Man, woman, and child(26)

"He's my son," Bob repeated. Bemie's jaw dropped.

"Holy shit," he said. "You mean youVe been cheating on Sheila all this time?"

"No, no. This was ten years ago. It wasn't even an 'affair.' I mean, more like a fling. The woman died last month. That was the first I ever heard about the boy."

"Are you really sure he's yours?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit," Bernie repeated, and then, "Hey— what was she like?"

"I don't remember."

"Christ, if I had a kid with a woman, I'd sure as hell remember what she looked like."

Bob started to explain that he hadn't known what



he was doing at the time. But this now sounded implausible, even to himself. Jean-Claude's very existence seemed to belie the most strenuous protestations of ignorance.

"Well?'' Bemie asked again. "Was she good-looking?"

"I suppose so."

''Have you got a picture?"

Bob glared angrily at Bernie. "Will you be serious?"

"It was a reasonable question, Beckvdth. If I ever cheated on Nancy—which I'd never have the guts to, 'cause it would kill her—it'd have to be with someone like Raquel Welch or better. And the least I'd do is save a picture."

Bob turned to him and said quietly, "Look at the boy. Her hair was darker, but she looked a lot like him."

It was at this moment that Bemie fully realized the significance of what Bob was telling him. "Holy shit," he mumbled. *'You. My goddam role model. Christ, Sheila will never forgive you, will she?"

Bob glared at his best friend. Why the hell did he have to say a stupid thing like that, dammit?

And then something else dav^oied on Bernie.

"What the hell is he doing here?''

"He's got no other family. If we didn't take him, he'd already be in a state orphanage. A guy in France is trying to fix up something else. Sheila agreed to it."

"Christ, what a woman. Nancy would kick me and the kid out."

The track was silent now, and sunset cast long shadows on the field. The only sound was Davey Ackerman kicking his ball into the nets. Bernie was at a loss for words. He slowly shook his head and



Stared down through the wooden slats at the ground below. What could he say?

''Bob, I never dreamed a guy like you would screw around. I mean, you and Sheila were like those little figures on a wedding cake. What the hell made you do it?"

''I don't know, Bemie. It was ten years ago/'

"In France?"

"Yeah."

There was a pause.

"Did you love her?''

Bob looked wounded. "Of course not," he shot back.

"Fm sorry," Bemie retorted. "I don't believe you. I don't believe a guy married to someone like Sheila would have an affair with a woman he didn't at least think he loved."

"I told you I don't remember," Bob said quietly. "The important thing is I don't know what to do

now."

"Any idiot could tell that. Bob."

"What?"

"Get rid of the kid. Pronto. Fast. Amputate the relationship or your marriage will get gangrene. Am I making sense?"

"Yes."

"But I guess it's easier when you're not involved, huh?"

"Yes. Put yourself in my place."

"I couldn't. I've talked it over a million times."

"With whom?"

"With myself. You know how often I'm on the road—Miami, Vegas, L.A. I don't lack for opportunities. But I know Nancy trusts me, my kid looks up to me. I couldn't take the chance, Bob. I wouldn't. The only thing I've ever brought up to my hotel room is a bottle of Scotch. Hell, a client



in Vegas once sent me up a fancy hooker. I mean, she was lust on wheels. When I told her I wasn't interested, she started wiggling those unbelievable tits and calling me all kinds of uncomplimentary names. I think I was drooling when I said no for the last time. But Christ, I was proud of myself. And you know something? Fve never even confessed this part to Nancy—you know how I could hold out against those forty-inch boobs?"

^'How?"

"I said to myself there's only one score in the marriage game. A thousand. No errors ever. Like Bob and Sheila. And I'm not the only one of your friends who thinks so, either. How's she taking it?"

"I think it's getting to her."

"I'll bet. That's why you've gotta ship that kid off now. Bob. You've got too much to lose."

"Hey, Dad!"

It was Davey Ackerman, shouting from the infield.

"Yeah?" Bemie shouted back.

"I'm ready to knock it off," called Davey.

"Okay, in a minute. Take two laps around first."

Bemie then tumed back to his friend.

"Hey, you know, Bob, I just thought of something ironic."

"What?"

"I mean, here you are a professor of statistics."