“Not that you haven’t got ideas, I’m sure,” he said. “Great designs in the mind. Plans to plan. But this place must have cost a small fortune.”
“You’re right,” I said. “My brother and I went in together. I never would have been able to afford this house on my own.”
“Must be a helluva fella,” the old man smiled and then reached out for the baby boy begging to be held.
The house lights dimmed and as the movie started once more, we fell silent to its spell. Three men in baseball caps and matching sweaters pose unhappily on a cold day. The guy in the middle mouths something to the other pair, the words emerge as clouds. Like bears waking from hibernation, they loosen their limbs, roll their necks, shrug their shoulders. The title reads: “Hot Springs, Arkansas, Spring Training.” The man on the left has a serious air about him, the weight of gravitas. Fred Clarke, outfield and manager. In the middle stands an imp. Tommy Leach, third base. But the man on the right is of a kind not made anymore. Long-armed, broad hands, and long crooked fingers, he appears to be a kind of golem or man of baked clay. His legs are slightly bowed. A hooked nose dominates his face, and his gaze at first is circumspect. He shows the cameraman a pet miniature dachshund sitting nonchalantly in the cup of one hand. On command, the little dog barks and howls and then, still in its master’s palm, stands on its hind legs and begs until rewarded with a morsel hidden in the man’s other hand. Once it has finished the treat, the dog lifts its left hind leg and piddles down the big man’s arm. The other two roar with laughter, and the man dances on his bandy legs, feigning anger, until he, too, cannot escape the humor of the moment. His booming laugh can almost be heard. Honus Wagner, the Flying Dutchman, shortstop.
Although she loved him, Adele fought the impulse to blurt out her feelings right then and there at the ball game in front of all those cranks. But she loved him, yes, and was so happy that he loved her, too. She kissed him quickly and for the rest of the day allowed Pat to hold her hand when she was not cheering another victory by the swaggering Pirates. He was good and kind and generous, and aside from that flash of anger at the man in the bowler hat, he had not shown a single fault. A drink now and then, but that could be hidden from her father. And, true, he liked to tease her at times, especially when Christy was around as coconspirator.
“Did I ever tell you,” Pat said near the end of the game, “about our man Hans Wagner and his big shovel of a hand? Out in St. Lou it was, a batter hit a ground ball towards him, but instead of grabbing the baseball, he scooped up a rabbit that had wandered on the field.”
“A rabbit, no,” said Christy.
“Aye, Wagner throws it over to first base anyway, and the runner was out by a hare.”
Adele smacked the meat of his arm with her paper fan. “You boys,” she laughed. “You had me going for a moment. Feeling sorry for the little bunny.”
Up hopped a small hard chaw of a man, his bowler cocked forward to hide a black eye. He waited in the aisle between the rows of seats, as penitent as a scolded child, and he did not speak till Pat noticed him.
“Well, if it ain’t Charlie Wells hisself. I thought I made myself clear last night when we spoke.”
Tipping the brim of his lid, Wells acknowledged Adele and winced before he spoke, as though putting thoughts into words pained his mind. “Beggin’ your pardon, Patsy, but I just came to apologize—again—for the fracas and to inquire after your health.”
Reflexively, Pat brought his hand to his tender mouth. “Never mind all that. It’s you I hope learned your lesson.”
The briefest trace of resentment flashed across Wells’s face, the bitterness of a small man long-suffering and put upon by bullies. He reminded Adele of her father, a man of a thousand grievances against those richer or stronger or more handsome or more confident. Or just luckier in life. She knew countless such downtrodden men, boiling under the surface, who hesitate momentarily when confronted. “Never cross the Irish,” Wells said, with a laugh.
“That’s the style,” Pat said. He seemed unaware, Adele thought, of the little man’s obsequiousness. “Now tell me, do you still think the Pirates won’t finish first and win the flag?”
Let off the hook, Wells relaxed. “From what the touts say, I’d watch that Ed Doheny and see he doesn’t go buggy like the rumor has it. As Doheny goes, so goest the team. They’re in first place now, but I warn you, the wheel of fortune turns for every man.”