“Not here,” she gasped.
“Huh?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard right.
“Not in this place,” she said, more controlled.
I looked around. “But you live here.”
She nodded, as if we agreed.
“I don’t get it.”
“Not in this house, Samuel.”
What was wrong? Timmy upstairs? No lovemaking in Fenian hideaways? None of the above, merely an excuse?
“Cait,” I blurted, voice husky, “I love you.”
Oh my God, I thought.
She took one of my hands in both of hers and held it tightly. Backlit by the gaslight, I could see tiny reflections of myself in her eyes. Her lips curved in a soft, enigmatic smile.
W. J. Hatton of San Francisco arrived the next Monday. He would escort us West. An Aussie immigrant, he and his brother had bought level ground in the Mission district, built a high wooden fence around it, and named it the Recreation Grounds. A large part of the Hattons’ business involved circus shows and athletic events. Probably because he owned the only enclosed ballpark on the Pacific Slope, W. J. Hatton had dreamed up the idea of inviting us to play there.
It was impossible not to like Hatton. He was portly and freckled, with thinning sandy hair and a broad, quick grin. I shook his hand with the rest of our delegation. Within minutes he had Champion, who would be making the trip, laughing as if they were boyhood chums. Champion even decided to show him around Cincinnati himself, relieving me of the honor.
Which left considerably more time to pack. I fell asleep under hot towels at the Gibson barbershop, then wandered around downtown for a while and purchased a state-of-the-art Magic Lantern for eight dollars. It was a primitive slide projector which, by means of a gas lamp and lens, transformed two-inch glass “chromatypes” into four-foot images. Twelve views came with it—“House of Parliament,” “Pyramids & Sphinx,” “Mosque of Mahomet,” and the like. For Timmy I bought another set: “The Little Gymnast,” “Yacht Under Full Sail,” and “Ah! Ha! Gold!” Catchy stuff.
While I was out, a thin letter from Twain arrived, postmarked Buffalo. His message was short and to the point.
Sam’l,
When I read that your red-shanked band would be journeying to California I regretted changing my plans. I’d trade my back teeth to sit down with you in Frisco’s Heaven on the half shell, the Occidental Hotel, over champagne & oysters. You can have my portion this once.
Just before I sat down to write, a dispatch came off the wire to wit: Freddy is offering Avitor stock at a bargain $25 each thousand shares. Will I chaff this away? I guess not! I’ll take a flyer on Freddy’s flyer! Carve out 40,000 shares immediately on arriving if the price is steady. Wire me first if it’s gone higher. I advise you to plunge also. Hope you re willing to be my Western agent Hearty thanks.
Wedding schemes thicken like cement. If it weren’t for sweet Livy, I’d die from the planning. Don’t forget—you must come!
Regards,
SLC
Inside was a thousand-dollar draft. I went to my bank on Fourth, requested my account total, learned that I had $6,347. How, I wondered, would O’Donovan react when he returned to enforce his mid-September ultimatum and discovered I had left? On a morbid impulse I took out a safe-deposit box in Cait’s name and placed in it twenty-five hundred dollars in gold, instructing that in the absence of further communication from me she was to receive it in three months’ time. Figuring the five hundred I carried plus what Brainard owed me would be plenty for the trip, I obtained a letter of credit payable to Wells Fargo for the balance of my money and Twain’s draft.
O’Donovan would have to work like hell to get a cent of it. And if something happened to me, Cait could shape her life as she wished. Feeling a bit silly, I wondered what it was about this trip that made me so spooky.
The afternoon dragged. The Gibson room was expensive to keep while I was away, so I stored my few possessions at Andy’s. I packed and repacked my gladstone restlessly.
Cait hosted an elaborate farewell dinner that evening, serving us baked chicken. Andy was there, and, to my surprise, so was Sweasy. Cait wore her yellow dress, the one of the quilt. She was excitedly happy, almost giddy. And coquettish, too, clearly enjoying her role as the only woman among us. Sweasy, on his Sunday-best behavior, called her “Miss Cait” and treated her reverentially. Since the kidnapping he’d been cautiously polite to me; that evening he was almost cordial. They talked about old times in Newark. Timmy and I played catch when we grew bored. With the bottle of Catawba Andy had brought, we toasted each other and the trip West.
“To your brave American game,” Cait said gaily, raising her glass. Andy grinned. I sensed a breakthrough in sibling relations.
“To the Irish,” proposed Sweasy, adding, with a glance at me, “and their allies.”
For dessert I provided ice cream with late-season strawberries packed in ice. When it grew dark we watched lantern slides. Timmy sat on my lap, marveling at the bright-tinted images. Sweasy promised to bring him slides of California. Andy, not to be outdone, hinted broadly that a stereoptican viewer might lie in Timmy’s future.
“You’ll spoil him, the lot of you,” Cait protested, unconvincingly. She was glowing at Timmy’s excitement.
When we stood up to get our coats from the foyer, Cait touched my arm and whispered, “Come back—with a cab.”
I almost said “What?” but she had turned away.
After the others dropped me at the Gibson, I hired a carriage and directed the driver to the boardinghouse.
