Finally we were free to disperse—for several hours—before returning for the banquet. Andy accompanied me back to the Gibson House. He boarded with Sweasy, Allison, and Mac a block away, at 421 Main. He said he’d ask if his landlady had space for me. I wasn’t sure I cared to live under the same roof as Sweasy, but I told him to go ahead. Meanwhile, I booked into the Gibson, where the proprietors let me know they were proud to have a Red Stocking stay.
That night 150 people assembled to honor us. They included, for reasons I never understood, practically every judge in Hamilton County and flocks of grandly dressed matrons who swept back and forth in lavender and lace and taffeta skirts that rustled like dry-leaf forests. It looked like an opera opening night.
We sat at the head table. Beside me, Hurley, tipsy from the beginning, reeked of bay rum. Andy claimed he’d been drinking the stuff—it was 60 percent alcohol—and refused to sit with him. We imbibed local wines and ate succulent dishes I could identify only by the ornate bill of fare: breaded mountain oysters; sweetbreads glace; buffalo tongue en gelee; Westphalian ham a la Richelieu, and so on. By the time the desserts arrived I was almost “en gelee” myself.
Champion brought an emotional speech to a thumping climax by displaying our twenty-one trophy balls from the tour and exclaiming, hand clasped to heart, that as Stockings president he wouldn’t trade places with Grant himself. The place went wild—except for Brainard, who snorted and gave me a knowing look; he figured Champion was on the make in the city’s Republican establishment.
There were countless toasts: “To the fair ladies—God bless ’em!” “To the judiciary—always impartial in the game of life!” They elicited flowery responses from whiskered orators. By midnight it was hard to sit through any more. I had to brace Hurley to keep him upright.
We were introduced one by one. We stood and mumbled our thanks, no one attempting a speech—though George stood grinning so long he seemed about to give it a try.
Only a few members of the Stockings’ families were on hand: Gould’s father, a local wholesaler, and mother and strapping blond brothers; Allison’s younger brother, down from Cleveland where he played ball; Carrie Wright, small and plump, with warm eyes that matched her husband’s—I liked her at once.
I scanned the faces in the audience carefully, trying to match one with the haunting image I carried in my mind. But no, Andy’s sister was not there. When I mentioned it, he said curtly that she did not approve of baseball.
The affair concluded with the Stockings’ song, each player’s verse sung by somebody else, all of us booming the choruses. When the others had had their turns, Andy stood, pointed at me, and sang.
“Our newest man is some for tricks—
It passes all belief.
He tries to snare so many fouls
We’ve dubbed him ‘chicken thief.’
And when he marches to the plate
To strike one foul V fair,
Opponents learn his name with haste—
Sam Fowler makes yem care!”
I sat there dumbfounded. The others grinned at me like monkeys. When they broke into the final chorus, I swallowed hard, trying not to look like a complete simp.
“Hurrah, hurrah,
For the noble game hurrah!
Red Stockings all will toss the ball
And shout our loud hurrah!”
The street outside was noisy with departing carriages. I’d managed to get Hurley safely into a hack. Gaslit globes burned above the sidewalks. The night air was mild.
“I’m umping a junior match tomorrow,” Andy said. “Want to come watch?”
“Sure.”
“As for roomin’ at our place . . .”
“I can guess,” I said. “Sweasy vetoed it.”
He nodded. “Sweaze got riled when I brought it up.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I need to-”
“Andy!” an urgent voice interrupted behind me; a woman’s voice, low and throbbing.
As I turned, a figure brushed past and clutched at Andy. I caught a glimpse of pale cheek and jade eyes. The eyes, the eyes in the picture!
“Cait!” He wrapped his arms around her. “What is it? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, Andy,” she sobbed. “T’wasn’t in me to spoil your celebrating.”
“What’s the matter?” His face tightened. “Is something wrong with Timmy?”
“No, it’s Mother.” The words were muffled against his chest.“Mother. . . ?”
“Oh, Andy, she died this morning.”
PART TWO
City on a River
I was in Cincinnati, and I set to work to map out a new career.
MARK TWAIN, Life on the Mississippi
The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre—
To be redeemed from fire by fire,
T. S. ELIOT, Four Quartets
Chapter 13
A violent storm woke me late the next morning. I sat up sweating as thunder crashed like artillery and heat lightning shredded the room’s dimness. The air was heavy and stifling. I pulled the drapes open, and only then heard the knocking at my door.
It was a message. Champion and Harry were waiting downstairs, as I’d requested. Hell, I’d overslept! I splashed water on my hair, hurriedly shaved around the beard filling in nicely over my gashed cheek, and pulled my clothes on, cursing as I rummaged for my collar buttons.
They were drinking coffee in the dining room, Harry looking relaxed, Champion uptight. I soon learned why: the security man hired to keep unwanted banquet guests away had offended reporters and several late-arriving VIPs. Champion had been busy smoothing ruffled feathers.
I nodded sympathetically and plunged in. “Maybe I could handle problems like that, once I knew the city.”
Champion raised one eyebrow.
“What I have in mind is serving as a sort of general aide, continuing as second substitute, acting as PR man now that Millar is—”
“Acting as what?” said Champion.
“Sorry, public relations. You know, press releases, personal appearances, like that.”
The eyebrow lifted
