Wife-In-Law (12 page)
“The condo’s all ready for you and Sada,” he said as he handed us our red boxes and drinks. The rest of the waiting families inhaled the scent of fries, rings, and burgers with envy. “I talked to the sitter,” Greg went on, “and she’s agreed to stay with the girls as long as necessary. Two agents will take her and the babies to the condo, then stay there with her, just to be safe.” Nothing like an executive to get things done in a hurry.
Greg patted my shoulder, his voice low when he confided, “I’ve talked to the agency and the doctors here too, and as soon as Zach’s strong enough, we’re going to transfer him to Northside under an assumed name. Meanwhile, there will be two agents guarding his room, one inside and one out, till he’s well enough to be released.”
Relief cleansed Kat’s expression. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
What she and Zach would do after he got well hung heavy in the air between us, but no one brought it up.
“Zach’s the only close friend I’ve ever had,” Greg told her. “I know it just looks like we play tennis and watch ball games together, but I’d do anything to help him, and you and Sada. Y’all can count on me, no matter what.”
I’d never been as proud of my husband as I was then, and I believed he would always be there for me and Amelia, too.
Greg went back to work after we’d eaten, but told us to call if anything came up. It was eleven P.M. before Kat and I finally got to go see Zach in intensive care. The agent outside his cubicle nodded with respect, as did the one who was sitting by his bed, but neither of them budged.
Zach’s torso was so swollen and swaddled in bandages that he looked pregnant, and he was on a respirator, with tubes running everywhere.
“Oh, God.” Kat turned into my shoulder, unable to face it.
“Don’t look at the bad things,” I told her. “Look at his heart rate, steady at eighty-five. And his blood pressure’s at ninety over sixty. After losing all that blood, that’s great.”
Kat peeked at the monitors above his IVs, and eased a little.
“Now I’m going back to the waiting room, so you two can have some time alone.” As I left, the agent stepped out of the cubicle to wait with his colleague in the hallway.
“We’ll find who did this,” he told me quietly. “Until then, nothing’s going to happen to Zach.” From the tone of his voice and the look on his and the other agent’s face, I believed him.
Amazingly, Zach was able to be transferred up to Sandy Springs three days later, his face swaddled in bandages to conceal his identity. There, registered as Jason Smith, he was close enough for Kat to come and go several times a day. In an effort to conceal her identity, I took her shopping for some nonrevealing but tailored clothes and regular shoes, as a disguise. Then I plaited her unruly mane into a flattering French braid. Kat didn’t like it, but for Zach’s sake, she looked the part of a suburban housewife.
The first time he saw her incognito, Zach did a double take, then gave her a thumbs-up.
A week after Zach had checked into Northside, he was sitting up and having conversations.
I was home making supper when the phone rang at four.
“Betsy, it’s Zach,” he said in a stage whisper.
I didn’t like the surreptitious tone in his voice.
Unconsciously mimicking him, I whispered back, “Is everything okay?”
“It will be, if you and Greg can be at the hospital at six,” he murmured. “With Amelia.”
Odd. “I’ll get Greg to come home early, so we can be there,” I promised. But the baby … “Are you sure it’s okay to bring her? I didn’t think they allow babies in the hospital.”
“They’ve made an exception, just this once. There’ll be an agent waiting in the lobby to escort y’all to my room.”
What was he up to? But I didn’t press, because he clearly didn’t want to go into the details. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
Zach let out a wicked chuckle, then said, “Bye,” and hung up.
I called Greg at work and told him what Zach had asked.
“I have a meeting at five-thirty, but I can change it,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at twenty till six.”
“We’ll be ready.”
When we walked into the hospital’s main entrance, a smiling DEA agent escorted us up the elevator, then to Zach’s room, making sure nobody was following us.
We walked in to find the room filled with white roses and gardenias, Kat’s two favorite flowers, and Kat in an antique-white vintage wedding dress with Sada happily decked out in white on her hip. A robed minister beamed beside them.
“Now that everyone is here,” the minister said, “shall we begin?”
Kat motioned me to her side. “C’mere, matron of honor.”
I hurried to her side, delighted that they’d decided to make things legal.
“C’mere, best man,” Zach said, patting the other side of the bed.
Greg let out a brief bark of laughter, then said, “It’s about time.” He stood beside his closest friend with pride and approval.
“I had to get shot to get the woman I love to finally say ‘I do,’” Zach joked.
The service was short and sweet. Maybe it was divine intervention, but the babies stayed quiet and interested.
When it was done, the minister congratulated the newlyweds, then we all signed the marriage license, and it was done. Kat was officially Mrs. Zachary Rutledge III. Or was it IV?
Then two DEA agents rolled in carts that smelled divine. “Congratulations, Zach,” the one who had escorted us said. “We had a running bet about you and Kat at work. I said she was too smart ever to marry you, so this is on me, prescreened and security cleared, from the Ritz. I watched them make it, myself.” He removed the silver domes to reveal a gourmet feast and a gorgeous little white wedding cake with sugar gardenias and roses. “Enjoy.”
Zach grinned. “Thanks, Bill.”
Kat ran over and surprised the guy with a big kiss on the cheek.
Red with embarrassment, Bill retreated for the door. “If he ever does you wrong, just call me,” he told Kat. “I’ll straighten him out.”
Kat laughed, happier than I had seen her in a long, long time. “He’s straight enough for me, and then some.”
As we demolished the food, accompanied by the minister and Zach’s security detail, one at a time, we fell into a comfortable silence.
Once he’d eaten his fill, the minister rose. “I’ve got to confess,” he said. “This is the best wedding I’ve conducted in a long time.” He shook Zach’s hand. “I look forward to seeing you and your family in church.”
Zach flushed, shooting Kat a sidelong glance. “As soon as I can.”
The minister looked at Kat. “Sometimes the worst black clouds can have a silver lining.”
“I’ll be there with him in church,” Kat said, to my surprise. When she saw my reaction, she arched an eyebrow. “What? It’s the least I can do. God answered my prayers. I figure I can come see Him at His house every once in a while.”
One of the guards poked his head in the door. “I forgot to tell you, Zach, there’s a little wedding gift from the department,” he said. “We finally brought down the local arm of that Colombian cartel, thanks to the info you got us. The losers started singing the minute we had them in custody. So we arrested their hit man this morning, and the agency has put so much heat on the street, the contract on you is officially canceled.”
Kat crumpled over her husband, with Sada in her arms. “Thank God! It’s finally over.”
Patting Kat, Zach eyed the agent with suspicion. “There’s more. Spit it out.”
The agent grinned. “You’ve been promoted to full-status agent, with a commendation.”
Kat perked up immediately. “Zach! That’s what you always wanted.”
Mischief sparked the agent’s expression as he said, “Welcome to the world of dark suits and clean-shaven faces and short haircuts.” Then he popped back out.
Kat was dismayed. “Is he kidding?”
Zach shook his head. “Nope. I’m afraid your new husband is going preppy. No choice.”
“But I like your beard,” Kat protested. “It’s so soft. I won’t feel right kissing you without it.”
Zach pulled her close. “I think I can take care of that.”
Greg sobered. “You’ll still be at risk.”
Zach laughed. “After the work I’ve been doing, being a regular agent will be safe as a tricycle ride.”
“I sure hope so.”
Zach stroked his bride’s back. “God kept me around to do this. I think I can count on Him to keep me safe from now on.”
And God did, on the job, at least, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
I took Sada from Kat’s arms. “Come on, sweetie. We’ll take you to Aunt Betsy’s to play with Amelia, so your parents can have a little alone time.”
Kat smiled in gratitude. “Thanks. I need as much time with him as I can get before they turn him into a stranger.”
I waved good-bye, and Greg followed me out with Amelia.
“I hope Kat doesn’t hate the way he looks, cleaned up,” I confided when we were out of earshot.
“It’ll be okay,” Greg reassured me. “I’m sure he’ll clean up fine.”
Boy, did that turn out to be an understatement!
T
he girls were four and Kat and I were both about three months pregnant with our second—planned this time—when Zach and Greg decided they were old enough to play T-ball. Never mind that they were girls. This was the South, where fathers from Texas to Virginia considered Little League a mandatory rite of passage, even for little girls.
he girls were four and Kat and I were both about three months pregnant with our second—planned this time—when Zach and Greg decided they were old enough to play T-ball. Never mind that they were girls. This was the South, where fathers from Texas to Virginia considered Little League a mandatory rite of passage, even for little girls.
Which was all well and good for tomboy Sada, who’d been hitting Zach’s pitches in their front yard since she was three. But Amelia was a girly girl, without any sign of athletic ability, just like me. After much patience and practice, Greg had gotten her to hit a few times off the tee, but I worried how she would respond in competition.
Sada bounced back, no matter what. Amelia, though, was pensive and easily crushed. I had plenty of my own awful memories about how humiliated I’d been whenever I had to participate in games at recess; I didn’t want that for my daughter. But Greg was adamant that she at least try, and there was no talking him out of it.
One of his pals from work—a very kind man, he assured me—was the coach of a girls’ team, so against my better judgment, I gave in and went with Kat and the girls to get their uniforms. When we got to the athletic supply, Sada immediately disappeared into a carousel of Windbreakers, something she did easily, small and quick as she was.
Kat paid no attention, as usual, and I prayed there wasn’t a back door to the place. Sada had been known to strike off on her own, but so far, we’d managed to find her every time, and Kat had merely chided her, then acted as if nothing had ever happened, which drove me crazy.
Standing there in the store, Amelia tightened her grip on my hand, studying all the unfamiliar gear and the faintly musty smell of the place. “Mama, where are our uniforms?”
“They’re here, sweetie.” I spotted a clerk at the register in the back. “That man can help us find them.”
Kat, currently sporting the Cyndi Lauper look, eyed a pair of orange baseball leggings on her way back. “Ooo. Wouldn’t this look cool with rolled-up camo pants and a big, orange sweater, and green basketball shoes?” Oblivious to the fact that Sada was nowhere to be seen, she carried the leggings to the register. “I’d like to git these. And a uniform for my daughter. She’s on the Falcons T-ball team. Mike Williams is the coach.”
The clerk, balding and slightly paunchy, nodded. “Sure. We’ll fix you right up.”
“Us, too, please,” I said, joining Kat.
The clerk got out his T-ball notebook, then flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Falcons: orange shirts, white pants, and orange leggings.”
Kat grinned, pointing to the leggings. “See? I told you I’m psychic,” she said to me for the jillionth time.
Hardly. We both knew orange was her favorite color.
“I always wanted to play baseball,” she mused, “but Daddy wouldn’t let me.” She brightened. “Maybe I’ll git a uniform too. I always wondered what it’d feel like to wear a real uniform. It’d be great fer team spirit.”
The clerk was delighted, but I put the kibosh on that idea. “I’m pretty sure only the coaches get to wear uniforms. It might confuse the kids if you did too.” And embarrass Sada.
Kat deflated. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
The clerk shot me a brief, hostile look.
“Oh, I know,” Kat said. “I could wear it at home on game days, to git Sada in the mood.”
I gave up. It was her money.
The clerk beamed. “And what size would you and your daughter be needing?”
“I normally wear a four,” Kat said, “but maybe we need to try a six. I’m expectin’.” The girls’ games only lasted six weeks. “I’m not sure what size fer my daughter. I get most of her stuff at thrift shops, and we just keep tryin’ things on till we find somethin’ that fits. Hang on.”
I was prepared for what came next, but the clerk jumped half out of his skin when Kat put her baby and index fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that could be heard two blocks over, her earsplitting method of summoning Sada, indoors and out.
Sada cheerfully materialized with two mismatched golf shoes. “Look, Mama.”
Lord knew what sort of mess the child had left in the shoe department.
“Um-hm.” Kat plucked the shoes from her and casually laid them on the counter. “Do you need to measure her?” she asked the clerk.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’m thinking she’s a toddler three.” He eyed Amelia. “Girl’s five, right?”
Amelia was taller and heavier than her best friend, and very self-conscious about it. “That’s right.”
“They’re in the stockroom.” He handed Kat two forms, and me one. “If y’all could please fill these out for me, we’ll have their last names put on the backs of their shirts. I’ll have those uniforms for you in a jiffy.” He headed through the dingy curtain behind the counter, calling over his shoulder, “You can try them on here, just to be sure.”
Kat filled out Sada’s form while I did Amelia’s, but when she got to hers, she wrote a
G
for Gober, then hesitated.
G
for Gober, then hesitated.
She’d always insisted it was sexist to take the man’s last name, but she frowned. “If I put Gober on mine, nobody will know Sada’s my daughter. But there aren’t enough spaces for Gober-Rutledge on either of ours.”
God help the genealogists in generations to come.
I wasn’t touching this one with a ten-foot pole. “I guess you’ll have to pick.”
“Maybe we could use first names.” Rules had never bothered Kat before, so she wasn’t about to start accepting them now. But part of my job as Sada’s godmother was to spare her embarrassment. “Everybody else will have their last names. Would you want to risk embarrassing Sada by having the only first name on the team? Kids can be awfully mean to somebody who’s different.” We both knew the truth of that all too well.
“Hadn’ thoughta that,” she said, serious. Then she aimed the pen at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with bein’ different.”
“Not a thing,” I agreed.
Kat hovered over the blank spaces. “Oh, what the hell.” She wrote in “Rutledge” in firm caps, then shoved the forms onto the counter.
I eyed her askance. “You okay with that?”
She cocked a wry half-smile. “About as fine as you are about Amelia bein’ on the team.”
“Here they are, ladies,” the clerk said as he emerged with two small and one larger uniforms. “Y’all be needin’ cleats with any of these?”
Cleats? Please.
“Already got ’em,” Kat said, then pierced the air to whistle up Sada, who’d disappeared yet again.
She emerged from behind the curtains and playfully swatted the clerk’s ample bottom with both palms, which scared the bejeebers out of him. Then she laughed and ran to Kat, who was laughing too, instead of correcting her for slapping an adult, and a male at that. “C’mon, Mama.” She dragged Kat’s hand toward the three haphazard changing areas on the side wall. “Let’s be twins.”
After instructing me to hold the curtain closed tightly so no one could see, Amelia tried on her outfit in the dressing room beside them, then all three came out to show off. Their uniforms fit perfectly, with a little extra breathing room for Kat and the baby.
For the first time, Amelia seemed a little excited. She hugged Sada and singsonged, “We’re on the same team. We’re on the same team.”
“I guess it’s official,” I said to Kat.
She gave me a sidelong hug. “Trust me, darlin’, both of you are gonna come through this just fine.”
Back home that night, Greg was so excited to see Amelia in her uniform that she proudly paraded for him, talking about practice without worry. But when we all got there the following afternoon, her optimism faded.
Awkward and self-conscious, she did her best to blend in.
The coach turned out to be a wonderful man, very supportive and encouraging, but I couldn’t accept his reassurances, when any fool could see that Amelia was miserable.
During practice, Greg was right behind the chain-link fence, urging her on, but she kept looking back at him and missed the tossed pitches without even swinging. The coach came over and gently suggested that Amelia might do better if Greg sat with me. Sheepish, he agreed, but when he sat beside me, his body was taut with tension.
“This is T-ball. Why are they throwing pitches?” I asked under my breath.
Greg didn’t look at me, his eyes glued on our daughter. “To get them used to having the ball come their way. And some of them can hit it. They get three pitches, then three tries to hit it off the tee.”
“Whose idea was it to pitch in the first place?” I grumbled. “If you call it T-ball, it ought to be T-ball.”
Greg ignored me, something he’d long done whenever I raised an issue we didn’t agree on.
Amelia finally managed to get a piece of the ball on the tee with her last try, but it dribbled only a few feet in front of her.
Kat and Zach made a big deal out of it, applauding and cheering.
“That’s okay,” Greg called. “You’ll do better the next time.”
“Good try, honey,” Kat hollered. “You’ll do better the next time.”
What is it about parents and kids’ sports? Perfectly rational people forget every rule of good parenting and become obsessed with performance.
When it was Sada’s turn at bat, she whaled the daylights out of the first pitch, sending it into the back fence.
Zach roared to his feet as the rest of the parents cheered. “That’s the way to do it, baby! Slam the skin off that ball!”
Amelia clapped as hard of the rest of them, but when it came her turn at bat again, she shrank with dread.
Greg made a megaphone with his hands. “You can do it, ’Melia,” he hollered. “Just keep your eye on the ball.”
“Come on, baby,” Zach called. “Remember how we practiced?”
Don’t say that! Amelia hadn’t connected with one of his practice pitches.
Responding to their voices, she immediately looked to the bleachers and missed the pitch. My heart ached for her as I remembered being the last one picked for teams in school. It took all my self-control to keep from running out onto that field, scooping her up, and taking her home. If it hadn’t been for Greg, I would have.
So what if she wasn’t an athlete? Big deal.
“Eye on the ball, ’Melia,” Greg ordered.
I elbowed him and hissed, “Shut up, please. You’re distracting her.”
Amelia sent me a plaintive look that said, “Save me!”
I flared at Greg. “Why are we subjecting her to this, anyway? She’s just a baby. Who cares whether she can play baseball? Can’t you see, she’s humiliated?”
“Maybe she needs to toughen up.” He patted my arm in dismissal. “She’ll get the hang of it,” he said confidently. “Just you wait and see.”
“What if she doesn’t?” I whispered. “She’ll think she’s let you down, all over stupid baseball.”
Greg kept his eyes on the field. “She’ll get it. She just needs practice.”
As it turned out, practice didn’t help.
No matter how hard I begged Greg to let her quit T-ball and take ballet instead, which was what Amelia wanted, Greg wouldn’t budge, claiming she needed to learn good sportsmanship and how to handle adversity.
At age four!
The man had lost his mind.
The day of their first official game, a cold front barreled in from Canada. By the time the kids gathered at six under the lights on the field, it was fifty degrees with a cold east wind, and Amelia shivered in her uniform despite the long shirts and pajama pants she wore underneath it. When I tried to bring her jacket, Greg grabbed me and pulled me back into my seat. “She’ll be fine. Once she gets moving around, she’ll be fine.” This, from the man who wanted to put a sweater on her in July when she was a baby.
“It’s freezing out there,” I argued. “It’s freezing right here, despite my fur coat.” A full-length mink Greg had given me the Christmas before, when Kat had threatened to throw red paint on it.
Greg went icy and commanding. “I said, she’ll be fine. End of discussion.”
Crazy.
But he was my husband, the head of the household, so I choked back my maternal instincts and subsided to my seat.
The Falcons lost the toss, so things went okay for the first half of the inning. Amelia watched earnestly from left field as the other team scored five runs. Blessedly, none of the hits went in her direction. (Like me, whenever the ball came at her, she always shut her eyes and covered her face with the mitt.)
At the inning change, we all went down to the end of the dugout, and Greg gave her a pep talk through the chain link. Amelia tried to keep a brave face, but I could see she was on the ragged edge. Her freezing little fingers gripped the fence.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay, no matter what,” I reassured her. “You’re perfect to me, just the way you are. Don’t worry about all these other people. You’re mine, and I’m proud of you.”
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