by Honey
Alex stared at the man in utter disbelief. Several strokes of the clock's pendulum went past before he found his voice. "That's bullshit."
"It's not, son." Dr. Porter turned one of the bottles toward him so that Alex could see the label.
He didn't have to read it. He knew what it said.
"Foetor arsenicum," Dr. Porter recited, then lifted his gaze to Alex and added, "Those are the Latin words for bromide arsenic."
Alex's mind tripped into shock over the startling translation. He'd wondered about the word arsenicum but had dismissed any thought about its being arsenic. Arsenic was poison, and doctors wouldn't use poison on their patients.
With his stomach clenched tight, he sunk into the chair opposite the doc's. "That can't be right."
"I'm afraid it is. I sent a sample to a druggist friend of mine in Boise so he could give me the compounds in this." Dr. Porter tipped the bottle; light caught on the deadly liquid inside. "There is bromide in it, which is commonly used to treat brain injuries. There are also chlorides of potash, sodium, phosphate, and lithium. But there's a small trace of arsenic, too. Lithium has been proven affective in severe cases; however, too much over a long period of time can dull a patient's senses. It's the arsenic, Mr. Cordova, that is of great concern. I gave Captain an exam. Beneath the surface, there is a man with a mind that allows him to think quite clearly for himself But for three years, the arsenic has put him in what I believe to be in a walking catatonic state."
Gooseflesh rose on Alex's skin in hard, tingling points. He could barely swallow, barely handle the rush of heat that went to his bones. He had nothing to say. Words failed him. Holy Christ, if this doctor was right, then by his own hand, Alex had been poisoning Captain for the past seven months.
His mind reeled in denial.
"These past few weeks, I've been lowering the dose daily to wean him off," Dr. Porter said. "He was very ill from withdrawal. I had him stay at my home with me so I could bring him through. He still suffers headaches. The Dover's Powder is opium. In moderation, he can take that on an as-needed basis. I don't know how long it will take to bring him around. But I do see that he's much improved in color and mind as it relates to daily things." The doctor chuckled. "He's a very good checkers player."
Alex couldn't laugh. There was a question he didn't want answered, but he had to know. "Would I have killed him, eventually?"
Dr. Porter sobered, settled a pair of spectacles on his nose, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. "Yes."
A stabbing tore through Alex's heart. He thought he would be ill. The horrible knowledge hit him full force, swelling his throat and making him blink back the rush of moist heat in his eyes. "Dammit, what kind of doctor prescribes poison? Didn't he know I'd be killing him?"
Doc Porter said quietly, "I'll get you a glass of water."
He heard the doc moving in the room, making sounds that, in his state of shock, seemed both muted and sharp at the same time. Then a drinking glass was put into his hand and Alex took long sips to cool his insides. When he felt his lungs expand once again and his breathing come somewhat normally, he spoke. "I didn't know."
"It's not your fault, Mr. Cordova. I know it's hard not to take blame, but you were only following instructions." Dr. Porter sat down once more. "As I said, some treatments in medicine are common even though we physicians don't always know the full extent of their effects. We know what works at the time of injury." Removing his glasses, he wiped his eyes. "I will say that the doctors you talk about did Captain a disservice. I'm not a brain expert, but I think I can help bring him back to a semblance of what you and I consider normalcy." He opened a journal and picked up a pen. "I'd like to know what caused his injury— every detail of what happened and the treatments that he's had."
Alex had never spoken about Captain's days in the hospital to anyone, those first hours when he'd laid there unconscious. Alex would have to be brutally honest. He would reveal secrets, things past and things buried, old wounds. But as he lifted his gaze to the doctor's, he knew that the only way to move forward would be to return to the past. So he told Dr. Porter everything. He left no detail out, no emotion or feeling. And when he was finished, the doc didn't look at him any differently. Alex did not understand the reason for the doc's unspoken forgiveness, for it was nothing that Alex could forgive of himself. But the fact that doc didn't say he was a son of a bitch meant a lot. For that, Alex was grateful.
The doc steepled his fingertips. "Then when Captain woke up from his accident, he was never allowed to heal his brain without medication. I'm not saying the bromide was the wrong course to take. It's the arsenic that I can't justify. And yet, it is often prescribed."
"But the fact remains," Alex said, his voice hoarse, "Cap's been taking it."
"He won't be anymore, and any ill effects may very well go away. I just don't know. I had my colleague mix up a new combination for Captain, and it arrived the other day. Captain's had two doses already and he hasn't shown any distress. In fact, I think he's tolerating it well." Dr. Porter went to the cabinet shelf and took out a clear bottle with a cork top. "This has bromide in it and the other components we discussed. Use the opium sparingly, and we'll see what happens."
"Do you think Captain could remember what he used to be like?"
At length, Dr. Porter sighed. "The memory is a remarkable storehouse. Captain's had the door to his clouded by narcotics. Behind that door, he may very well know who he is."
His hands, hidden from sight in his trouser pockets, twisted nervously at the pocket seams. "You think that's why he wanted to shave and cut his hair?"
Dr. Porter smiled with optimism. "I'd like to think so."
When Alex left the office, his feet felt weighted. He felt like he'd been thrown to the ground by the entire lineup of the Philly Athletics. They sat on him, squeezing the air from his lungs, until he couldn't see. Until the world went black with one realization:
He'd almost killed Captain.
As Alex gulped in the warm summer air, he kept his shoulders straight and his head high. Cap was getting a second chance. Alex should have been embracing the news, happy, encouraged. But smothering those emotions was a fear so strong, it was a blinding white sheet inside him.
If Captain remembered the day of his accident, he would hate Alex for sure. And who could blame him.
Shame clutched Alex, enveloping his soul and dragging him closer to hell... because a very small part of him didn't want Cap to get better.
* * * * *
A rush of water came out of the faucet pipe, dousing Camille with a cold spray. She lay on the floor, partially beneath the kitchen sink, wrench in hand, her legs stretched out before her, her back cushioned by a pillow. Her body contorted in an awkward position so she could reach the pipe that had sprung a leak while she'd been gone. She thought she'd fixed it before she left, but the oakum caulking hadn't held. After days of a slow drip that had overflowed, her storm room floor was ruined from the spill.
Quickly putting a bucket beneath the drain, she rolled over and stared at the bottom side of the cast-iron sink. The concentrated fragrance of dish soap tickled her nose and she sneezed.
"I told you you needed the long lead trap, not the half." Her father's words came down from above— through the three-inch-wide hole in the sink bottom—to be exact. She looked up and saw his eyes and nose as he peered at her through the opening.
She didn't want him to be right. She'd fought against him being right. But he was right.
"Hand it over." She extended her arm from the cupboard and then a heavy pipe came into her grasp. She could have hired a handyman, but she wanted to do this on her own. And actually right now was as good a time as any. She needed the distraction as soon as her father had come over wanting a full report on the road trip. So far, she hadn't told him anything. He was the one doing all the talking.
"It's in every newspaper across the country." His voice came to her amidst the plumbing. "They're calling us
the Harmony Honeybees. So you say you checked with the laundry?"
"I checked with the laundry," she repeated for what seemed to be the dozenth time. "They said that the uniforms they put in the duffle bags for me to pick up were our regular worn-out, drab uniforms."
"It makes no sense," he muttered. "How can a laundry lose thirteen uniforms? And even more baffling, replace them with ones that are godawful old gold in color."
"I don't know."
"Well, we're going to have to find out and make whoever is responsible pay for new ones. Until then, the players will have to wear what they have." He muttered. "The newspapers are having a field day. I'll bet we're news in all the train terminals. On every street corner. I tell you, it's an outrage. And Bertram Nops is loving every minute of it. I caught him walking away from Municipal Field the other day. The sprinklers were on, soaking the outfield. He denied doing it, but I'm not stupid. I know he's out to ruin me because he didn't get his way. Camille, you really were thoughtless when you got that bum involved with my baseball team."
She fought to get the wrench grip over the wide pipe and turn it loose. "Maybe he switched the uniforms."
"Interesting speculation. I'll tell the police." He warned, "You've got to watch your back with him. He's as slippery as axle grease."
"I'll be careful. But right now my mind's not on that. I just got back and I came home to a flood in my kitchen."
"It could have been worse. Leda told me she saw water running from under your porch door, so I turned off the main pipe to the house."
"I appreciate that." And she did; but in his cutting the water supply to the property, her flower garden didn't get watered and the flowers that had been flourishing before she'd gone on the road now resembled a wilted salad. She had assured Leda that it was no great loss, but the housemaid had still felt terrible about the plants' dying.
That flowerbed and vegetable garden had been the last link Camille had to the Garden Club—and now it was gone. Interestingly enough, she wasn't overly despondent about it.
"My investigator found that lovestruck pitcher, Will White," her father barreled on with a fair amount of bristle. "South of the border in the hoosegow, held on charges unknown. Hogwood says I can't touch him."
"You don't need to touch him," Camille said, liberally applying oakum to the end of the pipe joint. An itch caught her nose and she made a face. "You've got Alex Cordova. He's ten times the man."
And he was. In every sense.
"He's been a losing pitcher."
Camille lost her hold on the pipe fitter and it fell onto the floor with a hard clunk. Defending Alex's playing abilities wasn't easy—it was impossible, since she would never tell her father about the reasons why Alex didn't put his all into the game. It was a conflict that she grappled with—sympathy for what he'd been through, versus frustration that the past stood in the way of his talent, a talent for which she had paid a pretty penny. She felt bad even thinking of the two together.
Picking up the wrench, she moved it back in place, twisted, and cut her knuckle in the process. "Oooooh."
Her father's head filled the sink opening once more. "Camille sugar, quit this nonsense and move back home."
She watched blood seep from a small cut in her skin. "No, Daddy. This isn't a passing fancy. I'm going," she said while grabbing the tool, "to make something of the Keystones"—and jamming it in place—"if it kills"—but the wrench immediately slipped and nearly whacked her on the head—"me." Leaning her head back and sighing, she closed her eyes. "And it may very well do that."
A quiet moment passed, almost as if her father was trying to think of something encouraging to say in light of her bleak admission. But that couldn't possibly be true. He had difficulty cheering her on.
"What happened in Boston..." he began, and Camille tensed, preparing for the worst, "was nothing short of brilliant."
Her gaze flew to the drain hole where kitchen light, instead of her father's face, filled the opening.
"The Sporting News called the sweep a seamless victory," he said. "Scores were high, batting was quality, runs were earned, and the boys played like the win was only the icing on the cake. It was being out there together that was the whole hurrah." She heard his footsteps as he went to the icebox, opened the door, and apparently took a peek inside. "There was pride in that team. And it didn't come from nowhere." A draft from the ice block cooled its way across the knit of her exposed stockings. "How did you do it, Camille?"
Her first compliment from him, and she was beside herself "Sometimes there are days when a person just gets it right. They know what they're supposed to do and how they're supposed to do it. That's what Boston was all about. The Keystones grabbed onto those four days and made them belong to Harmony." Her father stood in front of her once again and looked down. Her gaze lifted to view his face, flanked by a round cast-iron frame. She was touched by his praise. She shouldn't get her hopes up. And yet, even with years of disappointment, she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Did you really think they were brilliant, Daddy?"
"I did, sugar. I wish I could have been there to watch it pan out." She couldn't see his mouth, but she knew he was smiling; humor lines fanned at the corners of his blue eyes, eyes the very color of her own. "That Boomer Hurley is one hard egg. Not even an anvil could crack his skull."
"He doesn't scare me."
"I didn't suppose he would. You've got gumption, I'll give you that." It was a long moment before he added, "Those Boston games... you did good, Camille." He left the counter, and from the sounds, he was checking out the goods in her poorly stocked pantry. "I wish you could bring that enthusiasm back to Municipal Field. I'm sure you can if you prepare. You always did do that well—prepare for the day."
Her breath seemed to solidify in her throat. He was actually talking to her as if she were the real manager of the team. As if she really was a viable candidate to permanently oversee the Keystones. "I'll see what I can do."
"You see what you can do," he said, mirroring her words.
Her voice betrayed her, wavering and showing far more emotion than she cared to. The moisture in her eyes threatened to blind her. "Thank you, Daddy."
She blinked the emotion from her vision. She fumbled for the heavy iron wrench, its jaw pinching her fingers as she grasped the handles, giving her a new injury. She winced and dropped it.
Her father lowered to one knee and looked inside the cupboard where she lay. "I can fix this for you."
His sincerity meant the world to her. "That's all right. I have to do it myself It's become a matter of me versus the pipe, and I can't let this hunk of iron win."
"Of course not." Sunlight caught on his watch chain and he glanced at it without checking the time. "I've got to get back to the store before Nops sets it on fire."
Camille tried to hold onto a grin.
Her father rose and brought his hands down to dust the seams in his trousers. "I'll have your mama tell Leda to fry you some hushpuppies and bring them over. Your pantry is nothing but shelves of glassware and gadgets. You don't have anything in your icebox but a wheel of moldy cheese and a crate of lemons. What in the deuce do you need so many lemons for?"
"Lemonade."
"I don't recall you drinking lemonade at home."
One statement about the Keystones being brilliant didn't change a lifetime of inattention. So she dared to add softly, "I don't recall you paying any attention to what I drank at home."
Clearing his throat, he didn't answer right away. "Then I should work on that." The soles of his shoes made a crisp noise over her clean floorboards. "I'll see you later this afternoon for the game."
"All right."
The back door opened and closed, leaving the kitchen quiet.
The persistent itch on Camille's nose grew annoying, but she was loathe to use her greasy finger to scratch it. She brought the back of her hand to her nostrils and rubbed. The sleeve seam on her blouse gave a harsh rip. She cringed. At least the shirtwaist wasn't one of her
better ones.
An hour later, she stood in front of the faucet and fully opened the cold valve. Leaning sideways, she looked inside the cupboard for signs of leaks. The pipes were still dry. Jubilation made her give a little hop of delight.
"Success!" she shouted to the empty kitchen just as she spotted the silhouette of a man behind the dotted swiss curtains covering her back door window. A knock sounded. She went to answer it without thought of how she must look.
Opening the door, she found Alex standing on her stoop.
"Alex."
Suddenly, she grew concerned over her appearance. Maybe she didn't look all that bad aside from that rip in her sleeve. But when she took a quick glance at the plumber's mud stains on her ivory shirtwaist and the tiny tear in her skirt she'd gotten when she closed the lid on the toolbox and caught the fabric in the hinge, her outlook dimmed. She did look that bad.
"You surprised me," she said, refraining from smoothing her hair. She didn't want to point out the obvious.
He leaned back, looked up at the eaves, then alongside the mudroom door. "Your clapboards could use some paint. You should take care of that before winter."
His usual easygoing manner was missing. The faded blue of his shirt stretched tight over his chest. Denim pants defined his legs as he stood rigidly on the porch. His mouth was grim. Something had happened.
"I was going to," she replied, knowing from his face that he hadn't come over to discuss the paint peeling on her house.
"After that last time, with your lady friends leaving, I didn't know if I should come to the front door."
She wasn't quite sure what to say about the courtesy he was presenting her. It seemed so unlike him. He was a man who didn't usually concern himself with how others viewed him—with how she might view him. He just was who he was. No pretenses.
She stepped aside, then said, "Please, come in."
He shook his head. "That's all right; I can't stay. I have to get home and take care of some things before the game." He lifted the brim of his hat with his finger and angled his chin toward her. "I just wanted to see you."