Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise (17 page)

She laughed. "That's right, Miss Charlotte. I should wait but maybe . . . maybe I can come watch."

"We would love that, Fleur de Lee."

Jaster came back into the room drying his hands with a brown paper towel. "I'm sorry if I took too long, Fleur de Lee."

"That's okay, Jaster." She gave him a bite of her chocolate éclair and then wolfed the remaining quarter down.

Rose stood quietly near the door. This surprised me because I thought she would be swarmed by people. She always seemed so sociable at Paradise. She sipped coffee and took small bites from a bear claw. Folks spoke with her, but mostly she seemed disinterested, like she had other things on her mind. She wore her long-sleeve sweater with the high collar turned up, hiding her tattoos and scars, and for the first time I saw that she was hiding under that sweater. For someone who seemed so open and willing to tell it like it is, hiding didn't suit her.

"Aren't you warm, Rose?" I asked. "You should take that sweater off."

"No. It's better on." She looked me in the eye. "Not everyone will understand. Not like the friends in Paradise. It's different there."

"You mean, you never told anyone here. Not even the pastor?"

"Especially the pastor."

"Maybe you should. Maybe you should take that sweater off and let people see your suffering."

"No. Can't do that. And that's why I decided I can't play on the team, Charlotte. I'll come out and watch and cheer you all on, but I won't wear a uniform that shows my scars to the world."

I swallowed and scratched my head. "What? That's what's been on your mind? I don't understand."

She pulled me aside into a small corridor. "The bus will be leaving soon. I never told anyone outside of Paradise, and if I play ball, it will mean folks seeing my scars and the tattoos. And believe me, scars and tattoos will not—"

"So we'll get you a long-sleeve, turtle-neck uniform. And when you're in all that catcher's gear, no one will notice. Even though I think you should just—"

Marlabeth's husband, Jacob, popped his head around the corner. "Bus is loading."

"Come on," Rose said. "Don't want the bus to leave without us."

Later that same Sunday, Rose caught me up to my elbows in pie crust. I love to make pie crust when I am feeling nervous. Making good pie crust is one of those things that has to come with practice and good timing and knowing just how cold to make the water and how thick to roll out the dough. If you worry crust too much, you might as well make a pair of shoes with it. Pie truly is an art form, in my opinion, even though most people take good crust for granted. Herman always did. He loved my crust, but I don't think he ever stopped to watch me make it. To him, pie just happened. And on the few occasions when my crust didn't turn out exactly right, he scowled and blustered and said, "Not your best crust this time, Charlotte."

I don't know how many times I wanted to just tell him, "Herman, quit your blustery bellyaching and get used to the fact that good pie crust doesn't just happen. It's hard work."But I never could get my nerve up.

Rose seemed to enjoy watching me, though. She sat at the kitchen table and sipped iced tea from a tall tumbler with tiny daisies etched around the middle of it. "I could never make crust, Charlotte. Turns out like rubber."

I wiped my Crisco-ey hands on a lavender kitchen towel. My mother told me to rub the shortening into my skin. She said it's what kept her hands so young and supple. "I can teach you—maybe."

Rose snorted. "Me? No, thanks. Making pie is as much a gift as painting. That belongs to you."

I rolled out my bottom crust and fitted it into the pie plate. After crimping the edges between my index finger and thumb and pricking the bottom with a fork, I popped it into my oven to bake for a few minutes until the edges turned the most perfect shade of golden brown.

"I meant what I said. You are an artist," Rose said. "Pie artistry. Maybe you
should
open a shop. You could call it that, Charlotte's Pie Artistry."

"Herman would never allow such a—" I swallowed and rinsed my fingertips. "I plum forgot for a minute, Rose. I plum forget Herman doesn't get a say anymore. Goodness gracious."

Rose stood and put her arm around me. "Is it tough sometimes?"

I shook my head. "No, that's what's weird. I hardly ever miss him. He just comes up now and again like a cucumber or broccoli, you know? Happened at church today."

"I know. Memories are like that. Grief too. It's one of those things you carry with you, like loose change in the bottom of your purse. That's why it's so easy for it to sneak up on you— make you think dead people are still alive."

After pouring myself a glass of iced tea, I joined her at the table. "I'm a little worried about you, Rose. What gives with you and the team? We're counting on you."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's just . . . well it's just that I don't do much socializing outside of Paradise, and the notion of showing off my scars and the tattoos gives me the willies. It's hard enough at church, but I keep them hidden, you know?"

"Why? Didn't you tell me that even Jesus showed his scars? He didn't hide them, did he?"

"It's not the same."

I screwed up my mouth and thought a minute or so. "I think it is, Rose. Maybe not exactly, but you suffered and now—"

"I know. But people out there"—she nodded toward the outside—"won't understand."

The dinger on my stove went off. "I better get my crust. I'm making a lemon meringue. Not my favorite, but I thought it would make a nice change. Even though it seemed like that Zeb Whatshisname had the lemon pie market cornered. I was going to bring it to Hazel Cren—" I stopped talking.

"Hazel Crenshaw?" Rose asked. "I knew something was going on with you two." She slapped her knee. "Now spill it!"

"Goodness gracious, Rose. I might as well tell you, but you have to promise not to tell another breathing soul." I placed my crust on a cooling rack.

Rose raised three Girl Scout fingers. "I promise, Charlotte."

"Hazel Crenshaw owns the Elsmere Elastic factory, and not only that, she owns Paradise, the whole park. Fergus only works for her, and she is my contact for the team sponsorship. It was her idea." It felt like popping a pimple to tell her.

Rose swallowed, and I watched her eyes grow big. "No kidding? That's huge news, Charlotte. Really huge. The hugest news."

"But you can't tell. It's a secret. I promised her."

Rose looked out the window. "Well, I'll be darned. I knew there was more to that old woman than birds."

"Yep. But you won't tell anyone, right? Although I just don't understand why she's so concerned. Who cares if everyone knows the truth?"

"I know, I can understand Fergus wanting to keep it a secret, but Hazel? What's the big deal? You'd think she'd want people to know who she really is."

"So you agree, Rose. Secrets are just plain silly. Even for you. I think you should let your tattoos out for the whole world to see and not be ashamed of them."

I thought a minute, and then I said it. "You're a fraud, Rose. Just like so many other people who say they're all holy and forgiven and stuff. Seems to me if you really were all that stuff you wouldn't need to hide."

A small sliver of crust from my baked shell dropped off."Darn. It's a bit crumbly. How long do you think you can hide out in Paradise, Rose?"

R
ose Tattoo didn't speak to me for three whole days after that.

For three days I stayed home, baked, cleaned, worked on the team roster, argued with my mother on the phone, and reviewed the rule book the man in the garage gave me. Softball had changed over the years, but not much. You still couldn't steal a base and the arc of the pitch could still not be higher than six feet. I took comfort in that as I worked out batting assignments. I decided that Marlabeth Pilkey would be our leadoff batter, even though I had yet to see anyone on my team swing a bat. We had to get a practice in, and I had to start somewhere.

But mostly I missed Rose.

Lucky and I took more than a few walks in those three long days that always took us past Rose's trailer and then down to the Wrinkels's.

I saw Rose once near the giant hand, planting pansies. She never looked up. But I knew she knew I was there. It was hard to distinguish if she was refusing to look because she was mad or because she was feeling bad about her scars and tattoos and about what had happened to her so long ago.

Walking past the Wrinkel trailer filled me with a similar trepidation and concern. When I first moved to Paradise, I thought I had moved among the oddest folks on the planet, misfits and crazies. But the more I looked, the closer I became to them, the clearer it became that there was indeed trouble in Paradise.

On the second day I decided to go trailer-to-trailer and schedule our first team practice. I stopped by Greta's trailer first.

"I'm calling a practice for Thursday morning," I said, standing in the doorway.

Greta had the baby on her hip.

"She's getting big," I said. "Grown a lot in the last month."

I heard a crashing sound that seemed to come from the kitchen.

"Nuts," Greta said, "That's Charlie Junior in the pots again. Excuse me."

I stepped inside and watched her gently lay baby Ruth in her cradle then dash to the kitchen area. Greta's trailer was decorated in, well, no other way to put it except to say that if you didn't know better you'd swear cowboys owned it. Lots of animal pelts scattered about, a steer horn on the wall that held two cowboy hats, and a lamp that somehow incorporated the use of a skull, a brass pipe, and turquoise.

She came back to the living area dragging a small boy by the arm. "Now sit on that couch and don't you move, Charlie Junior."

Charlie stuck his finger up his nose and obliged his mother.

"Now, what were you saying, Charlotte? Practice Thursday— in the morning. What will I do with Charlie Junior? Baby Ruth is no problem, but Junior, well, he's another story. He only goes to his preschool two days a week, Lord knows, I wish it was more but—"

She turned quickly. "Charlie Junior. Take your finger out of your nose this instant. You'll get bugs."

"I'll think of something, Greta. We have to start practicing. Games officially start on June 25th."

"I don't know, Charlotte. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe the husbands were right."

"Nonsense. We just need someone to look after the kiddies is all; maybe we can fence them in over at the Frost sisters' or something."

"Good one, Charlotte. A kiddy corral. Hold them dogies up."

"Dogies? Oh, right. I bet Lucky would love to help watch the tykes. Just be at the field at 10 a.m. Thursday."

Charlie Junior screamed, "I'm hungry." And that started baby Ruth crying.

I visited everyone on the team that day and was met by pretty much the same protests, but I assured them all that all the details would get worked out and that they should plan to be there, kids in tow and wearing shorts and sneakers.

Marlabeth offered me chamomile tea to soothe my nerves.

Toward evening that same day I saw Suzy out back of her trailer. Her arm was in a white plaster cast up to her elbow. She pulled laundry from the line and seemed to be getting along well enough. I waved. Lucky barked and scurried close to her and sniffed around at her ankles, but I called him back.

"It's okay," Suzy said in a hushed tone. "Your dog don't bother me."

I shot her a big smile and waved as Lucky made his way back to my side. "You play softball?"

She shrugged and went back to her underwear and tee shirts and towels.

"We have a practice at the field Thursday morning if you'd like to join us."

Suzy didn't respond, so I took it as a no.

Thursday dawned. Asa came to my trailer bright and early and begging for coffee.

"They're calling for rain this afternoon, Charlotte," he said."Good thing you're getting a practice in before."

I poured his coffee and gave him a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins. "Here you go, eat up."

My own oatmeal was already on the table with a couple of tablespoons gone. Lucky had already downed his. Silly pooch liked oatmeal. But he always left the raisins behind, every single time. How he did it I'll never know, but sure enough his bowl held twelve perfectly clean raisins. Funny thing is, Herman did the same exact thing.

"Do you think the team will show up?" I asked. "I know they were worried about their kids and all."

"Not sure." Asa wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. "Hope so. I saw most of the husbands go off to the factory this morning. Carl Kaninsky drives around and picks them up in that big old Suburban of his."

"How'd they look?"

"Usual. Like a chain gang. I doubt the wives even told them about the practice."

"That's not good, Asa. I don't want to start a bunch of marital wars."

He swallowed the last of his oatmeal. "You let the wives take care of their husbands. I suspect they know what they're doing."

"What about Rose?" Even I heard the change in my voice. Suddenly lower, suddenly sad.

He shrugged. "Don't know, Charlotte. She's been feeling a little down. It's like this softball team thing all of a sudden has her scared, scared like she was when she first moved here."

"It's my fault. I started it. Well, that's not exactly true. This whole thing was her idea, for crying out loud, and now she's gone and abandoned us. We need a catcher now and—"

"Try not to worry too much," Asa said. "I'll talk to her again."He carried his bowl to the sink.

"All right, but I have an awful feeling that she's really quit on us—for good."

Asa finished his coffee and placed the cup in the sink.

"Guess we should go," I said, looking at the clock. It was nearly nine and I wanted to be there early to get set up. "Did you have time to chalk the lines and—"

"Sure did. Cousin Studebaker came down yesterday and helped me. We even made a halo in the on-deck circle—you know, for Angels."

"You are something else, Asa. Thank you. The women will love it, except—"

"Except what?"

"We need a babysitter. The women can't play unless I find someone to watch their kids."

Asa and I were about to the Frost sisters' flagpole when he stopped short. "I know what we can do. I drove Marlabeth over to Fleur de Lee way early this morning because Fleur de Lee was having some contractions or something, but Marlabeth said it was nothing. She might still be over there, and maybe Fleur de Lee can come watch the youngsters."

"You think she will?"

"Sure, as long as the mothers don't mind a retard watching their children."

"Asa, that's a terrible way to put it."

Asa looked at his feet. "Ah, I don't mean any disrespect. It's just what they're called, you know?"

We arrived at the gorgeous Angel Field, and already Edwina and Thomasina were tossing a ball around. "Good morning," I called with a wave.

"Good morning, Charlotte, we just couldn't wait to get started."

I saw a large green shed with a lock on it. "Is that where you stowed all the gear, Asa?"

"Yep." He reached into his pocket and handed me the key to the padlock I saw dangling from the box. "Not that it will do any good now."

"I looked at the key and then at the box. How did they . . . ?"

Asa nodded toward the box. "Looks like Edwina shot the lock off."

I shook my head. "You people don't mess around."

"Listen," Asa said, "you want I should run by Haven House and see if Marlabeth is coming and if maybe Fleur de Lee can come watch the youngsters?"

"Yes, that's a good idea, but—well, what about Jaster? Does he work?"

"Full time at Elsmere. He's in quality control. Someone needs to make sure the elastic is stretchy enough."

I laughed. "Why is elastic so funny?"

"Because they make underwear and bra straps and jocks and stuff with it, you know, Charlotte. We all know it and it's funny, that stuff, I mean. Underwear."

Thomasina threw me the brand-new Rawlings softball. I caught it in one hand. "Go on, Asa." The softball felt so good in my hand. Still a perfect fit. I threw it back to Edwina, who stood near second base.

"Good throw," she called.

I opened the shed and was unloading bats and balls, a catcher's face mask, and shin guards when I saw the yellow flag unfurl atop the pole. The rest of the team paraded toward the field with babies and children in tow. My heart swelled as they moved closer. "They did it," I told Lucky. "They came; they all came."

Lucky barked.

"Except Rose."

Gwendolyn waved like she was conducting the Philharmonic."Charlotte, what a beautiful day."

True. The promised rain had yet to arrive. "It is," I called back with a wave. "A great day to play ball."

The team gathered around me like I was a mother hen. I liked it. "Is everyone here?"

"Everyone who can play," Ginger said. "Except Rose. She told me to tell you she is not playing."

"When did she tell you that?"

"Yesterday. She was sitting up in the giant hand looking like the rug got pulled out from under her. I climbed up there and sat with her a while. She hardly said a word."

"Whose gonna play catcher?" Gwendolyn whined. "Wasn't Rose the catcher?"

I nodded and took a deep breath. "Rose will change her mind," I said. "Don't worry." Even though deep inside I wasn't so sure.

That was when Charlie Lundy Junior grabbed a bat and started swinging it around, nearly conking his poor mother on the head. "Charlie Lundy, you put that bat down this instant or I'm gonna give you what for but good."

Charlie ran off toward second base with the bat and was quickly followed by four other children I hadn't met. "Someone needs to round up those kids," I said. "They'll mess up the field." I caught scowls from a couple of the moms.

Gwendolyn headed out onto the field. I watched her stamp her foot with her arms crossed against her chest. She stuck her chin out in a most menacing way as she spoke loudly to the children. I didn't know she had it in her. "Now git on over there, sit down, and be quiet!"

The children did as they were told and sat along the thirdbase line like ducks in a shooting gallery.

"Well," I said, "the good news is that I think Asa is coming back with Fleur de Lee to babysit the children while we have our practice."

"Fleur de Lee?" Clara Kaninsky said. "You mean that retarded girl from Haven House? She's coming to watch our kids?"