“Please do not regard me so,” she said abruptly.
“I . . . excuse me,” I said. “I saw a photograph of you, and now I realize . . . well . . .”
Her lips tightened. “I told Andy that I wanted to thank you. For a certainty, ’tis a great service you have done.”
I looked into her eyes. “You’re welcome.”
“But I wonder just why it is you’ve become the benefactor of our family.”
“There has to be a reason?”
“I believe so,” she said, frowning slightly as she studied me. “Shouldn’t there be?”
“Well, okay, Andy’s like a brother to me,” I said, resenting the feeling that I was being grilled. “When I met your family in Newark, I liked them. Very much. Your mother especially spoke to me in a way that touched me—perhaps because I can’t remember my own mother—and so I was very happy to help make her last wish possible.”
She paused as if considering it all. “And you are with the sporting club?” The unspoken message seemed to be, “Where did you get so much money?”
“Yes, the sporting club.”
“There’s no need for anger, Mr. Fowler.” The green eyes regarded me. “I believe my curiosity to be natural.”
“I’m not angry,” I lied. “Look, I never had a brother either. Does any of that make sense? Cait, there’s no ulterior motive. Would you rather I hadn’t done it?”
“I am to be called Mrs. O’Neill.”
I sighed, at the same time remembering that Timmy had used that surname. “Fine, you still just call me Sam.”
“You are familiar, sir!”
“And you are cold.”
There was an intense moment as our eyes locked.
“What the dickens’s got you two so peevish?” Andy demanded.
She put her hat back on and adjusted the veil. “I appreciate what you’ve done, Mr. Fowler, and I intend to repay you,” she said. “You may count on it.”
“Fine, I’ll start counting. Let’s go, Andy.” I walked outside, shook Timmy’s hand, exchanged a brusque nod with O’Donovan, and set off up the dirt sidewalk. Andy caught up with me half a block later.
“Whew! You two didn’t ’zactly hit it off.”
“Brilliant, Sherlock.”
“Sherlock? Slow down, you’re walkin’ faster’n I can keep up. I tried to tell you, Sam. She’s been like that since Colm died.”
“Well, I didn’t kill him,” I said. “And if that O’Donovan jerk is the one we were talking about, then he and McDermott deserve each other.”
“He’s the one,” Andy said. “Colm’s friend. Made sure Cait got pension money and helped her get set in the boardinghouse.”
For an instant I thought the milkiness was hovering, ready to descend. I shook my head, clearing it.
“Wonderful warm guy.”
“My hunch is that for Cait,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s not so much O’Donovan himself as the connection with Colm. And someone for Timmy.”
We walked another block in silence.
“Could be she’s jealous of you coming up with the money instead of one of us in the family.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Sam,” he said gently, “I wouldn’t think too much about her, if I was you.”
Jesus, was it that obvious?
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I won’t.”
Chapter 14
On Monday, July 5, I woke to pistol shots and sounds of processions. Half the city was on parade, the other half heading for picnic spots in the hills. The day was mild and beautiful.
That afternoon the Union Grounds held a festive throng of seven thousand who came out to see us take on the Olympics again. City officials made grand entrances in festooned carriages and made patriotic pregame speeches. The Zouaves complemented their red pantaloons with blue sashes and white blouses for this occasion. The crowd sang as they played “Mabel Waltz” and “Tommy Dodd” and “Champagne Charley.” The last was Brainard’s favorite.
“Champagne Charlie is my name.
Good for any game at night, my boys,
Good for any game at night. . . .”
A group of ragged boys broke into a cancan on the sidelines. The crowd roared—and roared more when we banged out a series of ringing blows that swept us to an early lead, 14-4. Our fielding lacked its usual crispness, but everyone in the lineup had at least three hits—Andy’s five included two triples—and we won easily, 32-10.
Afterward we sat in the clubhouse drinking lemonade and bantering. Our record was 26-0. No contests were scheduled for a while, a chance for the starters to rest. And for me to get going on my ideas.
“I saw in the papers where we can sit on our laurels, now that the tour’s over,” said George, flashing his grin. “But since our sticks ain’t laurel, what’ll we do—sit on our ashes?”
We cheered as Allison dumped his lemonade over George’s head.
At dusk we stood in a tight group—Andy, Sweasy, Mac, Allison, and I—near the Fifth Street Market. Suddenly rockets streaked up over the river like brilliant snakes. We yelled and clapped with twenty-five thousand others jamming the downtown streets from Main to Elm, a sea of heads bobbing as far as I could see. The rockets exploded into fire balls, then showered golden rain overhead. Oohs sounded from the crowd. I loved all of it. Without TV and movies, without neon signs, without vivid twentieth-century colors, it was as if my eyes had been washed and rejuvenated.
At the players’ rooms we drank a tub of foaming, locally brewed German lager that Allison ordered from a nearby saloon. While we played whist, Mac strummed on his guitar. I tried to teach them “Yellow Submarine.” Mac handled the chords easily enough, and they seemed to understand what a submarine was. But they thought the lyrics were stupid.
Next morning I met with Champion and a saturnine man named Townley, an insurance executive, the club’s treasurer. Townley said he appreciated the nine’s new glory as much as the
