Prairie Hardball
Page 22
“That would be nice,” I said. We embraced and then he and Andy shook hands.
“If you ever go on the road with Kate, it would be great to see you, too,” Jack said.
“Maybe I will,” Andy said. “Keep an eye on her.”
“She could use it, if what went on here is any indication,” Jack said.
“Can the helpless female talk?” I asked. “It seems to me I managed to look after myself just fine.”
Jack turned to my parents.
“It was a pleasure to meet you both,” he said. “You’ve been a great help to me over the past few days. If you’re ever in Indiana, give me a call.”
He shook my father’s hand, and embraced my mother. She kept her arms at her sides but turned her cheek for his kiss, and I saw pain wash across her face in a brief, controlled, spasm. I had to look away, my throat tight.
“Good luck to you, Jack,” she said. “It was nice to see you again after all these years.”
“God bless,” my father said. “Have a safe trip home.”
Finally, Jack said goodbye to Don Deutsch.
“You’ll let me know how things turn out?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Thanks for everything. I may want to come back for the trial, if I can.”
“I’ll let you know when it is,” Deutsch said.
They drove off while we stood and waved.
“We’d better be getting a move on, too,” my father said. “Merle and Stanley are expecting us in time for supper in Saskatoon.”
Oh, God.
“I can’t do it,” I said. “I have to stay and give my statement, and to be frank, after the day I’ve had, I can’t face another of Merle’s meals. I’m sorry, Mum. Can you make excuses for me? Please?”
“Well, if you want to know the truth, I wish I could make an excuse myself,” she said. “I don’t know how my brother has survived all those years on her cooking.”
“We’ll drive down in the morning to catch our plane,” I said. “So we’ll say goodbye now.”
“I’ll just get the bags,” my father said. Andy went with him.
I turned to Don Deutsch.
“To save time, I’ll write out my statement on my laptop, then give it to you on diskette. That will save you having to transcribe it. I can bring it by the detachment to print out within the hour. Does that make sense?”
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
He left and I turned to my mother.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Certainly,” she said, crisply.
“You looked a little choked up, before, saying goodbye to Jack.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Well, I hope everything works out,” I said.
Andy and my father came out of the hotel with the bags and took them to the car. My mother and I followed.
“I’ll call when we get home,” I said, holding the passenger door open for her.
She got in, fastened her seat belt, and rolled down the window.
“Thanks for coming,” she said. “Both of you. I appreciated it. I just wish things hadn’t turned out the way they did.”
“Me too,” I said.
As the car drove away, Andy and I waved.
“Alone at last,” I said.
“I’ll pack while you write your statement.”
“And what then?”
“What’s the fanciest hotel in Saskatoon?”
“I’m not sure. The Besserer, maybe. It’s the grand old railway hotel, but I haven’t been there in years.”
“I’ll research it while you shower,” he said. “And book us the fanciest room in the joint. With hot and cold running room service.”
“And a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign for the door.”
Chapter 42
It didn’t take long for our life to get back to its normal, slightly chaotic, pace. Because Andy works days and I tend to work weeknights during the season, we can go days without seeing one another awake, but we managed to overlap on an off-day to bury Elwy’s ashes. We planted a lilac bush over him, so I’d remember him each spring, then Sally and T.C. joined us for a little wake. We drank champagne and told stories. Sally and I shed a small Presbyterian tear or two, but the evening was mostly telling stories about Elwy that made us laugh. It was a good way to say goodbye. T.C. told me about a friend with a litter of kittens, but I’m not ready to replace Elwy yet. I suspect Andy hopes I never will be, but I know from past experience that it won’t take long for another cat to find me, one way or another.
I thought about my mother a lot, and about Jack. I was tempted to confide in Andy, but managed to resist. Besides, I was too busy.
Work had turned into the kind of nightmare that only a pennant race can bring. The Titans had gone on a surprising winning streak, and were leading their division going into the stretch. Attendance was up, and callers to sports talk shows were whipping themselves into a frenzy about the possibility of a World Series in Toronto. This put extra pressure on everyone, not least the sports writers. Every game became important, and we were expected to take our magnifying glasses to every move the manager made or didn’t make. As well, every executive at the paper had ideas about what our coverage should be.
Our little corner of the newspaper, the toy department, as it is called by the news-side types, is usually a very pleasant place to work. Our editor, Jake Watson, is a genial and thoughtful man who actually believes that his writers are smart enough and responsible enough to recognize and follow through a good story, but with pennant fever sweeping both the city and the newsroom, he had to handle a lot of stupid questions and hare-brained suggestions from the higher-ups. This did not make him happy, and when Jake Watson isn’t happy, neither is his staff.
I tried to keep my sense of humour, but it was stretched pretty thin. I almost wished the Titans would go on a losing streak so I could go back to working in pleasant obscurity again.
A couple of weeks after our return, I was sitting in the press box at the Titan Dome watching the home team beat the hapless Tigers when my direct line rang. I noted the walk that had just been issued to the leadoff batter in the bottom of the fifth into my scorebook, then picked up the phone. It was Andy.
“Your mother just called,” he said.
“On a Wednesday?”
“I know. I thought it might be important. I told her to call you there, but she didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Thanks. I’ll call her back.”
“What’s happening in the game?”
“Titans winning big. Why don’t you turn it on?”
“I’ve got better things to do with my life,” he said.
“Well, pardon me. Anyway, it looks like it’s going to be a long night.”
The runner, Joe Kelsey, stole second.
“I won’t wait up,” he said.
“See you later.”
Single to left, bobbled, Kelsey scored, runner to second on the error. I could do this job in my sleep. I made the symbolic notations in my score book, then dialled my parents’ number, tucked the receiver into my shoulder and typed the scoring play into my computer while listening to the ringing signal.
“Mum, you called,” I said, when she answered. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, Kate, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just thought you should know.”
“Know what? Nothing’s wrong with Daddy, is it?”
Another walk and a wild pitch, moving the runners to second and third. The crowd cranked up the volume. I couldn’t hear her answer.
“You’re going to have to speak up, Mum. It’s noisy here.”
“I said, everything’s all right. It’s just fine. I called because Jack Wilton phoned me yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“It seems that when he was wra
pping up Virna’s estate, her lawyer gave him a letter she had left for him to read after her death.”
“Oh.”
Short fly ball out to left, runners hold.
“Yes, she told him the truth. And he called me.”
“What was his reaction?”
“A combination of a lot of things, I guess. Surprise. Anger. Sadness. Excitement.”
I realized that my mother was describing her own feelings.
“He didn’t call me for several days,” she continued. “I guess it took some getting used to.”
Triple into the gap, two score. Pandemonium in the stands.
“Of course it did,” I said. There was silence on the line.
“Mum?”
“I told your father last night.”
“Oh, dear. How did he take it?”
“He was shocked, of course,” she said. “But I think he’s glad I told him.”
“And how do you feel about all this?”
“Relieved, I think, finally.”
“You’re sure?”
“At first, I was very angry with Virna, too. She had no right to do that without warning me.”
Walk.
“Well, Mum, maybe she meant to, out there at Battleford, and just didn’t get to it. You’re sure you and Daddy are all right?”
“Yes, he wants to speak with you in a minute.”
“Have you told anyone else? What about Sheila?”
“No, I think I’ll wait until I can tell her in person.”
Passed ball, runner to second. Runner on third scores.
“Is it all right if I tell Andy?”
“If you feel you must.”
“Not if you don’t want me to. But we share most things.”
“Use your own judgement, then.”
Single, runner scores. Manager out of the dugout, pointing to his left arm. I put my pencil down. The PA system blared forth taunting music to welcome the new pitcher.
“I mustn’t keep you from your work,” she said.
“It’s okay, Mum, we’re in a pitching change.”
“What’s the score now?”
“Let’s see. It’s 9–0, and counting.”
“That’s nice. I’ll get your father.”
She put the phone down. I typed the scoring plays into the computer.
“Well, Kate, your mother continues to surprise me,” he said, sounding a bit shaky, but also, what’s the word? Brave, I guess.
“Oh, Daddy, are you all right?” I asked. I was getting strange looks in the press box.
“I’m all right, just a bit astonished.”
“It was a long time ago,” I said. “Before she even knew you. Don’t be hard on her.”
“Kate, I couldn’t be as hard on her as she has been on herself for all of these years,” he said. “I wish she had told me from the beginning. Then we could have been part of this young man’s life all along.”
“It’s not too late now,” I said.
“I know that. I spoke with him earlier this evening.”
The warm-up was over. The batter stepped in.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Daddy?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
First pitch. Ground ball. Double play. Inning over.
“I will, but not too much. I know you’ll work it out. I’ve got to go now. Give Mum a hug for me. I love you both.”
I hung up the phone and watched the grounds crew race onto the field with their rakes and brooms. I dug in my wallet for the card from the All-American All-Star Flower Shoppe in Fort Wayne. Jack had written his home number on the back of the card. I dialled it.
A woman answered, a woman with a strong, cheerful voice and an upward inflection at the end of her greeting. I asked for Jack.
“Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“Tell him . . .” I paused.
“Tell him it’s his sister, Kate,” I said.
Acknowledgements
This book couldn’t have been written without the generosity of more people in Saskatchewan than I can possibly name here, who provided me with encouragement, anecdotes, suggestions, delicious meals, and comfortable beds on my travels around my adopted province. It was CBC Radio that put me in touch with many of them, and I deplore the cuts that may destroy it. In particular, I am grateful to my fellow writers Gail Bowen, Suzanne North, and Sharon Butala; to Sergeant Bob Conlon of the Battlefords Detachment of the RCMP and to Dr. Jean Roney of the RCMP Forensic Laboratory in Regina; to Eric Peterson and Barb Cram for sharing memories of Indian Head; to Jane and Dave Shury of the Saskatchewan Baseball Hall of Fame; and to a stranger, Connie Kaldor, who kept me in touch with Saskatchewan, wherever I was writing.
Thanks also go to my friends Henri Fiks and Susan Longmire, for taking me in from the cold and providing a haven in which I could write through tough times, and to my personal three musketeers, Howard Engel, Peter Robinson, and Eric Wright for their constant encouragement and support. I am always grateful to Avie Bennett, a real champion; to Doug Gibson and Kelly Hechler; to Lynn Schellenberg; and, most of all, to Ellen Seligman.
About the Author
Alison Gordon is a Canadian journalist and writer. As the first woman on the baseball beat in the Major Leagues, Gordon was a trailblazer in the field of sports journalism, covering the Toronto Blue Jays for the Toronto Star for five years. Gordon is also the author of the Kate Henry mystery series, pitting the sleuthing talents of a baseball journalist against dangerous felons. The series includes the titles The Dead Pull Hitter, Safe at Home, Night Game, Striking Out, and Prairie Hardball.
Copyright
Prairie Hardball © 1997 Alison Gordon
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EPub Edition December 2014 ISBN: 9781443442497
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
Originally published by McClelland & Stewart Inc. in 1997. First published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. in this ePub edition in 2014.
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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