“Why don’t the two of you go for a walk?” Joyce suggests. “Leave me in peace to do my work.”
“Can you believe this, Pippy?” Walter settles his hat back onto his black curls. “Not even home a day and already my mother is shooing me out the door.”
Joyce smiles at him and turns back to her soup.
Walter winks at me, and I realize just how lonely it’s been since he left in the spring to play minor league ball out west. Initially after Mother died, I was like a pet of sorts to my brothers and Walter. And then as Tim and Nick grew into their adult lives, it became just me and Walter. At eighteen years old, I should be growing into my adult self as well, but behaving like a lady feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume.
Nick is still in Father’s chair, hunkered over the notebook. “Where are you two going?”
“For a walk. Wanna come?”
Nick heaves a sigh as he smooths his sheet of paper. “No, you go ahead. I have a test tomorrow.”
Apparently, becoming a lawyer takes lots of time and energy, even if your father is already one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in Chicago.
“And be safe!” Nick calls after us.
I glance at Walter and roll my eyes as I pull on my hat. That’s become Nick’s constant parting advice since he started studying criminal cases. Ignorance is bliss, it seems, because I never give safety a moment’s thought when I leave the house. Not in a neighborhood like ours, anyway.
Walter holds the wrought iron gate open for me. “Folks will think I’m high class, strolling with a Presley’s girl.”
I glance down at my long black skirt, the sweater, and bow. “Blast. I forgot I still had on my uniform.”
“You look fine. Though I’m not fond of seeing your knuckles in that shade of gray.”
“I bring it upon myself.” I clasp my hands behind my back as the wind bites at us. I probably should have grabbed my coat. “Tell me all about how your season is going. No splints or black eyes, I see.”
“That’s because I’m warming the bench.” Walter’s words have a bitter edge to them. His jaw is set, and his eyes focus farther down tree-lined Astor Street.
Time to dust off my you-can-do-this speech. “I know that’s frustrating, Walter, but you told me yourself that’s just part of the game. It’ll be your turn soon. I’m sure of it.”
Mrs. LeVine is climbing the steps of her front porch, her handbag over her shoulder. She either doesn’t see me or pretends not to. Having lived only three houses down from me since I was two years old, she’s had a front row seat to all the antics that make me a less-than-ideal friend for her prized daughter. I have no doubt that my tendency to walk alongside a man of Walter’s position is on her extensive list of my flaws.
Walter takes a deep breath. “I’ve actually decided to give up baseball.”
My feet stop walking, but Walter presses a hand into the small of my back and urges me onward, around the corner. “How can you even think that, Walter? Since I met you, being a baseball player is basically all you’ve talked about.”
“I know. But I didn’t really know then what it would be like.”
“What do you mean? You love it.”
“When I get to play, yeah.”
It’s a good thing Walter’s hand is pressing me forward, guiding me around a mother pushing her baby in a pram, because I’m so busy staring at him, trying to decode him, that I might have run into them. I’ve known Walter since I was thirteen, when my mother fell ill and Joyce took the live-in housekeeping job. But the boy I’ve known these last five years, so determined to strike out on his own, to provide a living for himself and his mother, is a stranger in this moment.
“Everyone warms the bench sometimes, Walter.”
He winces. “Not everyone.”
“You’re nineteen, and this is your first team. Don’t you think it’s a bit premature to give up on baseball because you’re not a starter yet? Not everyone is Babe Ruth.”
Walter looks away, his chin jutting defiantly. “The money isn’t good either. And you should see the dives we sleep in when we’re on the road.”
“But it won’t always be like that.”
“I don’t want to be poor all my life.”
“Who does? We’re not talking about your whole life. We’re talking about now.”
“I should learn a trade or something.” Walter kicks at a pebble that’s dared to wander from a garden and onto the sidewalk. “Build me some kind of dependable future.”
“Dependable future?” A laugh bubbles out of me. “I’m sorry, are you really Walter Thatcher? Because I’ve never heard you use a phrase like that before. I figured you’d only start talking like that when—” My feet stop walking again, and I press my hand over my mouth.
This time Walter doesn’t force me onward. He stops and gazes at me.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve met someone.”
His only response is to stare back.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”