“I hope he stays as easy to handle as he gets older,” Susan said to Ricardo with a smile. “Somehow, though, I doubt it.”
“I doubt it too,” he answered dryly.
He stretched out on the chaise longue and closed his eyes. Susan regarded his relaxed figure for a minute in silence and then she sighed. “I wish you weren’t going away again tomorrow,” she said wistfully. He opened his mouth to answer and she said hastily, “I know, I know. It’s your job. You tell me that every time. But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you.”
“Will you,
querida
?” His eyes were still closed.
“Yes, I will.”
“That’s good.” He sounded very sleepy and, annoyed, Susan closed her own eyes.
She must have dozed off, for when she woke Ricardo was gone. After checking on Ricky, who was still sleeping, Susan went into the house. The only sign of her husband downstairs was a wet towel draped over one of the kitchen chairs. She picked it up and went upstairs. Ricardo was in the shower. Susan looked at the clock. It was almost time for dinner. Hastily she pulled off her own suit and put on a pair of navy shorts and a yellow Izod shirt. She tied her hair at the nape of her neck with a yellow ribbon, thrust her feet into sandals and ran back downstairs to put the chicken on the grill and the rice on the stove. When Ricardo came downstairs ten minutes later she was able to say, “Dinner will be in half an hour. I think I heard the paperboy come by a few minutes ago.”
He went out to get the paper and sat on the patio reading it as she took Ricky upstairs to change him. When she came back down the rice was done. “I think we’d better eat in the kitchen, Ricardo,” she called as she threw a salad together and heated up Ricky’s food. “I’m going to have to feed Ricky as we eat. He’s starving.”
He came out and took a place at the table. Susan strapped Ricky into his high chair and served up the food. “I’m spoiled rotten,” she said as she tried to eat and feed Ricky pureed carrots at the same time. “Maria takes so much off me. I almost forgot to put dinner on.”
“I could have gotten something at the ball park,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked tired.”
“I was,” she admitted. “And depressed, too.” She sighed. “Poor Martin.”
“Do you know,
querida
,” he said, and a curious look of quiet gravity came over his face, “I live in growing dread of one day hearing you say, ‘Poor Ricardo.’ “
* * * *
Ricardo didn’t go on the road trip after all. A pitch from the Orioles ace relief pitcher connected with Ricardo’s head and he ended up in the hospital. Susan, who had been watching the game on TV, was frantic. He had lain still for so long and then she couldn’t see him because he was surrounded by trainers and teammates. When the announcer said, “He’s moving! He’s getting up!” the rush of relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted.
Ricardo walked off the field and a runner went to first base for him. Ten minutes later the phone rang. “Susan?” said a male voice. “This is Chuck Henderson.” It was one of the team coaches. “Were you watching the game?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said tensely.
“Rick seems fine,” he said quickly. “Dr. Hastings is going to take him over to the hospital for an X-ray—he most probably has a concussion—but I’m sure he’ll be fine. He asked me to call you and tell you that.”
“Are they going to keep him overnight, Chuck? He shouldn’t drive. Does he want me to come in and get him?”
“They’ll keep him overnight.” Chuck was positive about that.
“Oh. Will you ask Dr. Hastings to call me after they’ve checked him over?”
“Sure thing, Susan. Try not to worry. He took a hard crack but the batting helmet absorbed most of the shock. He’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling, Chuck.”
“I’ll have Doc Hastings call you later,” he promised again. “Try not to worry too much.”
“Okay,” she said again, and slowly hung up the phone.
The ball game was still on in the family room when she went back inside. “It was a fast ball that got away from Richards,” the announcer was saying. “Montoya went down like a shot.” Susan switched the TV off and started pacing. She was still on her feet two hours later when the phone rang again. She picked it up on the first ring.
“Hello,” she said sharply.
“Mrs. Montoya?”
“Yes. Is this Dr. Hastings?”
“That’s right. Rick’s going to be fine, Mrs. Montoya, but he has a concussion and the hospital wants to keep him for a day or two.”
“I see. How—how serious is the concussion, doctor?”
“He took a good knock. He’s got some ringing in his ears and he’s dizzy and nauseous. But there doesn’t appear to be any serious damage.”
Doesn’t appear to be. Susan swallowed hard. “When can I see him?”
“You can come in tomorrow if you like.”
“Where exactly is the hospital, doctor?” she asked, and wrote down the directions he gave her. It was two when she finally got into bed and nearly five when she finally fell asleep. She was up at seven-thirty and put in a phone call to her mother. Mrs. Morgan was shocked when she heard Ricardo had been hurt and promised to drive down immediately to take care of Ricky so Susan could go to the hospital.
Ricardo looked very white under his tan, and his cheekbones seemed to stand out under his skin. “Oh darling,” she said as she went to stand next to the bed. “How do you feel?”
“Lousy,” he said frankly, “My head hurts like hell.” He moved his head restlessly on the pillow. “Who’s staying with Ricky?”
“Mother. She came right down after I called. Can I get you anything?”
“I’m thirsty.”
She poured a glass of water for him. His hand was unsteady and she said softly, “Let me hold it.” He relinquished the glass to her and sipped it slowly. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes. “The ball got away from Richards, Susan,” he said. “He wasn’t throwing it at me deliberately.”
“Tell that to your aching head,” she said a little acidly, and pulled a chair up next to the bed. He smiled faintly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured. In a few moments he was asleep.
The hospital released him after two more days and he went home for a week. Susan was so glad he was better that she waited on him hand and foot. At the end of the week he went back to the hospital for a checkup and was pronounced fit to play. He immediately made plans to fly up to Boston where the Yankees were starting a four-game series with the Red Sox.
“Can’t you at least wait until the team comes home?” Susan protested.
“This is an important series, Susan,” he answered. “We were six games up on the Sox when this road trip started and now we’re down to three. We can’t lose this series.”
Susan had not protested any further. What Ricardo had said was true—the Yankees were missing his presence badly. The pennant race had heated up and Ricardo had to play if he was fit. So she packed his suitcase, drove him over to get the limousine to the airport and kissed him good-bye with a smile. She even managed to refrain from telling him to be careful.
The Yankees and the Red Sox split the series in Boston, leaving New York with its three-game advantage, though Ricardo got only one hit in the entire series, a little pop fly that fell just out of the right fielder’s reach. He performed brilliantly in the field, however, and the announcers spoke excusingly about his injury so Susan didn’t think too much of his unusual lapse.
The slump continued throughout the entire two-week homestand, however, and by then it seemed the whole world had become aware of Ricardo’s failure to perform at bat. Newspaper articles were written on the subject. The announcers talked of it constantly. Ricardo’s batting average plummeted and the Yankees dropped to two games behind Boston. And always, rarely said outright but constantly implied, was the innuendo that since being hit on the head, Ricardo was afraid of further injury. It was the only reason it seemed anyone could find to account for this most consistent of all players falling into such a catastrophic slump.
It was anguishing for Susan to watch him and yet she had never admired him more than now, when under the most intense pressure from fans, newsmen, coaches, players and most of all himself, he continued to maintain a composure and a courtesy that was nothing short of heroic. He never lost his temper, never allowed an expression or a gesture of anger or despair to escape as he repeatedly struck out or popped out or grounded out and returned quietly to the dugout. To all the myriad questioners he replied simply, “I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Susan didn’t know either, but she was utterly certain that fear of injury was not the cause of Ricardo’s problem. He received advice from everyone on the team and he tried it all: he changed his stance, he shortened his grip, he moved closer to the plate, he moved further from the plate, but nothing seemed to help. He did not speak of his slump to Susan as, apart from listening to their suggestions, he did not speak of it to his teammates. Joe Hutchinson called her one day to see if Ricardo was being more open at home than he was in the clubhouse. “Ricardo is a very private man, Joe,” Susan said slowly. “He has never been one to talk about his problems or his feelings.”
“I know. But, Susan, I really think that’s a big part of his present problem. He can’t, or he won’t get what’s bothering him off his chest. I know when I was in a slump last year the only thing that snapped me out of it was talking to people—to my wife, to the other guys—and especially to Rick.” He paused. “Can’t you try to get him to open up a little?”
“I’ll do what I can, Joe,” Susan responded quietly. But when she hung up the phone she knew that she was not the one who could open this subject with Ricardo. She trembled to think what must lie behind his apparently unruffled self-command, how the proud and passionate inner man must be feeling in the face of such continual and public failure. She could never be the one to try and breach that self-command. It had to be Ricardo who spoke first. All she could do was be as sensitive as she possibly could to his moods, and to all his other needs.
He never spoke to her of the slump but she sensed in him a need for her company. It was a small consolation, a hidden flower in the wasteland, the fact that in this, the most profoundly distressing time of his career, he did not turn away from her. He didn’t want to go out, refused even the simple distraction of a movie that she thought might be good for him. He seemed happiest just sitting quietly with her—around the pool in the afternoon, listening to music at night. Susan thought that he felt comfortable with her because she was a woman and so not one of his peers, his equals.
The team left for another road trip and Ricardo’s slump persisted. Susan got to the point of feeling ill every time he came to the plate. How could he stand it, she wondered despairingly. How could he go up there, time and time again, endure the taunts of the fans, the implications of the sports reporters, the doubts he must see in the eyes of his teammates? Where did he find the courage? Where did he find the strength of will?
The team got into New York in the early afternoon and Ricardo was home in time for a swim before dinner. Susan had heard from her agent the day before that he had found a publisher for her book but she had hesitated to tell Ricardo last night on the phone. It did not seem the time to remind him that he had a successful wife. She did tell him over dinner and he seemed to be genuinely pleased, asking her for the details of the contract with a thoroughness she could not begin to answer. “I think you’d better read it when I get it,” she said. “I haven’t the foggiest idea of who has what rights. I expect it will all be in the contract. Mr. Wright seemed to think it was a good deal.”
“He’s supposed to be a good agent,” Ricardo admitted. “I checked on him. Still, it’s always wise to look things over personally.”
After dinner they watched an old movie on TV. Ricardo was very quiet and seemed to be paying attention to the screen, but Susan could sense the tension in him. They went upstairs after the news and Ricardo was in the shower when Ricky woke up and began to cry. He was cutting a tooth and having a very difficult time of it. So was Susan. She gave him some Tylenol and walked him and then rocked him, and finally he fell back to sleep. When she went back into her own bedroom, Ricardo was asleep as well. Susan undressed without putting on the light and slipped quietly into bed so as not to disturb him. She had thought he looked strained and tired and was sure he wasn’t sleeping well.
She awoke at three in the morning to find him gone. She got out of bed, and clad only in her thin cotton nightgown, she went downstairs to look for him.
He was sitting in the dark on the patio. He turned his head when he heard the door open and said, “What are you doing out of bed in the middle of the night?”
“Looking for you,” she replied, and went to lay her hand lightly on his bare brown shoulder. The muscles under her fingers were rocklike with tension. Susan felt like throwing herself into his arms and weeping, but that was not what he needed. He needed to release some of that terrible tension. She thought she knew what part of the problem was, at any rate. He had been gone for two weeks. Drat Ricky and his tooth, she thought. She put both hands on his shoulders and began to massage them gently. He closed his eyes. “Mmm. That feels good.”
She continued with the massage until she felt him relax a little. Then she bent forward so her cheek was against his and her hair swung across his face. “Why don’t we go back upstairs?” she murmured. “Ricky is finally asleep.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Susan?” he asked. He sounded grave.
“Yes.” She kissed his cheekbone. “I am. If you reject me, I’ll be very insulted.”
“I would never want to insult you,” he said, and stood up. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms as usual and he towered over her in the darkness. She moved closer and put her arms around his waist. He held her very tightly. “I missed you,
querida
,” he breathed.
She kissed his chest and then, lightly, delicately, she licked his bare smooth skin. She could feel the shudder that ran all through him and without another word he picked her up and carried her into the house and up the stairs to their bedroom.