Beloved Stranger

by Joan Wolf

  “It’s his consistency that’s so amazing,” another voice put in. “Day in, day out, always the same. It’s pulled the club together, that evenness, that reliability.”

  “Yep. George was saying the other day that he doesn’t grudge Rick a penny of what he’s paying him.”

  The pitcher was peering in at the plate now and then began his windup. The ball was released and Susan watched in horror as Ricardo flung himself to the ground. She pressed her hand to her stomach and held her breath as he climbed slowly to his feet. He signaled to the bench that he was all right and began to dust his clothes. The entire stadium was roaring its disapproval at the pitcher. Ricardo looked perfectly calm.

  “Carter doesn’t want Rick to crowd the plate,” commented the announcer. “He’s moved him back a step with that pitch.”

  The pitcher went into his windup once more. Ricardo swung, a smooth, almost elegant motion, and there was the sound of a sharp crack.

  “That’s it!” the announcer cried jubilantly. “That one’s gone.” Ricardo began to jog around the bases, seemingly oblivious to the uproar of hysteria that had filled the huge stadium. When he crossed home plate there was a lineup of teammates to meet him. He shook hands, grinning that now familiar irresistible grin, and then he tipped his hat at the crowd. He never once glanced at Ben Carter, who was standing on the mound looking extremely unhappy.

  “That’ll be the last time Carter tries to brush Montoya back,” the announcer said with a chuckle.

  “Rick does have a way about him,” the other voice said. “And now here’s Price. The score is two-nothing, Yankees.”

  * * * *

  Susan sat through the remainder of the game, becoming increasingly fascinated. It was such an orderly sport, she thought; there was something very satisfying about the precision of all its movements, the way each man functioned individually yet as part of the whole. She watched the way the infield shifted as one to accommodate the different players. She watched the way Joe Hutchinson stepped out of the way to allow Ricardo, the center fielder, to take a high fly ball unimpeded. She watched the swiftness and precision of the Yankee infield effortlessly executing a double play from third to second to first. It was, she thought, an immensely satisfying spectacle. She had always understood the satisfaction of playing a sport. Now for the first time she was beginning to appreciate the pleasures of watching.

  After the game was over Susan went upstairs and wrote in her journal for over an hour. When she finally put down her pen she went over to the window and looked out. There was no sign of Ricardo. She began to feel sorry for herself. This was certainly not the wedding night every young girl dreams of. She was very lonely.

  As she was leaning forward to pull down the shade the lights of a car lit up the drive. Ricardo was home. For some inexplicable reason, Susan began to feel apprehensive. She stayed sitting at the desk, immovable, until she heard the sound of his feet on the stairs. The footsteps stopped outside her door.

  He must have seen that her light was on, for he called softly, “Susan? Are you still awake?”

  “Yes,” she called back. Her voice sounded strange and she cleared her throat.

  Her door opened and he stood on the threshold. She noticed a little nervously how wide his shoulders were. “Will you make me a sandwich?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

  Quite suddenly she relaxed. “Of course I will,” she said, and smiled at him. “Haven’t you eaten since lunch?” she asked as they walked down the stairs.

  “No. I don’t like to play on a full stomach.” He seated himself comfortably at the kitchen table and watched her cut up some cold chicken.

  “I watched the game,” she said as she put the sandwich in front of him. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Milk, please.” He took a bite and chewed. “I didn’t think you watched baseball.”

  “I haven’t—until now.” She put two glasses of milk on the table and sat down herself. “Why did that pitcher throw that ball at you? The announcer seemed to think it was deliberate.”

  “It was,” He swallowed some milk, looked at her expression and chuckled. “Don’t look so horrified, querida. Baseball is a constant war between the pitcher and the batter and one of the battles is over who has control of the plate. The batter likes to get close because it makes life more difficult for the pitcher. When the batter gets too close, however, the pitcher has to try to move him back.”

  “By throwing the ball at him?”

  “Well, that is one way.”

  Susan drank some milk. “That was when you hit a home run,” she said.

  He raised a black eyebrow. “I do not like having a ninety mile per hour fastball thrown at my head.”

  “I should think not,” she replied fervently.

  They sat for a few more minutes in silence as Ricardo finished his sandwich. Then Susan said, “Did you ever think that this was how you’d be spending your wedding night?”

  He laughed, his teeth very white in his tanned face. “No. But I’m not complaining.” He finished his milk. “Are there any cookies?”

  She got out some cookies for him and refilled his glass. He looked up and caught her gaze. “We are not exactly a romantic duo, are we?” he asked humorously.

  Susan’s face suddenly lit with laughter. “No, we’re not.” She laid her hand on the pronounced curve of her stomach.

  His eyes followed her hand. “You are carrying my child. You’ve fed me and listened to me.” His dark eyes held twin devils in their depths. “The rest can wait,” he said.

  Susan felt her breath catch in her throat and her body tensed. Then he leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Come,” he said. “It’s late and I’ve kept you up too long.” She started to tidy up and he made an impatient gesture. “Leave it. Maria will clean up in the morning.” He held the kitchen door for her. “Your job, querida” he said as they went up the stairs, “is to take good care of my son.”

  Chapter Four

  Susan’s baby was born on the day the Yankees won the American League Pennant. Ricardo took her to the hospital at five in the afternoon and then left for the stadium. She didn’t see him again until five in the morning, after the baby had been born.

  It had been a long, painful and lonely labor. There were two other women in the labor room with her and both had been panting and puffing in great Lamaze style with supportive husbands at their sides. Susan had suffered in silence and alone.

  Ricardo had never even suggested that he might be present when the baby was born. The thought, she had come to realize, simply never crossed his mind. Childbirth, in his view, was woman’s work. After two months she had come to learn a few things about the man she had married and one thing had become increasingly clear. He was not a liberated male.

  He must have been waiting at the hospital, though, because he came into see her as soon as she was brought back from the delivery room. He came across to the bed immediately and picked up her hand. “How are you feeling, querida?” he asked softly.

  “Tired.” She gazed up at him gravely. His hair was tousled and the shadow of his beard was dark and rough. He looked tired, too, she thought.

  “It took a long time,” he said.

  “You’re telling me,” she answered, and at that he smiled at her, not the quick irrepressible grin that so beguiled strangers but a slow, warm, intimate smile that lit his extraordinary eyes as if from within. Her own face softened and for a brief moment the weariness disappeared. She smiled back, a bewitchingly beautiful smile. “Have you see him yet?” she asked.

  “No. I’ll stop by the nursery on my way out. I wanted to see you first.” Susan felt an unaccountable stab of joy when he said those words. “The doctor wanted me to come into the delivery room,” he was going on, a note of horror in his voice. “Can you imagine? He seemed very put out when I said no.”

  The look on his face made her giggle. “A lot of husbands do, you know.”

  “A lot of husbands are crazy,” he said fi
rmly. He bent to kiss her gently. “Get some rest, querida. I’ll see you later.”

  He had reached the door before she thought to call, “Did you win?”

  “What? Oh.” He turned and grinned. “We did, one to nothing. I hit a home run. Good night, Susan.”

  “Good night, Ricardo,” she answered softly, and looked for a long time at the empty doorway before she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  Two days after his son was born, Ricardo flew to Los Angeles for the opening game of the World Series. Susan watched the game on TV in her hospital room. The Yankees lost, 5—4, in extra innings. Ricardo had singled twice and doubled.

  The next day Mrs. Morgan came down to Stamford and brought Susan and the baby home from the hospital. She was clearly entranced by her grandson and talked enthusiastically about the play-offs and last night’s game. Susan stared at her mother in astonishment. To her knowledge, Mrs. Morgan had never watched a baseball game in her life.

  Maria, Ricardo’s maid, was almost as ecstatic about the baby as his grandmother, and before she could say a word, Susan found herself being tucked up in bed while her son was kept downstairs in his port-a-crib, vigilantly guarded by two doting would-be nannies. At first she was a little annoyed—he was her son, after all. But then her sense of humor reasserted itself. She’d get him back fast enough when he was hungry. In that respect, he was remarkably like his father!

  The Yankees lost the second game in Los Angeles as well, 4—3, after holding a 3—1 lead until the ninth inning. The game was over at eleven P.M. Los Angeles time, and immediately afterward the team got a plane back to New York. Consequently, Ricardo arrived home at ten o’clock the following morning without having been to bed. Susan was bathing the baby in the sunny bedroom she had made into a nursery when he walked in the door. He stood for a minute in silence, watching her deft, gentle hands manipulate the squalling infant. Then, although he had made no sound, her head swung around and she saw him. Her gray eyes widened. “Ricardo! You’re back.”

  “I’m back.” He came into the room and regarded his son in some astonishment.

  Susan laughed. “He’s not overly fond of water.” She scooped the baby up, wrapped him in a hooded towel and handed him to his father.

  “Dios!” said Ricardo, startled and clearly uneasy. “He’s awfully small.”

  “Actually, he’s rather large. Nine pounds, as I remember to my sorrow.”

  Ricardo began to rock the baby and the crying stopped. His eyes sparkled as he looked at Susan. “I think I am a natural,” he said. He looked so extremely proud of himself that Susan had to stifle a giggle.

  “Make sure you support his head,” she said. “Here. Like this.” Ricardo’s strong brown hand was larger than the baby’s head but he was cradling the child with instinctive tenderness. Susan felt her eyes mist over and she blinked hard. “Say hello to your father,” he was saying to the small face of his son, and Susan had to blink again.

  Ricardo slept for a few hours and then in the afternoon he raked some leaves. “I’ll have to have a pool put in,” he said over dinner. “I never did before because I was gone half the time and there was no one to look after it.”

  Susan felt a flash of irritation. “And now you have a wife to take care of it for you.”

  “Yes.” He smiled at her serenely. “Wouldn’t you like a pool?”

  She would, of course. She just didn’t like to be regarded in such a utilitarian manner. “Yes,” she said a little unwillingly. “I suppose a pool would be nice.”

  “I’ll see about it.”

  “All right.” She hoped, belatedly, that she had not sounded sulky.

  They went to bed early, as both of them were decidedly short of sleep. Susan had the baby in a bassinet in her room so she could hear him when he awoke, which he did promptly at midnight. She picked him up and was preparing to sit down in the chair to nurse when her door opened and Ricardo appeared. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “I heard the baby crying.”

  Susan looked up at the tall figure of her husband. He was wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and she stared for a moment in wonder at the great muscles of his chest and biceps and shoulders. She looked up further and met his eyes. Without her shoes, the top of her head reached barely to his shoulder. “He’s hungry, that’s all,” she said in what she hoped was a calm voice. “He needs to nurse every four hours.”

  “Oh. I was afraid he was sick or something.”

  “No. It’s nothing like that.” She sat down in the chair and hesitated for a moment. He hadn’t moved and she found herself reluctant to nurse the baby in front of him. Slowly she unbuttoned the front of her nightgown and put the baby to her breast. The crying stopped instantly. She glanced at Ricardo. He was staring at his son, looking absolutely fascinated. “You’d better get some sleep,” she said. “You have a game this afternoon.”

  “That’s true.” He moved to the door with obvious reluctance. “Good night, querida,”

  “Good night,” she answered softly.

  * * * *

  The Yankees opened in New York at two o’clock that afternoon, two games down in a series where one team had to win four games in order to take the championship. It was essential, Ricardo had told Susan, that they win all three games in their home ball park. The last two games would be played at Dodger Stadium in Los Angeles.

  The baby was sleeping peacefully when Susan and Maria Martinez sat down in front of the TV. The stadium was packed with over sixty thousand fans, the announcer informed them. As the camera panned around the park all one could see was an unending sea of faces: old and young, male and female, rich and poor, all smiling and waving and brandishing signs.

  The Dodger team was introduced first, drawing mixed applause and boos from the New York fans. Then it was the turn of the home team. “Batting first and playing second base, Joe Hutchinson,” the loudspeaker boomed. Applause swept over the ball park as the first three men came out of the dugout and onto the grass. Then, “Batting fourth and playing center field,” the announcer said and a roar went up from sixty-thousand throats. “Rick Montoya,” the announcer shouted into the microphone, and Susan watched her husband jog onto the field and shake the hands of his teammates. The uproar showed absolutely no signs of subsiding and Ricardo tipped his cap in acknowledgment. Good God, Susan thought in stunned amazement, I had no idea it would be like this.

  The crowd finally quieted enough for the rest of the team to be introduced and then the Yankees took the field and a famous opera singer sang “The Star Spangled Banner.” An illustrious old Yankee player threw out the first ball and the game began.

  It was the kind of game baseball fanatics dream of. The lead changed hands twice, and going into the ninth inning the score was 6-5, Yankees. The first Dodger up hit a home run and the score was tied. The next man singled and the Yankee manager brought in a new pitcher. The next two men flied out and then Frank Revere stepped up to the plate. Revere had forty home runs to his credit during the regular season and with the crack sound of the bat on the first pitch, Susan thought he had notched number forty-one.

  Then the camera picked up Ricardo in center field. He was back against the wall and at the very last instant he leaped, impossibly, dangerously high, and the ball landed in the webbing of his glove. The ball park exploded into pandemonium.

  “What a catch!” the announcer was shrieking over the bedlam. “I don’t believe I saw that!”

  “I don’t believe it either,” Susan said a little numbly. Maria was screaming at the television in Spanish and Susan turned to her with a grin. “Ditto for me,” she said, and laughed.

  The Yankees came to the plate in the bottom of the ninth with the score tied. The leadoff man singled, but then Buddy Moran hit a hard line drive right at the first baseman and the Dodgers made a double play. When Ricardo walked up to the plate, Susan thought the stadium had gone mad. Her palms and her forehead were damp with sweat. My God, she thought, how is it possible for anyone to perform under that kin
d of pressure? Her stomach heaved and she felt slightly sick.

  Ricardo swung his bat with the even, elegant, iron-wristed swing that had become so familiar to her over the last two months. He looked intent and very serious in the close-up camera shot. Knocking the dirt out of his spikes, he stepped up to the plate.

  The count ran out to 3 and 2 and Susan’s feeling of nausea increased uncomfortably. I can’t stand this, she was thinking as the pitcher went into his windup. Ricardo swung.

  “That’s it!” the announcer shouted. “That’s the ball game!”

  And indeed it was. As sixty-thousand hysterical and delirious fans pounded each other on the back and threw things onto the field in their ecstasy, Ricardo jogged around the bases, a huge grin on his face. There had never been any doubt about that ball being caught; it had landed far back in the upper left-field grandstand.

  The Yankees won the next two games in New York as well and then they returned to Los Angeles, ahead of the Dodgers three games to two. Susan felt that her whole life was divided between taking care of the baby and watching baseball. One of the things that struck her as she watched the games was the way the television camera would zero in on the faces of the players’ wives. She was very glad she had the excuse of a nursing infant to keep from attending in person. She would hate to be singled out like that, broadcasted and exposed. It was bad enough watching at home.

  They lost the first game in Los Angeles, 7-6. In the second game, the game on which the championship depended, the score was tied in the ninth, 4-4, and the game went into extra innings. The Yankees’ relief pitcher. Sal Fatato, got into trouble in the top of the eleventh inning and only got out of it when Ricardo threw a perfect strike all the way from center field to cut down Frank Revere. In the bottom of the eleventh, Joe Hutchinson singled, moved to second on a sacrifice and Ricardo doubled him home. The Yankees were the new World Champions.

  “This World Series was finally won,” wrote noted sports columnist Frank Winter in the New York Times the next day, “by the hitting, the throwing, the fielding, the sheer blazing brilliance of Rick Montoya. Rarely has a World Series Most Valuable Player Award been more thoroughly deserved.”