The Only Game in Town, page 2
Rosalind slowed to a walk. David stepped on the brakes and eased to a stop alongside her. She rested her hands on the top of Marcy’s door and looked back the way they’d come. She jutted her chin out, brow furrowed under the fringe of her bangs.
“Shrikes, huh?”
“The Chicago Shrikes.”
One eyebrow rose and she drummed her fingers on the door. “Let me think about it. Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ve probably got enough.”
“Sure,” David said. “There’s probably--”
She took off running again. Marcy laughed, David stared after her.
“Is she really going to run the entire way home?”
“It’s only a mile or two. Are you going to start driving any time soon? It’ll be embarrassing if she gets there before us.”
David shook his head and drove after her. “Okay, she can run. But I’ve seen her throw. She’s decent at best.”
“That’s a lie and you know it,” Marcy said. “She throws as good as anyone we already got. And she might strike out a few times, sure, who doesn’t. But once she gets a hit, I’d love to see someone try to catch her.”
***
Rosalind knew that model of car topped out at three miles an hour, five tops, so she didn’t have to push herself to beat them to her house. Rosalind lived in a farmhouse with a covered porch on an acre of land surrounded by fields of tall grass. It was her oasis, her own little island from which she could see visitors coming from a mile away. There weren’t many and that was the way she liked it. Peace and quiet. A normal, calm life.
She didn’t need this. She had a good job at the soda shop, where she liked the owner and the other employees. It paid well. She even had a good amount of savings. And... and she wasn’t entirely certain what it was for. She owned her house, and she liked it more than fine. She had no intention of moving. She didn’t need an automobile, since she did her grocery shopping with Mabel and she could just run or walk everywhere else.
So what the hell was that money doing, just piling up in the bank? What on earth did she plan to spend it on? And what was she waiting for?
She heard the rumble of the engine and her lip curled in distaste. “Whatever it is I’m waiting on,” she muttered to herself, “it is not coming from Mr. David damn Buckner...”
She filled a glass with water, drained it, refilled it, and went to the window to watch the cloud of dust grow larger as her first visitors in six months got closer. She ran through all the ways she could say no to what Marcy was offering. She didn’t want to be rude, Marcy was a good egg and didn’t deserve that. But maybe rudeness would keep her from coming back and sniffing around some other time. Then again, she didn’t want her to think there was hope of changing her mind...
The car stopped in front of the house. She could see them through the dirt-shrouded windshield, talking for a good minute before Marcy finally got out of the car and started to the porch.
Rosalind filled another glass with water. Marcy knocked on the door and let herself in, smiled, and took the glass Rosalind offered.
“No.”
“You said you’d think about it over dinner.”
Rosalind shrugged. “I thought about it on the run instead.” She looked at the door. “How come he’s not going overseas with the other boys?”
“He has some kind of heart thing,” Marcy said. “Unfit for duty.”
Rosalind snorted. “That figures. What took him so long to get here, anyway? I’m fast but I’m not that fast.”
“He was tempted to just go back to town. He said we had your answer. But I think you’re worth fighting for. I want you on the team, Rosalind. We need you.”
She looked outside and saw him puffing on a cigar. She was glad he stayed outside; she wouldn’t have wanted him stinking up the house with the thing. It was as good an excuse as any to keep him outside without getting into a whole thing with Marcy about him. She had more than enough of David Buckner when she was with the Lady Yankees and he was the manager, and she had no intention of giving him a chance to continue his bad behavior.
She could’ve told Marcy when she left the team. Hell, she could tell her now. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t, not without being absolutely sure how Marcy would react. The man was her mentor, and now he was offering her a pro-level team. Rosalind didn’t like guessing where she would come out in that debate. Best to just keep quiet.
She walked to the table where Marcy was waiting. “I saw the notice and I know what Buckner wants to do. I’m not going to play some glorified softball exhibition to kill time until the boys come home.”
Marcy shook her head. “That’s not at all what it is. And it’s not his idea, it’s mine. He’s just the go-between for the team and the owners. Contracts and rental agreements to make sure we have permission to use the parks. It’s going to be baseball, Rosalind. No skirts. No charm school. No underhand pitching. We don’t have to kowtow to anyone ‘cause they need us as much as we need them. Think about how much money these owners are going to lose if the season gets canceled. With every other player headed overseas, they’re looking down the barrel at a season with no income whatsoever.”
Rosalind leaned back in her chair. “The season starts in a month.”
“I know that.”
“You think there’s gonna be enough teams for a whole league in one month?”
“There are enough teams now,” Marcy said. “I know, I’ve been playing against them. We’ve got our team, but we need to replace the girls who aren’t serious enough to make a job out of it. We need someone like you, Ros. We need someone who cares and who has the talent to get us all the way to the World’s Championship Series.”
Rosalind chuckled. “A World’s Series of women.”
“Why not?” Marcy grinned. And damn that grin. It was enough to make a weaker woman do anything she asked.
But Rosalind wasn’t weak. She got up and went to the sink. “We’re still going to be managed by men. And given our marching orders by men. Men are still going to be in charge of the whole thing. And when the war ends, which could happen any day now, you know we’re going to be shuffled back off to the kitchen.”
“Unless we prove that we can hold our own.” Marcy stood up. “When are we going to have another chance like this, Ros? You said it yourself, the war could end tomorrow. Will you be able to live with yourself knowing you could have taken advantage of this moment in history when we were literally the only option? Women are out there doing jobs we never would’ve been hired for otherwise. Why not ballplayer? And the only way the teams are going to stand out in places like, like, Boston and New York is if we’ve got the best players. We can’t do it with the B-team, Ros. We need you.”
Rosalind’s ears pricked up, and her fingers curled on the counter. “Baltimore?”
“What?”
“Would we have games in Baltimore?”
Marcy was clearly thrown by the specificity. “Uh. Yeah, there are rumors about a team being put together there. They got a ballpark, so I’d be shocked if they didn’t have a team we can play in a few weeks. What’s so special about Baltimore?”
The blood was rushing in Rosalind’s ears. She had to struggle to keep her breathing steady. She shook her head because she didn’t want to answer Marcy’s question. Her mind was going too fast for even her to keep up. So instead she pushed all thoughts of Baltimore out of her mind and looked out the window. David was pacing in front of his car, cigar poised next to his face, eyes cast on the ground.
“I don’t want him in charge of me. I don’t want him telling me what to do.”
“Fair enough. Hell, I’ll do my best to make sure you never even have to speak to him.”
Rosalind took a deep breath. The things women did to chase their dreams...
“What are the uniform colors gonna be?”
“We hadn’t really discussed that,” Marcy admitted. “Right now we’re just scrambling to get players like you before anyone else can snatch you up.”
“Orange,” Rosalind said. “I like orange.”
Marcy bobbed her head in agreement. “Orange is a good color. It’s a great color. We’ll work it into the logo.”
Rosalind took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then she held her hand out to Marcy.
“I guess you’ve got center field locked in.”
Marcy grinned and stood up, clapped her hand against Rosalind’s, and squeezed.
“We’re gonna show everybody what we can do.”
Rosalind pumped Marcy’s arm, but she couldn’t help but think about the man outside. She could almost smell the stench of his cigar smoke. She doubted he would be very pleased about her agreeing to be on the team, but maybe it would be a good thing. Maybe the Shrikes needed someone who knew what kind of man he really was, someone who wasn’t scared to step in if he got back up to his old tricks. That was worth more to her than any game.
She dropped her hand from Marcy’s. “So who else you got in mind?”
“We’ve got a few gals already who are more than ready for the jump to the big show,” Marcy said. “But Dave and I are going to hit up a few other people like you. People who got tired of waiting for their chance. We’re going to find them, and we’re going to give the game back to them. Even if it’s just for one season.”
Chapter Two
Iona “Moxie” Moccia’s carpetbag smacked the sidewalk directly in front of a man in a trilby. He’d been too involved with his newspaper to pay attention to the world around him and jumped back a step, stared at the bag, then twisted to look up at the same time Moxie leaned out the window to see where her bag had landed. Her hair was done up in a pompadour, and she was dressed in what looked to be her Sunday finery despite it being the middle of the workweek. She wore a pair of glasses thick enough to make her eyes look almost inhuman.
She flashed her winningest smile at him. “Morning, mister. Say, would you mind terribly sliding that trash bin over under the window?”
He looked where she pointed. A silver trash can stood next to the front steps of the building to which her window belonged. The street was empty save for the two of them. He was very clearly torn, unsure if he should mind his own business or help a potential damsel in distress.
Moxie looked back into the room and lowered her voice. “It’ll just take two seconds. I’d be very grateful if you could just move it a skosh closer.”
He made his decision. Tucking the paper under one arm, he marched over to the can. It was light enough that it might have been completely empty, so he had no trouble repositioning it. When it was in place, he took a step back. Moxie climbed up to sit on the windowsill, gathered her skirts, and slung her leg over and out. She had to stretch her foot to find the can, and then she took a second to make sure it remained steady and could hold her weight.
“Would you mind? Sir?”
“Pardon?” He was trying not to look at the exposed part of her stocking, his hands out to steady the can but reluctant to actually get close enough.
“Just need a little...” She got her other foot down, both hands on the windowsill for balance. “There we go.”
She turned to face the street and bent her knees.
“Little help?”
“Uh. Gosh...”
He blushed as he reached up to put his hands on her hips. She put her hands on his shoulders and hopped, forcing him to take her weight or let her fall. He placed her on the sidewalk and stumbled back a step, anxiously looking around to see if anyone had appeared to witness what had just happened.
Moxie brushed off her dress before she faced him. “Thanks for the help, fella.”
“What just... what did...” He pointed at the window when his words failed to produce a coherent question. “Is everything all right, miss?”
“Peachy keen.”
She dropped down to pick up her bag, winked at him when she straightened up, and went to a bicycle chained to a post in front of the building. The bag went in a basket between the handlebars and she pulled up her dress enough that she could swing her leg over and settle on the seat.
“Miss, I’m not sure... I-I think we should...”
“Everything’s fine.” She pushed off the sidewalk with her foot and waved goodbye to him. “See you in the funny papers.”
Moxie was certain he watched her the entire time she was riding away. He probably kept on staring for a while after she was out of sight, too. She didn’t care. People had been staring at her for too many years for her to start caring now. All she cared about now was pedaling as fast as possible. She needed to be far enough away that she wouldn’t hear her mother shouting when she discovered the bedroom was empty. If she didn’t hear the shouting, she could claim ignorance, she could say she’d forgotten about babysitting her cousin Ike, just slipped her mind.
She didn’t slow her pace until she reached Addison. The park was just ahead, a glorious sight framed by the steel legs of the L tracks. Just seeing the park fence was enough to make her break out into a smile. Weeghman Park, home of the Chicago Whales. Or at least it was. Before the draft, there had been talk that the Federal League was dead as a doornail, and the Whales would be merging with the Cubs. Now everything was up in the air, and the park was essentially vacant. But it didn’t matter whose name was over the gates. This was where baseball lived, a steel and concrete playground with a single-deck bandstand that started at home plate and curled around until it ended three hundred feet later by left field.
Even though her thighs were starting to burn, she pedaled faster, hunching forward over the handlebars. A train rattled loudly overhead as she passed beneath the tracks, and it was almost loud enough to drown out the sound of her excited laughter. It didn’t matter how many times she’d been to the park, and at this point it had to be dozens, she still felt like a little kid when it was in her sights.
She dropped her bike on the sidewalk outside the side gate, scooped up her bag, and fast-walked to the southern side of the property. She pressed her side against the wall and peered around the corner. A groundskeeper’s truck was parked next to a stretch of chain-link, its tailgate open and the actual workers nowhere to be seen.
Moxie’s heart began thudding hard against her ribs. This was why she’d been so irate with her mother, why she’d insisted today of all days she couldn’t be expected to play the good cousin and watch the baby. Kate had been insisting this rumor was true for weeks now. She swore up and down that the new landscaper had a habit of sneaking off for a little nip before lunch, and most times he just left the gate wide open. He always came on Wednesday, and he always wet his whistle between ten-fifteen and ten-thirty. Moxie didn’t know the exact time, but she knew the window was closing pretty darned fast.
She strolled along the sidewalk as casual as she liked, trying to mimic an ordinary pedestrian. Just another woman out for a casual walk, all grown-up and worried about work or bills or something silly like that. She put her hands behind her back so her bag bumped against the backs of her thighs and kept her shoulders straight as she walked. She’d even dressed up so nobody could possibly think she was up to mischief.
With one final scan of the area, she changed direction and ran through the open gate. It led to a dark and cluttered cavern under the bandstand, which afforded her a great many hiding places in many directions. She moved carefully but quickly through the storage space, sliding around crates full of things she couldn’t identify and machines she couldn’t imagine their uses.
Moxie froze at every sound, positive it would be someone coming to tell her she couldn’t be there, that she’d have to leave. The groundskeeper’s schedule, along with baseball being shut down by the government, created the perfect opportunity for exploring with very little risk of being caught. But ‘very little’ didn’t mean ‘zero,’ so she still had to be very careful not to cross paths with anyone who might be haunting the same storage space.
Ten minutes after she breached the perimeter, she heard the racket from one of those blasted mowing machines start out on the grass. She hated those contraptions, but she was grateful they were so noisy now. Knowing she was safe from bumping into the groundskeeper made her bolder. She started looking for ways to explore further.
It didn’t take her long to find a way up into the stands. She peeked out from a shadowy nook to spot the groundskeeper with his mower. He was in right field, as far away from her as it was possible to be without leaving the park. It looked like he was pushing a piano across the grass and it sounded about as pretty. As long as she didn’t move too suddenly, he probably wouldn’t see her.
Keeping stealthy and hugging a wall, Moxie found her way higher until she was in the press box. Forget any of the benches down below. This was the best seat in the house. She ran her hands over the desktop and leaned forward so she could see the whole field. The grin threatened to break off the sides of her face as she breathed in deep. Fresh cut grass wafted up from below, and she was grateful for the groundskeeper’s contribution to the experience.
She dropped down into one of the seats and leaned back. She opened her bag, reached inside, and took out her glove. She slipped her hand inside, stretched the leather, and punched her fist into the well-worn center.
The park was still pretty new, and now she would know that every single home game she read about in the newspaper was seen from this point of view, written right on this very desk. She could see it now, sitting in her bedroom as they described Mordecai Brown’s three-fingered knuckle ball or a save by Clem Clemens. All she had to do was time-travel back to this moment and put them on the field that was spread out in front of her. It would be almost as good as really being there.
Six years ago, her father had taken her to Comiskey Park to see an exhibition game played under artificial lights. She didn’t remember the teams or any of the players, but she would never forget how magical it felt to see the whole field lit up like daytime. Everyone’s shadows were sharp and dancing, stretched so long that they seemed like some whole other entity.
