Hanging Curve (13 page)

I
didn’t think it was possible, but over the next day and a half, things between Margie and me only got worse. We barely spoke, barely even acknowledged each other’s presence.

When I awoke in an empty bed Saturday morning, there was no aroma of breakfast in the air, just the same chilly atmosphere that had permeated the apartment for the last several days.

I heard Margie moving around, but the sounds weren’t the usual. I propped myself up on my elbows and listened closely. There was no clatter of kitchen utensils, no running water in the bathroom. The noises were coming from the parlor.

Glancing around the bedroom, I saw a wide gap on her side of the clothes closet. Her nightclothes and robe weren’t on the corner chair where they usually lay either.

I got up and quietly walked to the parlor doorway. Margie was packing an oversize leather trunk and a canvas satchel with clothes. I stood for a few moments, watching. To my surprise, I was more relieved than upset. Then she looked up at me with red, swollen eyes. And I immediately felt guilty that I
wasn’t
upset by her leaving.

Margie put down the middy blouse she’d been folding. In a hoarse whisper, she said, “I think we need to be apart for a while.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s probably a good idea.”

Margie looked as if I’d stabbed her, and I realized that I’d agreed too promptly. She started crying in ragged sobs.

I rushed over and tried to put my arms around her. “I didn’t mean—”

She stepped back. “Get away from me.”

I stopped in my tracks. What do I do now? Stand here and watch her cry? That seemed cruel, somehow. Go to the kitchen and brew some coffee? No, too callous.

While I debated with myself, Margie got her tears under control, blew her nose, and waved me away. “Go get dressed or something.”

I did as she said. While I put my clothes on, I overheard Margie call a cab company for a taxi. She didn’t give a destination.

Fully dressed, I went back to the parlor, where Margie had resumed packing. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

I almost asked,
“Are
you coming back?” but I knew she had a lot more stuff still in the apartment. She’d at least have to come back to get it all.

Margie had finished fastening the suitcase straps when a cab pulled up in front of the apartment. I wasn’t sure if I should offer to carry the luggage for her—if I did, it might give the impression that I was eager for her to go.

Fortunately, the driver came to the door and took the bags to his Model T.

Margie pinned a small straw bonnet over her hair. “I’m sorry about ... everything.” She choked down a sob.

“Me too.”

I went over to her again; this time she didn’t back away. We hugged tight and long, and she kissed me, leaving my cheek moist from fresh tears. Then she left.

The cab probably hadn’t gotten more than two blocks before I changed my mind about her leaving. I suddenly did
not
think it was a good idea anymore.

I hoped Margie would come to the same conclusion just as quickly. I even held off taking my morning bath, so that I could greet her at the door.

I kept waiting until I had to leave for Sportsman’s Park. And, as I walked out of the apartment, I realized that Margie didn’t need to come back for the rest of her things—she could simply send for them.

This morning might have been the last time I would ever see her.

After the game, I hurried back to Union Boulevard to find that what yesterday had been a home was now only an apartment. Margie hadn’t returned.

I paced around for more than an hour, listening to the telephone not ring and watching the front door not open. My eyes noted everything of Margie’s: the bronze mantel clock, her collection of old photographs on the wall, the silver candlesticks, and a dozen decorative knickknacks. At first, I found their presence comforting; Margie would have to contact me again even if only to have them shipped to her. But soon they only served as reminders of her, reminders that she’d gone.

I got a wooden crate from the back porch, and went through the parlor, taking down everything of Margie’s. I put the filled crate in the closet, and even wheeled her Victrola into the pantry.

With nothing of hers visible in the parlor, I settled into my Morris chair with a ginger ale and the latest
Police Gazette
to enjoy the solitude. But the soft drink proved to be tasteless, the magazine merely smudges of ink, and the room was stark and lonely.

I had an impulse to go out somewhere, if only to a picture show, but didn’t want to miss Margie in case she did come back.

As a last resort, I called Karl Landfors.

“Karl,” I said when he got on the line, “I know it’s short notice, but you want to come over for dinner tonight?”

“I wish I could,” he said, “but I’m writing a piece for
McClure’s
. I need to have it in by Wednesday.”

“You got plenty of time, then. Take a break.”

“Well ... I haven’t eaten yet. So I suppose I could—”

“Great! How soon can you be here?”

“Half an hour. Less if Margie doesn’t mind dirty shirt cuffs.”

“She won’t mind. She’s not here anymore.”

“What?
”

“Margie left this morning.”

“Why? What happened?”

“We’ve been arguing some.” I tried hard to sound indifferent.

“But that’s okay, doesn’t matter. Oh—could you do me a favor, Karl?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“Bring dinner. And some beer.”

When the taxi pulled up, I thought for a moment it might be Margie returning. It was Karl, lugging a bundle of groceries and a bucket of illegal beer.

When I let him in, Karl looked quizzically around the parlor. “What happened?”

“I put away some stuff that was cluttering up the place.”

He handed me the bucket. “I meant what happened with Margie.”

“I told you. She left.”

Karl hung his derby on the hat rack and followed me into the kitchen. “What happened
before
she left, you dolt.”

“Oh, she was mad that I didn’t call her when I went with you to Aubury’s house.”

“I suspect there was more to it than that.”

“Then you’ll have to ask
her.
Damned if I know why she was acting the way she was.” I unpacked the grocery bag, happy to see that Karl shared my notion of what constituted a balanced meal: Swiss cheese, boiled ham, and a loaf of bread. From the icebox, I added a jar of mustard and half an apple pie to the dinner spread.

We sat down and began to eat, Karl washing his sandwich down with Moxie, and me quaffing beer.

Karl refrained from asking more questions, but when he finished his first sandwich, he said, “I always thought you two were meant for each other.”

“Looks like you were wrong.” I pushed my plate away. “And so was I, because I thought the same thing.”

“Perhaps she’ll—”

I cut him off, “I’m just glad I found out now instead of later.” Pouring another glass of beer, I asked, “What’s the story you’re writing about?” The best way to divert Karl was to give him a chance to make a speech.

He obliged, telling me every detail of his article on the status of the antilynching legislation.

Although I found his discourse less than riveting, I did marvel at his passion for the issue. “How do you do it, Karl?” I asked. “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been fighting battles—against sweatshops, for the suffrage amendment, in defense of Sacco and Vanzetti, and now for this antilynching law. You hardly ever win, and even when you do, you just go on to another fight. Where the hell do you get the energy?”

He pushed up his glasses. “It’s the battle that counts, not winning or losing. Take this bill, for example. Even if it never becomes law, the struggle to pass it will accomplish a great deal—by focusing national attention on a problem, exposing the Klan’s activities, getting public leaders to speak out against lynchings. Of course, if it does pass, that won’t be sufficient to solve the problem, either; there would still be a struggle to get the law enforced and have violators prosecuted and convicted.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “So I have to keep fighting because the battles never end.”

“Don’t you ever get tired? Don’t you ever want to forget about changing things, and just make things as good as you can for yourself? At least relax a while?”

“Sometimes,” Karl admitted grudgingly, as if it was a sign of moral weakness. “But then I learn about a problem that makes me want to fight on. Not to solve something necessarily, but to fight for something.”

One of the things that amazed me was that he could fight so hard for things that would never benefit him personally. “You ever feel like an outsider?” I asked. “Like with this law—it’s mostly colored people working on it, right?”

“Yes, but should I stay out of it because I’m white?”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I wasn’t sure how to explain what I meant. “They know it will help them, but how do they know what your interest in it is? You’re not one of them, so do you think they trust you?”

“I’d like to believe that anyone who gets to know me comes to trust me. It’s true that some might initially be skeptical or suspicious of my motives, but eventually ...” His brow furrowed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how accepted I am. I think Franklin Aubury accepts me and trusts me—I’ve certainly never given him cause not to—but you can never know for sure what’s in someone else’s heart.”

We talked about the Crawford lynching, and the Klan, then about Prohibition. We kept talking into the night. Margie’s departure didn’t come up again, but Karl seemed to catch on that I didn’t want to be by myself. He eventually said he was too tired to go back home and asked to spend the night on the sofa.

I went to bed, grateful that Karl had come over, but I’d have preferred that Margie Turner was with me instead.

 

Even when I knew I wasn’t going to be in the starting lineup, I was always among the first to arrive at the park. Sometimes I showed up more than an hour before any of the other players. In ballparks of both leagues, I’d coaxed ushers into playing catch with me, groundskeepers into throwing me extra batting practice, and peanut vendors into shagging fly balls. I needed all the extra practice I could get, but more than that I simply loved being on a major-league baseball field.

In the days after Margie left, though, I spent every moment I could at home. I barely made it to the park in time to suit up, and was the first player to leave once the games were over. Not that there was a reason to remain at home—Margie didn’t contact me once.

By the time I got to Sportsman’s Park Tuesday, most of the other Browns were already on the field. I tossed my boater onto the locker shelf and was in a battle with the knot of my necktie when Lee Fohl bellowed to me from his office.

It wasn’t much of an office—a baseball manager doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of paperwork to do—and I barely fit inside.

“Close the door,” Fohl said.

Jeez. I’m being released. Nobody tells you to close the door when it’s good news. The manager’s sagging face looked even droopier than usual, another sign that all wasn’t well.

“Sorry I been coming late the last couple of days,” I said. “But I—”

“It’s not that.” Fohl picked up a couple of baseballs and began rolling them around in his huge paw. “I’ve been told that three days before the season started, you played with a semipro club in East St. Louis. That true?”

I answered promptly, “Yes. But I didn’t take any money for it. I just wanted some game practice to be ready for the season.”

Fohl kept his eyes on the horsehides. “I know you weren’t getting much playing time, and I can understand you wantin’ to get in a game. But the point is, you knew you weren’t supposed to. Isn’t that right?”