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"Quit criticizing, Caroline," J.P. said. "What do you know about it? You don't have any idea what it's like, to get stuck with a job you don't want and don't know how to do. And quit shaking the carriage. No
wonder
they're crying. Here, give it to me."

J.P. took the handle of the baby carriage. He stopped it, leaned in, and spoke to the babies. "Hey, girls. Shhhh. No problem; you just slid forward. Here. I'll put you back where you belong." One by one he lifted the babies back against their pillows and settled them there. Holly's crying stopped; her chin quivered, and she smiled, finally, up at J.P. Then Ivy stopped wailing abruptly and grinned. J.P. pushed the carriage forward, ignoring Caroline.

She didn't care. She had turned back to walk with Poochie, who was plodding along unhappily, rubbing his eyes with his arm and sniffling.

"Of course you can learn to hit, Pooch," she was telling him. "This afternoon I'll work with you out in the back yard. We'll practice keeping your eye on the ball, okay?"

"Okay," Poochie sniffled. "But don't throw them hard. J.P. always throws them wicked hard."

"I won't," Caroline reassured him. "We'll start real slow. Now: no more crying."

"Okay." Poochie gave one last moist sniffle and grinned up at her.

"Shoulders straight," Caroline said.

He pulled his little slumped shoulders upright and took a deep breath. "Okay," he said.

In the afternoon while the babies slept, Caroline worked with Poochie in the yard for more than an hour. At the end of that time, she flopped, exhausted, into the grass. Poochie sank down beside her eagerly.

"I'm better now, aren't I?" he asked. "I'm better! I know I'm better!"

Caroline put her arm around him and nodded. "You sure are, Pooch. You really got some hits!"

She had been keeping count in her head. Her arm ached from pitching to Poochie: slow, accurate pitches that almost contacted the bat on their own. She had counted each one.

One hundred and fourteen. She had pitched one hundred and fourteen pitches.

And he had hit four of them. Caroline wasn't a math genius like J.P., so she didn't know how to figure out Poochie's batting average. But he had hit four out of one hundred and fourteen, and it was bound to be a big improvement over his previous batting average, which had been zero.

One thing Caroline had to admit: Dinner was better in Des Moines than it was in New York.

It wasn't that Caroline's mother was a bad cook. Actually, she was a pretty good cook, and she had a collection of recipes that she tore out of magazines in the laundromat and the dentist's office. The trouble was, she never had much time for cooking. She didn't get home from her job at the bank until 5:30 every evening, and she was always exhausted by then.

And she didn't have much money for groceries. Sometimes, in the supermarket, she would pick up a package of chicken breasts and look at it longingly for a minute. But then she would say, "I just can't afford two ninety-nine a pound for chicken breasts, Caroline." Caroline would nod understanding^, and her mother would put the chicken breasts back. She would reach for the chicken
livers,
which cost ninety-nine cents a pound. Caroline would sigh and plan to eat a peanut butter sandwich for dinner.

Now, in Des Moines, right before her very eyes as she fed the babies their supper, Caroline watched Lillian take two packages of chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and unwrap them.

"What do you think, Caroline?" Lillian asked. "Shall we grill these outside tonight? I could make a barbecue sauce."

Caroline nodded appreciatively as she spooned some of a disgusting apricot and tapioca mixture into Ivy's mouth.

Ivy stuck out her tongue, made a sound that was something like "Bpheeewwww," and grinned as the apricots and tapioca flew into the air toward Caroline.

J.P. looked up from his notebook, where he was working on the baseball team statistics. "I taught her to do that," he said, "while you were out in the yard with Poochie this afternoon. The twins woke up from their naps, and I went in and played with them for a while. I was trying to teach them to whistle."

"Thanks a
lot
" Caroline said sarcastically as she wiped the apricots and tapioca off her own face.

"She couldn't get the hang of it," J.P. explained. "She can only do that "Bpheeewwww."

"You have to have top teeth to whistle," Poochie announced, looking up from the TV cartoons. "They don't have any top teeth."

"
Wrong,
" said J.P. "That's what I thought, too. So I was conducting this experiment. And look." He stood up and came over to the highchairs.

Caroline spooned some apricots and tapioca into Holly, and held her hands firmly so that she wouldn't smear the food on her face.

"Hey, Holl," J.P. said, leaning over the highchair. "Give a little whistle." He whistled at her, and then stood back.

Holly puckered up and whistled. A splat of apricots and tapioca landed on Caroline's shoulder.

"See?" said J.P. "Holly can whistle. But Ivy can't. And they both have the same teeth—just on the bottom—so it isn't the teeth. I'm trying to figure out what makes the difference."

"Bpheeewwww," said Ivy, and more food flew.

"
Here,
" said Caroline angrily and handed her brother both bowls of baby food. "You find them so fascinating—you feed them."

The chicken breasts were terrific. The family ate outside on the picnic table in the yard, and there were more than enough barbecued chicken breasts to go around; and there was a mountain of salad, with blue cheese dressing—Caroline's favorite—and there was strawberry ice cream for dessert.

The babies' playpen had been moved outside, and Holly and Ivy gurgled and kicked happily.

"Can I practice batting again, before I have my bath?" Poochie asked, with his mouth full of ice cream.

"Sure, fella," Herbie Tate boomed. "Coach here'll hold a little b.p. after dinner, won'tcha, Coach?" He thumped J.P. on the shoulder.

J.P. winced. "B.p.?" he asked, looking puzzled.

"Batting practice," Caroline translated. Sometimes J.P., for all his IQ, was so
thick.

Her brother groaned. "Do I have to?"

"I'll do it," Caroline suggested. "I was helping Poochie this afternoon," she explained to her father.

Herbie Tate was swinging an imaginary baseball bat and hitting imaginary home runs over the roof of the garage. He wasn't paying any attention to anything else. "Gotta go," he said after he had watched the final invisible ball disappear into a neighbor's tree. "Gotta lot of paperwork to do down at the store."

He kissed Lillian. "Great dinner, Diamond Lil," he said.

He shot each baby with his imaginary pistols. "Blam. Blam. Love ya," he said. They giggled and waved their arms.

Then he took on a boxing stance, did some quick shuffling with his feet, and aimed some fake punches at Poochie, who was still shoveling ice cream into his mouth. "Go for it, Champ," he said. Poochie put his spoon down and gave him a halfhearted left jab into the air. "Right, Daddy," he said.

Herbie turned toward Caroline and J.P.

"Good night, Dad," they both said quickly in unison, like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

"Thank you for taking over the batting practice," J.P. said to Caroline. They were out in the yard, sitting by the picnic table, slapping at occasional mosquitoes and watching the coals in the charcoal grill turn white. The babies were in bed, and so was Poochie. Lillian was washing her hair, and Herbie hadn't come back yet from the sporting goods store.

"You're welcome," Caroline told her brother. "I don't mind, ah, b.p." She giggled. "Actually," she said, "Poochie's getting better. I think I figured out what his problem—"

J.P. interrupted her. "I don't
care
what his problem is.
My
problem is that I'm not going to survive this summer, Caroline. I may not survive this
week.
Not with that big baseball game on Friday. Caroline, I hate baseball more than anything in the whole world. You remember in that book, Caroline, and then they made a movie of it—
1984
—they chose a special torture for everyone. The guy in the book, his torture was rats, remember? Because he hated rats more than anything in the world. But me, Caroline,
my
special torture would be—my special torture
is—
"

"Baseball."

"Right," groaned J.P. "Baseball."

"Mine is babies," muttered Caroline.

"I think those babies are cute," J.P. said.

Caroline took a long deep breath. "Maybe I'm an unnatural person," she said, "but I think those babies are about as cute as—as cute as—" She paused, trying to think of her least favorite thing in the whole world.

"Tarantulas?" J.P. suggested, trying to be helpful.

Caroline glared at him. "J.P.," she said in her paleontologist's voice, "tarantulas are actually very fascinating creatures. I would
much
rather have a pet tarantula than a baby."

"Well,
I'd
rather have a baby than a baseball team," J.P. replied gloomily.

They were both silent for a moment. Then they heard the car approach, turn into the driveway, and pull to a stop. They heard the car door open and close. They heard their father's booming voice as he headed for the kitchen door.

"Ta-DA!" called Herbie Tate. "Here he is, folks: the Indestructible, Late, Great, Herbieeeeee TATE!"

They heard Lillian greet him, laughing.

"I'm going to do my revenge tomorrow," whispered Caroline to her brother.

J.P. gave a sudden, sinister laugh. "Guess what," he said. "I already did mine."

Caroline jumped, startled, when she heard the footsteps coming toward the back door. She looked at her watch—only 10:30. Too early for J.P.'s baseball practice to end.

The babies were still asleep.

Lillian was at her real estate course.

And Caroline was feeling guilty, because that morning, alone in the house—except, of course, for Holly and Ivy—she had performed her act of revenge.

Now it was done. It could never be undone, even if she wanted to undo it, which she didn't.

But she felt guilty. And there
were
—she listened more carefully—footsteps coming toward the back door.

The police? The police couldn't
possibly
know what she had done.

Caroline crept nervously over to the kitchen window. She peered out, laughed in relief, and went
to
the door.

"Hi," she said to her father.

Herbie Tate looked surprised to see her. His shoulders were slumped, the way Poochie's were sometimes. He appeared a little confused and finally began to reach halfheartedly for the imaginary pistol with which he usually greeted them. Then he sighed and didn't bother.

"Hi, Caroline," he said. "I forgot you'd be here. Stupid of me."

"The babies are asleep," Caroline explained. "After they wake up I'll walk them down to the park where J.P. and Poochie are practicing."

Her father slumped onto the couch in the family room and shook his head. "Of course. I forgot. Lil's off at that real estate thing. Poor Lil."

"Why 'Poor Lil'?" Caroline asked a little defensively. "She's got a great baby sitter—cheap, I might add."

Her father stared at her. "We haven't thanked you enough, Caroline. I'm sorry. I guess I ought to explain. I said 'Poor Lil' because she hates that real estate course. She doesn't want to be a real estate agent. Lil would rather stay home and be a mother than anything else in the world."

"Well, why doesn't she? Why on earth would someone become a real estate agent if she didn't want to?" Caroline asked, confused.

Herbie shrugged. He looked embarrassed. "Money," he said finally. "Things aren't so good down at the store, Caroline."

"But I thought—"

He shook his head. "It's only temporary. A temporary slump. Don't tell Poochie. Please don't tell Poochie."

Tell Poochie? Why on earth would she tell a six-year-old kid that his father was having financial problems? And speaking of Poochie, Caroline thought—

"Does he have a
name,
Dad? A real name? Something that isn't Poochie?"

Her father smiled. "Of course he does. David Herbert Tate."

"Then
why—
"

"After Lillian and I got married, I wanted a kid right away. Because I missed you guys, Caroline. I missed you and J.P. It was really fun having you around when you were little. Your mom and I didn't have a very good marriage, but we sure both liked you kids a lot."

"Well, if you missed us so much, you could have made us come for the summer," Caroline pointed out.

"I know," her father said. "But—well, maybe you won't understand this, Caroline. But I wanted my very own full-time kid again."

"So you had one, and you named him—"

"Wait. Hold it. Lillian didn't want to have a child right away. She wasn't sure she'd be a good mother. We had a big argument. I wanted a kid. She wanted a dog."

"And you won."

Herbie chuckled. "I won. And Lillian turned out to be the best mother around. But for a little joke—well, we named him David Herbert. But we've always called him Pooch."

"Oh." Caroline squirmed. Pooch was a disgusting nickname, she thought. But she didn't want to tell her father that.

"Anyway," her father went on, "like I said, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention what I told you to Poochie."

"I wouldn't do that, Dad."

"Because he has his big game coming up and all. Don't want to distract him, right?" Herbie Tate stood up. Caroline could almost see him putting his other personality back on, as if he were putting on a coat "Gotta get back to the old store. I just came home to pick up some ledgers from the study. The ole federal marshal's comin' into town on his horse, to check over my books."

He moved heavily down the hall toward the study, and after a moment he came back with a handful of papers and a briefcase. He sorted through the papers, stacked them, and put them into the briefcase. He sighed.

"This will all get cleared up," he said. "This will all be cleared up real soon. I'm sure of it." He turned the briefcase over and over in his hands. Caroline watched him.