Lunch that day turned out to be a special treat, not only because of the sausage with peppers and garlic tossed with macaroni, but also because it was one of the rare noontime meals when the entire family gathered together. Minus Lisette, of course, who insisted on taking only a piece of fruit and a waxed-paper twist of crackers to nibble on under the big oak trees in the school yard. The informality of the hour brought them to eat in the kitchen rather than the dining room, and often, like today, Molly bustled around, refilling and taking away dishes the minute the action was needed.
“Can you read it?” Vada asked.
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find someone who can.” Molly placed a dish of olives in the middle of the table. “City’s fairly crawlin’ with them people, fast as they can leavin’ the Church—”
“That’s enough, Molly.” Doc took the rare stand against Molly who was as stern about her Catholicism as she was about her kitchen.
Hazel was the last to enter the kitchen, popping an olive into her mouth as she took her seat. “We could take it to Moravek’s.”
Althea held up a cautionary hand reminding everybody at the table that today, being Tuesday, was the one day of the week that Moravek’s was closed to the public.
“I’ll take it tomorrow then,” Vada said. “Early. I have errands to run for Herr Johann anyway.”
“Or,” Doc said, “perhaps the young man will wake up and tell us himself.”
Vada prayed for that very thing as she led the family in asking the meal’s blessing. In fact, the thought seemed to linger on everybody’s mind as they quietly loaded their plates and tucked in.
The spicy flavors of the sausage and peppers were a departure from Molly’s more reliable fare, and under other circumstances Vada would be quick to rave, but now she could only think of that thin, pale mouth open to take in the smallest sips of water. She glanced over at Althea who speared a bit of pepper and was pushing it around her plate and knew they were sharing the same thoughts.
“Now what’s the matter wit’ the lot of ya?” Molly stood behind Doc’s chair glowering down at the table. “I try a new bit o’ somethin’ and I can’t get a word of thanks?”
“It’s delicious, Molly, really,” Hazel said, happily plopping a bit of sausage into her mouth.
“We’re just worried, that’s all.” Vada turned to her father. “It’s been twenty-four hours, hasn’t it? What does that mean?”
“What it means,” Molly said before Doc could answer, “is that the boy’s sleepin’ in the Lord’s hands, and none but He will wake him. Ain’t that so, Dr. Allenhouse?”
He looked up and over his shoulder. “No physician could have said it better, Mrs. Keegan. All we can do is watch and wait.”
“Right now all of ya need to eat and keep up your strength. I’ll go sit with the prince upstairs. And not that I don’t trust your doctorin’, mind you, or the good Lord Himself, but I might be sendin’ up a prayer at the church this afternoon.”
“That would be just fine, Mrs. Keegan,” Doc said, though the kitchen door was already swinging.
“I suppose this means we’ll have our little visitor this afternoon again,” Hazel said. “That kid hung around all morning, pacing around, close to crying. Nearly had me in tears too every time I tripped over him.”
Althea gave Hazel a look of gentle chastisement, and Vada, too, jumped to his defense. “I think it’s sweet he’s so worried about Eli. I notice the brute who swung the bat hasn’t given him a second thought.”
“Now, Vada darling,” Doc said, “we can’t assign any blame.”
“No, but we can measure compassion. I mean, yesterday he seemed so moved. So concerned. And today? He can’t even be bothered to darken the doorstep.” She shoved a forkful of peppers and macaroni into her mouth and chewed, patently ignoring the surprised expressions on the faces around her.
Indeed, she was a bit surprised herself at the outburst. Why should she care if Mr. LaFortune came by the house? In fact, maybe this was God’s own hand, keeping them apart by bringing him here to visit when she was locked away in prayer. Or maybe during the very moments she was meeting with old Mr. Messini, deciding which octogenarian would be assigned to what row, Louis LaFortune was in this very house—up in her very room—wringing his big, strong hands in grief.
Still, somehow, the thought of missing his visit was more upsetting than the idea that the visit had never taken place, and she swallowed her bite of lunch, fighting back the tears brought on by the spices.
“Actually,” her father said, “both Mr. Tebeau and Mr. Barnie telephoned my office earlier. They’re quite concerned.”
“Maybe about the scandal.” The conversation with Dave Voyant echoed in her mind.
“What scandal?” Hazel asked.
“Never mind.” Doc shot a warning look to Vada, who immediately returned to her lunch. “Both men have asked me to come and speak to their teams this afternoon before the game. To reassure them, if you will. Hazel, I don’t have anybody scheduled to come in, but could you call on a few patients at home for me?”
“Of course, Doc.” She didn’t sound the least bit enthused, and Vada alone knew just how much she hated calling on Doc’s patients in their homes.
“Very good. And Althea, you can sit with our patient until it’s time for you to report to the telegraph office?”
Althea nodded, the slightest smile at the corners of her mouth.
“And Vada? You can come with me to assess their level of remorse. That is, unless you have more pressing matters at the theater.”
She thought of Herr Johann’s tuxedo, the “Reserved” seat coverings, the final housekeeping briefing, and the host of other duties littering her desk, not to mention the afternoon rehearsal.
“No, Doc. Nothing at all.”
10
Although most of life for the Allenhouse family was confined within a comfortable walking distance of their home, Doc still owned a fine pair of horses and three carriages, which he housed at Darvin’s Livery on Huntington Street. There Mr. Darvin was free to rent them out in exchange for the fee he would otherwise charge Dr. Allenhouse, and whenever Doc needed conveyance, one of Darvin’s sons would drive it right up to the front door.
Today it was Darvin’s youngest, Pete, a slow, lumbering boy of fourteen who stood on the front step, chewing what was left of his thumbnail.
“Brought your two-seater and the bay.” He never once took his thumb away from his mouth and, oddly enough, his thick lips never budged.
“Very good, Pete,” Vada said. Doc followed her out onto the front step and gave Pete such a generous tip the boy was still staring at it as Doc handed Vada up into the backseat of the carriage.
“Tell you what, boy,” Doc said, his foot on the running board, “how’d you like to make twice that?”
“Yessir?”
“Hop up and drive Miss Allenhouse and myself to League Park.”
“Yes sir, Dr. Allenhouse.”
Doc settled in beside Vada, and they’d barely pulled away from the house before she began peppering him with questions. First about Eli: How long could he live in this condition? What damage would linger after he woke up? What would they do if, God forbid, he were to die? To each of these, Doc answered with some weary variance of “I don’t know.”
They spoke quietly, knowing the noise of the street would drown their conversation from the prying ears of Pete. The boy’s cheerful whistling further protected their conversation, as it seemed unlikely he could drive, whistle, and listen all at once.
“I still don’t understand why you need to go to the park.” Vada tilted her head away to hide her face from the woman out tending the lilac bush Garrison raided the afternoon before.
“I call on all my patients, Vada. Not only to care for them, but also to give reassurance to their loved ones.”
“Yes, but the patient is back at home, and we have no idea who his loved ones are.”
“It’s a difficult situation.”
&n
bsp; “But why? I don’t understand why we have the need for such secrecy. This was a simple accident, and everybody’s acting as if we’re covering up a crime.”
“That’s precisely why I wanted you to come with me today, so I could get you alone and explain. Hazel doesn’t spend much time outside the house, and we know Althea won’t…tell.”
“And Lisette is hardly aware of his existence,” Vada added, grinning.
Doc responded with a rare chuckle. “Exactly. But I know you are often out in the community, and it could well be that someone might ask you about the incident. There were, after all, spectators who saw the, er…accident. And they may well assume—correctly—that the young man was brought to my home for care, and they may ask—”
“That’s just it, Doc. What if they do ask?” Her mind flashed to the image of Dave Voyant tapping his pencil against his flirtatious smile. “What could it possibly harm to tell them what happened? We might encounter someone who can tell us who the man is.”
“I gave Mr. Tebeau my word that I would protect him. At least until we have an outcome.”
“Protect him from what?”
“Publicity, mostly. You know how cutthroat the newspapers can be. Can’t you just picture the headline?” He positioned his hands as if holding an imaginary newspaper. “Anonymous Immigrant Killed in the Stands.”
Something told Vada that Dave Voyant would come up with something infinitely more clever.
“Tebeau’s worried it’ll make the team look bad. Scare people out of the stands. The more attention called to it, the more people will examine what led up to the moment the boy got hit. And then they’ll pin blame on the player, and that could ruin him.”
She thought of those massive arms, muscles bulging as he gripped the bat, slamming the ball through the air and straight between young Eli’s eyes. “Oh, that poor Mr. LaFortune.”
“No,” Doc said, “it’ll fall on Cupid.”
“Because he didn’t catch the ball.”
“He didn’t even put up his glove.”
Because he was smitten with Lisette. Did her father know that?
“The man wants to protect his ballpark and his players. So until there’s anything else to report, all those spectators who saw young Eli get hit just know that some fellow got knocked out by a stray ball. It happens.”
“Often?”
“Often enough that, from what they told me, people around him were laughing as much as anything else.”
“And when there’s something else to report?”
“Well, then, that’ll be a great story, won’t it. When he wakes up, he can be some sort of hero.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Let’s just pray that he does.”
By now young Pete had eased the carriage onto Euclid Avenue, and Vada was distracted by the obvious display of wealth that lined the street. One mansion followed the next, each with elaborate front gardens peeking through ornate wrought-iron gates. Looking down over all from its place on a hill just beyond was the snow white, garreted home of John D. Rockefeller. The Homestead. As he always did when an occasion brought them to ride past this place, Doc tipped his hat to the house and said, “Mr. Rockefeller? If you’re feeling poorly, feel free to call on me.”
“You can bet people would know if he got smacked in the head with a baseball.”
Doc chuckled and Vada scooted a little closer to him, tentatively reaching out to loop her arm through his and, when he didn’t pull away, tucked herself next to him as they silently took in the sights.
“Didn’t you ever want to be rich, Doc?”
“No, my dear.” The rare endearment came with a pat on her hand. “I have always been able to recognize when I had enough. And there’s no greater lesson you can learn than to be happy when you simply have enough.”
She could not remember another time when she felt this close to her father—not just physically next to him, the closest she’d been to being in his lap since before her mother left. And as they had since the moment she’d heard them, the words of Alex Triplehorn echoed in her ears.
Her mind waged war, trying to shut that horrific experience out of this moment while wondering if this might be the time to ask. And then, as if lulled by the rhythmic clomping of the horse and Pete’s mesmerizing whistled tune, one side of the battle surrendered.
“Is that why our mother left?”
She felt his body go rigid against hers and hold itself still for one, two breaths before seeming to dissolve as he took his arm away and recreated space between them.
Pete ceased his whistling and looked over his shoulder. “Be at League Park in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” Doc said, staring straight forward.
Vada studied his profile, the slight uptilt to his nose and the heavy brows that tufted out above his eyes. Everything beyond that was obscured in whiskers. Without seeing his eyes, there was no way to know his thoughts. Not unless she asked again, and she wouldn’t ask again.
She too fixed her eyes ahead, staring at the back of the seat in front of her, noticing the poorly patched elbow of Pete’s sleeve. Then, almost as soft as the breeze itself, she felt the tickle of whiskers against her cheek and heard her father’s voice close to her ear.
“I will never fully understand why your mother left us. It hurts me every day.”
He shifted then, drawing her close so her head rested on his shoulder, and there they remained until Pete hollered, “League Park!” with a voice worthy of a conductor.
Once Vada sat up straight, she realized why her father had drafted Pete to drive them. Fifty yards away she saw the two-story red brick boxoffice building standing at the helm of a chicken-wire fenced-in field. Standing between them and the park entrance, however, was a sea of jam-packed carriages—even a few horseless ones—parked at chaotic angles. Men of all shapes and sizes, some in suits, some in short sleeves, milled through the mess. There were a few women too, wearing broad-brimmed hats to protect against the sun.
A narrow path intersected the jumble, and Doc ordered Pete to drive on, eventually dropping the two of them at the front gate.
“Meet us back here in thirty minutes,” he said to the boy, raising his voice above the din. “Do you have a watch?”
“No sir. But I got me a kind of head-clock right here.” Pete tapped the top of his cap. “So don’t you worry.”
“I won’t give it another thought.” Doc let himself down and offered his hand to Vada, who heard a few whoops and hollers as her leg extended out from the bottom of her skirt.
“Animals,” Doc said, but with enough humor in his voice to show that whatever melancholy had passed between them before, it was now something to be put away.
They approached the front gate, merging with the shuffling line of spectators. When they got to the front, a wide-open hand, its palm the size of a shovel, halted any further progress.
“Tickets, please.” The man behind the hand had a thin cigar pasted to his bottom lip that bobbed as he spoke.
“We are not here to see the game.” Doc tipped his hat. “I am here to meet with Mr. Tebeau.”
“Now there’s one I ain’t heard before. G’wan, pops. You look like you can cough up a buck.”
“If you will just send word to Mr. Tebeau—”
“Look, mister. I ain’t got an in with Patsy to go askin’ him—”
“Never mind, Doc.” Vada tugged his sleeve. “You can telephone him later.”
“Wait a minute.” The massive hand pinched the cigar and took it out of the man’s mouth, leaving an oddly dainty, sausagelike pinky extended. “You say doc?”
“I am Dr. Marcus Allenhouse—”
“Aw, why didn’t you say so? Patsy’s been goin’ crazy lookin’ for you all morning. Hey, Grimley!”
From nowhere emerged a scruffy-looking man wearing a soiled newsboy cap and a tobacco-stained shirt stretched over a protruding belly.
“Take these two to the dugout. This is the doc Patsy’s been
waiting for.”
Grimley gave his belly a leisurely scratch, studying them both, before he crooked his finger and stepped back into the crowd.
Doc grabbed Vada’s hand and followed. Once through the front gate, they took a sharp left and entered a narrow covered concourse lined with vendors’ carts set up to sell hot sausage links, popcorn, and beer. At least, those were the ones whose calls rang out above the din of the crowd. She also saw patrons walking with enormous pretzels and pickles wrapped in waxed paper, and several little boys ran pell-mell through the crowd clutching sticks of horehound candy.
At first she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the back of Mr. Grimley’s neck, terrified of losing him in the crowd. After all, it seemed every man in the place looked just like him. But when the closeness of the crowd forced them to slow their progress, she noticed several men in expensive suits standing elbow to elbow with those in tattered shirt-sleeves.
The women too seemed to have strolled in from every walk of life. For every feminine voice heard uttering the rough talk more suited to a sailor, another lifted a lace-gloved hand to sweep a strand of hair back in place.
So caught up in the sights around her, she soon forgot all about following Mr. Grimley and might have wandered off completely if not for the clutch of her father’s hand. It wasn’t until she collided with Doc’s shoulder that she realized he had stopped moving, and the three of them stood at the entrance to what looked like a long, dark hallway.
“Youse have to wait,” Mr. Grimley said pointedly to Vada. “Can’t allow a female such as yerself into the clubhouse.”
“Oh.” She clutched Doc’s hand.
“You’ll be fine, Vada.” He gave her a little pat as he released his grip. “I won’t be but a few minutes, and I’ll meet you right back here.”
She watched her father and Mr. Grimley disappear through the dark opening, then smoothed her skirt and, rooted in place, allowed her eyes to roam as they would, taking in the posted bills along the walls.
Then, wafting above the noise of the surrounding conversations and the hawking calls of the vendors, she heard music. Perhaps it had been playing all along, but once her ear caught the first note, the melody unfolded, carried through the bellows of a pipe organ.
The Bridegrooms: A Novel Page 11
