Authors: Honey
"I
don't think they have a gym in Dorothy."
"Probably
not."
They
sat for a while, then Camille brought the bottle of beer to her lips and took a
try. It wasn't wholly as bad as she'd expected. It certainly didn't carry the
same bite as her father's liquor. This had a rather pleasant mellow, if not
quenching, taste as the heat began to wane in the twilight.
"Well?"
Alex gazed at her while removing his Stetson and setting it on the cap of his
denim-clad knee. "What do you think?"
Truthfully,
this was a slice shy of heaven. Sitting here with him, the now deep blue-violet
silhouettes of clouds scudding by, the distant glow of fire sparkles on wands
waved by children. She could hardly lift her voice above a whisper. "I
think this is the most wonderful time I've had since we left Harmony."
After
a short moment of silence, he said with a tinge of regret lacing his words,
"I wasn't talking about that. I meant the beer."
Blushing,
she chided herself for having revealed something more than was needed.
He
brought the back of his hand to her cheek; she fought the instinct to lean into
him. He rubbed his knuckles down to the column of her neck. The caress was
gentling, reassuring. "But I'm glad you told me, Camille."
They
sat in silence a while, eating cornflakes and drinking beer.
Alex's
voice broke the spell. "I wonder how Cap's getting along."
"Hmm,
yes. I'm sure Dr. Porter is making sure he takes his medicine." Camille
chewed on a few flakes. "I wonder if my gladiolas have come into bloom.
Leda's watering my garden while I'm gone."
"You
got over that ladies' Garden Club thing?"
"I
suppose as best as I will."
They
grew quiet once more.
Camille
dared to broach a subject that had never been settled between them. "Were
you disappointed that you quit baseball?"
If
she expected a ready answer, she'd been deluding herself, because one wasn't
forthcoming. In fact, he didn't give her an answer at all. In the sky below,
skyrockets and torpedoes and salutes of various calibers began to fire off in
showers of color. The bombs and whistles bombarded the night, and after a
moment of calm, a fresh assault began, seemingly aimed at what looked to be the
bell tower of the schoolhouse rather than straight up.
As
the noise level rose, cheers reaching them up in their private retreat, Alex
said something in such a low voice, she wasn't sure she heard correctly.
An
explosion of white and blue rained down as he repeated, "I killed a
guy."
She
said nothing, her pulse having slowed until it seemed to cease altogether.
He
spoke the words again; his voice was without inflection. "I killed a guy.
That's why I quit baseball."
She
stared across at him, her heart lurching. "Alex... you didn't." Shock
caused the words to wedge in her throat and she had to force them into sounds.
"You couldn't have."
"I
didn't mean to."
Through
the din of the roaring fireworks, she breathed two words: "What
happened?"
Alex
rubbed his jaw with his fingers, then thoughtfully scratched at his throat. He
kept his gaze ahead, as if he couldn't look at her. "I've never talked
about it out loud. What happened is in my thoughts every day. But I've never
spoken the words, heard them with my own ears. It's condemning enough to have
them haunt my mind."
She
was shocked. Devastated. Oh God, the man she had feelings for was a... killer.
My
God.
"Did
you know him? What did he do to you?" Her questions came out in shaky
rush.
He
put his palms on his knees, the Stetson falling beside him. "We were
playing the New York Giants in Baltimore Park. I was up at bat with their
catcher riding me. We didn't get along well. In fact, I hated him. He hated me.
Rusie was pitching and he gave me a spitter too far on the outside corner and I
took it. I wanted a piece of it so bad, I overswung and knocked the catcher on
the side of his head. He went down." The anguish in his heart was audible
in his tone. "A catcher's mask doesn't save a guy's head. The bat whacked right
through the wire and knocked him out. Right there, on home plate, I ended a
man's life."
Her
throat closed; the beat of her heart steadied to a hard pounding. An accident
at the plate.
That wasn't something cold-blooded.
Camille
quietly asked, "Who was he?"
Alex
stared at the stars and the powder smoke fanning over the clouds. "Joe
McGill."
A
breeze
touched them. How utterly horrible for Alex. Horrible. She felt his despair.
"It
happened three years ago. The day we played our first game against Boston last
week."
"Oh,
Alex..." She reached out and took his hand, squeezing, wanting badly to
comfort him.
"His
spirit was out there when we played the Somersets." As he faced her, the
fireworks illuminated his somber expression. "That's why I went to church.
I lit a candle for him."
Warm
moisture filled her eyes. "I don't know what to say."
"What
can you say? I ended a man's life, then wanted penitence for it by lighting
candles. It's nothing compared to Joe's being here."
"But
it was an accident. You didn't mean to."
"Doesn't
matter. I still swung the bat. I took everything from him. He had a good
career. He could loop them over the infield better than anybody I ever
saw." He grew thoughtful a moment, then continued after a sip of beer.
"He could do a lot of things well." Alex looked up at the sky, as if
searching for Joe McGill's heaven star. "He was a checkers champion on the
road. He could play several opponents simultaneously and beat them all. He was
a good billiard player, too. A fair fisherman, and a hell of a poker player.
"You
know," he went on reflectively, shrugging slightly, "we had a hell of
a lot in common, but we never knew that about each other when he was playing
for the Giants."
A
skyrocket flared in the blanket of night that swaddled the Fourth. "His
father was a drunk, roughed him up. His mother was never around, so he ran away
from home when he was twelve. He grew up in a sandlot, just like me. Things
like that, it makes people understand each other. Only me and Joe, we never
talked about it. We were never friends."
"I
never knew any of this..."
"People
only talk about the legend. The stats, the pennants. George had the papers play
up my career rather than that June day. It was dusted over. Accidents in ball
happen. You don't dwell on it. It's bad for the team. For the owners." His
voice faded. "The attendance."
He
grew quiet once more.
"That's
why you quit baseball," she said softly.
Alex
went for a cigarette, lit it, and talked through the smoke leaving his mouth.
"And that's why I should quit today."
"But
you won't, will you?"
"I
can't."
She
understood his words to mean that baseball was in his blood, his body, and his
mind.
When
she looked at him, she could almost see the grief running in him so deeply, it
was a physical hold on his heart.
They
sat without talking further. Smoke curled above Alex's head. A firefly
flickered past. A missile whizzed by, shuddering in a flash of red. She was
grateful he told her about Joe McGill. Now she understood.
Blinking
back tears, Camille knew she would never forget this night—being with Alex
Cordova, sitting on the roof of a red-and-white barn, their knees brushing,
chinking beer and eating Kellogg's cornflakes out of the box. Watching
fireworks as they bloomed into a palette of colors on a night sky's canvas.
Listening to the shrill shrieks of the rockets, the oohs and ahs of
the
crowd in the distance, the lowing of cows in the pasture, and the steady rhythm
of her heartbeat in her ears.
This
was the closest she'd ever felt to another human being. It was humbling. A gift
to cherish. And it made her fully aware of how easy it would be to fall in love
with Alex.
If
she hadn't already.
"Cap?"
Alex
took in the clean-shaven jaw of the man sweeping in front of Plunkett's
mercantile. Facial features that had been hidden for so long were now defined,
jolting Alex from his walk and holding him in place. A tightness caught in his
chest, and the blood in his veins chilled as he stared. Little by little,
warmth returned as a war of emotions raged within him. It was like looking at a
photograph of what once was—a person Alex had once known.
"Hey,
Alex." Captain stilled the broom and gazed at him with a wide smile. His
rich black hair had been clipped short and combed into place with pomade.
"You're back."
"Yeah."
He proceeded slowly, unable to take his gaze from Captain's altered appearance.
Without the facial hair, small lines at the corners of Captain's mouth were
noticeable. "We just got in a couple of minutes ago."
"They
told me your train broke in Dorothy, Wisconsin.
Wisconsin
is an easy
word to remember. I don't have to spell it."
Captain
didn't usually remember details like town names.
The
brown eyes that had looked at Alex with confusion over the past few years now
seemed somewhat sharper. "That's how come you didn't play the Athletics
yesterday afternoon."
"That's
right." Alex looked hard at Captain, his thoughts going in all directions
with uncertainty. It wasn't just his lack of beard and mustache and his trimmed
hair that made him seem different. He stood taller; his skin color wasn't as
pale as moonlight anymore. "We had to forfeit the game."
"Forfeit.
F-o-r-f..." His dark brows furrowed. "How do you spell that word,
Alex?"
"F-o-r-f-e-i-t."
Captain
rested the broom against the mercantile's wall and took out a pencil and small
tablet from his back pocket. "I'll remember that word now because I'm
going to write it down." He carefully wrote out the letters, then folded
the cover over the page and stored the tablet back in his trousers.
"Are
you doing okay, Cap?" Alex took in his white shirt, sleeves rolled to his
elbows, and the string apron around his waist. His body filled out his clothing
better than it had before.
"Now
I am. I wasn't feeling very good for a while after you left. I was sick every
day." He spoke with resonance and clarity. "I couldn't come to work.
I've been staying with the doctor at his house. Today's my first day back. I
was worried Mr. Plunkett would fire me. But he didn't."
Alarm
pulsed through Alex. "What happened? Did you get a headache that was worse
than other times?"
Captain
felt his jaw and smiled as his fingertips worked over the skin. "Did you
notice I shaved?"
Alex
went along with Cap's change of topics even though his mind was spinning.
"I did, Cap."
"I
shaved myself. The doc watched me to make sure I did it right."
"You
look swell." Alex gave him an approving smile, then slowly asked in a
quiet tone, "What made you do it?"
Captain's
expression turned serious. "I wanted to see what I looked like."
Alex
lifted his head with a brief nod. "Well, that's good." There was more
to this than Captain was telling, or maybe even understood. Not once since his
accident had Captain expressed an interest in seeing his face. He'd been too
afraid of a razor to give shaving any consideration. What had made him change?
"Do you know why you got sick? Did something upset you and you have to
take a lot of your medicine?"
"No."
Captain reached for the broom and began to sweep once more. "I haven't had
my old medicine very much lately. Dr. Porter said—"The thought was cut
short as his face lit with excitement. "Hey, Alex, I kicked his ass at
checkers. Every time. The doc never won a single game. When my stomach hurt, to
make me not think about how bad I felt, we played checkers." Each sweep of
his broom was executed with fluidly moving muscular arms; it reminded Alex that
Cap was still a very strong man—something Cap had forgotten at times when he
had hidden behind his hair. "I'm teaching Hildegarde how to play. She's
not very good yet. I kick her ass, too. But sometimes I let her win because
she's a woman and because I think she's pretty. Do you think that's cheating,
Alex?"
No
medicine lately? Playing checkers with a pretty woman?
"No,
Cap, that wouldn't be cheating." Listening with bewilderment, Alex found
it hard to stay focused on what Cap said. His thoughts were frozen amid the
questions of why Captain looked and sounded different. Why the doctor had quit
giving him his medicine. "I've got to go do something."
"Okay.
I'll see you later at the baseball game. I'm going to watch from the front
row."
"That'll
be good. I'll see you."