13 Hangmen (7 page)

ngelo waited, like everyone else in the Red Sox dugout, for number 9, the rookie outfielder from California, to step up to home plate. It was the Sox against the Tigers in the second of a three-game series. And as usual, Williams refused to bat until the crowd stopped booing him. These standoffs could last five minutes or more.

“Good for him,” said number 27, Solomon Weinberg, signaling to Angelo for a drink of water. Angelo passed him a full dipper. Angelo felt a little sorry for Weinberg, a second-string outfielder who hardly ever got to play—mostly because Williams started every game. “Number 9's the club's best hitter,” Weinberg said, handing back the dipper. “He deserves a little more respect.”

Williams finally stepped into the batter's box.

“So why do they hate him so much?” Angelo asked, jerking his thumb up at the disgruntled Fenway fans seated in the stands above the dugout.

Weinberg shrugged. “He's a much better ballplayer than showman, which is what the boys in the newsroom care about. He's pretty tight-lipped when it comes to giving them any copy. So they make it up. Mostly about how much he hates Boston.”

Williams cracked a smart single into midfield, advancing the only man on base to third. The crowd offered a smattering of begrudging applause.

“I think he's just shy,” Angelo said. “He's always nice to me. Which is more than I can say about the
rest
of the starting lineup.”

Weinberg laughed. “What's your name, kid?”

Angelo told him. Weinberg looked oddly startled, then pleased. He held out his hand—his friends called him Solly—and Angelo shook it, grinning.

“I'll bet it's your thirteenth birthday soon,” Solly said.

“Today, in fact,” Angelo said, surprised. “How did you know?”

“You live in Hangmen Court, right?” Solly said. “Over in the North End.”

Angelo nodded, mystified. Solly laughed. “My parents sold
Number Thirteen to your parents,” he said. “I lived there myself when I was thirteen—when the neighborhood was still mostly Jewish. I slept up in the attic. But I haven't been back in over a decade—not since we sold the place when I was twenty-one, after I joined the team.”

Angelo confessed he didn't know how much longer he'd be living there. Now that Papa was gone, Mama was always behind on the mortgage payments—even with all the boarders she took in. Solly gave his back a consoling pat. He was sorry to hear that Angelo's dad had passed. He promised to stop by the house someday soon to pay his respects to Angelo's mama.

Williams tried to steal second base. It was an amazing slide—and he was clearly safe—but the umpire ruled him out. More booing.

Williams limped back to the dugout. He took a seat on the bench next to Angelo and asked for water. Solly said, “Tough luck.” Williams nodded, then shucked off his shoe to examine his ankle. It was already beginning to swell. Solly suggested Angelo fetch the team medic from the locker room.

Angelo returned with both the medic and number 4, Joe Cronin, the team's shortstop and manager. The medic took a good look at Williams's ankle and declared it a minor sprain. Williams should probably be pulled from the game so it could be packed in ice. “Just wrap it,” Cronin said.

“But he shouldn't be running on that ankle,” Solly said. “It's turning
purple
.”

“Are you a doctor?” Cronin said. Solly shook his head. “Then keep your big mouth shut!” According to Cronin, Williams
had
to keep playing. The Sox were trailing second in the league standings after their archrivals, the New York Yankees. If they won this game against Detroit, and the Yankees lost theirs against the Cleveland Indians, they would pull ahead. And this was entirely possible. Cronin had just gotten off the phone with Eddie Collins, the Sox's general manager, who had heard from Tom Yawkey, the owner, that New York's first baseman, Lou Gehrig, had benched himself for the first time in fourteen straight seasons due to some sort of mysterious illness. So New York was suddenly very vulnerable.

“Wait, I've got an idea,” Solly said. “What if Williams continues to field, but I pinch-hit and do his running for him?”

“If I wanted the opinion of an uppity Jew-boy benchwarmer, I would have asked for it!” Cronin exploded.

“That settles it,” Williams said. He slipped his shoe back on, hoisted himself to his feet, and hobbled toward the locker room. Cronin demanded to know where Williams thought he was going—the medic hadn't wrapped that ankle yet.

“Home,” Williams said. “I quit.”

Cronin told Williams to skip the funny business: he was
under contract. That's for the lawyers to decide, Williams said. This clearly unsettled Cronin—he didn't want to incur the wrath of Eddie Collins—so he backed off. They'd do it Weinberg's way. Number 27 could pinch-hit for Williams as long as Williams played the field.

“Not unless you apologize to Weinberg first,” Williams said.

“Like heck I will!” Cronin said.

Williams shrugged, then disappeared into the locker room.

Inning over. Detroit's turn at bat. Cronin whirled on Solly. “If you know what's good for you,” he said, “you'll get Williams taped up and onto the field by next inning.” He ordered another benchwarmer to grab his mitt. Solly headed for the locker room. Angelo noticed Williams had left his ball cap on the bench. He used this as an excuse to chase after both players—and see what happened next.

Williams undressed while Solly tried to convince him to keep playing. Nothing doing, Williams said. His favorite uncle back in Santa Barbara—the guy who had taught him how to play ball—was named Saul too. Saul Venzor, a Mexican. Williams knew all about prejudice: his
abuela—
his grandma—was born in Mexico. His mother's side of the family barely spoke English. Solly confessed he hadn't known any of that.

“Because my contract expressly forbids me from speaking to
the press about my family,” Williams said. “Which is also why I never have anything to say. Which is why the Boston papers go out of their way to make me look bad to the fans. And
that's
how much I think of my contract with the Red Sox.”

Angelo handed Williams his cap. Williams tossed it into his locker. It was no use, he told Solly. He wouldn't play again until Cronin apologized for his racist remarks.

“Then
I
won't play,” Solly said. He opened his locker and started to undress.

“Me either,” Angelo said, planting himself on the nearest changing bench. Both ballplayers laughed. Solly asked Williams what they should do with their night off. It would be Solly's treat. Williams told Solly to forget about it. What he really wanted was the one thing another ballplayer couldn't give him: a home-cooked meal.

Angelo cleared his throat. The two men looked over. “Mama's fixing me a big birthday meal when I get back to the North End,” he said. “Why don't you both come? She always makes way too much food.”

“It would give me a chance to see the old place and pay my respects,” Solly said.

“I'm just warning you, it's not gonna be a turkey with mashed potatoes and peas,” Angelo said. “We're Italian.”

Williams turned to Solly. “We better hit the showers. Then you gotta wrap my ankle good and tight, Weinberg. We've got ourselves a date.”

“Solly,” Solly said. “My friends call me Solly.”

“And I'm Angelo,” Angelo said. “By the way.”

The three of them were in fine spirits as they made their way past all the
caffès
and
trattorias
and butcher shops of the North End. They even stuck a dollar onto a statue of Sant'Angelo being paraded down Hanover Street to celebrate the feast day. Williams said it reminded him of Mexico.

Angelo's heart sank, though, when he led the two ballplayers into Hangmen Court. Mama was out on the front stoop of No. 13, arguing with Cyril the Squirrel again. (She called her mortgage collector that behind his back because he was short, had fat cheeks, and was always scolding her.) As usual, Cyril the Squirrel was demanding that Mama make her loan payment—it was well past the first of the month. And as usual, Mama was reminding him her boarders didn't pay
her
until the end of the week. To make matters worse, Cyril's spoiled and stuck-up son, Benny, was watching the whole thing from a limb of the oak in the center of the court.

“Most of the neighborhood is behind on their payments!” Mama shouted. “Why are you always picking on me?”

“Watch your tongue,” Cyril said. “Or I'll head straight back to the bank, write out an eviction notice, and serve it on you first thing in the morning!”

Mama raised her broom and warned Cyril he'd better beat it or she'd add another lump to his ugly skull. Cyril saw that she was serious and backed away. He called to Benny to climb down from the tree. Together they strode past Angelo and the ballplayers, who were wearing their caps in spite of their street clothes. Benny's eyes bugged out when he recognized Williams. Angelo thoroughly enjoyed asking Mama, well within Benny's earshot, if the two Red Sox could join his birthday dinner.

Solly reminded Mama who he was. To Angelo's surprise, she threw her arms around his neck and gave him a big kiss hello. Williams introduced himself, apologizing for turning up at dinner empty-handed. Don't be silly, Mama said, ushering him up the stoop. His timing was perfect. She was just about to set out the antipasti.

What followed was hands down the best birthday dinner of Angelo's life—a real feast for the Feast of Saint Angelo: clams in breadcrumbs (which Solly passed on because he kept kosher), marinated artichokes, and tomato salad for starters; spaghetti in red sauce for the pasta course; roast lamb with rosemary potatoes for the main; and then a large garden salad to finish off. Just when Angelo thought he couldn't eat another bite,
Mama pulled a gigantic tiramisu out of the dumbwaiter and lit a sparkler. Antonio DiMarco, the new guy on the third floor, began a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday.” All the boarders and both ballplayers joined in. After everyone clapped, Mama began serving scoops of the tiramisu into bowls and handing them around. Angelo explained to the ballplayers that it was a classic Italian dessert, somewhere in between cake and pudding. Williams grinned when he tasted it. He said it reminded him of his Mexican grandmother's
capirotada
.

Over second helpings, Solly reminded Mama that
his
mother had had similar run-ins with Cyril's father, Chester. In fact, Solly personally blamed Chester for ruining his own thirteenth birthday. He would never forget that day as long as he lived—January 15, 1919—on account of this house, a rusty old tank of molasses, and an Irish guy named Finn McGinley. Solly glanced over at Angelo. But he'd have to save
that
story for another time, he said, when it was just the grown-ups at the table.

Angelo didn't get the chance to ask why. A commotion was brewing outside on the sidewalk. The press! They had obviously caught wind of Cronin's dugout fight with Williams and been tipped off to his whereabouts. Williams refused to budge from the table. He just asked for more dessert. And Solly helped Mama clear the dishes to the kitchen. But Angelo could plainly hear the newspapermen arguing among themselves: Even
without Williams this afternoon, the Sox had managed to win against Detroit, 8–3. And the Yankees had lost against Cleveland, 2–1. The Sox were now in first place. Would Ted return to Fenway tomorrow to save the series to help the Sox win their final game against Detroit, thus sealing the Yankees' fate?

A cab screeched up. The driver climbed out, smiled for a photo, then rapped on the front door. He had an important message for Ted Williams, he said, waving an envelope in the air. He had been ordered
not
to leave until Williams got in the cab. Angelo went to the door. He told the cabbie to slide the message through the letter slot. The white envelope plopped onto the welcome mat. When Angelo brought it over to Williams, he tore it open and read what was scrawled on a single sheet of Fenway stationery. He was being summoned to an emergency meeting with Cronin, Collins, and Yawkey back at Fenway. According to Williams's contract, it would cost him a thousand dollars for every game he refused to play.

Solly collected both his and Williams's ball caps from the rack in the front hallway. He pulled a tiny scroll from behind the
27
embroidered on the inside brim of his own. He said he'd been carrying it around with him for protection since he was a boy. He took a pinch of sugar from the bowl on the table and sprinkled it over the scroll's Hebrew characters, whispering a prayer. He did this a total of nine times, counting out loud
each time he started over. When he was finished, he tucked the scroll behind the
9
of Williams's brim and handed the cap over. Williams should touch the brim each time he was at bat, Solly said, for protection against his foes. And now Williams should climb into that cab and take it back to Fenway.