The Only Game in Town, page 19
“I know.”
“I don’t know if there will ever be a time when what I want and the game--”
“I know.” She took Rainy’s hand in hers. “But you’re worth waiting for. Even if you never show up.”
Rainy smiled, but there were tears in her eyes.
They stepped away from each other when Rosalind came into the corridor. She was in full uniform, taking long strides, but she slowed when she saw them.
“Everything okay, ladies?”
“Everything’s fine,” Marcy said, rubbing the back of her hand against her eye.
Rosalind decided to accept the lie. “Well, come on, then. We’ve got a game to win.”
Marcy smiled and followed Rosalind out to the field, walking backward to keep an eye on Rainy.
“You heard the woman. Let’s go show the Prohibitionists what professionals look like.”
Rainy chuckled and jogged to catch up.
Chapter Twenty-One
“It was a cool Fall day when the Shrikes hosted their final game against the Pros, a lake breeze sweeping across the field before the first inning got underway. Each team had two losses and two wins under their belt for this series, and this final game was the dealbreaker. Whoever lost this time was out of the race for the pennant, and every player on both sides obviously had that thought in their minds as they took the field.
“From way up here in the press box it was easy to forget we weren’t watching a normal game of baseball. The long red braids of Caroline Rainy, standing tall and proud on center stage, whipped every time she fired the ball. Rosalind O’Brien slid into third base in the third inning and spent the whole rest of the game with a red-brown stain all down the right side of her uniform to remind everyone in the stands of how fiercely she was playing the game.
“And fierce she had to be, because the Pros were certainly living up to their moniker! Pitcher Anna Stewart had an allergy to the ball and threw in a hectic, unpredictable style that had our local girls’ heads spinning. Constance Ferguson was a triple threat between hitting, fielding, and speed. She was solely responsible for three of the Pros runs by the sixth inning.
“Both teams traded the lead like a hot potato. Tied up at the end of the second, 3-3. Tied after the third, 5-5, a score that stood until the seventh inning, when the whole game turned on its head. Because the top of the seventh inning was when the Shrikes threw a five-foot-eight brunette wrench into the works and sent Marcy Neal out onto the field.
“Neal, a source of controversy for her statements over the war, hadn’t been seen on the field for the past two outings, and her absence was sorely felt. Her arrival was marked by a cacophony from the crowd. Boos and cheers in equal measure, though this reporter believes the joy drowned out the anger by just a smidge. She approached the plate and assumed the position as if she hadn’t been gone at all. Stewart marked one ball and two strikes against the dark-haired shortstop, but Neal didn’t give her the satisfaction and sent the last pitch soaring so high I could have caught it in my hat.
“Neal’s home run pushed Ida Coe off her base, and the score was finally a little more lopsided at 7-5. There was no booing from the home crowd at this point as Neal jogged around the baseline in a manner that looked very much like a victory lap. She took off her cap as she passed home plate and continued on toward the dugout, waving it in the air toward the crowd as she acknowledged their forgiveness for what she’d said in the papers.
“After that, there was no catching up for the Pros, despite their best efforts. Two innings later the game ended with a Shrike victory, 10-8, and the Pros season came to an end. But there is no shame in the loss because even a Chicago devotee can’t help but admit the Detroit gals put up one heck of a fight. And it was because of their efforts that made winning taste that little bit sweeter.
“I admit I was as skeptical as anyone when these ladies swept in and took over parks across the country, but I grudgingly admitted that any game was better than seeing the fields get overgrown and abandoned. Folks, I am here to tell you that from where I’m sitting, the game is only as good as whoever is playing it, and the Shrikes have kept baseball alive in the Windy City.”
- Frederick “Math” Mathison, Chicago Tribune
“There’s a fucking Pro outside asking for you,” Edith said as she came into the clubhouse.
Moxie looked over her shoulder but only saw a blank wall behind her. “Me?” Even though she knew who it probably was, even though the color rising in her cheeks likely told everyone what it was about. “I don’t know any Pros.”
“She seems to know you,” Edith said as she started changing out of her uniform. “It’s Number 2, if that helps. Torres.”
“Good hitter,” Lorna said.
“Damn good hitter,” Edith confirmed. “Don’t mind saying that now that we don’t have to play against her again.”
The other players cheered, and Moxie took the opportunity to slip out.
She found Celia halfway between the home and visitor clubhouses, still in uniform and looking completely at home, one shoulder against a support beam.
“What are you doing here?”
Celia smiled and pushed away from the beam. “Good game today.”
Moxie grimaced, unsure what to do with that compliment at this particular time. She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her.
“I’m not sure the rest of your team will feel the same way if they catch us talking.”
“Relax. No one saw me slip away. It’s been hard not reaching out while we were in town. But I figured you probably wouldn’t fraternize with the enemy anyway. But now that the series is over, I wanted to know if I could take you out to dinner.”
Moxie was shaking her head before the question was asked. “No. No, I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking about everything that happened in Detroit, and I don’t... I’m not...” She took off her glasses so she wouldn’t have to see Celia clearly. “I don’t think I want that.”
“Oh.”
“I know I teased you during the game, and I’m sorry, but I--”
“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s okay.” Celia sounded disappointed, but not upset. “I guess I understand that. We’re in town until tomorrow, and I think you leave for Brooklyn right after that...?”
Moxie nodded.
“Okay. The invitation stands. We’re staying at the Blackstone Hotel. You know it?”
“Of course I know it. But I’m not going to-to do--”
“I know,” Celia interrupted. “Room 513. Just letting you know. So you’ll know.” She started to back away. “You really did play an outstanding game today, Iona. If nothing else, I wanted to be sure someone told you that.”
Moxie blushed deeper, her face almost on fire. “Okay. Y-yeah, okay.”
Celia laughed. “You’re welcome.”
“What? Oh! Thank you.”
“See you next season, Moxie.”
She watched the blurry woman walk away and then put her glasses back on. She returned to the clubhouse as slowly as possible. She wanted the time to think about the invitation and what it meant. She knew what dinner would have led to. And she didn’t want that. She didn’t. Did she...? She had to admit there was something like disappointment growing in her chest. But if she’d said yes, then she would be the kind of person who said yes to invitations like that.
A person like Rainy or Marcy or Rosalind. And weren’t they all swell...? They were some of the best women she’d ever known, in fact. Why shouldn’t she want to be like them? It would be an honor to be like them.
When she got back to her cubby, she caught Rainy’s eye. The pitcher, strands of hair stuck to the sweat on her still-red face, raised her eyebrows. “Everything okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Moxie said. “You played a good game today.”
Rainy grinned. “I’m not alone in that.”
Another cheer went up. Someone whistled to get attention, and Lillian climbed up onto a bench. Moxie hadn’t even seen their new benefactor’s daughter arrive, but she looked to have been hanging out next to Marcy’s cubby. The cheering died down and she turned at the waist to scan the room.
“Mother has asked me to extend an invitation to the entire team to a dinner tomorrow night at the Blackstone Hotel. Bring your family, your significant others, anyone who wants to cheer you on to the pennant is welcome to come. The Waldon family is footing the bill, so definitely bring your appetites as well! Wonderful performance, ladies!”
She started another round of applause.
Moxie faced her cubby so no one could read anything into her reaction. Why did it have to be the Blackstone? Of all the hotels in Chicago, of all the ballrooms, it had to be one downstairs from the snake in the Garden. She took off her glasses and took a towel out of her cubby, pressed the cloth to her face, and breathed deeply in the hopes it would help clear her mind.
***
Marcy had to wear a dress. That was very firmly asserted by Lorraine Waldron. “If you need to buy one, just go to our store and tell any associate who you are. They’ve been told to extend a line of credit to any Shrikes.” Marcy reluctantly went to the store and allowed the chirpy women who smelled like powder treat her like one of their dolls. She told herself it was for the greater good. A nice dress would be a reusable resource, and they couldn’t just keep borrowing things from Ida.
She didn’t know what made her dress beautiful or how the hell it could cost the number on the price tag. It was just a black dress with a high collar and no sleeves. It was too tight, which the saleswoman said was because it actually fit her perfectly, and she wanted out of it as soon as she put it on. Whatever the reason for the existence of the dress, she didn’t mind too much as long as the money wasn’t coming out of her account. She did ask Ida to help with her hair and makeup - “The bare minimum,” she insisted, “the least you think I can get away with at this sort of shindig.” - and had to admit she looked better than she ever had.
Marcy felt like there were spotlights on her when she walked into the Blackstone ballroom. Heads turned, examined her, then looked away. She’d been prepared for the humiliation of staring, but the shun of indifference caught her off-guard. She tugged at the collar of the dress, resisted the urge to pluck at her hips, and was mindful of every step she took in her heels.
Rosalind was standing by a table of drinks in a pair of slacks and a wrap-around blouse. She didn’t even bother to hide her smile but she waved Marcy over.
“How’d you get away with pants?”
“No one said dresses were mandatory.”
“That was literally the only stipulation Lorraine Waldron made.”
“Oh. Oops.” She had a napkin folded in one hand, unfolding her fingers to reveal a pile of small pigs-in-blankets. “Horse dor-vehs?”
“I’ll pass.” Marcy scanned the room. She saw a few other Shrikes looking equally gussied up, some of them almost recognizable in their finery. “I should have just said to hell with it. Some women just aren’t built for this kind of frou-frou.”
Rosalind looked past her and raised an eyebrow. “And some definitely are.”
Marcy was already regretting it as she turned to see who had just arrived. She knew in her heart who it would be and braced herself, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Caroline Rainy.
Her dress was strapless, midnight blue, with black lace on the bodice. Her hair was up but a handful of ringlets fell in artful curls to frame her face. She was stopped awkwardly on the threshold of the ballroom, one hand against her stomach while the other hovered near her face as if she wanted to pull the brim of a cap down over her eyes.
Marcy reached for Rosalind’s hand without looking, grabbed a tiny sausage, and crammed it into her mouth.
“You’re with the Waldron girl, right?” Rosalind said under her breath.
“Shush. There’s nothing wrong with staring.”
“Drooling, though...”
Marcy swept a hand over her chin and forced herself to look away. “Speaking of Lillian, have you seen her around anywhere?”
Rosalind shook her head and scanned the room. “I saw Lorraine earlier. She looked like she was inspecting the troops. Making sure we’re all in the proper uniform.”
“What did she say about yours?”
“Sighed. Heavily.”
Marcy chuckled and patted Rosalind on the arm. “I’m going to see if I can find Lillian.”
“Good luck.”
Her first stop was a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. She plucked one for herself and took a slow sip. There were some perks to this sort of shindig.
The room wasn’t particularly large, but there were so many people and waiters and tables set up that it felt like navigating a labyrinth. She meandered through the crowd, smiling to people who made eye contact with her and staying in constant motion to prevent any potential conversation. She had no idea who most of the people were. Supporters of the team? Baseball fans? People from the Whales front office? Maybe they were just pretty rich people invited for the sake of looking pretty and being rich.
She spotted Lillian between two columns and started working out a way to intercept. As she got closer, she discovered Lillian was surrounded by a crowd of men. She was about to make her presence known when the voices sharpened into words and she could make out what was being said.
“--proven they can play the game. It’s all technical. Rules and mathematics and that sort of thing. They can’t compete against men, but they don’t have to. Every player on the field is equal.”
“I can’t argue that. I simply have a problem calling it women’s baseball. When I look at those players, I don’t even see women. Women are like you, Lillian. Soft and gentle. These women are brutes! Their arms are too muscular and they stomp around like stevedores. Some of them still have curves in the right places--”
“Ida Coe!”
The men laughed.
“But it doesn’t matter how you gussy them up, they’re hardly women.”
“And they’re certainly not men.”
“Certainly not!”
“The worst of both worlds, really.”
Marcy’s face would have burst into flames if it was physically possible. The conversation up to that point had been infuriating enough, but the last interjection had been given by Lillian, who had been joining in the laughter during the rest of the conversation.
Marcy took a deep breath to calm herself down before she started walking again. She stepped into the circle and watched the faces of the men as they realized who she was. A few of them had enough shame to look away from meeting her eye, uncertain about how much of what they said had been overheard. Lillian’s eyes were frozen wide, and her smile looked painted on.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce you to our secret weapon, shortstop Marcy Neal?”
They offered pinched smiles, fake greetings. One of them offered his hand but Marcy ignored it as she carefully examined all the men.
“You.” She pointed to one with a walrus mustache. “How fast can you run?”
“Pardon?”
“If I challenged you to a race right now, how far would you get before you collapsed? Your face would be redder than those strawberries on the refreshment table.”
He blinked in shock at her. “I-I don’t see what--”
“You.” She turned to a young rake-thin man with a receding hairline. “How many times could you throw a ball before you couldn’t move your arm? And how many of those pitches do you think would actually make it sixty feet to home plate?”
Lillian stepped out of the circle. “Marcy, let’s go for a walk.”
“Rosalind O’Brien can run laps around any of you. Any man in this room! And you all know that. And you would rather attack our femininity than admit you can’t beat a girl at your own game. There’s no reason women can’t play baseball. The Shrikes and the Pros and the Breakers are proving that. And if we have to prove our worth when the Whales or the Cubs or the White Sox get back from the war, then we’ll absolutely do that.”
The rake-thin man pointed a finger at her. “Hey, Marcy Neal. You’re the one who was in the paper saying you’d play the men for the right to use their park.”
“I meant every word, too. I’d put Caroline Rainy’s arm against Joe Benz any day of the week.”
“Caroline Rainy has never pitched a no-hitter.”
“And Benz didn’t pitch one in his first season, either.”
One of the men smiled condescendingly. “So you’re saying we have to make allowances for your girls rather than compare them equally.”
Marcy returned his smile with an extra dose of smugness. “I’m saying that by the time the boys come home, they’ll be at least one whole season out of practice. Us ‘girls’ will just be hitting our stride. So if anyone is going to be getting sympathy points, it won’t be the women.”
Lillian handed her drink to the man next to her and now used both hands to guide Marcy away from the group.
“I think you’ve had a little too much, Marcy, let’s get you some fresh air.”
Marcy let herself be led into the crowd. “What’s the deal, Lillian? I thought you were having a grand old time razzing us before I showed up. Don’t let me ruin your good time.”
“Darn it, Marcy, you can’t be foolish enough to act like this. You know how these things are done. It’s how you get ahead in this world. Those men have influence. They have power. You think guys like that want to do business with Mother? Or with me, once I’ve taken over. I’ve got to show them I’m one of the boys.”
“I’m not one of the boys. I’m sick of aiming low just to stroke their egos.” She pulled free of Lillian’s grasp. “We’re going to play like women and they’re going to have to deal with it.”
When she stormed out of the ballroom, Lillian didn’t pursue her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Everyone in the ballroom witnessed Marcy’s departure. First there was a hush, and then a wave of whispers and barely-concealed chuckling. Rainy hadn’t even seen Marcy up to that point in the evening. She had been trying not to move too much because moving would require her to breathe and the dress was determined to suffocate her. She smoothed a hand over her stomach again and was reminded of the stupid lace, which snagged on her fingernails even though she’d trimmed and filed them for half an hour.
