Asked For (23 page)

He pivoted back toward the plate. He needed Mama’s voice right now, her pleasant soprano to shout something encouraging. Even if she just said his name, that would be enough. The stands were quiet. No one was there for him, or a particular team. It was every man for himself today. He was alone.

“Move off the plate a little.”

James looked up. Mr. Morgan had moved. He was no longer near the dugout, he was behind the umpire now, just off to the side.

“Step back. Get your bearings.”

James felt like a little boy again. Like he did the day he wanted to tell Mr. Morgan to leave him alone. He was the little boy who was hurt and disappointed his pop wasn’t there.

He stepped to the plate and dug his toes in the same place he had before. He wasn’t crowding the plate. Mr. Morgan was wrong. Where he stood wasn’t the problem, the pitcher was the problem. The guy was sneaky and quick. He was just like Pop, probably exactly like Pop played. James squared himself at the plate, the same place, the place that suited him. He gripped the bat, squeezing it over and over, letting it quiver above him. He was ready, he was poised, all his strength gathered in his arms and legs.

The pitcher flinched. He nodded. James saw it. He hadn’t seen it before. He swung. The ball hit the catcher’s mitt, and the umpire called him out as the bat cycled around. No one cheered. No one booed. It didn’t matter to anyone except him. James drew in a deep breath and glanced at the scout. There were two of them. They sat at a small table behind the fence where they could see home plate and the infield well. One was writing something while the other looked over the man’s shoulder. He was talking low, behind his hand, as the other one wrote.

James wanted to throw the bat. But he hoisted it to his shoulder instead, and walked to the dugout. He nodded as he passed the young man coming up to bat. There was fear in the next batter’s eyes. He was right to be afraid. This was an impossible pitcher to hit off of.

Mr. Morgan talked about the day as they drove back home. He analyzed what he’d seen, reiterated plays James already knew about since he’d played them, for Pete’s sake, but Mr. Morgan added a different perspective. James let him ramble, glad at least that Mr. Morgan wasn’t being critical. But still James wished he’d be quiet. James had missed a day’s work for nothing, lied to his pop, jeopardized Mama, compromised his siblings, and for what? For nothing. The scouts had thanked him for coming, but they’d thanked all the players. They said they’d get back with each one who’d tried out, but James knew he had failed.

“You see where the pitcher came from?” Mr. Morgan asked.

James shook his head. Mr. Morgan’s monologue was beginning to annoy him even more. He hated himself for feeling that way.

“Came with the scouts.”

James perked up. He looked Mr. Morgan’s direction.

“He wasn’t trying out, he was probably a pro, or semi pro. He was there to bring out the best.”

“Or worst.” James looked back at the road. If he couldn’t hit off a real pitcher he’d never be picked up for a team.

“Part of your best showed,” Mr. Morgan continued. They were nearly home. James was glad. He wanted to be alone. He was glad only Harold and Magdalena knew where he’d been all day. He didn’t want to talk about baseball, explain how badly it had turned out. “You carried yourself well. You’ve got your mama’s dignity.”

James glanced at Mr. Morgan. Dignity didn’t make a professional player. Neither did heart. He was glad he had those parts of Mama, but they weren’t the same as long, lanky legs, and arms as quick as snakes. Like that pitcher. Like Pop. Pop was right, baseball wasn’t in his blood.

Mr. Morgan glanced back at him. They stared at each other for a moment before Mr. Morgan returned his gaze to the road, a small frown furrowing his brow. “You’re not like your pop.”

“Guess that’s pretty obvious,” James said. He tossed his glove up and down in his lap. It was still dusty with Marshall dirt.

Mr. Morgan glanced over at the glove, looked up at James, and then back to the road. Mr. Morgan wasn’t like Pop either. He was Pop’s opposite, from his height, to his dark hair and skin, to his being there. Being at the game and giving James advice.

“Why’d you tell me to step back off the plate?” James asked. “It’s not like I have long arms and can reach very far. I have to be right on it. I do better that way.”

Mr. Morgan pulled the car in front of the church James was supposed to have worked at all day. He shut off the engine and twisted in his seat.

“Perspective,” he said. “Sometimes you’re too close to something to see what it really is.” Mr. Morgan’s gaze dissected James’ face, his features, everything there was that made him James. James felt naked. Mr. Morgan glanced past James, then looked out the window behind him. “Let’s get this churchyard cleaned so your pop doesn’t think you lied. You walked off that diamond with dignity today after you missed that last pitch. That’s what real men and players are made of. That’s what your mama has, too. And she would clean this churchyard.”

Mr. Morgan looked at him again, indecipherable thoughts playing behind his eyes, and then he climbed out of the car. James followed. He didn’t ask what Mr. Morgan meant. He trailed him to the shed where the church kept some of its yard tools. He’d wait. He’d let time and distance give him perspective. Then maybe he’d have a better view, and next time he’d whack that ball.

Chapter 29

Lana 1940

Claire. The name spoke of simplicity, of calm, of unassuming beauty. It was what Jim wanted.

Lana stopped reading and laid Grandma’s letter in her lap. She gazed around the room at her life, at the room her family gathered together in most often. The one where they ate. Its floors were scrubbed clean, the chairs tight against the table, the fabric of her wedding dress still hanging in the windows as curtains. Mementoes of Cletus, his war medals, pictures, items that made him significant, hung along the walls, just as she’d placed them ages ago.

She looked back at the letter. Claire. With a name like that, what else could she be? What else, except what Jim wanted?

“Remember Jim?” Lana realized Magdalena was standing not far away. Magdalena tilted her head to one side, the young princess who’d once galloped around Jim hoping he’d snatch her up and ride away with her. She was four years older now. Lana couldn’t imagine this tall girl slapping her hip and trotting around anymore.

Magdalena nodded. Her eyes flickered as she looked at the letter in Lana’s lap. “Is he coming?” Magdalena’s voice was bright.

“He’s getting married.” Lana made the news sound happy. Magdalena was nearing the age of looking for a real prince, someday a real husband. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Magdalena looked thoughtful, her previous six-year-old infatuation flitting behind the gaze of a girl on the verge of blossoming into a young woman.

“Not Jeanie, is it?” Magdalena frowned.

Lana shook her head. “Jeanie married someone else. Guess I never told you.” That much she and Magdalena…and apparently even Jim…agreed on. Thank God it wasn’t Jeanie.

“Poor fellow, whoever she married.” Magdalena turned, then stopped and looked back. “He liked you, Mama. Jim did. And that was good.” Then she left, went outdoors, probably on one of the long walks she’d begun to take the past year.

Lana stepped to the window to watch her tall, thin daughter’s back. Magdalena let herself through the cow’s gate, then struck out across the pasture. Magdalena was quiet most days now, more pensive than she used to be. Quiet until her father came home in the evening. Then she changed, she saved all her energy for him. Spunk, Ella called it. Sass, Cletus called it. Starvation—Lana knew what it really was.

Magdalena disappeared over a small rise. Lana loved the pasture. Maybe Magdalena was learning to love it too. It was soothing, the wind whispering through the flowers as they bowed and nodded along the way.
What way?
She followed her daughter with her thoughts, wanting to guide her, if only she knew the way herself.

Little containers of cosmetics kept appearing amongst Lana’s clothing, a nearly empty bottle of perfume, a ribbon or two. She knew Magdalena was leaving them for her, most of them used or at least opened. Lana dared not think how Magdalena was coming by them. She had enough stashed away now to change her appearance. She had powder for her face, rouge for her cheeks, lipstick for her mouth, liners and colors for her eyes. With those and the ribbons and perfumes that also appeared, she could be pretty. Pretty enough for Cletus? Would pretty really matter?

“One more son,” Lana said aloud. “If Cletus would be with me again and I could have a boy, just one more, then maybe…”

Lana looked down again at Grandma’s letter. Claire.

Don’t know if she’s pretty.
Lana continued to read Grandma’s scrawl from the letter.
Don’t matter no how, but I suppose you’re wondering. No prettier than you. I know I never said that before and I probably shouldn’t now. But you always were pretty. Just not pretty enough for you to believe it until you found out how beautiful you were on the inside.

The rest of what Grandma said blurred. How could there be beauty in ashes? Lana leaned against the wall and let the tears stream down her face.

Chapter 30

Lana 1940

Lana gazed in the mirror. The rouge was barely visible, the powder almost too faint. She tilted her head one way and then the other to be sure it looked natural. After all, it was Cletus she was going to see. If the colors merely accented what was already there without being too obvious, he might be intrigued. But if they were too much, he’d be furious, most likely shame her in front of his workers. She wanted to look natural, but pretty, just enough to surprise him, make him glad she brought him a lunch.

She’d never gone to town this way before, never taken her husband a lunch. This one was full of his favorites, the house still smelling like lemon from the cake she’d baked. She relaxed her face and stepped from the washroom to the dining area. Betsy and Magdalena were putting out plates, getting ready to serve their younger brothers and sisters.

“You girls know what to do.” Lana glanced at the table. “I won’t be long. And Ella’s right down…”

“Yes, Mama,” Betsy said. “We know what to do. You go on and have a good time.”

Lana turned to Magdalena. Her daughter tipped her head and studied Lana’s cheeks and eyes. “You look good.” A smile crept across her daughter’s face.

“I won’t be long.” Lana picked up the pail she’d put Cletus’ lunch in and hurried out the door. “Lord, please make this go well, for that girl in there’s sake, the rest of their sakes, and also for mine.”

At the beginning of the main street of businesses, Lana turned left and traveled a block until she came to the street Cletus’ shop was on. It was halfway down on the right, a large, tall building that gaped open at the front like an inferno, the gateway to the netherworld, a black hole with furnaces inside. She’d seen it only twice, but she’d never told Cletus what it reminded her of. Jeanie would have, Jeanie would have and laughed, but Lana never could.

She slowed as she drew nearer. The sound of metal clanging against metal rang from inside, and burnt fumes hung around the entryway like a cloud. She held her breath, her heart beating louder than the bang of the metal. She crept to the edge of the door and peered into the inferno.

Broken pieces of iron lay strewn just inside the entryway, misshapen and grotesque as if they’d been assaulted. Others were welded together, sharp angles that looked more painful than useful. A curse came from within. She bit her lip and clutched the pail to her stomach.

She stared at the dark, avoiding the tiny dots of fire Cletus had warned about when he rubbed his eyes at night. A few shadows moved about the fiery glows, others standing off to the sides. She cupped one hand above her eyes and searched for the tallest form, the one that towered above the rest, the boss, the one they all obeyed, even her.

“Can I help you?” a burly voice called from inside. She looked the direction of the voice. It coughed. “You need something?”

It wasn’t Cletus. The sounds inside the shop waned. Surely Cletus would recognize her and come out. She heard footsteps, metal clattering to the ground, someone shuffling her way. She smiled and grasped the pail with two hands.

“You need something, lady?” The burly voice stepped into the sunlight. The man was filthy, sweaty, and smelled like Cletus.

“I…I was looking for my husband.” She stepped back when the man frowned. “Cletus. Can you tell him I’m here?”

The man ducked his head and coughed, burying the rasping hack in his elbow. He straightened, rubbed his stubbled face with a hand, and looked around.

“He ain’t here. Ought to be back later. I’ll tell him you came.” He turned and headed back into the blackness.

“Where is he?” She raised the pail. “I brought his lunch.”

The man’s eyes grew wide, and his watery irises, much like Cletus’, looked from the pail to Lana’s face. “Guess he wasn’t expectin’ that.”

“That’s right.” Another man stepped into the light, just as filthy as the first. “He done took off. For lunch. You’re too late. Guess you should take it back home. I imagine he’ll be sorry he missed you.”

“We’ll tell him you was here,” the burly man said. He nodded, the other nodded, and they backed into the gaping black hole. “Gotta get back to work.”

The pail felt obvious, and her face flushed hot. She backed away and hurried on down the street beyond the shop’s gaping front. The sounds of Cletus’ workers resumed as she passed. They must think her foolish, trying to surprise him. She stopped a building away and leaned against the wall. She had been foolish, foolish to come and foolish to go this direction instead of back the way she’d come from. She couldn’t go past the shop door again. She’d go on and turn down the main street and head back home from there.

Lana’s humiliation stayed with her as she brushed past stores and businesses along the main street. Clutching the pail with Cletus’ lunch, she crossed to the side of the street farthest from those his shop backed against, her face down, her embarrassment carrying her in a blind rush. She moved quickly, past the movie theatre, a barber shop, an empty store, and then a tavern. She hurried faster, swinging wide of the tavern’s doors as they flung open. Two people spilled out, colliding with her, their chatter stopping as she stumbled aside.