by Troy Soos
Mrs. Chapman said jokingly to Willie, “He’s from your father’s side of the family, you know.”
Willie wasn’t listening. His thoughts were off someplace else, the location of which he wasn’t revealing to anyone.
Edna rejoined us. She handed me her coat and turned around. I held it open for her as she slid her arms into the sleeves.
On an impulse, I said, “Say Willie, why don’t you come with us?”
Edna spun around to face me. I’d never seen her eyes so wide. She looked as hurt and angry as if I’d kicked one of the dogs.
Then I noticed the garment: a belted velour jacket of golden brown with white piping. It had large turned-back cuffs and triangular patch pockets. The coat was more fashionable than anything I’d ever seen her wear, obviously brand new and probably an extravagance.
Willie rescued me. He said, “No, not tonight, thanks.”
Edna quickly tied the belt of her jacket and pinned a small woven straw bonnet to her hair. She tucked her hands into a fox muff.
I jumped right back into the fire. I knew there was something important troubling Willie—something more than whether or not to enlist—and I didn’t think he should be left alone. Despite Edna’s pleading eyes, I said, “We’re going to see Tarzan. It’s a good picture. C’mon. We’ll have a good time.”
“Can’t. I got plans.”
He didn’t elaborate. Meanwhile, Edna was nudging me toward the door.
It was strange. Usually I could understand ballplayers but not women. Tonight, I had no idea what was going on in Willie’s head, but I knew exactly what Edna was thinking.
Chapter Three
Baseball stars like Ty Cobb and Walter Johnson collect batting titles and strikeout crowns. The game’s top managers—John McGraw, Frank Chance, Connie Mack—collect championship pennants. Me, I collect scars.
During eight years of professional baseball, my legs had been slashed, gouged, and impaled by the spikes of the game’s best ballplayers. And I was proud of every calling card they’d left on me. I didn’t think of my legs as marred but as properly broken in, like a fielder’s mitt softened and creased from use.
I’d picked up two more bruises in this afternoon’s game. One was from a foul tip that I’d hit off my left instep, the other from a bad hop that I’d stopped with my right kneecap instead of my mitt. Neither would leave a scar, but they were both begging to be soaked in a hot bath.
Deciding to let them beg a while longer, I settled into the comfortable green Morris chair in the corner of my parlor and picked up one of the newspapers stacked next to it on the floor.
The papers were a week’s worth of the New York Press. I subscribed to the New York paper not because it was any more informative than Chicago newspapers—it wasn’t—but to keep tabs on a friend of mine, a reporter who’d gone to Europe at the end of 1914. His reports on the war had appeared regularly in the Press until last summer, when they’d abruptly stopped. I didn’t know if he was alive or . . . otherwise.
I flipped through the first paper, looking for his name. I read none of the articles and noticed only a few of the headlines:
Spanish Influenza Epidemic in German Army
President Urges Suffrage on Senators
Czar and Family Executed
Commission Reports War Profiteering on Enormous Scale
Republicans Seek to End Party War
As I mechanically went through page after page, I thought about the night before. Mrs. Chapman was getting more brazen in her hints, and I had no doubt she assumed Edna and I would get married someday. I didn’t know for sure what Edna thought, but I was starting to get the impression that her mother wasn’t the only one with that notion. To me, our dates were as innocent as if she was my own sister, and I assumed nothing more than that we’d be going to the pictures again next Saturday night. Although it might be wiser not to. Perhaps it would be better to end things now. I wondered how Willie would take it if I stopped seeing his sister.
I started on the second issue of the Press and couldn’t help noticing the theme that ran through many of the stories: if you weren’t supporting the war effort, you were a slacker; if you were a slacker, you were a traitor; if you were a traitor, you should be hung. My thoughts turned to my own feelings on the war, feelings that changed from day to day. I didn’t know what the war was about exactly, nor why it was something I should be eager to kill or die for. Since my number hadn’t come up in the draft lottery, I figured I’d just keep playing ball. Even though playing baseball for a living sometimes seemed a meaningless chore this year.
Except during the game itself. From the umpire’s cry of “Play ball!” to the final out, I felt fully alive and the world made sense. Perhaps that’s why, with all the craziness that had taken over the world, I clung so desperately to baseball. It was one thing—sometimes the only thing—that I understood.
I threw down the last of the papers without having seen a “Karl Landfors” byline. I knew I could have simply called the Press office and asked about him, but definitive news could also be bad news. I preferred to believe that if I just kept checking the papers, someday his name would reappear.
After skimming the newsprint and all the thinking, my head needed a douse of cold water as much as my legs needed to soak in hot. Prodded by a pang in my knee, I went to prepare the bath.
I cracked open the hot water tap above the tub. Nothing came out. I spun the faucet all the way open. Not a drip, not a belch. I tried the cold tap and a torrent gushed forth. Okay, there’s water. So why not hot water?
Before renting this cottage, I’d always lived in apartments or boarding houses, so home maintenance wasn’t my strong suit. I did remember, though, that in the cellar were some pipes and plumbing fixtures.
I went through the kitchen, out the back door, and stepped into the narrow alley that ran behind my house.
The cellar entrance was next to the back steps. I lifted the flimsy sheet of wood that covered it, climbed down three rickety steps, and pulled the string of an electric light. The bulb struggled to produce a dim glow.
My eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. After they dilated, I saw that the cellar was almost bare, pretty much the way I remembered it. A few empty wood packing crates, a small pile of bricks, and a coal shovel were its only contents.
I started to explore, walking hunched over to avoid bumping my head. The light wasn’t bright enough for me to see the cobwebs that tickled my ears as I made my way to a location under the bathroom.
By following the pipes running under the floor joists, it took only a minute to discover the problem: the hot water tank was gone. Where it had been was a small puddle of water on the concrete floor. I ran my thumb over the end of one of the pipes that dangled above the puddle. It had been sawed through.
Relying on my apartment dweller instincts, it took only another minute to figure out what to do: call my landlord.
Back upstairs, I did just that, and asked him if he’d had the tank removed for some reason. He insisted he hadn’t, which I believed since he wouldn’t have cut the pipes to disconnect it. He also insisted that I now owed him fifteen dollars for a new one, which I argued about until he hung up on me.
I went out back again and looked around. There wasn’t much to see. The dirt alley, with the back doors of Wolfram Street homes on one side and those of the larger George Street homes on the other, wasn’t wide enough to allow automobile traffic; it served primarily as a community back porch, a storage place for brooms and carpet beaters and a place for neighbors to gossip. No such neighbors were out now, no one to ask if they’d seen anything.
Lake View—which really didn’t provide a view of Lake Michigan—was a good neighborhood. It was a peaceful area, mostly residential with single and two-story homes, not a part of the city where crime was a problem. But then, what kind of neighborhood does have a problem with stolen hot water tanks?
From the street in front of my house, I heard a familiar blustery voic
e call, “You kids beat it now! Scram!”
Leaving the alley, I squeezed my way between the side of my house and that of my next-door neighbor and emerged on Wolfram Street. The red brick homes on the block were essentially all the same. They were a step up from row houses in that there was a good foot and a half of space between each one.
This was “Gasless Sunday,” so the street was as devoid of traffic as the alley. A herd of children had taken advantage of the empty street to play crack-the-whip. They were hand-in-hand, strung out across the width of the road. Yelling at them from the sidewalk was Mike the Cop, a large pudgy man with damp crescents under the arms of his blue uniform. It was Mike’s personal mission to keep the neighborhood free of noisy children; and since there’s no other kind, he routinely chased away anyone under the age of sixteen.
“Go on! Get! Ya snot-nosed little...” As he yelled, he flourished his billy club like Tom Mix twirling a six-shooter. I knew the kids were in no real danger from the stick. Mike was actually pretty harmless for a cop.
The kids finally ran away laughing, and I approached him. “Hey, Mike. I’ve been robbed.”
He ignored me, his eyes remaining fixed on the kids as they scampered toward Southport Avenue. Mike had his priorities. “And don’t come back neither!”
Mike was red-faced and breathless, either from the exertion of yelling or from the tight fit of his uniform. After he was satisfied that they were far enough away, he took a few puffs of air and turned his attention to me. “Robbed, you say?”
Good thing I wasn’t reporting a shooting, I thought. “Yeah. Somebody stole my hot water tank.”
His face fell. “Stole your what?”
“My water tank. You know, for hot water. It was in my cellar and now it’s gone. Somebody took it.”
Mike pushed up the visor of his cap with the end of his stick. “Uh-huh,” he said flatly.
“Cut it right off the pipes and—”
Mike’s attention had turned back to the street. “Well, would ya look at that,” he said, pointing the stick at a passing Model T. A creative motorist had hitched a team of horses to the front of the car so his family could enjoy a Sunday drive without using gasoline.
I didn’t appreciate Mike being so easily distracted. “About my water tank,” I reminded him. “What are you going to do?”
“Me?” He was clearly astonished that I expected him to do anything.
“Yeah.”
“Well.... I’m not gonna do nothing,” he decided after a moment’s thought. “I think that’s crazy is what I think.” He then nodded amiably and walked off, twirling his nightstick and trying to whistle.
After a couple of minutes, I went back into my house, slamming the screen door behind me. He’s right, I thought, it’s crazy.
I struck a match and put its flame to a piece of kindling in my kitchen stove. As the fire spread to the rest of the wood, I filled all the pots I had—three, including a coffee pot—with cold water and put them on top of the stove. One way or another I was going to have a hot bath, dammit.
“Hello! Rawlings, you in there?”
Mike the Cop must have decided to investigate after all. Leaving the water to boil, I went to the front door. The man who took form through the wire screen wasn’t a cop. It was my boss. The boss: Charles A. Weeghman, President, Chicago Cubs.
“Mr. Weeghman,” I said with surprise, pulling open the door. I’d never had a manager in my home before, never mind a team owner. “Uh, would you like to come in?”
He said nothing, but his scowl answered, “Obviously. What a stupid question.” Weeghman, an ungainly fellow of about forty, had sunken eyes with dark bags under them and could produce a spectacularly frightening scowl.
He stepped in without removing his derby. Over his shoulder I saw a glossy black Packard at the curb, with a driver behind the wheel and the engine running. Gasless Sunday didn’t apply to people who could afford Packards.
Weeghman’s clothes were at the same end of the price scale as his car. The tailored dark suit couldn’t disguise his awkward build though. And the droopy green bow tie wasn’t exactly flattering.
Once inside, Weeghman gave the room a cursory glance and said, “Nice little place.” He stressed the “little.”
“Can I take your hat?”
“No,” he grunted.
Despite his lousy manners, I was determined to be a good host and offered him my chair. He shook his head no and proceeded to half-sit on a sideboard that I didn’t think could hold him.
I settled into the chair he’d declined and waited for him to tell me what he was doing in my nice little place.
I didn’t have to wait long. “I want to know who’s trying to put me out of business,” Weeghman demanded.
I was tempted to suggest that he’d come to the wrong place, for I had no idea what he was talking about. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Just what I said. Those smoke bombs yesterday. And the bleachers that collapsed.” Last month, several of the right field bleacher seats had broken through, upending some fans.
“They just broke, didn’t they?”
“They were sawed.”
Like the pipes to my water tank.
He leaned forward. “And the pretzels a couple weeks ago.”
Somebody had put pretzels in all the concession stands at Cubs Park, and Weeghman was pilloried in the papers for serving German food.
Did he think I was involved in any of this? “I don’t know anything about it,” I said.
“Don’t expect you to ... yet. But I expect you to find out. I want you to do some digging around for me.”
“Oh.” This sounded like an opportunity I’d rather pass up.
Weeghman noticed my lack of enthusiasm and his lips pursed. He looked down and began tugging at his shirt cuffs, carefully adjusting and readjusting them until they both stuck out exactly the same length from his jacket sleeve. As he fiddled, he softly said, “You know, the Work or Fight order takes effect tomorrow.”
Know? It was almost all I’d thought of since the government had issued it in May. According to the order, every man of draft age had until July first to find essential war work or be drafted. Tomorrow was July first.
“Yeah, but if the Secretary of War decides baseball’s essential, it doesn’t matter,” I said, with more hope than conviction. It sounded ridiculous to say those words. The Secretary of War ruling that baseball was essential. Not likely.
“True ...” Weeghman nodded solemnly. Then, with a hint of a smile, he added, “Of course, if you’re not playing baseball, it doesn’t matter what Baker decides. You’ll be off to the trenches.”
Weeghman had all the subtlety of a bean ball. So that was it: do what he wanted or I was off the team. He could have asked nicely, explained why he needed my help. Instead, he starts off with a threat. A damned effective threat.
“You really think somebody’s trying to put you out of business?”
“I know it,” Weeghman snapped. “And I got an idea who, but I want to know for sure.”
“Who do you think it is?” I half expected him to answer “Germans.”
Weeghman hesitated. “Rather not say.”
“How can I help if you don’t tell me?” Not that I was going to anyway, if I could avoid it, but I was getting curious.
Weeghman removed his derby and spun it idly in his hand for a minute. “It’s Wrigley,” he said abruptly.
“William Wrigley?”
His scowl told me it was another stupid question.
A splash and a sizzle came from the kitchen. The water! I bolted from my chair and ran to the stove. Removing the pots from the stove top, I wondered what Wrigley could have against Weeghman.
I knew Charles Weeghman wasn’t the sole owner of the Cubs. He’d put together a syndicate of Chicago businessmen to buy the team two years ago. William Wrigley was one of a number of partners.
Back in the parlor, I pressed Weeghman. “Why would Mr. Wrigley want to put you ou
t of business?”
“Bastard wants to take over my team.”
That cheered me somewhat. I generally like it when owners fight among themselves—it’s the only time they leave the players alone.
“When did Mr. Wrigley start this?” I asked, playing along.
“Right from the start of the season.” Weeghman leaned forward and said confidentially, “I don’t have proof of this, but I would bet you it was Wrigley who talked Alexander into enlisting.” Weeghman had bought Grover Cleveland Alexander, the National League’s premier pitcher, from the Phillies last winter. After three games with the Cubs in April, Alexander had enlisted and gone to France with General Pershing and the American Expeditionary Force.
“Maybe he enlisted out of patriotism,” I suggested in Alexander’s defense. I owed a lot to the players who had given up baseball to go to war, such as my promotion from utility player to starting second baseman.
Weeghman shook his head. “Nah, it was Wrigley. I’d bet money on it.” When an owner’s willing to risk money on something, he must feel it’s a sure thing. He went on, “William Wrigley’s got the biggest goddamn ego I ever seen. Did you know he used to own a semi-pro team that played out in Ogden Grove?”
“I heard that, yeah.”
“Know what the name of the team was?”
“No—”
“The Wrigleys. How’s that for ego?”
An owner with an ego. There’s something new.
“If he takes over the Cubs,” Weeghman said, “you might be wearing the name of a chewing gum on your uniform.”
I didn’t like that idea at all. It sounded like something slimy and writhing.
He added, “At the least, he’ll change the name of the field to Wrigley Park or something.”
I chose not to point out that Weeghman had christened it Weeghman Park when he’d opened it for his Federal League team four years ago.
