git buried in it!” Hippo got my full attention with that yell. I called time and backed out of the box. Glancing sideways at him, I could see that Hippo did not look happy—no surprise since he’d taken a beating from the Red Sox hitters. Okay, so I have to expect one at my head. No pitcher likes to have a batter dig in on him, and none would let a rookie get away with it. Just what I need: something more to think about. Okay, if it’s a fastball knee-high down the middle, I’m swinging. If it’s at my head I’m ducking. But Speaker’s on third; if Vaughn throws a wild pitch, he’ll score, so maybe he won’t try throwing at me. But if he hits me, the ball’s dead and Speaker can’t advance, so he will throw at me, but he’ll make sure not to miss me. Hmmm ... Only one thing is for certain: it is impossible to think and hit at the same time.
I took my stance in the box. In less than a second, I gracelessly dropped to the ground as Hippo tried to keep his word. He was mad—the ball was thrown behind my head. That’s where you throw it if you really want to hurt somebody; the batter’s instinct is to duck back into the path of the ball. But the ball missed me, and the catcher missed the ball, so Speaker trotted home with another run. Vaughn apparently didn’t care if he lost 7–0 or 8–0.
Okay, this isn’t working out badly. We have another run, and my pants are still dry. Considering the scare I got, I should get an RBI for that run.
The next pitch from Hippo was right where I wanted it. I pulled the trigger, but a little too early. The ball cued off the end of the bat and rolled up the dirt path from home plate to the pitcher’s mound. Vaughn threw me out before I was halfway to first base. A pretty good at bat: I got some wood on the ball, and earned that moral RBI for Speaker scoring.
The clubhouse was boisterous after the easy victory over New York. The players kidded each other, snapped a few towels—and sawed my new bats in half while I was in the shower.
When I discovered the useless pieces of lumber they left me, I loudly let loose with most of the cuss words I knew—a considerable repertoire after all my years around ball players. My teammates laughed at my reaction to their little prank. Welcome to the Red Sox, kid. What they didn’t know was that I was really relieved. One more aspect of the hazing was over, and I could safely bring in my good bats.
A stocky player with a small towel around his waist and an enormous wad of tobacco in his cheek shuffled up to me. Lush patches of wiry black hair sprouted on parts of his body where I didn’t even know hair could grow. “I’m Clyde Fletcher,” he said, spraying a shower of tobacco juice in saying the “tch” of his last name. “We’re gonna be roomies. I got plans for tonight, so if Jake comes by for bed check, tell him I went out for cigars. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Goo’ boy.” Fletcher belched out a dribble of brown juice, turned around to reveal a broad back that was nearly as hairy as his belly, and returned to his locker.
I remembered reading once that Rube Waddell had a clause put into the contract of his roommate that prohibited him from eating crackers in bed—Waddell said the noise kept him awake nights. I had a feeling I would soon be wishing for a roommate whose most annoying habit was munching crackers.
I was back at the Union Hotel by half past six. I walked up three flights of stairs to my room, intending to lie down for an hour and then go out for a late supper. But my bed was already occupied.
Neatly laid on top of the cover was Mabel, my favorite bat. She was lengthwise, with the knob toward the foot of the bed and the barrel denting the pillow—right where my head would be.
I turned to look on either side of the door. No one there.
Who put the bat on my bed? And how did he get in? I quickly examined the door lock: it was intact, no sign of force. And I’d needed the key to open it. I swept across the room to the one window—it was unbroken, securely locked, and sealed up with thick beige paint.
I checked the rest of the room. The two sagging iron-rail beds were still made up. Fletcher’s bags were at the foot of his, the same as they were last night. A pitcher of water and my shaving tools were in place on the washstand. I sifted through my luggage and the dresser drawer where I’d stashed my clothes; nothing was taken or moved. Everything looked in order.
Staring at Mabel, I sat down on the room’s only other piece of furniture, a pinching straight-back chair with legs of unequal length.
This was no prank by playful teammates. Nor was it an attempt at burglary or vandalism. This was a message. The context of the message was obvious: it had to do with the man I’d found at Fenway Park. But what was the content—what exactly was I being told?
Was it a warning, telling me to keep quiet about my find or I’d end up the same way? Or was it a notice, the calling card of some perverse killer? Had the dead man at Fenway also found a bat in his bed? I read all sorts of ominous scenarios into the sight of one round piece of wood.
I’d made Mabel when I worked in a furniture factory. Instead of the usual ash, I selected a choice block of hickory, turned it down on a lathe, and sanded it smooth. As the bat took shape, I named it for movie star Mabel Normand, and “it” became a “her.” I spent long hours honing her with a hambone to keep her from chipping, and rubbing sweet oil into her to protect the wood. Now, as I worried over the message she bore, I couldn’t even bring myself to touch her. What I had so lovingly created repelled me.
Not until Jake Stahl knocked and announced himself at the door could I move her; I grabbed her delicately at each end and stashed her under the bed.
When I let him in, Stahl took a glance around the room, and wearily asked, “Fletcher out getting cigars?” I nodded, but doubted if I seemed convincing.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted. Stahl wore a tired expression and a blue herringbone suit that looked a size too small. “Don’t worry about it, kid. You did okay today. Tomorrow you’re starting at second. When we get to Philadelphia, you’ll fill in at shortstop. Get some sleep.”
He turned to go out the door, and added, “Oh ... don’t bother to wait up for Fletcher.” When Stahl left, I thought his was a job I didn’t envy. He was expected to bat .300, field his position at first base, run the team in the day, and baby-sit it at night.
With my bed now free, I undressed and tried to take Stahl’s advice.
Once I was under the covers, it occurred to me that whoever left the message might return, perhaps to clarify its meaning. I tried to sleep lightly, keeping one eye open to spot any intruder. I found that it can’t be done. All I accomplished was tire my eyes by trying to close only one at a time. I was soon asleep.
I awoke with a ringing in my ears. Was that the alarm clock? No, it’s still dark out. Wait a minute, are my eyes open? I chafed my right eyeball by sticking a fingertip in it. Yes, my eyelids are open. So, it’s still night. Why am I awake?
Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping!
That was the noise. I sat up.
“You up, kid?”
“Mmm ... yeah.”
Hchoowook. Shptoo. Ping! Fletcher hit the spittoon with another gob of tobacco juice. “Well, you oughta go to sleep,” he said. “We got a game tomorrow.” With that helpful advice, Fletcher spit out his wad and plopped into bed.
