Magdalena put the rouge in Lana’s hand. “I’ll get more for you. I know where.”
Chapter 27
James 1957
James shivered in the cool dark. Dawn was approaching. The town was quiet, no one stirring except the milkman, his horse and wagon making deliveries of fresh milk before anyone was ready for breakfast. James tucked farther back into the bushes when the old wagon’s creaking drew near. He could hear bottles clink together, and tired bursts of breath from the old horse’s nostrils. Mr. Mullen cooed to keep his mare moving, the same horse he’d had forever, stubbornly refusing to retire the ancient beast and deliver milk from a truck. They stopped. The wagon groaned as Mr. Mullen stepped down to deliver a bottle. James waited, wishing Mr. Mullen would hurry and move on. James strained for the sound of Joe’s car, praying he wouldn’t hear it until Mr. Mullen was gone.
The wagon creaked again, and after a moment Mr. Mullen snapped the reins. “Get along.” The horse snorted as if it had fallen asleep, its hooves making a slow start and then padding in the soft dirt, one hoof after the other. They came nearer, two houses away. Mr. Mullen’s soft, “Whoa,” seemed unnecessary; his horse had already stalled and was probably asleep again.
James wished he and Magdalena had chosen a different spot to meet. He’d picked this neighborhood so Pop wouldn’t discover them, far off the route he drove into town when he opened his shop. Pop would be furious this morning when Harold told him James wasn’t coming with them, that he had promised to help clean the churchyard instead. It was a lie, but Pop would never ask Pastor Gordon about it. Pop never spoke to any of the churchmen unless they were customers, and most of them weren’t.
The horse snorted awake again. Mr. Mullen turned the mare around, and his wagon moved away, stopping farther down the street.
“Morning,” James heard Mr. Mullen say. “You’re up and out kind of early, aren’t you?”
“Business,” someone answered. It sounded like Magdalena. James stretched up from the bushes. “Gotta keep those houses clean.” A fuzzy head of hair on a tall slender body walked his way.
“You’re a hard worker,” Mr. Mullen said as he lugged two jugs of milk to a house. Magdalena slowed, she was coming James’ direction, but she was stalling. James shrank back into the bushes. He snapped a twig off a branch and broke it in two. Why was she on foot?
When Mr. Mullen moved on farther down the street, James could hear Magdalena’s footsteps. She was hurrying now. Her lanky form appeared above him.
“Where’s Joe’s car?”
“We broke up.”
“What? Why? Couldn’t you have broken up tomorrow? What are we going to do now?” James was on his feet. His voice ranged out of control. Magdalena put her hands on his shoulders and forced him back into the bushes.
“Shhhh. You’re asking too many questions and someone will hear you.”
“Does it matter? We can’t go now anyway, without Joe’s car!” He dropped to the ground. He snapped off another twig and cracked it in two.
“I’ll get you there,” Magdalena said above him.
“How? It’s almost too late. Dang! Can you go back and make up with Joe? Just for a day?”
Magdalena didn’t answer. She stood above him, looking one way and then the other. He snapped the half twigs into quarters. Who knew when another scout for the Lakeland baseball league would be this close again? Even though James was too old to cry, he still felt like it. He might be a little too young to make a major team, but he’d practiced so hard, hoped for so long, and he planned to lie about his age if he had to. He was ready, at least he thought he was. Andy had told him about the baseball scout two towns over, looking for fresh ball players. Ever since James found out, it was all he could think about. All he wanted.
“Hold on. Don’t get so excited. I’ve been thinking about this all the way over.”
“Would Joe let you use the car anyway? Just for the day?”
Magdalena snorted. “Forget Joe. I can come up with another idea.”
“I can’t imagine what it would be. No one’s up this early, except maybe Pop. And he’s the last person that would give me a ride to try out.”
“Get up!” Magdalena snapped. Her hand grabbed the shoulder of his jacket and yanked him to his feet. “Why didn’t I think of that? Come on.”
“Think of what? Pop? Have you lost your mind?” James jerked out of her clutch and straightened his jacket. “I’ll just walk over to Pop’s shop and tell him I’m working today after all. I’ll make up something about Pastor Gordon catching a cold or something.”
“I haven’t lost my mind, and no, not Pop, but close. And I don’t want you lying any more, little brother. It’s not good for you.” Magdalena grabbed his upper arm and hauled him in the direction of downtown, of Pop’s shop.
James stumbled along with her. “What do you mean, ‘close’?”
“Close to Pop. We’ll ask Mr. Morgan to take you. I mean, us.”
James stopped. “Mr. Morgan?”
“He’s up. I saw lights in his restaurant. Probably got his milk before anyone else. He’ll do this for you. I know he will.”
“He can’t.” James refused to budge. Magdalena looked back at him. “He’s too busy.” And Ida probably wouldn’t stand for it. James recalled the way she’d looked at him the day Mr. Morgan served him the sundae.
“Nonsense.” Magdalena grabbed his arm again. “Come on.” She jerked James her way, and he stumbled after her, his glove tucked under his arm.
When they reached the main section of downtown, James saw that Magdalena was right. The only glow on the street came from Mr. Morgan’s restaurant. Not from lights in the front, where people would sit and have coffee and breakfast, but from the back where the work was being done. James cupped his face in his hands and peered through the front window. No one was in sight. Might be better that way. It would be easier and safer to just go on to Pop’s and work the day. Magdalena could go clean a house or get on the good side of Joe so she could have use of his car again.
Magdalena marched to the door and rapped on it with her knuckles.
“You can’t do that!” James grabbed her wrist.
“How else am I going to get his attention?” Magdalena yanked her arm free and rapped again. A shadow filled the back doorway to the kitchen. When it moved, James recognized the squareish silhouette as Mr. Morgan’s. Magdalena waved and called. He laid down a towel and walked to the door and unlocked it.
James felt himself redden. He thanked God it was still dark. He’d never understand how Magdalena could be so bold. Mr. Morgan eyed James’ sister as the door came open.
“Morning, Glen. I mean Mr. Morgan. Mind if we come in?”
Mr. Morgan glanced behind Magdalena, then to the side. His gaze lit on James. Even in the dim light James could see Mr. Morgan’s bafflement soften. Then he frowned. “You two all right?” He looked back at Magdalena.
“Sort of,” she said. “My brother could use a little help.”
Mr. Morgan stepped aside. He swung his arm into the restaurant, and Magdalena followed him. She motioned to James. He followed too, lagging behind.
Mr. Morgan closed and locked the door behind them. “What can I help you with?” He glanced from Magdalena to James.
“There’s a scout for the Lakewood baseball team over in Marshall today. James was planning to go…”
Magdalena kept talking, explaining James’ plans, his and Harold’s plot to fool Pop, her inability to get a car to take him, but Mr. Morgan wasn’t listening. His eyes were on the glove tucked under James’ arm. Magdalena finished. She’d skipped the part about breaking up with Joe, her husband of barely more than a year.
“Would you be able to take him?” Magdalena finished.
Mr. Morgan looked at James’ sister.
“I’ll stay and help here at the restaurant,” she offered. James was surprised. What did Magdalena know about cooking or restaurants? To his further surprise, Mr. Morgan nodded.
“I’ll take him,” Mr. Morgan said. He turned, walked to the back of the restaurant, and disappeared through the lighted doorway. There were voices back there, two men and a woman. James prayed the woman wasn’t Ida.
“You know what to do in a restaurant?” James whispered to his sister. He expected Ida would nix the whole plan, still baffled why Mr. Morgan would trust Magdalena to work for him to begin with.
Magdalena shrugged. “I know things.”
The voices were low, and terse. Mr. Morgan appeared in the doorway again. He came to where James and Magdalena stood.
“Ida’s in the back. She can show you what needs done.” Then he looked at James. “Let’s go. My car’s at the house. We can walk there and get it.”
“Do good, little brother.” Magdalena squeezed his shoulder. Then she nodded at Mr. Morgan and headed to the back. Her voice sounded jovial and confident as she disappeared into the kitchen. James couldn’t hear Ida, only Magdalena. She was bright and cheery. At least she pretended to be. Ida, no matter how stern, didn’t have a chance.
Mr. Morgan unlocked the front door and they stepped onto the sidewalk. James watched him relock it from the outside. As they turned and headed down the walk, something caught his eye in the restaurant. The kitchen doorway dimmed. A silhouette much shorter and fuller than Magdalena filled it, blocking the kitchen light. Ida, he thought. He prayed Magdalena would behave herself and not upset her more than she apparently already was.
“I’m honored you asked me to do this,” Mr. Morgan said as they moved quickly beyond his restaurant’s front window, Ida left behind. He didn’t know if Mr. Morgan saw her or not. Surely he at least felt her. James sure could.
Chapter 28
James 1957
Mr. Morgan stood near the fence. He’d been there all day, never moving to the scanty bleachers to join the other spectators the whole time James played. James glanced beyond him, at the seating arranged around the infield. Mama should be there watching him, but she wasn’t. He hadn’t even told her about the tryouts. If Pop found out, he’d be furious, and Pop would include her in his attacks on James, yell at her and blame her for
that boy
. Just like he always did.
James tried not to look at Mr. Morgan, but he did, he couldn’t stop himself. Mr. Morgan was looking back, his eyes on James, saying the things Mama would have said if she’d been there, maybe even more. James looked away. There were other things in Mr. Morgan’s eyes, things a father should say, things Pop never had. He stretched his hands around two bats together and took a practice swing. He could feel the weight, just like Mr. Morgan had shown him years ago. He swung again, waiting for his turn at bat.
Choke up when you use a big bat.
James heard the old advice in his mind. It came back, and he almost shouted it at the batter as he watched him swing and miss a fast pitch. James was much stronger now. What he lacked in height, he made up for in strength. He swung the two bats again, even harder, trying to look as old as real ball players were. He rarely choked up on a bat anymore, but that advice had saved him. It gave him strength on the inside where he needed it the most. James glanced at the bleachers, where only strangers sat. He missed Mama’s smile and her encouragement. He missed hearing her say his name the right way.
The boy at bat swung and missed again. He whacked the dirt with the end of the bat and stalked to the dugout.
“Batter up!”
James tossed the smaller of the two bats back into the dugout and stepped to the plate. He held the bat high in the air with one hand while he dug his toes into the dirt, positioning himself for the hit that mattered. Lots of fantastic players were here; the competition was stiff. James wasn’t the best player trying out, but he was good, good enough to stand a fair chance of being selected if this time at bat went well.
Before he settled, before he lowered the bat and gripped it with both hands, he glanced at Mr. Morgan. He was still there, his fingers laced through the fencing just like they’d been years ago. Mr. Morgan nodded when their eyes connected.
It should have been Pop standing there
. Mr. Morgan’s kindness didn’t make up for Pop’s hurt. It made it worse, if anything, made it more poignant, and made James angry he’d been born to a father that didn’t care.
James stared at the pitcher. He twisted the bat in his hands and planted his feet. This pitcher was new. There was a different one each time James came to bat. That kept him from learning one pitcher’s style, becoming familiar with how they stood, how their faces changed right before they wound up and let go. This one was tall and lean, just like Pop. He was freckled and fair-skinned. His face was set like a stone, like this was a private war between him and James.
There was no warning nod, no shift in position to let James know the pitch was coming. Suddenly it was there, the pitcher’s motion so instantaneous James hadn’t even seen him move.
“Strike one!” The umpire roared behind him as the ball smacked the catcher’s glove. James stared at the umpire. It wasn’t the umpire’s fault, but James had to stare at something while the strike registered. The ball whisked past him as the catcher returned it to the pitcher. The catcher pounded his mitt with a fist and walked in a circle before squatting to the ground behind the plate again.
James stepped backwards out of the batter’s box. He watched the pitcher rub the ball into his glove and pace off a few steps around the mound. James took a practice swing. He wouldn’t let that happen again.
He stepped back to the plate. The pitcher was in place, ball and glove together at shoulder height. He stared as James steadied himself, keeping the bat high in one hand. James dug his toes deeper into the dirt. He’d hit the ball this time. He’d be ready.
James glanced at the pitcher before he settled into the batter’s box. His feet were in place, but he kept the bat high. He needed a moment, and he used his power as the batter to hold the pitcher at bay. He lowered the bat and gripped it with both hands, his eye on the pitcher, watching for the clues he’d missed before. Somewhere there would be a wince, a blink, a shift of weight from one foot to the other.
“Strike two!”
A small cloud of dust burst from the catcher’s mitt as the ball slapped like a gunshot. James stared down at the mitt and the dust. So quick, so fast. He hadn’t even swung, there’d been no opportunity. He wheeled away from the batter’s box, walked a few feet back, cracking the sides of his shoes with the bat with each step. He shook his head. This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t let it. His fielding and pitching had been perfect all day. If he batted poorly, they wouldn’t choose him. He could bat. He would.