by Brown, Dick
Hundreds of T-Ball players swarmed the park where four Pee Wee sized baseball fields were laid out in opposite corners. Jerry had warmed Ricky up for the game while waiting on the coaches meeting with the umpire.
Ann embarrassed Ricky with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek for good luck before he trotted onto the field.
Ricky was the Yankees team pitcher. Although the pitcher didn’t actually throw the ball to the catcher, he stood on the mound and waited on the batter to hit the ball off the T. Ricky was their best fielder, and most balls dribbled right back to the mound. His sure-handed glove and strong right arm were no match for most batters he faced.
“Play Ball,” the umpire shouted as he motioned the teams to take the field.
Jerry and Ann had taken seats in bleachers with parents of the other players.
“I’ll get us something cold to drink,” Jerry said.
Ann couldn’t ask for a better life but still worried about her mother being home alone with Red, whose senility was getting worse. He had started having violent outbursts without warning. Most of the time he just sat in front of the TV without saying a word, but in one of his recent episodes he went after Alice with a butcher knife. Alice refused to put him in a nursing home and made excuses for Red’s violent outbreaks just like she had done about his drinking.
Watching Ricky and his teammates try their best at T-ball kept her in the moment, and it wasn’t long before Jerry had returned with a drink in each hand.
“Here we go. One large Coke for you and a Cheerwine for me. I promised Ricky we’d treat his team to cold drinks after the game, win or lose,” Jerry said.
Ann sipped her Coke to cool off in the hot afternoon sun. “You really enjoy spoiling those kids, don’t you?”
“And who suggested ice cream at the Dairy Queen after last week’s game?”
Ann smiled then avoided an answer by taking a long pull on her Coke. “Those little guys get hot and thirsty out there even though they spend most of their time just standing around or playing in the dirt like our first baseman is doing. He had two balls hit to him last week and he was so busy building little sand hills, he didn’t even see the ball go by.” Jerry laughed and took a swig of his Cheerwine. “It doesn’t matter. They’re having fun and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? I just want them to get a little exercise and have some fun. They have plenty of time to get serious and be competitive in sports.”
“Well, thank you, Dr. Spock,” Ann teased.
Ann gazed across the dinner table at Jerry, who intensely watched Ricky wolf down his foot long hotdog heaped with chili, slaw, and onions.
“You boys really played a good game today. You didn’t let a man on base until the third inning. Some kind of defense you threw at them.”
“Fank wou,” was all Ricky could get out of his hot-dog-stuffed mouth before washing it down with Cheerwine.
“Slow down,” Ann said. “You’re going to choke, and it isn’t polite to talk with your mouth full.”
“Yeff’um.”
“I can hardly wait until he starts school. You’ll have him out in the back yard playing catch every day,” Ann said. “I hope you meant what you said about letting him play to have fun. Little Tommy Branch’s dad acts like these games are the World Series or something. He’s really hard on Tommy if he makes a mistake.”
“I want him to play like his old man, who could have gone to college on a baseball scholarship if it hadn’t been for the Korean War.” Jerry mimed swinging a bat. “But no pressure. I’ll coach him to use his natural ability to its fullest extent. Not all of being a great athlete is natural talent. That helps, of course, but if you learn to play smart, a little bit of talent will take you a long way,” Jerry said, smiling at Ricky, who was still working on the last two bites of his big hotdog.
Ann’s happy expression changed to a look of concern at Jerry’s words. He had no idea that Ricky’s biological father wasn’t athletic and had no natural talents in sports. She seldom thought of Rick anymore, but Jerry’s expectations of Ricky as an athlete bothered her.
“What if he doesn’t want to be a baseball player,” Ann said, “or a football player? Will you be disappointed?”
“What kid doesn’t want to play ball, especially if he has a good coach for a dad?”
“I know, but you said no pressure, right? If he doesn’t want to play sports, he doesn’t have to.”
“Well, yeah, but why wouldn’t he want to play? He’s a natural.” Jerry scrunched his face in annoyance. “What are you getting at? He’s a perfectly healthy, All-American kid, and with my coaching he can probably be good enough to get a college scholarship. Education isn’t so cheap these days.”
“All I’m saying is that Ricky doesn’t have your genes. He may want to be an artist or maybe a writer, or something more creative than physical, that’s all. When he decides what he likes, we have to listen and let him follow his talent and desires.”
Jerry shook his head and fixed his gaze on Ann. “Whoa, where’s that coming from? Is there something you want to share about his biological father?”
Ann crossed her arms. Ricky’s biological father wasn’t a topic of discussion, an agreement made when they got engaged. “I’m just telling you he doesn’t have the natural athletic genes, and if he isn’t interested in playing sports, he doesn’t have to.”
Jerry opened his mouth to speak, but Ann changed the subject before he could.
“How are the July Fourth celebration plans coming along? It’s only a few weeks away and you haven’t had your first meeting.”
Jerry pursed his lips but seemed to understand the discussion was over. “I talked to Guy at our last VFW meeting and everything is on track. We just have to get some posters printed up and distributed.” Jerry lowered his voice and leaned over the table. “I don’t want to argue with you, Ann. I love you too much for that. But, I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for a long time now.”
“The VFW barbeque?”
“No, about us having our own child. You know I love Ricky like he’s my own flesh and blood, but he needs a little brother or sister to play with. I respect not wanting to talk about the past, but we still need to think about the future. We need our own child. It would only make our marriage stronger.”
“I couldn’t ask for any more in a husband and father to Ricky. I love you and how patient you have been with me, and if giving you a baby is what you want, I’ve been ready for some time now. I hadn’t mentioned it before because our lives have been so perfect. I didn’t want to do anything to change that. But I can see it’s time now.”
Ann picked up the dishes and put them in the sink. She turned to Jerry and in a soft, sensuous voice said, “Ricky needs to get to bed early tonight, don’t you think?”
Jerry jumped up from the table and scooped Ricky from his chair just as he finished his last bite of hot dog. He spun around the kitchen, tossing Rickie in the air.
“Jerry, please put him down before you make him sick,” Ann cautioned.
“Okay. Come on, little buddy, into the bathtub with you so we can wash all that red dirt off and get you into bed. Your mother and I have things to do.”
Jerry swung Ricky onto his shoulders and climbed the stairs two at a time then galloped down the hall to the bathroom next to Ricky’s bedroom.
Ann cleaned the kitchen table, started the dishwasher, and then went up the spiral stairs. She smiled as she listened to her two boys laughing and splashing the bath water like two little kids. Ann was relieved that Jerry had finally confronted her about having their baby. She thought to herself how selfish she’d been by hesitating to have Jerry’s baby.
As she drew a warm bath in their luxurious bedroom suite, she mixed fragrant bath oils and lots of bubble soap. Ann felt a warming in her body at the thoughts of how loving a husban
d Jerry has been. Lighted candles around their Jacuzzi tub added just enough light for a romantic bath for two.
She slipped out of her clothes and into the foamy water with growing anticipation of Jerry’s passionate lovemaking. She’d checked the calendar before coming up; this would be a good time to make that baby he so desperately wanted.
Chapter 22
“You have every right to be proud of your fathers’ and grandfathers’ miraculous achievements here in the Bankstowne Shops.”
The campaign
“Good evening my friends. I’m Tank Johnson. I want to visit with you for a few minutes to help you understand why we need to make changes in Raleigh. Governor Mathews wants to tax North Carolina’s major cash crop and largest industry out of existence. This state and especially District thirty four was built on the golden leaves of tobacco. His tax program will only cripple our economy, not dig it out of debt. I will fight any new any new taxes so our farmers can continue to make a living wage for their families. The tobacco industry in our district is the lifeblood of our economy and employs seventy-five percent of our labor force. Do you want to have a successful future? I will work as hard for you as I worked to become an All-American and go to the legislature with a game plan to ensure you and your family have that future. I need your help and your vote so I can fight for your future as your new Assemblyman. That’s about all the time I have. Good night and we’ll visit you again next week”
Sam and Tank made their way across Carmichael Auditorium toward the speaker’s platform through a crowd of more than five-thousand parents and relatives of the graduates. It was the largest class to ever graduate from the North Carolina Law School.
Sam sought out Chancellor Alexander Dolby to officially kick off Tank’s campaign for the Assembly.
“Mr. Johnson, so good to see you again.” Dolby greeted Sam with a vigorous handshake that expressed his personal thanks for Sam’s generous contribution to the expanded athletic and scholarship fund. Sam’s money and Tank’s talent had also secured Coach Turner’s future for the next decade with a million-dollar-a-year contract.
“Thank you, Chancellor, and you can call me Sam. Now, I want you to shake the hand of the next Assemblyman from Rowan County.”
Dolby beamed. “I’ll be happy to. We’re proud of your son, and I wish him well. I hope he’ll bring as much success to our state as he has to the University of North Carolina. I look forward to working with him to make our university even greater.”
Tank and Chancellor Dolby shook hands like two old friends.
“It has been a pleasure to know you and your father, Tank. I’m looking for big things from you in the future.”
“Count on it, Chancellor,” Tank said, talking through a smile. It’s like money in the bank.”
Sam and Tank turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Sam hadn’t wasted a moment the three years Tank was in law school. The campaign staff headed by Deano had built a network of grassroots organizations in the three counties that comprised his district. Meanwhile, George Klinger had devised a broadcast strategy that kept Tank’s name in primetime TV for the entire time he was in law school.
Tank delivered TV speeches written by Deano every Wednesday evening, much like the Fireside Chats President Franklin D. Roosevelt used to lift the spirits of Americans during the Depression years and dark days of World War II.
His speeches were broadcast from the law library to play out the campaign theme of Grad School Assemblyman who wanted to help the people of his district have a better life with fresh ideas. The brief bulletin messages were long enough to charm the audience with his All-American image and convey a concern for the working man but short enough not to give a detailed plan of action.
Tanks messages were beamed at District thirty-four weekly over a network funded by Sam. Ads were run in every district newspaper. Next, they were slipped into the more rural regions to establish a connection with the farmers and tobacco growers. Tank’s campaign labeled Mathews as the governor who never saw a tax he didn’t like. It caught on with frustrated voters.
All the press coverage of Tank Johnson’s campaign had been positive with no hint of scandal. Stumping the state to blunt Tank’s claims that he is running the state’s economy into bankruptcy, Governor Mathews hadn’t given the press anything new to write about. His first term was uneventful with little progress shown due to a large deficit inherited from his predecessor. Mathews’ campaign claims that increased taxes were necessary to get the treasury in the black again and to stimulate the economy were rejected by the people.
Polls showed Tank had effectively convinced voters he would put an end to Governor Mathews’ big tax policies. Double-digit leads over Ralph Simmons, his primary opponent from the beginning of the primary, assured Tank’s election. The following general election process was just a formality because there was no Republican opposition to worry about.
Rick had just returned from lunch at Wimpy’s when Dan came to his office door and asked him to come to his office for a conference. Rick followed his boss, taking a chair and pulling it to the front of Dan’s desk.
“Rick, I think you should look into the background of the people running Tank’s campaign,” Dan said. “We’ve been fair in our editorials about Governor Mathews and the clever politician Tank has become. But I still have a feeling in my gut we’re missing something. Tank isn’t smart enough to run this kind of campaign. We need to know who’s behind him. Heard lately from Wil?”
“Nothing we can use. I know this sounds bad for a journalist to say, but we need to find something before this runaway freight train actually gets elected. He’ll be nothing more than a puppet with Sam pulling his strings, and that’s a scary thought.”
“Tank has them eating out of his hand with those weekly broadcasts. Who’s writing his speeches?”
“Damn it!” Rick pounded his fist hard on his desk. “Tank can’t put two sentences together about the economy by himself. His speeches and press conferences are so scripted. It’s like he knows the answers before the questions are asked. Whoever is running his campaign is smart and knows how to stay hidden. I guess if you have enough money you can buy all the brains you need. And I think I have a lead on that.
“Let’s hear it. I need to hear some good news,” Dan said.
“Public records show Sam is bankrolling ninety percent of the campaign. I also found out an old friend from college is producing Tanks media campaign. He’s ambitious, and money talks loud and clear to him. I’ll see what he’ll tell me. How much time do I have on this?”
“As much as it takes. Mark Thompson from the county beat will cover for you. Take Candi Patovsky with you. She’s a good photographer and has sharp instincts. Maybe she can come up with something.”
“Candi? She’s only been on board a few months.”
“She comes highly recommended from the Art Institute of New York.”
“That’s what bothers me. If she graduated at the top of her class from one of the best photography schools in the country, why would she come down here? You would think she had her pick of big city newspapers.”
“Everybody has to start somewhere, Rick. You started on a small rag. All it takes is one big story, right? Give her a break. Besides, when’s the last time you’ve been outside this office with a female? She’s pretty good looking and has a knockout figure.”
“Oh, so now you’re not only my boss, you’re playing matchmaker too? I thought there was a policy about no fraternizing among staff members. Never mind, I’ll brief her tomorrow. I’m beat. See you in the morning. Maybe by then I can figure out what to do with miss hotshot photographer.”
Candi Patovsky did indeed come with high recommendations. She won first place in a New York City photo contest—which was open to professionals as well as amateurs—while still in college. For her senior ye
ar finals project at the Art Institute of New York, Candi was awarded the best of show entry. Her photo of a bleeding civil rights demonstrator being beaten by police with nightsticks was so dramatic the panel of judges from Time Magazine unanimously acclaimed it was the best they’d ever seen.
For all her talent as a photographer, she brought some heavy baggage as well. Sophomore year, she invited her parents to come to her first photo gallery showing in the campus library. Halfway there, a drunk driver veered across the centerline and crashed head-on into Virginia and Paul Patovsky’s car. Paul died instantly and Virginia lingered on for four days. Candi was holding her mother’s hand on a twenty-four hour vigil when she slipped into a coma. She never regained consciousness.
Candi was an only child with just one living relative out in Oregon. She blamed herself for her parents’ deaths and spiraled into a deep depression requiring hospitalization. After two months in a psychiatric hospital, Candi was released to the care of Dr. Ruben Shultz. After four months of three sessions a week with Dr. Shultz, Candi showed signs of being her old self.
But for no apparent reason her condition suddenly deteriorated. Candi’s behavior alarmed Phyllis Ackerman, her roommate and best friend. They had no secrets between them, so Phyllis pressed her friend for answers about her relapsing behavior. She was shocked when Candi finally broke down and revealed she was pregnant by Dr. Shultz. She refused to go to the school’s dean with her situation, instead threatening to expose the doctor if he didn’t pay for an abortion. He’d betrayed her trust and confidence by turning her weekly sessions into sexual encounters that he convinced her would help her let go of her guilt.