—
A DRY SPRING HAD started to cause chatter among the Dakotans about the fearful possibility of a damaged wheat crop, but as May ended with little rain Frank continued to feel bullish about the prospects for Baum’s Bazaar. Maud could not fail to notice how very differently he conceived of his business than anything her father had ever done at the Gage General Store. Her father’s motto had always been to make sure that you have what folks are looking for—and not much more; it was important to keep a tight watch on the books, as every penny could be the difference between failure and profit. Frank’s idea was different. More modern, he insisted. He brought the razzle-dazzle of the former theater man, with the lollapalooza of a man who had once written advertisements to entice people to buy his axle grease.
“You see, Maud dear,” Frank said, feet up on the footstool, a cigar stuck in his mouth, one night after their supper, “people don’t know what they want. You have to show them. Don’t expect people to just walk into your shop and know exactly what they’re looking for—no sirree. You’ve got to prime the pump—you create the desire, and once people want something, they’ll stop at nothing to get it.”
Maud was tatting a lace handkerchief. She needed to keep count in her head as she listened, so she let Frank talk on without paying him too much mind. Maud enjoyed a happy Frank—his enthusiasm was infectious, buoying her past her worries; he always had one foot already into some sparkling, imaginary future. The particular future that had enamored him of late was America’s game. Baseball.
“Bats, balls, uniforms,” Frank said. “Ticket sales. Why, the Hub City Nine will need to be fitted out, and can you imagine how many small boys all over town will drag their mothers and fathers into the store to buy official Spalding balls for them? That’s what I’m saying, Maud. They didn’t even know how much they missed America’s game—but they’re going to know soon. We’re going to remind them.”
Maud kept counting under her breath as she weaved the tiny stitches. She smiled and nodded.
“But the Hub City Nine is more than just baseball—it’s civic pride, it’s something to put our town on the map. When the vote goes up for statehood, and we get to choose our capital, do you reckon Huron and Pierre will be able to compete with Aberdeen? I don’t think so. By the time our team wins the Dakota Territory Championship, it will seem like only common sense that the capital of the new state of Dakota will have to be located right here—Hub City, home of the Hub City Nine. And when Aberdeen is as big as Chicago, we can triple, maybe even quadruple the size of our store—we won’t even have to mind it anymore, we’ll have a full-time staff of paid clerks. Won’t it be something? We’ll leave it to the boys—oh, and our little girl of course,” Frank added, looking toward Maud’s belly with a smile.
Maud placed her hand over her stomach and frowned a bit. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Frank dear.”
* * *
—
ABERDEEN’S BASEBALL DIAMOND SAT between the edge of the town and the railroad tracks. From the bleachers, you could see over the fence and to the great expanse of bright grassland beyond. On the roof of the Ives House Hotel, about a half block behind the fence line, a crowd of people had gathered—young boys with their legs dangling off the roof and old men who had brought along their own wooden chairs. Frank frowned up at the gaggle on the roof.
“Hard to make a living if half the folks in Aberdeen won’t buy a ten-cent ticket,” he said, but there was no real malice in his voice.
When the nine men ran out onto the field, a shout of joy went up from the gathered people—those inside the baseball field and those up on the roof.
“Those uniforms are terrific,” Bunting said, craning forward on his seat and shading his eyes with his hand. Maud had to admit that the uniforms, in gray and maroon, with each player’s name and number and the words HUB CITY NINE embroidered on them, were a sight to behold. Frank had not only set up the team, he had fronted the money for the uniforms and all the equipment, expecting to earn back the cost from ticket sales. Maud felt a familiar twinge of worry as she saw the half-filled stands and the crowds of people peering through the slats in the fence, but today was opening day, and all of Aberdeen appeared to be in attendance—ticket holders or not. Maybe Frank was right about baseball.
Maud had filled a basket with fried chicken, hard-boiled eggs, and lemon cake. The morning sickness that had been plaguing her had at last abated, and the entire afternoon seemed enchanted. Frank held Maud’s hand and talked excitedly about how the Hub City Nine was going to play for the territorial title and win at the state fair. The sunny weather held for most of the afternoon, but during the ninth inning, a cold wind picked up and black clouds, which had appeared distant on the horizon, now scudded in, casting the ball field in shadows.
“Oh, I think it’s going to rain,” Maud said, quickly packing up their basket and pulling on the boys’ woolen jerseys. Sure enough, a few fat raindrops splashed their faces, but in a moment the black clouds sailed past, and the sky was a tranquil blue again.
“What a relief!” Maud said. “I thought we were in for a downpour.”
“I guess you’re not a farmer, ma’am!” A fellow seated on the bleachers in front of her turned around and looked at Maud with a frown. “It’s past Independence Day. We’re already way behind on the spring rain—I’ve got my wheat crop in. We need it.”
Maud was gathering her wits to respond—and it would have been sharply—but Frank jumped to her defense. “No need to speak that way to the lady. We’re all hoping for rain as much as the next person.” Frank reached into his front pocket and pulled out his card: L. FRANK BAUM, PROPRIETOR, BAUM’S BAZAAR.
“Frank Baum,” Frank said, extending his hand in a friendly manner. He pumped the farmer’s callused hand in greeting while clasping his left hand around the man’s arm. “You’re right as right,” he said. “Right as rain, you might say!” Frank was smiling broadly. “And I’m sure that those rain clouds that just blew past will come back and stick around.”
“I ’preciate you saying that,” the fellow said, a touch more warmly than he had spoken to Maud. “We’re already far behind in rainfall right now. If we go another week, the first crop will be stunted.”
Maud only half-listened to Frank’s optimistic predictions about the weather. She considered it a personal failing that she couldn’t muster very much interest in farming. There was a capriciousness in it that went monumentally at odds with everything Maud cherished: order, predictability, and calm. But here in Dakota, it seemed as if God himself had designed a way to torture people. Blizzards so sudden and severe that a body could get lost on his own property, hailstones the size of hen’s eggs, a relentless sun beating down upon you and not a spot of shade in which to escape it, rains so heavy that a flash flood could carry you away—and the most dreaded of all, the tornadoes, with their ungodly black funnel clouds.
Personally, she had been enjoying the long streak of sunny days without rain. Maud tuned out the men’s chatter and turned her attention back to packing up their day’s belongings. She folded up their blankets, dusting off the crumbs, tucked the rest of the jar of strawberry preserves back in the basket, wrapped a clean linen cloth around the half loaf of bread, and returned her attention to the game, which was now at the bottom of the ninth inning.
Frank was promising the farmer that rain was imminent, as if Frank Baum controlled the weather himself.
“I’ll tell you what,” Frank said. “I’m so sure it’s going to rain, I’ll make you a wager. If it hasn’t rained by next Sunday, you can step right into Baum’s Bazaar and I’ll give you a dollar’s worth of merchandise on credit. You can pay me back out of your fine harvest next fall.”
“Frank, I—” Maud tried to interrupt Frank before he shook on this crazy promise, but it was too late. The farmer, now smiling broadly, was pumping Frank’s proffered hand.
“Mr. Baum, you have got yourself a deal.”