“You mean move the blueprints,” she says with a sharp tone.
“Yes, move them.”
“What if someone sees us? It’s much harder to hide in the daylight. They won’t think we’re a couple of nice kids from the neighborhood who went exploring. They won’t just kick us out and forget about it.”
“Guess you got it all figured out then, don’t you?” I snap. “Were you ever going to help?” Even I’m surprised with the nasty tone of my own voice.
“Well, you two sure have done a nice job!” Mrs. Carson is back on the porch, a smile ear to ear.
Lola continues to glare at me, before breaking my gaze and focusing on Mrs. Carson.
“Just about done, Mrs. Carson. How is your backyard? Do you need anything there?” Lola walks toward her and talks in a sweet, genuine tone. I suddenly feel cold and alone.
“Oh dear, you are too kind. Let’s leave the back for now—you two look like you could use a little warming up.”
I’m not quite sure if she is talking about the weather or something else.
“I have some hot tea for you, and of course I have to pay you.”
“Oh, Mrs. Carson, please. We don’t need anything,” I say.
“Everybody needs something, dear.” She motions for us to join her.
The inside of Mrs. Carson’s house looks like we traveled in a time machine. Along the back wall sits a red velvet sofa that was probably fancy long ago. It’s worn in all the sitting places, and there are two books where a right leg should be. The rest of the room is the same—fraying rugs, peeling wallpaper, tattered lampshades. There are crucifixes scattered on different walls, and a few faded paintings that may have been nice forty years ago. Mrs. Carson returns from the kitchen and sees me studying the room.
“This house has seen better days, Jimmy” she sighs, but quickly perks back up. “It certainly brightens up with company.”
The hot cup actually hurts at first before it slowly warms my fingers. I can feel the tea go all the way down my throat. I am anxious to leave, sneak inside the ballpark, and find those blueprints.
“I can’t pay you any money, of course.”
“We are okay,” Lola emphasizes.
“I know you are okay. But I’d like to give you something anyway. Once that Spite Fence goes up, I think I’ll see less of you both.”
“How’s that, ma’am?” Lola asks.
“You entertain me. I watch you from time to time—sneaking into the ballpark, skulking about at night. I’m afraid that when all this changes, some of your late-night antics will change, too.”
We are both staring at her now. I realize my mouth has dropped open, and I quickly shut it. Lola stands frozen.
“Mrs. Carson, we …”
“I’m an old lady. What else have I got to do but watch everyone else?” she laughs. “Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me. I like your spunk. I sit on my porch at night wondering if I’ll see you jump over the wall. You’ve gotten quite good at it, you know. Now, let’s see. I think I’ve picked out the perfect things for the two of you.”
She moves toward the shelf of old books, papers, and a few journals that look just like Lola’s.
“Ah, here it is.” She pulls out a small photo frame, wipes the dust, and admires it for a few seconds. “I think you might like this.” She hands it to Lola. “You remind me of an Allender girl.” Mrs. Carson puts her hand on Lola’s shoulder. “You’ve got such energy. Don’t slip into the mold, dear. Girls—women—we can do anything.
“Those Allender girls walk around with such conviction. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a photo of you one day at the White House, with an equal rights picket sign under one arm and a journal under the other.”
Mrs. Carson shows me the frame. It contains an old political cartoon, like the ones in the Opinion section of the newspaper. It is a pencil sketch of a woman holding a sign that says for democracy, chasing a man from the Senate holding the Constitution. The drawing is signed Allender, May 1918. I smile uneasily, feeling a little left out of the conversation, which is perfectly fine. This will not help the Spite Fence or our upcoming plan.
Lola hugs Mrs. Carson, causing them both to rock. Leaving Lola’s embrace, Mrs. Carson goes back to the bookshelf and picks out a book near the top shelf. She walks over to me, smiling, and holds out the book. I take and examine it, a white cover and brown writing: As I Lay Dying.
“Er, thanks Mrs. Carson. I really appreciate the, um …”
“Oh dear, not the book! Not the book!” She opens the front cover. “This, dear—here you go.”
Inside is a baseball card, but not like the ones in my shoebox under the bed. “Well, it’s just a piece of cardboard,” she says, with a touch of embarrassment. “But I thought you might like it. He’s quite a player, and famous. Although I think a little overweight for a professional athlete.”
“What?” I look closely. It’s not like any card I ever saw before—a profile shot of a player in a navy hat, coat, and socks, with white pants. The bottom of the card says RUTH, PITCHER, with the words International League underneath.
“Where is this from?” I ask, turning it over and studying it a bit longer. “This is before he was with the Yankees!” I squeal.
“Oh, who knows? My son lived in Maryland. I think he had a box of stuff somewhere and left this one behind.” Lola and I both stiffen up a bit at the mention of her son, knowing that he died in The Great War.
“Tush now, none of that.” Mrs. Carson notices our change. “Don’t expect life to be fair.”
“Rule #6,” I say, just loud enough for Lola to hear, and she smiles in my direction.
“Mrs. Carson, I can’t take this. It’s got to be worth something.”
“Well, that’s why it’s a gift.”
“No, I mean you could sell it. Raise some money for the house or food,” I say. “Oh, I don’t mean to, well, I just mean that you can use the money, right?”
“Nobody will buy a silly baseball card. Not in 1934. By the time it’s worth something, I’ll be long gone. Tuck it away, and maybe one day you can sell it yourself. Now run along. I suspect you have a scheme or two planned for today,” Mrs. Carson says, collecting our cups.
We both smile and thank her again, leaving through the front door and sweeping some leftover snow along the way, making sure the job looks neat and clean.
“Let me see that!” Lola examines my new baseball card and places it gently into her journal for safekeeping.
“Wait, here.” I rummage through my bag and pull out the fishing line, then tie it around the journal like a package.
“Good thinking.” She puts them both in my bag and takes a deep breath. “The cold air feels good.”
“I still can’t believe she gave that to me! I can’t wait to show it to Pop.”
“Seems like she’s been looking out for us.”
“We are always going to shovel her steps.”
“And we should do other things, too.”
I put my hat on and try to take advantage of Lola’s good mood. “Now how about a walk through Shibe?”
25
A’s scout declared that Connie Mack is building up another great team and that he will not sell any more of his stars.
—The Sporting News, December 27, 1934
The sidewalk near the employee entrance to Shibe Park is busier than we expect. The streets are not clear. We set up next to the employee door and try to look busy by building a snowman, waiting for everyone to clear out, or at least look the other way.
“Keep your eye out for the Polinskis,” I say, shooting looks up and down the street.
“Don’t worry—they won’t come around with me here,” Lola says. I do believe she truly thinks she can take them on.
We did not expect the snowman itself to draw attention. All of the neighborhood kids are stopping by to lend a hand. Kids come and go, but Ralph, Matty, and Santa stay close to help finish.
“He looks naked,” Santa says.
“I’ll go find a hat,” Ralph says, pointing to the snowman’s head.
“He’ll still look naked. I’ll go find rocks for buttons,” Santa says, walking toward Reyburn Park.
“Nobody has come in or out of Shibe for an hour,” I whisper to Lola.
“Golly, my fingers are gonna fall off.” Matty holds up red, uncovered hands. Ralph slaps the back of his head and calls him an idiot. They both start to walk away in search of hats and mittens.
It’s the first time the street has been deserted all day. We make a dash for the door. I fumble for the key in my pocket, and my cold hands have trouble sliding it into the lock.
“Come on,” Lola urges, and I shoot her an I’m trying look.
The door unlocks and opens easily, and we sneak in. Lola wipes away some of our footprints from outside the door just before I close it.
It’s dark inside the Shibe Park hallway. I fumble in my bag and find my flashlight. We shake off our gloves and shove them in our pockets, making our way toward the stairs.
“It feels so damp and cold,” Lola says through chattering teeth. I realize that I am shaking too, and I’m not sure if it’s the weather or my nerves. But it’s more than that. The normally warm and welcoming Shibe Park feeling is missing.
We creep along the wall, and I motion with my hand at the stairs on the right. We make it to the second floor, and it’s even darker than the first. The flashlight is a help, and we turn the corner to find ourselves in front of the two office doors.
I unlock the same door Mr. Pott showed me a few weeks ago. We hear a loud creeeeeak as the door swings open. Lola’s eyebrows rise, and I grab the door before it can make any more noise. We rush in and close it behind us.
We stand flat against the door breathing heavily.
Lola motions with her chin to the desk, where there are a pile of papers and stacks of folders. No tubes, and nothing that looks like what Mr. Pott and I carried upstairs. They have to be here somewhere.
We first open the closet and spy a raincoat and some boxes of papers. I point to a safe in the corner and nudge her.
“I hope they aren’t in there,” I whisper.
We make our way to the desk and look through everything. There are timecards from employees, newspaper clippings of A’s headlines, and letters that look like they are waiting for Shibe’s signature. Yesterday’s Sporting News article is cut out and sits in the middle of the desktop.
“This is to Fox Movietone News,” I say, holding a letter from John Shibe. “He’s telling them that they won’t be able to gain news footage from the rooftops next season.”
“And look at this! The Yankees offered $250,000 for Pinky Higgins and Eric McNair. It’s from someone named Ira Thomas.”
“He’s the A’s scout. That’s an awful lot of money.”
“How can anyone have that much money in the whole wide world?”
“These are like the purchase orders at Pop’s store.” We continue to look through the pile. There are orders for grass seed and cleaning supplies. That’s when I notice it.
The top of the invoice says Warner Central Mix & Concrete Construction Company. The materials are listed for an “Iron Wall, 20th Street side,” with payment due by December 31, 1934. Lola and I stare at each other. About halfway down is a red stamp that says “Invoice,” and below that in block letters: “MATERIALS DELIVERED UPON RECEIPT OF PAYMENT.”
We both hear a click and lock eyes. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
I barely have time to think before Lola grabs my arm, shoves me around the desk and pulls me underneath, and then slides the chair in as far as it will go. We cram in the cubby hole, pressing ourselves as far back into the desk’s back panel as we possibly can.
The now-familiar creeeeeak echoes as the door opens. We stare at each other as our eyes adjust in the small dark space under the desk. I shove the invoice into my coat pocket and quietly fumble with my flashlight to click it off.
I realize she’s holding her breath, and I nudge her foot. I overexaggerate letting out some air, which prompts her to do the same. We are careful not to move an inch, careful not to make a peep. There is a shuffling of footsteps, followed by a couple of grunts.
I can’t see who is in the office, but I still know. John Shibe is walking toward the desk.
Lola squeezes her eyes tight and mouths the word no, and I brace myself. There is sweat dripping down the sides of my temples. I wish I could peel off every layer right now. Only ten minutes ago, I was freezing from the cold.
We both silently try to squeeze back into the desk as far as possible. I pray for more space to magically appear. But there is no place to go. If Shibe walks around and tries to sit down, he will definitely find us. I’ll be out as batboy. Pop’s store will lose any future orders. The Sheridans will lose their uniform contract. And the Spite Fence will definitely go up.
John Shibe is now standing in front of the desk, exactly where we were only seconds before. He is inches from our heads, and we are hidden only by the back desk panel—a thin piece of wood. We can hear pages shuffle and a couple more grunts. Lola’s eyes widen, and I know she’s thinking about how messy we left those papers.
I hear a fizz that sounds like a bottle of pop opening, and a hard knock on the table as he sets it down.
“Dammit!” Shibe grunts, before we hear him rearrange a few more pages and let out a huge belch. Even with all of the boys in the neighborhood farting and burping all day long, I have no idea how someone can burp that loud, or sound so disgusting.
My head brushes something taped underneath the desk drawer, and a tiny piece of paper, the size of a quarter, falls on my lap. I put it in my pocket and take Lola’s hands to keep them from shaking.
We continue to huddle close, tensely looking at one another. Even under this dark wooden desk, I can see that she is white as a ghost. What have I done?
A couple of grunts later, John Shibe shuffles his way out of the room and slams the door behind him. I wonder if he’s looking for the invoice in my pocket.
Lola and I don’t say a word to each other. We carefully creep out from under the desk, leave everything as it is, and move toward the door. I pause and wonder if he knows we are inside the room. Maybe he’s waiting outside the door, ready to pounce. But there is really nothing else we can do. It’s our only chance to escape.
I open the door and go first, see that the coast is clear, and wave for her to follow. She carefully closes the door and doesn’t bother locking it. We hustle through the hall and down the steps and rush outside. Lola doesn’t even check to see if the street is clear before she pulls me out. We look at each other as the door closes behind us.
“Hey! Where’d you guys come from?” A confused Santa looks up with his eyebrows raised. I smile, relieved.
“Dipping into your father’s whisky again?” Lola says.
Santa looks at us like we are the crazy ones, which it’s obvious that we are. The snowman now has a top hat, twigs for arms, and rocks for the nose and eyes. Santa pulls a pipe from his pocket and adds it as a finishing touch. We both try to act as calm as possible.
“Doesn’t he look great,” I say.
“Perfect,” she replies.
There are a thousand things running through my head and an invoice in my pocket.
We need to get home, and we need to get home now.
26
Few Philly regrets as old year leaves.
From a baseball standpoint, 1934 was not kind to fans.
—The Sporting News, December 27, 1934
“I’m sorry,” I say. My words break an uncomfortable silence as we walk around the corner toward our houses.
“Stop apologizing to me,” Lola says. “I knew what I was getting into.”
“You aren’t mad?” I say.
“Of course not. We made a deal, even if I didn’t like it. And I can’t say I told you so. But …” Lola smiles.
“No, you can’t say that. Rule #21,” I snip. “Never say I told you so.
”
“But don’t be blind, Jimmy. You know that was a little crazy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.
“Nothing,” she says, giving in. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
“We aren’t fighting. Just disagreeing. People disagree, Lola.”
“Sure. And we’ll laugh about this one day soon. Just not now. I’m cold and tired.”
“Okay. See you later!” I say in a high voice that makes me sound like I’m trying too hard.
“Sure. See you,” she replies, and walks into her house.
Dinner comes and goes, and I can barely think about anything. I slurp down spaghetti and bean soup, eager to leave the table.
“How is Mrs. Carson doing?” Ma asks.
“Fine.”
“Is your friend Santa still around? When are they moving?” Pop asks.
“Don’t know.”
“You didn’t make any money today, did you?” Nina asks.
“No.”
“I thought you were gonna shovel,” she digs.
“How’s your job search?” I scoff.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Ma says. As the minutes tick away, I’m more and more eager to take a closer look at that invoice burning a hole in my pocket.
Pop and I finish drying the dishes while Ma is at the table drinking a cup of coffee.
“Can I go to my room?”
“Of course, dear. Thank you for helping,” Ma says while listening to Amos ’n’ Andy on the radio.
I run to my room and pull out the invoice, crumpled in a ball, and examine it again. It is definitely a bill, and probably the only copy they had. The words “materials delivered upon receipt of payment” stand out. At the very least, if they forget to pay this bill, I’ll have delayed the shipment of materials. And then maybe the season will start, and they’ll have to wait to build until next year.
But where are those blueprints? They were supposed to be waiting for Connie Mack. I need to talk to Lola. Maybe this invoice will give us some time to figure out a new plan.
Goodbye, Mr. Spalding Page 12