Holm, Stef Ann (38 page)

He
moved his lips over hers again, then spoke. "I needed to feel you, touch
you. You make me want to be more than I am."

Then
he walked down the steps toward the side of the house. Camille put her hand on
the doorjamb and stared after him until he was gone from her view. She already
missed him.

She
closed the door and left the kitchen, passing the dining mirror on her way to
the table. Absently, she glanced at her reflection. There was a line of black
grease beneath her nose where she'd rubbed that itch, making her look like she
had painted a mustache on her upper lip.

Once
in the dining room, she looked at the mess of mail and papers waiting for her
on the tabletop. She'd already read the articles of interest in the newspapers,
their pages yellowed but sturdy. But no matter how many times she'd digested
the words, they still didn't make sense.

Sitting,
she opened one of the back issues of the
Sporting News
that Mr. Gage had
given her when she'd gone to the newspaper office earlier in the day. Once
more, she read the words in the narrow columns, skimming down to the last
paragraphs. Then she viewed the next edition's headline.

The Slugfest
Ends

Their
relationship fouled up from the beginning, Alex Cordova of the Baltimore
Orioles and Joe McGill of the New York Giants ended their slugfest at this
afternoon's game on an ominous note when Cordova leaned into a pitch delivered
by Amos Rusie. The swing hit the Giants' catcher on the side of the head and knocked
him unconscious.

Overly
aggressive behavior, fighting, and prolonged violent incidents are nothing new
to these two players. In fact...

She
didn't read further because she already knew what happened. She scanned the
next issue from the day after the accident. And the edition the following day.
And the day after that. She had a week's worth of newspapers. Not a single one
supported Alex's story. Joe McGill never died on home plate.

He
simply disappeared.

August
arrived
with the drowsy scent of flowers and sun-warmed glove leather. The citizens of
Harmony became more caught up with the national pastime as the summer played
out. The Keystones had won a three-game home stand against the Detroit Tigers
in mid-July, and ever since, the seats at Municipal Field had been packed with
fans.

As
the first game with the Cleveland Blues progressed, Camille asked from her seat
on the bench, "Specs, do you have your horseshoe?"

He
held it up. "I never sit here without it."

"Good.
You're batting next. We're going to win this. We're two runs up." Looking
down at Doc, she inquired, "How about you, Doc? Four-leaf clovers?"

Doc
shifted on his backside to get to the hind pocket of his pants. "I'll
check, but I'm sure I've got my special one here."

Camille
didn't want to leave anything up for grabs. Mox rubbed the oil lamp in his lap;
the adhesive tape on his thumb was a white blur as he put some vigor into the
motion. His finger had healed enough so he could come back into the game. The
chain of rabbit's feet Bones used for inspiration hung around his neck. He'd
added two more feet to it—for insurance, he'd told her—after they'd beaten the
Milwaukee Brewers a week ago Saturday. The air smelled of bad liniment,
compliments of Cupid's shaved head. And Yank swigged back a Bromo from the
beat-up tin cup he always used.

To
the unenlightened, the scene would have looked bizarre—certainly nothing to get
hopeful about. But to Camille, everything was just right.

The
momentum had begun when Noodles came running out of the clubhouse, his uniform
on inside out. He'd arrived minutes before the coin toss and had been in a
rush. But he socked a triple his first at bat.

If
he hadn't shot the ball deep into left field, Camille would have taken him to
task for missing practice. But the fact that he started them off with a great
hit made her decide not to give him a lecture. Especially when Yank ripped off
his jersey, flashed his ribbed undershirt, and proceeded to put his yellow
jersey back on—inside out.

"Never
seen Noodles lead off with a triple, Miss Kennison," he said as his
fingers worked over the buttons. "If it works for him, it might work for
me."

No
longer skeptical when it came to their good-luck tactics, she smiled.
"Good idea."

Yank
hit a flare into right and took first base with a single.

As
soon as that happened, Jimmy, Mox, and Cub put their jerseys on inside out as
well.

"I
can't find my clover," came Doc's distressed cry from the end of the
bench. "I had it in my pocket, but it's gone. Oh good Lord..." He
stood and looked beneath the bench. "Dammit all. Oh good Lord."

Camille
immediately rose to help him look, as did Cupid and Charlie. Alex gazed beneath
his seat, then shrugged.

"It's
gone. It's as simple as that," Doc moaned as he straightened.

"You
can use my rabbit's feet," Bones suggested.

Doc
just about took his head off. "The hell I can. I'm not wearing any feet of
dead animals around my neck." He moaned. "Oh good Lord. I can't go
out there and hit the ball without my clover."

"What
happened to the jar of them you had?"

He
put up his hands in defeat. "I lost it yesterday when I was out on the
lake. And now look—bad luck is coming my way."

Camille
thought a moment. There was no point in wasting time trying to convince him
he'd be all right without a clover. She didn't want to leave the park, but
there was nobody she could send. The lineup was set and she couldn't disrupt
it.

"Stay
here," she insisted, "and keep things going. Specs, you get out there
and stall. Adjust yourself. Do what ever it takes to add some time."

Specs
wrinkled his nose. "I never adjust myself in public. Things stay where...
they're supposed to stay on me once..."—his cheeks bloomed the color of an
imperial red geranium—"... once I put things where they should go."

"Then
pretend your... shoelace is untied."

On
that, she ran all the way to the mercantile and bought one of those souvenir
clovers in pressed wax paper with a tiny round frame around it. In a matter of
minutes, she was back at the dugout and presenting Doc with the new clover.
"You're all set now, Doc." She was heaving as she tried to calm her
racing heartbeat. She'd never moved so fast in her life.

Doc
stared at it. Looked up at her. Then down again. "I can't use this."

Specs
had untied and retied his shoe at the plate so many times, the umpire
threatened to call him out. But Camille and Doc still debated the luck quality
of personally found clovers versus store-bought.

Doc
was adamantly against his new one until Alex intervened saying, "Doc, you
know who has a clover just like that one?"

"Who?"

Alex
had one leg over the other, knee to heel, his arm stretched out on the back of
the bench. "Art 'the Dodger' LaFlamme."

"No
kidding?"

"Kicked
some butt with that framed clover. Batted three-oh-two the first season he had
it."

Doc's
expression lightened. "Well, if he used an artificial clover, I guess I
could, too."

Specs
had struck out, the crowd booing and causing Doc to look over his shoulder.
"I'd better go out there and clean up the mess junior made."

"You
do that, Doc." Alex adjusted the slouch in his stocking. "Go get
'em."

After
Doc grabbed his bat, Cub gave Alex an elbow in the arm. "You were yanking
his chain, huh, Alex?"

"I
never lie," he stated while looking at Camille.

She
got mad at herself for blushing, the day on the bicycle coming back to her. In
the weeks that had passed, she hadn't forgotten how close they'd been on that
July night. Or the shared moment in her kitchen. She missed him in that way,
missed his company. She shouldn't have expected it, or wanted it, but Alex was
the closest thing to a best friend she had. There were times when she wanted to
talk to him, to tell him small things. Silly things. Things that didn't matter
to anyone but her, like her pipe not dripping, or the fact that she'd ordered
the paint for her house.

When
she ate dinner alone, she imagined him sitting beside her. She was being
foolish and ridiculous, overly romantic. Neither one of them had made promises
to one another... and yet...

Sometimes
at night, she wished Alex were in bed with her. She longed for his hands over
her body, his lips on hers. But she couldn't tell him such tilings. So the
feelings he'd evoked in her remained private memories.

It
was hard, though, when he did things like this with Doc for her. He was helping
to make the team all that it could be.

The
other day, he'd brought his sanding paper and a small wood plane. He'd gone up
to Charlie and told him, "You've got too much meat on your bat,
Char-he." With his woodwork tools, he made minor adjustments, reshaping
the bat's barrel. "That ought to help you out."

It
had. Charlie's hitting stats had increased. Alex used his skills on the bats of
the other players as well, altering, adjusting, customizing the bats to each
player's height and weight and to the power they put into their swings.

Her
mind was pulled back to the present as Deacon came in from being tagged out, a
frown souring his face. "I couldn't hook the bag or he'd ride me right
off."

Cub
snorted at the brawny first baseman for Cleveland. "Next time, run into
him."

"And
kill myself?" Deacon took his seat and wrapped a towel around his neck.

From
above the dugout, the sound of a laugh filtered through the raspberries and
hisses.

Bertram
Nops.

Recalling
her confrontation with him, Camille's eyes narrowed with displeasure. She'd
asked Mr. Nops if he'd noticed anything flashy about their uniforms. He'd said
he thought they looked good. As he spoke, the corner of his left eye occasionally
twitched. Had he always had that tick?

And
the fact that he'd laughed when Deacon slid out only increased her suspicion he
wasn't honest. Her father had been right about him. Mr. Nops was untrustworthy.
Unfortunately, he'd come up with the cash she'd needed, and that couldn't be
changed.

She
pushed that thought to the back of her mind as the game went on, and the stakes
got higher. Extra innings factored into the afternoon, as the score tied in the
twelfth and fifteen innings. With each team at eight runs apiece, the bottom of
the sixteenth was met with the threat of darkness. The Keystones
needed
this
win for morale.

They
were tied against Milwaukee for the most losses this season. But if they could
put this game in the win column, they'd be ahead of the Brewers by one. That
would put them in seventh place for the pennant. Not wonderful, but hopeful.

The
umpire's voice, hoarse from calling balls, strikes, and outs, fought the dust
as he hollered a strike on Mox—who was nearly mowed down by a fastball.

The
relief pitcher for the Blues was a young hotshot, tall and slim, light-haired
and buck-toothed. He practically burned a hole into the catcher's glove with
each throw.

Sitting
at the end of the bench, Cub observed, "That guy can do everything except
steal first base."

"He
does that," Alex remarked in a low tone from beside Camille, "in the
dead of night when nobody's around."

From
the tightness in his voice, it was apparent he didn't like the way the pitcher
was throwing. Camille had noticed the killer sliders, too, and was keeping a close
watch on them. Some pitchers were notorious for bean balls; some players
actually
liked
them. Once hit on the body, the players could take the
base without having an at bat and risking a strikeout.

The
Cleveland quick-delivery artist wound up for the next pitch to Mox and unloaded
a zap of lightning. Mox jumped out of the way and went down in the dirt.

Camille
rose, mouth open. Mox clambered to his feet, wiped the dirt off his sleeves,
and retrieved his bat

Alex
swore, threw off his cap, and paced in front of the bench. He stalked, his eyes
narrowed in a scowl as he paused to look at the field once more.

Mox
took his stance in the batter's box and the pitcher let go with a fast one. The
ball caught Mox on the shoulder, bounced up at his head, and nearly took off
his ear. It was no accident.

Before
Camille realized what was happening, Alex had leaped over the edge of the
dugout and had knocked the pitcher down. In a tangle of legs and arms, the two
engaged in a fiery fistfight

"Holy
cripes!" Jimmy blurted from behind her. "Cordova struck that guy like
a roadrunner going after a rattler!"

Camille
yelled for her players to stay on the bench and not get in on it. But as soon
as the first Blue jumped in, the rest of the players on both sides made a heap
of flying fists.