Charlotte Figg Takes Over Paradise (9 page)

"Suzy?" Ginger said. "Really?"

"Well, she called me"—I nodded toward my telephone— "and said to meet her outside her trailer."

"No kidding," Ginger said. "Did she show?"

"No," I said. "But she did take the pie I left. I saw her open the door and take it inside. I do hope she enjoyed it."

"She's another odd one, and ever so shy," Rose said. "I'm glad we decided to find out what is going on inside there."

Ginger shook her head. "I think you better let things alone. Don't go stirring up the cauldron even more; never know what can bubble up."

"But I think she might be in some sort of trouble," I said.

"You can't prove it. It's her home and Fergus's. Can't just go making accusations without proof. They might be perfectly content and won't appreciate you horning in."

"But something is not right, Ginger," I said. "I can feel it in my bones."

Ginger sipped coffee and shook her head. "Mm, mm, mm. Better be careful. Pray about it. Put it in the Lord's hands."

"I did that," Rose said. She put her palms on my cheeks."Now we have Charlotte here helping to get the folks rallied up and playing softball. I think she came express from God to us; so does Asa. Maybe we can rally for Suzy at the same time."

My stomach churned. Express from God? I did not expect to be a rabble-rouser or leader of anything but a women's softball team and only because I knew about softball. That I could do. But now all of a sudden my new friends looked at me like I was the leader of some secret mission to save Suzy Wrinkel.

"Have you tried the police?" I asked. That seemed the best thing. Let the authorities handle it. "Maybe they can at least tell us what to do." I had never called the police when Herman was out of control, and I felt a little silly even making the suggestion.

Ginger shook her head. "The cops have been out two or three times when it got especially loud over there. Never knew who called them, but they've been out and all they do is talk to Fergus outside and then leave."

"Cops always take the husband's word." Rose said. "Man's home is his castle and all that malarkey."

I knew exactly what she was saying. I had heard those words many times before, and suddenly I wished I was back in my old house eating chicken pot pie with Midge and discussing her garden gnomes and gallbladder. I shook my head as Suzy's sad eyes surfaced in my mind like an answer on a Magic Eight Ball. "I think we should keep our eye out for her."

Rose touched my hand. "We will, Charlotte."

Ginger hopped down off the chair. "I think I'll head back home. Got some work to finish. I sold a quilt to some rich woman in Scranton and I still have a ton of sewing to do. Let me know when practice starts. I can't wait."

"I will," I said, but my mind was still on Suzy.

"Thing I don't understand," Ginger said when she got to the front door. "If Fergus is truly hurting her, why in heaven's name would she stay in a situation like that?"

Rose took a deep breath and said, "It's what happens. Women stay."

T
he next morning I heard pounding on my front door that rivaled the previous morning's thunder. Lucky leaped from a sound sleep and barreled toward the sound, skittered across the linoleum and crashed into the door. He straightened himself up and barked and even showed his teeth.

"What in the heck?" I was sitting on the couch looking over the rule book for women's softball. Of course, my copy had been tucked away with my other memorabilia and was quite old and dog-eared. I figured some of the rules must have changed.

"Who is it?" I called. I was not about to open the door. I thought Fergus might have gotten wind that I was trying to visit Suzy. The apple crumb told tales, I supposed, even if Suzy didn't. I made a mental note not to leave pie anymore.

"Who is it?" I repeated.

"Rube Felker," came the gruff answer.

Rube Felker? Then it struck me. I pulled Lucky away from the door. "Didn't Frankie, our center fielder, say her husband's name was Rube? What in the world could he want with me?"

I opened the door and there stood the biggest man I had ever seen in my life. He had long brown hair tied in a ponytail and he wore an orange coat, bright pumpkin orange, like he wanted to be seen from Mars or something.

"Hello," I said.

"You Charlotte Figg?"

"Yes, yes, I am. Can I help you?"

Lucky snarled and I had to keep him under control with my knee.

"So you're getting a softball team going with the women in Paradise."

I nodded. "That's right. Francine is going to be our pitcher. I think she'll make a fine pitcher and she looks like she can hit too. You must be so proud."

Rube stumbled over some unintelligible words, and then in a hurry he said, "Just see to it that you don't keep her out late every night. I need my dinner on the table. Kids got schoolwork."

"Of course not, Mr. Felker. Why, I just think family is the most important thing there is on earth, and I wouldn't want to interfere. Francine is sure blessed to have an understanding husband like you."

He tripped over his tongue some more, turned away, then he turned back, "You think she can play, huh?"

"Well, I need to see her on the field, but I think so. You be sure and come out to the games, now."

He walked off, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Somewhere along the line Herman's sales ability to sweet talk must have rubbed off. I even surprised myself.

Worried that the other husbands might be upset also, I decided to call another meeting as soon as possible to talk things over, set up a schedule and all. But first I had to get with Asa and find out what was happening with the Frost sisters and when we could expect to have a field to play on.

"Lots to do, Lucky," I said. I scratched his ears and let him outside.

I grabbed my writing pad and started to assemble my team.

Two hours later I had no more than a roster drawn up with the names of each of the women and their position alongside some silly doodles of turtles and three-D cubes, when it occurred to me that having a team isn't much good unless you have another team to play against. What is the point, other than getting out on the field and practicing for your own good? I saw the wisdom in that but decided I needed to find a league to join.

Lucky scratched at the door, so I let him in and explained my cares to him. He listened patiently as I held his muzzle and talked right into his sympathetic eyes. Lucky had become a good friend for being just a found dog. He almost never lied to me, except when he treed a squirrel and pretended he was as innocent as the new-driven snow, and I could always count on him to sidle right up next to me on a walk. Lucky was a good dog. And I was ever so glad he found me.

Later that day, after I caught up with some laundry and housework, I went to visit Rose. An aroma that reminded me of burnt sugar escaped from the trailer when she opened the front door. She still wore her heavy brown sweater.

"Charlotte, come on in." Crammed with an odd assortment of mismatched ceramics, flowers, and overstuffed furniture with stripes, her trailer had a hodgepodge museum look. A large easel with a covered canvas stood in the middle of the living room with a small table strewn with paints and brushes and a messy palate and paint-stained rags.

Tempted to lift the sheet covering the canvas, I asked Rose about it. "What are you painting?"

"Oh, it's something I was asked to do."

"Can I see it?"

"No," Rose snapped at me. "I don't show my work to anyone until it's finished. It might turn out different in the end and then you'd be disappointed."

I sat on her sofa and sank about six inches down. "Rose. We have a problem."

Rose sat on a stool near the easel and crossed one leg over the other. "Well, we all have problems. Which one are you talking about?" She wiped a brush on a rag. "I need more cerulean."

"It's the team," I said. "What good is a team with no one to play? I mean, we could go out there and toss a ball around and have batting practice, but we need to play against someone, you know, that is the point, after all—winning. Playing hard and winning."

Rose's eyes grew wide. "Really. Winning? That's what this is all about?"

Shame or embarrassment or something equally disagreeable welled in my corpuscles. "Well, not entirely. But it would be nice to find a team or two to play against and try to win, wouldn't it?"

Rose fooled with the hem of her skirt. "I guess you're right."

"But I just don't know how to go about finding one. You don't suppose there's some kind of trailer park league, do you? Or would that be asking too much?"

"Asking too much of who?" Rose flashed me a smile.

"I don't how to answer that, Rose. You keep trying to turn my attention to God, but I just don't think everything I do or say is in God's radar. Or should be."

"Maybe you could ask around in town. Go on in to Shoops and ask at the Piggly Wiggly. Someone might know something. There are quite a few trailer parks in these parts."

Thankful she avoided the discussion about how deeply God was involved with my life, I said, "I guess that's as good a place as any to start."

Then she snapped her fingers. "You don't suppose that any of those players on your old team might know something? Is there any way to get in touch with them? Who knows, unless you're the only remaining team member still holding an interest in softball and the likelihood of that is—"

"Ridiculous. How could I ever find any of them?"

Rose fell quiet a moment while she yanked at a thread on the hem of her skirt, a purple one that seemed to have been nagging her the whole time. Finally she reached down and bit it.

"I know. The library has phone books. Start there. Maybe Griselda in Bright's Pond—she's the librarian—can help you."

I shook my head. "Maybe. I think first I will venture into Shoops and poke around a little. Want to come?"

"Not today. It's Sunday."

My eyebrows arched.

"Church. A bunch of us drive into Bright's Pond. We'll be leaving in about twenty minutes. Want to come?"

"No, thank you, Rose."

Rose let go a small chuckle. "Okay. But maybe you can come next week. Bring a pie. I'm sure it will be welcome at the fellowship time after the service. They always have that Full Moon Pie, but maybe yours will be a welcome change—or not."

At noon Lucky and I headed out in the Galaxy. Unfortunately, nearly every store in Shoops was closed except for the Piggly Wiggly.

I sat in the parking lot for several minutes scanning the place. There were several cars in the lot and I watched folks go in and come out, but no one who looked like they knew diddly about softball.

"This is crazy, Lucky. How will I ever find anyone who knows anything about starting a women's softball team?"

He let go a blustery bark and settled down in the back seat.

"Well, guess this is the only game in town so. . . . " Then I saw a small restaurant on the other side of the street in my rearview mirror. Lucky must have been blocking it.

"That looks open. Let's try there."

I started the engine and found a parking spot on the street not far at all from The Pink Lady Café.

"Okay, fella, you stay here. I'll go check it out."

The Pink Lady was exactly that. Pink. Pink awning, pink tablecloths on the tables and pink lampshades on all the little lamps on the tables. Even the waitresses wore pink uniforms with white aprons. This was not shaping up to be a place where softball players would gather.

I waited a minute until I was seated at a table that gave me a good view. My eyes landed on a man wearing a baseball cap at the counter talking to one of the waitresses.

My waitress came back and poured me coffee without asking if I wanted any. "Excuse me," I said, "but would you mind if I moved to the counter?"

She looked over. "No. Got people waiting for a table now. Be my guest. But lady, if you got your eye on Cash over there, I'd—"

"Cash?" Did she think I was going to rob the place? "No, I . . . well, I just want to sit at the counter."

I set my coffee cup on a paper placemat and managed to catch the man's eye. I smiled. He smiled. The waitress moved to the other end of the counter to take an order.

"Excuse me," I said. I offered my hand. "My name is Charlotte Figg, and this might sound like a funny question, but . . . but . . . "

"Spill it," the man said. "But what?"

"You wouldn't happen to know who I could talk to about starting a women's softball team in these parts? I know it's a crazy question, but I just didn't know who or where—"

"Softball? You serious?"

"I am. I just moved into the Paradise Trailer Park and we started a team and I was wondering if there was a league. Most towns have a league, don't they?"

He laughed. "You got some wild ESP," he said.

The waitress came back and dropped a plate on the counter in front of the man. "Here you go, Cash. Just the way you like it. Crispy with extra marmalade."

I looked at the man's sandwich.

"Heavens to Betsy," I said. "Is that a bacon and jelly sandwich?"

He took a bite. "Best in Shoops."

It did sound oddly tasty. So when the waitress returned, I ordered one. "Extra crispy, please."

"No problem." She scribbled on her pad, stuck the slip of paper in the silver carousel and hollered, "Another oinker dressed to kill."

I swallowed and gathered more courage. "ESP? What did you mean?"

He finished the first half of his sandwich, wiped his mouth and fingers. "My name is Cash Vangarten, and it so happens that I coach the Shoops Borough Thunder."

My heart danced a jig. "A ladies' softball team?"

A half hour later I left the Pink Lady armed with the information I needed to get my team registered with the Trailer Park League and a notion to begin making bacon and marmalade sandwiches. It was indeed a tasty bite. Mr. Vangarten said I had about three days to get the team set up to play, but it meant we needed a name, a sponsor if we wanted one, uniforms, a roster, and all the league papers filled out and filed with the home office. And then we'd only be eligible to play in the summer league. That was fine by me. More time to get in shape.