“But it does work. You created a viable machine, Abigail.” She joined Abigail on the bed and put the box in her lap. “Would you like to crank it up?”
Abigail sat quietly for a moment. She then stood and smoothed her apron.
“Under one condition.” She held up her finger. “This will be the last time it’s used. I want to dismantle it and return the wire to the lab. It’s the right thing to do.”
Belle stared at Abigail. She did not want to stop using the box. The northern conversations were like getting a glimpse of the future, or at least some exposure to advanced thought. She would miss Kate’s march toward meaning. She was certain she could learn much more from her about confidence and optimism. Still, Belle wanted Abigail to be able to forgive herself, to right her wrong. That mattered more.
•••
Belle couldn’t help but smile as she watched Abigail crank the handle on her invention. The sight was stunning. It wasn’t the whiz next door who’d created the machine, it was the genius on her side of the fence!
“I have the best luck when I crank it at about this speed,” Belle suggested. She placed her hand over Abigail’s, demonstrated the rate, and then let go. She wanted Abigail to bring it to life.
The box was on the dresser. Abigail was standing in front of it, her face at a safe distance from the machine, as advised by Belle.
Within a minute of steady cranking, the show started. Tiny sparks ascended from the box, which began to wobble.
“Is this the process?” Abigail asked, continuing to crank.
“Yes. Keep cranking until we get a few more sparks, and then we should hear voices. That’s when you should stop turning the handle.”
“Got it.”
Belle watched Abigail observing the machine. She wasn’t blinking; her mouth was open slightly to accommodate her deep breathing. Belle’s skin prickled as she watched the inventor experiencing her working creation for the first time.
“. . . the local men’s baseball teams.”
Laughing. “Are they really outscoring the men?”
Abigail stopped cranking and turned toward Belle. She mouthed, “Amazing!”
Belle nodded exuberantly. She grabbed Abigail and hugged her. “You’re amazing.” Belle led Abigail to the rocking chair. “They can’t hear us.”
Abigail plopped down in the seat. “They can’t?” She chuckled. “My brain is already trying to figure out what I did wrong.” She tapped her temple with her finger. “Typical inventor.”
Perched on the edge of the bed, Belle smiled. “Listen . . . to what you did right.”
“. . . and the best part is they wear bloomers when they play ball!”
“Well, you’re all set then, Katie kid!”
Belle beamed at Abigail. “It’s Kate and her friend BB.”
Abigail placed a fist under her chin, her elbow resting on her belly. “This is quite something.”
“. . . don’t have time to play baseball. But a girl can dream, right?”
“Yes, she can! And this one is dreaming about a proposal from Gerald. What is wrong with that man? I may have to ask him to marry me!”
“Now you’re catching on, BB. Go after what you want!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Next thing you know I’ll be swinging a bat and wearing bloomers!”
For the next twenty minutes, two women talked and two women listened. Silently, Belle wished Kate well, and also goodbye.
Chapter 29
Alice was running around the park, wiggling her fingers in the air. The tips of her leather gloves were cut off. She stopped in front of Hazel, who was creating more of the truncated gloves.
“Does your mother know about this?” She flopped down on the ground and stared at Hazel.
“No,” she said, and snipped off a glove’s pinkie finger. “But if she did . . .” Hazel spread the blades of the scissors and pretended to cut her own throat, complete with a choking noise. Alice smiled.
Members of the Circle Club were dotted across Blevins Park, no chairs, no circle. This afternoon was less about talking and more about creating the gear required to play baseball.
Belle had proposed the idea on the latest postcards, and when the women arrived at the park, each agreed to try to throw and hit a ball. Belle had written in the card that “Baseball could be an enjoyable way to learn to work together for future community projects.”
Abigail had once again provided snacks, but this time stayed to help. She was kneeling on the ground, running a plane across a stick of lumber. Curled shavings littered the area around her and stuck to her apron.
Sadie stood nearby. “That’s starting to look like a fine bat, Abigail. Keep at it.” She slowly rocked a sleeping baby whose tiny fingers were resting atop a baseball. “I’d almost hate to hit this ball, Paulette. It’s perfectly clean and white.”
Hazel joked, “My mother would approve of that ball.”
The others laughed.
“We should definitely use it,” Paulette said. She was sitting sidesaddle on a tree stump, peeling an orange. “My sister works at the Spalding plant. She had that ball shipped to me when she first got the job. I can ask her to send more should we need some.”
“Now, ladies, let’s see how this goes before we inherit a herd of baseballs.” Amelia pushed her glasses farther up her nose. She was weaving palm fronds into a makeshift home plate. “I’ll bet I don’t even see that ball coming at me.” Several bottles of elixirs and liniments she’d brought from her apothecary lay beside her, at the ready should there be injuries.
Poppy put her gloved hands on her hips and kicked at her long skirt. “I may trip if I run. We won’t be running, will we, Belle?”
Alice spoke first. “Pants.” She pointed down at her legs. “They make sense.”
Belle laughed and handed Amelia another palm frond for weaving. “You’re way ahead of us, Alice.”
With a lacy handkerchief, Paulette brushed off pulp stuck to her fingers. “Actually, my sister says women up north are playing baseball in their bloomers.”
Belle and Abigail glanced at each other. They smiled and then returned to the business of baseball.
•••
Several men had gathered to watch, arms folded or elbowing each other in the ribs. One man rattled a cowbell. The sight of eight women playing baseball in the park was a first.
“I don’t know when I’ve laughed so hard!” Amelia said, and started laughing again. She was tickled by watching Hazel try to catch her wild throws. The girl was doing her best and seemed to enjoy falling, giggling each time she did.
Belle checked on the baby, sleeping on a blanket far from the action. She waved at Alice, at the ready, waiting to chase hit balls. Alice waved back and then yanked on her fingerless gloves, too big but helpful as padding. Belle looked over at Poppy, pleased they’d made peace since their unnerving conversation about Merle.
Sadie was shouldering the bat, yelling, “Where the hell are the children, Virgil?” She’d spotted her husband standing with the other men.
He yelled back. “Flossie’s got ’em. You look good, buttercup!”
Sadie shooed him away with her hand but smiled.
Paulette and Poppy now had the ball and were rolling it back and forth.
“This isn’t quite baseball, is it?” Paulette laughed and scooped up Poppy’s perfectly straight roll.
“First we roll, then we throw,” Poppy answered. She bent one leg back and forth, flexing her knee.
Abigail chose a spot for home base and placed the palm mat there. She then paced out where a pitcher might stand.
When Belle rejoined the group, she said, “What do you say we let Sadie hit, ladies?”
Alice jumped up and down, still standing in what they’d designated as the outfield. “Ready!” She waved her arms over her head.
Belle walked the baseball out to Abigail.
“Go easy on us.” She smiled.
Abigail laughed. “I can’t stay very long. I’ve got three pheasants to clean for supper.”
Hazel had agreed to play catcher and crouched behind the plate. Sadie held the bat high, her bent arms held to the side. Abigail tossed her an underhanded pitch.
With a swoosh, Sadie swung the bat with as much ferocity as someone wielding an ax. The wood nicked the ball, which flew backward and hit Hazel in the lip.
“Ahhhh!” she screamed and fell onto her back. Sadie dropped the bat and showered Hazel with apologies. All but two of the male spectators ran toward her. Amelia got to her first, opening a bottle of witch hazel as she ran.
“Let me have a look, honey.” She squatted next to Hazel and inspected her lip. It was split slightly and bleeding. “I’m going to dab your lip. It’s going to burn a little.” She touched a small cloth to the cut. “Just a little sting.”
Hazel winced and stared up at John Parker, son of the well-to-do man who owned Parker’s grapefruit grove.
“That ball had it out for you,” he said, and smiled. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and attempted to unstick sweaty hair from her forehead.
Virgil reached out his hand to help Hazel up. “Sadie hasn’t busted my lip yet, but I know she’s wanted to.”
Hazel started to smile but stopped. “Oww.” She took his hand and stood. “Thank you, Virgil.”
John took her elbow. “I’ll help you over to that tree stump to sit down.”
“Oh, thank you, John.” She walked with him, adjusting her lopsided ponytail. “I was supposed to catch the ball with my hands, not my mouth.”
He laughed and stayed with her after she sat down.
Sadie was at bat again, her expression and stance signaling her desire to smack every bit of the ball this time. Paulette had replaced Hazel as catcher but positioned herself several feet behind home plate.
Abigail removed the ball from her apron pocket, took a deep breath, and lobbed it toward the plate. The pitch was accurate, giving Sadie every chance to connect.
The pop of the ball off the bat started Alice running back and forth, searching the sky for her target.
Belle quickly spotted the baseball and grinned at what she saw happening on the field. Sadie had launched the ball with more speed than height—a real zinger. Just behind the zigzagging Alice was Ida, marching forward, focused on Hazel. Her arms swung back and forth in wide arcs, and she was talking well out of earshot. Belle shielded her eyes from the sun for a better look.
Bam! With a thud, the baseball collided with Ida’s massive hat, adorned with a large silk bow and a stuffed bird, front and center, its wings outstretched as if in flight.
“Eeeeeeeeek!” Ida screeched, frozen in place.
The enormous hat careened off her head and flopped to the ground alongside the ball. It landed upside down, the bird’s head in the sand. Ida grabbed her head, shocked by the sudden and violent removal of her signature accessory.
Belle covered her mouth with both hands to hide her smile. She glanced over at Hazel, who had stood up but made no move toward her mother. No one did. Sadie leaned on the bat.
“I don’t see any blood,” Amelia said to Poppy.
“And the bird was already dead,” Poppy added.
Abigail walked toward home plate, her back to the incident, grinning at Sadie.
Ida balled her hands into tight fists. She spun around toward Alice, who was giggling.
“Pick up my hat,” she hissed. “Do it now.”
Alice slowly made her way toward the hat. Once there, she bent over and picked up the ball next to it. As she passed by Ida, she said, “You’re not very nice.”
Furious, Ida stamped her foot in the sand. She picked up her hat and headed for the tree stump, where the women and some of the men had formed a small group around Hazel. Ida was shaking her head as she approached. Her hair was disheveled and her finger was jabbing at the air. “First of all, I was just almost killed by a farmer’s wife.” She glared at Sadie.
Virgil tugged at his earlobe, long immune to Ida’s condescension. “Calm down, Ida. Your store is filled with food from this lowly farmer’s field.” He put his arm around Sadie.
Ida continued. “And then, I have to hear from Mrs. Randolph in Cravin’s that my daughter is playing a man’s game with other women.” She glared at Belle. “I knew you were up to no good with this club.”
Belle was pleasantly surprised by her calmly delivered response. “You don’t know anything about me, Ida.”
“I know enough,” she snapped back. She turned back to her daughter and leaned in toward her busted lip. “Have you been fighting? This is outrageous!” She noticed John Parker for the first time. Her tone softened. “I am so sorry you have to see Hazel behaving like an impious, indelicate, impure hoodlum, John. I did not raise this.”
John looked down at his boots and back up at Ida.
“Well, that’s interesting, Ida. I was just thinking how much I didn’t expect this from Hazel.”
Ida pursed her lips so tightly that they disappeared. She nodded at him in agreement.
He continued. “In fact, I was surprised to see her out here, running around and even falling to the ground.”
Hazel hugged her body and looked down.
“What’s most eye-opening, though,” John said, “is that I never imagined that a daughter of yours, Ida, would allow herself to have so much fun.”
Ida stopped nodding and glared at John.
He turned toward Hazel.
“I’d like to court you, Hazel. I’ve always found you beautiful, and now you’ve surprised me with your aplomb.”
Alice declared, “Hooray for a plum!”
“Now, now. We’ll see about that,” Ida snapped. “We’ll just see.”
Hazel spoke, her voice strong. “I’d be honored to accept, John Parker.” She crossed her arms and pushed her chin forward. “Go home, Mother. That’s where you say a woman belongs.”
The other club members began to nod and clap.
Ida stamped her foot again and jammed the hat back on her head. Sand sprinkled down from the bird’s bent wings. She stormed across the park, her busy finger continuing its tirade toward no one.
Belle clapped too as she thought of Kate, sharing her day up north with women testing the shifting winds like dancing kites. She looked around at her fellow club mates.
I’m surrounded by women who dare to long for more.
How proud Kate would be of every member of the Circle Club. In the weeks and months ahead, they would laugh and listen and learn . . . together.
Chapter 30
The headlines in the Press that morning discussed the arrest of a ring of fruit thieves, impending bridge repairs, and the possibility of a town bank. Nothing was written about Belle’s dream finally coming true.
The Edison gardens were finished and in peak form, active with butterflies and hummingbirds. Busy bees dined on a golden banquet of pollen. From front to back, flowers bloomed in a mesmerizing wave of color families. Even the varied leaf patterns were engaging. Belle surveyed the gardens, and for a moment, she lived there too, covered in dermal tissue, not skin. She stood firm as if roots had been dispatched from her soles. How grateful she was. Not only was the project a success, but she, too, had grown in the process.
The clinking of silverware and laughter drew her back to this balmy March afternoon where a lawn party was almost under way. Decker had made a rare exception to allow for an outdoor lunch in the Edisons’ backyard.
“This never happened. Understand?” he’d grumbled to Boone, but handed him one of the Edisons’ silver cake cutters engraved with wildflowers.
Word had come that the family would not be visiting. Newspaper reports around the country revealed
one major reason: a bitter split between Edison and two of his most trusted business partners—Ezra Gilliland, his dear friend who owned the guesthouse at Seminole Lodge, and his longtime attorney, John Tomlinson. Edison claimed that both defrauded him in a deal made to raise capital to market phonographs. The headlines raged: “EDISON OUT $250,000.” “GOUGING EDISON.” An impending legal battle would mean a winter without the Edisons in Fort Myers. The fact that Mina would soon give birth further sealed the decision to stay up north.
The Press tried valiantly to soothe the town’s disappointment and frustration with inked optimism: “All that is required is putting up the poles and stringing the wires for electricity. Fort Myers will be a lively place next winter!”
With news of the Edisons’ canceled trip, Merle, Abigail, and Boone teamed up to organize a special lunch for Belle to celebrate her completed gardens and her twenty-sixth birthday.
“We’re almost ready, Belley,” Merle called out from behind her. She turned to see him and Boone standing beside an elegant setup. Both were dressed in their cleanest clothes with the fewest patches, and no hats. She blew them a kiss, which they pretended to battle for, elbowing each other, grabbing for it. Abigail approached from the Baker’s side of the yard, balancing a tray of food in one hand, gripping the handle of a coffeepot with the other. Merle moved to help her while Boone pulled out a chair for Belle.
The table was set for a formal meal—ecru tablecloth and napkins, china ringed with a wheat motif, dainty cups for coffee. The gardens were on full display from the table’s chosen location in the center of the yard. Abigail set out covered pots and bowls, the feast unfolding as they all sat down.
“Oh yes,” Merle said, peeking under a lid. “Mr. Ridley’s smoked venison?”
“Of course,” Abigail said, and patted her bun.
Boone peeked, too. “Biscuits and giblet gravy, mustard greens with bacon.” He shook his head. “Can you please teach Decker how to cook, Abigail?”
Merle answered for her. “You can’t teach artistry to a numbers man.”
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