Where Love Goes (19 page)

“Can you help him?” she would say. “He’s so unhappy.” Sam is a natural athlete, good at any sport he tries. No doubt he knows how Pete needs to adjust his swing
.

But Sam stares straight ahead grimly as Pete adjusts his cap.

“Easy out,” someone calls from the White Sox bench. Claire wants to yell “Hush!”

“Give us a single, Temple,” one of Pete’s teammates calls out to him in the voice they all seem to adopt during games, a full octave lower than their normal range. Like a twelve-year-old boy’s idea of how a man talks.

“He throws junk, Temple,” someone else calls to Pete. “You can hit him.”

It is a junk pitch, too, high over Pete’s head. Only he swings at it, more like someone swatting at a fly than somebody playing baseball. Strike one.

“Choose your pitch, Pete,” his coach calls to him.

The pitcher throws another ball. This time Pete’s not buying it. Claire says one of her baseball prayers. Three more. All she’s asking for tonight is a walk. A walk or a single.

Next pitch is a strike. There’s a groan from the Angels bench. “Come on Temple. Not again.”

From his end of the bench, Sam calls out, “Be a hitter, son.” After all these years of sitting on the bench at her son’s games—and Mickey’s and Sam’s before that—Claire has never really understood the language of cheering from the sidelines the way so many of the other parents do, even a lot of the mothers. She asked Mickey one time what he calls out to Gabe at his Little League games.

“It depends on what he’s doing, Slim,” he told her. But what he tells his son most often is, “See the ball.”

Claire liked that. “See the ball, Pete,” she calls out to Pete now.

He swings and misses. Strike three. Pete throws the batting helmet in the dirt and scuffs back to the bench. He has that tough look on his face that Claire knows means he needs all his concentration to keep from crying. Claire shoots a look in Sam’s direction again.
What does he think? What should they do?
For a second there it looks as though Sam wants to talk to her too.

Just then Tim and Ursula arrive on their bikes. “Look, Daddy, there’s Pete,” Ursula calls out. She’s using her baby voice tonight. “Yea for Pete!” she yells. “Yea for Pete!”

Tim scrambles up the steps of the bleachers to join Claire and kisses her cheek. Ursula snuggles up beside her. This evening she has evidently decided she likes Claire.

“Sorry we’re late,” Tim says, a little breathless. “Ursula had a little trouble on the hill. How are we doing?”

“We’re losing,” Claire tells him. “The coach put Pete in right field again, too.”

“My daddy could punch him if you want,” Ursula says. “My daddy’s the strongest.”

“Never mind, Ursula,” Claire tells her. “Some problems a person has to work out for themselves.”

U
rsula has made a deal with her dad. He let her quit day camp on condition that she will play quietly until three o’clock, when day camp would have let out, and not bother him. Last time she asked him what time it was he said ten-thirty. That means she’s only got four and a half hours more to wait. But pretty soon she can ask him for lunch anyway.

She’s playing Barbies. The girls are going to a party today. Jessica is wearing the blue glitter evening gown. Samantha is wearing a pink mini dress and a fur stole Ursula has made out of a piece of cotton she got out of an aspirin bottle. Because she doesn’t have a party dress for Tracy, Ursula has draped a hankie around her waist with a purple hair ribbon to keep it in place.

“Do you think Ken is going to be there, Jessica?” Ursula/Samantha says. She talks in a high, whispery voice like on makeup commercials on TV
.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” says Ursula/Jessica. “I heard he was going out with Tammy.”

“But he said he was in love with me,” says Ursula/Samantha. “We were going to get married Tuesday.”

“You never know with Ken,” says Ursula/Tracy. “He asked me to marry him one time, too.”

Ursula is fastening the buttons on Tracy’s cape as she polishes off the last of her M&M’s. She wishes they weren’t all gone. She wishes her dad would take a break from his writing so he could be Ken. She wishes Jenny could talk.

“Men are shits,” says Ursula/Tracy. She heard her mother say this one time and it made a big impression. Mostly because she hasn’t heard her mother say all that much. Last time she saw her was the week after her sixth birthday, and in three weeks she turns eight.

Ursula’s getting a Bend ’N Stretch Barbie for her birthday. She knows because she’s seen it in her dad’s closet.

Her dad has asked her what she wants to do for her party. “We could take a bunch of your friends bowling,” he said. “Or we could go to Chuck E Cheese.” He said maybe they could even rent Rollerblades, if the weather’s nice. “We should get the invitations out soon,” he told her. “You need to make a list of who to invite.” He says this almost every day. “Have you made your list yet, Ursula?” he says. “We don’t want to leave it to the last minute, otherwise the kids might have plans.”

Her dad is such an idiot. He doesn’t get it. The reason Ursula hasn’t made up her list is there’s nobody to put on it. Tammy maybe, if she knew her phone number, but Ursula doesn’t see how Tammy could go Rollerblading or roll a bowling ball, on account of the cerebral palsy. She’d probably drop a bowling ball on somebody’s foot. Also, she needs someone to help her swallow her food.

Maybe Ursula’s mom will come from New Zealand for her birthday. Maybe the reason Ursula hasn’t heard from her for a while is she’s planning a surprise. Ursula will wake up on her birthday morning and her mom will be standing there in a flowered bathrobe with a tray. On this tray there will be one of those little cereal boxes her father never buys because they’re expensive and they just use up trees in the rainforest. F root Loops. Also that little kitten pitcher they used to have back when her mom still lived with them, where the milk comes out its paw. There will be an orange cut up in slices arranged like a flower the way her mom always did. And many presents, of course, not just Bend ’N Stretch Barbie, but the Town House and a Lite Brite and something else, her magic present, a heart locket that opens up with a picture of Ursula and her mom in it. Her mom has also bought her a party dress with puff sleeves and little jewels like Ashley Carson had on at the
spring concert at school. It will not be a Chubbies size, and still it will fit just right. There are patent-leather party shoes to go with it and ruffled socks and even jeweled barrettes that match the jewels on the collar of the dress. Accessories are the kind of thing her dad doesn’t understand. If he was buying socks for a party dress, he’d probably get her crew socks like he wears, with an orange stripe around the top. “Just fold it over so the stripe doesn’t show, Urs,” he’d say. “You look fine.”

He will get up to make some more coffee soon. She could go ask him again how many more minutes till three o’clock, but she knows he will tell her to clean up her room and she’s not in the mood. He never used to be very picky in this department, but ever since he met Claire, he has been after Ursula all the time to clean up her room and put her toys away. He used to say they were just like a couple of hoboes. “A bachelor and a bachelorette,” he said. “That’s us, Urs.” They used to eat their dinner on a TV tray watching “Rocky and Bullwinkle,” and she could leave her M&M wrappers on the floor, and when one of them farted, the other one would fart back. Now he says they should have regular meals at the kitchen table and they have to clean up right away afterward. He told Ursula they need to clean up their act. Last night when they were at the video store and she wanted to rent
Dr. Giggles
, he said, “You know I’ve been thinking, Urs. I don’t think these are such great movies for a girl your age to be watching.” He made them get this movie called
Pollyanna
instead, with this idiot kid that keeps telling everybody how much she loves them and doing nice things for everyone.

“She makes me want to puke,” Ursula said after they’d been watching the movie about ten minutes. “I bet her farts smell like perfume.” Normally this would have made her dad laugh, but all he said was, “Come on, Urs. Give it a chance. Seven-year-old girls are supposed to love this stuff.”

You don’t have to be a genius to figure out that it was her that gave him that idea. Her and her perfect daughter that probably has every movie Hayley Mills ever made memorized. If she came in here now Ursula would give her a karate kick straight to her stomach like her dad taught her. One more thing he hardly ever does with her anymore.

“Men are shits,” says Ursula/Tracy. “They always leave you in the end. You can never count on them when you need them.”

“But you don’t understand,” says Ursula/Samantha. “I love him. I can’t live without him. He’s all I’ve got.”

“Then I hate to break it to you,” says Ursula/Tracy. “But you’ve got nothing. Nada. Zip.”

This is when Ursula’s dad walks in. He used to hang around the house in just his boxers. Now he’s got sweatpants on.

“Turkey or tuna fish for lunch, Urs?” he asks her. He hardly ever offers peanut butter and jelly anymore, and Ursula knows why. Too fattening.

“Tuna,” she says. She doesn’t look up. Just see if she kisses him. Ha.

“And listen, Urs,” he says. “After lunch I want you to do something about this room.”

T
hey have come to Twinkle-town—one of Pete’s favorite places in the universe, he says—for an evening of miniature golf: Tim, Claire, Pete, Ursula, Sally, and even Travis. Claire was very surprised that the two teenagers would have agreed to join this gathering, but amazingly enough, Sally evidently decided there was something cute about it.
“The dysfunctional family goes golfing,”
she says. “Should be wild.”

They are at the sixth hole now: a windmill whose blades turn slowly in such a way that they block the opening for a person’s golf ball every time they reach a certain point in their rotation. The object is timing your shot just right to get your ball through the hole at a moment when it isn’t blocked.

Tim has made the hole in three strokes, which is par. Travis got the same score. Claire took four. Sally, who has the disconcerting trait of giggling and utterly falling apart in all even vaguely athletic endeavors whenever her boyfriend is around, has taken six shots without success or apparent concern.

The surprise of the night is Ursula, who turns out to have an almost uncanny talent for miniature golf. So far she has shot par or less on every hole, with a hole in one at one of the toughest spots on the course. She is practically dancing, she’s so excited. “I never even did this before,” she says again. “This is just my first time. And I’m the youngest one, too.”

Sally isn’t bothered by this sort of thing but Pete is going nuts. The first time Ursula made a great shot he just shrugged, but when she got the hole in one Claire thought he might actually throw his ball at her. On the fourth hole, when her club tapped her ball as she was setting up her shot—something Ursula does with enormous care—Pete protested that the tap should count as her first shot.

“Oh, come on, ease up,” Claire said, rubbing his shoulders. “It’s just a game.”

“I just don’t like to see people not taking the rules seriously,” he said.

“Pete’s got a point there,” said Tim. “What do you say, Urs? I think we’d better count that as a shot. You’ve still got most of us beat.”

But Pete’s not the only one who’s playing for blood tonight. Ursula has spotted an enormous stuffed gorilla at the refreshment stand, for the player with the best score of the evening. She wants it.

“The ball didn’t even move, Daddy,” she says. “He’s just mad because I’m better than him.” Claire has talked to Tim about Ursula’s habit of addressing all her remarks to her father, rather than speaking directly to the other people around her. Also the way she seldom speaks about any of these people by name.

“Well, okay,” Tim says. “But then I’m going to take one stroke off Pete’s score too.” Claire knows Pete will hate this even more. The last thing he wants is to be babied.

They have reached a little suspension bridge Ursula thinks is the cutest hole yet. “I could bring my Barbies here,” she says, her voice a low hush. “I can’t believe I never knew there were places like this.”

“We can come here lots,” Claire tells her. Just never again with Pete is all.

Over at the schoolhouse hole, Travis has his hand up the back of Sally’s shirt.

“It’s her turn,” Ursula says, pointing to Sally. “Doesn’t she want to hit her ball?”

“I don’t think she’d mind if you went ahead and took your turn,” Claire tells her. You couldn’t exactly describe Sally as being into the game. Travis either.

Ursula lines up her shot again—careful not to hold her club anywhere near the ball as she studies it from ground level, like a professional golfer.

“Jeez-um,” Pete groans. “We’re going to be here all night.”

She gets another hole in one. “Did you see that one, Dad?” she says. “Aren’t I good?”

“You’re something else all right, honey,” Tim tells her.

“We just won’t say what,” Pete mumbles under his breath.

“Stop that,” Claire snaps. She looks at the scorecard. Ten holes to go. The tinny sound system is playing a Garth Brooks tape. Every few seconds there’s the sizzling sound of another insect hitting the blue bulbs of the bug zappers.

“He’s mean,” Ursula says to Tim. Tim looks at Claire helplessly. Pete throws his ball into a miniature pond. Water splashes all over Ursula.

“Go sit in the car,” Claire tells Pete. “You’re done.”

Pete strides off the artificial turf swinging his club like a walking stick, without a word. No batting cages tonight.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, either,” Sally says. “Travis and I can walk home.”

So it’s just Tim and Claire and Ursula on the last stretch of the course. Ursula wins. She takes their hands triumphantly as they head back to the refreshment stand to turn in their clubs. “I love this place,” she whispers, even though she doesn’t get the gorilla. “Can we come here again tomorrow?” She says she’s going to keep her scorecard forever.