Imagine

by Jill Barnett

  “So I left and worked my way to Philadelphia. I lived under a railroad trestle for a few months with some others in a makeshift vagrant shanty, stealing food to get by, sleeping under scraps of tin.”

  “At fifteen?”

  “Yeah.” He gave a wry laugh and looked at her. “What were you doing at fifteen?”

  “Going to school, playing Parcheesi with friends, just doing what most fifteen-year-old girls in San Francisco did.”

  He was looking at her as if she were batty. “Parcheesi?”

  “Yes, well, better than playing poker.”

  “I didn’t play poker at fifteen.”

  “You didn’t?” She cocked her head and stared back at him.

  “Nope. Didn’t learn how to mark a deck of cards until I was sixteen.”

  She groaned. “Finish your story.”

  “I’d been living on the street for close to a year, when one day I went to a baseball field. I’d heard there was food to scavenge. The Athletics were playing Boston, and the park was filled. Street vendors flocked to the park to sell sausages and beer. But better than the food, there were pockets to pick. So I started hanging out at the ballpark, taking what I could.

  “Then I picked the wrong pocket—the team owner, Billy Hobart—and got caught. Billy ran me down.” Hank shook his head. “I never could run worth a damn, even as a kid.”

  Margaret smiled at him, but she knew they both were only smiling at his wry comment, the way people laugh at a carnival clown who gets a bucket of water thrown in his face. The way something can be funny, but painfully sad at the same time.

  “He dragged me back by the neck and made me work, worked my butt off, cleaning the field, repairing the benches and fences in that ballpark. Hell, he even had me cleaning the privies.”

  “You didn’t try to run away?”

  “Only once. I got about as far as left field. The whole team cornered me. From then on he had a guard stand by me with a billy club in one hand and a .45 in the other.”

  He paused, staring out at the sea again before he looked down at the sand for a second. “I called that son of a bitch every name I could, but I worked. Before long he had me taking meals with the team and gave me a bunk in the corner of the player room. It took a few months, but by then I didn’t want to leave. It was as if I had become part of the team, although I still gave Billy a passel of crap.

  “The next season they had me hitting the ball once in a while and subbing in at practice. He pissed me off so badly one day at bat that when the pitch came I didn’t see the baseball. All I saw was red. I hit that ball out of the park. Billy walked out to Whoop-la Hunter—”

  “Whoop-la?”

  “Yeah. Ballplayers have nicknames, Foghorn Wilson, Cannonball Morris, Grasshopper Jim Whitney.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  She shook her head. “Must be a male thing.”

  He gave a snort.

  “Well it must be,” she said. “They don’t refer to Betsy Ross as Stitches or call Jane Austen Inky Fingers.”

  “What about Bloody Mary?”

  Margaret raised her chin. “No doubt she was given that name by some man.”

  He gave her one of those male looks—where they try to act as if their patience is being tested. She gave a short wave of her hand. “Go on.”

  “I forgot where I was.”

  “Whoop-la Hunter.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Anyway, he was on the mound. Billy told him to mix up the pitches. Anything Whoop-la threw at me that day, I hit. Two years later I was on the team, playing all over. Places like Cincinnati, Chicago, Cleveland, Atlanta, and Boston. After the pennant in ’78 we even played exhibition games in England and France for a few months. That was why I learned to dance. They hired a dancing instructor for the whole team before we left the States. Once in Europe, we’d play ball games during the day and go to fancy dances at night.” He stopped talking.

  She waited. Finally she nudged his arm. “So what happened?”

  “Billy died of a heart attack just before the end of the season in ’83. There was a three-way tie for the pennant, to be played off in road games between Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago.” He tossed the rock aside and just stared down at the sand, his wrists resting on his bent knees. “Gamblers got involved and offered big payoffs to players willing to throw games.” He stopped abruptly.

  “And?”

  He shrugged. “We lost. There was a big scandal, and players were blacklisted.” He looked up again. “I was one of them.”

  “I don’t believe you would have thrown a game.”

  “Hell, Smitty, I stole my first wallet when I was six.”

  “I don’t care what you did before. I don’t believe you would have thrown a ball game.”

  He was silent. “You called me a crook yourself.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Jesus, the devil must be ice-skating.”

  “Changing the subject won’t work.”

  “Yeah, it never does with you.”

  “I only have one question.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and you’re right, I didn’t throw any games. They blacklisted five of us. Two were guilty, and the other three were considered troublemakers by the new owner. And I dished out a lot of crap.”

  “That wasn’t the question I wanted answered.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “What then?”

  She smiled. “I want to know your nickname.”

  He laughed then, and she could sense the tension wash away from him. “You’re crazy, you know that?” He shook his head, and she saw that he was less tense. He turned to her. “You and Billy Hobart would have had a lot in common. He was just like you. Stubborn, persistent, too damn smart for his . . . or your own good.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  He looked away, then rubbed his chin for a second and mumbled something just as a wave crashed on the shoreline.

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Hardhead.”

  She looked at him for a second. “Hardhead Hank?”

  “Yeah. Hardhead Hank Wyatt.”

  She burst out laughing.

  It was almost dawn when they slipped back inside the hut. There was no light except for a pinkish glimmer of sunrise in the eastern sky. They checked each child—all sound asleep, as was Muddy, his bottle lying on a mat next to him.

  Margaret nudged Hank and pointed. Muddy was wearing his shoes.

  They moved back into the darkness of the hut, and his arms slid around her. He kissed her with quiet passion and held her face in his rough hands as if it were made of china. She slid her arms around him and just let him hold her until their kiss was done, and they stood there, not wanting to leave the other but knowing they had to.

  She didn’t know how long they stood there. Being in his arms was everything safe and warm and loving. She had the fleeting thought that perhaps she didn’t want to let go because she was afraid if she did, then she’d realize it was all a dream, that none of those beautiful things had happened.

  Finally he whispered they needed a little sleep. And she nodded but didn’t let go. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the hammock, laying her inside. She wondered if he knew that her heart beat a little faster whenever he swung her into his arms like that.

  He stood over her for a moment, looking at her as if he expected her to disappear and he needed to look at her to keep her there.

  She wondered if their thoughts were that close. Did a man feel what a woman did? Did he have those same doubts, those same thrills?

  He brushed her cheek with his hand, then turned and walked across the hut. And she watched his broad back until he was only a shadow moving in a dim corner. She heard the rope on his hammock creak. Then there was nothing but the distant sounds of the shore.

  They both lay in their hammocks, eyes closed, neither asleep, because in truth they were too aware of the other, the scent, to
uch, and taste still lingering. The memory of the fire in his eyes. The misty look of passion in hers.

  On this Christmas night, when across the world so many celebrated with gifts and love, Hank Wyatt and Margaret Smith each received a gift, something to cherish. In each other they found more than love and more than passion. They found a lost part of themselves. And they found it in the oddest place, a place that until a few weeks before they would have never thought to look.

  It was the perfect day for a baseball game. The sky was clear. The breeze was light. And the men were playing against the women.

  Ah, life couldn’t get much better.

  Hank gave Annabelle a pat on the head. He’d made a makeshift crib with trunks and she was happily playing in the sand with her new toys. He walked back to the mound and looked at Smitty and grinned. She was bent down so she could talk to Lydia. The sun was behind them, and Smitty’s dress was that thin cotton thing that he could see through when the light was right. And the light was just right.

  She moved behind Lydia and blocked his view. He tossed the ball in one hand. “All right now! Enough gabbing! Batter up!”

  Hank looked at Theodore. The kid was doing just as he’d taught him, squatting on the balls of his feet and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, ready to move when the ball was hit.

  He had the kid playing catcher. Muddy handled the outfield, and Hank was pitching and covering the only base. With such small numbers they played one base and home.

  Strikes only counted if they swung and missed. Balls, well, the last he’d heard the National League couldn’t decide if seven, eight, or nine balls constituted a walk, so he decided not to count ’em.

  The ladies were up first.

  “Batter up!”

  Smitty and Lydia both stopped talking and turned to look at him.

  “That means you have to hit the ball.”

  Smitty plopped her hands on her hips. “And here I thought we were supposed to eat it. Didn’t you?” She looked around with feigned innocence, and Lydia giggled.

  “That could be arranged, sweetheart.” He tossed the ball, then held up a hand. “Wait! I forgot. You’d probably burn it.”

  “You’re such a wit.”

  “I try, Smitty. Now someone come up to bat.”

  “Go on, Lydia. You know men, no patience whatsoever. Just hit the ball, dear, really hard. You can do it.”

  Lydia stepped up to bat. Theodore said something to her, and she let the bat drop and just gaped at him. “Did you hear what he just said?”

  Hank grinned and gave the kid a thumbs-up sign. Nothing was more important in ball than learning the insults. They were attempts to break the other player’s concentration. “Let’s play ball!”

  “But he just said I had ears like an elephant and I smelled like a pig!”

  Hank cackled and gave the kid a wink.

  Smitty pinned him with a look of warning. “A fine thing to teach children, Hank.”

  “Hey!” Hank gave an innocent shrug. “You wanted to learn how to play baseball. Insults are part of the game.”

  “Just ignore them, Lydia. They are only words, dear.”

  Hank threw a nice underhanded pitch. No sidearm to a little girl. Even he wasn’t that cruel.

  She swung and missed.

  “That’s okay, dear.”

  Theodore said something again, and Lydia stepped back from the plate. “My feet are not clodhoppers, you brat!” The kid just grinned. Hank didn’t even look at Smitty. He knew what he’d see.

  Lydia stepped up to the plate. He pitched, and she slammed the ball high in the air.

  She ran toward the base, and they all turned and watched the ball sail right into Muddy’s hands—he was flying at the time.

  “You’re out!” Hank yelled.

  Muddy flew back to the mound, handed Hank the ball, and flew back to the outfield on a trail of purple smoke.

  “Now wait just a minute.” Smitty stormed toward him. “That is not fair. Muddy shouldn’t be able to fly.”

  Hank shrugged. “It’s men against women. If you ladies can’t fly, well, that’s not our problem. The rules were set. Men against women. No holding back. So that means flying, too. Now be a good sport and take your shot at the ball, sweetheart. You’re not gonna win this argument.”

  Smitty gave Lydia a hug and a word of encouragement, then picked up the bat and strode toward the plate like a woman ready for battle. She stopped first and bent down and shook her finger at the kid. “One word out of you, young man, and I’ll make you scrub the burned pots. Understood?”

  The kid wrinkled his nose, nodded, and silently assumed the catcher’s position.

  “Now, Smitty, is that fair?”

  “Be quiet and pitch the ball, Hank.”

  He sidearmed a pitch to her, and she whacked a grounder right at him.

  She was on the base before Hank could take a step. He whistled and shook his head. That woman could run faster than anyone he’d ever seen.

  She smiled sweetly and gave him a little wave meant to rub his nose in it. He watched her twitch merrily around the base for a minute. She turned back to him, spread her arms out, and sang, “Tah-dah!”

  He just watched her, then turned and pitched to Lydia.

  She swung and missed. Two times.

  He tossed the ball lightly in one hand, then casually walked over to Smitty. He stood real close to her so no one could see between them and leaned down and said, “You run real good, sweetheart. You know that?”

  She grinned real cocky and planted her hands on her hips. “Yep.”

  Very quietly he whispered thickly, “You jiggle in all the right places.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “All those places I kissed last night.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Hmmm. You know where I mean?”

  She just looked at him a little uncomfortably.

  “Here . . .” He grazed the ball over her breast, and she stiffened. “And here . . .” He moved his lips close to her ear and touched her neck with the ball, then moved to her other ear. “Here.” He lowered his arm and rolled the ball over the small of her back and onto her butt. “And especially here, where you’re soft and white and feel so good in my hands.”

  Her mouth dropped open just enough.

  “And you know what else?”

  She gave a small shake of her head.

  “Your foot is off the base, sweetheart. And you’re out.”

  Chapter 31

  The ladies lost twenty-seven to three, even when they’d included Rebuttal as part of their team. She had trotted to the outfield where she gnawed on some monkey grass. It drove Hank nuts enough that he kept trying to give Margaret a hard time. She just smiled.

  About fifteen minutes later, Rebuttal knocked Hank off the base. Twice. Just when he was crouched down and ready to run. Conveniently, Margaret had been right there with the ball, waiting.

  The ladies took turns pinch-hitting for Rebuttal. But it didn’t matter in the end. Although Margaret could run like the wind, no one could hit like Hank .To everyone’s amazement, he hit the ball over the coconut trees every time he was at bat.

  But now the game was done. They walked down to the beach so the children could cool off with a swim. Annabelle was perched on Margaret’s hip and Theodore and Lydia raced through the sand to see who could hit the water first. Muddy flew overhead with a group of seagulls, mimicking their turns and making the children laugh and point. He’d promised Margaret he’d watch for sharks.

  And Hank, well, he just shook his head and kept walking as if there wasn’t a purple genie flying overhead.

  Margaret turned to Hank. “I’ve never seen anyone hit a baseball like you did.”

  He laughed. “I had to learn to hit the ball hard. I never could run worth a damn.”

  “But every time?”

  He shrugged, then looked somewhere ahead of them. “My third year I led the National Association with a batting average
of .492.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  He laughed. “You are good for my ego, sweetheart. Yeah, it’s good. I don’t think anyone’s beat it yet. But maybe now . . . in the last six years. Before I left the States it had still held.”

  Theodore came skidding to a stop in front of them. “Can I go out to the sandbar? Can I? I swim real good now.”

  Margaret paled, remembering that it was only yesterday when she’d shot the shark. “No!” she said more sharply than she intended. “It’s too dangerous. And you could be hurt. You can’t go out there. All kinds of terrible things could happen.”

  “You mean like the shark?” Theodore asked without a bit of trepidation.

  “Yes,” Margaret said more sharply than she should have.

  “But the shark is dead. You shot it. Why can’t I go? Why?”

  Hank placed his hand on Theodore’s shoulder. “You wanna know why, kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you have red hair.”

  Theodore blinked up at him, frowned thoughtfully, then pulled a shank of his red-orange hair into his eyes so he could see it.

  Hank gave him a perfectly serious look. “What color is it, kid?”

  “Red.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you can’t swim out to the sandbar if you have red hair?”

  Hank shook his head.

  Theodore stared at the sea, then looked up at his hair, his brow furrowing while he was thinking so intently. After a minute, he sighed, then said, “Okay.”

  He scuffed his feet through the sand for a foot or two and then he ran back into the shallow tides.

  Margaret couldn’t believe it. She leaned over and quietly said, “But that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Hell, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about kids, Smitty, it’s that they have their own way of thinking. It doesn’t have to make sense to us. Just to them.”

  Lydia came up to them. She and Margaret took Annabelle to the water and played with her for a few minutes. Hank stood at the edge of the beach, just staring into the distance.