by Honey
"Specs, I hope you're wrong," Cub replied. "I say let's get those White Stockings."
A rally of seconds sounded through the clubhouse.
* * * * *
The horse liniment caused the riot.
In the bottom of the third inning, Cupid got a single and went to third on a hit by Deacon. Once Cupid occupied the bag, Frank Isbell, the Chicago third baseman, gave the air a loud sniff. Then he kicked Cupid in the shin. Just like that. Out of the blue.
Cupid looked at him in surprise. From where Camille stood, she could hear Cupid holler, "What'd you do that for?"
Frank didn't say a word. He backed away. Cupid began to follow him, and Camille hurried from the dugout and waved with both arms for Cupid to stay put. Zaza Harvey threw the ball to third. Luckily Cupid got back to the bag before he was tagged out.
Bones got a walk and took first.
The crowd stomped their feet on the bleachers, the grandstands thrumming with their enthusiasm.
Alex was next to hit, and as he practiced some warm-up swings, she went to him and offered some sage advice. "Deacon is on second and Cupid is on third. The score is zero to two. We could do something in this inning. You've got to focus." She shouldn't have let her anxiousness come through, but this was the first flicker of hope they'd had since she'd taken over. A cold knot formed in her stomach. This was it. She could prove herself worthy of the job. But she needed Alex's help.
His cap rode low on his forehead, a portion of his dark hair having fallen over his forehead. The Keystones lettering on his shirt stretched over his chest, the crisscross laces down the front a contrast of white next to gold. A black belt circled his lean waist. White pants, molded against his hips, ballooned slightly at the knees where stockings came up his well-defined calves.
She stared into the dark black depths of his eyes. The gaze was more of a caress she didn't care to explain—not to herself, not to him. Perhaps she'd been thinking too much about the words that they'd had before the game, talk of lips together, because when she spoke, her voice came out low and throaty, thick with unspoken meaning. "Tear the leather off the ball, Cordova."
He gave her a smile, his teeth white and straight. "Yeah. Sure."
Then he took his position.
The crowd jeered. Booed. Hissed. Empty paper cups from lemonade rained from the grandstand to litter the grass. Mighty Alex Cordova hadn't shown them a thing since he'd put on a Keystones uniform.
Zaza pitched him a knuckleball.
Swing and a miss.
Camille cringed. She brought her hand to her temple and sighed. If her attention hadn't been focused on Alex, she would have seen the ruckus going on at third base sooner. By the time she looked in that direction, Frank Isbell had Cupid's cap in his hand and was waving it while beuy-laughing. Mortification reddened Cupid's face as he flailed his arms, trying to get his cap back.
"Wait a minute. Time!" Camille called to the umpire as she walked to where the official stood behind home plate. "He can't do that."
As she was speaking, Frank cuffed Cupid on the top of his bald head. The action evoked a curse from Alex, who threw his bat down and lunged after Frank with his fists tight. The next thing Camille knew, both benches had emptied and she landed in the middle of wild fisticuffs.
Turning this way and that to get out of the line of fire, she managed to escape to the dugout, where she clutched the awning post in horror. She saw Cupid give Frank a healthy kick in the shins, only to have Frank aim a ham fist in a roundhouse punch to Cupid's eye.
The melee lasted some ten minutes before order was restored. Shaken, she called her players back to the bench, where they sat, with the exception of the men who had to return to their bases. She looked at the ragtag group, her jaw dropping. Charlie's swollen brow was darkening. Doc had a lump on his forehead. A bloody cut marred Bones's forearm. Down the line, caps were askew, uniforms were ripped, and several shoes were untied.
"Well... this is something," was all she could say.
She'd never witnessed a full-fledged major-league brawl before. When the Keystones had been a small organization, they'd never went at the opposing team with their fists.
Camille tried to quell the skip in her heartbeat. She hadn't dared look at her father, who sat in the front row. What would he have done? There was nothing anyone could have done. Things had just... taken off.
Unsettled, she watched as Alex took his position. And much to her complete surprise, he drew the bat back and hammered the ball over the infield and beyond, well over the wall and out of the park.
Home run.
The fans let out cheers so loud, they just about shook the roof of the dugout. If Alex thought there was any glory in what he'd just done, he didn't reveal it He merely made a slow run around the bases, his toe touching each bag. When he crossed home plate, the team was waiting for him. They slapped him on his back, whooping it up and hollering, carrying on as if they'd just won the pennant.
The congratulations continued as the men came into the dugout, Alex the last to take his seat. She turned to him, but the right words failed her. She smiled. Grateful. Although she was almost certain that his hitting the ball had nothing to do with her.
As the game proceeded, the Keystones' fielding just about ruined what had been a good game so far. A fly ball sailed to center field and both Specs and Deacon galloped after it without regard for life or limb, hollering all the time, running like maniacs after the ball. Playing side by side like that, they plowed into each other with the impact of runaway freight trains. It wasn't until after Deacon lifted his head off the ground that his glove arm followed. Inside the pocket, there lay the ball—for the second out of the inning.
The score was 5-2, Keystones. Camille's pulse hadn't quit its racing since that third inning. They were in the eighth now, with such a chance, she could barely think straight.
The time Alex had spent in the bullpen had done him little or no good. He wasn't pitching any better than he normally did. So Camille walked to the mound to have a talk with him.
"Quit doing that." The command just rushed out. She hated to be short with him, but for the past five minutes, all he'd done was pitch slow sinkers and blow on his bare hand.
"What?"
"You're stalling when you keep doing that. We don't have all day. We'll lose the momentum."
He raised his wide, tanned hand to her as if she were supposed to inspect it. "You mean this?" Then he brought his open fist to his mouth and blew.
Camille didn't like to speculate why the sight of him blowing on his bare hand caused her to break out in gooseflesh. "Yes, that. It's not necessary."
"I'm keeping the ball dry."
"It's not raining."
"My palm's sweating."
"Well, unsweat it or I'm putting Yank in to close for you."
Then she turned and headed back to the bench. She disliked threats. She disliked having to follow through with them. But she'd meant what she said. And in the bottom of the ninth, she made good on her words and put Yank Milligan in to finish the game.
While she sat, ankles crossed, shoulders leaning forward, she watched Yank throw an effective dipsy-doodle that the batter missed.
And afterward, Yank adjusted himself. Again.
The habit was distracting, and he did it before and after each pitch.
Alex sat beside her, and she heard his low laugh next to her ear. "Does that bother you as bad as my blowing on my hand?"
"It certainly does."
"Then why don't you go out there and tell Yank to knock it off?"
"I most certainly..." But the denial trailed off. He was daring her. Baiting her. Of course she didn't want to mention anything of that kind to a man.
"You won't do it." His smile made her insides tingle. Sweat dampened his brow; the band of his backward cap caught the moisture at his hairline. "You couldn't even say the words. Adjusting and quit revising the hang of your privates are two different things."
Camille about expired.
On that, she abruptly left the bench and went out to Yank.
He looked at her, surprised. "Yeah?"
"I want you to quit..."—unbidden, her gaze dropped, then she quickly snapped it upward—"... quit adjusting yourself. Nothing's going anywhere."
Then she retreated and primly sat back down beside Alex. "I told him."
His laugh made her want to pour the ice water bucket over his head.
The last five minutes of the game were a blur. There was an error involving Doc and a play at second was called into question. If it had stood, the Chicago White Stockings would have earned an out, tying the game and making it necessary for a tenth inning. But Camille had gone to discuss the controversy with the umpire, while Eddie Gray, the Chicago manager, just about shredded her senseless with his vile language. He went berserk, spit spraying out of his mouth, cursing, yelling, getting right into her face as he argued his case. And in the middle of all that, calling her a woman.
Then he'd told her she was a nitwit, and that Boomer Hurley had told him all about her. That she was nothing but a piece of honeycake who couldn't possibly know a bat from a ball. Still, he hadn't gotten her to raise her voice back at him, although inside, she was shaking. And she felt the hot sting of tears filling her eyes. When he was finished with using his violent mouth and the umpire deemed it not against the rules for Doc to go back to second from third, the game went on.
Utterly frazzled, she'd returned to the bench. But she tried not to show just how affected she'd been. If she started crying, she'd be a laughingstock.
In those last seconds of the inning, they'd held onto their lead and won.
Good Lord in heaven, they'd won.
A rush of excitement buzzed the air and jovial cheers of goodwill rose. Amid the throng of people on the field, Camille's eyes met Alex's. He'd saved the day—not because of anything she'd told him, but because he'd defended Cupid Burns and had gotten the team to work together. Yet, the expression on his face said that he hadn't done it for the heroics.
Vying for his attention, a group of women rushed toward him wanting his autograph, their signature albums in their hands. Camille turned away.
Her mother met her and they hugged.
"Where's Daddy?" Camille asked. She'd seen him sitting in the front row.
"Right here."
Camille spun around, a smile on her lips. "We won."
"That was one heck of a ball game! The fans finally got their money's worth. And so did I. A delight to watch." Then ever the opinion giver, he added, "But you could have gotten more runs in if you'd played Jimmy instead of Cupid. He hits better."
Her smile fell. If she'd played Jimmy, Cupid wouldn't have smelled up third base and caused a commotion. Rather than explaining that, for clearly her father had made up his mind, she merely nodded. "I'll remember that."
Moments later, her father had been the recipient of hearty pats on the back from his fellow Elks Club members and from other men in town. Not a one of them patted her on her back, heartily or mildly. Or shook her hand, or acknowledged her in the slightest.
The next edition of the Harmony Advocate would say that the win had been a fluke, but every player on the Keystones knew it had been the horse liniment that had fired them up. In light of that, it had been a unanimous vote from the teammates for Cupid to continue his baldness treatment.
Baseball players took their superstitions very seriously.
* * * * *
"You're not going on a train with thirteen men, unescorted!" her father announced later that evening as Camille packed a suitcase.
She moved around her room, brushing past the man who stood in its center with a deep furrow in his forehead. "Of course I am."
Her mother sat on the bed beside the stockings Camille had rolled into neat buns. She placed them next to her chemise and petticoat that already were nestled in the case. "Camille, your father might be right."
"Of course I'm right I'm always right."
A pair of shoes in hand, she addressed her mother, disregarding her father's comment. "How can you say that?"
"Because Mrs. Plunkett and Mrs. Calhoon called on me earlier today and they voiced concern about something you told them." Her mother rarely, if ever, grew discomfited. "Something about... men's drawers."
"That was nothing."
"It doesn't sound like nothing," her father barreled back. "What about men's drawers?"
"I fibbed about something and I realized after the fact that I shouldn't have done it." Camille fit the shoes into her suitcase, then reached for her hairbrush and mirror. "But Mrs. Plunkett told me that I was chasing after a husband when I became the manager of the Keystones, and that set me off. So I played along with her, and now it's getting me into trouble." Putting her hands on her hips, she faced her parents. "I refuse to cower. And the fact of the matter is, there wouldn't be any of this talk or any problem if I could grow a beard."
"Mrs. Kirby has a mustache," her father pointed out, "and she doesn't talk about men's drawers."
"Mrs. Kirby is well into her seventies," her mother countered, "and I don't think she's seen a man in his drawers in over a decade."
Her father grunted. "I don't care about that old crone anyway. She can't sing a hymn worth a blessed beat. The issue at hand is your daughter's going off on a train full of men."
"Our daughter has reminded us that she's capable. And sensible." But to Camille she said, "Even given that... don't you think it would be a good idea for your father to go with you?"
"And who would watch the store?" Camille pulled a nightgown out of her wardrobe drawer. "The reason he needed a manager was so he could stay here and tend it."
"I could close it while I'm gone."
Dumping the nightie into the open case, Camille declared, "You would not."
"No, James, you wouldn't"
"I would if that roof gutter, Nops, wasn't across the street plotting how to steal my business right out from under my eaves!"
"I'm going alone." To Camille, the discussion was a waste of breath. She was going to be on that train. First thing in the morning, she'd be on her way to Philadelphia, and after that, Washington, D.C. And she was going to be on it without somebody to hold her hand as if she were a child. "It would be humiliating to have my father come with me. I won't be escorted by him or anybody else. You're forgetting, I'll have the players to protect me from unwanted attention."
Her father's loud voice filled the floral-papered bedroom. "You're missing the entire point! Who's going to protect you from them?"
Chapter 9
"We have to get rid of her."
The clatter of the train's wheels could not upstage Cub LaRoque's words. The matter-of-fact statement sounded through the vestibule where Alex stood with the majority of the other players. The enclosed hallway between the rail cars pressed in on him. He never should have agreed to come out here when Bones asked him to.
Accordion-like appendages at each end of the vestibule united the individual cars into a single unit where passengers could walk from one train to the next without losing a hat.
Alex would have preferred the beating wind on his face and a cigarette between his fingers. Charlie had been lighting one right after the other, and Alex was on the verge of hitting him up for one.
"I agree," Charlie seconded, drawing in a deep pull on his Old Judge. "Did you see how Eddie Gray read her the riot act yesterday and she didn't do a durn thing about it?"
"Called her a cupcake," Bones said.
Cub corrected him. "Piece of honeycake."
Bones shrugged. "Fergawdsake. Same thing. Both are too sugary to be used on a baseball field."
"Any other manager wouldn't have taken that crap from Eddie," Mox proclaimed. "They would've punched Eddie in the gut."
"And got ejected from the game," Cub concluded. "A good manager gets himself ejected from the game."
Cupid added his two cents. "With a fat fine."
"She was crying," Bones said.
"Nothing to
use a hankie on," Mox put in, "but she watered up like a leaky faucet, just the same."
Noddles nodded. "Them other teams are laughing at us because our manager doesn't have balls. Literally. If we run her off, then we'll have to get a new manager."
"And not a woman," Mox added. "Let's give her hell."
"Old man Kennison would be better than her," Jimmy ventured to say, "and we know how bad he is."
"So." Noodles pursed his lips. "What can we do?"
"Hold on." Specs raised his hand, light reflecting off the wire frame of his spectacles. "I don't know if I want to be a party to this. She did teach us those calisthenics. I'm feeling a lot more limber."
"Would you rather be a party to being called a sissy ass?" Cupid all but spit the insult.
"Nobody calls me a sissy ass. At least not to my face."
"Well, I suppose it's okay to be called one behind your back, then," Yank snapped. "According to the Chicago Tribune, 'The Harmony Keystones have flopped into disgrace in more ways than one this season. Not only do they lead the league in losses, but they are managed by the first ever—and we hope the last—female baseball manager. Buy your tickets now, folks, for the games July first through third at South Side Park. Admission, fifty cents and one pink posy.' " His expression soured. "I saw the newspaper in the station. Bold as brass, right there on the racks. We're making the news across the country and it's goddamn embarrassing."
Nods showed that several others concurred with Yank's sentiments. Alex neither agreed or disagreed, but that wasn't to say he wasn't interested.
He butted his shoulder next to the aft passenger car, the precise one in which Camille sat. They'd made a line switch from the Northern Pacific to the Pennsylvania in Chicago. For some forty hours, they'd been on a train, sleeping and eating with hardly a moment to get off and stretch their legs. And they had twenty-one hours more to go.
The National League had played away games, but they were mostly along the East Coast lines. This going from one end of the states to the other was hard on a body. It was only natural that tempers flared.