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We rented a car at the airport in Albuquerque and I treated Peg and Tad to a brief driving tour of downtown on our way to my parents’ house. As I expected, my wicked stepmother was waiting for us at the front door when we finally drove up. Maria was slender, had long, jet-black hair with attractive bits of grey. She was still, in her late 50s, a beautiful, somewhat distinguished-looking woman. It was easy to see why my dad had seen fit to end his widower status after he and Maria had gotten together.
“Wow!” Peg whispered as we were getting out of the car, “Is her daughter as good-looking as Mama?”
I just smiled.
Maria, arms outstretched, gave Peggy a hug, then fussed over Tad, and finally awarded me with a brief clinch before heading us all inside. “Your dad has gone out for a meeting at the University,” she said. “He couldn’t miss it, but he’ll be back soon.”
While Maria served cold drinks in the living room, I took care of our luggage. When I came back to them, everyone seemed cool and comfortable, and any initial tension had been spirited away. I gratefully slumped into a deep recliner and enjoyed the air-conditioned cool of the big room.
“This house is – remarkable!” Peggy said. It was. It was large, sprawling and built with adobe brick in the classic New Mexico manner. To my Georgia visitors, it was a revelation.
“You should see the place Maria abandoned when she married my dad,” I said. “Makes this house look like a hovel.”
“That’s not true!” Maria said, laughing. “I love this house.”
“What’s a hovel?” Tad wanted to know.
“The Martinez family is an institution in this town – hell, in the whole state!” I said. “They’ve been here since all us Anglos were still painting ourselves blue someplace back in Europe.”
“That’s just our cover story,” Maria said. “Actually, we’re illegals who just came in from Guatamala.”
All of this fascinated Tad, but he knew that it was just adult small talk, and he didn’t ask any questions.
“Tell me about you and Tad,” Maria said to Peggy, but before she could respond, we heard my dad come in from the side door. “Wait a minute,” said Maria. “That’s Stephen now.”
The rest of the afternoon was a wonderful period of lively conversation, my father and stepmother warm and welcoming to their guests, clearly pleased to have me home, and my dad almost unable to restrain his curiosity about Peggy, her (surprisingly) nine-year-old son, and the quality of our relationship.
I knew that those questions would be held back for discussion with me – alone – later. Meanwhile, he was thrilled about my recent promotion to the major leagues. “I knew you could hit up there,” he said. “I knew it, all along.” He focused on Peggy and added, “Marty could always hit – anywhere. Anybody! But I worried about his defensive skills.”
“If they hadn’t invented the DH rule, I’d have had to find some other line of work,” I agreed.
“It’s kind-of peculiar, isn’t it?” Peggy asked him. “I mean, one would think the same kind of timing and coordination that made someone a good hitter would also show up in his fielding? Wouldn’t you?”
“Exactly!” Stephen answered, obviously appreciating Peggy’s observation. “If a player can handle a bat the way Marty can – always has! ... You’d certainly expect him to develop those other skills as well. He’s some kind of freak of nature!”
“C’mon, Dad! Baseball has a cliché for all occasions. Ever heard the expression, ‘Good hit, no field?’”
“Sure, but when they said ‘no field, ‘ they meant, ‘not very good at fielding.’ But, Peggy, I’m sorry, but Marty has always been ‘Good hit, Godawful field!”
“I fly across the country, and this is what I get from the guy who’s supposed to be my Number One advocate!”
My dad got serious. “Marty, I’m so proud of what you’ve done I could explode! I’ve told you how hard I worked, trying to make it as a pro! The talent just wasn’t there – although I could play defense a whole lot better than you ever did! But, no way could I have made it, even in the low minors! But my boy is a major leaguer! How cool is that?”
Maria had prepared a sumptuous dinner for us – all in Southwestern style and every dish delicious – and Peg and Tad both clearly were enjoying every minute of their introduction to exotic Albuquerque.
Later, with Tad off to bed early and Maria and Peggy deeply engaged in conversation, my dad suggested we go out and meet some of his friends at the Faculty Club on the UNM campus. Clearly, he wanted to show me off to any fellow professors who could be found there.
We were barely out of the driveway when my dad said, “Jesus Christ, Marty! Where did you find that woman?”
“Met her in church, Pop.”
“Church? Bullshit! ... Since when did you start going to church?”
“Long story. But it was just Unitarian.”
“You really met her in a fucking church?”
“Well, I don’t think even the Untarians have any ‘fucking churches’ in Lawrenceville, Georgia, but that’s sure-nuff where I met Peggy and Tad.”
“I sure-to-God never saw anything like that in any goddamned church!”
“Yeah? When were YOU in a church?”
“Okay. Not that often. But anyway, that young woman is way out of your league, m’boy!”
“I think you’re right about that. But, happily, Peggy doesn’t seem to have noticed.”
“She’s gotta be older than you.”
“She is. Three years older. But she’s not exactly over the hill.”
“No. Not even close. And she’s a bartender?”
“Yep. And a college student.”
“And married before. A divorcee.”
“Never married, Pop. Got pregnant, real young. She and her mother are raising Tad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think Peggy’s the one, Pop.”
“The one?”
“Yeah. It’s serious. I think I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
“A bartender. Older than you, with a nine-year-old son.”
“Yep.”
“On the face of it, I gotta say, it doesn’t sound too smart. You’re pretty young, Marty. You haven’t been around – on your own – all that long.”
I waited a moment, and then turned to him. “Professor Stephen Harry Coggins. Let’s review this slowly, okay? I’m pretty young – 24 years old and about to be 25. I have a job and ... let me see... $314,000 in my investment account with Schwab. Got money in the bank, a two-year-old car, a three-year-old pickup, several pretty decent dress-up suits, some good shoes, and so on. No real estate, but if I can make the club next spring with the Orioles, they’ll have to pay me damned near 600 grand for the season. That’s the new MLB minimum.
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