“Would you be able to take him?” Magdalena finished.
Mr. Morgan looked at James’ sister.
“I’ll stay and help here at the restaurant,” she offered. James was surprised. What did Magdalena know about cooking or restaurants? To his further surprise, Mr. Morgan nodded.
“I’ll take him,” Mr. Morgan said. He turned, walked to the back of the restaurant, and disappeared through the lighted doorway. There were voices back there, two men and a woman. James prayed the woman wasn’t Ida.
“You know what to do in a restaurant?” James whispered to his sister. He expected Ida would nix the whole plan, still baffled why Mr. Morgan would trust Magdalena to work for him to begin with.
Magdalena shrugged. “I know things.”
The voices were low, and terse. Mr. Morgan appeared in the doorway again. He came to where James and Magdalena stood.
“Ida’s in the back. She can show you what needs done.” Then he looked at James. “Let’s go. My car’s at the house. We can walk there and get it.”
“Do good, little brother.” Magdalena squeezed his shoulder. Then she nodded at Mr. Morgan and headed to the back. Her voice sounded jovial and confident as she disappeared into the kitchen. James couldn’t hear Ida, only Magdalena. She was bright and cheery. At least she pretended to be. Ida, no matter how stern, didn’t have a chance.
Mr. Morgan unlocked the front door and they stepped onto the sidewalk. James watched him relock it from the outside. As they turned and headed down the walk, something caught his eye in the restaurant. The kitchen doorway dimmed. A silhouette much shorter and fuller than Magdalena filled it, blocking the kitchen light. Ida, he thought. He prayed Magdalena would behave herself and not upset her more than she apparently already was.
“I’m honored you asked me to do this,” Mr. Morgan said as they moved quickly beyond his restaurant’s front window, Ida left behind. He didn’t know if Mr. Morgan saw her or not. Surely he at least felt her. James sure could.
Chapter 28
James 1957
Mr. Morgan stood near the fence. He’d been there all day, never moving to the scanty bleachers to join the other spectators the whole time James played. James glanced beyond him, at the seating arranged around the infield. Mama should be there watching him, but she wasn’t. He hadn’t even told her about the tryouts. If Pop found out, he’d be furious, and Pop would include her in his attacks on James, yell at her and blame her for that boy. Just like he always did.
James tried not to look at Mr. Morgan, but he did, he couldn’t stop himself. Mr. Morgan was looking back, his eyes on James, saying the things Mama would have said if she’d been there, maybe even more. James looked away. There were other things in Mr. Morgan’s eyes, things a father should say, things Pop never had. He stretched his hands around two bats together and took a practice swing. He could feel the weight, just like Mr. Morgan had shown him years ago. He swung again, waiting for his turn at bat.
Choke up when you use a big bat. James heard the old advice in his mind. It came back, and he almost shouted it at the batter as he watched him swing and miss a fast pitch. James was much stronger now. What he lacked in height, he made up for in strength. He swung the two bats again, even harder, trying to look as old as real ball players were. He rarely choked up on a bat anymore, but that advice had saved him. It gave him strength on the inside where he needed it the most. James glanced at the bleachers, where only strangers sat. He missed Mama’s smile and her encouragement. He missed hearing her say his name the right way.
The boy at bat swung and missed again. He whacked the dirt with the end of the bat and stalked to the dugout.
“Batter up!”
James tossed the smaller of the two bats back into the dugout and stepped to the plate. He held the bat high in the air with one hand while he dug his toes into the dirt, positioning himself for the hit that mattered. Lots of fantastic players were here; the competition was stiff. James wasn’t the best player trying out, but he was good, good enough to stand a fair chance of being selected if this time at bat went well.
Before he settled, before he lowered the bat and gripped it with both hands, he glanced at Mr. Morgan. He was still there, his fingers laced through the fencing just like they’d been years ago. Mr. Morgan nodded when their eyes connected. It should have been Pop standing there. Mr. Morgan’s kindness didn’t make up for Pop’s hurt. It made it worse, if anything, made it more poignant, and made James angry he’d been born to a father that didn’t care.
James stared at the pitcher. He twisted the bat in his hands and planted his feet. This pitcher was new. There was a different one each time James came to bat. That kept him from learning one pitcher’s style, becoming familiar with how they stood, how their faces changed right before they wound up and let go. This one was tall and lean, just like Pop. He was freckled and fair-skinned. His face was set like a stone, like this was a private war between him and James.
There was no warning nod, no shift in position to let James know the pitch was coming. Suddenly it was there, the pitcher’s motion so instantaneous James hadn’t even seen him move.
“Strike one!” The umpire roared behind him as the ball smacked the catcher’s glove. James stared at the umpire. It wasn’t the umpire’s fault, but James had to stare at something while the strike registered. The ball whisked past him as the catcher returned it to the pitcher. The catcher pounded his mitt with a fist and walked in a circle before squatting to the ground behind the plate again.
James stepped backwards out of the batter’s box. He watched the pitcher rub the ball into his glove and pace off a few steps around the mound. James took a practice swing. He wouldn’t let that happen again.
He stepped back to the plate. The pitcher was in place, ball and glove together at shoulder height. He stared as James steadied himself, keeping the bat high in one hand. James dug his toes deeper into the dirt. He’d hit the ball this time. He’d be ready.
James glanced at the pitcher before he settled into the batter’s box. His feet were in place, but he kept the bat high. He needed a moment, and he used his power as the batter to hold the pitcher at bay. He lowered the bat and gripped it with both hands, his eye on the pitcher, watching for the clues he’d missed before. Somewhere there would be a wince, a blink, a shift of weight from one foot to the other.
“Strike two!”
A small cloud of dust burst from the catcher’s mitt as the ball slapped like a gunshot. James stared down at the mitt and the dust. So quick, so fast. He hadn’t even swung, there’d been no opportunity. He wheeled away from the batter’s box, walked a few feet back, cracking the sides of his shoes with the bat with each step. He shook his head. This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t let it. His fielding and pitching had been perfect all day. If he batted poorly, they wouldn’t choose him. He could bat. He would.
He pivoted back toward the plate. He needed Mama’s voice right now, her pleasant soprano to shout something encouraging. Even if she just said his name, that would be enough. The stands were quiet. No one was there for him, or a particular team. It was every man for himself today. He was alone.
“Move off the plate a little.”
James looked up. Mr. Morgan had moved. He was no longer near the dugout, he was behind the umpire now, just off to the side.
“Step back. Get your bearings.”
James felt like a little boy again. Like he did the day he wanted to tell Mr. Morgan to leave him alone. He was the little boy who was hurt and disappointed his pop wasn’t there.
He stepped to the plate and dug his toes in the same place he had before. He wasn’t crowding the plate. Mr. Morgan was wrong. Where he stood wasn’t the problem, the pitcher was the problem. The guy was sneaky and quick. He was just like Pop, probably exactly like Pop played. James squared himself at the plate, the same place, the place that suited him. He gripped the bat, squeezing it over and over, letting it quiver above him. He was ready, he was poised, all his strength gathered in
his arms and legs.
The pitcher flinched. He nodded. James saw it. He hadn’t seen it before. He swung. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt, and the umpire called him out as the bat cycled around. No one cheered. No one booed. It didn’t matter to anyone except him. James drew in a deep breath and glanced at the scout. There were two of them. They sat at a small table behind the fence where they could see home plate and the infield well. One was writing something while the other looked over the man’s shoulder. He was talking low, behind his hand, as the other one wrote.
James wanted to throw the bat. But he hoisted it to his shoulder instead, and walked to the dugout. He nodded as he passed the young man coming up to bat. There was fear in the next batter’s eyes. He was right to be afraid. This was an impossible pitcher to hit off of.
Mr. Morgan talked about the day as they drove back home. He analyzed what he’d seen, reiterated plays James already knew about since he’d played them, for Pete’s sake, but Mr. Morgan added a different perspective. James let him ramble, glad at least that Mr. Morgan wasn’t being critical. But still James wished he’d be quiet. James had missed a day’s work for nothing, lied to his pop, jeopardized Mama, compromised his siblings, and for what? For nothing. The scouts had thanked him for coming, but they’d thanked all the players. They said they’d get back with each one who’d tried out, but James knew he had failed.
“You see where the pitcher came from?” Mr. Morgan asked.
James shook his head. Mr. Morgan’s monologue was beginning to annoy him even more. He hated himself for feeling that way.
“Came with the scouts.”
James perked up. He looked Mr. Morgan’s direction.
“He wasn’t trying out, he was probably a pro, or semi pro. He was there to bring out the best.”
“Or worst.” James looked back at the road. If he couldn’t hit off a real pitcher he’d never be picked up for a team.
“Part of your best showed,” Mr. Morgan continued. They were nearly home. James was glad. He wanted to be alone. He was glad only Harold and Magdalena knew where he’d been all day. He didn’t want to talk about baseball, explain how badly it had turned out. “You carried yourself well. You’ve got your mama’s dignity.”
James glanced at Mr. Morgan. Dignity didn’t make a professional player. Neither did heart. He was glad he had those parts of Mama, but they weren’t the same as long, lanky legs, and arms as quick as snakes. Like that pitcher. Like Pop. Pop was right, baseball wasn’t in his blood.
Mr. Morgan glanced back at him. They stared at each other for a moment before Mr. Morgan returned his gaze to the road, a small frown furrowing his brow. “You’re not like your pop.”
“Guess that’s pretty obvious,” James said. He tossed his glove up and down in his lap. It was still dusty with Marshall dirt.
Mr. Morgan glanced over at the glove, looked up at James, and then back to the road. Mr. Morgan wasn’t like Pop either. He was Pop’s opposite, from his height, to his dark hair and skin, to his being there. Being at the game and giving James advice.
“Why’d you tell me to step back off the plate?” James asked. “It’s not like I have long arms and can reach very far. I have to be right on it. I do better that way.”
Mr. Morgan pulled the car in front of the church James was supposed to have worked at all day. He shut off the engine and twisted in his seat.
“Perspective,” he said. “Sometimes you’re too close to something to see what it really is.” Mr. Morgan’s gaze dissected James’ face, his features, everything there was that made him James. James felt naked. Mr. Morgan glanced past James, then looked out the window behind him. “Let’s get this churchyard cleaned so your pop doesn’t think you lied. You walked off that diamond with dignity today after you missed that last pitch. That’s what real men and players are made of. That’s what your mama has, too. And she would clean this churchyard.”
Mr. Morgan looked at him again, indecipherable thoughts playing behind his eyes, and then he climbed out of the car. James followed. He didn’t ask what Mr. Morgan meant. He trailed him to the shed where the church kept some of its yard tools. He’d wait. He’d let time and distance give him perspective. Then maybe he’d have a better view, and next time he’d whack that ball.
Chapter 29
Lana 1940
Claire. The name spoke of simplicity, of calm, of unassuming beauty. It was what Jim wanted.
Lana stopped reading and laid Grandma’s letter in her lap. She gazed around the room at her life, at the room her family gathered together in most often. The one where they ate. Its floors were scrubbed clean, the chairs tight against the table, the fabric of her wedding dress still hanging in the windows as curtains. Mementoes of Cletus, his war medals, pictures, items that made him significant, hung along the walls, just as she’d placed them ages ago.
She looked back at the letter. Claire. With a name like that, what else could she be? What else, except what Jim wanted?
“Remember Jim?” Lana realized Magdalena was standing not far away. Magdalena tilted her head to one side, the young princess who’d once galloped around Jim hoping he’d snatch her up and ride away with her. She was four years older now. Lana couldn’t imagine this tall girl slapping her hip and trotting around anymore.
Magdalena nodded. Her eyes flickered as she looked at the letter in Lana’s lap. “Is he coming?” Magdalena’s voice was bright.
“He’s getting married.” Lana made the news sound happy. Magdalena was nearing the age of looking for a real prince, someday a real husband. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
Magdalena looked thoughtful, her previous six-year-old infatuation flitting behind the gaze of a girl on the verge of blossoming into a young woman.
“Not Jeanie, is it?” Magdalena frowned.
Lana shook her head. “Jeanie married someone else. Guess I never told you.” That much she and Magdalena…and apparently even Jim…agreed on. Thank God it wasn’t Jeanie.
“Poor fellow, whoever she married.” Magdalena turned, then stopped and looked back. “He liked you, Mama. Jim did. And that was good.” Then she left, went outdoors, probably on one of the long walks she’d begun to take the past year.
Lana stepped to the window to watch her tall, thin daughter’s back. Magdalena let herself through the cow’s gate, then struck out across the pasture. Magdalena was quiet most days now, more pensive than she used to be. Quiet until her father came home in the evening. Then she changed, she saved all her energy for him. Spunk, Ella called it. Sass, Cletus called it. Starvation—Lana knew what it really was.
Magdalena disappeared over a small rise. Lana loved the pasture. Maybe Magdalena was learning to love it too. It was soothing, the wind whispering through the flowers as they bowed and nodded along the way. What way? She followed her daughter with her thoughts, wanting to guide her, if only she knew the way herself.
Little containers of cosmetics kept appearing amongst Lana’s clothing, a nearly empty bottle of perfume, a ribbon or two. She knew Magdalena was leaving them for her, most of them used or at least opened. Lana dared not think how Magdalena was coming by them. She had enough stashed away now to change her appearance. She had powder for her face, rouge for her cheeks, lipstick for her mouth, liners and colors for her eyes. With those and the ribbons and perfumes that also appeared, she could be pretty. Pretty enough for Cletus? Would pretty really matter?
“One more son,” Lana said aloud. “If Cletus would be with me again and I could have a boy, just one more, then maybe…”
Lana looked down again at Grandma’s letter. Claire.
Don’t know if she’s pretty. Lana continued to read Grandma’s scrawl from the letter. Don’t matter no how, but I suppose you’re wondering. No prettier than you. I know I never said that before and I probably shouldn’t now. But you always were pretty. Just not pretty enough for you to believe it until you found out how beautiful you were on the inside.
The rest of what Grandma said blurred. How could ther
e be beauty in ashes? Lana leaned against the wall and let the tears stream down her face.
Chapter 30
Lana 1940
Lana gazed in the mirror. The rouge was barely visible, the powder almost too faint. She tilted her head one way and then the other to be sure it looked natural. After all, it was Cletus she was going to see. If the colors merely accented what was already there without being too obvious, he might be intrigued. But if they were too much, he’d be furious, most likely shame her in front of his workers. She wanted to look natural, but pretty, just enough to surprise him, make him glad she brought him a lunch.
She’d never gone to town this way before, never taken her husband a lunch. This one was full of his favorites, the house still smelling like lemon from the cake she’d baked. She relaxed her face and stepped from the washroom to the dining area. Betsy and Magdalena were putting out plates, getting ready to serve their younger brothers and sisters.
“You girls know what to do.” Lana glanced at the table. “I won’t be long. And Ella’s right down…”
“Yes, Mama,” Betsy said. “We know what to do. You go on and have a good time.”
Lana turned to Magdalena. Her daughter tipped her head and studied Lana’s cheeks and eyes. “You look good.” A smile crept across her daughter’s face.
“I won’t be long.” Lana picked up the pail she’d put Cletus’ lunch in and hurried out the door. “Lord, please make this go well, for that girl in there’s sake, the rest of their sakes, and also for mine.”
At the beginning of the main street of businesses, Lana turned left and traveled a block until she came to the street Cletus’ shop was on. It was halfway down on the right, a large, tall building that gaped open at the front like an inferno, the gateway to the netherworld, a black hole with furnaces inside. She’d seen it only twice, but she’d never told Cletus what it reminded her of. Jeanie would have, Jeanie would have and laughed, but Lana never could.
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