Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
Brooke
Aside from bulk apple deliveries to their Piggly Wiggly, I haven’t been to Moonshine County since we played them in high school. Unless you count our celebratory meal at Enchilada, which is barely across the county line.
Now I’m at their baseball park for the first time.
It’s about what I’d expect. The only things offered at the concession stand are boiled peanuts and fried Twinkies. Although a lot of adults keep pulling beer from coolers since this is a wet county. Oh, and there’s a few women shaking cocktails under a tent.
I pull my sunglasses down and squint. Sure enough, that’s Tami with them. I don’t know what surprises me more. The fact that she went up to random strangers for a homemade drink or that they gave her one.
She lifts a red Solo cup when she sees me and smiles. I fake a smile and look away. This should be an interesting night.
Morgan slides beside me and sighs. “I just found out we’re not playing Nicorette again.” She tosses a few peanuts in her mouth and chews before continuing. “This team is supposed to be better.”
I nod. At this point I’m more worried about the crowd than the team. Moonshine County has a certain reputation, but I’ve never experienced it so up close and personal. The combination of warmer weather and Little League has this place looking like a People of Walmart fashion show.
Charlie is gawking at a girl whose shorts could qualify for blue-jean panties. Maribelle covers his eyes and calls to Morgan and me, “Do we know what field we’re on?”
Morgan checks her phone. “Field three.” She looks around and nods toward the field.
A younger group of players runs by on their way to the concession stand. I shake my head to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Nope. Their caps say MF. That’s highly inappropriate.
Only when they pass us do I notice “Sponsored by Moonshine Furniture” on the back of their jerseys. Still, inappropriate.
Our group heads that way, except for Tami, who is content with her new friends. Maybe she will stay in Moonshine.
“Some of those kids are huge!” Timothy gawks.
“Shh.” The last thing we need is for him to scare everyone before we even throw a ball.
Georgia tiptoes over mud toward us. Her face is scrunched like she smelled a fart. In a place like this, she could’ve smelled anything.
“Everyone’s here.” She huffs. “I was hoping this was the wrong park.”
I raise a brow. “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”
“Apparently not.” She lifts her foot and grimaces at mud caked on the side of her white sneakers. “I brought the kids some candy for later.” She slides a box out of her Bogg bag.
“Thanks.”
I turn my attention to the field. Timothy makes a good point. Some of those kids are close to my height. I haul my lawn chair to the dugout. One of the coaches yells something foreign and half the kids nod.
“Is that Spanish?” I ask.
Morgan leans closer and listens. “I’m no Don Quixote, but that scruffy kid did answer him with “sí, se?or.”
She takes a step back and whistles. The kids stand at attention. “Grab a glove and go to the outfield. We need to warm up.”
The kids jog onto the field, except for Reece. He trips on his Harry Potter robe. I help him stand. “Sweetie, why are you wearing this again?”
“I keep it in my bat bag for good luck. When we got out, I saw a bunch of people in costumes, so I thought I should put it on.”
I bite back a laugh. “I think this county has a different kind of style is all. Why don’t we put it back in the bag, and you can dress up after the game?”
He unclasps the front and takes it off. I pat him on the back as he hurries onto the field, capeless.
Aniston steps in the dugout and turns an ear toward the field. Her eyes widen and she stares at me. “I knew it!”
“What?”
“That’s Guatemalan Spanish.” She grins.
“And how would you know that?”
Aniston stands tall and proud. “I backpacked through Guatemala one summer in search of the perfect plantains.”
“That’s strange.”
She frowns. “Maybe, but he just warned the tall kid to watch out for Ethan’s arm.”
My eyes dart in the direction of the kids. Ethan is warming up with Herrington. He does have our best arm and plays catcher. I sigh. “Want to coach first base tonight?”
“I’d be delighted.” She smirks and marches onto the field.
Morgan whistles and everyone runs to the dugout. She follows, eating a few peanuts on the way. “What’s Aniston doing in your spot?” she asks.
“She speaks Guatemalan Spanish and knows what the coach is saying.”
“Boss!” Morgan holds up her hand for me to high-five.
I do, then wipe my hand down my shirt. The peanut oil is dense. I snarl at a greasy stain on my clothes and reach for the book. “I’ll do her job.”
I start calling out the lineup, while Morgan straightens her ponytail behind her cap. The kids gather against the fence and semi-listen to her pep talk.
“And Miss Aniston is at first base today. Listen to what she says. She speaks the coach’s language.”
“She speaks Chinese?” Precious blinks in amazement.
“Spanish—Guatemalan, to be exact,” Morgan corrects.
“I didn’t know guacamole was a language.” Jack cocks his head.
“Just line up. Timothy, you’re first.”
Timothy takes the field and Reece hops on deck. I just pray we make it to Andrew in the inning. Something tells me these kids can field.
A few plays later, I’m proven right. We make it to Andrew, but barely manage to score one run. The next round they rack up five. These kids are such heavy hitters, we can’t get the ball in time.
At the top of the second, Morgan huddles everyone around. Aniston comes in the dugout with her intel. “He tells them to always go for home, and if nobody’s on third, the base closest to it. If we can load the bases, we have the best shot at scoring a run.” She wavers her head. “Or if anyone can hit more than a single, that would be great.”
I frown at her. She shrugs.
“Okay, so that’s offense. I have a game plan for defense,” Morgan says. “Do y’all remember Isabella and her friends who practiced with us?”
“Do we?” Jack says. He smiles at his brother, and Charlie wiggles his eyebrows.
Morgan clears her throat. “When they were your age, they won by rolling the ball.” She glances at the players to make sure everyone is watching, then takes a ball. “You gently toss it underhanded.”
“Like a Quaffle!” Reece wiggles with excitement.
“Get your mind off waffles, son. We can eat later.”
He gives Morgan a mean look. I try not to laugh, as I’m sure he was referring to the ball in Harry Potter .
“But underhanded, like you’re bowling. Let the ball roll hard on the ground to the next player. Keep your gloves to the dirt, and scoop it up.”
“Is that legal?” I ask.
“Yep.”
Out of nowhere, Bubba steps into our dugout.
“What are you doing here?” Morgan crosses her arms. “Spying on the competition?”
“No, my nephew plays for the 6U and they just finished a game.”
He sits on the edge of the bench beside Angel. The wood creaks and it bows under his weight. “Look, I don’t have anything against y’all. To be honest, Jeffrey is a little intense.”
“A little?” Aniston and I comment at the same time.
“I move trailers for him, but he’s even worse at the park than there. He thinks we should win every game no matter what.”
“Obviously,” Morgan mumbles.
Bubba stands, and the bench readjusts, bouncing Angel in the air an inch.
“Anyways, good luck to y’all. We’re going to Waffle House with my sister’s family.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Some of the kids wave. Aniston gives me a curious look, as if she’s not sure whether to believe him. The kids watch him leave.
Morgan whistles. “Focus. Just because he said ‘waffle’ doesn’t mean we’re thinking about it.”
I laugh.
“You focus, too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I straighten and bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing again.
After all the waffle talk, the first batter jogs onto the field. Aniston stands at first and gives me some kind of weird signal. I’m clueless, but she ends it with a thumbs-up.
We hit better, which I attribute to Aniston’s smack talk. Whatever intimidation factor she and Morgan have over the kids, I don’t. They come to me for candy and ice packs.
The score is now four to five, but we have to play defense. Morgan glances at me from third base and puffs up her cheeks. Most people wouldn’t pick up on it, but she’s nervous.
Their first batter is one of the bigger kids. He gets two strikes, then slams the ball to the outfield. Angel stops picking a flower and grabs the ball. I hold my breath as she turns her hand and bowls it hard as she can toward third base. Carter scoops it up at short and tags the runner as he rounds second base, full speed. Morgan pumps her fist in the air and cheers.
The coaches are dumbfounded, and one of them yells some foreign obscenities. At least I think so from Aniston’s reaction. We continue with this plan, only allowing them two runs.
It’s now four to seven, and we’ve got another at-bat. Morgan and Aniston smile widely as everyone jogs into the dugout.
“Good job. We scored more runs than them this inning!” Morgan claps enthusiastically.
She starts high-fiving everyone. When she gets close to me, I purposely stare at the book and pretend to write something. I’ve had enough peanut oil for one night.
We’re back to the top of the order. Timothy puts on his helmet and grabs his bat. I hold on to the end, pulling him back. When he turns, I let go and pat him on the helmet. “You’ve got this, son.”
He grins and struts onto the field. Morgan takes a deep breath and pitches. He hits the first ball and makes it to second. We all cheer.
The momentum continues, and we manage to score four runs before they get three outs. Morgan comes to the fence as the kids are getting their gloves. “All right, Gray Armadillos. This is it.”
They hurry onto the field. She stands by the fence, and Aniston joins me. The score is now eight to seven, with us in the lead.
The other team isn’t batting as well this time, and Aniston laughs.
“What?”
“Remind me to tell you what all he’s saying later.”
“Would you need to repent afterward?” I ask.
She wavers her head.
“I’ll take your word for it, then.”
She laughs harder.
Our rolling technique continues to prove successful until they get back to the big guy. He chokes down on the bat and snorts. His nostrils flare like a bull. Good thing our jerseys are gray and not red.
He hits the first pitch deep into the outfield. Angel covers her face with her glove. Time stands still as every eye follows the ball. It lands perfectly in her glove.
Our team goes nuts. And so does their team’s coach, but in a different way. His speech pattern goes into overdrive, reminding me of the time I tried to listen to an audiobook on double speed. Except my book was in English, with a more soothing tone.
Aniston grabs me and hugs my neck. I’m still in shock. We beat the big, scruffy Moonshine Mariners.
* * *
“Champs on three.” Morgan sticks out her hand, and ten dirty little hands slap on top.
She lets Angel count them down. We all yell, “Champs!” Someone growls in the background, but I’m afraid to see who.
“Let’s get out of here before someone slashes our tires,” Easton suggests.
I nod.
“Carlton is coming from work and said he’d buy us all a celebratory dinner at Catfish Camp!” Georgia beams.
Crap, Georgia. I’m so ready to get on the brighter side of the county line. But the kids are excited. Maybe that’s her plan, since they didn’t care for her fancy dark chocolate truffles.
“Let’s get a move on,” Morgan says.
The adults have everything packed up, so we travel in a pack to the entrance of the park.
“Where’s Mama?” Precious asks.
“I’ll get her.” Easton frowns at me and Aniston. “She may need a doctor.”
He meets us in the parking lot with Tami hanging on him. She’s holding her baseball heels in her hands and laughing through hiccups.
“I better drive her,” he says.
“You’re not riding alone with that!” Aniston protests.
“Then she needs to ride with you. I’ll take her kids and ours.”
“Okay.” Aniston takes Tami to their van, while Easton gathers her girls.
I climb in the car with Timothy.
Georgia’s Mercedes slows, and the window lowers. “Follow me.” She grins, then zips the window.
I do as I’m told. Timothy grabs my phone. “Mama, Nate called us.”
“You can call him back.” I smile to myself. We haven’t talked since last night.
“There are no bars.”
“I hope not. Catfish Camp is supposed to be a family place, but you never know around here.”
“No, Mama, no signal bars.”
I lift my chin in acknowledgement, then refocus on the back of Georgia’s SUV. “We’ll call soon enough.”
I grip the wheel. Every day we talk for at least a quick minute, and he texts me throughout the day. I know Timothy wants to tell him about the game, but I simply want to say “I love you” and hear it back.
Every second I regret not saying it in person before he left. But I was caught off guard and didn’t want it to sound like a desperate attempt at keeping him. When he told me the next night on the phone, I had to tell him back.
Georgia puts her blinker on beside a light-up sign that reads “Fresh-Caught Cats.”
“They serve cats?” Timothy snarls.
“No.” I laugh. “It’s short for catfish.” Dear God, I hope that’s true.
We park in a gravel lot that’s poorly lit. Lights from inside somewhat show the way to a metal building with a catfish above the door. Rustic letters spell out “Catfish Camp” under it.
Georgia parks beside us and comes to my door. “Carlton is inside getting us a table.”
“Okay.” I stare at her a minute.
“Oh yeah.” She moves aside so I can get out.
Timothy and Herrington follow behind us, talking about video games. I triple-check the lock on our car just to be safe.
Sounds of voices and silverware greet us as soon as we open the old screen door. The inside is actually cozy and welcoming. Thank you, God!
I have to admit I expected something along the lines of Enchilada, with hush puppies instead of chips.
“Welcome to Catfish Camp. How many?” a middle-aged woman greets us.
“We’re with the team.” Georgia grins.
“Okay.” She gives us a puzzled look, then smiles. “Right this way.”
We follow her past the tables and booths, through a swinging door. If we end up in a kitchen, I’m leaving.
No kitchen. It’s a back room full of men. Huge, tall men. Georgia’s jaw drops, and the woman nods toward the tables. About twenty pairs of eyes study us.
“This is the only team here,” the hostess says.
“Yeah . . .” Georgia presses her lips together.
“I think we’re the first ones here of our team,” I say.
“Let me get y’all a table.” The woman laughs and leads us to the front.
Carlton stands and waves. He’s sitting at two tables pushed together in the corner. Georgia waves at him and trots in front of us. “That’s our team,” she says to the hostess.
“Gotcha.” She grabs several rolls of silverware from a bucket and follows us.
Georgia and Carlton do this weird greeting where they touch cheeks and kiss the air. It has Victorian British vibes. The woman places a rolled napkin in front of every chair. More of our people arrive and find us.
Once the silverware is in place, the lady says, “I’m Marsha, and I’ll be serving y’all tonight.” She pulls a pad from her back pocket. “I can start getting drink orders, then y’all can help yourselves to the buffet.”
She goes around the table taking orders. I’m too slow to sit down and get stuck between Tami and Morgan’s drama queen daughter, Sofia. That should be fun. Tami orders black coffee, then immediately falls asleep on the table.
“Where were you when we came in?” Georgia asks Carlton.
“In the corner watching that.” He points to the opposite wall. It’s one of those fake mounted fish that sings and moves its mouth and tail. Carlton laughs when it begins a new song. “Have you ever seen one of those?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly.
Then I semi-smile to not sound so cold. I’m glad we won and that I have something to eat other than boiled peanuts, but I’d much prefer eating at home with Nate and Timothy rather than having drunken Tami crowd my space.
Easton clears his throat and offers to pray. We all bow our heads and listen best we can among others talking and the fake fish belting out “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
When everyone stands to fix their plates, I take my phone and check the signal. It’s not halfway bad, so I stand. Marsha stops with a tray full of drinks. When she comes close to me, she glances at the phone. “Women’s bathroom, second stall, is about the only place you’ll get good service.”
“Thanks.” I smile.
“That way.” She tilts her head to the right.
I squeeze through the crowd corralled around the buffet that includes many of the tall guys from the other end of the restaurant. Now that they’re standing, I can see “Apple Cart County Community College” and a basketball on their clothing. No wonder she laughed at us saying we were with the team.
There’s a clog near the end of the buffet, and I almost get stuck between two guys twice my height digging in the cracker barrel. I squeeze through and see a sign for the restrooms.
A picture of a fish with long eyelashes and lipstick catches me off guard, but also gives a clear sign I’ve found the right restroom. The door opens to Adrianne, Morgan’s sister-in-law.
“Hey, girl.” Her makeup eerily resembles the fish on the door, except it makes her look pretty instead of scary. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“First time.” I nod.
“We bring Grandpa Joe most Fridays. It’s his favorite spot.”
“That’s sweet. We’re with Timothy’s baseball team. Just played a game at Moonshine Park.”
“You look good to come from there.” She wrinkles her nose.
I laugh. “Good seeing you.”
“You too.” She smiles and shimmies past me.
I enter the restroom, and another woman comes in behind me. When the first stall comes open, I tell her to go ahead. She beams like I’m a good Samaritan. In reality, I’m waiting on the magical service stall.
When the girl in it walks out, I rush inside. I lose a bar when I sit, so I stand and call Nate.
He answers right away, but it’s loud. I stretch upward and gain another bar. Since I don’t want him on speaker, I stand on the toilet seat.
“Hey.” The toilet beside me flushes.
“Where are you?”
“Catfish Camp.”
“Sounded like a toilet.”
“Their bathroom, to be more specific.”
The woman who honored me earlier with a sweet grin gives me a scowl when she sees me standing over the stall from the mirror above the sink. I drop my gaze to the toilet and hope I never see her again.
“Where are you? Sounds loud,” I say.
“Some burger joint with pool and music. Remember Ace? He finds them in every town.”
“Vaguely.” I met Ace maybe twice when Nate moved to Atlanta. They started in the minors together.
I smile. “Before I forget, Timothy wants you to know they won by a run and that he did good.”
“Great.”
“And I wanted to say I—”
I hear another woman say his name. I catch my breath and listen intently as she asks him for an autograph. Slight relief washes over me, as it could’ve been much worse.
“Here you go,” I hear him say.
“Sorry, Brooke. What were you saying?”
“I just wanted to say I love you.” I say it loudly to make sure he can hear it above all his background noise.
“I love you too.” His voice is smooth and caring.
It carries over me like a warm blanket after a rainstorm. I shift my weight to get a better stance on the toilet.
“I’m glad they won. How was your day?”
“Good. I’m just tired.”
“Me too. I pitched some today, so after we finish eating, I’m going to ice my shoulder.”
“Please don’t overdo it and hurt yourself.”
“That’s the beauty of being hurt, the damage is already done.”
I sigh and shake my head. Classic Nate.
I hear someone announcing food and people claiming their plates. “I’ll let you eat. I probably need to get back to our table too.”
“Okay. Tell Timothy we can talk tomorrow during the day since he’s not at school.”
“I will.”
“I love you,” we say in unison.
Then we share a laugh.
“Bye.” I cut the call, but am still laughing when the bathroom door opens. A teenage girl stares at me like I have three heads. I jump down and squint through the crack in the door. Once she’s in the other stall, I make my escape back to crazy town with all the kids, Tami, and that annoying fish on the wall.