Chapter 4

It was, indeed, more than two weeks before Lois returned to the hospital again. "I am now officially Lois Silverthorn, J.D.," she said.

"J.D.?"

"Yep. 'Juris Doctor.' They used to call law grads 'Bachelor of Laws, ' but evidently that didn't sound high-falutin' enough."

"So now, do I call you 'Doctor Silverthorn?'"

"Nope. I'm just the same sweet girl I always was -- at least until I pass the Bar Exam."

"When is that?"

"Almost three months away. Most law grads -- me definitely included -- have to take a special bar-exam cram course before taking the actual bar exam. It's especially important if you go to a national law school, like Penn."

"How come?"

"Well, the national law schools don't concentrate on preparing students for a particular state's bar exam, like the state university law school does. You learn legal principles in a more broad, general way. So the result is, if you go to Penn, or Columbia, or Harvard, and then take your state bar exam blind, you stand a real good chance of failing! A much better chance than you would if you'd stayed home and gone to law school at -- say -- Penn State."

"So you take the cram course?"

"Yeah. Almost everybody takes it. I mean, failing the state bar exam might not be the end of the world, but it would be embarrassing as hell -- especially for me, with wall-to-wall lawyers in my family!"

"Yeah, I can see that."

"But the good news is, the bar course doesn't begin for two weeks. And my Dad wants me to take some time off, after my three-year law school grind. So I'm free-and-easy -- for the next 16 days, to be exact."

"That's great!"

"Phillies are in town this week."

"Let's do it, then!"

"They've got the Nationals in until Wednesday," Lois said. "And then, guess what? Inter-league play begins! The Orioles are in town Friday night, Saturday and Sunday."

"Oh, that's great! Can you go Saturday?"

"Absolutely. And I can get tickets for us, too."

"I want to pay," Paul said. "I can handle it."

"You can handle the nachos and the beer," Lois said. "That alone will require a second mortgage. But my family has connections. I'll score us some good seats, not to worry!"

"If your Old Man has that much pull," Paul said, "try to get us some seats close to the Orioles' dugout."

Lois' father had plenty of pull, and their seats at the Saturday game were right next to the visiting team's dugout, on the side closest to home plate. "Jeez, these are fantastic seats!" Paul said.

Lois had taken him, via wheelchair, to the aisle that led to their box seats, and from there, Paul had stood up and laboriously made the long trip down to their front-row seats.

Lois had folded the wheelchair and, pushing it, followed closely behind him. The trek had involved only about eight staggered step-downs, with almost-level wide walking spaces separating the steps. But the trip had nearly exhausted Paul. He tried not to let Lois see just how difficult his little walk had been.

She did see, but she said nothing.

At Paul's request, they had arrived ninety minutes ahead of game time, so that Paul could try to make contact with his old teammates during the pre-game warm-ups. Paul motioned to one of the ushers when he came near. "I'd like you to pass this note down to one of the Oriole players," he said. The note, neatly folded, was addressed to Benito Vasquez, one of the two young Oriole players Paul knew from his own playing days. (The other, Elbert Preston, a rookie pitcher, was probably far out in the field, working out with the other bullpen denizens.)

"I'm not allowed to pass notes to the players," the usher said. "Sorry."

Lois grabbed his arm. "This man was a player himself," she said. "These are his teammates. Just give the nearest Oriole player the note."

"I'm sorry, Miss, really. But it could mean my job."

"OK," Lois said. "Forget it."

Standing at the railing near the dugout, Lois leaned over the rail and motioned elaborately at the nearest man in uniform, the Orioles' hitting coach, B.J. Surhoff. He ignored her at first, but his name was on his back, and Lois wasn't the shy, retiring type. "Hey, Surhoff!" she shouted. He turned around and saw the attractive young woman, vigorously motioning for him to come near.

He did come near. The fact that Lois was drop-dead gorgeous probably didn't hurt. But Surhoff, a cautious veteran of many seasons as a player, and now as a coach, kept a little distance, just in case Lois was some kind of nut.

She extended Paul's note. "Give this to Vasquez, please!" she said. "It's from Paul Elias -- he's right here. Vasquez knows him. Paul's an old friend."

Still cautious, Surhoff took the note and looked around for Vasquez. "He's down there," Paul shouted, pointing toward the third-base foul line.

Surhoff saw Benito Vasquez, nodded, and trotted down past the dugout to where the young infielder was waiting his turn to take ground balls at third. Vasquez took the note and looked down at it briefly.

Smiling, Vasquez walked over to the stands where Paul and Lois were sitting and stuck out his hand. "Paul! Good to see you, man!"

Laboriously, Paul rose to a standing position next to Lois and, swaying a little, leaned to grasp Vasquez' hand. "And you, my friend!"

"I hear about what happened, man! That's a bitch!"

"Yeah. But I'm going to be OK."

"Yeah, man! You are! You doin' pretty good already! Who's this pretty lady?"

Paul introduced Lois, who promptly asked for Vasquez' autograph. That charmed the young player, and he quickly complied. "I gotta go," he said.

"Benito -- if you get a chance, let Preston know I'm here, would you? I'd like to say hello to him, too."

"I'll get him for you, Paul, don' worry. I do it right now! Hey! -- you wanna meet our manager? He is Paul Warren -- He is Paul -- like you!"