Bachelor Girl

by Kim van Alkemade

  I had no idea what attending a ballgame had to do with my future, but I didn’t have the strength for an argument. My skirt was a crumpled mess on the floor so I changed into a yellow linen dress I’d purchased back in the fall. The style suited my boyish figure, hanging in a flattering line from my shoulders to my calves. I shook my head at the irony of dressing up to meet the man who’d ruined our family. Ruppert probably thought he was being generous with this invitation, but what were a handful of baseball tickets compared to my father’s life?

  The apartment door slammed. Rex’s voice echoed down the hallway. “Mom, there’s a limousine outside. Clarence said the driver’s asking for us.”

  Down in the lobby, a uniformed man stood hat in hand. “Mrs. Winthrope? I’m Schultz, Colonel Ruppert’s chauffeur. Please, come this way.” He indicated a black Packard parked at the curb. Clarence gave me a quizzical look as I followed them out, but all I could do was shrug.

  Rex was nearly as excited about the car as he was about the ballgame. He watched with fascination as the driver shifted through the gears. “Mr. Schultz, do you know who the Yankees are playing today?”

  “Boston, I believe.”

  Rex’s eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. “You mean we’re gonna see Babe Ruth?” By the time we arrived at the ballpark, Rex had filled me in on every detail of Babe’s biography, from the priest at the Catholic orphanage who taught him how to play, to his statistics as a pitcher and his batting average for the Red Sox. “I hope we get to see him hit a home run,” Rex said as we climbed out of the limousine.

  “Remember, young man, he’s playing against Colonel Ruppert’s team,” Schultz said. “You wouldn’t want the Yankees to lose, now would you? Here, Mrs. Winthrope, just show this card at the gate.”

  We walked around the Polo Grounds, its high walls plastered with advertisements, to reach the entrance. My mother enjoyed presenting Colonel Ruppert’s business card to the ticket taker, I could tell. After asking a vendor on the concourse for directions, we emerged from a dark tunnel into the open embrace of the ballpark. The way the tiered stands curved around that wedge of green field made me feel as if I were inside a giant layer cake with a slice cut out. Though late in the afternoon, the sun was still high from the new daylight saving scheme, leaving the spectators shaded but flooding the field with light. The outfield gave way to views of the swing bridge over the Harlem River and the lumberyards of the Bronx beyond.

  An usher led us to the owner’s box, a section of empty seats surrounded by a simple railing. I wasn’t impressed—I’d been picturing the box seats in a theater—and my mother was disappointed, too. “Are you sure this is Colonel Ruppert’s box?”

  The usher shrugged. “He doesn’t own the ballpark, but it’s the Colonel’s box when the Yanks are playing.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  “Perhaps he just meant this to be his present, Mom,” I said, relieved at not having to see the man.

  “Game’s already started.” Rex threw off his school jacket and leaned against the rail. “Look, Mom, we’re right over first base.” He shaded his eyes with his hand as he examined the scoreboard. It was the bottom of the inning and Boston was on the field. “There he is, Helen, past third base, look.” I stood beside my brother—When had we become the same height? I wondered—and followed his pointed finger to a thick-chested player with a squashed-looking face and a mop of black hair.

  “Is that Babe Ruth? He doesn’t look all that special.”

  “Oh, why don’t you just sit down, Helen, if you don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  I laughed for the first time in what felt like forever and took a seat beside my mother, who was tugging off her gloves. “I’m sure he asked us to join him for the game, Helen. I didn’t misunderstand.” Hoping to distract her, I bought a bag of peanuts from a passing vendor, but she wasn’t interested. “I thought he wanted to meet you.”

  The Yankees had just taken the field for the top of the next inning when I sensed the presence of someone lurking behind us. I turned to see a distinguished gentleman standing just outside the box, staring at me. I lifted my chin to meet his gaze and a smile broke across his stern face. He extended his arm, a gold cuff link catching the light. “You must be Helen.”

  I readied myself for a surge of resentment that never came. In person, Jacob Ruppert wasn’t the sinister figure I’d remembered him to be. I offered my hand, which he covered with both of his own. Before I could say anything, my mother spoke up. “Jake, hello.”

  He gave her a slight bow. “Hello, Teresa.”

  She was about to stand up when he leaned over to kiss her cheek, resulting in an awkward collision. Flustered, she offered him the seat beside me, as if she were the hostess of a dinner party instead of his guest at the ballpark. When he asked me if I was enjoying the game, my mother cut in before I could answer. “We’re enjoying it immensely, Jake, aren’t we, Helen?”

  “Yes, I guess we are.”

  “I’m glad to see you looking so well.” His accent was less pronounced in person than on the telephone. He was smaller than I remembered, too, though of course I’d only been a child then.

  “Thank you, Colonel Ruppert.” I didn’t know what else to say. We sat in silence for a long moment.

  “May I have a peanut?” he finally asked.

  “Of course.” I held out the bag, into which he dipped his manicured fingers.

  Apparently he wasn’t sure what to make of me, either. Finally he came up with, “You were just a little girl when I saw you last.”

  I thought it was a tactless thing to say, as I was sure the last time we’d seen each other was at my father’s funeral. But no—now I remembered another meeting, some months after we’d moved to the city, when he’d come to our apartment bearing gifts. “Was it at Christmas? You kissed my cheek. I remember because your mustache scratched.”

  “That’s right.” A smile wrinkled his eyes. “Do you recall what present I gave you?”

  “No, I can’t say that I do.” Though my answer was curt, I was quickly losing my animosity toward the man. Indeed, I felt strangely comfortable beside him. Perhaps it was the way he smelled. He had the clean scent of a man who bathed daily and always wore a freshly laundered shirt. Bleach and starch and shoe polish, with a hint of peppermint. “Wait, I do remember. Was it a bag of candy canes?”

  Ruppert slapped his knee with delight. “What a sharp girl you are, yes. There was something else, too, a porcelain doll from Germany, but I could see from your face when you unwrapped it that you were too old for dolls.”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure I still have it somewhere.” Actually, the last time I’d come across the doll I was cleaning out my closet and couldn’t remember how it had gotten there. I’d offered it to Clarence for his sisters but he’d refused, saying their mother wouldn’t want them playing nanny to a white baby. Miffed, I’d tossed it into a donation bin at church. I supposed some little orphan was cradling it now.

  “Look, Helen, he’s coming up to bat.” Rex turned around and seemed surprised to find Colonel Ruppert sitting there.

  “You must be Rex. Do you like baseball?”

  “Like it? I know everything about it.” Rex squinted at him suspiciously. “You do know who Babe Ruth is, don’t you?”

  “I certainly do. He’s the reason I’m here today myself.”

  We all turned our attention to the field. The pitcher lifted his knee, reached back with his arm, and hurled the ball. Ruth twitched but didn’t swing. “Low and outside,” Rex said. “Mogridge isn’t gonna walk him, is he, Colonel?”

  “Oh, I don’t have anything to do with those decisions, Rex. Miller Huggins is the manager, I just write the checks.” And cash them, I thought, looking at the thousands of spectators in the stands. Though I had no idea what Ruppert paid to lease the Polo Grounds from the Giants, I’d noticed the ticket prices when we came through the turnstile. Doing a quick calculation in my head, it seemed to me the Yankees mu
st be turning him a tidy profit.

  Babe fouled the next pitch. He spat and kicked at home plate then lifted the bat. A hush fell over the crowd as the pitcher wound up and threw a fastball. Rex explained afterward that he probably meant to crowd Babe off the plate, but the pitch went a little wide and Babe’s bat caught it. His entire body followed the swing until I thought he might trip over his own feet. But he didn’t trip. He was running to first base, thin calves churning away, when the roar of the fans told him the ball had traveled clear out of the park.

  Rex jumped up and down as Babe jogged the bases. He turned around, eyes shining. “A home run, did you see that?”

  My mother winced. “Rex, please, you keep forgetting whose guest we are.”

  “Don’t apologize, Teresa. The boy has got every right to be excited. You think he’s a great player, don’t you, Rex?”

  “The best. Can you imagine if he played for the Yankees?”

  After watching the next inning, in which Babe didn’t get another chance to bat, Ruppert stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go talk with Huggins. I’m expecting my personal secretary to join me. Keep an eye out for him, won’t you? His name’s Kramer.”

  Once we were alone in the box, our mother tugged on Rex’s sleeve. “You shouldn’t cheer for the other team when you’re sitting with the owner.”

  “Well, he should’ve bought a better team than the Yankees if he wanted to win.”

  “I don’t think Colonel Ruppert minded, Mom,” I said. “Here, have a peanut.”

  With a defeated sigh, she stuck her hand in the bag and drew out a fistful of nuts. By the time another inning had passed, her lap was littered with shells.

  I hadn’t realized what a lifelong companion I’d made of my anger toward Ruppert. Watching the game, I felt strangely bereft. I hardly noticed a pressure on my shoulder so slight that I lifted my hand without thinking to brush it away. It was a shock to feel fingers instead of some scrap of paper or a hapless ladybug.

  “I’m sorry to startle you, but I’m here to meet Colonel Ruppert. Isn’t this his box?”

  A handsome young man stood uncertainly in the aisle, hat in hand, a black bow tie clashing with his fashionable tan suit. I blinked, as if my eyes were camera lenses with which I could capture the moment in stereoscope. The crowd behind him blurred as he came into sharp focus. His eyes were expressive and his mouth sensitive, his jawline refined and his cheeks smooth-shaven. It was uncanny how certain I felt that I was seeing the face of a long-lost friend. There you are, I thought. There you are.

  I held out my hand. He took it gently. It crossed my mind that it would take two of him bundled together to equal Harrison’s weight. “You must be Mr. Kramer. I’m Helen.”

  Chapter 6

  Helen greeted me as if we were already old friends, shaking my hand warmly and putting me immediately at ease. She wasn’t pretty, exactly, but her face was so open and her smile so genuine that I liked her right away. The woman beside her stood up, and Helen introduced her mother. There was a boy, too, who didn’t bother to turn around.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Kramer,” Mrs. Winthrope said. “Jake asked us to look out for you.”

  “Jake?” I’d only ever heard his brother call him by his Christian name. “Oh, you mean the Colonel. He’s not here, then?”

  “He went down to the dugout, but he said he’d be back soon.” Helen held out a paper bag of peanuts. I took a handful just to give myself something to do. Not having any idea who these people were, and not knowing when the Colonel would return, I settled into a seat and cracked one open. I looked around at the thousands of men in the stands who apparently had nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon. No wonder the legislators in Albany were so set against allowing games on Sunday, I thought. They’d empty out the churches.

  “Look, Mom, he’s coming up to bat again.” The boy pointed to home plate.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  “Don’t you people know anything? That’s Babe Ruth.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Rex,” Helen said, putting her hand on my arm. “When it comes to baseball, my brother is a fanatic.”

  The New York crowd, eager to see Babe Ruth hit, cheered as he tapped home plate with his bat. Readying himself for the pitch, he set his spindly legs wide apart and lifted his elbows high. He made a solid hit deep into the outfield and hustled to first base, advancing the player ahead of him to second before the ball found its way to the shortstop’s mitt.

  “It’s a wonder such small feet can propel such a bulky man,” I remarked.

  Helen laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “What inning is it, anyway?”

  Rex gestured impatiently at the scoreboard. “Top of the sixth. Here, give me those.”

  Helen handed him the bag of peanuts, then turned to me. “You’re not a fan?”

  “I’m not really the sporting type, but the Colonel insisted.” The next batter popped a fly that was handily caught, retiring the side. As the Yankees jogged to the dugout and the Red Sox took the field, I asked Rex if he wouldn’t mind educating me about the game. Relishing his role as expert, he began commentating for my benefit. The time between pitches allowed for narration and I began to understand the lazy loveliness of the game, its languid pauses giving rise to sudden bursts of action. I appreciated that the boy, steeped in the sports pages, saw so much more than was apparent to me. “Thanks, Rex,” I said. “It seems baseball’s not as pointless as I thought.”

  “Pointless?” Rex glared at me, incredulous. “Where are you from, anyway?”

  “He’s from Pittsburgh.” The voice came from just behind the box. We turned our heads as one to see the Colonel standing in the aisle. “And for what it’s costing me, it better not be pointless, Kramer.” I was embarrassed that he’d overheard my remark, but he seemed more amused than offended. He came into the box and addressed himself to Rex. “And how’s your favorite player doing?”

  “He got a base hit his last at bat, but he didn’t score the run.”

  “That’s good news for my team, isn’t it?” The Yankees were heading into the dugout after the top of the seventh inning, but the Red Sox, who were up by two runs, seemed in no hurry to take their places on the field. The Colonel extracted a one-dollar note from his billfold and handed it to Rex. “Why don’t you go get yourself a hot dog during the stretch? And you can keep the change.” The boy’s face lit up as he dashed off toward the concourse.

  “Thank you again, Jake,” Mrs. Winthrope said. “Rex is having such a good time. We all are, isn’t that right, Helen?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, seeming surprised.

  The Colonel took the seat beside me. With a nod at the newspapermen assembled along the railing below us, he said softly, “Wo bist du so lange geblieben?”

  He didn’t usually speak German in public, especially with the war on, but the sporting press were notorious snoops. I responded in kind. “I apologize for causing you to wait, the trains here were slow to arrive.” My German, learned in the classroom and from the pages of books, was always more formal than the Colonel’s.

  “What do you think of Ruth?” It sounded like “root” in his accented English. Switching to German, he said, “Huggins says he’ll be worth whatever I have to pay to bring him to New York.”

  “I didn’t see much, but Rex greatly admires him.”

  “That’s what troubles me, Kramer. Ruth’s not an admirable man. From what I hear, he’s hardly more than a greedy child. But by Gad he can hit. Frazee will hold me over a barrel before he’ll let Ruth go, but Huggins promises me a pennant if I can get him.”

  Rex returned, mustard dripping from his hot dog as he leaned over the rail. The Colonel looked wistfully out at the field as the game recommenced. The teams held each other scoreless through the eighth. In the bottom of the ninth, Boston tagged the last runner at base, winning the game. The Colonel winced, the loss physically painful to him. I began to understand his keen interest in a
cquiring a talented, if troublesome, player.

  The teams cleared the field and spectators started leaving the stands. A group of uniformed soldiers jumped down from the bleachers and jogged onto the diamond. Huggins emerged from the dugout to chase them away. They protested that they just wanted to hit a few balls before they shipped off to France.

  Someone in the stands shouted, “Let them hit!” The cry was taken up by those fans still lingering in their seats. A few of the newspapermen turned around and set their cameras back up. One of them said, “Let ’em play, Colonel, it’ll make a great picture.”

  Huggins looked up at the Colonel, who was as keen as anyone for good publicity. He nodded. “Just don’t waste any new balls on them.”

  The soldiers on the field—there were half a dozen of them—took up loose positions around the bases. Huggins carried a bucket of old balls from the dugout and handed it off to one of the soldiers, who brought it to the mound. The soldier behind home plate picked up a discarded bat and gave it a practice swing. They weren’t trying to get up a game (even I could see that), they just wanted a chance to make a run around the bases.

  “Kramer, tell me, how did it go with that fellow from the orphanage?”

  “I had lunch with him, as you suggested. There are some complications to his proposal, but I think you’ll be interested in what he has to say.” I knew better than to utter the word ballpark so near the press. “He’s invited me to tour the orphanage tomorrow, if you approve, of course.”

  “What orphanage is that?” Helen interjected.

  “The Orphaned Hebrews Home.”

  “Oh, we saw their marching band in a parade one time. Do you remember, Mom?”

  “It was after President Wilson’s last election, I believe,” Mrs. Winthrope said.

  “That’s right. They were such darlings in their little uniforms. Why are you going there?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. The Colonel stepped in. “They’re after a donation. Kramer’s going to see if they run a sound operation.”

  “Wünschen Sie dann dass ich gehe?” I whispered.