Authors: Honey
He
gave her a smile, his teeth white and straight. "Yeah. Sure."
Then
he took his position.
The
crowd jeered. Booed. Hissed. Empty paper cups from lemonade rained from the
grandstand to litter the grass. Mighty Alex Cordova hadn't shown them a thing
since he'd put on a Keystones uniform.
Zaza
pitched him a knuckleball.
Swing
and a miss.
Camille
cringed. She brought her hand to her temple and sighed. If her attention hadn't
been focused on Alex, she would have seen the ruckus going on at third base
sooner. By the time she looked in that direction, Frank Isbell had Cupid's cap
in his hand and was waving it while beuy-laughing. Mortification reddened
Cupid's face as he flailed his arms, trying to get his cap back.
"Wait
a minute. Time!" Camille called to the umpire as she walked to where the
official stood behind home plate. "He can't do that."
As
she was speaking, Frank cuffed Cupid on the top of his bald head. The action
evoked a curse from Alex, who threw his bat down and lunged after Frank with
his fists tight. The next thing Camille knew, both benches had emptied and she
landed in the middle of wild fisticuffs.
Turning
this way and that to get out of the line of fire, she managed to escape to the
dugout, where she clutched the awning post in horror. She saw Cupid give Frank
a healthy kick in the shins, only to have Frank aim a ham fist in a roundhouse
punch to Cupid's eye.
The
melee lasted some ten minutes before order was restored. Shaken, she called her
players back to the bench, where they sat, with the exception of the men who
had to return to their bases. She looked at the ragtag group, her jaw dropping.
Charlie's swollen brow was darkening. Doc had a lump on his forehead. A bloody
cut marred Bones's forearm. Down the line, caps were askew, uniforms were
ripped, and several shoes were untied.
"Well...
this is something," was all she could say.
She'd
never witnessed a full-fledged major-league brawl before. When the Keystones
had been a small organization, they'd never went at the opposing team with
their fists.
Camille
tried to quell the skip in her heartbeat. She hadn't dared look at her father,
who sat in the front row. What would he have done? There was nothing anyone
could have done. Things had just... taken off.
Unsettled,
she watched as Alex took his position. And much to her complete surprise, he
drew the bat back and hammered the ball over the infield and beyond, well over
the wall and out of the park.
Home
run.
The
fans let out cheers so loud, they just about shook the roof of the dugout. If
Alex thought there was any glory in what he'd just done, he didn't reveal it He
merely made a slow run around the bases, his toe touching each bag. When he
crossed home plate, the team was waiting for him. They slapped him on his back,
whooping it up and hollering, carrying on as if they'd just won the pennant.
The
congratulations continued as the men came into the dugout, Alex the last to
take his seat. She turned to him, but the right words failed her. She smiled.
Grateful. Although she was almost certain that his hitting the ball had nothing
to do with her.
As
the game proceeded, the Keystones' fielding just about ruined what had been a
good game so far. A fly ball sailed to center field and both Specs and Deacon
galloped after it without regard for life or limb, hollering all the time,
running like maniacs after the ball. Playing side by side like that, they
plowed into each other with the impact of runaway freight trains. It wasn't
until after Deacon lifted his head off the ground that his glove arm followed.
Inside the pocket, there lay the ball—for the second out of the inning.
The
score was 5-2, Keystones. Camille's pulse hadn't quit its racing since that
third inning. They were in the eighth now, with such a chance, she could barely
think straight.
The
time Alex had spent in the bullpen had done him little or no good. He wasn't
pitching any better than he normally did. So Camille walked to the mound to
have a talk with him.
"Quit
doing that." The command just rushed out. She hated to be short with him,
but for the past five minutes, all he'd done was pitch slow sinkers and blow on
his bare hand.
"What?"
"You're
stalling when you keep doing that. We don't have all day. We'll lose the
momentum."
He
raised his wide, tanned hand to her as if she were supposed to inspect it.
"You mean this?" Then he brought his open fist to his mouth and blew.
Camille
didn't like to speculate why the sight of him blowing on his bare hand caused
her to break out in gooseflesh. "Yes, that. It's not necessary."
"I'm
keeping the ball dry."
"It's
not raining."
"My
palm's sweating."
"Well,
unsweat it or I'm putting Yank in to close for you."
Then
she turned and headed back to the bench. She disliked threats. She disliked
having to follow through with them. But she'd meant what she said. And in the
bottom of the ninth, she made good on her words and put Yank Milligan in to
finish the game.
While
she sat, ankles crossed, shoulders leaning forward, she watched Yank throw an
effective dipsy-doodle that the batter missed.
And
afterward, Yank adjusted himself. Again.
The
habit was distracting, and he did it before and after each pitch.
Alex
sat beside her, and she heard his low laugh next to her ear. "Does that
bother you as bad as my blowing on my hand?"
"It
certainly does."
"Then
why don't you go out there and tell Yank to knock it off?"
"I
most certainly..." But the denial trailed off. He was daring her. Baiting
her. Of course she didn't want to mention anything of that kind to a man.
"You
won't do it." His smile made her insides tingle. Sweat dampened his brow;
the band of his backward cap caught the moisture at his hairline. "You
couldn't even say the words.
Adjusting
and
quit revising the hang of
your privates
are two different things."
Camille
about expired. On that, she abruptly left the bench and went out to Yank.
He
looked at her, surprised. "Yeah?"
"I
want you to quit..."—unbidden, her gaze dropped, then she quickly snapped
it upward—"... quit adjusting yourself. Nothing's going anywhere."
Then
she retreated and primly sat back down beside Alex. "I told him."
His
laugh made her want to pour the ice water bucket over his head.
The
last five minutes of the game were a blur. There was an error involving Doc and
a play at second was called into question. If it had stood, the Chicago White
Stockings would have earned an out, tying the game and making it necessary for
a tenth inning. But Camille had gone to discuss the controversy with the
umpire, while Eddie Gray, the Chicago manager, just about shredded her
senseless with his vile language. He went berserk, spit spraying out of his
mouth, cursing, yelling, getting right into her face as he argued his case. And
in the middle of all that, calling her a woman.
Then
he'd told her she was a nitwit, and that Boomer Hurley had told him all about
her. That she was nothing but a piece of honeycake who couldn't possibly know a
bat from a ball. Still, he hadn't gotten her to raise her voice back at him,
although inside, she was shaking. And she felt the hot sting of tears filling
her eyes. When he was finished with using his violent mouth and the umpire
deemed it not against the rules for Doc to go back to second from third, the
game went on.
Utterly
frazzled, she'd returned to the bench. But she tried not to show just how
affected she'd been. If she started crying, she'd be a laughingstock.
In
those last seconds of the inning, they'd held onto their lead and won.
Good
Lord in heaven, they'd won.
A
rush of excitement buzzed the air and jovial cheers of goodwill rose. Amid the
throng of people on the field, Camille's eyes met Alex's. He'd saved the
day—not because of anything she'd told him, but because he'd defended Cupid
Burns and had gotten the team to work together. Yet, the expression on his face
said that he hadn't done it for the heroics.
Vying
for his attention, a group of women rushed toward him wanting his autograph,
their signature albums in their hands. Camille turned away.
Her
mother met her and they hugged.
"Where's
Daddy?" Camille asked. She'd seen him sitting in the front row.
"Right
here."
Camille
spun around, a smile on her lips. "We won."
"That
was one heck of a ball game! The fans finally got their money's worth. And so
did I. A delight to watch." Then ever the opinion giver, he added,
"But you could have gotten more runs in if you'd played Jimmy instead of
Cupid. He hits better."
Her
smile fell. If she'd played Jimmy, Cupid wouldn't have smelled up third base
and caused a commotion. Rather than explaining that, for clearly her father had
made up his mind, she merely nodded. "I'll remember that."
Moments
later, her father had been the recipient of hearty pats on the back from his
fellow Elks Club members and from other men in town. Not a one of them patted
her on her back, heartily
or
mildly. Or shook her hand, or acknowledged
her in the slightest.
The
next edition of the
Harmony Advocate
would say that the win had been a
fluke, but every player on the Keystones knew it had been the horse liniment
that had fired them up. In light of that, it had been a unanimous vote from the
teammates for Cupid to continue his baldness treatment.
Baseball
players took their superstitions very seriously.
* * * * *
"You're
not going on a train with thirteen men, unescorted!" her father announced
later that evening as Camille packed a suitcase.
She
moved around her room, brushing past the man who stood in its center with a
deep furrow in his forehead. "Of course I am."
Her
mother sat on the bed beside the stockings Camille had rolled into neat buns.
She placed them next to her chemise and petticoat that already were nestled in
the case. "Camille, your father might be right."
"Of
course I'm right I'm always right."
A
pair of shoes in hand, she addressed her mother, disregarding her father's
comment. "How can you say that?"
"Because
Mrs. Plunkett and Mrs. Calhoon called on me earlier today and they voiced
concern about something you told them." Her mother rarely, if ever, grew
discomfited. "Something about... men's drawers."
"That
was nothing."
"It
doesn't sound like nothing," her father barreled back. "What about
men's drawers?"
"I
fibbed about something and I realized after the fact that I shouldn't have done
it." Camille fit the shoes into her suitcase, then reached for her
hairbrush and mirror. "But Mrs. Plunkett told me that I was chasing after
a husband when I became the manager of the Keystones, and that set me off. So I
played along with her, and now it's getting me into trouble." Putting her
hands on her hips, she faced her parents. "I refuse to cower. And the fact
of the matter is, there wouldn't be any of this talk or any problem if I could
grow a beard."
"Mrs.
Kirby has a mustache," her father pointed out, "and
she
doesn't
talk about men's drawers."
"Mrs.
Kirby is well into her seventies," her mother countered, "and I don't
think she's seen a man in his drawers in over a decade."
Her
father grunted. "I don't care about that old crone anyway. She can't sing
a hymn worth a blessed beat. The issue at hand is your daughter's going off on
a train full of men."
"Our
daughter
has reminded us that she's capable. And sensible." But to Camille she
said, "Even given that... don't you think it would be a good idea for your
father to go with you?"
"And
who would watch the store?" Camille pulled a nightgown out of her wardrobe
drawer. "The reason he needed a manager was so he could stay here and tend
it."
"I
could close it while I'm gone."
Dumping
the nightie into the open case, Camille declared, "You would not."
"No,
James, you wouldn't"
"I
would if that roof gutter, Nops, wasn't across the street plotting how to steal
my business right out from under my eaves!"
"I'm
going alone." To Camille, the discussion was a waste of breath. She was
going to be on that train. First thing in the morning, she'd be on her way to
Philadelphia, and after that, Washington, D.C. And she was going to be on it
without somebody to hold her hand as if she were a child. "It would be
humiliating to have my father come with me. I won't be escorted by him or
anybody else. You're forgetting, I'll have the players to protect me from unwanted
attention."