Chapter 5
Tess
The lights shone brightly on the empty softball field, ready for us to conduct the annual ceremony. I waited for Jack to pull up behind me and then got out of my car, scanning the parking lot. Brenda was already there, sitting in her Prius, and the camouflage-painted truck a few spaces away from her signaled the Truckmans had arrived early, too. The ancient Oldsmobile probably belonged to one of the two old guys who’d founded the annual Dead End/Riverton softball game some three decades ago.
The Dead End softball and baseball fields were part of a larger recreational area with a dog park, skate park, and volunteer-run snack shop. There was even a volleyball court and basketball court. The grounds were gorgeous, with the various areas bordered by masses of azalea bushes that trembled in the breeze, their lush pink beauty as much a treat for the senses as their vivid scent.
Our arrival must have sent a signal. Everybody else exited their cars and walked over to where we waited next to the home team dugout. I counted Brenda, the two old guys—what were their names?—and two of the three Truckmans who’d been in my shop earlier.
Ace, the Riverton team captain, was nowhere in sight.
“Hi, everyone,” I said. “Where’s Ace?”
Mutt looked around, like his cousin might pop up from behind the dugout and surprise us. “I don’t know. We thought he musta drove here early without us.”
“He leaves us a lot,” Probie mumbled, looking resentful.
It must be hard to be at the bottom of the hierarchy in that family.
The two old guys shuffled up, and I was still struggling to remember their names. I should have texted Aunt Ruby. Forgetting someone’s name was the height of rudeness, according to The Big Book of Southern Manners, which was entirely fictional and yet still imprinted in my brain.
They looked alike enough to be related. Both wore baggy dark pants, flannel shirts, and old denim jackets. Both were deeply tanned and bald but had bushy eyebrows. Both peered at us over thick eyeglasses. Even if I could have remembered their names, it might have been hard to tell them apart.
“Hello, Mr. Henry. Mr. Albert. It’s nice to see you again,” Brenda said. She shook hands with them.
That was it. Chester Albert from Dead End and Arthur Henry from Riverton. They’d come up with the idea of the friendly rivalry softball game a good thirty years ago, and the win/lose tally was pretty evenly split, except for our weird three-year losing streak just recently. Ever since Ace had taken over as captain, Riverton had been kicking our butts. Which had to be more correlation than causation because he wasn’t a spectacular player. He was fine, but not good enough to carry his team.
I mentally shrugged. We’d get them this year.
“Mr. Albert, Mr. Henry, good to see you,” I said. They knew I didn’t shake hands. “This is Jack Shepherd. He’s Jeremiah’s nephew, and he’ll be playing this year.”
Jack shook hands, and Mr. Albert grinned at him. “Still popping bubble gum all over your face, Jack?”
Jack looked puzzled for a moment, but then he laughed. “Wow. I’d forgotten all about that, sir.”
Mr. Henry chortled. “This youngster was always pestering Jeremiah for gum. One day he filled his mouth with an entire pack of bubble gum and blew a bubble bigger than his head.”
“When that thing popped, it went all over his face,” Mr. Albert said, grinning. “He had gum in his hair. Gum in his ears, even.”
“And my nose. Poor Uncle Jeremiah had to shave my head,” Jack said ruefully. “I spent most of my summer vacation wearing a hat every day.”
“That happened to Probie just last week,” Mutt crowed.
His cousin, whose crewcut was looking awfully short, elbowed him. “Shut up.”
I suppressed a grin. “Maybe try to call Ace and see how close he is?”
“Yes,” Mr. Albert says. “We need to get on with this. I don’t want to stand out here all night. My arthritis is acting up.”
“None of that,” Mr. Henry said. “We’re not going to start talking about our aches and pains like old people.”
I blinked. Since they looked like they were each at least a hundred, I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I said nothing.
Probie pulled out his phone, hit a couple of buttons, and we all listened to ring after ring. Then Ace’s voice came on:
“Say what you need to say, unless it’s stupid, in which case call somebody who gives a crap.”
“Charming,” Jack whispered near my ear.
“That’s Ace,” I whispered back, barely audible, knowing that Jack’s Superior Tiger Hearing would pick it up.
Mutt gave me a shy grin. “Tess, if he’s not here in the next five minutes, I’d be glad to stand in. I’m kind of the assistant captain.”
“No, you’re not,” Probie said hotly.
“Yes, I am. Ace said so!”
Brenda, looking faintly harassed, finally spoke up. “Let’s just get on with it. He’s already fifteen minutes late, and some of us have to work still tonight.”
Probie sneered at her. “Maybe if you’d been nicer to him, he’d be here.”
“Maybe if you’ll be more polite, we’ll get along,” Jack said quietly, aiming a hard stare at Probie, who ducked his head.
Brenda moved away from me when I tried to put a hand on her arm.
“I think that’s fine, Mutt,” I said. “Ace isn’t answering texts, either?”
The Truckman cousins shook their heads.
“Right. Let’s get on with it, then,” Mr. Henry said, rubbing his hands together. “First, a bit of history.”
We all heroically kept from groaning as the two of them told us the story, yet again, of how they’d founded the game. Mr. Henry, a metalworker in his working years, had fabricated the trophy. It was gorgeous, too. Instead of the usual boring bat and ball, or generic guy holding a bat, he’d designed it to be a graceful swoop of metal that looked like an abstract vision of a bird taking flight.
I was looking forward to displaying it in the Dead End town hall again this year after we kicked Riverton’s butt.
After Mr. Albert and Mr. Henry had sufficiently enlightened us on the history of the rivalry and the trophy, they were finally ready to move on.
Mr. Henry, his expression growing stern, held up one finger. “The most important tenet of this game: Honor. We swore on the trophy to conduct this rivalry with honor, courtesy, and good sportsmanship. To ensure this would always be the case, we came up with the ceremony of the five oaths. Now, we will recite them, and you will agree.”
“I don’t know.” Mr. Albert looked worried. “Does it count if the actual captain doesn’t swear?”
“We can appoint him to be co-captain,” Mr. Henry said, nodding at Mutt. “He seems to be the smartest of the trio, anyway.”
“Thanks,” Mutt said.
“Hey!” Probie said.
“Great,” Brenda said.
Jack and I said nothing. I started toward home plate and left everyone to follow me or not. I’d had a long day. I’d seen my new employee die, I’d had to put up with Truckmans, and I’d worked ten hours. I just wanted to go home and pet my cat.
Luckily, they all followed me. Once we were gathered around home plate, Mr. Henry pulled a battered old leather-bound book out of his jacket pocket and held it out to us to see.
“Our book of rules, designed thirty years ago and added to over the decades,” Mr. Albert said. “Tess, are you co-captain of the Dead End team?”
“Yes,” I said slowly, suddenly reluctant even though I’d agreed to do it. I didn’t like the idea of oaths for something as frivolous as a softball game. “I guess so, if you need me.”
Mr. Henry turned to the Truckmans. “Probie, do you want to be co-captain, or should we still plan on Ace?”
Probie stared into space for a long moment and then grimaced. “Better count on Ace. He’d slap me upside the head if I took his spot. I can stand in for him, though, for this.”
“I don’t understand why he’s not here. It’s not like him,” Mutt said, his forehead furrowed. “Maybe he got into a car accident?”
“I hope not,” I said. “I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he lost track of time. Anyway, the rules?”
“Yes, yes, keep your pants on, girlie,” Mr. Albert groused. “All four captains should now put your right hands on the book.”
Jack looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Really?”
I shushed him, stepped up between Mutt and Brenda, Probie across from me, and put my hand on the book.
“Repeat after me,” Mr. Albert said. “I, state your name.”
Me: “I, Tess Callahan.”
Brenda: “I, Brenda Pennywhistle.”
Mutt: “I, Mutt Truckman.”
Probie: “I, State Your Name.”
Everybody sighed and glared at him. The sad thing was that he didn’t get it.
“You need to say: ‘I, Probie Truckman,’” Mutt stage whispered.
“Right. I, Probie Truckman.”
“Agree to be bound by the following rules,” Mr. Henry said.
We all repeated it.
Mr. Albert then set forth the rules:
We all agreed again.
Jack, standing behind me, said, “Alligators? What?”
“1998. Terrible year,” Mr. Henry said darkly.
“I think we’re done here,” Mr. Albert said. “Where is the trophy now?”
“It needs to be handed over to us at the conclusion of this ceremony to be held in trust until the game,” Mr. Henry said, giving the Truckmans a fierce look.
“Ace has it,” Mutt said, shrugging helplessly.
“He needs to give it to us by no later than Monday night,” Mr. Albert said sternly.
Mutt and Probie nodded.
“Okay, all. Good night, then. See you next Saturday,” I said, as cheerfully as I could manage. It had been a very long day and a very long week, and I just wanted to go to bed. Maybe a hot bath and then bed.
Brenda caught up with me on the way to the parking lot. “I need to talk to you, Tess.” Her voice was nearly a whisper.
“I can’t tonight, Brenda. I’m sorry, but I’m wiped out. Today has been rough. Can we talk tomorrow evening before practice?”
She bit her lip, but then nodded. “Sure. I mean, I guess. It might be important, but … yeah. Okay. See you tomorrow.”
I was instantly sorry and wanted to change my mind and talk to her. I hated to disappoint anybody. But I’d been working on setting boundaries and standing up for myself, so I was also a little proud of myself.
“Okay. Meet you here early? Five-thirty?”
“Yeah. Okay. Five-thirty.”
If I’d only known then what would happen the next day, I would have forced her to talk to me right that second. Of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.
The flip side of that saying is that foresight is a big, fat zero.