Rival pitchers will rejoice and rival batsmen will shed tears when they view Shibe Park next season.
Pop is spending more time outside of the store doing odd plumbing jobs around the city. Ma continues to pick up work, and Nina is at the store just about every day after school. She continues to look for a real job, with no luck.
I do my best to work for tips. I park cars at the Baker Bowl, where nobody cares that I don’t have a license—so long as I keep my head down and stay out of trouble. Sometimes I make deliveries for the shops on 22nd Street. Rainy days are the best times to land the bigger tips. I try to put at least twenty-five cents in the cookie jar each night. Sometimes it’s more, but most of the time, it’s less.
I devote the next weeks to dodging the Polinski brothers and urging Lola to make our move.
“Tomorrow,” she always says. She continues to write in her journal, and listens to me without too many Jimmy, you’re crazy moments. Sometimes she reads her headlines to me:
John Shibe Nabs Teens in the Halls of Shibe
Park Lester Pott Fired for Losing Key to Ballpark
Spite Fence Goes Up Despite Neighborhood Kids
Her hesitation has put off our blueprints plan, but The Sporting News article on December 20 about the wall helps my cause. Now it’s more than just Philadelphia news. Now the whole country knows. We make plans to sneak into Shibe Park and move the blueprints before the sun comes up the next morning.
“It’s a Saturday. I start deliveries in the dark anyway. You can say you’re helping me.”
She finally agrees.
It’s difficult to sleep, and the draft that is sweeping throughout the house doesn’t help matters at all. The old furnace doesn’t reach my bedroom, and the tape sealing the window cracks isn’t working. It takes three of my nana’s crocheted afghans and four pairs of socks before I finally drift off.
The sound of the Bingle startles me awake, and I shoot up out of the bed, nearly breaking my neck in a tangle of bed sheets and blankets. Is it five a.m. already? Coming from the outside is a strange, dull, lingering light.
I stumble to the window and pull aside the drapery, feeling the sudden need to shield my eyes. A thick blanket of snow has fallen in the last few hours. The sound I hear is heavy snow resting on our Bingle string and making it ring, probably on both ends.
I open the window, fighting against some ice that has formed on the edges, and reach to the Bingle string, knocking the snow off.
“Jimmy Frank! It’s three a.m.! What do you want?” I look up to see Lola’s head pop out of her window.
“The snow keeps ringing the bell,” I reply, careful not to wake anyone else. “Besides, we need to be up in a couple of hours anyway.” I motion toward the ballpark.
Even from here, I can see Lola roll her eyes.
“We can’t break in now. We’ll leave footprints!” Her hands motion toward the snow with a don’t-you-see-this-stupid! sort of face, and she crinkles her mouth. I’m certain that behind that window she is folding her arms in a huff.
But she’s right. The snow is covering every inch outside. It’s piled on our porch roof and is still coming down heavily. It’ll be tough to sneak in.
“Tomorrow is our last chance. We have to figure something out,” I call back and close the window.
I climb back to bed and turn to watch Bing Miller circle his bowl. Why did I wait so long? There were so many opportunities. So many clear nights. So many times I could have moved those blueprints. What if I missed my chance?
Sleep doesn’t come for an hour.
The next morning is bright with activity on the street. I’m exhausted but can’t sleep in through all the noise. Men are shoveling, or taking cigar breaks and talking in the middle of the street. Ralph and Matty are already throwing snowballs over the right-field wall. There is so much joy outside. How can they be so happy? The little kids are laughing, pulling each other on a sled and building a snowman.
A snowman. That’s it!
I grab a pair of scratchy wool knickers and sweater—better to be warm than comfortable, as Ma always says—and head downstairs. My loud feet on the stairs draw unwanted attention.
“Hold on there, Jimmy.” Ma’s voice is upbeat, and I’m happy she’s in a good mood.
“Morning, Ma. I’m heading out. Going to make some money shoveling.”
“Very good, sweetheart. But first you must help Mrs. Carson.”
“Ma, come on! That will take forever!”
“Jimmy, she is old and poor, and has nobody to help her. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Fine.” I head to the door with less spring to my step than a few minutes earlier.
There are shovels on the porch. Pop has already taken care of our house and is in the middle of the street, knee deep in snow, smoking a cigar and laughing with some of his buddies. Mr. Sheridan and Mr. O’Connor are laughing too, along with a fourth gentleman whom I don’t recognize. It’s funny how a little snow can bring out the neighbors and lighten the mood.
“Hey!” Lola bops out of her house, hands me a hot pancake, and picks up a shovel.
“Thanks.” The cold air is more than I expect, and the pancake feels good.
“I have to shovel Mrs. Carson’s place. Then we go into Shibe Park and save our neighborhood,” I say matter-offactly, as I motion for her to follow, ignoring her crooked scowl.
“Into Shibe! In broad daylight!” she says, but I continue forward, even as she flicks snow on my back with her shovel. Mrs. Carson is actually tearful when Lola and I show up.
“My two saints,” she says, folding her arms to protect herself from the cold.
“It’s no problem, ma’am. We’re happy to be here.” I look over at Lola who is still scowling. I widen my eyes in a come-on-get-over-it way, and she forces a smile.
“Tush now, I know you’d rather be outside playing. I didn’t fall off the haystack yesterday.”
“Who has ever really fallen off a haystack?” Lola wonders out loud. Mrs. Carson laughs and goes back inside, rubbing her hands for warmth.
We start, and the snow is lighter and easier to move than I imagined. We’ll have this done in no time.
“Look, Jimmy. I want to help. But how do you expect to sneak in with all this activity? Maybe this snowfall is a sign …”
“What sign? Remember the new rule? Rule #25: Create your own destiny?” I walk around so she is right in front of me. “Today’s our last chance, and I’ve got it all figured out. We can start to build a snowman by the door and wait for the street to clear. In the daylight, we can move around easier. We’ll just grab the blueprints and sneak away.” My confidence is surprising, even to me.
“You mean move the blueprints,” she says with a sharp tone.
“Yes, move them.”
“What if someone sees us? It’s much harder to hide in the daylight. They won’t think we’re a couple of nice kids from the neighborhood who went exploring. They won’t just kick us out and forget about it.”
“Guess you got it all figured out then, don’t you?” I snap. “Were you ever going to help?” Even I’m surprised with the nasty tone of my own voice.
“Well, you two sure have done a nice job!” Mrs. Carson is back on the porch, a smile ear to ear.
Lola continues to glare at me, before breaking my gaze and focusing on Mrs. Carson.
“Just about done, Mrs. Carson. How is your backyard? Do you need anything there?” Lola walks toward her and talks in a sweet, genuine tone. I suddenly feel cold and alone.
“Oh dear, you are too kind. Let’s leave the back for now—you two look like you could use a little warming up.”
I’m not quite sure if she is talking about the weather or something else.
“I have some hot tea for you, and of course I have to pay you.”
“Oh, Mrs. Carson, please. We don’t need anything,” I say.
“Everybody needs something, dear.” She motions for us to join her.
The inside of Mrs. Carson’s house looks like we traveled in a time machine. Along the back wall sits a red velvet sofa that was probably fancy long ago. It’s worn in all the sitting places, and there are two books where a right leg should be. The rest of the room is the same—fraying rugs, peeling wallpaper, tattered lampshades. There are crucifixes scattered on different walls, and a few faded paintings that may have been nice forty years ago. Mrs. Carson returns from the kitchen and sees me studying the room.
“This house has seen better days, Jimmy” she sighs, but quickly perks back up. “It certainly brightens up with company.”
The hot cup actually hurts at first before it slowly warms my fingers. I can feel the tea go all the way down my throat. I am anxious to leave, sneak inside the ballpark, and find those blueprints.
“I can’t pay you any money, of course.”
“We are okay,” Lola emphasizes.
“I know you are okay. But I’d like to give you something anyway. Once that Spite Fence goes up, I think I’ll see less of you both.”
“How’s that, ma’am?” Lola asks.
“You entertain me. I watch you from time to time—sneaking into the ballpark, skulking about at night. I’m afraid that when all this changes, some of your late-night antics will change, too.”
We are both staring at her now. I realize my mouth has dropped open, and I quickly shut it. Lola stands frozen.
“Mrs. Carson, we …”
“I’m an old lady. What else have I got to do but watch everyone else?” she laughs. “Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me. I like your spunk. I sit on my porch at night wondering if I’ll see you jump over the wall. You’ve gotten quite good at it, you know. Now, let’s see. I think I’ve picked out the perfect things for the two of you.”
She moves toward the shelf of old books, papers, and a few journals that look just like Lola’s.
“Ah, here it is.” She pulls out a small photo frame, wipes the dust, and admires it for a few seconds. “I think you might like this.” She hands it to Lola. “You remind me of an Allender girl.” Mrs. Carson puts her hand on Lola’s shoulder. “You’ve got such energy. Don’t slip into the mold, dear. Girls—women—we can do anything.
“Those Allender girls walk around with such conviction. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a photo of you one day at the White House, with an equal rights picket sign under one arm and a journal under the other.”
Mrs. Carson shows me the frame. It contains an old political cartoon, like the ones in the Opinion section of the newspaper. It is a pencil sketch of a woman holding a sign that says for democracy, chasing a man from the Senate holding the Constitution. The drawing is signed Allender, May 1918. I smile uneasily, feeling a little left out of the conversation, which is perfectly fine. This will not help the Spite Fence or our upcoming plan.
Lola hugs Mrs. Carson, causing them both to rock. Leaving Lola’s embrace, Mrs. Carson goes back to the bookshelf and picks out a book near the top shelf. She walks over to me, smiling, and holds out the book. I take and examine it, a white cover and brown writing: As I Lay Dying.
“Er, thanks Mrs. Carson. I really appreciate the, um …”
“Oh dear, not the book! Not the book!” She opens the front cover. “This, dear—here you go.”
Inside is a baseball card, but not like the ones in my shoebox under the bed. “Well, it’s just a piece of cardboard,” she says, with a touch of embarrassment. “But I thought you might like it. He’s quite a player, and famous. Although I think a little overweight for a professional athlete.”
“What?” I look closely. It’s not like any card I ever saw before—a profile shot of a player in a navy hat, coat, and socks, with white pants. The bottom of the card says RUTH, PITCHER, with the words International League underneath.
“Where is this from?” I ask, turning it over and studying it a bit longer. “This is before he was with the Yankees!” I squeal.
“Oh, who knows? My son lived in Maryland. I think he had a box of stuff somewhere and left this one behind.” Lola and I both stiffen up a bit at the mention of her son, knowing that he died in The Great War.
“Tush now, none of that.” Mrs. Carson notices our change. “Don’t expect life to be fair.”
“Rule #6,” I say, just loud enough for Lola to hear, and she smiles in my direction.
“Mrs. Carson, I can’t take this. It’s got to be worth something.”
“Well, that’s why it’s a gift.”
“No, I mean you could sell it. Raise some money for the house or food,” I say. “Oh, I don’t mean to, well, I just mean that you can use the money, right?”
“Nobody will buy a silly baseball card. Not in 1934. By the time it’s worth something, I’ll be long gone. Tuck it away, and maybe one day you can sell it yourself. Now run along. I suspect you have a scheme or two planned for today,” Mrs. Carson says, collecting our cups.
We both smile and thank her again, leaving through the front door and sweeping some leftover snow along the way, making sure the job looks neat and clean.
“Let me see that!” Lola examines my new baseball card and places it gently into her journal for safekeeping.
“Wait, here.” I rummage through my bag and pull out the fishing line, then tie it around the journal like a package.
“Good thinking.” She puts them both in my bag and takes a deep breath. “The cold air feels good.”
“I still can’t believe she gave that to me! I can’t wait to show it to Pop.”
“Seems like she’s been looking out for us.”
“We are always going to shovel her steps.”
“And we should do other things, too.”
I put my hat on and try to take advantage of Lola’s good mood. “Now how about a walk through Shibe?”