Page 24 of Mornings By the Linden Tree
“I generally don’t engage in wearing shirts that have sports or silly logos on them,” I informed him primly, then sipped at my beer. I also didn’t usually drink beer, but this icy-cold brew tasted rather good on a hot night at the ballpark. I would only have one, though. I did not want Valeria to see me lose control of myself. She’d witnessed enough of that sort of sadness, I was sure. Not that she would discuss anything like that with me. She kept her dark worries locked inside. I wondered where she got that harmful trait from…
“Well, how about Sox socks?” Lennon asked innocently. I rolled my eyes. “Okay, so no logos on anything clothing. Noted.”
“I said no sports or silly logos. I do own a few printed tees with various designs. One was gifted to me for having a long-time subscription to the philharmonic. Oh! And I own a light green tee that was given to me by a local LGBTQ charity for serving as their legal counsel pro bono for the past ten years. The writing is very professionally done and not garish in any way.”
“Pro bono legal work?” He seemed genuinely surprised. Someone down on the diamond hit the ball into centerfield, and it bounced away from the centerfielder. The fans hooted in glee as a Sox player rounded first and slid into second. I cheered as well, so as not to stand out. Valeria bounced up anddown, cheeks full of pretzel, not having a clue why everyone was cheering but thrilled to be able to yell at the top of her lungs and not be told to use an indoor voice.
“You look shocked. Everyone in our firm offers their services to many charitable organizations throughout the greater Boston area. I chose the Black Queer Empowerment Alliance as I strongly wish to serve those who are struggling to be seen and heard in a world that frowns on queers and Blacks.”
He reached over to take my hand. His fingers were thin and calloused but fit perfectly between my longer ones.
“You’ve got this super sweet heart hidden under that uptight attorney for the rich exterior,” he said as he gave my fingers a squeeze.
It took me a moment to recuperate. I’d never held hands with anyone other than Aida or Valeria. Doing so with a gentleman caller seemed much too over the top for casual sex every four to six months.
“I’m not sure I would describe myself as super sweet,” I managed to cough out.
“You give away your time for free to those who need help and you took in your niece to raise. I think those are two big super sweet things. Nope! Don’t try to make me change my mind, counselor. What I say on the stand is the sworn truth.”
I looked around the ballpark, then back at him, just as the man behind us belched. “This isnota courtroom.”
“No, but you were getting all litigious. And while I think that is a very sexy look on you, I’m not going to be swayed. You, Wesley Barlowe, are a softie.” With that, he gave my fingers a final gentle scrunch, then freed my hand to clap for whoever was up to bat next.
I wasn’t aware that I had a litigious face. Perhaps a serious face. Yes, that was assured as I took my job seriously. Legal matters were weighty, severe matters. Lives and fortunes hungon positive outcomes for my clients. So yes, fine, I had a lawyerly manner. I could admit that.
But a softie? No, no, no. I would never admit to that. Softness meant weakness.
***
We got back to my home a little before midnight, tired but still pumped up after a big Red Sox win. Valeria had passed out in my arms on the train ride home while Lennon regaled me with more Sox trivia than I would ever be called upon to know in several lifetimes. I didn’t mind his excited chatter. The man had passion, that was obvious, for many things, not just his job. Something that I was beginning to wonder might ever be said about me…
“…won the series in ’04, which broke the Curse of the Bambino and brought my mother to tears,” he prattled on as I unlocked my front door with a sleepy child on my hip. He reached around me to push it open, the fruity aroma of his lime aftershave tickling my nose. “There you go. So yeah, I was only like three then, but I remember her crying so hard. She loves the Sox too.”
“I gathered. Can you tell me exactly what the Curse of the Bambino is when I come back down?” I asked in a soft whisper. Not that we needed to be quiet. The girl had slept on the train from Fenway surrounded by loud and slightly inebriated baseball fans.
“I’d love to. Want me to make some coffee?” He plucked the bucket hat off his head. I nodded, then climbed to the second floor, my niece snoozing peacefully with her head on my shoulder. Such trust. As if she knew beyond a doubt her uncle would keep her safe. That was very true. I’d fallen madly in love with this child. The first time I had seen her, and saw my sister inher, I’d tumbled. Now I would lay down my life for her without question.
Her room was cool and dark, the only light a muted nightlight by her bed. The bed, which was now only used as a trampoline during the day, sat neatly made, the smell of clean sheets filling the area. The murals on the wall were barely lit, but I could make out the detailed paintings of Peter Rabbit and his sisters as they scampered and played just outside of Mr. McGregor’s garden, where little bunnies were safe from harm. I carried her to a chaise I’d moved from my office up here just today and laid her down tenderly on it. Until we could crack the bad bed problem, perhaps we would get some rest if she slept on something else. I was willing to try anything at this point.
She curled into the back, butt poking out at me, her thumb in her mouth. Her head came to rest on a pillow that had never cradled her head before. A sigh escaped her. I removed her soda-soaked shoes. One never went anywhere with a child and returned home without soiled clothing. I’d learned that to be a fact. I’d have Mrs. Polkowski soak the little linen sneaks in her miracle stain remover tomorrow. I brushed a strand of dark hair from her cheek, pulled up her favorite pink bunny blanket, and watched her fall into a deeper sleep. Backing away after a few moments, I turned on the baby monitor that sat on the dresser and then eased out of the room, leaving the door cracked so she could find me quickly when the terrors arrived.
As I climbed down the stairs, the rich aroma of fresh coffee met me. I followed the scent into the kitchen where Lennon was setting two mugs on the table in the nook. He glanced at me as I entered, smiled that smile that made me quiver like a plucked bowstring, and wiggled into the round booth. I turned on the monitor in this room—I had them in every room in my home—and then sat down with a sigh, glad to see he had found the creamer in the fridge.
“So, the curse?” I asked as I sipped my coffee.
“Oh right.” He stirred some cream into his dark roast, the light over the stove just the right amount of illumination for this little interlude. “The Curse of the Bambino was one of the oldest sports superstitions and centered on the fact the Sox sold off Babe Ruth, aka the Bambino, to the Yankees for a hundred grand plus a three-hundred-grand loan to finance a Broadway musical. For making such a grievous mistake, we didn’t win a World Series for eighty-six years until the curse was broken in ’04.”
“That is a lengthy drought,” I commented offhandedly as I sank into one of my favorite places in this old house.
“No kidding. How long was your longest drought?” he asked, light blue eyes dancing as he stared at me over the rim of his mug.
I lowered my mug slightly to pin him down with my best stern, lawyerly gaze. “I’m assuming you are not inquiring about how long I have gone without winning a trophy?”
“You would be correct.” He took a playful sip.
“That’s rather personal,” I replied coolly.
“I know, but it’s been on my mind. Not that it matters, you know. I mean, I went one time over a year. Not by choice, but when I got out of college, I—”
