Carrying Albert Home

  At the bottom of the ninth, the Chompers’ last try at bat, Homer rose from the bench to take his turn. Before he emerged from the dugout and made his way across the grass, Thompson put his hand on his shoulder. “You recall that time you let up on Tyrone?” he asked. “I think you’ve played enough now that you know you were wrong to do that. Play for the game, son. Play for the game.”

  “Play for the game,” Homer repeated to himself as he walked the thirty feet from the dugout to the line of bats Humphrey had set out. As he approached Albert in his wagon, Humphrey suddenly started to jump up and down and clap, urging the High Top fans in the stands to join in. As they did, the bat boy also began to make disparaging gestures toward the Marion fans, pointing at Albert and making chomping-jaw movements with his hands. Homer thought he heard shouts that sounded like “Kill the alligator!”, which was very strange, considering how normally polite the Marion fans were.

  Before Homer reached the line of bats, a man in a pair of dirty coveralls leapt from the stands and snatched up one of them, raised it, and ran toward Albert. Instinctively, Homer raced to stay the blow, reaching out his right hand just as the man slammed the bat down. As Homer fell, the man flung away the bat and ran through the gate.

  Homer made certain Albert was okay. The reptile looked back at him with a puzzled expression. Homer next looked into the stands, seeking out Elsie. She was there, looking back at him in shock. He next looked at his ruined hand and his knees felt weak. The docs from both clubs came running, but it was Thompson the manager who reached Homer first. When he saw Homer’s smashed hand and bent wrist, he looked like he might vomit.

  Dr. Clowers arrived next. “Sit down and lie back, Homer,” he said. Homer did as he was told. His hand and wrist didn’t hurt, not yet, but he knew they would. He’d seen hands crushed between coal cars and wrists broken by drills that caught a rock in the mine. At first, the afflicted miner would joke about it but before he was out of the mine, he’d be whimpering like a baby. Pain did that. It was like an ambushing animal, quiet at first, then all teeth and claws.

  Doc took Homer’s hand and felt all about. “Bones busted inside for sure,” he said, “and your wrist’s broke. We’ve got to get you to my office. I’ll need to get a cast on.”

  Homer pulled away. “I’m going to take my turn at bat,” he said to both the doctor and manager.

  “What are you talking about?” Thompson demanded. “You can’t hold a bat with a broken hand and wrist.”

  “I’ll bat left-handed. Put a bandage around it, Doc. Do it or I’ll go into your bag and do it myself. Put it on tight as you can.”

  Doc looked at Thompson, who lowered his eyes and looked away. Doc went into his bag, got out a bandage, and wrapped it tight around Homer’s hand. “You pick up a bat, you’ll destroy your hand for baseball,” he warned.

  “It’s destroyed already,” Homer answered. “Anyway, Mr. Thompson, you’re wrong. I don’t have greatness inside me, not the kind you want me to have. I don’t believe in the game. It’s people I believe in and it’s people I’m going to win this game for. Or person. Namely, Mr. Feldman, who has been so good to me and Elsie.”

  Thompson frowned. “Homer, I’m a baseball manager. Don’t you know we’re all full of shit? I didn’t mean half what I say.”

  “Well, I mean all that I say,” Homer said and picked up a bat and walked to the left-handed batter’s box. He nodded to the umpire and the catcher and raised the bat. The Marion pitcher looked at Homer in disbelief. “Throw the damn thing!” Homer shouted, wincing from the pain of the broken bones as he stood in the batter’s box and gripped the bat. “Give me your best.”

  The pitcher did. Three times he threw, the ball slapping into the catcher’s mitt, the result two strikes, one ball.

  The fourth pitch the pitcher threw as hard as he could, the ball hissing through the air as if it were puffing steam. Homer, his teeth clenched, his eyes mere slits, swung at it. The bat cracked like a bullwhip and the ball screamed. Or perhaps it was Homer screaming. Homer couldn’t tell. All he knew was the ball was sailing, sailing, and sailing until it was all the way over the right-field wall.

  “He did it,” Elsie said in more of a breath than a voice. “Homer did it, Mr. Feldman!”

  But Feldman, despite the smile on his face, was quite dead. Elsie didn’t have to be a certified nurse to figure that out as she knelt beside him and took his hand. “I told you if he played, we would win, and we did,” she whispered, putting Feldman’s cooling hand to her hot, flushed cheek.

  27

  MR. FELDMAN’S ATTORNEY WAS A DIGNIFIED GENTLEMAN by the name of Lewis Carter who had moved to High Top to get away from his two wives in New York City, both of whom he had neglected to divorce and who, upon learning of one another, jointly filed charges of bigamy in the hope of getting his money. What they didn’t know was Lewis Carter had already spent all his money on a string of showgirls.

  Fortunately, Carter did not need New York; he also had a license to practice in North Carolina, mainly because he had gone to Duke University. He therefore had a place to abscond from wives, showgirls, and their pursuing lawyers. To date, his Duke frat buddies, which included the Tar Heel State’s governor, were just fine with having him in their fair state and had no intention of sending him back to the Yankees for prosecution, if not persecution. Carter had established himself a fine little practice in High Top, which counted among its clients the very wealthy Mr. Feldman.

  Two days after Mr. Feldman died, and well before he could be buried, Lewis Carter sat at the head of a mahogany table and watched with benign interest, and not a little bubbling joy, as Mr. Feldman’s family filed inside. The bereaved widow, Young Mrs. Feldman, was still dabbing at her eyes (although her mascara remained remarkably intact). She was followed by Feldman’s two children, a great lout named Amos and a fat grouch named Ethel, both looking with more than a little disdain at the theatrical grief of their stepmother, who was at least a decade younger than they. “Can it, Louise,” Ethel finally said when Young Mrs. Feldman raised her eyes from her hanky and glanced her way.

  “Yes, by all means can it,” Amos declared. “It’s too late for him to change his will so you can wail and gnash your teeth all you like but it will do you no good.”

  “Nor us,” Ethel said, whereupon Young Mrs. Feldman stopped crying and, with a faint smile, put her hanky away with a click of her silk purse.

  Carter made a steeple with his fingers. “Actually, he changed his will just two weeks ago.”

  The shocked looks on all three potential recipients of the Feldman fortune were compounded when the door opened and Elsie Hickam, Feldman’s nurse, walked in. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said.

  “Why is she here?” Young Mrs. Feldman demanded. Her stepchildren were having difficulty closing their hanging jaws.

  “Because she’s in the will,” Carter said. “Please, Mrs. Hickam. Have a seat. No, here, please, beside me.” After Elsie sat, Carter patted her hand. “I know you were distressed by your patient’s death.” He shoved a box of tissues toward her. “If you need them.”

  Elsie looked at the tissues but didn’t reach for them.

  “Read the damned will, Carter,” Amos growled.

  Carter nodded toward a young woman in glasses sitting primly, notepad and pencil poised, in one of the chairs that lined the room. “This is my able assistant, Mrs. Jo Ann Nelson. She will keep notes on the proceedings unless anyone has any objection.”

  When no one did, Carter opened the leather cover of the document and spread out its papers. He pretended to study them for a moment although he could quote them by rote. A good lawyer is also a good actor and a dramatic pause seemed in order. When he looked up, he found the three Feldman family members were having a contest on who could glare the hardest at the nurse. It was, he decided, Young Mrs. Feldman by several yards.

  Carter cleared his throat and got going. After reading some legalese, a requirement of state law, he divulged the particulars
of the will. Young Mrs. Feldman was to receive the three houses and the horse farm plus one hundred thousand dollars. Ethel and Amos would also receive one hundred thousand apiece. “The remainder of my estate,” Carter read on, “will go to my nurse and friend Elsie Hickam.”

  “The remainder of the estate?” Ethel blanched. “How much is that?”

  “About three million dollars, not including the value of the ball club. There are further instructions in a codicil to Mrs. Hickam requiring her not to sell the club.”

  Young Mrs. Feldman was astonishingly calm, which instantly put Carter on alert. “This will not stand,” she said.

  “On that, we agree,” Ethel said. Amos nodded vigorously.

  “It is all legal,” Carter replied. “There’s really very little you can do.” He turned to Elsie. “Do you have anything to say, Mrs. Hickam?”

  “He was a good man,” she said.

  “He was, indeed,” Young Mrs. Feldman said, hotly. “And easily manipulated.”

  “Of course he could be! He was sick!” Ethel cried. “She manipulated him! Turned his head!” Ethel suddenly came across the table, reaching for Elsie’s throat.

  Young Mrs. Feldman pulled Ethel back and raised her hand to Amos, who was halfway out of his chair. “I believe our business is finished here,” she said and calmly nodded to the attorney. “I trust you have already been paid by the late Mr. Feldman? You are therefore discharged from all duties in terms of Feldman family business.”

  “Except the will makes me the executor of the Feldman estate,” the attorney reminded her. Still, he felt a bead of sweat on his brow. Young Mrs. Feldman was truly a force to be reckoned with. He hadn’t completely realized that until that very moment. It was the way she held herself together, the steel of her gaze, the tightness of her lips. He silently bet to himself she probably also had her buttocks clinched so tight a dime wouldn’t fit between them.

  “We will be in touch,” the new widow said. She rose with dignity from the table, smoothed her skirt, and nodded to her stepchildren, who also rose and followed her out the door.

  “Mrs. Nelson, could you give us a moment?” Carter asked.

  “Of course, sir,” the assistant said and quickly exited.

  When they were alone, Carter said, “Well, Mrs. Hickam, congratulations.”

  Since the reading of the will, Elsie had been expressionless. Now, with only Carter in the room, she exhaled and allowed a smile. “Three million dollars! And the ball club. All I can say is . . .” She looked up at the ceiling. “. . . thank you, Mr. Feldman.”

  Carter chuckled. “Just so you understand, Mrs. Hickam, this wasn’t done entirely to reward you. It was also meant to be a punishment for the others. He knew very well Young Mrs. Feldman was only in the marriage for his money and he knew his children are selfish creeps. Regardless, you’ll need to be patient. There’s a lot of paperwork to be done before anything can be transferred. And if any of those three approach you, don’t say anything. There’s no use arguing with them or rubbing their noses in it.”

  “Can I spend the money any way I want?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Even buy a coal mine?”

  “A couple of them, I would imagine.”

  Her smile faded. “What would Homer think of that, I wonder.”

  “Your husband? I was at the game. Will he play ball again?”

  “No, sir. I doubt that he will.”

  Carter rose and shook Elsie’s hand. He looked at the tissue box. “You didn’t cry. I thought you might.”

  Elsie shrugged. “Mr. Feldman knew he was going to die. He told me not to cry when he did. He told me to be happy. I just didn’t know he was planning on helping me feel that way.”

  “Be careful, Mrs. Hickam,” Carter said as he walked her to the door. “I have a feeling Young Mrs. Feldman doesn’t care if you’re happy or not.”

  Elsie walked to the baseball stadium, the reading of the will and its aftermath running over and over in her mind like a stuck record. She could scarcely believe it but yet she did. After all, why shouldn’t she have received a reward for the work she’d done? She grinned to imagine what would happen if she bought the Coalwood coal mine. She’d have the Captain in her office first thing and he might learn a little about kismet, the old faker!

  Since the game and Homer’s injury, she and Homer had moved into a little room at the stadium that Mr. Feldman had sometimes used to relax. She went there but found it empty of her husband. She found him sitting in the stands looking at the ball field. He seemed to be thinking about something so she sat beside him and asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  “I was just thinking that I like this place. It’s nice.”

  “It’s good you think somewhere besides Coalwood is nice.”

  Homer held up his bandaged hand. “Coalwood is where I make my living. Coal mining is what I do. It’s what I’m supposed to do. This hand confirms that.”

  Elsie smiled, the secret of her visit to the Feldman attorney quite delicious in her mind. When she told Homer about it, she was going to love the look on his face. But when to tell it? She wanted to hold on to the secret for a little longer. She so rarely had such a grand secret to hold.

  “The Buick is fixed and we have some money,” Homer was saying. “Let’s head on to Florida, let Albert go, and then go home.”

  “I’d like to wait a few days,” Elsie replied, laughing inside. Oh, what a hoot it was going to be when she told him she could buy Coalwood!

  Someone took seats behind them. When Elsie looked, she saw it was Slick and Huddie.

  “Go away,” Homer said.

  “That’s not nice,” Slick said.

  Homer shook his head. “Well, as long as you’re here, tell me something. Was Humphrey in on it?”

  “Of course,” Slick answered. “And the fellow who bashed you, too. Only that wasn’t the plan. The plan was for the bat boy to act the fool to make the Marion crowd mad, which would give that fellow an excuse to race out and brain the alligator, which was supposed to demoralize you. Of course, breaking your hand was even better.” He shrugged and looked sad. “Not that it did any good.”

  Elsie was confused. “You paid for that man to come out on the field?”

  Slick made a hapless gesture. “I don’t know why I do bad things. Maybe it was because I was raised in the orphanage. True, they tried to teach me right from wrong but their message never stuck. Maybe if they’d had more time before I burned the place down . . .”

  Elsie was still confused. “I still don’t understand what happened.”

  “The reason the man came out to hit Albert, Elsie,” Homer said, tiredly, “was because Slick paid him to do it. Slick, you see, bet on Marion to take the series.”

  Slick chimed in. “With Homer playing, most folks thought High Top was going to win so we stood to make a pile of money by betting on the other team. Of course, I didn’t intend that he’d be hurt, just the alligator. I thought that might upset Homer enough he wouldn’t be able to get a hit.”

  “You paid for somebody to hit Albert?” Elsie jumped up and punched Slick hard in the face.

  Slick fell backward. “You busted my nose,” he groaned.

  “Well, you hurt my hand,” Elsie said, wringing it. “And Homer’s, too!”

  Homer put a restraining hand on Elsie’s arm. “Take it easy, honey,” he said.

  Huddie had scrambled away. “You better not hit Slick again,” he called from a place safely out of Elsie’s reach.

  Slick wiped the blood from his nose. Even with a freshly broken nose, he managed to look devious. “Do you know where your alligator is? I heard he’s been kidnapped.”

  Elsie wrenched her arm away from Homer and made a fist. “What have you done with him? Tell me or I’ll hit you again!”

  Slick dug into a pocket and brought out a handkerchief and then dug into another pocket and held out a scrap of paper. Elsie snatched it.

  “That will tell you where to f
ind him,” Slick said. “Better hurry. Otherwise, you might never see him again.”

  “What do you want, Slick?” Homer asked.

  Slick stood up and pressed the handkerchief to his nose. “Me? Not a thing. I’m just a paid messenger. It’s the young Feldman wife who thinks she can extort you.”

  Homer wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “Why would she want to extort us?”

  “Ask your wife,” Slick replied before stalking off, beckoning Huddie after him.

  Elsie was studying Slick’s paper. “I know where this is! Madison Park! It’s just south of town. I used to go over there with Mr. Feldman and push him along the river. We’ve got to hurry!”

  “All right, Elsie, we’ll hurry, but why would Feldman’s wife want to extort us?”

  “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you on the way. Come on!”

  Homer came on. “Okay, tell me,” he said after they’d climbed into the Buick.

  “Mr. Feldman left me three million dollars and the ball club.”

  Homer stared at her. “If I’d have known you were going to tell me a lie, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  Elsie rolled her eyes. “Please just drive,” she said.

  Madison Park was thirty minutes away and it only took a couple of minutes more before they found Albert down by the river in his tub on wheels. Humphrey was with him. When the bat boy saw Homer and Elsie, he took off running. He didn’t get far; Homer chased him down and walked him back.

  “Humphrey,” Elsie said, “who brought you and Albert here?”

  “Nobody. I drove myself.”

  “But you don’t have a car, do you?”

  “No, ma’am, but Young Mrs. Feldman does. She said I should bring Albert down here for a nice day by the river and I could use her Cadillac. She said not to come back until it was dark. She also said that you might be coming to pick him up.”

  “Why did you run from us?”

  “Well, you both looked kind of mad.”

  Elsie gave his answers some thought. “She sent Albert here so we’d have to drive out of town,” she concluded. “Homer, we’ve got to go back to High Top, straight to Attorney Carter’s office. I’ll direct you. Come on, fast as we can!”