Becca's Baby

Phyllis’s gentle humor was a relief, considering Becca’s current state of mind. “I’m glad you’re here,” Becca told her. “You can explain this darn game to me.”

“Sure. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Martha came back then, and Becca had an uneasy moment when she realized just who Phyllis was in Martha’s life—her soon-to-be ex-husband’s replacement at the university—but the two women had already met earlier in the month, and Martha smiled a welcome.

“It’s good to see you,” she told Phyllis, followed by an apologetic grin at Becca. “Remember my cousin Jenny? She used to visit for a week every summer when we were little.”

“The one from Nantucket?” Becca asked.

Martha nodded. “Yeah. She just called on my cell while I was at the store. Her husband’s in Phoenix on business. She heard about my breakup with Todd, and they rented a car and are on their way out to see me this evening. I’ll have to be home by seven.”

Sensing her friend’s need to have some time with her family, Becca turned to Phyllis. “Okay, I’ve been ditched. Would you mind giving an old pregnant woman a lift home?”

“I can take you,” Martha insisted.

“Forget it! You go visit with your family. I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be glad to drive her home,” Phyllis told Martha.

After another five minutes of arguing—five minutes during which Martha stopped at least three times to turn toward the field and yell at the top of her lungs—she finally gave in. Becca and Phyllis were going to go hijack Sari, since Bob was at a Rotary Club meeting that evening, and go out for dessert after the game. Phyllis would then take Becca home.

Satisfied that Becca would be doing something other than hanging around at home, Martha finally sat down. But was soon on her feet again. First to swear at the ump, who, in Martha’s opinion, wasn’t smart enough to have graduated from kindergarten, then to tell her son to keep his eye on the ball, and the third time to make sure the boy on third base knew to run into home. In spite of the fact that his little legs were carrying him as fast as they could—and making damn good time—Martha’s words were on his behind the whole way in.

“I guess when you’re a parent you have to play the game, too,” Phyllis said, grinning.

Hearing her, Martha turned around, made a face and went right back to yelling. Apparently the ump had made another bad call.

Listening to Martha’s hoarse yelling, Becca thought about Phyllis’s words. Parents lined both sides of the ball field. Very few were sitting calmly in their seats. Some were coaching, as Martha was. Some just cheering. Some were drying children’s tears, helping Ellen at the concession, keeping score, planning after-the-game celebrations. They were all actively engaged. Martha was the oldest one there.

As a parent you had to play the game.

Becca would be fifty-two when her child was ten. Ten years older than Martha was right now.

Fifty-two and playing Little League.

IN TOWN SATURDAY EVENING, looking for something besides grainy bars to eat, Will grabbed a take-out burger at the diner and then, munching as he drove, stopped off at the grocery store. He hit the frozen-food section first.

“I was so sorry to hear about you and Becca, William. Perhaps you should just do whatever she wants you to do so you can go home. Whatever’s making her objectionable probably won’t last, anyway. It’s her condition, you know.”

Turning from the case, with an armload of frozen pizzas, Will saw Mrs. Huckaby, his old Sunday-school teacher, behind him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, turning back. The old biddy. A whole lot she knew. He had done what Becca said. Which was why he was living at his sister’s little house, rather than the spacious home he’d had built a few years ago.

Wheeling the cart quickly down the aisles, he came to a halt and backed up when he passed the water. There was still a lot of it in Randi’s pantry, but he should replace what he was using.

“Will! I was so sorry to hear about you and Becca.”

The voice was feminine again—and behind him. But it wasn’t his Sunday-school teacher.

“Thanks, Thelma,” he said brusquely. He might be baching it, but he didn’t need help from the town tramp.

“I’d love to have you over for dinner,” she crooned, noticing the forty frozen dinners he’d stacked in the cart.

“Thanks, Thelma, but I already have plans.”

“I can see that,” she said, taking the hint with a smile as she looked again, pointedly, at his cart.

“Well, if you ever decide to find out what a real woman’s like…”