“You’ve made me a wanton already.”
“Excellent!” I raised the covers to look at her.
“No, Samuel!”
She gave in reluctantly—and briefly—only when I argued that a lover’s body was good, not evil, to look upon. And Cait’s was good indeed, though slenderer than the Rubenesque proportions in vogue. A dusting of freckles ran down from her shoulders to splash the tops of her breasts. Long thighs, now pressed firmly together—perhaps her sexiest feature, although the matter would certainly require further research—gave way to molded calves and small, high-arched feet. God, she was a work of art, a treasure.
“You’re not ashamed of me?”
I bent and kissed a vaguely heart-shaped freckle near one pelvic bone.
“Cait, you should be bronzed.”
That was too much for her, and she tugged the cover up. I lost myself again in her hair and skin, contours and crevices, the textures and tastes of her.
“You’re immodest,” she murmured, moving her hands and lips over me with increasing urgency.
By the time we were through, light streamed in the window, casting geranium shadows on the floor.
“How can I go away for a whole month now?” I groaned, then raised up on one elbow with an inspiration. “Cait, how about you and Timmy coming?”
“No tickets,” she said drowsily.
“I’m serious,” I said, excited. “We could follow the team by a couple of days, no problem. Timmy’d love seeing it all. So would you!”
“He’s not well enough yet, Samuel. Remember what the doctor said about the danger of a recurrence?” She smiled, a trifle wistfully. “It’s sweet to think of such a journey, but I cannot go.”
“Your work?”
“That,” she said, “and there is you.”
“Me?”
She turned to me, the jade eyes probing mine. “I’m frightened by your going, but I’ve sensed how you need this journey.”
“You have?”
“I think it’s connected with the purpose you seek, Samuel. Or that you believe it’s connected. Which is the same.”
“What if my purpose is simply to be with you?”
“If so,” she said softly, “then we’ll discover that very thing.” She took my hand. “Won’t we?”
A crowd of club members and well-wishers had jammed the Indianapolis & Lafayette dock by the time we arrived. The nine was there: Harry trying to stop his kids from dodging around piles of luggage; George laughing with reporters; Gould with his family; Brainard and Waterman looking sleepy; Oak Taylor, fresh-scrubbed and eager.
Timmy ran to Andy, and we followed. Heads swiveled as men ogled Cait and women scrutinized her. Mac and Allison, standing with Andy, were as tongue-tied as if meeting a princess.
“I was thinking you’d vanished again,” Andy said accusingly.
“No way,” I said. “Important business.”
“Going off with Mother and leaving me home,” said Timmy.
Cait’s cheeks turned crimson.
“Ain’t that a dinger,” Andy said. Mac and Allison gave me disbelieving stares.
The wife of one of the club officers appeared to pin miniature red stockings on our jackets. She had fashioned the emblems herself. “This is to show Western ladies,” she announced, “that our nine possesses no shortage of admirers in the Queen City!”
During the applause that followed, Cait drew me near and whispered, “Perhaps I should have sewn for you instead of—”
“Mascara?” I said.
She blushed again.
When the baggage was loaded, the locomotive’s bell sounded a heart-wrenching peal.
“Let’s board!” Harry shouted.
“Whooooeeee!” Andy yelled, lifting Timmy high. “Here we go West!”
We looked at each other. Cait’s eyes were unnaturally bright. My chest felt like it was being squeezed. In the swirl of humanity on the dock, it was as if we stood on an island swiftly washing away.
“I don’t care what the others may think,” she said, tilting her head. “Please kiss me, Samuel.” After I did she took the silver ring from her finger. I thought she meant to hand it to me. Instead she put it to her mouth, kissed it, then slowly turned it and replaced it on her finger. “When you’re far from here and thinking of me,” she said, “ask Andy the meaning of it.”
The train’s whistle shrilled and a blast of steam erupted. The cars inched along the platform.
“Go quickly,” she said, tears rimming her eyes.
“You’n Andy are my heroes!” Timmy exclaimed as I hugged him.
“I’ll bring you Indian stuff,” I managed to say.
“Wow, Sam!”
From a window I waved, and they waved back. I love you, Cait. I burned into my memory a final image of her standing silently among the cheering people, dark and regal in her long yellow dress, one arm around Timmy, the other lifted to me.
It would remain with me all the days to come.
We discovered that our itinerary had been widely advertised. At Indianapolis and smaller stations all along the route, people gathered and rubbernecked to catch a glimpse of the famous Red Stockings. If any of us had previously doubted, now we could see clearly the power and extent of the sports legend we were fashioning. In my mind we were this era’s ’27 Yankees—already legendary, utterly invincible. It was heady stuff. I enjoyed it, although my thoughts were filled with Cait.
That night in our sleeping car, I asked Andy about the ring.
“She turned it?” He looked startled. “Colm’s Claddaugh ring?”
“Hands holding a crowned heart,” I said. “She said you’d explain.”
“Well, Claddaugh rings are made in Galway. Irish girls wear ’em on their right hands with the heart pointing out to show their own hearts aren’t taken. If the heart’s turned in, it signifies a love is being considered.”
“But Cait’s is on her left.”
“She’s worn it like a wedding band,” he said. “It was about the only thing of Colm’s she had—’cept Timmy. You say she turned the crown, heart pointing in?”
“That’s right.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“That means,” he said slowly, “two loves have become one and can’t be separated.”
I was far distant from words.
“Say, maybe we’ll end up brothers after all,” he said, laughing. “Wouldn’t that be a dinger?”
We pulled into East St. Louis at eight the next morning. A crowd practically bowled us over in the station. “Where’s George Wright?” “Isn’t the older one Harry?” “That’s Brainard!” With magazines spreading their images across
