Prairie Hardball (3 page)

My father was waiting up when we rolled in at about eleven, well past his bedtime, just in case we needed anything, he said. Like an extra dose of guilt. Andy and I slept badly in our chaste little beds, waking up several times in the night to grumble at each other. I gave up trying just before 7:00, and got up to make coffee. My mother had beat me to it. Dressed in her best flowered housecoat, she was already setting the table for breakfast.

I poured myself a coffee and sat down at the table, yawning, my head throbbing a bit from the excesses of the night before. Shadrach lay at my feet and sighed. It was too early for him, too.

“I’m surprised to see you up at this hour,” she said.

“It’s such a beautiful day, I couldn’t resist,” I lied.

“We have a long drive ahead of us. We’d best get an early start,” she said, crisply, opening the refrigerator.

“How do you want to go? I thought Andy and I might drive up to the lake on the way.”

“You know your father likes the direct route, through Regina.”

She took out eggs, bacon, sausages, and butter, then got a mixing bowl down from the cupboard.

“We’ll have pancakes for breakfast,” she said. “Does Andy like pancakes?”

“We don’t usually have time for breakfast. Pancakes would be great. But for the drive, we don’t have to go in convoy, do we? I’d like Andy to see Katepwa Beach. I thought we could stop and have a swim.”

“Your father likes to stop at Davidson for lunch.”

“We could go north from Fort Qu’Appelle and take the Yellowhead for a change.”

“You can ask him yourself then.”

“I will.”

I poured myself another cup of coffee and craved the
Globe and Mail
. I never feel like my day has begun until I do the cryptic crossword. Besides, I could have hidden my bad mood behind it.

“I guess you made quite a night of it,” my mother said, after a few minutes. She was stirring the pancake batter.

“Not really. We just stopped in at the Sportsman’s for a few drinks. It was hardly a debauch. We ran into some old friends and got talking.”

“Who did you see?”

“Her old boyfriend Oren, for one,” Andy said, coming into the room, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare, his hair sticking out in all directions, and with a greying stubble on his cheeks. He yawned hugely without covering his mouth, which earned him a disapproving glance from my mother that he missed. I didn’t. I got up to get him a cup of coffee.

“Oren Roblin has done very well for himself,” my mother said, pointedly.

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “You’d think he’d have something better to do than hang around the beer parlour.”

I got up and got a frying pan out of the cupboard, determined to be of some help.

“I’ll start the sausages.”

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But use the cast-iron pan. I’m using that pan for the pancakes.”

We worked together, side by side.

“You can’t blame Oren,” she said, after a few minutes. “Since his children left home, I expect he’s been a bit lonely.”

“What about his wife? What about Julie?”

His wife. My mother looked uncomfortable.

“She passed on several years ago, didn’t you know?”

“I must have missed it in the
News
,” I said. “How did she die?”

“I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” she said.

“Who aren’t you speaking ill of now, Helen?” my father asked, coming into the kitchen. He was already showered, shaved, and fully dressed. Shadrach struggled to his feet to offer his master a morning greeting. Then he went to the door and scratched on it. My father let him out.

“Poor Julie Roblin,” my mother said, handing him his prune juice.

“Oh, that was quite the scandal,” my father said.

“A scandal? Julie Roblin?” I asked.

“I’m afraid she took her own life, poor thing,” my father said.

“Why?”

My mother looked uncomfortable.

“She was evidently, well, involved with someone other than Oren,” she said. “Their cars were seen parked together out on the grid road behind the Orange Home and some busybody brought the news directly to coffee row. She gassed herself with carbon monoxide in her car rather than face the music. It destroyed poor Oren. Simply destroyed him. He was mayor at the time.”

“Who was the other man?”

“It was Ed Wade, who had the farm out towards Sintaluta.”

“Holy smokes,” I said, then explained to Andy. “Ed Wade was Doreen’s husband.”

“They divorced shortly afterwards,” my mother said. “I’m afraid he took to drink.”

“That’s not all he took to,” my father said. “He also took it to Doreen, if you know what I mean.”

“He abused her?” I asked.

“Not for long,” my father said drily. “Your friend kicked him out pretty smartly.”

“Well, at least she got that right,” I said. “She mentioned last night that she had divorced, but she didn’t say why.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you mention casually in a bar, Kate,” Andy pointed out.

“I guess not. Anyway, that’s horrible. For both of them.”

“Well, it certainly kept the town talking,” my father said.

“Some of the town,” my mother said, primly.

“Kate’s mother doesn’t approve of gossip,” Daddy told Andy.

“Look what it drove that poor woman to,” she said.

Much as I dislike agreeing with my mother, her point was well taken. In small towns the narrowest minds create community standards, and God help the poor souls who don’t conform.

“Well, I guess you’re right on that one, dear, but most of it is harmless,” he protested.

“If you call destroying reputations harmless, you’re a lesser man than I thought you were,” she countered.

“This is a never-ending battle,” I explained to Andy.

“Your father has become worse since he retired,” she said. “Since he became a regular on coffee row.”

“Coffee row?” Andy asked.

“A bunch of old fools who have nothing better to do than go to the café every morning and jaw,” she said.

“The heart and soul of the community,” my father corrected.

“Not to mention the eyes and ears, and judge and jury,” I said. “Every small town in Saskatchewan has at least one.”

“They mind everybody’s business but their own,” my mother added. By unspoken agreement, we all let it be the last word.

After breakfast, my mother went to change, leaving the dishes for Andy and me. My father took Shadrach for a walk down to the post office. When he came back, he had mail in his hand.

“Letter for you, Helen,” he said. “No return address. Must be a secret admirer.”

“Just put it on the kitchen table,” she called from the living room.

“The rest are just bills,” he said. “Bills, bills, bills.”

He wandered out of the room shuffling through them, Shadrach trailing behind. My mother picked up her letter.

“My glasses,” she said. “Where did I put my glasses?”

“You need one of those things around your neck,” I said, putting the last of the saucers away. “Sit down, I’ll go look.”

I found them on the table beside her chair in the living room. She opened the letter and drew out a sheet of ruled paper.

“Oh, my,” she said, when she had read it.

“What is it?” I asked.

“See for yourself.”

I recognized the handwriting. Not personally, but I know the style from crank mail I get at work. It was written in a tight, angry script. The different colours of ink used for underlining were another clue. Not to mention the exclamation points.

STAY AWAY from Battleford, if you know what’s good for you! Women like you don’t deserve to be in the HALL OF FAME!! This great institution must not be SULLIED with the likes of
YOU
!! No unnatural women allowed!! JUST STAY AWAY. This is NOT a joke!!!

The last line was in a particularly lurid Day-Glo lime green.

“Charming,” I said, handing the note to Andy. “Another testosterone junkie who thinks baseball’s a boys-only game.”

“Well, he’s certainly hostile,” my mother said, looking uncomfortable.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Mum.”

“She’s right, Helen,” Andy said. “People who write letters like these seldom do anything more.”

“Really, we get them all the time at the paper,” I said. “They scare you at first, but they’re not serious.”

“What isn’t serious?” my father asked, coming into the room.

We showed him.

“For heaven’s sake! What is this nonsense?” He looked at us all, alarmed, then took my mother’s hand and patted it.

“Don’t fret, old girl. Remember, you’ve got your own personal policeman along.”

“That’s right,” I laughed. “Andy will keep you safe.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, briskly. “I don’t need a bodyguard. This is just some crackpot. Let’s get going.”

After a round of bathroom stops, Daddy took Shadrach and his dinner bowl down the street to the neighbour who was looking after him, while Andy packed the bags in the cars. My parents had two big suitcases for the four-day trip. Andy and I had everything we needed for a week in a garment bag and a carry-on.

My mother did one last circuit of the house to make sure everything was in order.

“Got your glasses?”

“In my purse.” She patted her white straw bag in confirmation.

“And you’re not worried about that letter?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly, of course not,” she said, going to the hall closet for her raincoat. “It’s not the first one as a matter of fact. Another came last month.”

“From the same guy?”

“Could be.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No, I put it in the trash, where it belonged. It was just a copy of an article from the Battleford newspaper about the awards, and he had written rude things in the margins in that same green ink.”

“Did you show it to anyone? Daddy?”

“I didn’t want to worry him.” She took the house keys from the hook by the door.

“Ready to go?”

I picked up the letter from the kitchen table.

“I’m taking this along.”

“If you must. I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“Maybe we should talk to the police in Battleford, too. I’ll see what Andy thinks.”

“Let’s get going. Mustn’t keep the men waiting.”

She locked the door, then tried the handle.

“Better safe than sorry!”

“Exactly. And that’s why we’ll tell the Battleford police.”

“A lot of fuss over nothing,” she said.

The River View Inn, the official hotel of the Saskatchewan Baseball Hall of Fame, was a charmless four-storey brick building just past the Battleford turnoff on Highway 16, with nary a river in sight. A “No Vacancy” sign flickered feebly through the soggy gloom, under a larger sign welcoming Hall of Fame inductees.

It had rained all the way from Saskatoon, an hour and a half through a heavy, nasty downpour that the windshield wipers could barely control. Andy was driving, and he was not happy. My aunt and uncle are sweet, but, to be absolutely honest, not the most scintillating couple in the world. And Auntie Merle, hard as she tries, will never measure up to my mother in the kitchen. Dinner had been grey roast beef with canned gravy, accompanied by mushy carrots and watery, undercooked scalloped potatoes. The conversation had centred around their most recent trip to see their grandchildren in Kamloops, including reports on the state of all the highways along the way. Uncle Stan had approved of the route we had taken from Indian Head—my father’s route through Davidson, of course. Actually, the lunch stop in Davidson had turned out to be the high point of the trip for me. I had found a surprise for Andy in the washroom, which had a novelty condom machine. I chose a Nite-Glow because I couldn’t resist the sales pitch: “Turn out the lights and watch the glow grow and grow.” Of course, at my uncle and aunt’s we slept in bunk beds. And they didn’t let me smoke in the house.

“Here we are,” Andy said, docking in front of the main door. “Home sweet home away from home.”

“It can only get better from here on,” I said.

“Listening to a bunch of old biddies talking baseball is certainly my idea of a dream vacation.”

I sighed and got out of the car. Andy popped the trunk lock and I got the bags out.

“I’ll go park the car,” he said.

“I can do it if you don’t want to get wet.”

“I’ll get wet anyway, helping your parents with their eighty-seven suitcases.”

I slammed the door, then slapped a smile on my face for my parents, who were just pulling in. I opened the door to let my mother out, then leaned in to speak to my father.

“Andy will help you with the bags in a second,” I said. “Mum and I will check in.”

The lobby was small, clean, and functional, with racks of tourist brochures and a soft-drink machine. A sign by the entrance to the bar, called Shooters, promised “Happy Hour Nitely, 4–6.” Whoopee. The youngish woman in charge wore a bright green vest and a Hall of Fame baseball cap.

“Welcome to the River View Inn,” she said cheerfully. “I sure hope you have a reservation, because we’re all filled up.”

We assured her that we did, and she passed cards across the counter for us to fill out.

While I was printing our particulars, Andy struggled through the double glass doors with the bags, drenched. I bit my lip to stifle the laugh that would have been suicidal under the circumstances.

“I’ve got nice adjoining rooms for you on the fourth floor,” the clerk said. “That’s in non-smoking.”

And spelled double trouble. I saw the out and grabbed it.

“That must be the room for Sheila and the girls,” I said to my mother. “You’ll want the grandchildren next door.” Not to mention poor Andy had maxed out on Henry family togetherness. We ended up on the third floor.

We had to walk past the hotel pool to get to the elevator. There were potted palms and beach umbrellas scattered around it in an apparent attempt to make the patrons feel as if they were at a resort in some salubrious southern clime. The area echoed with the splashes of children using a water slide which spiralled down from the ceiling two storeys above and there was an unmistakable whiff of chlorine, a drawback, I would have thought, for patrons of the poolside restaurant. Nonetheless, there was a large and cheerful group at several tables pushed together. Most of them were older women.

“Mum, look, those must be your friends.”

She looked at them, nervously.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“I’ll just freshen up first,” she said.

They didn’t give her a chance. A woman wearing a mauve pants suit got up from the table and bustled over to us, pushing a bright blue wheeled walker in front of her. Everything about her was round, her tightly curled grey hair, her pink cheeks, her merry eyes, her body. She was instantly likeable.

“Helen? Helen Henry, it
is
you, isn’t it?”

My mother smiled.

“Edna Summers, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“A bit broader in the beam,” she said, “and the knees are shot, but with this contraption I’m frisky as ever.”

Then Edna, she of the famous championship-winning home run against the Rockford Peaches, hustled my mother over to the group at the table.

“Look who’s here! Wheels MacLaren!”

Wheels
?
We followed them to the table, where my mother was the flustered, but beaming, centre of attention. While we were being introduced to all of the women and their friends and relations, I was struck by their wonderful variety. Some, like Edna, resembled the small-town women I had grown up with. Others were more sophisticated. They were tall, short, fat, thin; dressed in linen, in polyester, in dresses, in pants; hair permed, hair bobbed, grey, blue, blonde, bottle-black. They looked like grannies, they looked like librarians, they looked like gym teachers, dog groomers, duchesses, Hungarian madames. I couldn’t keep track of their names.

My parents sat down at the table. Andy and I took their bags to their room, then went to ours. It wasn’t the kind of four-star accommodation I was used to while travelling with the ball team, but what it lacked in terry-cloth robes and bath oils it made up for in privacy. And it had a king-sized bed.

I lit a smoke and went to the window and cranked it open. Beyond the parking lot and highway, I could see the North Saskatchewan River valley, and if I pressed my cheek against the glass, a sliver of what might just be water.

“Look,” I said. “The river view.”

While Andy changed into dry clothes, I checked the phone book. We stopped by the poolside table on the way back out.

“We’ve got an errand to run,” I told my father, giving him his room key.

“We have to be at the lunch at noon,” he fussed.

“We’ll be back in plenty of time.”

With the map of The Battlefords Andy had picked up at the front desk, it wasn’t hard to find what we were looking for: a sign with the stylized sheaf of wheat used to identify government buildings.

“Bingo,” I said, parking outside.

The Liquor Board store gave Andy something new to scoff at while we hunted for the single-malt Scotch.

“I’ve never seen so many different kinds of rye,” he said, in amazement. “There are acres of rye in here.”

“This is nothing,” I said. “I once counted thirty-seven brands in the big store in Regina.”

The Scotch was hidden in a corner next to the brandies and other exotic libations, and we managed to find the Glenlivet.

“The weekend just looked up,” he said.

On the way back to the hotel, we detoured to find the Baseball Hall of Fame. It backs onto an abandoned farm at the edge of town, with an old windmill marking the site of the original well.

Cooperstown it’s not. The tourist guide identifies the tiny building only as the oldest church in town, but giant baseball bats on the front lawn indicate its current use. The door was locked, with a note posted saying that it would be open in the afternoon.

To complete the grand tour, we located the Legion Hall where the luncheon was scheduled and the Community Centre for dinner. We drove back across the river valley that separates Battleford from North Battleford, which turned out to have a main street filled with vacant stores, pawn shops, and other indicators of hard times. The life of the town had moved to the mall on the highway across from our hotel.

The phone rang the moment we got back into the room. My mother, worried.

“It’s a five-minute drive,” I said. “We’ll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes. Did Sheila get here yet?”

“They just walked in.”

“Good. We’ll see you in the lobby.”

When I got off the phone, Andy handed me a shot of Scotch in a plastic glass.

“I know it’s early, but I figured we could use it.”

We clicked glasses and downed the drinks in one gulp.

“I’m ready for anything now,” he said, then reconsidered. “Except perhaps another dinner with Uncle Stan and Auntie Merle.”