A whimpering woke Ted up. At first, he thought it was him doing the whimpering. He sat up and wondered what he might be whimpering at, slowly becoming aware that the noise was coming from another room. He got up to investigate. Marty was asleep on the couch, lying on his side, dreaming like a dog, huffing and sleep running. He did not look happy. Ted sat down next to him and shook him gently. “Dad? Dad? Wake up. Dad?” Marty stopped twitching and opened his eyes, childlike and blurry from another world. “What’s wrong, Dad?”
“It was horrible, Teddy, horrible.”
“What was?”
“I dreamt we had to give it all back. What we had in August, we had to give back in September.”
“What was that?”
“Everything. Oh, everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Sox. Gave away our lead to the Yankees. They gave it all away and I had to die. Billy Martin came to collect my soul like in Damn Yankees.”
“Just a dream, Dad. Sox got a, what, like a six-game lead?”
“Six and a half.”
“You’re safe. You got a cushion.”
“Don’t let it happen to me, Teddy. Don’t let them take it all away.”
“I won’t.” Ted reached out to a table, grabbed the bottle of prescription pills, and put one in Marty’s mouth.
“Go back to sleep, Dad.”
Marty was still drowsy and spent; now drugged, he started to drift off again.
“Perchance to dream, there’s the fuckin’ rub. Promise me you won’t let me die.”
How could Ted promise that? What was the best thing to do, the kindest? Ted honestly didn’t know. He wished Mariana were there; she would have an opinion, she would know, she would take responsibility. The Dead counted off to begin “Sugar Magnolia” again, making it hard for Ted to concentrate.
“Ted?”
“I promise, Dad, I promise.”