Holm, Stef Ann (11 page)

"How
can we win if Specs can't see out of his glasses?" complained Yank, the
relief pitcher. "They're all fogged up."

Agreement
came in grumbles.

Specs
defended himself "I keep wiping them oft And it's not only me who stinks.
Maybe some of you other fellows need glasses, too."

"Ballplayers
don't wear glasses. It makes them look less than men," Doc sniped.

"Well,
thanks a damn lot, Doc," Specs countered.

Deacon
broke in. "We all look like blind idiots when we're out there."

"Speak
for yourself, Deacon," Jimmy admonished. "You couldn't find your nose
if your fingers was up it."

Alex
brought one leg over the other, resting his ankle on his knee. If he were
manager, he'd kick Specs in the butt and make him get the right strength
spectacles. But he wasn't. And he didn't give a damn about it anyway.

The
Keystones were at bat first. Just as Camille prepared to read the batting
order, James Kennison came rushing into the dugout as soggy as a wet rug. Rain
fell in a tiny river off the brim of his derby.

Out
of breath, he rushed his words. "Fellows, I have some news—"

Yank
cut in. "If it's about your daughter..."

Cub
finished the thought. "...we already know."

Kennison's
brows leveled as he ran his gaze over the men on the bench. "I figured you
would know by now." His voice rose an octave as he explained, "I
would have been here to tell you myself, but it's all Nops's fault. In more
ways than one, believe you me! That gas pipe emptied half his infernal store
onto the boardwalk and marked it on sale. The next thing I knew, I was hauling
things outside myself."

Camille
glanced at him.

"Deputy
Faragher made us put everything back inside." From his coat pocket, he
brought out a handkerchief and wiped off his face. His waxed mustache drooped.
"On top of it all, I got slapped with a two-dollar ticket for sidewalk
violations."

"I'm
sorry about that, Daddy, but you can't be in the dugout. You'll have to tell me
about it later."

"What
do you mean?"

The
rose in her complexion paled, as if telling him what she had to was difficult
for her. "The dugout is for managers and players only."

"What
about owners? I own the team."

"Nothing
in the rule book says an owner is entitled to a seat on the bench."

"Folderol!"

"It's
not folderol. It's the rules."

All
the Keystones but Alex looked at Kennison, and Alex got the clear impression
this was one thing they sided with their new manager about. From past run-ins
with Kennison, Alex knew the man was as hotheaded as a furnace.

He
stared at the players, then blustered, "Well, how do you like that? Chased
away by my own daughter."

Then
he turned and left. Alex swore he could hear audible sighs of relief.

"All
right. Now for the batting lineup..." Camille continued, seemingly
unfazed, as if her father's interruption hadn't affected her. But Alex saw the
slight quiver of her fingers, the barely evident droop in her shoulders. After
she'd read them the batting order, she sat down.

Primly.
Expectantly. Head held high. Gloved hands folded in her lap.

Waiting
for the game to begin.

The
first inning, the first three batters were retired in order. Cy Young struck
every last one of them out Alex had been positioned ninth to bat, so he hadn't
yet gone up against his former nemesis. He'd sat back, observing, letting
himself become a little amused at how easily Cupid Burns, Mox Snyder, and Doc
Nash let Cy intimidate them. They didn't know the first thing about hitting
against the Cyclone.

Alex
had been assigned to pitch the bottom of the first. Cub gave him a look that
would have peeled the bark off a tree. Putting Cub out of his mind, Alex took
the mound.

He
stood on the rubber, a place that felt forbidden to him. Glove in hand, fingers
through the webs of leather, he stared down at his first batter for the
Somersets. Hobe Ferris.

With
rain spilling over the bill of his cap, Alex raised the ball in both hands,
looked at Specs, who stood at the shortstop position, and then relaxed. He had
to take deep breaths to try to focus his concentration. He looked at the ball.
He fingered it, working it to get the best grip he could. The ball was as black
as the ace of spades. As black as the place in his heart.

He
tried to pitch the ball once more. And again, he froze.

His
muscles bunched and pained him. Digging his toes into the wet ground, he
reasoned better footing would help.

It
didn't.

When
Alex had told Camille he'd play baseball for the Keystones, he'd been so
desperate for money that he hadn't thought about actually following through and
standing in the pitcher's box. He now found himself thrust back in time to a
place that had altered him beyond any emotion. For all the money in the world,
Alex didn't think he could go through with it. But then he glanced up at
Captain.

He
had to do it.

He
tried once more, staring down at Hobe, reading the deaf and dumb signal from
Noodles. Three middle fingers down. A tap and an angle left of the thumb:
knuckleball.

Winding
up for the pitch, Alex coiled his leg back, put his right foot on the ground,
and... stalled.

He
swore. Disgusted with himself.

The
next thing he knew, Camille had come out to the mound. He could hardly face
her. His stomach churned. He was sick and angry with himself He couldn't even
have give her an explanation. How could she understand? Only Captain did, and
Alex couldn't talk to him about it.

"I'm
out of the inning, honey." He started to turn away from her and head for
the dugout.

"No,
you're not out of the inning, Mr. Cordova."

The
light touch of her hand on his upper arm stopped him short. He looked into her
upturned face. Her eyes danced with lively fire; her lips parted—no doubt over
the sheer gall of his statement. "You're not out of the inning, Mr.
Cordova, until I tell you you're out." Droplets of rain glistened on the
fruit decorating her hat. She'd forgotten her fancy parasol. "Now, throw
that ball as if you want to kill somebody."

She
didn't mean literally. He knew that. But the implication sunk beneath his skin
and rattled him. Rattled him more than he could handle. Squeezed inside his
chest and just about suffocated him. How could he tell her he'd already taken a
man's life while playing ball and it haunted him every moment of his life?

Call
him a goddamn quitter, but he was finished for the day. He threw the ball. At
her feet, not even giving her the courtesy of slapping it in her pretty little
gloved hand. "I'm out of the inning."

If
she said anything, it was to his back and soft enough for him not to hear. Then
again, he'd already tuned out the jeers that followed him as he sidestepped the
trash that littered the field in his wake.

"The
Grizz" was gone. And nothing could make him come back.

Using
a
hoe to take out her frustrations, Camille made uneven rows for her hollyhock
seeds. She stood in the rear garden, her rubber gaiters caked with muddy soil.
Having long grown cold and wet, her work gloves did nothing to warm her hands.
Or her frame of mind. She made a mess, but she didn't slow down. She had no
time to spare. She'd called for an earlier practice this afternoon. The
Keystones needed every minute to improve themselves.

The
manager's job was more than she thought it would be.

She
should have known nothing she could do or say would impress the fans. Not that
she had anything to say to them when she'd been introduced by one of the
umpires. She'd smiled at her mother and her father sitting in the front row.
Mr. Nops had glared at her, clearly wishing he'd stood in her place.

On
the few occasions Camille had glanced at her father, his teeth had been
clenched. She'd hoped his anger wouldn't be aimed toward her after the
Keystones' poor performance. Under the circumstances, she knew she hadn't
prepared them to face off with the Somersets. Knew she had not a prayer even
before the first ball was pitched.

The
umpires had taken the field.

The
two assigned to the game were Roy Phillips, whose jowls hung to his shoulders,
his body tall and thick; and Monte Green, a small man, bent half forward with
an eager face. Only that eager face had fallen as soon as the managers' names
had been submitted to him.

The
two officials had dropped their jaws. She hadn't batted an eyelash when she
left the bench to wave to the crowd—a crowd that had gone deadly silent. Only
Captain and her mother had applauded. Her father was busy looking around him,
as if to gauge the fans. She hadn't expected him to give her a rousing welcome,
but it would have been a pleasant surprise if he had.

That
nasty Boomer Hurley, the Somersets' manager, had gotten the fans laughing. He'd
caricatured a woman's walk across the field, one hand on his hip, his other arm
swishing by his side. It had taken every lesson of decorum ever drummed into
her to keep from going out there and jabbing him in the stomach with her
umbrella tip.

If
that weren't enough, the person she'd counted on to make her look good had done
nothing. Alex had walked away off the mound in his first game as a Keystone,
leaving her to question his abilities for future games. She was still stunned
that he'd sat in the dugout and watched, refusing to play. "The
Grizz" was no more. Alex was a shadow of that man, of the legend that had
been larger than life.

She
wished she knew why.

After
the game, she'd asked him what had gone wrong, why he hadn't pitched like he
was supposed to. His explanation had been brief. His arm hadn't felt right.
Then he'd walked to the clubhouse, looking strangely worn for a man so massive
and powerful.

"Camille
sugar, where are you?" Her father's voice rang as he rounded the corner of
the backyard. Engrossed in what she was doing, she hadn't even heard the picket
gate slam closed.

Without
stopping her work, she replied, "What's wrong?"

"Did
you leave the door to the clubhouse open?"

For
a moment, she had to think. But then she frowned. She had been extra careful
with the key. "No, I didn't. Why?"

"The
door wasn't closed when I was there a minute ago."

"But
I locked it myself last night. I double-checked." A tide of panic brought
her hoe to a stop. "Is anything missing?"

He
shook his head. "No. That's the strange part about it." With eyes
narrowed in suspicion, he said, "I bet it was that Boomer Hurley. I
wouldn't trust that bean eater as far as I could hurl him." Then in a
voice so soft she had to strain to hear, he mumbled, "The bum mocked my
daughter."

She
leaned toward him. "What was that, Daddy?"

He
looked as if he wanted to say something more— something she'd be glad to hear.
But then he only lectured her. She tried to put aside her disappointment.

"The
professional league is a whole different box of nails." He adjusted his
tie. "It's nothing like hometown ball. You've got to watch for underhanded
tactics."

"I
will."

"At
least the weather's better for today's game," he said, gazing up at the
sky.

Endless
blue rose heavenward, with only a lacy tuft of cloud here and there. Sunshine
brightened the yard. The grass was growing in thick and green from spring rain.

"Yes,
much better."

"The
score will be better, too."

She
propped both hands on the knob of the hoe handle. It couldn't be much worse.
They'd been defeated yesterday 12-0.

Her
father slipped both hands into his pinstriped trouser pockets. The gold of his
fob chain glistened in the sun. Camille found it curious that after having said
what he had to, he didn't head right back for his store. He wasn't one to make
idle conversation. "Getting anything planted?"

"Not
yet." As she resumed her task, she gave him a quick glance.

Looking
at the plot of dirt, he commented, "You sure can make things grow."
He didn't meet her gaze. Instead, he stared at the bushes along the fenced
yard. "It takes a lot of patience to take a seed and nurture it into a
plant. Not many people can do that."

Again,
she was sure he was trying to say something else, to tell her, in his own way,
that maybe she wasn't a bad choice for the manager's position after all. The
actual words would mean so much. She needed his assurance that she was going to
be fine. "Daddy, I—"

"I'd
better get back over to the store." The gruffness in his tone didn't fit
with the softness shimmering in his eyes. "I have to stay on my toes with
Nops. The man is lower than an Acme brass threshold."