by Honey
The next thing he knew, Camille had come out to the mound. He could hardly face her. His stomach churned. He was sick and angry with himself He couldn't even have give her an explanation. How could she understand? Only Captain did, and Alex couldn't talk to him about it.
"I'm out of the inning, honey." He started to turn away from her and head for the dugout.
"No, you're not out of the inning, Mr. Cordova."
The light touch of her hand on his upper arm stopped him short. He looked into her upturned face. Her eyes danced with lively fire; her lips parted—no doubt over the sheer gall of his statement. "You're not out of the inning, Mr. Cordova, until I tell you you're out." Droplets of rain glistened on the fruit decorating her hat. She'd forgotten her fancy parasol. "Now, throw that ball as if you want to kill somebody."
She didn't mean literally. He knew that. But the implication sunk beneath his skin and rattled him. Rattled him more than he could handle. Squeezed inside his chest and just about suffocated him. How could he tell her he'd already taken a man's life while playing ball and it haunted him every moment of his life?
Call him a goddamn quitter, but he was finished for the day. He threw the ball. At her feet, not even giving her the courtesy of slapping it in her pretty little gloved hand. "I'm out of the inning."
If she said anything, it was to his back and soft enough for him not to hear. Then again, he'd already tuned out the jeers that followed him as he sidestepped the trash that littered the field in his wake.
"The Grizz" was gone. And nothing could make him come back.
Chapter 6
Using a hoe to take out her frustrations, Camille made uneven rows for her hollyhock seeds. She stood in the rear garden, her rubber gaiters caked with muddy soil. Having long grown cold and wet, her work gloves did nothing to warm her hands. Or her frame of mind. She made a mess, but she didn't slow down. She had no time to spare. She'd called for an earlier practice this afternoon. The Keystones needed every minute to improve themselves.
The manager's job was more than she thought it would be.
She should have known nothing she could do or say would impress the fans. Not that she had anything to say to them when she'd been introduced by one of the umpires. She'd smiled at her mother and her father sitting in the front row. Mr. Nops had glared at her, clearly wishing he'd stood in her place.
On the few occasions Camille had glanced at her father, his teeth had been clenched. She'd hoped his anger wouldn't be aimed toward her after the Keystones' poor performance. Under the circumstances, she knew she hadn't prepared them to face off with the Somersets. Knew she had not a prayer even before the first ball was pitched.
The umpires had taken the field.
The two assigned to the game were Roy Phillips, whose jowls hung to his shoulders, his body tall and thick; and Monte Green, a small man, bent half forward with an eager face. Only that eager face had fallen as soon as the managers' names had been submitted to him.
The two officials had dropped their jaws. She hadn't batted an eyelash when she left the bench to wave to the crowd—a crowd that had gone deadly silent. Only Captain and her mother had applauded. Her father was busy looking around him, as if to gauge the fans. She hadn't expected him to give her a rousing welcome, but it would have been a pleasant surprise if he had.
That nasty Boomer Hurley, the Somersets' manager, had gotten the fans laughing. He'd caricatured a woman's walk across the field, one hand on his hip, his other arm swishing by his side. It had taken every lesson of decorum ever drummed into her to keep from going out there and jabbing him in the stomach with her umbrella tip.
If that weren't enough, the person she'd counted on to make her look good had done nothing. Alex had walked away off the mound in his first game as a Keystone, leaving her to question his abilities for future games. She was still stunned that he'd sat in the dugout and watched, refusing to play. "The Grizz" was no more. Alex was a shadow of that man, of the legend that had been larger than life.
She wished she knew why.
After the game, she'd asked him what had gone wrong, why he hadn't pitched like he was supposed to. His explanation had been brief. His arm hadn't felt right. Then he'd walked to the clubhouse, looking strangely worn for a man so massive and powerful.
"Camille sugar, where are you?" Her father's voice rang as he rounded the corner of the backyard. Engrossed in what she was doing, she hadn't even heard the picket gate slam closed.
Without stopping her work, she replied, "What's wrong?"
"Did you leave the door to the clubhouse open?"
For a moment, she had to think. But then she frowned. She had been extra careful with the key. "No, I didn't. Why?"
"The door wasn't closed when I was there a minute ago."
"But I locked it myself last night. I double-checked." A tide of panic brought her hoe to a stop. "Is anything missing?"
He shook his head. "No. That's the strange part about it." With eyes narrowed in suspicion, he said, "I bet it was that Boomer Hurley. I wouldn't trust that bean eater as far as I could hurl him." Then in a voice so soft she had to strain to hear, he mumbled, "The bum mocked my daughter."
She leaned toward him. "What was that, Daddy?"
He looked as if he wanted to say something more— something she'd be glad to hear. But then he only lectured her. She tried to put aside her disappointment.
"The professional league is a whole different box of nails." He adjusted his tie. "It's nothing like hometown ball. You've got to watch for underhanded tactics."
"I will."
"At least the weather's better for today's game," he said, gazing up at the sky.
Endless blue rose heavenward, with only a lacy tuft of cloud here and there. Sunshine brightened the yard. The grass was growing in thick and green from spring rain.
"Yes, much better."
"The score will be better, too."
She propped both hands on the knob of the hoe handle. It couldn't be much worse. They'd been defeated yesterday 12-0.
Her father slipped both hands into his pinstriped trouser pockets. The gold of his fob chain glistened in the sun. Camille found it curious that after having said what he had to, he didn't head right back for his store. He wasn't one to make idle conversation. "Getting anything planted?"
"Not yet." As she resumed her task, she gave him a quick glance.
Looking at the plot of dirt, he commented, "You sure can make things grow." He didn't meet her gaze. Instead, he stared at the bushes along the fenced yard. "It takes a lot of patience to take a seed and nurture it into a plant. Not many people can do that."
Again, she was sure he was trying to say something else, to tell her, in his own way, that maybe she wasn't a bad choice for the manager's position after all. The actual words would mean so much. She needed his assurance that she was going to be fine. "Daddy, I—"
"I'd better get back over to the store." The gruffness in his tone didn't fit with the softness shimmering in his eyes. "I have to stay on my toes with Nops. The man is lower than an Acme brass threshold."
After her father had gone, Camille sat down on the rose arbor bench, the hoe laid before her on the grass. She stared at the plot of dirt that was to be her crowning glory this year. But its rows were complicated by players and baseballs and rules and a pitcher who hadn't been able to pitch.
If only making the Keystones flourish could be as easy as coaxing a bloom from a begonia.
* * * * *
Somebody had gummed up the Keystones' bats.
A liberal amount of pine tar had been rubbed into all the bats. The sticky dark substance used to create a better grip worked well when applied correctly. Too much, and the batter's hands stuck to the wood; he lost control and couldn't release after a swing.
The probable culprit snored at the Brooks House hotel, sleeping off a night of whooping it up in the Blue Flame saloon. Camille had no way to prove Boomer Hurley had done it. However, as far as following the codes of honor, the
Somersets hadn't last night. Drinking went against the ethics of the American League, and of all the possible people to be the ringleader of last night's fiasco, it had been the Boston manager.
The smell of thinner lingered in the air of the clubhouse as she left with her notebook in the crook of her arm. The Keystones had lost practice time unsticking the bats. She hoped Mr. Hurley would be suffering today. Maybe he'd have such a sick headache, he wouldn't be able to create a lineup. Maybe his players, with their minds hazy from the aftereffects of liquor, wouldn't be able to bit a tin can with a two-by-four.
"All right, gentlemen." She addressed the players on the bench but purposefully eyed Alex. The speech she'd rehearsed in her head was to the point and indisputable. "We're going to spend the next half hour on calisthenics."
"Cali-what?" Bone mumbled.
"Calisthenics," Alex supplied, flexing a lean leg. "Exercise. Sit-ups, trunk twists, toe touching."
"Crapola. If you don't mind my saying so, Miss Kennison." Cub LaRoque propped his feet on the foot railing. "Red Vanderguest, the manager three managers ago, had us lifting weights at Bruiser's Gymnasium over on Birch Avenue and we still lost nearly every game that season. Frankly, we stink. We don't ever seem to have a chance. I'm tired of hoping we do. We don't. Plain and simple."
"From now on, any man with that kind of attitude will be fired from the Keystones." The words were out before she'd thought them through. Could she really fire somebody?
Regardless, her threat worked, because Cub cooled on the issue. "I'm not saying I'd quit, Miss Kennison. I'm just saying we smell like an outhouse and nothing's changed that fact so far."
"Things will change. Starting today. From now on, you have to believe that winning is the most important thing."
"The most important thing on my mind right now is getting that brick fence up over at the Elks Club on schedule," Jimmy stated. "That's how I get in my calisthenics. I break my back hauling bricks, then break it some more trying to hit baseballs."
She regarded him, then the others who were in the same predicament, working outside jobs and then being expected to play baseball as well. "Some of you have been playing for my father for nearly ten years. In that time, you've had some fun. I know that when the team was called Kennison's Keystones, you would take the field and laugh and joke around. I watched from the stands and I enjoyed myself. Nobody thought about pennants and big money and the prestige of winning a trophy."
"Your father really wants the pennant, Miss Kennison," Doc said. An older member of the team, he was one of the original Keystones.
"Do any of you want the pennant?" she asked, hoping that a majority would reply yes. "If being in the American League is taking the fun out of the game, then there's no point in playing it anymore."
Specs spoke up. "Everyone knows there's only a few of us who're any good. The rest of us are here because the money can't be beat."
Charlie said, "You got that right."
Camille kept her hands clasped together at her waist. "If you could get something from playing baseball, what is it that you'd want? Aside from the salary."
"To impress women."
"The only women you impress are ones with buck teeth."
"But do we have to do calisthenics?"
"You couldn't touch your toes if there was a beer sitting on them."
"The pennant would be quite a thing."
"Pennants are for professionals."
"We're professional now. American League."
"American League is where the great fellows play."
The answers were as diverse as the players and Camille let them voice all opinions before adding, "The Keystones can be a great team. Everyone out on the field. And I want to see you in rows and touch your toes thirty times. Bend at the waist and don't buckle your knees. Keep them stiff."
The bench emptied, but the procession out to the grass was a slow one.
The idea of calisthenics hadn't been hers. It had been Meg Gage's.
Camille had been late for the Garden Club meeting last night because of her duties with the team. She knew there would be talk from the ladies. She'd prepared herself for some backlash. But when it came, she'd still felt bruised. At least Edwina Wolcott and Meg Gage had taken her side, saying what she was doing was wonderful.
Meg had mentioned Whitley's fitness magazine. The men on the pages were in fine physical form after exercise and hearty diets. All thirteen of the Keystones were bachelors, and most ate at Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant. Camille was going to ask that they order steak and eggs, bacon and fried potatoes—real man food.
Standing at the sidelines, she observed the players as they bent down. Specs and Deacon ribbed each other. Charlie couldn't make a forward fold over his stomach. It was too wide. Cupid bent his knees to reach his toes. Yank went through his exercise far too quickly, missing his toes by a good four inches. What a sorry sight.
Sorry except for one man who moved with the strength of bendable hot iron. His body looked sculpted, lean and well worked in spite of years away from the game. He must never sit idle. Never slouch. His uniform fit him like a glove. He was tight, taut, hard, and sinewy. Taller than the rest, he stood nearly a head above them while moving his limbs in a way that said he didn't put thought into it. He just told his muscles what to do and they did, bulging and straining.
Dreadful thoughts had filled her mind while she was walking to the ballpark—what if Alex didn't show up? But he'd been there with the others, waiting for her.
For a blushing moment, her thoughts went back to earlier in the clubhouse, and she felt a tiny flicker of curiosity to see Alex boldly standing half dressed again. The scene that had greeted her this morning had been different than yesterday. None of the players had been undressed. They'd been suited up and ready to go. She should have been relieved. But her gaze had lingered over Alex longer than it should have.
After the players went through a series of exercises, she had Cub and Yank throw balls. Each player took a turn at bat, making a rotation on the field so that the outfielders and basemen could practice fielding. When Alex stepped up to the plate, Cub just about knocked him out of the box with a screwball. It was a clear case of animosity—Alex was on the team in Cub's position. After the third pitch, Alex struck out. Her heart sank. For all his powerful muscles and lean body, he didn't put any of that strength into his swing. They couldn't win on bad swings or throws.
By game time, she'd assembled the team on the bench. Fans had come out in droves. The weather certainly helped, not to mention it was Saturday. But they came partially, she supposed, because they were curiosity seekers.
The men scooted and maneuvered to fit between the items that already occupied the narrow length of wood.
She asked them as a whole, "Is all of that necessary?"
"Certainly is." Charlie held up a fist of black licorice. "Gotta have something in my mouth."
"Durham is better than that godawful candy," Duke remarked, raising a Bull Durham pouch. He took a pinch of tobacco and added to the lump already stuffed in his left cheek.
"Adhesive tape," Deacon said. "I busted two fingers once on a ground ball and was sorry the rest of the day I didn't have something to wrap my fingers with."
Specs worried a horseshoe in his grasp. "Horseshoes. I've got five more in the box beside me. From horses I've known and loved."
"Four of which are dead," Charlie responded, "so how much luck is that, Specs?"
"Luck enough." He twisted the rusty piece of metal in his fingers as if to get as much good luck out of it as he could.
"Four-leaf clovers." Doc showed her a jar of them. "I found most of 'em out at Fish Lake by the bank where the fly-fishing contest takes place. I got one just last week, so I should be able to hit the ball better."
Cupid laughed, his half-bald head shining like an apple. "You can't even hit a tree when you piss."
Specs blushed a deep crimson and stared at Camille.
Cupid mumbled, "Sorry."
Mox frantically rubbed an oil lamp, much akin to the kind Aladdin must have found. "Oil lamp. Only thing around here that will bring good luck."
"Mox, you've been rubbing that thing for years and the only fog to come out of it was your fart when you had it between your legs." Cub didn't apologize for his language. He looked at her and she looked right back.
She wouldn't make a fuss. They were crude. They were men who scratched themselves in places that ought not to be scratched in public, much less in private. She had expected as much.
Although she did appreciate Spec's blush.
"Rabbit's feet." Bones had a dozen of them on a chain. Gray, white, black, and tan. He pulled out his shirt collar and dropped the feet inside his uniform. His stomach now appeared lumpy. "I keep them close to me at all times."
"I don't go in for all that good-luck business. A man's got to feel like he's fit," Jimmy said, opening the cap on a bottle of Ayer's Cherry Pectoral. "And that breakfast I ate didn't do much for my innards, so I've got to take pectoral to aid in my digestion. I hit and run better after I have a teaspoon or so."
Duke noted, "Booze is in that. Read the label, Miss Kennison, and take that snake oil away from him."
"Is not!"
Cupid held up a dark amber bottle. Carter's Liver Pills. "I have a constant ache in my gut when I come to the ballpark. This helps."
Noodles came up with Bull's Cough Syrup. "For medicinal purposes only, ma'am." He took a pull on the mouth of the bottle, swallowing with a shiver of— as far as she could tell—revulsion.
Yank showed his Bromo Seltzer, took a swig, and followed up with a long burp. "Clears the lungs."
Cub nursed his elbow with a hot water bottle. "Bad joint."
Alex was the only one empty-handed. All eyes landed on him. With a quirked lift to the right corner of his mouth, he said, "I drank a fifth of Danish schnapps before I came to the park."
"On ice or off?" asked Mox.
"Off."
That got a rise out of Cub, who jabbed Cordova in the ribs, the friction between them momentarily set aside. "Yeah, right."
Camille didn't get the joke. Unless schnapps was something that put hair on a man's chest when he drank it at room temperature. But the meaning of the riddle was moot. If Alex had drunk a fifth of liquor, he'd be flat on his face.
