The next evening, as she was pondering the menu in the Waldorf’s dining room and trying to figure out what kind of a duck confit was, a thin young man in a tuxedo and slick-backed blond hair asked if he might join her for dinner. Delia liked what she saw; he even smelled good.
He introduced himself. “Devon Jenkins, London and New York, at your service.”
“Delia Novak, uh, Youngstown and Pittsburgh, I’m sure.”
He kissed her hand. No one had ever kissed her there before. She thought it was a bit twitty—Abe never kissed her like that, he would grab her around the shoulders and press his big mush into hers until she was out of breath—but it was all right with her, sort of.
Devon used a lot of what she would call fifty-cent words, and although she didn’t understand half of them, she pretended she did and hoped he wasn’t catching on. He ordered a bottle of champagne. “Delia, how do you feel about oysters? I must confess I have a rather obsessive affinity for them. Shall I order a dozen?”
“Yes, you shall.”
By the time the second bottle of champagne was uncorked and dinner was served, Delia’s shoes were off under the table.
“So, dear Delia, what do you think of the Waldorf?”
She paused. “I got my own bathroom.”
Devon smiled an even-toothed smile. “Remarkable.” He shifted a bit closer, his knees touching hers. “So, dearest Delia, if I may ask, what fortuitous happenstance brings you to New York and into my life?”
She thought for a moment. “Oh, this and that.”
“I see.”
“It’s just that I’ve come into a bit of, you know, money.”
“You don’t say. However, I would be most careful not to allow your good fortune to become general knowledge.” His eyes surveyed the room. “There are some, how shall I say it, charlatans with less than honorable intentions in this city.”
“Really.”
When the bill came, Devon snatched it up before Delia could see it, which disappointed her, since she was dying to know how expensive dinner was, just so she could tell someone sometime, like the gals at Gross Hardware, not that she was planning on seeing them any time soon, but still.
As he bid her good night at the elevators, he pressed a card into her hand, and then kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Until tomorrow?”
“Until tomorrow.”
It was her first business card. Under the reading light on her night table, she read,
Devon Jenkins
.
Rare gems, rare opportunities
.
New York
.
London
. Her head spun. Rare opportunities. She was up for anything. Especially with a man that smelled that good.
The next night they met again, for lobster and more champagne. Devon toasted Delia’s beauty with a glass of 20-year-old port. “I cannot believe a woman as radiant as you has yet to be wed.”
“Oh, you know,” she said, the port swimming in her head. “I’m still kind of playing field.”
“Of course you are.” He took her hand. “You know, dearest, I’m certain a woman with your means wouldn’t have the slightest interest in matters of commerce, but, forgive me, I would feel a bit derelict if I neglected to tell you about a rare opportunity.”
“Like it says on your card.”
He looked confused for a second. “Oh, yes, of course.” He paused again. “But no. Forget what I just said. Whatever was I thinking, bringing up something like this to a woman like you? I’m sure you wouldn’t have the slightest interest.”
“No, go ahead, Devon.” She hiccupped. “Dearest.”
“Well, if you insist.” He glanced around the room. “Not here.” He snapped his fingers. “Waiter.”
They took a handsome carriage. Devon told her about a diamond mine in South Africa that was literally bursting at the seams with the precious stones, and that some “important” people, whose names he was not at liberty to divulge but who, suffice it to say, were “people of title,” had already taken a large quantity of shares. There were still a few shares to be had, and of course he realized that Delia was “quite comfortable,” and no doubt let professionals manager her wealth, but nonetheless, he felt he should tell her about the mine because, if on the off chance she
were
interested, she could in fact triple her investment, conservatively speaking, in four weeks.
What Delia knew about diamonds would have fit on the nail of her pinky finger, which was where she wore her mother’s engagement ring. Nonetheless, she agreed to give Devon seven hundred dollars, in cash.
They had dinner at the Algonquin the next evening, even though Delia was somewhat embarrassed that she had to wear the same dress as the night they met. The champagne soon made her forget all about it. Once again, Devon picked up the check. Delia invited him to her room, but Devon begged off, explaining that he had to meet with one of the other investors, a cranky exiled member of the Russian royal court that needed to have his hand held, but he promised he would see her the next day, no ifs, ands or buts. She thought it was odd he’d turned down her invitation, since she’d already undone the top three buttons of her dress and leaned in against him, but, she guessed, Russian royalty came first. She went to bed and dreamed about soaking in a bathtub full of diamonds.
Delia waited for Devon in the dining room until nine o’clock the next night. She went to bed without eating. Two days went by. She thought she saw him hurrying out of the lobby on the third, and she was about yell, “Hey, Devon!” but that seemed inappropriate for a woman of her supposed station. The next morning she went to the front desk to ask about him. The clerk told her Mr. Jenkins had checked out the previous day.
It rained the next day, and Delia decided not to get up. Around two p.m., the bill for the month slid under her door. After her initial panic, she dressed and asked the concierge for the train schedule for Pittsburgh.
Her old job at Gross Hardware was long gone, her slot in the rooming house was gone, and so was ninety percent of her bank balance. She took an efficiency apartment in Mt. Washington and began waitressing at The Hometown Inn and Tavern on Forbes Avenue, two weeks before they opened the new baseball stadium, Forbes Field. New York had taught her one thing. There were the takers, and there were the taken.
Chapter 3
June 30, 1909, was a day generations of Pittsburghers would always remember. It was opening day for America’s first true baseball stadium, Forbes Field, fabricated, appropriately enough, almost entirely from poured concrete and Pittsburgh steel.
Forbes Field was one of many firsts for “Hell with the Lid Off,” as Boston writer James Parton had characterized the city some 40 years earlier. Pittsburgh could also legitimately boast of having the country’s first museum of modern art, its first motion picture theater and its first banana split. What’s more, if there had been an accurate means of compiling the statistics, Pittsburgh surely would have been America’s first city for pulmonary fibrosis, silicosis and a host of other occupational and airborne maladies, thanks to the incessant appetite of its steel industry.
Abe Miller was not about to let Forbes Field’s maiden voyage set sail without him. He rose early that morning, as excited as a schoolboy on the first day of summer vacation, roused Arthur and Benjamin and made them a big breakfast for this big event—generous portions of fried salami and eggs, oatmeal with molasses and butter, toast with raspberry jam and glasses of buttermilk. “Eat up, boys, this could be the best day of your lives. Like the newspaper says, we’re going to be part of history.” He intoned the word as if intoxicated by its significance. “Let’s get it a move on, boys—like the ballplayers say, we have to hustle. We don’t want to miss out.”
The boys had almost finished wiping their plates with their fingers when Irene dragged herself to the kitchen with Alex slung on her hip. She’d slept restlessly, shifting as far away from Abe as their four-poster queen-sized bed would allow her without falling over the edge, like her marriage. She stared at the burned remains of salami and egg in the massive wrought iron skillet her mother had given her the prior Christmas, with instructions to either cook with it or use it to brain her husband. A wave of nausea passed over her, then a panic-like chill—she couldn’t be pregnant again, please God—until she remembered that she’d just finished her period. It must have been the oily fumes of meat and eggs that hung over the frying pan that caused her to feel so queasy. She put Alex in his highchair, next to Abe at the head of the table.
Abe had the morning paper open to the sports section, reading as best as he could, skipping over the longer words. “Boys, who can tell me who the Pirates’ shortstop is?”
As if he were in Mrs. Farrell’s reading class, Benjamin threw up his hand. “That’s easy.”
Before he could continue, Alex said, “Honus Wagner, shortstop. Dots Miller, second base. George Gibson, catcher. Jap Barbeau, third base. Fred Clarke, left field. Tommy Leach, center field. Chief Wilson, right field. Bill Abstein, first base. Babe Adams, pitcher.”
Abe dropped the newspaper.
Arthur said, “God damn.”
“Watch your mouth, mister.” Irene twisted his ear perhaps harder than he deserved, jealous that Alex had spoken to him first and rather than his own mother. “Wait—did you two know he was talking? Has he been talking to you? When did you teach him that?”
“But, Ma, I didn’t.”
Abe said, “Christ, it’s a miracle. The miracle of opening day.”
“Alex, honey, can you talk to me? Momma wants to hear you talk.”
“Come on, Alex. Say it again.” Benjamin tickled Alex’s bare toes. “Say Honus Wagner.” Both boys entreated their tiny brother in rapid-fire succession to repeat the lineup. Alex was all grins but no words.
“Let me have the boy.” Abe hoisted Alex to his lap. He began in his best avuncular voice. “Now little Alex, your old man—Daddy—we think it’s very good that you can talk. Very good. You’re a very good boy.” He winked confidentially at Irene, as if to say, you see, don’t worry, Irene, a superior mind here is at work, I’ll entice the boy to open up, he’ll be talking like a jaybird in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, you just watch and learn.
If Irene was informed, interested or impressed with Abe’s gesture, she gave no indication. She poured a cup of coffee for herself and absentmindedly chewed on a crust of wheat toast.
After two minutes of begging, cajoling and yelling at Alex, all to no avail, Abe tried another tack. “All right, Alex, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” certain his clever gambit of reverse psychology would result in a torrent of words.
Alex rubbed a piece of scrambled egg in his hair.
“Leave him be, Abe. Maybe he’s done talking for now. He’ll talk when he wants to talk.”
For once, Abe had to agree with his wife, even though it was against his basic nature to give her the satisfaction of acknowledging it to her face. “Your mother’s right, boys. Now let’s get our lunches and get down to the ballpark. The dedication ceremonies are at one and the trolley will be as crowded as a cattle car. Christ, look at the time, it’s already 9:30. Let’s go, let’s go.”
Alex said, “Alex go, too.”
Abe said, “I’ll be damned. Alex? What did he say, Irene?”
Alex repeated, “Alex go, too.”
“He wants to go to the baseball game, Dad. Can we take him, can we, huh, come on?”
Abe shifted in his seat. “It’s ridiculous. I can’t be taking him along.”
Alex screamed so loudly that the cat, which had been furtively licking the remains of the fried salami, leaped onto the curtains over the kitchen window and hung there like a sailor clinging to the mast in a hurricane.
Irene said, “Alex, sweetheart, I know you want to go, but you can’t go with Daddy today. Daddy will take you to a baseball game when you get bigger, all right?” The word bigger echoed in her head. When, dear Lord, will that be? Two months, two years, twenty years from now—at the rate he’s growing, I’ll be long in the grave. “Isn’t that right, Abraham?”
“Sure, sure,” Abe said, willing to agree with anything that would get him and the boys out of the house and up to the trolley stop before the cars became too damned crowded, like they were every morning when he rode the 74 to town before he transferred to the South Side. “When you’re bigger, Alex.”
Alex sucked in his breath between his lips with a high-pitched whistle. After ten seconds his cheeks, the size of silver dollars turned bright red, then began to fade.
“Alex? Abe, do you see what he’s doing?”
“He can’t kill himself by holding his breath, Ma,” Arthur said. “Stanley Filiposki tried it in school because Angelo DelGrosso bet him a nickel he couldn’t hold his breath for two minutes, but Stanley then just passed out and then he started breathing. He wasn’t dead.”
Alex began to shiver and turn pale.
“Abraham!”
“All right, all right. Alex, listen, son, you can go with us, all right? Breathe, damn it.”
Alex turned from his brothers to his mother to his father with a wide smile. He let his breath out and said, “Alex go, too.”
*
There was simply no way that Irene was going to let Abe take the baby to see the new stadium without her. He wasn’t responsible enough to care for the three of them by himself for ten minutes. She would go along with them to Forbes Field, and once the opening ceremonies were over, they could all go home. She packed applesauce and stewed carrots, along with two diapers, into the large burlap bag she used to keep her sewing.
Mellon Street was just two blocks from the trolley that ran from East End to Oakland. Abe muscled his way to an empty seat midway to the back and stood guard over it until Irene and the boys made it through the tangle of arms, legs and picnic baskets. He installed Irene and Alex next to the window so that she and the baby would have some air.
As people got off and on, they’d pause by the Millers’ seat to gawk at Alex, who was sitting in Irene’s lap, playing with his toes. Arthur stuck his tongue out at the people waiting at the stops, while Benjamin studied the lineups in the newspaper he found on the floor of the trolley.