Stealing Home

  Praise for

  Stealing Home

  “Stealing Home is pure poetry wrapped in wisdom. Allison Pittman gifts us with characters deep and true, dialogue that's real, and a plot that moves us to laughter and to tears while keeping us turning pages. I want to go to Picksville and watch the next baseball game. I want to meet Duke and Ned and Ellie Jane and Morris especially and all the other people whom Pitman brought into my heart. When I grow up, I want to write like Allison Pittman.”

  —JANE KIRKPATRICK, award-winning author of A Mending at the Edge and A Flickering Light

  “Stealing Home took me by surprise with gripping characters who dare to defy traditions of race, relationships, and what it means to be a woman, a man, a friend. With baseball in the 1900s as a metaphor, Stealing Home is a skillfully woven story about believing in the game of life, love, and ultimately in the victory of change.”

  —TINA ANN FORKNER, author of Ruby Among Us and Rose House

  “There is no doubt about it. Stealing Home has earned a place on my keeper shelf. Allison Pittman's wonderfully drawn characters captured my heart and never let go. I hurt with them, laughed with them, loved with them, and cried with them, and I will surely never forget them. Don't miss this book!”

  —ROBIN LEE HATCHER, best-selling author of Wagered Heart and A Vote of Confidence

  “The fabulous ensemble cast of Stealing Home broadens the scope of Allison Pittman's well-crafted novel, setting it apart from typical period romances and grounding the story with historical relevance. Yes, readers will want Ellie Jane to find love, but they'll want much more than that, too—justice for Morris; hope for Ned; peace and victory for Duke. And they won't be disappointed. Stealing Home drew me in from the first pitch and held me until the final strikeout.”

  —CHRISTA PARRISH, author of Home Another Way

  “Allison Pittman hit one out of the park with Stealing Home. The superb cast of characters in this tender story of hope, love, and healing settled in my soul and made me long to stroll down to the town square and linger a while. An unexpected delight in this lovely tale was the narration by Morris, an innocent yet perceptive young man who knows the citizens of Picksville better than they know themselves. More than the story of a few characters, Stealing Home is a study of small-town life at its very worst and its shining best.”

  —MEGAN DIMARIA, author of Out of Her Hands and Searching for Spice

  “Allison Pittman is a master at creating a fictional world so real you'll never want to leave it. She balances light humor with insights into romance that make you reexamine your own heart and soul. She keeps you guessing all the way to the grand slam of an ending. And when she writes about baseball, you feel as if the bat's in your own hand, swinging at the fastest ball you ever saw. Stealing Home covers all the bases—a home run of a novel.”

  —CAROLINE COLEMAN O'NEILL, author of Loving Soren

  “Written with an elegant flair, Stealing Home is a tremendous story of love, patience, and hope against hope.”

  —ALICE J. WISLER, author of Rain Song and How Sweet It Is

  For Mikey

  Cubs swing into Spring minus the Duke

  by Dave Voyant

  (March 5, 1905)—It seems the Chicago Cubs will start their '05 season without the talented stick of Donald “Duke” Dennison, whose name has been pulled from the roster.

  Despite signing a lucrative contract, the Duke has been conspicuously absent for much of the team's training exercises. When asked about the high-priced no-show, manager Frank Chance seemed unconcerned, saying only that he expected to see the Duke back in the lineup in June. This doesn't answer many questions for the fans who want to see their favorite royal knock a few out of the park.

  Other players seem to be as much in the dark as anybody regarding Duke's whereabouts. When asked, first baseman Ken “Long Legs” Berg said, “As for me, I wouldn't care if Duke Dennison took a long walk off a short pier.”

  Dwight Institute for the Treatment

  of Alcoholics and Inebriants

  Patient Name: Donald Dennison (Male)

  Date of Birth: August 15, 1877

  Admitted: February 6, 1905

  Discharged: May 1, 1905

  Diagnosis: Acute alcoholism

  Physician Summative Comments: Patient has responded well to isolation treatment. Night terrors have discontinued. Hand/bodily tremors have greatly reduced. Violent tendencies subdued.

  Recommendations upon release: Because patient reports continued occasional cravings, it is suggested that he is released to a transitional environment where access to alcohol is limited for no fewer than twenty days. Recommended: the close supervision of a family member.

  Physician assessment of patient's continued success: Guardedly optimistic

  Person(s) responsible for patient release: Frank Chance, Dave Voyant

  ELLIE JANE

  She took the job at the railroad ticket office quite by accident when her father, Sheriff Floyd Voyant, was summoned to the station to arrest the ticket agent who had shown up drunk to work.

  It was early June, just after graduation, and Ellie Jane —needing to stop by the post office anyway—had accompanied her father. At the insistence of Mr. Coleman, the station manager, she settled behind the desk to fill in for the afternoon.

  She had been seventeen years old. She never left.

  Some people, she supposed, might find it monotonous to sit in a little glass booth, day after day, but not Ellie Jane. These were her finest hours, chatting with her fellow townspeople. She might ask, “Oh, do you have family in Tennessee?” or “Didn't you just travel to Boston last month?” And the person would be forced to reply, even if grudgingly so, with averted eyes and terse comments.

  If she were to run into any of these same people in the town square, while running errands in the Picksville shops, they might walk right past her or make a quick detour into the butcher's shop. But here, if they wanted her to slide that ticket through the little archway cut into the glass, they'd have to engage in a bit of conversation.

  This afternoon, the first Tuesday in May, Ellie Jane was finishing her modest lunch of an apple, cinnamon butter bread, and tea, when a tentative knock at the glass window got her attention. It was Morris Bennett, a little early to take advantage of passengers needing help with their bags.

  “Miss Ellie Jane?” His voice was soft and muffled. “I gots a telegraph message for you.” He slid a slip of paper through the arched opening at the bottom of the glass.

  “Why thank you, Morris.” Ellie Jane sent him a smile few people outside of her family had ever seen. It was carefully controlled — an attempt to hide the excitement of such an occasion.

  Other people might receive telegrams every day from friends and family who lived in places they took the train to visit. But Ellie Jane's whole life was here—equally divided between her little glass booth and the home she shared with her father. There was, of course, her brother, Dave, in Chicago, but his was a busy, exciting life that left little time for frivolous messages home.

  She fished around in her handbag to slip the boy a dime, which he took with a toothy grin and dropped immediately into his pocket.

  “Anything else today, m'am?”

  Ellie Jane checked the watch pinned to her blouse.

  “The two-o'clock will be here soon, Morris. Perhaps you'd like to stay and see if any passengers need help with their bags?”

  “Yes, m'am.” He touched the rim of his cap and sauntered toward the platform, hands in his pockets and whistling.

  Despite her curiosity, before opening the telegram, Ellie Jane carefully put away the remains of her lunch in her bucket, wiped the corners of her mouth with a pretty floral napkin, and removed the square sign saying the window was closed for lunchtime.

  Then, with nervous fingers, she opened the envelope and saw that the message was indeed from her brother. Her reaction differed each time she read the short note: first a giggle, then confusion, then a rather cold fear.

  Dave was sending her a man. And he was coming on the two-o'clock train.

  NED

  Ned Clovis had just drawn a straight black line under which he wrote a precise black total. He smiled at the number. Spring was a busy time for the feed store—new life all over the neighboring farms. So busy, in fact, that he thought maybe he should stay open all afternoon. But then he felt the vibration of the office clock chiming the hour. Two o'clock.

  After blowing the ink dry on the page, he closed the ledger, stacked it neatly against the others, and took his well-worn newsboy cap from its hook beside the door. It was his store, after all. He was the reigning Clovis of Clovis Feeds. Had been since his father died. He could leave any time he wanted. And he always wanted to leave at two o'clock.

  Six days a week for the past five years, Ned's path to the two-o'clock train's baggage car led him straight past the little ticket booth where Ellie Jane Voyant sat behind the glass.

  Six days a week for the past five years, the window standing between him and Ellie Jane gave Ned the courage to offer her a wave, or a smile or, on days when he was feeling especially brave, a tip of his hat.

  Six days a week for the past five years, two o'clock was his favorite hour, bested only by the time spent in church on Sundays where she sat two pews ahead of him, slightly to the left.

  Although she often returned his greetings in kind—a wave for a wave, a nod for a nod—in five years, Ellie Jane never left the confines of her little ticket office. As Ned slicked back his curly dark hair in preparation for
his daily greeting, he had no reason to suspect that this day would be any different. Perfecting an air of nonchalance, he measured his pace so he would turn and smile just as he passed the center of the window. Today, however, something was wrong.

  Ellie Jane wasn't there.

  Not wanting to appear affected, lest she be watching him, he cast a careful glance up and down the platform that rumbled with the approach of the train. Seeing it in the distance, he abandoned his search for Ellie Jane for just a moment as he closed his eyes and imagined the sound of its whistle—the only noise capable of penetrating the thick packing of silence he'd lived with since he was twelve years old. As long as he kept his eyes closed, he could listen to the train and feel whole.

  When the whistle stopped, he opened his eyes and saw Ellie Jane halfway down the platform. Her crisp white blouse billowed about her, standing out in clean contrast to those who wore their coats to combat a surprisingly chilly spring afternoon. Her hair reminded him of hazelnuts, both in its color and its undisciplined pile on top of her head. She seemed to be battling the breeze to keep all the strands tucked away.

  This was his chance. He could make his way through the crowd, sidle up to her, tap her elbow, tip his hat. Maybe some miracle would give him the voice of a man rather than a goose when he asked, “Who are you meeting today?” Or maybe he could just gesture toward the train and assume an inquisitive expression on his face, which she would immediately understand.

  He imagined her turning and giving him a response in a voice so loud it would capture the attention of the other people waiting on the platform. He wouldn't take his eyes off her lips, watching them for clues, knowing that she'd replied, “My brother, Dave,” or “Miss Higgins's aunt.” No matter, he would nod in understanding, and they could stand there together, side by side, waiting for the train.

  But he didn't make his way through the crowd—if such a small gathering could be called a crowd. He was about to take a step, really, when Ellie Jane motioned for Morris, ever ready to lend an open hand, to come to her. She bent to talk to him, her dainty hand resting on the boy's shoulder. When she was finished, the shock and smile on Morris's face made Ned wonder if she hadn't told him that he would be carrying trunks full of pretty girls and candy, a percentage of each he could keep as a tip.

  Whatever the prize, Morris stuck close to Ellie Jane's side. When the train finally came to a halt, a blur of movement materialized behind the windows of the passenger cars. Ned imagined people gathering their belongings—umbrellas, books, children—and making their way to the front.

  Meanwhile, the porter set out the tiny flight of stairs to carry the passengers safely from the car to the platform. One by one, disheveled women and men descended and made their way to waiting loved ones. Ellie Jane and Morris stood, expectant with each new arrival, then shrugged to each other as the former travelers filed right past them.

  Finally, when the hands planted on her hips gave Ellie Jane a posture of resignation, one more passenger stood at the top of the steps. He was miraculously unrumpled in a pressed brown wool suit and a bowler hat sitting at a perfected angle over his left eye. His thin brown moustache was trimmed to symmetrical proportion, and the rest of his face seemed so cleanly shaven as to rival the smoothness of his patent leather shoes.

  Morris's face fell into slack-jawed rapture, and after Ellie Jane reminded him to hold out his hand for a handshake, he seemed entranced by whatever the man had pressed into his palm. So much so, in fact, that he had to be nudged in the direction of the baggage car.

  Having dispatched the boy, Ellie Jane held out her own hand. The man took it, bent low, and gave it a kiss. Ned cringed at Ellie Jane's girlish reaction, bringing her other hand up to capture what must be a lovely giggle while allowing herself to languish in this forward embrace.

  Worried about her honor, Ned strode across the platform toward the couple, ready to wedge himself between them, but just as he got close, the stranger stood to his full height, giving a clear view of his face.

  Shocked, Ned stopped midstride and turned on his heel, but not before tipping his hat to what must be the luckiest woman in Picksville, Missouri.

  MORRIS

  Tuesday, May 2

  Mama says spending time with white folks will warp my soul. Well today those white folks sent me home with nearly seven dollars. I could spend a year toting for folks on Lincoln Street and never make half that. Course I only showed Mama the nickels and dimes—shakin them in my hand like it was the biggest treasure ever. If she seen deep in my pocket she'd snatch it all and give it over to that fool Darnell who's always sniffin around here just in case Mama gets lonely for a man.

  Now if my daddy was around I'd let him take it down to Bozie's, roll some bones, and come back with it doubled. But I guess he's back to Georgia for good this time—where he says blacks is blacks and whites is whites and the two walk a wide enough circle around each other that a colored man with good timing can live a life without any trouble.

  But I like it here in Picksville. Not on my side of the tracks— where every day seems to be the same kind of nothin over and over. But in town bein around all them white people. Learnin what they know, hearin how they speak, seein how they live. I figure it's trainin me up for when I get out of here. When I head out west to California or some other part of the country where everybody's new and a boy can make his own life.

  Darnell slaps the back of my head and says, Boy don't you have any pride at all? You know you ain't nothin but a grinnin fool to them, scrapin around for pennies.

  Maybe so. But I get more than pennies when Mayor Birdiff sends me with a package to one of them pretty ladies on Sharon Street (boy wouldn't Mama rip into me if she knew I went there!) and I don't scrape for nothin. They like it when you look them straight in the eye, hand at your side—not holdin out but not in your pocket—and say somethin like, There you are sir. Anything else?

  And there's always somethin else.

  So today I'm outside the post office and Mr. Steve calls out, Can you run a telegram over to Miss Voyant at the train station? I just run right over and say, Yessir. Anything else? I don't hold my hand out for nothin even though I know in some towns there's people who have it a job to take telegrams. But Mr. Steve hands over the quarter anyway—like he always does—and motions for me to come a little closer.

  Yeah, he says, There's another two bits in it for you if you come back and tell me who gets off the two o'clock train.

  I almost don't knock on the ticket window—Miss Ellie Jane had the sign turned to Closed. But if word ever got back that I held on to a telegram too long that would be the end of the quarters from Mr. Steve. So I knock real gentle and slide the paper under the glass.

  For just a minute I pretend I'm me a few years from now buyin my ticket to California and gettin away from here and Mama and Darnell and the ghost of my daddy. But then Miss Ellie Jane tips me a dime for handin over the telegram and I say, Thank you m'am. Anything else?

  And she says, Yes Morris. I believe I'll need you to help with a passenger's bags. That brings me right back to my senses.

  I ain't never seen Miss Ellie Jane so worked up over anything before. She even leaves the ticket booth window when that train pulls up—didn't close it up or nothin, just walked off and left it empty. Then on the platform she's just a bundle of fuss asking me, Do you think that's him?

  I say over and over, Do I think that's who?

  And she says, Why Mr. Dennison of course.

  And I say, How should I know who Mr. Dennison is?

  Then she fidgets a little more with her hair and asks, Do you think that's him?

  And it starts all over again.

  When he finally does come off the train it makes me wonder just how we could have thought he was anybody else. Now I know a rich white man when I see one. But this guy—he is almost pretty. He's wearin this suit the color of molasses cake and one of those dandy hats and more jewels than I've ever seen any man wear—diamond rings on each hand, gold watch, pearl tie clip and cuff-buttons.