Chapter 29: A Whiffle, not a Whiff

In the morning, Roberto was back in the kitchen. He cored the berries and bagged them up for the cooler bag with a layer of loose ice and a can of aerosol whipped cream. He toasted ten slices of bread and assembled and wrapped five sandwiches with chicken and melting cheese and some salsa. One sandwich he left without the salsa; in case it was too strong for Carrie.

The plan was to have food interesting enough for Sophie, but still comfortable enough for Carrie.

Arriving at Sophie’s yellow house, he saw they were ready for him. Both wearing wide floppy hats and lightweight summer clothing, they looked excited and happy. Roberto was wearing his Coliseum t-shirt, some old loose Levi’s, and his Oakland A’s ballcap. The shirt showed a drawing of the semicircular grandstands of the Coliseum, with the caption: “ARC OF THE LOST RAIDERS.”

They drove up into the hills to the regional park, and schlepped everything out into a grassy area for their picnic. He produced the sandwiches, and Sophie bit into hers and smiled. “This chicken is great; I like how you seasoned it.”

Carrie looked disappointed. “How come yours has red stuff, and mine is plain?”

“I thought it might be too strong for you, Carrie.”

“Pffft. He should know better.”

“Carrie’s right, Roberto. She’s been tasting my cooking practically her whole life. I don’t feed her boring kiddie food, ever.”

“A thousand apologies, Princess Carrie. Here’s a fully loaded sandwich for you. I will eat the boring one as my punishment.”

Mollified, Carrie joined them in chewing contentedly. Roberto uncapped and distributed the bottles of orange soda. Clinking them together, he said, “To my beautiful lunchtime companions.” This earned him a giggle from the princess, and a smile from Sophie.

Next out of the cooler bag came three stiff paper bowls, the cold dish of cored strawberries, and the aerosol cream. “Should your mother do this?” he asked, indicating the cream.

“Not a chance!” She grabbed it, stripped away the cap, and watched impatiently as Roberto placed several berries in her cup. In her little hands the can looked huge.

SPLORT! The berries disappeared within a big mound of whipped cream. She put down the can, grabbed the full bowl and a spoon, and started shoveling. Sophie rolled her eyes and prepared a modest bowl for herself, joined by Roberto.

Sophie had to laugh. Carrie’s frenetic consumption left tufts of cream on her nose and chin. Sophie pulled her close and licked her face clean. He just smiled.

“Was that a good lunch, Carrie? Will you go on another picnic, with me and your mom?”

“Sure I will. But you have to date mom without me, too. I think she’s lonely.”

“Lonely? Why?”

“She said you need to kiss her.”

“Carrie! That’s a secret!” To him, “Sorry, Roberto.”

“Not at all, Sophie. It’s a grand idea. And I’m going to reward Carrie for saying it. Are you ready to play, Carrie?”

He pulled over and opened the duffel with the secret weapon. It was a tee-ball set, with perforated whiffle baseballs and an absurdly swollen plastic bat. Last out of the bag were Roberto’s well-worn fielding glove and a small Oakland A’s cap, suitable for Carrie’s little head. This was equipment from when he had been aged four himself, still usable.

“Carrie, you know what to do, right?”

“Hit the ball with the bat, duh.” Obviously!

“No.” No? “You’re going to smash the ball. Pound the ball. Make it cry and run home to its mother.”

That prompted an evil chuckle from the girl. He wiped clean a paper bowl and staked it down in the grass about 20 feet from the tee. “This is first base. You get there before we can tag you with the ball, you score. Otherwise, you’re out. First to twenty scores, you win, but first to twenty outs, you lose. Go take some practice swings now while Sophie and I figure out how to beat you.

“Sophie, you are on her left, I’m on her right. If you field the ball try to chase her down and tag her. If I field the ball, hang back. And she’s going to beat us, right?”

Carrie topped her first ball, and it rolled weakly to Sophie, who easily chased down and tagged her daughter.

Adjusting, she clubbed the next ball, sending it whistling right at Roberto’s belly. “Eep!” he literally squeaked and flung himself to the side just in time. Carrie was standing on first base, gleeful.

The next ball sailed over Sophie’s head. She turned and watched it, as if it was heading for somebody’s windshield in the Dodger Stadium parking lot. Carrie 2, outs 1.

Carrie’s fourth hit was a lazy fly ball. He grabbed it bare handed, watched it squirt up into the air, and juggled it twice more for good measure. Carrie 3, outs 1.

The adults settled down and made the game more of a contest. And if Carrie missed the ball entirely, she was granted another swing without penalty. Whacking the ball gave Carrie a feeling of satisfaction and power missing in her day-to-day life. Out in the park she was running around silly and free, away from controlling preschool teachers and children her age that just wore her out with tantrums and weeping.

All too quickly, it was 20 – 15 and Carrie was the winner. They piled back on the picnic blanket to catch their breath. Roberto pulled out another brace of cold orange sodas.

“Mama, I’m sorry I called him ‘Mr. Poopy-head.’ He’s nice! I want to have a picnic like this every Saturday.”

“Roberto, today’s been grand. But I’m getting a little dazzled by the bright sunshine, and I still have a shift to work tonight. So take us home, please.”