The Bridegrooms (15 page)

“Because he didn’t catch the ball.”

“He didn’t even put up his glove.”

Because he was smitten with Lisette. Did her father know that?

“The man wants to protect his ballpark and his players. So until there’s anything else to report, all those spectators who saw young Eli get hit just know that some fellow got knocked out by a stray ball. It happens.”

“Often?”

“Often enough that, from what they told me, people around him were laughing as much as anything else.”

“And when there’s something else to report?”

“Well, then, that’ll be a great story, won’t it. When he wakes up, he can be some sort of hero.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Let’s just pray that he does.”

By now young Pete had eased the carriage onto Euclid Avenue, and Vada was distracted by the obvious display of wealth that lined the street. One mansion followed the next, each with elaborate front gardens peeking through ornate wrought-iron gates. Looking down over all from its place on a hill just beyond was the snow white, garreted home of John D. Rockefeller. The Homestead. As he always did when an occasion brought them to ride past this place, Doc tipped his hat to the house and said, “Mr. Rockefeller? If you’re feeling poorly, feel free to call on me.”

“You can bet people would know if
he
got smacked in the head with a baseball.”

Doc chuckled and Vada scooted a little closer to him, tentatively reaching out to loop her arm through his and, when he didn’t pull away, tucked herself next to him as they silently took in the sights.

“Didn’t you ever want to be rich, Doc?”

“No, my dear.” The rare endearment came with a pat on her hand. “I have always been able to recognize when I had enough. And there’s no greater lesson you can learn than to be happy when you simply have enough.”

She could not remember another time when she felt this close to her father—not just physically next to him, the closest she’d been to being in his lap since before her mother left. And as they had since the moment she’d heard them, the words of Alex Triplehorn echoed in her ears.

Her mind waged war, trying to shut that horrific experience out of this moment while wondering if this might be the time to ask. And then, as if lulled by the rhythmic clomping of the horse and Pete’s mesmerizing whistled tune, one side of the battle surrendered.

“Is that why our mother left?”

She felt his body go rigid against hers and hold itself still for one, two breaths before seeming to dissolve as he took his arm away and recreated space between them.

Pete ceased his whistling and looked over his shoulder. “Be at League Park in five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Doc said, staring straight forward.

Vada studied his profile, the slight uptilt to his nose and the heavy brows that tufted out above his eyes. Everything beyond that was obscured in whiskers. Without seeing his eyes, there was no way to know his thoughts. Not unless she asked again, and she wouldn’t ask again.

She too fixed her eyes ahead, staring at the back of the seat in front of her, noticing the poorly patched elbow of Pete’s sleeve. Then, almost as soft as the breeze itself, she felt the tickle of whiskers against her cheek and heard her father’s voice close to her ear.

“I will never fully understand why your mother left us. It hurts me every day.”

He shifted then, drawing her close so her head rested on his shoulder, and there they remained until Pete hollered, “League Park!” with a voice worthy of a conductor.

Once Vada sat up straight, she realized why her father had drafted Pete to drive them. Fifty yards away she saw the two-story red brick boxoffice building standing at the helm of a chicken-wire fenced-in field. Standing between them and the park entrance, however, was a sea of jam-packed carriages—even a few horseless ones—parked at chaotic angles. Men of all shapes and sizes, some in suits, some in short sleeves, milled through the mess. There were a few women too, wearing broad-brimmed hats to protect against the sun.

A narrow path intersected the jumble, and Doc ordered Pete to drive on, eventually dropping the two of them at the front gate.

“Meet us back here in thirty minutes,” he said to the boy, raising his voice above the din. “Do you have a watch?”

“No sir. But I got me a kind of head-clock right here.” Pete tapped the top of his cap. “So don’t you worry.”

“I won’t give it another thought.” Doc let himself down and offered his hand to Vada, who heard a few whoops and hollers as her leg extended out from the bottom of her skirt.

“Animals,” Doc said, but with enough humor in his voice to show that whatever melancholy had passed between them before, it was now something to be put away.

They approached the front gate, merging with the shuffling line of spectators. When they got to the front, a wide-open hand, its palm the size of a shovel, halted any further progress.

“Tickets, please.” The man behind the hand had a thin cigar pasted to his bottom lip that bobbed as he spoke.

“We are not here to see the game.” Doc tipped his hat. “I am here to meet with Mr. Tebeau.”

“Now there’s one I ain’t heard before. G’wan, pops. You look like you can cough up a buck.”

“If you will just send word to Mr. Tebeau—”

“Look, mister. I ain’t got an in with Patsy to go askin’ him—”

“Never mind, Doc.” Vada tugged his sleeve. “You can telephone him later.”

“Wait a minute.” The massive hand pinched the cigar and took it out of the man’s mouth, leaving an oddly dainty, sausagelike pinky extended. “You say
doc
?”

“I am Dr. Marcus Allenhouse—”

“Aw, why didn’t you say so? Patsy’s been goin’ crazy lookin’ for you all morning. Hey, Grimley!”

From nowhere emerged a scruffy-looking man wearing a soiled newsboy cap and a tobacco-stained shirt stretched over a protruding belly.

“Take these two to the dugout. This is the doc Patsy’s been waiting for.”

Grimley gave his belly a leisurely scratch, studying them both, before he crooked his finger and stepped back into the crowd.

Doc grabbed Vada’s hand and followed. Once through the front gate, they took a sharp left and entered a narrow covered concourse lined with vendors’ carts set up to sell hot sausage links, popcorn, and beer. At least, those were the ones whose calls rang out above the din of the crowd. She also saw patrons walking with enormous pretzels and pickles wrapped in waxed paper, and several little boys ran pell-mell through the crowd clutching sticks of horehound candy.

At first she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the back of Mr. Grimley’s neck, terrified of losing him in the crowd. After all, it seemed every man in the place looked just like him. But when the closeness of the crowd forced them to slow their progress, she noticed several men in expensive suits standing elbow to elbow with those in tattered shirt-sleeves.

The women too seemed to have strolled in from every walk of life. For every feminine voice heard uttering the rough talk more suited to a sailor, another lifted a lace-gloved hand to sweep a strand of hair back in place.

So caught up in the sights around her, she soon forgot all about following Mr. Grimley and might have wandered off completely if not for the clutch of her father’s hand. It wasn’t until she collided with Doc’s shoulder that she realized he had stopped moving, and the three of them stood at the entrance to what looked like a long, dark hallway.

“Youse have to wait,” Mr. Grimley said pointedly to Vada. “Can’t allow a female such as yerself into the clubhouse.”

“Oh.” She clutched Doc’s hand.

“You’ll be fine, Vada.” He gave her a little pat as he released his grip. “I won’t be but a few minutes, and I’ll meet you right back here.”

She watched her father and Mr. Grimley disappear through the dark opening, then smoothed her skirt and, rooted in place, allowed her eyes to roam as they would, taking in the posted bills along the walls.

Then, wafting above the noise of the surrounding conversations and the hawking calls of the vendors, she heard music. Perhaps it had been playing all along, but once her ear caught the first note, the melody unfolded, carried through the bellows of a pipe organ.

Soon her foot was tapping and her head filled with the sound of her youngest sister singing the familiar song as she readied herself for a night of dancing.

Unaware that she was moving toward the music, Vada turned her head to the left and found her view had completely changed. Somehow, carried along by the crowd, she’d stepped out of the openness of the concourse and found herself standing under a red-brick arch. Here the sound of the crowd took on a muffled echo, though the organ music was distinctly clearer. When she turned fully toward the open arch, hints of green compelled her farther and farther until she stood nose to chicken wire.

The glimpse of green became a vast expanse of emerald grass surrounding a perfect red-dirt diamond. Two men walked the baseline raking straight, narrow furrows, another pushed a rotating mower in the
background. Here the sweet green smell took over the odors of the vendors’ wares, and she closed her eyes and inhaled deep.

“Miss Allenhouse? Psst! Miss Allenhouse?”

His voice, already disturbingly familiar, called from somewhere behind her, just over her left shoulder. No, her right. There was a break in the crowd and he called again. She searched for his thatch of red hair but saw nothing, heard nothing until he called again.

“Down here!”

She moved farther along the fence and looked down to see him, his head, now sporting a gray cap, level with the walkway. At this point the fencing was no higher than her waist, and the chicken wire was replaced by sturdy, wide-placed planks. Steadying herself by gripping the top rung, she crouched down, bringing his nose level to her knees.

“Good afternoon, Mr. LaFortune. Just what are you doing down there?”

“Why, down here be the dugout, Miss Allenhouse.” His smile was just as lopsided as she remembered, and his accent just as disarming.

“Of course,” she said, even as she wondered exactly what he meant.

Suddenly there was an eruption of children’s voices behind her yelling, “It’s him! It
is
him!” and a clattering of footsteps came to a halt all around her.

“Well, hey there, boys!” LaFortune took a few steps back and to the side, offering a big, friendly wave. “You lookin’ forward to seein’ a game today?”

“That depends.” One of the ragamuffins squatted down, a bony, dirty knee poking out of his pants. “You gonna kill another guy?”

The boys erupted into a disorganized chant, “Yeah! Killer!”

LaFortune grabbed the cap off his head and crushed it in his fist, his face just two shades lighter than his hair. “Hey!
Fermez vos bouches!
” He
pumped his fist in the air and took a running lunge at the fence, leaping high enough to grasp the top rung and, biceps ready to burst through his sleeves, managed to haul himself waist high to the walkway.

Gritting his teeth, he brought one foot up and seemed intent on bringing up the other, with the unveiled intent of leaping over it and killing the boys themselves. But there would be no boys to kill, as they let out a collective scream and tore into the crowd, weaving in and out of the startled, disgruntled spectators, not once looking back. He stood on the walkway, on the inside of the rail, gripping its top with one hand, pumping his fist with the other.

“Possedes,”
he muttered. “Crazy kids.”

By now Vada was standing upright, craning to see the last of the boys disappear into the crowd before turning her attention to the bully on the other side of the railing.

“Shame on you, Mr. LaFortune. They’re just children.”

“Pah!” He made a dismissive gesture and, in a graceful move she’d never think a man his size capable of, jumped down to the ground below, bouncing just once on his heels to retain his balance. “Been hearin’ that all day.”

“How? It wasn’t in the papers.”

“Don’t make no matter if it in the papers. People know.”

“Still, it’s no reason to scare a bunch of little boys.”

LaFortune looked to the left and to the right, as if checking to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard. He stepped forward, rose to his toes, and planted his elbows on the walkway, beckoning Vada to bend low again, which with some trepidation she did.

“How he be?”

“His name is Eli.”

LaFortune burst into a smile, mouth wide, eyes bright. “He tell you that?”

“No,” she said gently. “Not yet.”

He buried his face in his arms, his shoulders rising as he heaved a deep sigh. It was all Vada could do not to reach down and place a comforting hand on his head. Instead she remained very still, gripping the rail and balancing on her heels.

“He gonna die because of me.” His voice was muffled, forcing her to lean even closer to hear, which is why when he did look up, she got startled and rocked back. Only her grip on the bottom rung of the rail kept her from toppling outright.

“He’ll be fine,” she said once she was sure of her balance.

“Him, maybe. Me,
non
. I need you to help me.”

“Help you? How could I possibly do that?”

“I need you give me somethin’. To carry in my pocket for this game—for luck.”

“Oh, Mr. LaFortune. Certainly you don’t believe in such nonsense.”

“I ain’t talkin’ no voodoo magic or nothin’ like that. Just one little ol’ token.”

His smile was already working its charm, transporting her back to some of the novels she’d read as a child, where knights approached the fairest ladies, looking for a silk scarf or some such small banner to carry to the jousting field. Was a wooden bat so different after all?

She let go of the rail and fumbled in her little purse for her lace-edged handkerchief and dangled it in front of him. “Will this do for your silly superstition?”

He took a corner of the handkerchief between his thumb and first finger. “This his?”