by Honey
With a tap of her toe to the beat, she named the positions the ball was to pass from. "Six. Four. Three."
Shortstop to second baseman to first baseman equals the double play.
They sloshed around in Spalding Featherweight shoes on a field that had been flooded with sprinkler water once again. She was going to find out who kept turning it on and forgetting to turn it off.
As the music's tempo jaunted along, she directed, "Seven. Five. Two."
Left fielder to third baseman to catcher equals an out at the plate.
They'd been practicing like this for over a half an hour. In the three games they'd played since returning to Harmony, they'd lost two and won one. Today was their first game against the Baltimore Orioles. Yesterday's win against the Milwaukee Brewers had been joyful.
She called out the numbers eight and nine, then three and one. Her gaze fell on Alex, who stood on the mound. He was the number-one position man. Since he'd arrived at practice, he'd been preoccupied. Only a moment ago, she realized why.
The Baltimore Orioles were his former team.
They'd yet to show up at the field, but they'd arrived in Harmony late last night. She wondered if any of Alex's old teammates were still playing for the Orioles. She'd never met the manager, George Dunlap, but she'd heard he was a fair man—if there could be fairness where she was concerned. She hadn't met a manager yet who treated her as his equal.
She discreetly stifled a yawn beneath her fingers. She'd stayed up into the wee hours of the morning fixing her home for this evening's Garden Club meeting. Everything had to be just right, down to the last flower in the centerpiece on the table. If she could help the men win this afternoon's game, she'd take it as an omen that tonight would go splendidly.
"All right, gentlemen," she said, lifting the needle from the recording. "That will do." She walked to the dugout and called them in. "There are a few things we need to go over."
She went to the canvas bag she'd brought from home. From inside, she produced a shoe box and gave it to Bones.
"What's this?" he asked while lifting the lid.
"Shoe inserts. You run with flat feet. That ought to help your speed."
His brow rose, as if he couldn't believe she'd noticed that about him. How could she not? He ran with the uneven balance of a duck.
Deacon spat tobacco. As did Yank and Charlie. Then the others. It seemed to be a go-around. One player began, and the others followed on down the line. It was nasty and disgusting and she had a solution for that, too. She brought out a paper-wrapped package from her bag. But first, an empty soup can— gumbo soup, to be exact.
"Gentlemen, as of now, there will be no more spitting."
Grumbles rose from the ranks.
"I know you may find it hard to give up, but it's a vile habit and I think you'd be better players if you didn't worry about spitting." She held the can out to Cub to pass down. "Dispose of that tobacco you have in your mouths."
Cub peered into the tin can, then looked at his fellow players. "I don't want to."
"A fifty-dollar fine says you don't have to," she returned evenly.
Cub spit his tobacco out.
As the can was handed from player to player, she continued, "I know it will be hard to give up your tobacco, so I've bought you all a replacement." She opened the paper package, pulling the string and revealing the inside to the players. "Chiclets."
"Gum?" Specs squinted at the colorful packets. "You want us to chew gum instead of tobacco?"
"It's gum or nothing."
"Yeah, but—" Cub began.
"Gum or nothing," she repeated with resolve.
The players took the Chiclets.
She brought out another box, this one imprinted with the words Montgomery ward optical goods department. "Specs, I've ordered and received nine pairs of spectacles for you to choose from. Try each one until you can clearly see the outfield lines. That will be the correct pair."
Specs looked inside the box, then squinted at her. "Gee—you didn't have to go to so much trouble."
"Believe me, it was no trouble."
Minutes later, Specs stared at them through quarter-inch-thick lenses. He had beautiful hazel eyes that were now magnified three times over. "It would seem these are the right ones. But can I keep the spares just in case these turn out to be the wrong ones?"
"Please do."
Three hurdles overcome. Camille held out hope that everything else would fall into place just as smoothly.
The Orioles had arrived and she caught a glimpse of George Dunlap. A tall man with wide, proud shoulders, he looked like he could guzzle Tabasco pepper sauce without getting indigestion. Just about the time she noticed Mr. Dunlap, he noticed Alex. He paused, as if uncertain, then walked to the Keystones' dugout and extended his hand.
Alex barely moved. Then finally, he gripped the elder man's hand firmly. "George. Been a while."
"Three years."
"Yeah."
George took off his cap, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and gestured to the Orioles' dugout. "Jerry's here, but Harry Howell's pitching for me today. Steve Brodie, John McGraw, and Wilbert Robinson—they're the only four left who played on the '98 team with you. They'd probably like to buy you a beer after the game. Hell, I know I would."
Indecision briefly fell over his face. Then Alex nodded. "That'd be good, George."
Camille remained on the bench, wondering once again about Alex Cordova's past. What had happened to make him quit? Why he was called "the Grizz"? There were a variety of other things that she didn't know about him. She hoped the old newspapers would give her some answers when they came.
But right now, she wondered if he'd even try to beat his former team.
His first pitch was a curve that broke too high up the batter's knees. The ball came at the hitter like an apple rolling off a crooked table. Then it sank right outside the strike zone. By the bottom of the second, the Orioles had scored two runs.
In the top of the fifth, the Keystones came back with three runs of their own. Camille sat on the bench, notebook in her lap, feeling as if there might be a chance if she could keep the players focused.
Alex stood on the mound, the ball in his grasp behind his back. As he coiled his arm and made ready to follow through, he glanced at Captain, who sat in the stands. Captain looked at him with such despair, Camille could feel it in her heart. And because of that look, Alex fell short of delivering the ball where he should have.
Innings later, she still observed him as he sat on the bench, restless, slouching, one foot on his knee. She watched how he would turn to see if Captain was still there. Then he'd face forward and stare off into the field. At his former teammates.
She wanted to know his thoughts. Wanted to understand the chaos that seemed to run through his mind.
Doc struck out, and Cupid, who couldn't hit water with a paddle, took his place in the batter's box. The horse liniment on his head hadn't done a darn thing for him in this game. He struck out as well.
In the top of the eighth inning, Mox Snyder went to field a ground ball on the grass, slipped, and fell on his thumb. His wail carried through the air as he rolled onto his back and grimaced in agony. "Sweet jumping Christopher!"
Running out to him, Camille knelt down beside him. "What happened?"
He woefully gazed up at her from beneath the brim of his cap. "I just broke my thumb."
Right then, for the first time in her life, she said "dammit."
* * * * *
Inside the Blue Flame Saloon, Alex was welcomed by the team he'd once called the greatest bunch of players in the entire National League.
"Cordova!" they shouted, and the old camaraderie was back in place like the fit of a worn uniform. They ribbed one another, joked, and stood up at the bar.
George drew up to him and ordered two beers. "Alex, I want to put in an offer for you. Get you in with the Orioles on a trade. Take you out of Montana and bring you back to Baltimore where you belong."
>
Alex's heart stilled. He didn't belong anywhere in the world of baseball.
But in that fragment of time, he thought about all George had done for him in the years he'd played for the Orioles outfit. He'd taught him how to play hitters. Judge line drives. How to shift on different hitters and even the same hitter. How to run out after a fly instead of backing up. George Dunlap had been able to offer Alex the most he'd ever been contracted for. He'd signed on at a staggering $1,750.00 a season. At the time, that kind of money for playing ball had been unheard of.
"George, that's a hell of a thing you're offering."
"I want you to take it, Alex. You should be wearing an Oriole uniform."
George had a heart as big as a watermelon and made out of pure gold. He was a great manager because he knew how to handle men. Some players he rode, and others he didn't. He brought out the best in each man that way. It wasn't so much about his knowing the game. It went beyond the fundamentals. What made the difference was George knew each player and how to get the most out of him.
"It's generous of you, George," Alex said, tipping back his beer. "But I can't take you up on it, even if the Orioles organization went for the trade. I've got some commitments here that I can't turn my back on."
"I wish you felt differently about it. You know that if you put on the Orioles uniform, it'll be your choice if you take it off."
"I know that."
George hadn't traded him, even when he'd pitched his worst season in 1895. It had been George's idea for Alex to take the winter off in Montana. He'd known of a lodge in the mountains and told Alex to do some hunting and fishing. Get his head straight.
Alex had been twenty-two and, up until then, had had the world at his feet. Yet he hadn't been able to decide what he'd wanted from baseball. He knew one thing, thought—that he wanted to kick Joe McGill's ass. He'd hated the New York Giant more than he could put into words. That hatred might have been what had kept him alive after what had happened on that cold fall morning in the woods when Alex had nearly died from a grizzly bear attack.
He'd returned to Baltimore, following some of the other great players in their quest for notoriety by coming up with a nickname of his own. There was Rube, Lefty, Spitter—to name a few. And then came "the Grizz."
He'd played the best season of his career that year. Pitched forty-seven complete games, won twenty-eight of them, and had the most strikeouts. Batters got the least hits off him and he'd pitched the most innings of any pitcher. He'd also hit ten home runs.
In '96 and '97, they'd won the pennant. In 1898, George assembled the best players ever for the Orioles. If not for that day in June, who knows what would have been. But all that had been covered over. Just like dust choking up home plate. George had seen to it Alex's early retirement was nothing all that notable, playing it down to the press. Accidents happened in the game. Players were injured.
Ah, hell.
"I can't, George," Alex said again. "I just can't."
Over beers, Alex rehashed old times with George and the others. They talked about games they'd played, won and lost. Talked about other teams. About women, the American League, the National, Pop Foster, Zaza Harvey, Roscoe Miller, Pink Haw-ley, Snake Wiltse.
"Hell, Alex," Harry Howell said with a grin, "it's damn great to see you."
The others from the team of '98 smiled in agreement.
Steve Brodie gave Alex a fond shove on the shoulder. "Just like old times. We haven't seen you since we played—"
Steve cut himself short, his brows furrowing and his eyes growing dark.
Alex felt his own mood darkening because he knew without having to be told what Steve remembered. The shock of it all. The devastation. At first, the disbelief, then suddenly no denying. It had to have been a dream—but the trouble was, Alex never woke up.
Because Joe McGill never got up.
Alex softly finished Steve's sentence. "Since the day we played the Giants."
A stillness fell over the bar. Alex thought back to that June afternoon. Joe's powerful presence at the plate was something that stayed with a person. He'd been tall and strong, a slugger if there'd ever been one. It went without saying that Joe was missed in the league, and many wondered what would have happened if he'd stayed in the game. But nobody had ever spoken about it in front of Alex.
After all these years, he was finally able to add, "Since Joe McGill. You can't talk great ballplayers and not mention Joe."
Then Alex headed out of the saloon soon after, his hands slipping inside his pockets as he walked.
Night had fallen, the buzz of incests droning in the darkness. Crickets sang while winged bugs danced on window screens. Breathing the warm air into his lungs, Alex tried to clear his head of smoke and beer and talk about things that had once been. And would never be again.
His mind wandered to Camille and he found himself headed toward her house instead of his own.
She was even. Balanced. She knew what she wanted and went after it. She had confidence in herself. Her abilities. God help him, he needed that tonight. Needed to be with her. Hear her voice. See her face.
He raised his arm to knock on her door just as it opened. A group of ladies stood in the living room staring at him on the other side of the porch screen.
The half dozen or so ladies inspected him. He saw a few glares, some curiosity, some brows raised and some lowered.
Camille stood to the side of the other women, holding open the wooden frame door.
"Mr. Cordova," she said through the screen, hand on the wooden frame. "Has something happened?"
"No. Ah, yeah. It's work related." Holy Christ. He'd never been in a situation like this.
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Alex looked down, then up. He had a legitimate excuse to be here, but it wasn't one he was going to broadcast to a host of gussied up ladies. So he made something up. "The boys were discussing a play that could improve fielding and I thought you should know about it."
That was a lie. Bald as a baby.
"Oh, well." She straightened importantly. "Yes, that is of interest to me."
"We were just leaving," came a voice from the vestibule.
A tall woman made her way out the door, the others following behind. He counted eight big trimmed hats, each accompanied by gloves, smart dresses, and tidy appearances. He recognized a couple of the faces.
"Good evening, Miss Kennison," Mrs. Plunkett called.
"It's been pleasant," Mrs. Calhoon said, a cat-in-the-creamery smile on her face.
Although their tones were cordial, Camille's smile was forced. As if she were merely going through the motions of being polite.
Alex watched the ladies march down the walkway and onto the sidewalk, where they turned to Elm Street and dispersed at the corner. Camille remained in the doorway, the screen propped open by her hip. Light spilled across her back, outlining her in golden hues, yet keeping her face in partial shadow. Her hair looked blonder, softer, piled high in curls and twists with beaded combs on either side of her head to keep the style in place. Tiny gold earrings dangled from her earlobes; the jewelry looked delicate—much like the contours of her face.
"What kind of play?" she asked.
It took him a moment to recall what she was talking about.
"Can I come in?"
"All right." She stepped aside. When he entered the living room, she closed the door behind them.
The house had shaped up since he'd last been here. Pictures hung on the walls; furniture made the room homey. The divan and chairs were just enough to make a person feel comfortable without being closed in with the junk that some women liked to keep in their parlors. In the bay window, dozens of plants filled the tiny area, some blooming, some in different shades of green, some in colored pots, and some in glass pots. Some kind of fragrant flower scented the room.
He noted the teacups and cake plates placed on tiny trays and the side table, the folded napkins, the teacart. Books on gardening were placed on a center
table where they couldn't be missed.
Walking to one of the tray tables, Camille began to gather up the teacups and saucers. "What is it, Mr. Cordova, that you felt couldn't wait until tomorrow's game?"
There was a quiver in her usually no-nonsense voice. It wasn't like her to be unsteady.
He didn't immediately answer her. Instead, he watched as she flitted from one station to the next in the room, gathering, collecting, never once looking at him.
"Did you get a hat delivered to you today?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
She wore yellow, pale and creamy like summer butter. Her breasts were molded by the long panel in the front that went to the floor, buttons on either side. They were tiny white pearl buttons. A collar came to her throat, white lace with two embroidered points on either side.
"Because it was me who sent the hat."
"Oh. I haven't opened it yet," she said, carrying the tray as she went into the dining room and directly through to the kitchen.
He remained still, trying to decide what to do. He could hear the clatter of china in the kitchen from the living room. Alex followed her.
Once in the doorway, he paused. Camille stood at the sink with her back to him. He could have sworn her shoulders trembled. She was definitely upset.
A mason jar full of fresh cut flowers rested on a doily to her right. The counter was clean and neat with a soap shelf that had a tiny flower-shaped piece of soap on it. Glasses were stored on the shelves with tiny paper cutout borders. The stove gleamed in its metal enamel glory. A drip-drip sounded through the space, the gingham curtain hiding the leaky pipe.
He knew that she needed comforting. But for the life of him, he didn't know how to approach her. He'd never once held a woman in such a way.
"Ah, Camille—"
She visibly pulled herself together. "If you want to tell me about that play, I'll get my notebook and write it down."
She started to move, but he stopped her. "No. I didn't come for that." His eyes landed on the bright red and gold-striped hatbox with its wide red ribbon. It rested on one of the kitchen chairs, partially covered by the tablecloth as if it were hiding. "I just wondered if you liked the hat."