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voice. Maybe he would comment on a world event.
    But here, in real life, was her actual father. He was wearing a plaid shirt. He had come home from work, and now he had been in the house for several minutes, and all he had said was: Ta-DA. Blam. Hi hooooo.
    Now, turning to Caroline and J.P., Herbie stepped back, held his arms away from his sides for a moment, and then suddenly drew two imaginary pistols from two holsters.
    "Blam! Blam!" he said and shot both guns.
    Caroline and J.P. didn't move. Poochie glanced up to see if they were doing death scenes. Then he looked back at the TV. Lillian wasn't paying any attention ; she was washing some lettuce. Apparently she was used to this.
    "Missed," announced Herbie. He blew imaginary smoke from each imaginary gun, and replaced them in their imaginary holsters.
    He didn't seem to mind that they hadn't been shot. He picked up the package he had brought home, said, "Think fast!" and tossed it to J.P. J.P. grabbed, startled, but missed. The package landed on the rug.
    "It's a present for my Tater Chips coach," Herbie said.
    J.P. picked it up and opened it. "Thanks," he said and turned the baseball glove over and over in his hands.
    "Lookee here," Herbie said. He took a small can out of his pocket. "Neat's-foot oil. We rub the glove good, then fold it over, and set it under something heavy overnight. A piece of furniture or something. Then in the morning you've got your glove all shaped, ready for use. Pretty soon you'll have a nice pocket in there, just like a major-leaguer. What's your team, J.P.?"
    J.P. looked confused. Caroline knew what Herbie meant; but she knew, also, that J.P. didn't. J.P. didn't follow baseball. He followed chess championships and computer developments.
    "Red Sox," Caroline said loudly, to make up for J.P.'s silence.
    "Right," said Herbie, apparently pleased with that answer. "After dinner, we'll fix that old glove up for you, just like Jim Rice."
    "Gee, great, Dad," J.P. said. Caroline recognized an Eddie Haskell voice.
    "Game against the Half-pints on Friday," Herbie announced. "Are the Chips going to be ready?"
    "Half-pints?" J.P. repeated.
    Herbie chuckled. "That's Fred Larrabee's team. He owns a dairy, see, so his team's the Half-pints. Mine's the Tater Chips—well, you can see why. Then there's Phil Stevenson's team, the Squirts. Guess why they're the Squirts!"
    Caroline and J.P. stared at Herbie. They shook their heads.
    "Phil manufactures plastic products. His biggest seller: garden hoses. Get it? Squirt!" Herbie aimed an imaginary garden hose toward Caroline and J.P.
    "Caroline?" Lillian said from the kitchen. "Could you put the twins into their highchairs? I have their supper ready. You can feed them while I finish cooking."
    "I'll help you, Caroline," J.P. said. "I'll feed the yellow one while you feed the pink one." He laid the baseball glove down on a chair. "Gee, thanks, Dad," he said, Haskell-like, to Herbie. "That was really nice of you."
    Herbie smiled broadly. He settled himself on the couch. "How's it going, Poocheroni? Get a hit today? Maybe a home run?"
    Poochie shook his head morosely and concentrated on the cartoons.

    Caroline and J.P. sat together on Poochie's bed. Poochie was in the bathroom, having his bath. The twins were asleep in their cribs, so Caroline's room was off limits. There was no place in the house where they could have any privacy, and no time: just these few minutes, huddled together on the bottom bunk, before Poochie's bedtime.
    She looked around the little bedroom. The wallpaper appeared to be plaid, at first; but Caroline realized, looking more closely, that the plaid was made up of football goalposts and basketball hoops. The curtains were dark blue, with a little border of red and white football helmets. The bedspreads matched the curtains, with the addition of a huge brown appliqued football in the center of each one.
    "I can't stand it," J.P. was muttering.
    "It's not that bad," Caroline said, looking around