“Jack?”
“I’m here, Rae.”
“What’s going on? You’re supposed to be playing in Chicago!”
He laughed at that, his happy laugh, not his bitter one. “We’ve been tested, you and me,” he told her. “Our loyalty, our faith. We’ve done everything the right way. Me trying to make money. You finishing school. Separated by the war, now by baseball. We don’t owe the world a thing. Only each other.”
She wasn’t following him. “Jack, what are you talking about? What happened?”
He laughed again, and it was sheer joy. “The Brooklyn Dodgers just signed me to play ball up in Montreal,” he answered. “It might lead to bigger things. To something wonderful.”
“That’s wonderful,” she agreed. “But what does it mean? For you and me?”
His voice turned serious. “Rae, will you marry me?”
She didn’t even have to think about it. “Absolutely. When?”
“Now.”
This time she laughed. “Jack, I don’t think we can get married in a phone booth.”
Two nights later, Jackie rounded a corner in the Clark Hotel in Los Angeles. He looked dashing in his tux, though the bow tie was now undone. Rachel was walking by his side, her hand clasped in his, radiant in her wedding gown.
“Did my mom look happy?” she asked as they reached the hotel room door and Jackie pulled out a key to unlock it.
“Yes,” he answered absently, concentrating on the key and the lock.
“Did my gram look happy?” She took a step back as he unlocked the door. Everything was moving so fast!
He smiled. “Everyone looked happy. I’ve never seen so many people looking happy.”
“Did Jack Robinson look happy?” she asked softly, the full weight of what they’d done looming over her suddenly. “What if I can’t make you happy?”
“Too late,” he assured her as he turned and took her hands. “You already do. It’s you and me, Rae.”
She smiled, basking in the love she felt flowing from him. “Until the wheels fall off.”
Wendell Smith sat before Rickey’s desk, studying the Dodgers manager in the dim light. He blinked behind his glasses.
“Who’s the best shortstop you ever saw?” Rickey was ask-ing him.
“Rabbit Tavener,” Smith replied.
That got a snort. “Rabbit Tavener? And you call yourself a sportswriter?” Smith covered baseball for the Pittsburgh Courier, the most popular black community paper in the country.
“Yes, a sentimental one,” Smith answered. “I’m from Detroit. He was the Tigers’ shortstop when I was a boy. How about you? Who’s your best?”
“Pop Lloyd.” John Henry “Pop” Lloyd had played for over ten different teams in the Negro Leagues before moving over to managing in 1926.
Smith smiled. “Not Honus Wagner?” The Pittsburgh Pirates player had been one of the first to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, back in 1936.
“Wagner is number two,” Rickey told him. “And Rabbit Tavener would not break my top twenty-five. Where do you suppose Jackie Robinson will end up on that list?”
Smith shook his head. “He won’t break it. He doesn’t have a shortstop’s arm. Robinson belongs on second base.”
Rickey didn’t seem bothered by that assessment. “All right, then, where would he rate at second?”
Smith considered. “If he was playing now, he’d be the best second baseman in the majors.”
That won a smile from the Dodgers manager. “High praise. He’ll have to be the best in the minor leagues first, though.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Rickey?” Smith still wasn’t entirely sure why Rickey had asked him to stop by.
Rickey’s smile broadened. “I’m saying it’s going to be a very interesting spring training. A lot of players are coming back from the war, and with gas rationing over, we can train down in Florida again.”
“Daytona Beach?” Smith asked. “You’re aware in the past six months a black boy was lynched in Madison and a black man down in Live Oak?”
Rickey waved that off. “Those towns may as well be a million miles from Daytona.”
“Live Oak is one hundred and fifty, actually,” Smith informed him.
“I spoke to the Daytona mayor,” Rickey said. “He assures me there’ll be no trouble.” But he didn’t sound entirely convinced himself. “Mr. Smith, are you a Communist?”
Smith laughed. “I’m a Democrat. Why do you ask?”
“I have a business proposition. What’s your salary at the Courier?”
“Fifty dollars a week.” It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for him. And it let him write about baseball.
Rickey nodded. “I will pay you an additional fifty dollars a week plus expenses if you will attend spring training with Jackie Robinson,” he offered. “You will watch over him, help him to avoid the harm that could come if he were to do or say anything out of turn. You will act as his chauffeur, you will secure accommodations for him wherever the team may be, help him find restaurants, and so on.”
“What’s in it for me?” Smith asked. “Besides the fifty dollars and a whole lot of aggravation?”
Rickey’s smile returned. “Unprecedented access to my team for any reporting you feel is appropriate. What do you say, Mr. Smith?”
Smith smiled back. “I say yes, sir. If a Negro is good enough to stop a Nazi bullet in France, he’s good enough to stop a line drive at Yankee Stadium.”
“Ebbets Field actually,” Rickey corrected. “But I believe you’re right. The world is ready.”
They shook hands, and Smith couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just agreed to participate in something wonderful.
On February 28, 1946, Jackie’s and Rachel’s family and friends were on hand to see them off as they walked through the Burbank airport.
“You knock the cover off that ball,” Jackie’s mother, Mallie, urged him, blinking back proud tears.
“I will, Mama.” He gave her a big hug, teary-eyed himself.
She hugged him back, then kissed Rachel. “Look after each other.”
“We will,” Rachel promised.
Mallie nodded, reached into her bag, and drew out a cardboard shoe box that was slightly greasy at the bottom. “Take this. It’s chicken.”
Jackie laughed. “They have food on the plane, Mama.”
“You never know what might happen,” Mallie insisted. “I don’t want you getting there starving and too weak to hit.”
Rachel caught Jackie’s eye and shook her head ever so slightly. A few minutes later, he was escorting her onto the plane, the shoe box in hand.
“I couldn’t tell her no,” he protested weakly.
Rachel sighed. “I know she means well. I just don’t want to be seen eating chicken out of a box like some country bumpkin.”
Jackie smiled and ran a hand over her fancy new coat. “No one’s going to mistake you for a bumpkin in this.”
Rachel nodded proudly. “Well, they’ll know I belong on that plane or wherever I happen to be.”
Their argument forgotten, they stepped onto the gleaming plane.
When they landed for their first stopover, in New Orleans, Rachel headed straight for the nearest ladies’ room, then stopped short. The sign on the door read “White Only.”
Jackie was still carrying the box of chicken when he caught up to her. “The flight to Pensacola leaves in an hour,” he started, then trailed off when he caught her expression. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I’ve just never seen one before.”
Glancing over, Jackie saw the sign. “We’re not in Pasadena anymore.” But Rachel didn’t seem to hear him as she suddenly lurched into motion again — heading straight for the door. “Honey,” he called after her. “Rae —” But she had already disappeared inside. Jackie glanced around, not sure what to do. Before, he would have done the same as her. But things were different now.
“I promised Mr. Rickey we’d stay out of trouble,” he exp
lained to her a few minutes later as they stepped into the airport’s coffee shop.
“Did you promise him we wouldn’t go to the bathroom?” she shot back. “You’ve snuck into segregated toilets before.”
“Before I promised.”
“It was just a toilet.” She sniffed. “You’d think the commodes were made of gold.”
They slid into the nearest empty booth, but just as they were reaching for the menu, the cook came bustling out of the kitchen. “You folks can’t sit here,” he told them.
Jackie glanced up. “Excuse me?”
“It’s white only. I’ll sell you some sandwiches,” the cook continued, “but you gotta take ’em to go.” He sounded like he felt bad about that.
Jackie started to say something, but stopped himself. Then he tried again. At least he wasn’t picking a fight, as he would have done not long ago. “No,” he answered instead. “You hang on to those.” He stood up, glared at the cook, and offered Rachel his hand. She didn’t say anything, but she was the very picture of outraged elegance as she accepted it and let him lead her away.
A few hours later, the plane landed in Pensacola, Florida, for refueling. There were only ten seats on the small plane, and when the door opened, four passengers departed. Four new people quickly took their places.
“Just a hop to Daytona now,” Jackie assured Rachel. They were both exhausted from the long day of air travel. Their reception in New Orleans hadn’t helped any.
Rachel nodded, but motion by the plane door caught her eye as a woman entered. She was wearing an airline uniform. Her name tag read “Bishop.”
The woman scanned the passengers, then made a beeline for them. “Jack Robinson?” she asked. “Come with me.” She’d turned away before she’d even finished speaking, and glanced back impatiently when they didn’t move immediately. “Come on now. Both of you.”
Rachel looked at her husband. He shrugged and rose to his feet. “Guess we’d better do what she says,” he commented. Rachel followed him out, but she had a bad feeling about this.
Once they were at the ticket counter, Miss Bishop explained. “We have to lighten the plane. There’s some bad weather east of here. A heavy plane’s dangerous.” They realized at once what she meant. They had been removed from their flight.
“Tell her you’re with the Dodgers,” Rachel urged quietly. But Jackie shrugged off the suggestion.
“When’s the next flight?” he asked instead.
Miss Bishop smiled, but it was a phony one. “Tomorrow morning,” she replied, “but it’s booked. So someone’ll have to cancel.”
Jackie sighed. “Look, I’m with the Brooklyn Dodger organization. I’ve got to get down to Daytona. I’m supposed to report to spring training in the morning.”
“We’ll do our best to get you down there by tomorrow afternoon,” Miss Bishop assured him stiffly, “but it might be the day after.” Clearly the fact that he was with the Dodgers hadn’t impressed her any.
Just then, Rachel noticed a couple being led out to their plane. A white couple. But there hadn’t been any empty seats when they’d gotten up! Suddenly, she understood. “Jack —”
He followed her gaze, stared for a second, then wheeled on Miss Bishop, furious. “You gave away our seats! Get us back on that plane!” he demanded.
Instead she lifted the phone and held it between them. “Do you want to call the sheriff?” she asked nastily. “Or should I?”
That night, Rachel and Jackie sat in the deserted Pensacola train station. The bus right across from their bench read “Daytona Beach,” but if wouldn’t be leaving until the morning. Even though they were in Florida, it was chilly, and Rachel tugged her coat around her more tightly. She still couldn’t believe what had happened to them. But there had been no fighting it, and after calming down she’d realized that. All arguing would have done was land them in jail, and wouldn’t that be a lovely way for Jackie to start his new career?
Sitting next to her on the bench, Jackie stared off into the night. He’d known it would be tough, but he hadn’t expected these difficulties to start so early. Nor had he realized that Rachel would get dragged into it with him. Leaning back, his hand brushed something at his side, and he glanced down. It was the shoe box. Reaching in, Jackie pulled out a drumstick, studied it for a second, then took a bite.
“Mama knew,” he whispered.
He turned and offered the piece to his wife. She slid over, closing the gap between them, and took a bite. Then she smiled at him.
“It’s good,” she admitted. That was his Rachel, always looking for the bright side.
Jackie smiled back and wrapped his arm around her. As long as she was with him, he knew he’d be all right.
The next day, Rickey drove along a dirt road in Daytona Beach. He sang along with the radio as he passed Brooklyn Dodgers, Montreal Royals, and Saint Paul Saints, all warming up or already trading pitches, hits, and throws.
“How’re they looking, Leo?” he asked as he stopped the car, got out, and walked over to where Dodgers coach Leo Durocher was hitting balls. Three of the Dodgers players, Pee Wee Reese, Eddie Stanky, and Dixie Walker were chasing the balls down.
“Rusty, Mr. Rickey,” Durocher admitted. “But we’ll get ’em oiled up and ready in no time. You find your lost sheep yet?”
Troubled, Rickey shook his head. Jackie and Rachel should have arrived the night before, but there’d been no sign of them on the plane. Just then, Parrott hurried over.
“Jackie Robinson’s on a bus leaving Pensacola,” he reported.
“A bus?” Rickey stared at him. “Harold, how in blazes did he end up on a bus?” Parrott shrugged. “Well, let Wendell know.” Rickey saw a few of the other Dodgers — Bob Bragan, Ralph Branca, and Kirby Higbe — muttering to one another. He wondered if it was about Robinson, but shook off the thought. Their first priority was getting him here. Then they’d figure out the rest.
“Jackie Robinson?” Jackie and Rachel glanced up. They’d been the last to stumble off the bus, even after the other black passengers, and they were surprised to see a round-faced, bespectacled black man waiting for them. “Mr. Rickey sent me to meet you.” He offered his hand. “Wendell Smith, Pittsburgh Courier. I’m going to be your Boswell.”
Jackie just stared. “My who?”
“Your chronicler, your advance man. Even your chauffeur.” Smith tipped his hat. “Mrs. Robinson.”
Rachel offered him a tired smile. “It’s Rachel.”
Smith regarded them both. “Man, you two look wiped out.”
“You got a car?” Jackie asked, fatigue and frustration making the words come out sharper than he’d intended. “Get us out of here.”
They carried the bags out to Smith’s Buick. Along the way, Rachel couldn’t help noticing that even the water fountains were segregated.
Smith caught her stare. “You ever been down South before, Rachel?”
She shook her head. “First time. We have our problems in Pasadena, but not like this.”
“Mr. Rickey says we follow the law,” Smith half-explained, half-warned. “If Jim Crow and the state of Florida say Negroes do this and that, then we do this and that.”
“My life’s changing right in front of me,” Rachel said softly, more to herself than to him. “Who I am, who I think I am.” She shook her head and climbed into the car.
“Joe and Duff Harris live here,” Smith explained when they finally pulled up in front of a handsome little house in Daytona Beach’s black neighborhood. “He gets out the black vote, does a lot of good for colored folks. Mr. Rickey set it up himself.” He deepened his voice in a fair imitation of Rickey: “ ‘If we can’t put the Robinsons in the hotels, they should stay someplace that represents something.’ ”
Jackie and Rachel exchanged a look, unsure whether to laugh or not. At least the place seemed nice.
“Brooklyn plays downtown,” Smith continued. “Montreal a few blocks from here. You’ll stay with the Harrises except for a few days at t
he end of the week. The whole Dodger organization is going to Sanford, about forty-five minutes away. Rachel, you’ll remain here.”
“Where are the other wives staying?” she asked.
Smith laughed. “There are no other wives. You’re the only one Mr. Rickey allowed to spring training.”
A friendly looking couple stepped out onto the porch and waved hello, and Rachel automatically waved back.
“I hope you like it,” Mrs. Harris told them as she led them up the stairs to a door at the very top.
“I’m sure we will,” Rachel promised her. “Thank you.” They’d only been there a few minutes, but she already liked the Harrises.
“Dinner’s at five,” Mrs. Harris told them as she headed back down. Jackie had already stepped into the room, and Rachel followed him, closing the door behind her — then accidentally knocked Jackie onto the bed. The room was so small that, between the bed and their luggage, there wasn’t even any room to move!
“It’s a joke, right?” Jackie asked. He gazed about them in disbelief.
But Rachel smiled. “I like it.” She’d fallen on top of him, and now she kissed him soundly. He smiled and wrapped his arms around her. “Remind me dinner’s at five,” she warned.
He laughed. “I’ll try to remember.” Then he hugged her close. They’d unpack later. Once they’d had a chance to forget all about planes and trains, and even baseball.
The next morning, Smith pulled up at the training field alongside the team buses. He glanced over at Jackie. This was the first time he’d seen the young ballplayer nervous.
“The first day of spring training,” he said gently. “My Pittsburgh Courier readers need to know how it feels.”
Jackie shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“That’s not exactly a headline,” Smith pointed out.
“That’s all I got.” Jackie didn’t look at him. He stared down at his hands instead. They were clenched together tightly.
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