Weeping Angel

by Stef Ann Holm

  “If I get hit in the face with the ball, then I’m deserving of having my eye cut out,” Frank said caustically as he deposited his bag on the ground. Turning, he sized up his players. He counted them off. “I’m short a man.”

  Daniel jumped up and down. “Me, Mr. Brody! I’ll be your man!”

  “No, you won’t,” Oscar bristled. “You get on over to the sidelines and wait until I call you.”

  Frank gazed at the spectators, especially Cobb. “Any man who makes his living by shooting ought to have a good eye and a steady hand—the two most important qualities in a pitcher. Cobb, come here and be on my team.”

  Cobb took a long moment to answer. “I guess I could try it. I ain’t never thrown a ball afore. Thrown a line trap at a beaver on occasion.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The men gathered around, and from where Amelia sat, she was able to hear Frank.

  “All right. We’ll play by Hanlon’s basic rules.”

  “Who the hell is Hanlon?” Oscar asked.

  Frank frowned. “Ned Hanlon.” When that didn’t get a rise out of Oscar, Frank clarified. “He managed the Baltimore Orioles in ’94 and taught the players to back up bases and each other, and to change positions for cutoff throws.”

  “Huh?”

  Frank adjusted the brim of his hat. “Aw, hell. Just go out there and shag some balls.”

  All the men nodded.

  Daniel took a seat next to Amelia, and she smiled at him. “Do you know how to play this game?”

  “Heck, yeah.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll keep me informed as to when I should applaud.”

  “Sure, Miss Marshall.”

  At Amelia’s left sat Narcissa and Cincinatus, and just five chairs down, Emmaline Shelby. Emmaline didn’t glance her way, but Amelia watched her from the corner of her eye. The woman pretended to be enthusiastic about Orlu playing for the Majors, but her gaze was pinned on the man heading up the Warriors.

  Reverend Thorpe flipped a coin, and Frank called it to hit first. The game began amidst a loud cheering. Amelia tried to follow what Daniel was telling her, but he used abbreviations that were confusing.

  “He’s ahead of the count, Miss Marshall,” Daniel said when one of the Warriors was up to bat.

  Just when she thought she could understand the game, the rules appeared to change, and she couldn’t keep track. The batters seemed to take a long time at the plate, shifting and adjusting their stance. It was a waste of time. For all the preparations and precautions, Orlu struck them out anyway.

  Holding on to her umbrella, Amelia tried to remain sedate under the shade her parasol offered. But as soon as Frank went up to the plate, as Daniel called it, she sat straighter and waited for him to take a swing.

  He fingered the bill of his cap, then bent down to rub some dirt on his hands. His flexing backside strained the fabric of his trousers; the cut of his clothing suddenly seemed too tight. Amelia felt a tingling consciousness of the strength of his muscles. She had to fight the urge to sway toward him. It was Daniel’s voice that stopped her.

  “Come on, Mr. Brody! Hit a good one.”

  Oscar glared at his son and shook his head disapprovingly.

  Frank picked up his bat. He wasn’t playing with one from the mercantile, but rather the Spalding Daniel had made a fuss over. Amelia couldn’t see anything special about the wood. It looked like a bat to her.

  The crowd began making calls, trying to rile the game. As far as Amelia could tell, nothing special had happened. Two strikeouts seemed pretty boring. She wanted to see someone connect with the ball.

  Orlu tilted the angle of his cowboy hat, wound his arm back, and let the ball speed toward Frank.

  Frank sliced his arm through the air, the tip of the bat catching a piece of the ball. It flew through the sky like a bird going too fast to see clearly at first. The two men standing in the outfield raced to catch the ball but crashed into each other while the ball landed and bounced toward their feet.

  “He walloped a fast ball to the left!” Daniel screamed while he nudged Amelia.

  The onlookers went wild as Frank tossed his bat and made it as far as third base. Amelia was just as enthusiastic as everyone else, frantically clapping.

  Wendell Reed was up next and hit the ball up in the air; it arced, then slowly dropped into Orlu’s bare hand.

  Emmaline cheered for Orlu, and Amelia gave her a stern look. The woman stared right back in challenge. Then both women turned their attention to the game.

  The Warriors took the field and it was Cobb’s turn to pitch. He looked out of place in his frontier clothing, holding on to the ball as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He turned it this way and that in his grime-stained fingers. Then finally, with Frank’s coaching, he nodded and said he figured he could throw it well enough.

  The first ball he pitched was wide and high and landed smack in the catcher’s glove; the error garnered him a few laughs from the opposing side. This didn’t seem to bother Cobb. He merely tried again. The ball bounced off the ground and sailed into the glove’s center once more. Frank went out to have a talk with him, and Cobb shrugged, not too concerned.

  Frank retreated, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

  Amelia watched as Frank straddled a caned chair backward and gazed at the field from behind his blue glasses. The cloud-peppered sky was mirrored in the dark lenses, making his face unique to look upon and also wonderfully attractive. His profile was hard and his jaw set with concentration. He had a fierce intensity about him that she’d never seen before. It almost frightened her but was dangerously appealing.

  “He does cut a dashing figure,” Narcissa whispered to Amelia.

  “Yes, he does at that.”

  Their discussion was broken when Cobb threw a ball the hitter swung at, and Frank made a fist while shouting, “Good throw, Cobb! Do it again! Over the plate. Pitch him out.”

  Unfortunately, Cobb wasn’t able to, and the next few batters scored points, or whatever they called it, when the men ran across the hitting plate.

  The game dragged for Amelia, even though Daniel chattered on about good fielding, swings and misses, hits on the grass, choppers, fouls off the bats, and a noise he made in the back of his throat sounding something like ssssssstttttttttteeeeee! She watched with as much enthusiasm as she could muster for the other players. The only one she focused on was Frank, and it didn’t seem like he got the chance to do a whole lot. What she did notice was he yelled and cursed more than normal. He yanked his hat off once and went out to argue with Oscar Beamguard. Reverend Thorpe had to stand between them before they came to blows.

  The sun sweltered down on the crowd, and by the time the score was six to four in favor of the Majors, there were only two boxes left on the chalkboard to fill in. Amelia waited for Cobb to take the pitching position again, hoping the end would soon be near. She was thirsty and coated with dust from all the earth-stirring the men were doing.

  Cobb’s expression was blank when Frank spoke with him in tones too muted for Amelia to hear. Cobb kept nodding his head and agreeing to whatever it was Frank said.

  The first man up to hit, Cobb pitched too low, and the ball rolled in the dirt behind the catcher. Cobb held his hands up in a shrug and came to Frank at the sidelines. This time Amelia heard every word.

  Frank took his cap off to smooth his hair from his eyes. “Look, Cobb, we’re playing pretty good. Hell, we got four runs and that’s not too bad. We’re at the top of the game here, and we could win this thing.”

  Cobb kept nodding but didn’t look too confident.

  “You’ve got to concentrate. Hold the ball like I showed you and give it a spin with your wrist. Aim for his groin, but for chrissake, don’t hit him there.”

  “I’ll try not to, Frank.”

  “You do that.”

  Then Cobb went to take up his place again, while Frank practically tilted in his chair. Cobb drew his leg up and let the ball fly. The batter, O
rlu Blue, went down swinging as the ball whacked him in the inside of his thigh.

  “You son of a bitch!” Orlu picked himself up and grasped his leg. “He aimed for my crotch!”

  “You just didn’t swing low enough,” Frank said.

  Oscar Beamguard went to argue. “It wasn’t Orlu’s fault. Your pitcher is throwing spitballs! I seen him do it!”

  “That ball was dry as toast,” Frank shot back.

  “Bullshit!”

  “My ass!”

  An indignant gasp rose from the ladies, especially loud from Dorothea who shouted, “Oscar Howard Beamguard, you mind your phraseology!”

  The reverend dropped his chalk on the ground and went over to referee. “Gentlemen, there will be no profanity in a game overseen by the Lord!”

  “I don’t see the Lord,” Frank remarked, removing his cap to fit it firmer on his head for the dozenth time that day. “But if you do, Rev, send him over to help my team hit the goddamn ball.”

  “Mr. Brody, the Lord surely won’t help a man who insists on taking His name in vain.” The reverend pulled Frank aside, right in front of Amelia, and spoke prudently. “The way I see it is, your winning this game must be thought upon like my sermons.” Thorpe put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Seize the moment. Strike hard, young man. You’ve got to make the fear last for six days until next Sunday or they won’t go beyond Monday before committing a sin.”

  Frank cocked his head. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Rev. I don’t have six days. I’ve got about six minutes.”

  “Then send them a gale of asps.”

  “What?”

  The reverend removed his hand and spoke bluntly. “Tell them to field and hit the ball, or else you’ll charge double for drinks at your saloon.”

  “Now that they’ll understand.”

  The men broke apart and Amelia gazed at Frank, waiting for him to notice her. To smile at her. To say he’d hit the ball for her. But he didn’t. He was too absorbed in the game to give her even the slightest hello.

  He called his men to order and obviously relayed what the reverend had told him about doubling the price of liquor. Amelia would have been offended by the reverend’s advice were it not for the fact she wanted the Moon Rock Warriors to win so much. It kind of shocked her that Reverend Thorpe thought about spirits other than those which were godly.

  The game resumed and Cobb pitched Orlu out; the next two men to hit never made it to second base off their hits. The players in the field had suddenly banded together to cut off throws. The side was retired without any more runs.

  The first up for the Warriors was Owen Akin, a strapping boy who worked for Reed’s sawmill. He took his position; he hadn’t made contact with the bat the entire afternoon. So it was with much encouragement from the crowd that he finally smacked the wood dead center of the ball and sent it whirling through the air.

  Cincinatus whistled. “There must be a mistake. Akin hit the ball.”

  Amelia applauded with a smile as Owen rounded all the bases to make the score five to six. “Yes, a wonderful mistake.”

  Cobb went up to bat. He tested the weight of the pine in his grasp, stared at it a long time, then ran his bony fingers through his beard to fluff up the wiry bristles. He took a while to get into the correct body figuration Frank had shown him. When he was finished, he looked too stiff to move, but Amelia held out hope. Cobb glared at Orlu, then Orlu pitched the ball.

  It hit Cobb in the shoulder and sent him down on the ground.

  Frank was out of his chair and nose to nose with Orlu Blue in a matter of seconds. Both sides emptied their prospective sidelines, and a free-for-all would have commenced if the mayor hadn’t threatened to call off the festivities.

  Frank’s face was animated as he walked toward Cobb who was still on all fours, a dazzled expression on his face. Frank helped him up. “Come on, Cobb. Shake it off, man. Shake it off. You’ll be all right. Take your base.”

  “Take it?”

  “Hell, yes. You earned it. Go on. Stand over there.” Frank pointed him in the right direction and called, “As soon as I hit the ball, run like hell. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frank rubbed his jaw with his hand and stooped to pick up his bat. The muscles in his forearms were tense and looked hard as wood. His shoulders flexed and moved with a fluid strength. The cords of his thighs were solid and bulging against the seams of his trousers. He hunkered down a minute to stretch his calves, his buttocks defined by a tight swell in the seat of his pants. Sweat ran down his temples, and he looked as if he were going to hit someone.

  It was at that moment Amelia realized the game wasn’t just for fun to Frank. He really wanted to win, and if he didn’t, he’d be angry. She didn’t understand his passion for the game or why he adjusted his cap so much.

  As he took the plate, Frank kept stepping into the dirt with those funny shoes of his. Dust clouds rose around his ankles, and he shouldered the bat high in the air. “Come on, Blue. Hit me with it.”

  Orlu spat around the wad of chewing tobacco in his jaw. “You can bet I will.”

  Only Orlu didn’t hit Frank.

  Frank hit the ball.

  Hard.

  The thwack was so piercing, it hurt Amelia’s ears. The ball went sailing, higher and higher, farther and farther.

  “Touch ’em all! Touch ’em all!” Daniel screamed while he jumped up and down.

  Narcissa and Amelia clasped their hands and cheered.

  The players in right field chased the ball down, but it was too late. Cobb ran over home plate with Frank not far behind. As soon as Frank’s heel touched down on the flour bag, the crowd jumped from their seats and ran to congratulate him.

  “Never seen anything like it!”

  “What a hit!”

  “You sure can play ball!”

  “Best Fourth of July we ever had!”

  “I’ll never forget this game!”

  And so the accolades went. Amelia stood back and watched with pride in her heart. He had hero written all over him, and the town acknowledged his feat. She would have been overwhelmed with happiness as his waiting heroine.

  Too bad he’d kissed his baseball bat instead of her.

  Chapter

  15

  After the game, Amelia had gone off to the box supper table to converse with the ladies, but Frank slipped away from the crowd for a few quiet minutes to cool off. Putting his foot on the planked wall behind him, he drank a cold Budweiser on the unoccupied boardwalk in front of the mercantile.

  He tilted the bottleneck to his lips, and the smooth taste of barley slid past his throat. He knew he got too emotionally involved while playing ball. He’d always enjoyed the sport, even when he was a boy in the home. He took the game to heart, and perhaps the reason for his fervor was due in part because all he’d had in his childhood outside the religious order was a bat and ball.

  When his bottle was empty, and his temperament calmer, he went in search of Amelia. The past few hours, he’d tried to be just what Pap had wanted him to be—a fill-in. But trying to remain impassive toward her had been hell. He hadn’t missed the way their arms had brushed, the looks she gave him through the fringe of her lashes, or the gentle softness of her laugh. He’d practically been ignoring her, but no more. Seeing her clap for him on the sideline, feeling her smile on his back, he gave in to what he really wanted: to spend time with her alone.

  As he walked, men and eager young boys came up to him to recount in their own animated ways the ending home run he’d hit. Talking and joking with people he’d never met before got to him. He didn’t feel as grossly uncomfortable as he had when he’d first arrived. Like a new mitt, the town was oiling his palm, and he felt that he was fitting in.

  He wove his way to the box supper table, which was full of baskets and crates, some decorated with ribbons. The smells of hot wicker, breads, and sweets filled the air. The crowd pressed together as anxious ladies sought out their beaux in the hopes
they would bid the highest for their box.

  Frank found Amelia near the front, her parasol closed as the branches from a tree shaded this particular area from the Independence Day sun. When she saw him, she smiled, then returned her gaze forward. He was given a view of her profile as she watched two girls trying for prizes at the fishing booth.

  He’d always thought her pretty, but today she looked beautiful. Dressed in peach, the fair color complemented her eyes and the upsweep of her remarkable hair beneath that duck-wing hat he disliked. She had a subdued tranquility about her. A sense of belonging.

  She’d carried herself with grace, even when under attack by the busybodies and Emmaline. The probability of encountering Em had been too great for it not to happen. He hated hurting her, for in her eyes, she’d accused him of lying about his attendance to town gatherings. And he had. But not intentionally.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Cincinatus called the crowd to order, his celluloid collar and snappy scarf cutting into his neck. “It is my pleasure to commence the sales of these delectable dinners. Any man who’s hungry won’t be disappointed.”

  Frank turned to Amelia and whispered, “What’s your box number?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell.”

  “But you will.”

  “Five,” she replied in a tone full of breathless anticipation.

  The first several baskets garnered a nice amount. It had been decided beforehand, the proceeds would go toward a single-rail roundhouse so Lew Furlong wouldn’t have to drive the Short Line backward all the way to Boise. Some had objected to this cause, saying a telegraph would be more useful to the town. But the majority had won, although the cost of such a renovation was more than the citizens could ever hope to furnish on their own. It would take a donation from a healthy bank account to see such an endeavor to fruition. And seeing as Cincinatus Dodge was in favor of the roundhouse, the popularity of it had gone in his direction.

  When Mayor Dodge came to Amelia’s basket, he held it up by the handle and lifted the cloth to peek at the contents. “Oh, gentlemen, gentlemen!” He wet his lips and made a big to-do over the offerings. “Box number five is a feast to fill a stomach starved for perfection. I won’t hear of a bid less than seventy-five cents.”