The marble steps shone, a receding line of daily washed entrances and exits. A fourteenth-century painter, coming to grips with perspective, would have delighted in the steps, for which Baltimore is famous.

Celeste and Ben reached his rooming house, where Mrs. McCleary, bucket and brush, suds overflowing, vigorously scrubbed her steps.

“Mrs. McCleary, I’m sorry to dirty your steps, which are always whiter than anyone else’s.” Ben had his hand under Celeste’s arm. “This is my friend, Miss Celeste Chalfonte, I’m going to show her my quarters and I will leave the door open. We won’t be long, but I’d like her to see how bright everything is, even the stairway.”

Mrs. McCleary didn’t rise but looked Celeste up and down. She knew a rich woman when she saw one.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. McCleary.”

“Likewise.” The stout middle-aged woman forced a tight smile. “Ben. Did you win?”

“We did, ma’am, we did. Eleven to four.”

“Saints be praised.” She smiled at last. “Monza owes me one dollar.”

Monza, a neighbor, had been named for the popular stage star of an earlier day, Monza Alverta Algood, a celebrated beauty. The current Monza missed that boat, but she was tidy, knew what colors looked good on her, and was a stalwart friend to Mrs. McCleary.

“I’ll do my best to enrich you.” Ben smiled as he led Celeste up the steps.

Mrs. McCleary heard their footfalls recede. Puzzled by something she put down her brush, hurried next door. “Monza, the Orioles won.”

Monza, thin, appeared at the door, reached into her skirt pocket, and pulled out a dollar. “I will win it back.”

“Monza, help me. Why does the name Chalfonte sound so familiar?”

“Old Line Manufacturing, the B & O Railroad, and God knows what else.”

Mrs. McCleary’s eyes popped open wide. “There’s a Chalfonte in my house. Her necklace and earrings could buy the block!”

“In your house.” Monza thought, then genuflected.

Mrs. McCleary gave her a playful slap. “Monza, you’ll have to confess that and if you don’t, I will.”

They both laughed.

Ben opened the door to his rooms: a small kitchen, small living room under a skylight, a bedroom and tiny bathroom. “Here we are.”

Celeste stepped inside, looked around. “You are such a clean fellow.”

A flat, polished drawing board rested on the porcelain-topped kitchen table, two chairs shoved underneath. Papers on top drew Celeste’s attention.

“May I?” She picked up the top paper, good drawing paper, a box of colored pencils resting on the table as well. “Ben, these are beautiful.”

He stood beside her. “I thought to do windows of the great ladies of the Bible. Queen Esther, Sarah, Judith.” He paused as she pulled out the last one. “I really did this for you. Ruth and Naomi.”

A mist colored Celeste’s eyes. Who would have thought of Ruth and Naomi, most especially the man you hold in your arms? “Ben—” She took a deep breath, repeating herself. “These are beautiful.”

“Well, I thought”—a boyish enthusiasm shone from his face, vibrated in his voice—“Carlotta has lost all her windows and it is a school for girls and, well, shouldn’t they look at the heroines of the Bible? I haven’t gotten to Anne yet, nor her daughter, the Blessed Virgin Mother, but I’m thinking about it. For the Blessed Virgin Mother, I must use a lot of light blue and—” He stopped himself. “I’m blathering.”

“No, no, I’m actually overcome.”

“Well.” He pulled out a chair for her. “She may not like them but I’m going to try. If she knows about us, she may not like them at all.”

“She’ll ignore it. Actually, she will take comfort in the fact that you are a man.”

“Good.” He smiled at her. “I don’t know what I’d do if I weren’t.”

Celeste replied, with a wry smile, “I’d know what to do. Fear not.”

He burst out laughing and then with encouragement talked a blue streak.

—

Outside Mrs. McCleary looked knowingly at Monza. “I’d better check.”

“If you toss them out, do it slowly, I want to see Miss Chalfonte.” Monza was now glued to her clean front marble steps.

Ben had scribbled in a notebook some rough drawings for Celeste. Hearing Mrs. McCleary’s footsteps, he met her at the open door.

She stood there, stuck her head in, but the rest of her considerable body remained on the other side of the doorjamb.

“Mrs. McCleary, please come in. I can offer you coffee, milk, tea, or a Co-Cola.”

“No, thank you.” She stared at Celeste, notebook in hand.

Radiant smile at full wattage, Celeste said, “You must have help. One woman can’t keep a building pin tidy like this.”

“I do it all.” Mrs. McCleary puffed up like a broody hen. “I have a system, you see. Unless it’s pouring rain or blinding snow, I scrub the steps every afternoon. Mondays are wash days, naturally, I take down the curtains and wash them. Tuesdays I iron. I always sweep the stairway before going to bed. Every day I have my list of chores. Of course, I pick my tenants with care. No slovenly people. No loose people either. I prefer churchgoers and Mr. Battle attends when he is in town. Makes all the difference in the world, the caliber of your people.”

“Yes, it does, and you are a good judge of character.” The wattage remained at full power.

“Mrs. McCleary, we are on our way out. Do you need anything? I can run to the store and come back,” Ben offered.

“No, thank you.” She turned and thumped down the stairs, each step ringing.

Ben squared up his papers, put his pencil back in the wooden box with the colored pencils.

“Take your notebook. Or, if you like, we can go to an art supply store and get more.”

“You really think…” He paused, began again. “You think these are good?”

She stood up, walked over, leaned down and kissed his cheek, then kissed him on the mouth. “I thought I’d seen everything when I saw that backhanded catch you made today. Ben, you really are talented.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’m happy when I draw. Well, I’m happy when I play baseball, too.” He stood up, put his arms around her waist, and kissed her.

Going out, he carried his pencil box while Celeste carried his notebook. Kissing her gave him an erection. As Ben was well built, trying to hide the evidence proved difficult with only the pencil box. Fortunately, when he and Celeste reached the sidewalk, Mrs. McCleary and Monza, focusing intently on Celeste’s jewelry, missed his.

As they walked along he regained his composure.

Monza bleated to Mrs. McCleary, “That is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Ever.”

Arms crossed across her chest, Mrs. McCleary nodded.

—

The pleasant late afternoon encouraged walking.

“Your apartment has good light.”

“That’s why I took it. That, and it’s not too far from the park. You’d be surprised at how much difference light makes.”

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Of course.” He was eager to hear.

“Carlotta responds to what she sees. Imagination is not her strong point, or I don’t think it is. If you make large drawings of your stained-glass windows, can you use watercolors to intensify the color—or what about canvas where you can paint deep colors?”

Ben didn’t want to remark on how much paint and canvas cost, not to mention the frames for stretching the canvas and the cost of brushes. Good sable brushes ran high.

“How about I do one?”

“A test?” She slipped her arm through his.

“Yes. You can see how you like the true colors. We can go from there.”

She was beginning to understand that the issue was money. Celeste had never had to think about it. She’d gone to school with other girls who never had to think about money and in fact were discouraged from doing so. Celeste would never, ever have to worry about money. Those worries belonged to men.

“Yes.” She squeezed his arm while thinking about finding a loft for him with wonderful light or living quarters where he could paint, work.

She knew she’d have to find it, show him, then try to convince him. Ben truly did not want to take her money and she respected him for that.

Blue jays squawked in trees.

Ben laughed. “Bet Mrs. McCleary and Monza are jabbering like that blue jay.”

“Mrs. McCleary is a censorious character.”

“That she is.” He patted her hand on his arm.

“How did you make that backhanded catch? It was as though you knew exactly where the batter would hit the ball. I love watching you out there.” She grinned.

“Ah, well, even a blind pig finds an acorn sometimes.”

“Now, Ben, don’t be falsely modest. Tell me, if you can, how you do what you do and in the blink of an eye?”

“First, I study the players. I try to remember who pulls the ball, who pops up, who can thread the needle. Some hitters can see the ball better than others. They can often select where they’re going to hit. Between first and second base is always a sure single if you’re not powerful, or if the pitch isn’t one you can blast out of the park. Most hitters hit toward me because they’re right-handed. I know I have to be alert and sometimes a grounder takes a bizarre bounce. All I can do in that case is hope my reactions are fast enough.”

“Is that what happened with the backhanded catch?”

“No. That was a line drive just out of my reach. All I could do was fling myself toward second base, glove open. Got it and he was out. Dennis, on first, the guy on the other team, stuck tight.”

“What happens when you’re at the plate? Do you know the pitchers?”

“Usually. You can always be fooled by a new guy but eventually you memorize his delivery, what he can do well, what he can’t. The other thing is to pay attention when your teammate bats.”

“Where they hit it?”

“Yes, because I watch how the defense moves about on the field. Who covers what. Who is a step slow and who is a little slow upstairs.” He pointed to his head.

“So you know what to do when you hit or where you hit and what to do on base? When you have a chance to steal?”

“Right. In a way, Celeste, baseball kept me alive in France. I listened for firing patterns, I listened for the sound of the shells. I was always alone on the bike and oftentimes the Germans missed our lines. They overshot or they aimed for the roads if they thought a convoy was coming. Paying attention to everything like the sound of the ball off the bat, well, I did that over there. Sometimes I could hear the boom and I hauled my bike into a ditch. Saved me.”

“For which I am grateful.”

Ben hailed a cab. They’d walked a bit but the Belvedere Hotel would be a long, long walk. Once in Celeste’s room, neither wasted any time.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he said, “I’ll race you to the bed.”

Knowing she’d lose, Celeste accepted. “If you win, you have to draw something for me. A consolation prize.”

Lying there afterward, Celeste told him about the conversation she’d had with the girls about Pliny the Elder’s Natural History and the Machyles who could change sex at will.

“I thought of that because I teased you about Carlotta taking comfort in you being a man.”

“You said you’d know what to do if I weren’t.” He kissed her cheek. “Well, what would you do?”

“I’d beat you to the bed.”

“And?”

“Once there I would assault your person.” She laughed. “If the electricity is there, the details take care of themselves.”

“I believe you, but I don’t know what I would do without my details.”

“You’d enjoy yourself.” She turned to face him, propped up on one elbow. “If you could change sex at will, would you?”

“I never thought about it. Then again, I’ve never read…what’s his name?”

“Pliny the Elder.”

“I’m thinking about it.” He propped himself up on his elbow to face her. “I would have to learn a lot. And the clothes. How much money would two wardrobes cost, especially women’s clothing? But, I’d try so long as I’d be in bed with you.”