by Honey
"Hello, Camille," Hildegarde greeted her.
"It's nice to see you, Hildegarde."
They had known each other for years, having gone to both primary and finishing school together. Like Camille, Hildegarde wasn't engaged. Unlike Camille, Hildegarde wanted to be. She involved herself in various activities in the hopes of catching that special someone's eye. There had been a man from the Woolly Buggers, a fly-fishing club in town, who'd called on her for a time. But a romance never developed, and Hildegarde hadn't gone back to any meetings.
Her love life wasn't helped by the fact that her mother meddled in it and dictated Hildegarde's thoughts most of the time. In turn, Hildegarde pretty much did and said what Mrs. Plunkett told her.
Taking a glance at Mrs. Plunkett—who eyed Camille with an assessing gaze—Camille felt obligated to greet the woman. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Plunkett." Camille rested her handbag on the counter in front of Hildegarde. "I need to buy thirteen school slates and two boxes of chalk."
Mrs. Plunkett was a large woman with brown hair who suffered from a mysterious and sudden pain in her side whenever she overindulged in sweet treats. It was an unexplainable phenomenon that Camille had witnessed on more than several occasions, but so far, the ailment hadn't stopped Mrs. Plunkett from accepting cakes or cookies whenever they were presented.
"Why do you need slates?" Mrs. Plunkett asked as she counted out the correct number from a spot on the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the counter.
Camille shouldn't have thought she could buy them without question.
"I'm going to nail them above each ballplayer's cubby."
"What for?"
What for? To write down special orders, that's what's for.
They were playing the Chicago White Stockings this afternoon—the last game of a four-game series. The previous three games had seen the Keystones in the cellar. Having a rotation of only three utility men didn't give her much room. One injury would foul up the entire order, so she needed to stay organized— and that's where the chalkboards came in.
To tell Specs Ryan his spectacles weren't the right strength—that he needed to get a new pair. To write a note to Duke Boyle about his fielding. To remind Bones Davis not to oil his glove so much—that's why he dropped the ball. Things like that. Things Mrs. Plunkett wouldn't appreciate. Things that were none of Mrs. Plunkett's business to begin with.
"Hildegarde, is that a new dress you're wearing?" Camille changed the subject, disregarding the even stare from the young woman's mother.
Hildegarde looked down. "No. Does it look new?"
"It looks lovely on you."
"Really?"
"I think so," Captain said as he appeared from the storeroom carrying three large crates that could hold thirty dozen eggs. Though the crates were extremely heavy, even empty, he gripped the wooden boxes without a struggle. He took them out the front door, to be placed on the boardwalk for the farmers to pick up and refill.
Hildegarde watched him retreat.
Without preamble, Mrs. Plunkett said, "Mrs. Calhoon is going around spreading rumors about you, Miss Kennison. I think you ought to know."
Camille already knew what the local women were saying about her. Nothing good. She was used to hearing how perfect and pretty she was; a little buzz and hum about her being a baseball manager didn't scandalize her. The gossip gave her a reason to be defiant—something she'd never been in her life.
"Now, Mrs. Calhoon," Mrs. Plunkett continued in a warning tone, "is a born gossip if there ever was one. I don't know how she can look people in the face, the things she says behind their backs. But butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. And she told me not to tell, so don't tell I told you. But... she said that the only reason you're managing the Keystones is to find yourself a husband. The lengths some women go to."
Camille wondered if she was referring to the lengths Mrs. Calhoon went to to slander a good name. Or the lengths desperate women went to to find husbands. Not likely the first option, as Mrs. Calhoon and Mrs. Plunkett were thick as thieves.
"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint Mrs. Calhoon." Camille put a note of sarcasm in her voice that Mrs. Plunkett failed to notice. "Those baseball players aren't what I'd call gentlemen. They don't wear proper union suits." With an exaggerated arch of her brow, she lowered her voice. Mrs. Plunkett piloted in like a moth flying at a street lamp. "Two-piece underwear, most of them. There's one who does wear a union suit, but I couldn't say who. It's a color you'd never guess. That's all I can divulge. It's a good thing I have no desire to find a husband." She managed to keep a straight face and sound serious while adding, "I wouldn't marry a man who wore a union suit, much less drawers with a hole in them. But don't tell Mrs. Calhoon I told you that."
Mrs. Plunkett had been glued to every word. The vigorous shaking of her head and her wide-eyed wonder spoke louder than words: as soon as she had half a second to escape, she was going to broadcast every syllable to the postmaster's wife.
Mrs. Plunkett suddenly blurted, "My, my, but I forgot I had to... to meet with Mrs. Kirby about the selection of the hymns for this Sunday's service." She untied her apron and rounded the counter so quickly, she knocked into the velvet tray of collars and sent them sailing. "Hildegarde, write up Miss Kennison's order. I'll be back later."
She dashed out the door just as Captain came in. He took a few steps, stopped, then rubbed his temples. His eyes squeezed closed. A twist of pain caught his mouth.
"Captain," Hildegarde said with concern, "do you feel bad?"
"My head hurts just a little."
Worry reflected in her eyes. "Maybe you should go home."
He quickly lowered his hands, smoothing his beard and mustache. "No. I'm not going home. I'm working." Then he proceeded into the storeroom. "I'm all right," he called out from the depths of the stock area. "I'm working. W-o-r-k-i-n-g."
Helping Hildegarde pick up the lace notions, Camille asked, "Have you stopped typing for Mr. Stykem?"
"Yes. He found a permanent secretary. I almost wish he hadn't."
The collars back on the counter, Hildegarde sighed. "Ruth is busy with a new beau. I don't see her at all these days. I've been a little beside myself. I know I should be happy for her... but I can't help... Never mind."
Compassion worked through Camille. She understood the longing to find a husband. Ruth Elward was also one of Mrs. Wolcott's finishing school ladies. A woman who didn't have a man to take care of by the time she was twenty—it was almost a shameful thing.
Captain came back, shouldering two eighteen- quart Cooley milk cans. On his way outside, he said, "Hildegarde can't type worth a whistle."
The dimples in Hildegarde's cheeks deepened. She laughed, a merry sound that she rarely indulged in. She'd told Camille she thought her own laugh sounded like a schoolgirl giggle. Men didn't find giggling appealing. But as Camille watched Captain, it was apparent that he was one man who did. He was smiling broadly.
Hildegarde's gaze followed him through the door with more than passing interest. "He always speaks his mind. I find that..."—she shook her head as if pleasantly surprised—"wonderful."
* * * * *
Alex sat in the dugout, alone, watching jets of water from the sprinklers chug over the grass. He leaned his back into the bench, legs propped up on the short wall of dirt in front of him.
He'd come to the park early.
Before practice, before the fans came, a ballpark was a place of peace. A place to sit and think. Mentally get ready for the game. Work through the pitches he was going to throw.
He'd told himself that's not why he'd come today. That it had been the heat driving him out of the wood shop. But the warmth inside the shop had never bothered him before. He should have been working on the oak rocker he'd been commissioned to make, instead of letting his legs take him over to Municipal Field. It was a broadax he should have been holding in his hand instead of a bat.
He blamed his lapse in judgment on the measly three hours' sleep he'd had last night.
Cap had had a bad episode that left him shaken and paranoid, unable to go back to sleep until his headache medicine relaxed him enough to let his mind rest.
Alex took a drink of cool water from a beer stein. The Orioles had presented him with the colorful enamel-and-silver mug for pitching a perfect game in 1897. July the seventh. Nobody in the league had ever accomplished that—before or since. They'd celebrated until sunrise at Patty O'Rourke's Fine Irish Tavern on Spring Street. Patty had pledged he could have the stein filled with anything—anytime—on the house. For life. Beer, whiskey, schnapps.
At the latter thought, Alex vaguely smiled.
When he'd joked about the schnapps with the team, he'd wanted that old baseball camaraderie again. And for a moment, on the bench that second day with the Keystones, he'd fallen into it. But he knew it wasn't the same as before. These men weren't the Orioles, the players he'd brought to the pennant two years running. The Keystones had no ambition.
But Camille Kennison did.
She'd surprised him. Seven days. She hadn't quit, no matter the circumstances. And the Keystones had given her reason to walk away without looking back. They were lousy. Hell, he was just as lousy as the rest of them.
Alex "the Grizz" Cordova had struck out more times at bat in one week than he had in a month with the Orioles. He hadn't gotten a single hit. But he hadn't chased a single ball, either, a fact that Camille, in her always well-schooled voice, got after him about.
Just once, he wanted to see her crack. Fall apart. Crumble. Buckle under the pressure. Misplace her gloves. Lose the hat. Let her hair down. Maybe even utter a ladylike "damn" once in a while.
"Mr. Cordova."
Alex looked up. Christ. Miss Honey herself. Standing on the lip of the dugout. After smoothing back strands of straight black hair from his eyes, he felt the stubble that roughened his cheeks and chin. He'd neglected to shave. For a second, he regretted it. But only for a second.
"Miss Kennison."
"You're here early." She came down the few steps to meet him on his level.
"So're you."
"I have to do something in the clubhouse." She didn't enlighten him as to what. And he didn't ask. She held on to a heavy, paper-wrapped parcel.
Alex rested the base of the beer stein on his thigh.
She wore her usual pale colors and appeared as angelic as ever. Did she ever raise her voice? Ever get her skirt dirty? Ever lie in meadow grass with her hair in a cloud around her and dream up at the sky? Her mouth was too damn full. Her eyes too damn blue. Her nose too damn perfect.
He wanted to dislike her.
He wanted to run his hands over every inch of her body.
Her eyes fell on the beer stein. Reproachfulness gleamed in them. "Mr. Cordova, you know that I don't allow drinking on the day of a game. And you have to play in four hours. What do you have to say for yourself?"
He gave her a slow grin. Let her think what she wanted. Then he purposefully took a long and leisurely drink. Going so far as to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Her eyes never left his lips. Was she thinking the same thing as him?
"Give me that stein," she demanded.
Apparently not.
With a bland smile, he handed it over. "You caught me, honey."
Shifting her package in her arms, she lifted the mug to her nose. Then delicate sniffed. Three times. A frown marred her smooth forehead. She knew something wasn't what it seemed, so she went as far as tentatively bringing the rim of the stein to her mouth. She took a short sip. Then with a gasp, said, "This isn't beer."
"Never said it was."
"But you led me to believe..." As she shoved the stein back at him, he noted her pulse thrumming at the base of her throat. Right at the lacy dip of her collar. Right at the top of her shirtwaist where the buttons were tiny and white. So tiny, he thought about trying to see if he could help one escape through its tiny buttonhole. "Why did you do that?"
"Because I like to watch you when you think you know something." He slowly gazed at her. "Your breasts rise and fall. Really soft, but you're mad and you won't show it. See—there."
She'd been doing exactly what he'd been talking about when he'd been talking about it. He grinned as she abruptly pulled a quick intake of air into her lungs.
"You're going to have to breathe sometime." Alex took another drink of water, his mouth exactly where hers had been. "And I'm still going to be sitting here watching."
He'd expected her to do all the shocked-woman things. Huffing a bit. Stamping her foot. Acting outraged. She merely stood before him, tall and poised. And when he was finished taking an unhurried drink, she asked, "Are you satisfied?"
"I'd be a lot more satisfied if my lips touched yours directly instead of where they'd been on my mug."
She hefted the package higher in her arms. "I'm not in the mood for this. I don't make jockstrap innuendoes to my players, Mr. Cordova."
He brought his head back, then tilted it to her. She'd taken his cue, but her remark had not been anything like what he'd thought it'd be. "The weather too hot for you?"
"I think the pressure of pitching is too hot for you."
He felt the bite on that one.
"We're going to try something different today," she said. "I want you to warm up away from Cub. Clear your head of everything else but baseball. Focus on one thing only: getting the ball in the strike zone."
She looked across the field. He looked with her.
Bordering the park was a weathered and unused stockyard. It butted against the railroad tracks, the corral broken in spots. A few timbers, crooked and knocked down, fell about ten feet from the third-base foul line.
"See that bullpen? That's your warm-up place from now on. I'll send Yank over with you to catch."
She took the few steps up to the top, then paused. Centerfield had begun to flood. With a shake of her head, she walked to the network of hoses and twisted the valves off; then headed for the clubhouse.
He stared at the stockyard once more. What froze his abilities couldn't be fixed by isolation.
A bullpen would have as much influence on him as a steer had at a barbeque.
Chapter 8
"What's that smell?" Noodles asked, sniffing loudly. "Good Gawd, it smells like a dead rat."
Mox snorted. "Jesus! Now that you mention it."
Deacon blurted, "Who the hell didn't take a bath?"
Camille had just explained the slates to the players and they'd broken up to read their respective notes. But there had been that unpleasant odor in the clubhouse.
A search for the offensive smell commenced. They sniffed the air, took long pulls into their lungs. The only person not interested was Alex, who leaned against his cubby, his slate above his head with one simple word written on it: Try.
The hunt narrowed in on Cupid Burns. He shrugged but gave no apology. Doc yanked Cupid's cap off. "Damn, Cupid. What do you have on your head?"
No hair. Cupid was going as bald as a Spalding baseball. He had the baby face of one of those naked cupids that artists drew on Valentine cards, so the name Cupid had stuck. For a man who was twenty-two, it was a terrible thing to be losing hair. Camille hadn't given it any thought, but Cupid, obviously, was quite sensitive about it.
"You shaved your head!" Bones laughed.
"Give me my hat back, Doc!" Cupid yelled, making a reach for his team cap. "I don't go around snatching yours."
"Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide." Doc had a bushy head of blond hair and a whopper of a mustache to match.
Charlie shook his head, his nose wrinkling. "Why did you shave your hair off?"
Cupid blushed a sweetheart red that crept across his face and colored his ears. "A fellow told me that if I shaved it completely off and rubbed this liniment on it's supposed to help grow hair."
"Who told you that?" Cub asked.
"Eureka Dan." Alex's deep voice quieted the room and caused heads to turn in Alex's direction. Arms folded over his chest and one shoulder resting against th
e wall, Alex half-smiled.
Cupid grew wide-eyed. "How'd you know?"
"He comes by and tries to sell me horse liniment." The other corner of Alex's mouth lifted. "But I don't own a horse. So figure it out."
The others guffawed.
"Cupid's got horse liniment on his head!" Jimmy slapped his knee while laughing it up.
Disorder followed, the men roaring with laughter. Camille rose and called over their shouts. "Gentlemen. We can't waste time with this issue. We've got a game to play against the White Stockings, in case you've forgotten."
This slowly sobered them. Expressions went from merry to somber. "I can't forget," Cub said, "Zaza Harvey's pitching for them. He's good—"
"You're good, Cub," Yank broke in. "When you concentrate, you're good."
Noodles added caustically, "Trouble is, he hasn't concentrated all year. Why don't you try throwing the ball at my glove instead of wild-pitching it?"
"I try that, but you move around behind the plate like you've got a constant itch you're after."
"I'd like to win once in a while," Jimmy said, then took a swig of his cherry pectoral.
"I think you fellows keep forgetting"—Mox examined a cloudy spot on his oil lamp, then shined it with the elbow of his sleeve—"Kennison bought our ticket into the American League. This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal to play with the best. We'd better get our heads together."
"Better get something together," Duke said, then spit.
Cub pressed a hot water bottle to his arm. "Fellows in Philly and the like are good players because that's all they do—practice around the clock."
"Then we have to make the most of our shorter practice times," Camille said, her gaze passing over Alex. Though she answered Cub, she spoke as much to Alex—if not more so—as to Cub and the others. "You don't have to live in Philadelphia to be good at what you do. Deep down, if we believe we can, we will be good. Contenders. Not pretenders." She smoothed the rosettes on her cuffs and gave them a quick perusal. "May I suggest we go out there and tell ourselves that we'll win?"
"You can suggest it," Specs said, ever the pessimist, "but I don't think it's going to happen."
