Stealing home, p.16
Stealing Home, page 16
He stood from the rattan chair and poked his head through the French door leading into the bedroom.
“Come out and sit with me?”
“I shouldn't. It's late, and with tomorrow being Sunday—”
He held his hands up, imploring. “I just want to talk to somebody about the game.”
“Well, I don't know if I'd be much good at that,” she said, although she did move one shoulder and half of a foot into his room. “I'm afraid I only know as much as you and Ned tell me.”
“Come talk to me.” So he wouldn't have to go down to the jail. Find the single prisoner in the town's only cell and ask him where a fellow could get a drink to celebrate a near victory. “Just for a while.”
“I have to get up early in the morning. The church picnic—” She was backing away.
“I'll go with you. Tomorrow morning.”
“To church?” She looked suspicious. And amused.
“Ten minutes. I'll even put out the cigar.”
He watched her walk across his room, her robe conforming to her body with each step. Small, narrow frame—nothing like the creation women achieved with their corsets and bustles and all those other contrivances designed to keep a man at bay. Her hair fell in waves and curls, her face floating soft in the middle of it.
It wasn't the first time he thought women had the whole thing backward. All those buttons and hairpins, lace and puffs, thinking they're making themselves beautiful. In competition with each other, maybe. But for a man, what a waste. If Ellie Jane Voyant looked like this sitting on her front porch on a Saturday night, Floyd would be warding off the suitors with his gun.
Duke ushered her through the door with a grand gesture, even offering her his generous rattan chair, pulling out the high-backed wooden one from the bedroom desk for himself. He settled on the edge of its seat, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. Then unclasped. Then clasped again. He shouldn't have offered to give up the cigar.
“You did a lovely job at the scoreboard, Miss Voyant.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Dennison.” She was twirling a lock of hair. Maybe he should offer her the cigar.
“We should bring that up to the big games.”
“Bring what?”
“A beautiful woman to work the scoreboard.”
“Oh, Mr. Dennison, please.” She sank deep into the chair. Flattening her body within the pink-striped gown. Disappearing beneath a sheet of curls.
“I mean it.” Hints of his old self were coming out from the corners of his brain, smoothing his tongue. Moment by moment, she was becoming just another girl. After the game. In—or near—his bedroom. “That way, even if you're losing, you've got something pretty to look at.” He delivered the line with a practiced wink.
She laughed. A soft sound. “I'm afraid your charms are lost on me, Mr. Dennison. You're a little too—”
“Late?”
“I was going to say rehearsed. But how refreshing to know you see me as a lost cause.” She gripped the arms of the chair and was about to stand when Duke was seized with a certain panic. He didn't want to be alone. Not here on the balcony. Maybe not in his bed. He never slept alone after a game.
“Ellie Jane. Wait.” He grabbed her hand as she walked past him, not relinquishing it even as he stood behind her. “That isn't at all what I meant.”
“It's late.” She wrenched her hand away and moved through the door back into his bedroom, with Duke following close on her heels.
“That's what I meant to say. Late. I meant, is it too late? For me. Because you're in love with somebody else.”
She stopped walking. Didn't turn around but stopped dead in the center of his room.
Her shoulders slumped. She became smaller. “I'm not.”
Duke knew she'd never turn around on her own power, and he didn't trust himself to touch her again. Not yet. So he circled around, coming to a stop in front of her. Then, testing himself, he reached out and took a thin, bundled curl between his thumb and finger, satisfied with that silken touch.
“What about Ned?”
Her nightgown, untied at the throat, revealed a perfect triangle of pale white skin that now flushed pink as every other flannel stripe.
“Don't be silly.”
Still, she didn't move. Not nearer to him. Not away. He held on to those few strands, relishing this connection to her, willing her amber eyes to look up into his, and feeling a tiny breath of triumph when they did.
“He's in love with you.” Duke took one step closer.
“We've been friends since we were children.” She didn't back away.
“But you weren't friends when I got here.”
“No—well, yes —”
Her eyes darted about, but he followed them, trying to keep himself ever present in her vision. Not sure whose escape he was preventing.
“Has he ever kissed you?”
“No.” A whisper.
“Not a quick one behind the schoolhouse? Under the mistletoe in the cloakroom at Christmastime?”
“No,” she said with a giggle, and he moved in closer. Cupped his hand around the back of her neck. Felt the weight of her hair on his arm, trapping him. Warmth seemed to radiate from her very skin, and he smelled her bath soap—a scent now so familiar he imagined he could be anywhere, with anyone, and the slightest waft of Snow-berry would bring him back to this woman. This night.
“Have you ever been kissed, Miss Voyant?”
“You know the answer to that, Mr. Dennison.”
One week ago, earlier this afternoon, he would have known the answer. But this was a different woman. All the prickles had fallen away. Not a thorn in sight. Anywhere—at least he intended to find out.
Duke brought his other hand up and ran his finger gently across her lips.
“I'd like to kiss you now.”
“Why?” Her lips puckered around the word.
“Because you're a beautiful woman.” But even as he said it, he knew that wouldn't be enough of a reason. So he took his hands away completely, stuffed them into his pockets, and took a stab at something close to the truth. “Because I haven't kissed a woman since I quit drinking. Because tonight I found out what it's like to play baseball sober. And I—”
“Just want to know what it feels like?”
He gave a slow nod.
“I don't love you, Mr. Dennison.”
“I don't blame you.”
She stood there, seemingly rooted before him, her face raised, her eyes closed, her lips parted as they'd been when they last said his name. A clear invitation. Which he accepted. He took his hands from his pockets, brought them up to cradle her face, and pulled her near.
If Ellie Jane Voyant was expecting something sweet and chaste, she was due for a great disappointment. The moment Duke's lips touched hers, something shattered. Her hands were up around his neck; he encircled her waist with one arm and buried his hand to the knuckles in her hair. Their kiss deepened as they drew closer together, and he felt himself bathed in sweet Snowberry, bound by soft pink stripes.
And then she was pulling away.
“I have to go.” She spoke against his cheek.
In lieu of an answer, Duke brought his lips just beneath her ear, grazing them down her neck. He hooked his thumb around the ribbon of her nightgown, pulling the stripes away from her skin.
“Stop.” She brought her hand up to reinforce her command, and he grasped her fingers, bringing them up to his lips. She persisted her protest, saying, “This isn't right.”
He abandoned his kisses and drew away just far enough to bring her face into focus. “Because you're thinking about him?”
“We've been friends since we were children.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it's true.”
“But you aren't children now, are you?”
“No.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
“I don't know.”
It was a good enough answer for Duke, and he swooped in again, refusing to believe that her first protest still held. And Ellie Jane herself seemed to have forgotten her objections, because she pressed herself harder against him and allowed his hands to roam the length of her.
There'd been a time, soon after he'd been brought to the sanatorium, when he feared he was making a devastating exchange. Sobriety for manhood. Never again being able to make love to a woman. But tonight, as he held Ellie Jane in his arms, felt her warm and pliant against him, the small of her back, the curve of her waist, his fears became unfounded. Clearheaded, he drank her in. Wanted to swallow great gulps of her. To take sip after sip until she was fully consumed. He took one step back toward his bed, and she followed.
Another, and she followed. One more, and they'd be ripe for falling. Then it would be a simple matter of—
“I'm sorry.” Ellie Jane planted her hands firm against his chest and pushed him away.
“You're wonderful.” He drew her back to him with no intentions of being thrown out on his third pitch when a power greater than Duke Dennison intervened. The power of an American duplicate Mercedes engine just outside the house.
Ellie Jane heard it too, and she spun out of Duke's embrace, coming full circle to face him, clutching her gown to her throat with one hand, the other brought up to cover her flushed face.
“Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she said, her eyes wide.
“Go.” Duke stepped out of her way, clearing a path. He heard the click of her door followed quickly by Dave Voyant's booming voice calling upstairs to see if anybody was still up.
“In here,” Duke called out too breathless to say more. He hustled himself back out onto the balcony and reached for his abandoned cigar with a shaking hand. His lips, still longing for her soft skin, were wrapped around it when Dave stepped outside to join him.
“Everything all right?” he asked, and Duke wondered if he was imagining the hint of suspicion in Dave's eye.
“Yep.” Duke craned his neck to look over his shoulder. “Floyd with you?”
“Pop's going to stay at the jail tonight. I'm going to take him a change of clothes when I leave in the morning.”
“Leaving early?”
“First light.”
Duke turned back to look out over the yard.
For a while neither man spoke. The second chair remained, and had Dave come home just a few minutes earlier, Duke would have invited him to sit and smoke. Join him in replaying every minute of the game. But he couldn't sit and shoot the breeze with a man whose sister still loomed—soft and warm—between them.
“Ellie Jane already in bed?”
“Yep,” Duke said, not turning around.
Without a hint of invitation, Dave settled himself onto the second chair, comfortably propping one foot on top of his knee. Duke stared at that foot. Scuffed leather, perfectly still. Suddenly he was aware of the violent shaking in his own leg, and he clamped his teeth down on his cigar and willed it to stop.
“So, let's talk about that kid.”
Duke felt a calm, a comfort spill through him. He leaned back in his chair, mirroring Dave's posture, and looked his friend in the eye. “Didn't I tell you?”
“He's pretty phenomenal.”
“Think he can make it?”
“Come on, Duke. He's a kid. How old is he?”
“Twelve.”
“Think you had it at twelve?”
“I think he throws better at twelve than any man I've ever hit against.”
Dave held up a deflecting hand. “Look. I'm not saying the kid's not good. But none of that's going to change the fact that he's a Negro.”
“They've got their teams.”
“That's true. And in a few years—”
“But doesn't that seem like a waste?” Duke abandoned his casual pose, lunging forward in his chair. “Not a waste of time. I know he's young. But think what he could do for—”
“For whom, Duke? For the league? There's a lot of talented men out there. And a lot of bigots. Even if the rules changed and he could get on a field, he wouldn't last an inning. Not any time soon.”
Duke took a puff of his cigar and watched the smoke dissipate in the starlit air.
“So let me ask you this,” Dave continued. “Why do you care?”
One more puff, and he held the cigar out over the balcony and watched the ash fall. “Guess he reminds me of myself when I was a kid.”
“Yeah? You were that good?”
Duke chuckled. “Not even close. But I had that hunger, you know? That drive. And I lost it somewhere.” His voice faltered on that last word, because he knew exactly where he'd lost it. In the bottom of one bottle after another. But Dave knew that too. Better than anyone. And his companionable silence now allowed Duke to leave it unspoken.
“Tell you the truth,” Duke continued, once he regained his composure, “I didn't even realize it was gone 'til I met him.”
“Think you've got it back?”
Always the reporter. Asking questions. But the fact that he'd asked set like a rock in his gut. He took another tasteless puff. “You were watching. How'd I look?”
It was a long, long silence. And the answer filled every bit of it.
“Look, it was your first time out since—”
“Give it to me straight, Voyant.”
“Well, the good news is,” Dave adjusted his round spectacles, “you were easily the best player out there.”
“Except for the twelve-year-old.”
“You looked a little rough.”
“Think I'll be ready to go back?”
“Yeah.”
“But not yet.”
Now it was Dave's turn to stare at the ground. “Looks like you've got a good thing going here. Just keep playing the game. Relax. It'll come back.”
“And Morris?”
Dave sighed. “You worry about your own self.”
Duke stared him down, waiting for a more acceptable answer.
“I've got a few contacts,” he said eventually. “I'll see what I can do.”
After a while, when the conversation dwindled to little more than quiet observations and meaningless sounds, Dave excused himself to retire to his father's room.
“One last thing.” He clamped a hand on Duke's shoulder. “I don't suppose I have to tell you to keep your hands off of my sister.”
“No.” Duke hated lying to a friend, but hated more the idea of tarnishing Ellie Jane in her brother's eyes. “No problem there.”
“Good. Because I think something's sparking between her and Ned Clovis.”
“That's great.” Duke stood, stretched, and dropped the stub of his cigar into a pewter ashtray balanced on the balcony's railing. “Ned's a good guy. He deserves her.”
“You're a good guy too.” Dave fashioned his hand into a toy gun and pointed it playfully at Duke. “Just not good enough for my sister.”
Duke managed to keep the laughter up until Dave left the room and closed the door. Then he undressed, laying his clothes carefully over the back of the chair that had been returned to the little writing desk. He wanted to take a bath, wash the dirt of the day off, and fold himself in any lingering Snowberry steam, but he heard Dave in the bathroom, washing up, and decided he could wait until morning.
Instead, he climbed into bed and pulled the blanket nearly up to his chin. Normally he couldn't stand to have any covers at all, but the night sweats were holding off until nearly dawn. The door to the balcony was open, filling the room with the chill night breeze and moonlight.
Tonight he could not will himself to sleep. He was too busy tasting cigar and Snowberry.
His fingers curled around soft leather and softer cinnamon hair. He saw numbers on a blackboard and pink stripes. Every bit of it was so crystal clear, it was like living the morning and the day and the night all over again.
He lived it and relived it, not closing his eyes until dawn touched his door, and the single crank of Dave's automobile left him here to live another one.
FIRST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH OF PICKSVILLE
12 Spring Street
Picksville, Missouri
REVEREND LYNDON G. PORTER, PASTOR
ORDER OF SERVICE
Welcome
Opening Prayer
Congregational Hymn “Ye Fearful Saints” #72
Focal Passage Philippians 4:5–8
“Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
All church members and visitors are encouraged to come to the churchwide picnic being held across the street in Center Park immediately after the service.
NED
It wasn't the first time he wished Marlene would open her diner on Sunday morning. He supposed even a bachelor like himself could manage to fry up a couple of eggs before leaving for church, but it never seemed worth the bother. Instead he reached into the basket that held two dozen rolls he bought from the bakery to bring to today's picnic when, being the second Sunday of the month, the First Congregational Church of Picksville joined together for a common meal.
In the winter they gathered around the long tables in the hall built adjacent to the sanctuary, but on pleasant afternoons like today, those tables were moved across the street to the park where families would fill their plates before returning to quilts spread out on the grass.
He avoided this gathering every month, unsure of exactly how he'd fit in. But today was different. He would bring the basket to the table, mingle with the other church members, and saunter over to the Voyant blanket where he would fall in with Duke and Floyd. And Ellie Jane. Smiling at the thought of it, he pulled out two rolls and ate them, standing in the tiny upstairs kitchen where he'd grown up eating meals not much more complicated than this.
