Cakewalk

by Rita Mae Brown

  “She told me this morning that Pearlie was picking her up after work. On foot or in a borrowed paint truck, I don’t know. Juts is staying with Ev. Ev’s helping her with her lessons.”

  “Really?” Celeste was surprised.

  “Juts is being sensible.”

  “Calling Juts sensible may be premature.” Celeste laughed, and Cora laughed with her.

  A few moments later, Celeste stood outside her bedroom door. “Open sesame.”

  He opened the door and smiled to see the tray with tea. Before they closed the door, Cora’s footsteps could be heard coming down from the third floor.

  “Here you go.” She appeared at the open door, robe over her arm.

  “Wonderful.” Celeste took the robe from her.

  Ben, holding fast to his towel, reached for the offered robe, apologizing, “Cora, forgive me—”

  “It’s a big towel.” Cora smiled as the wind shook the house again. “If you two sit here by the fire or down in the library, you’ll eventually warm up. Once you take a chill, it takes time to thaw out.”

  “That it will.” Celeste turned to him. “Ben, do you like shepherd’s pie?”

  He nodded and Cora promised, “You’ll have it for lunch. Noon.”

  Alone now, wrapped in their robes, the two sat before the fire, feet on footstools.

  “There’s no feeling like being inside a house in front of a fire during a storm”—he sighed contentedly—“with a beautiful woman.”

  “Flatterer.” She handed him the paper.

  He placed it on his lap, leaned back in the chair. “What do you do with the horses on a day like today?”

  “They’re in their stalls, with heavy woolen blankets and lots of hay, and Henry checks on the water to make sure it hasn’t frozen. Usually, we turn them out in the day then bring them in at night during the winter, but this storm is so bad they stayed in. I expect everything is tucked up, all the foxes, the owls, the deer. Isn’t it something how they know a storm is coming before we do?”

  “It is.” He opened the paper, the North Runnymede paper. “Did you read this?”

  “I read both papers every morning and both evening papers, too, although the evening papers aren’t from Runnymede. One’s from York, the other from Baltimore, although I doubt we’ll get our evening papers today.”

  “I’m glad I pulled in when I did.” He looked at the headline. “According to this report, Baltimore hasn’t seen so much smuggling since the War of 1812.” He checked the banner again. “Isn’t this the North Runnymede paper?”

  “It is.”

  “Why an article on Baltimore?”

  “Because Philadelphia probably had more smugglers than Baltimore. Best to take the offense while not reporting anything on Pennsylvania’s precious mother city.”

  “I really am going to have to learn about Runnymede.”

  “We’ll be at our most flagrant for the Magna Carta ceremony held each June fifteenth in the square. I’m asking you now to be my escort. And we get to do the cakewalk. You never know. We might win. The music might stop exactly when we reach the little podium. Never hurts to win a cake.”

  He turned to her. “So long as it isn’t a weekend.”

  “Tuesday, this year.” She informed him. “The whole town turns out. You’ll see. I assume you play on Saturdays.”

  “And some weekdays. The big crowds are Saturdays.” He wiggled his toes. Feeling was returning to his feet.

  “This may be rude, but is playing baseball lucrative?”

  “If you’re in the majors. We’re a minor league team. This will be one of our best years, I know it. Not much money, though.” He turned to face her. “I make twenty-five hundred a year. Ty Cobb, majors obviously, used to make twenty thousand. We had to buy our uniforms and clean them ourselves. Finally, our manager got the boss to pick up those expenses. But I buy my glove. I will never get rich.” He smiled at her.

  “What happens if you get hurt?”

  “I’m out until I can play.”

  “But do the Orioles pay for your expenses?”

  He shook his head. “No. That’s why I’m careful. I set money aside so I can at least pay my rent.”

  “You know, I don’t even know where you live.”

  “Not far from Greenmount Avenue.” He cited the avenue the stadium was on, a nice stadium. “It’s not a flophouse but it’s not much. When I step outside and look down the street, I see all the marble stairs from all the houses lined up in a neat row.”

  “Can you see the Bromo-Seltzer blue bottle?” She named the rotating, fifty-one-foot bottle atop the Emerson Tower. Garish though it was, it had become a Baltimore landmark when built in 1911.

  “I can’t see it from my window, but when I go out and walk I can see it. I can walk to the stadium, which is good. Saves money and loosens me up a little. I try to clear my mind. I play better when I’m clear.”

  “I can imagine. Do you want to go to the majors?”

  “Well, I’m twenty-eight. My best years really were my war years. But would I go? Sure. Will I be asked? No.”

  “People say you’re a wonderful shortstop.”

  He smiled. “I’m not bad, but you don’t have long in this game, Celeste. I love it and I might as well enjoy it while I can.”

  She folded her hands. “I was so focused on my brother’s death I never thought about the other ways the war could affect a man.”

  “You play the hand you’re dealt,” he replied without rancor.

  “If you’re smart. Others just sink into a morass of complaint or self-pity.” She paused. “Then again, who knows what they suffered? No one was prepared for the war.”

  “No. The carnage was incomprehensible.”

  “Spotts would write. He wrote about the funny characters in his unit, about how sometimes they could even hear the Germans speaking.” She stopped. “I don’t want to bring back terrible memories for you.”

  He reached over with his left hand as she reached out with her right. They held hands in front of the fire.

  “Celeste, the best any of us can do is go on. Sometimes a picture will flash in front of me and sometimes it’s not horrible.” He turned. “You’d be surprised, but we found ways to have fun. When we’d be sent behind the lines, we’d play baseball. The Brits would play cricket and taunt us, saying our game came from their game, so we’d try each other’s games. They could be good fellows, the regular fellows.” He brightened. “We’d even dance.”

  “Really?” She was intrigued.

  “Somebody would sing, somebody would play a trumpet or instrument they’d dragged with them. And we’d dance. The tall fellows would ask the shorter.”

  “And you?”

  “Well, I’m six feet but I could both lead and follow. There was a tall British sergeant with red hair and he would ask me. He taught me a lot for I wasn’t much of a dancer. My buddies would tease me about Patrick. I hope he survived the war. He really was a good fellow with a wonderful sense of humor, especially when we began dancing and I mashed his feet.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Do you think the men ever fell in love with one another?”

  He paused. “We tried not to get too close. Too many of us were killed, we died like flies. But you still draw close to others. Can’t help it, I guess. But love, physical relations? I don’t know.” He sat up straighter. “I wouldn’t fault anyone for seeking whatever they needed in that hell.”

  “Yes.”

  They sat in silence, then she asked, “I would imagine if you did get leave, you all found girls.”

  “We did. Some were in dance halls. The places were smoky, the wine was water, some of the girls had seen better days, and some were so young; they were the most sought after, obviously. Poor creatures. Many had lost everything and everybody. They had to get by as best they could.” He held her hand more tightly. “We paid them, of course. It probably sounds strange to a woman, but to feel a woman’s arms around your neck, to hear her voice, brief though it was,
you felt alive. She would smile at you and you knew you’d never see her again. I hoped she would overcome what she had to do to survive. I was careful and I only had three leaves behind the lines. The others were more of a rotation to give us a breather, the baseball leaves.” He smiled. “I don’t know why I tell you this. I don’t think I could lie to you about anything. I don’t understand why I talk to you like I do.”

  “Fate. We’re fated to know one another. And for what it’s worth, in similar circumstances, I would do the same.”

  “Fortunately, women don’t go to war.”

  “No, we just die in them.”

  He dropped her hand, rose to lean down to kiss her. “Not you. Let’s hope it will never happen again.”

  A bell tinkled.

  She stood up, kissed him, and said, “Lunch.” She called down, “Cora, we’ll be there in a few moments. I have to find clothes for Ben.”

  “Why can’t he come down in his robe?”

  “Well, what if Fannie comes over or Fairy?”

  “Celeste, in this weather?”

  The two ate in the dining room but not before Celeste showed Ben Glue and General Pershing still asleep. Felicity was grandly curled up on a cabinet ledge, opening one eye when they came in.

  The storm continued. Branches scraped against windowpanes.

  When Cora came in to pick up the plates, Celeste said, “You and Wheezie can stay on the third floor and Paul can stay in Curtis’s bedroom. There’s no point in him walking or driving her here and then having to go out into this himself. I can’t imagine anyone is even in the Bon Ton.”

  “I’ll tell him but you will have to tell him too.”

  After lunch, Celeste led Ben to Spotts’s room, where he put on socks, tried on shoes. They fit if he wore two pairs of socks. Then he pulled on a beautiful pair of light wool pants.

  “Ah, finally Spotts’s wardrobe can be put to good use, not just his shirts.”

  He unbuttoned the front of the pants, shifted contents in Spotts’s boxers, which also fit him.

  “You dress on the left,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Beg pardon.”

  She indicated his genitals. “Men dress on the left or the right. When your clothes are bespoke, made exactly for you, the tailor takes that into account. Details are everything and I’ve always thought it’s women that should design men’s clothes, as no man will ever look at a man the way a woman will.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I grew up with three brothers. Stirling was too old. Spotts was four years younger, Curtis six. Stirling was already on his way and not inclined to waste time on his little sister. But Spotts and Curtis and I talked about everything. Children, as you know, are fascinated with the basics. I would look at their parts and say, ‘You’ll catch that in something.’ How we’d laugh.”

  He looked down, pulled open the boxer waistband a little. “Made me worry there for a moment.”

  “Ben, you never need to worry.” She teased him. “Okay, now try on his pinstriped flannel pants, his summer pants. I just want to see how you look.”

  He did and the fit was close to perfect.

  “Why don’t you put on his charcoal winter pants, just wear an undershirt, and pull over his red sweater? That was his favorite sweater,” she continued. “We can go up and ransack Curtis’s room, too.”

  “But he’ll be back.”

  “Oh, Curtis is careless with clothes. He won’t even miss anything.”

  “No, I don’t feel right about that, but I appreciate you allowing me to wear Spotts’s clothing.”

  “They’re yours.” She sat down for a moment, wrapping her hands around her right knee. “I can’t stand to waste things. Besides, you need a new pair of shoes. Now you have a closetful.”

  He smiled. “I was going to get mine resoled.” He picked up a folded undershirt from the top of the bed, where the sweaters were lined up along with the underclothes. “Celeste, do you miss your friend?”

  “Ramelle? Yes. I do. We had different interests, but when you spend thirteen years with someone you become accustomed to them. Am I sad? No.”

  He waited a little, then finally said, “I’m not much of a lady.”

  She looked up at him. “I don’t know. Maybe your British friend with the red hair could imagine you as one in his arms but I can’t.” She stood up, put her arms around his neck. “Nor do I want to.” She kissed him.

  He savored that kiss, hesitated, then asked, “Did you sleep with other women? Other than Ramelle?”

  “Too many. What about you?” Her left eyebrow rose.

  “Too many.”

  They both laughed as they hugged one another.

  They heard voices downstairs. She kissed him again then opened the door to go downstairs. “Come on down when you’re dressed.”

  —

  Louise and Paul arrived. Celeste repeated her offer to Paul, which Cora had told him when he first walked into the house.

  The front door opened and closed. “My God!”

  Celeste stepped toward her friend. “Fairy, whatever are you doing out in this?”

  “I wanted to see if I could drive in bad weather.”

  “You’re out of your mind and you’re not driving back! This is a big house and there’s room for more.”

  On that note, Ben bounded down the stairs, stopping upon seeing Fairy, and her jaw dropped when she saw him. Celeste made the introductions. As she finished, a furious pounding at the front door startled them all.

  Cora opened it to behold a distressed Yashew Gregorivitch.

  “Yashew, get in here,” she commanded.

  He stepped in, looked at Celeste. “Miss Chalfonte—Miss Chalfonte, your sister sent me. The chapel’s caught fire. She needs help.”

  Without missing a beat, Celeste ordered, “Cora, rouse Francis. Paul, will you ride back with Yashew, I want someone in the truck with him. The weather is filthy. Ben, come with me.”

  “Do you have tools, axes, buckets?” Ben asked.

  “In the garage.”

  Ben took over. “We may need them. Men, before you go, let’s grab what we can.”

  “Dear God,” Celeste said under her breath. “Fairy, stay here. Please don’t drive home.”

  “I am following you. I’m going to help.”

  “Me, too,” Louise stoutly declared.

  “And me.” Cora rushed for her coat.

  “Are you all crazy?” Celeste decried.

  Cora, back in the hall, said, “No crazier than you are. Carlotta is going to need all of us.”

  “All right then. Louise and Cora, you go with Fairy. Fairy, Francis will follow you. If there’s any trouble, you all will get into my car. Do you hear me?”

  “We do.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Although they were going only four miles west of town, the trip proved agonizingly slow. When the small caravan pulled in to Immaculata Academy, the lowering sky reflected back the scarlet, gold, and swirling soot from the chapel fire.

  No fire trucks or horse-drawn fire wagons had made it. Francis pulled as close to the chapel as he dared; the other vehicles followed, with Yashew in the truck getting out first, the others behind him.

  Herbert and Carlotta, along with lines of girls, handed buckets of water to one another in a hopeless attempt to quell the flames.

  Ben shouted something to Yashew, who led him and Paul to the side of the chapel in the rear. The three men pulled open the doors, disappearing inside.

  Upon seeing her sister, Carlotta rushed over, sweat streaming down her face from being close to the heat.

  “Celeste, thank God you’re here.”

  Cora, Louise, and Fairy surrounded Celeste now.

  “Carlotta, tell the girls to go back to their dormitories. This won’t stop the fire. We’ve got to find another way.”

  “How?”

  Instead of answering, Celeste ordered Cora and Louise, “Get those girls back inside. Make sure no one has frost
bite. Fairy, come here. You-all divide up into the dorms, go into the kitchens, and cook anything that will warm them. Surely some of the girls will know what’s in the kitchens. Carlotta, some of them have kitchen duties, do they not?”

  “They do.”

  “Carlotta, you come with me. Francis, you, too. The men went to the other side of the chapel.”

  Following in the footsteps already being covered by snow, they found the opened doors.

  Going into the basement—Herbert with Ben, Paul, and Yashew—the men viewed row upon row of barrels, barrels filled with good liquor.

  Joining them and seeing the neatly stacked barrels, Celeste realized what was at stake.

  Ben started rolling one out, followed by Paul then Yashew.

  “I’m with you, boys.” Francis hurried to the nearest barrel.

  Celeste walked alongside Ben. “What’s the chance of the forward barrels exploding?”

  “Chances are the wood will burn, then the liquor. It’s not combustible the way gunpowder is. I think we can save what’s back here.”

  Yashew, behind him, called out, “Can’t touch what’s in front.”

  Carlotta shouted to her husband, “Where to?”

  “Stables.”

  “No. You can’t do that, Herbert. Think of the straw should any of these be hotter than we realize. Where else?” Carlotta thought, then called to Yashew, “Roll them to the base of the Infirmary. It’s far enough away. We can divide things up once we’ve saved what we can.”

  Carlotta entered deeper into the basement to start rolling a barrel. Celeste came up next to her.

  “It will take two of us for one of them. These are heavy.” Celeste put her shoulder next to her big sister’s and they worked in tandem.

  Overhead they heard a smash, a tinkle.

  “The floor. If the floor goes, the chapel goes.” Carlotta did not cry, she rolled with all her might.

  “We’ll worry about that later. We can be thankful for this weather. It may yet put out the fire.”

  Into the night the little band worked. Feet wet, cold; hands swelled even with gloves on. They’d sweat in the basement and then the cold would hit them about halfway to the Infirmary. But the constant work kept them warm except for their feet, while the sleet stung their faces.