The difference between Harry’s well-drilled pros and the talented amateurs was dramatized when an Irvington player struck out with runners on first and second. Allison deliberately fumbled the ball, picked it up, and stared coolly at the batter, who suddenly realized that he had to run. Allison whipped the ball to George at second, and it went on to Gould for a double play. The shocked crowd applauded the tactic good-naturedly, unaware that we practiced it routinely.
Hurley played the final innings, and I hit for Harry his last time up. Feeling rusty, I drew admiring oohs with a sizzling foul shot outside third, then popped ignobly to short. But just being out there was enough this fine day. And wearing the Stockings’ uniform was increasingly an ego boost. I had no trouble basking in reflected glory.
Before boarding our coach I joined Andy’s family as he embraced them and said good-bye. I could see that they were proud of his performance on the field.
“We’ll be back in September to take away the pennant,’” he told his mother, who looked about to cry. “I’ll visit then. Or you could take the train out West beforehand, you know, to see me ‘n’ Sweaze and Sam . . . and Cait.”
She shook her head, a tear trickling down her cheek. Brighid took her arm. Andy kissed her and turned away. Then Brighid surprised me by saying softly, “She fancies a moment with you.”
“With me?”
“Aye.” Brighid stepped away, and Mrs. Leonard edged close, birdlike, peering up at me questioningly. “Mr. Fowler?” The tiny voice was tremulous. “You’ll care for my Andy?”
“Like a brother, Mrs. Leonard.”
“He’s a good lad.” The words held a hint of fierceness. “Everything his father’s heart desired. Why doesn’t he see that I must go home?” With an effort she kept control. “I’ll not see him again in this life, Mr. Fowler.”
“Now, ma’am—” I began.
“No, ’tis dying I am.” She clutched my arm with a feathery grip. “A matter of weeks. It’s up with me.”
I stared at her. “Why are you saying this? What can I do?”
“You musn’t breathe a word to Andy, but I must go home. If I’m buried here, ’tis a certainty misfortune will strike my children. And their children, too. If they’re to have their bright new lives here, Mr. Fowler, I must return to my Andrew.”
I tried to understand. “Are you saying there’ll be a curse?”
“Something like.”
“But how do you know?”
She peered at me as if resolving a question. “Would you take it into your heart, Mr. Fowler, that I’ve laid eyes on you before this day? Sister Clara Antonia helped me to see you in a dream. You were our family’s deliverer.”
I looked down at the grass between my feet. It seemed bright and unreal. “How did I . . . deliver you in the dream?”
“It was unclear. There was a great store of money.”
I felt as if I were being hurled along the surface of a wave, trapped in its momentum. “You’re asking me to help Andy find enough money to send you home, is that it?”
“ ’Tis my dying wish, and yet I wouldn’t burden you, Mr. Fowler, were fate not a-playing with us all—and had I not seen the sweetness in your eyes. When Andy brought you in, I knew . . .” She reached timidly and touched my arm again. Her fingers felt like brittle paper.
It was that touch that nailed it down. Helping her seemed as right as anything ever in my life. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, putting my hand over hers. “I promise.”
“May God bless you,” she said quietly. “You’re a fine man.”
Harry was calling me. I said good-bye. Inside the coach I looked back and saw them all waving. Mrs. Leonard, dressed in black, seemed a small shadow in the sunlight.
“She ask you to look out for me?” Andy said.
I felt a keen, cutting sadness. “That’s right.”
He grinned. “Then who’s to look out for you?”
I sat back and closed my eyes. It made no sense, the old woman reaching out to me like that. And the Clara Antonia business was absolutely mystifying. Yet the pull it all exerted on me was so strong, so irresistibly strong.
It happened with no warning. And, as in Albany, it began outside a railway station. We were standing on the Penn Central dock in Jersey City. While a Newark writer attempted to interview George, the rest of us volunteered his answers, hugely enjoying the reporter’s frustration. A porter appeared at my elbow and said a telegram awaited me inside. Not until later did I think it strange that he hadn’t brought it with him. Or asked my name.
I followed him, coat in one hand, cash box in the other. Just inside the doorway I felt a painful prod in the center of my back. At first I thought it was a cane or umbrella. I started to turn and felt my arm gripped. A voice close to my ear said, “This is set to shoot. Keep moving steady.” A cold tide of fear rose in me as I recognized the voice as Le Caron’s.
I suppose I should have made a move right there in the busy station. Wheeled suddenly and knocked the gun loose and punched before he could react, like in the movies. But terror had frozen my brain to a point where it didn’t seem to be working at all, much less devising heroic scenarios. After a few seconds of absolute numbness, I remember thinking, Jesus, I’m going to die. Right here. In the evening. With the sun still shining. A deep, fatalistic dread encased me. The gun barrel jammed suddenly into my kidneys, bringing a spasm of pain edged with nausea. I moved, legs rubbery.
