Authors: Honey
She
ran to the edge of the brawl, calling for them to stop, but her cries went
unheeded.
Pandemonium
ensued as the umpire yelled over the upset. "You want to get thrown out of
the game, Cordova? I'll throw you all the way into the clubhouse." When
Alex made no attempt to get off the pitcher, the umpire shouted, "You are
out
of the game!"
Suddenly,
Captain appeared, tall and undaunted by the display of upper cuts and jabs.
She'd seen him in the seats with Hildegarde and was thankful he'd come down to
try to stop Alex from hitting the pitcher. He went right up to them, cutting
his way through the knot of players without being struck—even though he pushed
men this way and that to get to Alex.
"Alex!
Hey, Alex!" Captain grabbed the back of Alex's shirt in his big fist and
pulled with enough force to get his attention. "Alex, you're going to hurt
him. You're going to hurt him bad. Cut it out."
Alex,
drenched in sweat, looked up—just as the pitcher laid one on his jaw and
snapped Alex's head back. Dazed, he stopped and staggered to his feet.
"Sweet Jesus."
The
others quit their fists, began to nurse wounds, and ambled back to their
respective benches.
Alex's
lip had been cut by that punch from the opposing pitcher, and the corner of his
left eye had begun to swell. "I'm sorry, Cap. I didn't mean for you to
see. I'm sorry."
"It's
okay, Alex... that pitcher did wrong. But still..." Captain put his arm
around him and the pair started back to the dugout. "You're a big guy. You
could have knocked his head off. I don't want you to get arrested. I know what
that is. J-a-i-l. It spells
slammer."
"I'm
sorry," Alex repeated.
"You
didn't hit me, Alex," he replied, patting him on the back and trying to
get him to smile. "I'm not mad at you."
Alex's
next words were barely audible. "Ah God, Cap. You should be."
Camille
stood there, watching the two, shades of a sunset glowing off their shirt
backs. It was an odd irony—Captain calming Alex.
The
game resumed and the Keystones won, but Alex was suspended for the next five
days.
As
Camille walked home that evening in the twilight, she couldn't help thinking
about Joe McGill... and wondering.
* * * * *
Camille
opened the front door, wearing her robe and with her hair falling about her
shoulders, to find Alex. Although the screen separated them, he could see by
her disheveled appearance that he must have awakened her. Her eyes blinked back
the bright morning sunshine that spilled over the porch veranda. She put a hand
to her brow to shade her gaze.
Her
words came out in a sleepy Southern drawl. "What's the matter?"
As
she stared past him to her lawn, he smiled. The players had set up shop on her
grass, holding buckets of paint, brushes, turpentine, and protective sheeting.
Then her gaze rested back on him.
A
ray of hope lightened her sleepy blue eyes. "Did you get the umpire to
lift your suspension?" Her accent reminded him of sugared peaches.
He
had to shake his head. "Nope. But you're going to have your house painted
today."
"I
am?"
He
dipped his voice down low. "Get dressed, honey, and tell us how you want
the colors."
She
paused, looked at the yard once more, then nodded. "Okay." She shut
the front door.
He
turned and viewed his crew of recruits. Captain had joined in. He sat on a tree
stump studying the color chart Kennison had given them when they'd picked up
the paint.
Captain's
recovery had continued—amazingly so since those days in July. His headaches had
subsided, but he suffered from blocks of memory loss. His day-to-day
recollections had improved. He could tell Alex what he had for lunch the day
before and remember the meal with detail. He hadn't been able to do that
before.
He
conversed about things he hadn't in a long while—basic topics, like cooking
scrambled eggs, riding a sled in the snow, playing cards.
And
he asked questions, too.
A
lot
of
questions. Why did the doctors give him the wrong medicine? How did Alex's bow
drill work? What do you call the machine with the wide trumpet where music
comes out? Who is the president of the United States? Where is the hospital he
used to be in? When did he get sick?
Alex
wondered when these questions would eventually lead to: What happened to me,
Alex? When the time came, Alex would be honest. And it was going to kill both
of them. But he owed Cap. He'd tell the truth.
In
the meantime, each day remained an uncertainty. Alex still thought taking
Captain to Buffalo was the answer. If the doc here could help Cap so much,
Silas Denton ought to be able to bring him back to his old self
So
Alex didn't want to get used to sticking around in Harmony. He'd already sent
what he had of his bonus money to Buffalo. At the end of the season, he was
going to walk out on his contract. Only now, it was going to get him in the gut
to do it. Before, he didn't know Camille, didn't care if he ruined her father's
team. He'd cared only about helping Cap. Now, he thought differently.
But
the bottom line always came back to having to put Cap first.
He
kept telling himself he couldn't risk falling in love with Camille. In the long
run, he'd hurt her. And he didn't want to do that. He'd do anything
not
to
do that. She was too good for him. He didn't deserve her. Not when he went off
in a rage yesterday and nearly beat a guy senseless right in front of her.
What
kind of a man would do that?
A
man who'd seen this kind of arrogant pitching before—because he'd lived it,
done it himself. Watching that Cleveland pitcher had been like looking into one
of those glass snowballs that kids shake. Inside, Alex had stood on the mound,
a mean streak and an arm that let him knock the batter out of the box. He
didn't play that way anymore; there just wasn't any justifiable excuse for
trying to cut a guy down at the plate.
At
least none of the Keystones were cutthroats.
Looking
at Cub and Yank arguing over what size brush to use on the porch posts;
Noodles, Cupid, Jimmy, Bones, and Mox comparing mustache growth because of the
bet they'd made with one another to see who could sprout the fullest one
fastest; Doc on his knees, running his hands over the grass blades to look for
clovers; Specs wiping off another trial pair of spectacles; Deacon, Duke, and
Charlie puffing on ten-cent cigars and making smoke rings—Alex felt a pang grab
him in the ribs. He was going to miss these fellows more than he could have
predicted—much less have imagined. They were a good group of players. They
weren't the best he'd ever played with, but winning, to them, didn't mean
killing anybody to get the trophy.
The
Keystones played with heart. It was something to be proud of, and Alex was. And
Camille had the grit and determination to bring them to the playoffs. For her,
Alex would have liked to get the pennant.
He
wanted to do everything he could for her before October. It seemed too close,
to be coming too quickly. On the day he pitched his last pitch of the inning,
he would leave. Until then, he'd fill the gaps in his life with thoughts of
her. She occupied his mind all the time—when he sculpted wood or carved a new
design on his totem pole, when he walked over to the ballpark, when he lay in
bed at night wishing he had her to cradle in his arms, to kiss and make love
to.
He
looked forward to seeing her each day. He liked being with her and watching how
she moved, walked. How her hands gestured when she talked. When she was with
the team and telling them how to play, she was funny and smart. She didn't
always show her emotions, which made her all the more alluring, more complex.
The
screen door's rusty hinges made noise behind him as Camille came out wearing
one of those dresses he liked. They looked light and breezy, feminine in all
the right places in the way the fabric draped her body. The dress had smooth
lines and fancy trimmings. Its color was lavender, like the fragrance she wore
so often. The pale violet hue seemed to turn her eyes that same shade.
She
hadn't done up her hair in pins, just loosely braided it. The curls looked soft
and sensual, although he doubted she realized that. A few tendrils caught at
her forehead and ears, where he noted she'd put on a pair of tiny pearl
earrings.
Jesus,
she was beautiful.
"How
did you get the paint?" she asked, stepping out to meet him.
"Your
father." He breathed in, savoring her perfume, noting she did smell as
good as she looked. "We went over to the hardware store and told him we
wanted to paint the place for you and he said your order had come in the other
day."
She
gazed into his face. "That was thoughtful, Alex."
"Hell,
I don't want to be thoughtful. After the way I got suspended, I owed you."
"You
owe more to Cub. He's going to have to pitch five days in a row now." Her
lips were pink and shiny. He wanted to kiss her, the memory of her lips against
his not enough. "Maybe you should be painting his house instead of
mine."
"I
like Cub fine enough, but he's not as pretty as you."
He
always thought she blushed nice; he wasn't disappointed, because she blushed
now.
"How
did my father react to your coming into his store?"
"He
gave me a new behind for getting suspended." Alex took off his hat and
readjusted the Stetson on his head. "He can take the hide off a bear when
he gets started."
That
made her laugh, and he drank in the sound. "Yes, he can."
"He'll
make it hard for his son-in-law to call him Father."
Alex
didn't know why he'd said that. He wasn't the husband for Camille, and he
didn't want to think about some other man standing beside her at the altar. The
image of her wearing a white gown, with a veil over her face, made him think
about honeymoon trips—kissing, bedrooms, sex, eternity.
Longing
set into Alex and he had to force it away.
Captain
came up the steps and greeted them with a question. "Alex, what does
revival
mean?" He pointed to the paint card and the square of Colonial Revival
Blue.
Alex
shoved one hand in his pocket and leaned back against the porch post. "In
this case it's a restoration color."
"Restoration?"
"A
color of paint that brings back the way a house used to look."
"Oh."
Captain clearly wasn't thinking along those lines. His face was a cloud of
confusion as he looked at the paint square once more, then at Alex with a
puzzled gaze. "I was wondering if it could mean something about a tent,
too."
"No.
It doesn't mean tent. A tent is a canvas shelter you put up with poles."
"I
know that," Captain said with some impatience.
"Do
you mean a tent revival, Captain?" Camille asked gently. "Where
people meet and there's a man of the cloth—"
"—who
wears a thin black tie and he's got liquor in his coat pocket and he asks
people for money," Captain finished in a rush, his cheeks flushing in an
animated way. "He stands there with a Bible in his hand, and we know he's
got booze in that coat pocket because we saw him take a swig when he was behind
the curtain, and he yells we're all going to hell if we don't do like he and
his Good Book says. And then me and Frankie Munson throw bottle caps at him and
tell him he's a worm and a fraud. We had to run from the coppers... back over
to Frankie's house. He lived at 240th Avenue and his father was a dumb ass just
like... just like..." His words trailed, the look in his eyes distant, as
if he were grasping for a thimbleful of information but couldn't quite reach
it. "I think I know somebody else who is a dumb ass."
Alex
had followed the story with his heart lurching and burning in his chest. He'd
listened, his breath trapped in his throat and the muscles in his arms hard
beneath his sleeves. Each word of Cap's reflection hit him with the force of a
blow. Alex had been waiting for this moment, had told himself he was prepared
for it. But now that it had come to pass, it was far harder handle than he
could have foreseen.
The
memory of a tent revival with a childhood friend was the first to make it out
of the storeroom.
Alex
almost didn't trust himself to speak. His emotions welded together in a knot
that was hard to untie. When he found his voice, it was shakier than he would
have liked. "Cap, you shouldn't say
ass
in front of a lady."
"Oh."
Cap reached into his back pocket, took out his tablet and pencil, and said as
he wrote, "Don't say
ass
to ladies. Or Hildegarde." Then he
put the tiny notepad away.
"Are
we going to start slapping up paint?" Cub shouted toward the porch.
"Or are we going to stand around and scratch ourselves all morning?"
Specs
added with a croak, "I don't scratch myself. How many times do I have to
say it? I do
not
scratch myself."