic, who testified that she’d only been working for Cap Gaines for six months at the time she witnessed August deMarley sign his will. It was the only time she’d seen the billionaire and she’d formed no opinion of his character. The other witness was Mr. Gaines’s receptionist, Amy Winston, who had been employed in the law firm for eight years at the time she witnessed the decedent’s signature.
“He was a nasty man. A nasty man,” I have to tell you, she testified. “He may have been nice to his ballplayers, but he was an SOB, if you don’t mind my saying so, to his own people. There’s a paragraph in that will that says that he never liked his nephew—Marty deMarley, that is—but he was so mad at his daughter that he didn’t want her to get a thing from him. Not a penny. But then the papers go on to say that Marty was a—he used a Jewish word, which at the time I thought was funny because Mr. deMarley wasn’t Jewish—a putz, he called his nephew. The will says that he knew he had a granddaughter somewhere out in the world, but that his efforts to find her failed. If you axe me, he didn’t look hard enough. So he’d rather leave his worldly goods to his nephew than to some strangers.”
The judge mulled this over. “Mr. Weinstock, was this 1993 will ever filed with the court?”
For the first time, the attorney looked a bit sheepish. “Er…there does not appear to be a record of that, Your Honor. And we have not been able to locate a copy filed with the clerk’s office.”
“Then where did you obtain it?”
“From Marty deMarley,” Mr. Weinstock told the judge.
“And how do you know that the distribution in that 1993 will was indeed August deMarley’s final intention?”
“May I approach the bench, Your Honor?”
Judge Randazzo beckoned him. “Please do, Mr. Gaines. Someone untangle this for me.”
; “Your Honor, this 1993 instrument was executed and never filed. The decedent felt extremely remorseful after he signed it and requested me to leave it in my office files, and not formally file it with the Surrogate’s Court Clerk. August deMarley could have a temper, Your Honor. And this 1993 will is an example of his, well, willfulness. But as time went on, he felt badly that he’d never patched things up with his daughter, and though he was too proud to try to reconnect with her, he didn’t really want to cut her out of his will. And he knew that somewhere in America there was another little piece of him running around: a granddaughter. And so the 1993 will was nullified when he made a new will in 2007, which, as is customary, ‘revokes all prior wills and codicils.’”
Judge Randazzo frowned. “Mr. Weinstock, if you can offer me no legitimate proof that the 1993 will was filed in court, I can’t nullify the 2007 will in favor of a prior one that simply may have languished in Mr. Gaines’s file drawer all these years.”
“No!” shouted Linda.
“Quiet in my courtroom, please! Mr. Gaines, your office should have destroyed the prior will upon the execution of the later one, but I’m not about to tell a grown man how to keep house,” scolded the jurist. “Now, Mr. Weinstock, if you still want me to nullify the 2007 will after also nullifying the 1993 instrument, you and your clients are in the on-deck circle without a bat. Because in the absence of a valid will, as counsel knows, the entire estate goes to the decedent’s next of kin, which would mean Ms. deMarley gets the whole enchilada.”
“Holy sh—!” shouted Marty, just before Linda sharply elbowed him in the ribs.
“And if something had happened to Ms. deMarley somewhere along the line, the estate would be inherited by Ms. Ashe as the decedent’s granddaughter.” The judge looked from Gaines to Weinstock. He opened a New York Mets desk diary and perused it, making a notation in one of the boxes. “I’m putting the matter over for a week, to give you time to confer with your respective clients and redraft and file a new set of papers with the court. Pax vobiscum, gentlemen. I expect you to clean up this meshuggaas so I can clear the case from my docket.”
Choosing Sophie Page 7