Cakewalk

by Rita Mae Brown

Juts held out her hand, which he shook. “Are you here for the game?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s the best, the biggest, the fiercest, and we have to win, but oh, Mr. Battle, they have Bill Whittier and he can hit the ball a country mile.”

  “We’ll hope for good pitching, then,” Ben replied, all seriousness.

  Cora, hand on her daughter’s back, propelled her back down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “She’s fifteen,” as though that explained everything, which in a way it did.

  Celeste climbed the stairs to the second floor, then up to the third. The walls, lined with paintings, bespoke someone having excellent taste and pots of money.

  Ben noticed two long rectangular stained-glass windows on either side of the massive front door. Here on the landing of the third floor a large stained-glass window splashed colored light on the carpet.

  “Do you know who made this and the ones by the door?”

  “I knew you’d ask. When the house was built, my grandfather found Czech workers. Fellows must have just stepped off the boat. They were hired and we’re all the better for it. Apart from the carpentry, the Czechs made the stained-glass windows with help from a Spaniard. Where he came from, I don’t know. I often wonder about those early people—new land, new language for some, new animals, flowers. How brave they were.”

  “And smart.” He followed her down the hall.

  She opened the door to a west-facing room, a large fireplace, large four-poster bed. Obviously a man’s room; a dresser with silver brushes rested on a silver tray, a captain’s epaulettes from a full dress uniform also rested on the tray.

  He placed his bag on the bench at the end of the bed.

  A silver-framed photograph of a captain, features strongly resembling Celeste’s, gleamed at the corner of the dresser, a massive mirror behind it. “Your brother?”

  “Spotts.” She nodded. “We’ve each kept our childhood rooms so if Stirling ever comes home, he goes to his, Curtis to his, and Carlotta to hers, although she rarely stays here. I wound up with the house because, with the exception of Spotts, everyone married and of course made their own home.”

  “Memories.” He smiled.

  She stepped out into the hall, framed by the doorway. “You settle in. When you’re ready, I’ll give you the grand tour of the gardens, the stables. Lunch if you’re hungry and then off to the game, which starts at three. You’re a good sport to come for the game. It’s such silly fun.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he truthfully replied.

  —

  Within fifteen minutes, Celeste was leading Ben through the gardens. “Once you get to the end of Emmitsburg Pike, you’re in Emmitsburg.” She noted, “The land on the south side of the Pike is ours. All I have to do is ride down the alleyway and I’m in open fields in a few minutes, but Runnymede is reaching ever outward, all four roads, all the crossroads. Still, it’s quiet—well, more or less quiet. Ah, here’s Henry.” She introduced her groom to Ben, relieved to see how much older Henry was. “If you’d like to ride, easily done.”

  “I would need lessons,” Ben admitted.

  “I can take care of that. You’re a natural athlete. Wouldn’t take you long, so long as you remember he weighs twelve hundred pounds and you don’t.” Celeste pointed to Roland in his paddock with Raj, a younger Thoroughbred.

  “Miss Chalfonte puts a store by her horses,” Henry noted.

  “I can see that.” Ben walked through the clean, airy stable, cats asleep everywhere. “No dogs?”

  “Ah, well, Miss Chalfonte will have to explain that,” Henry replied.

  She walked out through the large double doors, open to the sunshine and breeze. “My wonderful Irish terrier died shortly after the news that Spotts had been killed. I don’t know. I haven’t gotten around to a puppy, even though I love dogs. Well, Cora has a stunning English setter. Perhaps, if he sires puppies, that will be the answer.”

  “You need a good dog,” Ben told her with conviction.

  “Yes, I do. Would you like something to eat before the game? No telling how long it will go and I was rather hoping we could walk back. It’s a bit of a bracing walk but this feels like spring, doesn’t it?”

  “I can always eat.” He smiled. “And yes, it does feel like spring.”

  They sat outside the orangerie on the smooth flagstones where a table and chairs had been set up by Cora and Juts. No one really went to school on the big game day since every student worried about finding the appropriate colors to wear plus no one paid any attention to their lessons. Both principals bowed to reason and let them go.

  “I’m starving.” Fannie’s voice carried through the house.

  Celeste looked up at Ben. “We walk in and out of one another’s homes.” She then called, “Out back.”

  Within a skinny minute, Fannie burst onto the scene. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a guest. Hello, Ben.” She remembered him, of course.

  “What a fibber you are.” Celeste laughed. “Go tell Cora to bring out more food.”

  “I already did and that looks like her chicken corn soup. I really am starved.”

  As she sat down, Cora walked out with plates and soup bowls. Juts trailed behind with sweet tea in a large pitcher. Fannie looked disappointed.

  “Hold your horses,” Cora ordered.

  “Yes, dear.” Fannie picked up her soup spoon.

  Cora returned bearing the scotch and a small bucket of ice with ice tongs, which she sat to the left side of Fannie.

  “I will survive. No, I will triumph.” Fannie poured herself a bracing shot. “Ben?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Creighton.”

  “Do call me Fannie Jump or Fannie, everyone else does. How perfect that you’re here for the big day. You know we pretend it’s only a big day for the kids but it is for all of us. I can never get Tony out here from Baltimore. I’m glad you came.”

  “He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” Ben tasted the soup, quickly realizing that Cora was a fabulous cook.

  “Yes, he does. My husband.” Fannie roared with laughter. “Unlike our enchanting Celeste, I am not unencumbered, but I hasten to add, Creighton is a good man. Unfortunately, excitement is not his middle name.”

  Celeste reached over, lightly touching Ben’s forearm. “Fannie does not believe in circumlocution.”

  “Well, well, no I don’t. Saves so much time to just come out with it. You’ll meet so many people today. Some you’ll want to meet, others perhaps not, but here we are.”

  “Mother!” Juts, saying “Mother” instead of “Momma,” needed something, and it had to be very important.

  Fannie leaned forward, voice a bit lower. “Juts is laboring under a dark cloud at the moment, although it’s not her fault—well, most of it isn’t her fault.” She preceded to inform him, every syllable, of the cow-jumping-over-the-moon episode.

  He laughed. “I think I’d better stay on the good side of Juts.”

  “And her sister. You haven’t met her sister yet. Louise is nineteen and she has a steady fellow now. We like him. He’s a war veteran. What do you think, Celeste? Twenty-three? Twenty-four at the most?”

  “Army.” Celeste added that detail. “Like you.”

  “Well, he’s from Green Springs Valley and we don’t know him but so much, but I have inquired about his people. We have to watch out for the girls. No father. Well, yes, they have a father but he ran off, the drunken sot.”

  “Fannie, I don’t think Ben needs all the biographical details.” Celeste smiled.

  “Perhaps, but some of them are divinely fascinating. For instance, Celeste’s sister became a religious nut as her marriage sank into a torpor, and started Immaculata Academy, but like all the Chalfontes, Carlotta is bright. She’s now preparing her girls for their responsibilities when we get the vote. Ben, are you for women voting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fannie, what else can he say? Ben, we’ve all fought for this for years, as had our mothers, bu
t what I now realize is, vote for whom? Vote for what? I’m beginning to see what you men have struggled to do.”

  “Politics brings out the worst in people,” he forthrightly said. “I steer clear of it when someone brings something up in the locker room. Sometimes you think someone’s an okay fellow and then he says something awful, and you don’t want to be around him anymore.”

  Celeste nodded. “Human nature is various.”

  “Did Celeste tell you we have a baseball team? Not the high school, but we have the Runnymede Nine and Rooters. Not the Orioles, of course, but a rousing way to spend an afternoon.”

  “Lefty Rogers was a Nine,” Ben brought up.

  “He was. Yes. We were proud of him and just devastated when he didn’t come back from the war.” Fannie stopped herself. “By the way, a couple of these youngsters playing today are good athletes. You won’t be totally bored.”

  “Fannie Jump, I could never be bored in your presence.”

  She blinked a moment, then nearly cooed, “What a sweet thing to say.”

  “I’ve known you for over forty years and I agree.” Celeste held up a glass of sweet tea to toast her friend.

  “Why did you have to give out the years?” Fannie groaned.

  “Why not?” Celeste shrugged.

  “Easy for you. You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m carrying around an anvil.”

  Cora walked back out. “Apple pie, then you all best be on your way. You want good seats in the bleachers, and Celeste, do you want a parasol?”

  “No, thank you. We’ll manage.”

  Fannie swallowed her drink, poured another, and swallowed that. “I’m off. I promised Fairy I’d pick her up, and Mrs. Thigpen, too.” To Ben, she added, “The mother of the principal at South Runnymede High. She’s gotten on in years, poor dear.”

  Celeste added, “Mrs. Thigpen had her moments but at ninety-five perhaps she’s had too many of them.”

  Ben, blinking, laughed at all this chatter. He stood as Fannie left the table then sat back down.

  “See what you’re getting into?” Celeste smiled.

  “I’m ready.”

  —

  Once seated at the game, songs rang out from the bleachers, the north side filled with North Runnymede, the south side with South Runnymede kids in gray and gold. The game this year was at North Runnymede High, blue and gold. The buildings looked like a Norman fortress. There were yells, cheers, people standing, both high school bands blaring away. By three o’clock, the stands were packed. It promised to be a perfect baseball day.

  Leaning to speak into Celeste’s ear because of the din, Ben motioned to the rows in both bleachers filled with men of different ages.

  “Old boys.” She cupped her hands to speak into his ear.

  He nodded that he understood.

  No score the first two innings, but then North Runnymede hit a double. Two outs later, Bill Whittier drove in the run. Those on the south side watched glumly. The north side erupted.

  It proved a tight game and one well played. Of course, the ability of the young men was disparate but all tried mightily, no one was sloppy. By the sixth inning, the score was 1–1 and again Bill Whittier hit a searing grounder just out of reach of the little shortstop for South Runnymede. Ben groaned. The run, thanks to a heads-up throw from the center fielder, who had moved up close, held up at third. The next batter, the fifth, hit another single, this one to right field but not deep. The run crossed home plate, even though the fielder threw it in the second the ball was in his hand. The runner had too much of a head start. Louis Negroponti caught the ball immediately after the runner crossed home plate. Bill Whittier, thinking he could easily gain second, tore toward that base, and Louis, without rising from his catcher’s crouch, threw the ball to second like a great catapult.

  Out!

  The spectators screamed. Even those on the north side had to admit it was a great throw and Louis just a tenth grader behind the plate.

  The 2–1 game evened out again in the eighth inning.

  By the ninth inning, everyone’s nerves were jangled. No score in the top, which meant South Runnymede had a chance in the bottom of the inning.

  Richard Bartholomew blasted a single. Next up, Dick Yost also hit a single. Fans, thrilled, worried, stood. No one sat. A cheering rumble could be heard all the way to Hanover. Then, Louis Negroponti tried a sacrifice bunt as instructed by his coach. Rolled foul. He fanned the next pitch, a high inside strike. While they had no outs, Louis was South Runnymede’s best hope at bat. He needed to learn to look them over. Louis had guts, he took a cut at the next ball, connected, and it soared over the stands. Three runs crossed the plate.

  Celeste grabbed Ben’s hand, leading him out of the stands before the uproar and celebration accelerated. Both of them ran once they hit the ground and she headed them down the road toward the square.

  Finally slowing down, she clapped her hands. “Revenge for last year! We were skunked.”

  He came alongside her, held out his arm, and she slipped her hand over his forearm. “Who is that kid?”

  “Louis Negroponti. He’s the one who built the jumping contraption for Juts’s cow. The story Fannie embellished eternally. His father is a mechanic and Louis can do anything with steel, iron. He can make parts. And now we know he can hit the ball out of the park.” She beamed.

  Behind them the roar grew even louder. A paddy wagon puttered by. Then another from South Runnymede.

  “Are they going to arrest them?” Ben wondered.

  “No. Probably just hoping to calm them down. You can usually bet on a couple of good fistfights after the game. As to the paint on the statues, they’ll do that in the middle of the night.”

  Reaching the square, Celeste walked to the Bon Ton. She hurried in, found Louise, told her the score. Those in the store yelled with happiness if Southies. The Northies, quiet. She also introduced Ben. Once outside, she took him to the middle of the square and then they walked past the fountain out of the square and down Emmitsburg Pike to the house.

  Once there, she gave Cora the news.

  “Shall we sit back outside? A little light left. Getting chilly, though.” Celeste pulled a coat off the hall rack.

  Ben draped it over her shoulders and they returned to the back to sit on a bench.

  “Late-afternoon light,” she said.

  “It’s golden. The slanting rays through stained glass have an extra depth in this light.”

  “You like color?”

  “I do.” He looked down at his red tie with the regimental stripes. “Not so much on my person but I do think color reveals things. You ladies have a freer hand in such matters.”

  A bustle inside drew their attention as Juts, Louise, and Paul came in. Louise brought Paul outside, where the discussion revealed that the two men had been within a mile of one another on the front. Finally everyone left, the sun set; a stillness enhanced even the smallest sound. A few bats darted overhead.

  “Cora left us her special dumplings if and when you’re hungry.”

  “She’s a good cook.”

  “She is that.”

  “I’m not hungry right now, but you must be feeling the chill.”

  Celeste rose. “I hope they remembered to start the fires in the fireplaces, including your bedroom. It can get cold up there. Well, it can get cold everywhere. I never think we’re past a frost until mid-April.”

  He followed her back inside. She offered him a drink, which he refused, but he asked for a cup of tea and then decided yes, he was hungry.

  So they ate the dumplings, which Celeste heated. Cora had shown her exactly what to do yesterday.

  The kitchen was intimate, cozy, not at all grand. There they sat and talked and talked until Celeste finally said, “You know we’ll sit here all night.”

  “You and I will never run out of things to say.” He nodded. “And I don’t mind sitting here all night.”

  “We could be mor
e comfortable. You’re still wearing your tie. My father is the only man I’ve ever known who didn’t want to take his tie off when he came through the door.” She looked at him. “Did you ask about me after I left?”

  “Some. I knew about Old Line Manufacturing. But you remained mysterious. Everyone knew who you were, a bit of gossip here and there, including the stories about England, your foxhunting, your trips across the Continent, but mostly all anyone wanted to talk about is how rich you Chalfontes are.”

  “Let’s check the fireplaces.”

  They first looked into the library, going strong. The main room, no fire, but Cora and Francis would have known that if they stayed downstairs they’d sit in the library. She walked up the stairs, Ben behind her, pushed open the door to her room, which had been closed to conserve the heat while a fire crackled.

  She turned to him and grabbed his tie, pulling him into the room. Speechless, he could scarcely breathe as she removed his coat then stood in front of him, put her hands inside his shirt, and pulled it apart, ripping it to shreds. Then with his tie again, she yanked him to her, kissing him hard.

  He put his hand in the small of her back, pressing her so close he thought he’d melt. She kissed him and kissed him, then stepped away to remove her clothing. He untied his shoes, unbuttoned the cuffs on his ruined shirt, and unbuttoned his trousers, which fell to the floor.

  He reached for her again, feeling that smooth flesh against his own. She felt the softness of his chest hair.

  The bedclothes were pulled down; they almost jumped onto it, and with the fire, the covers stayed pulled down until both had exhausted themselves.

  Eyes closed, he rested a moment. She sat up to pull up the covers, looked over at him.

  “You are so beautiful,” she said.

  He opened his eyes. “I thought I was supposed to say that.”

  “Please do.”

  “You are so beautiful.”

  They fell asleep laughing.

  Ben wrapped a towel he found lying across the bed around himself, preparing to sprint to the third floor. The ornate art nouveau clock read 6:30.

  A note on the towel, blue-black ink on light blue paper, in Celeste’s bold cursive hand, read, “There’s a fresh shirt on your bed. See you in the breakfast room. No hurry. Ever and always, Celeste.”