1910
It was the last inning, and the bases were loaded yet again. Schroeder walked across the faded green with the ball in hand toward the shallow mound. Sweat beaded on his grim face behind his catcher mask, and the shins of his long socks were dusty from so many opponent players sliding into home. A chest guard meant for an older boy hung over the front of his purple cotton shirt, both of which were covered with dirt. When Schroeder reached the pitcher, he tossed the ball into his friend's waiting glove.
"Peppermint Patty is up next, Charlie Brown," he said.
He did not need to expound upon that; the words alone held enough weight.
Charlie Brown turned the ball in his free hand with agitated fingers. He was about a year or two older than Schroeder with hair shaven because his barber father did not want to keep trimming his blond-with-dark-roots curls. This, along with his yellow jersey, gave him a slight similitude to the Yellow Kid from Schroeder's father's scrapbook of old newspaper comic strips. His round face, on the other hand, often resembled Pierrot, the sad clown from the children's plays which Charlie Brown and Schroeder sometimes saw together, but right then his countenance was as red as a Punch puppet's costume.
"Well, we can't just roll over and give up!" he chided Schroeder. "If they beat us, they have to earn it!"
"They do," Schroeder returned, dry as a desert. "In fact, I'm pretty certain they've been going easy on us today."
Charlie Brown's face fell slightly. "That's been 'going easy'?"
They both turned and looked across the sandlot where a girl with short, copper hair and a generous dusting of freckles across her cheeks, tested the swing of different bats. Although her secondhand green-plaid frock and drab, threadbare pinafore did not look intimidating at a distance, they hid the powerful strength of her limbs, borne from helping her widowed father deliver heavy ice cakes in his wagon.
Actually, almost all the children on Patty Reichardt's team were top-notched players, despite most of them having had jobs since they were five or seven. Schroeder did not know how, but Patty had managed to figure out how to organize practices around her teammates' alternating schedules, on top of going to night school herself (although she typically fell asleep during class). Children from the other side of the train tracks often had to work to support their families as soon as they were old enough or strong enough — and sometimes even when they were not. Schroeder had heard stories of boys as young as three who had to be chimney sweeps or work on farms, which was something that women like Mrs. Van Pelt and the other pro-reformist members of the local ladies' club worked hard to stop. Despite their many hardships, or maybe because of them, the children on Peppermint Patty's team valued and savored the simple pleasures like baseball when they could (even though Charlie Brown's team full of lily-white, uncalloused hands did not give them much of a challenge).
I guess all that hard work gave them better muscles than the rest of us, pondered Schroeder, whose feeble throw meant that even Charlie Brown could out pitch him. Peppermint Patty could not just hit a ball hard enough for an easy home run; she could sometimes direct it to different points of the sandlot where their weakest players were, particularly right field, and that was assuming Charlie Brown did not walk her accidentally due to nerves.
"Well," Charlie Brown said, obviously trying to sound brave as he adjusted his cap, "we still have Snoopy and Linus."
"Which Patty is well aware of," Schroeder pointed out.
"That may be," Charlie Brown said, growing more determined, "but if Snoopy and Linus get the chance, they can take on even Peppermint Patty."
"I won't disagree with you there," Schroeder replied, doing his best to push back the tidal wave of cynicism.
Snoopy, Charlie Brown's eccentric but beloved beagle, could catch almost anything in his mouth (as long as his mind did not wander off to his favorite fantasy of being "the world-famous Rough Rider" helping Theodore Roosevelt take San Juan Hill). Linus Van Pelt, Lucy's younger, precocious brother, may have looked small, but he could pitch a ball hard enough to knock a kid off his feet. Using them together was a nearly flawless strategy, except the likelihood of one of Charlie Brown's plans working without a hitch at a critical moment was about as slim as Schroeder waking up to find he hated Beethoven.
Still, Charlie Brown refused to accept defeat before it happened, and he encouraged Schroeder to do the same. Schroeder reluctantly began to shift toward his way of thinking; after all, Beethoven never gave up, so why should they?
"Now, Schroeder, there's one out, and if Snoopy and Linus can do their famous double play, then—"
He stopped suddenly, looking to his left, and Schroeder also turned to see Lucy striding across the field toward them. Her white baseball and Spalding's web-pocketed, buckskin glove seemed almost out of place with the dark-blue, sailor-collared Peter Thomson dress which she often wore to games, especially now with the open-backed button demanding VOTES FOR WOMEN which had been pinned to the front of her middy blouse. She moved with purpose, as though she had yet another complaint to lodge.
"Here comes the insufferable suffragist," Schroeder muttered. "Again."
Charlie Brown rolled his eyes, exhaling.
"Get back to right field, Lucy," he ordered when she neared. "The game's not over until it's over."
"So it would seem," Lucy replied, climbing onto the shallow mound with the boys. Her large eyes narrowed as she stepped up to Charlie Brown, nearly bumping her nose into his. "So, Manager, I was just wondering if you had any bright ideas about throwing the game just now."
The two boys blinked at her in unison.
"Why would I ever do that?" asked Charlie Brown.
"On account of Peppermint Patty Reichardt," she returned. "With her being a girl, and you being a boy."
Charlie Brown arched an eyebrow. "I would never do a bad pitch just because a player is a girl. Patty wants to win fair and square."
Lucy folded her arms, accusations sharpening her eyes.
"Oh, I know about you overly chivalrous types, Charlie Brown," she insisted. She held up a finger and began to count. "First, with Patty Swanson, you were always taking her to the drugstore for ice creams and phosphates. With Violet Gray, you ate coconut to please her, even though you hate coconut, and you chopped down a perfectly good birch tree when you attempted to carve both of your initials into the trunk—"
"That was years ago!" Charlie Brown squawked, pinking suddenly.
"With that red-haired girl, you become a big lump of mush and write a thousand love letters that you never deliver," Lucy continued, planting her gloved hand against her hip. "And so here you are, facing Peppermint Patty, and the thought might have occurred to you of how awfully romantic and chivalrous it would be to throw the game in order to impress a girl. So, that's why I came over here to check."
"I'm not going to do that!" Charlie Brown hollered, causing the other kids to look at him. (Schroeder laid his glove against his profile to hide his face, wincing.) Charlie Brown jolted, realizing his faux pas with a gulp, before his countenance hardened.
"I wouldn't do that, Lucy," he insisted at a more controlled volume, trying to look dignified despite his flushing skin.
"You wouldn't?" she challenged.
"Of course not!" he declared, sticking out his chest, which had MANAGER written across his yellow jersey. "The rules of sportsmanship are to be honored, and integrity must be maintained. If I threw a game for a girl, even—even for the Little Red-Haired Girl" — he gulped here — "then I might as well throw my glove away and never touch a bat again, because the game wouldn't be worth playing!"
"Huh." Lucy scanned his crimson face before she spun away, starting back toward right field. "No wonder you don't have a girl then."
Charlie Brown covered his face with his glove, clenching his jaw. "I can't stand it…"
Schroeder frowned at him, waiting until Lucy was out of earshot before he said, "Why are you so patient with her, Charlie Brown? Any other manager would have thrown her off their team ten times over by now."
His friend sighed and allowed his arm to drop by his side.
"You're certainly right, Schroeder," he answered, gazing after the retreating Lucy, "but when I think about dismissing her, I remember that, even though I'm not that good of a pitcher, I'm still a better ball player than she is, and I start to reconsider."
"Reconsider?"
Charlie Brown looked at Schroeder, much like a big brother addressing his junior.
"I'm bad at almost everything, Schroeder," he pointed out, "so when I come across someone who is bad at a few things, I have a lot of compassion for that person, especially if they keep on trying. That's why I'm patient with Lucy, no matter how she acts."
"That, and you're a big pushover," Schroeder snorted, unconvinced.
"Lucy is a special case for me, I guess," Charlie Brown admitted, a little awkward. "It's hard for me to give up on her completely. Of all the girls in the neighborhood, I know her the best."
"My condolences."
"I only meant that I know what she goes through." Charlie Brown shrugged. "Spending the night over at the Van Pelts' house as Linus's guest means I see what his sister deals with—"
"Hey, Chuck! Schroeder!" Peppermint Patty's impatient call brought them back to the present. She had selected her bat and stood tapping her foot at home plate. "Are we going to play, or are you planning to forfeit?"
Schroeder quickly adjusted his safety mask, stepping toward home plate.
"Let's do this, Charlie Brown," he charged without looking back.
Schroeder set his face as he neared Patty, determined not to show any signs of discouragement, and he took his place once more, crouching down. He looked toward Charlie Brown and held out two fingers. Charlie Brown nodded a confirmation, and he visibly took a breath to wind up for the pitch.
A pregnant pause followed as Charlie Brown pulled his arm back — and he hurled his fast ball at Patty.
She swung and — crack! — she sent a line drive straight at Charlie Brown. He did not have time to dodge it before he was knocked into the air so hard that his jersey, knee-high socks, and shoes went flying in different directions.
Dropping her bat, Patty charged for first.
Unhindered from striking Charlie Brown, the ball kept bulleting through the air.
Snoopy broke into a run to meet it. He leapt up to catch it with his mouth, but it whizzed past his white teeth just out of reach, and both ball and beagle landed on the grass.
Patty reached first and kept going — Shermy, their first baseman, hurled his hat on the ground in frustration — the kid who had been on third did not even have to slide into home but jogged breezily past Schroeder.
Meanwhile, Snoopy collected the ball in his mouth and sprinted toward Linus.
The next kid zoomed past Schroeder. Patty made it to second.
Snoopy could not throw, but he spat the ball at Linus, who caught it neatly in his glove.
The third player leapt the last few feet and landed neatly on the home plate, shooting Schroeder a triumphant smirk, but Schroeder readied his glove, motioning for Linus to throw.
Patty reached third and did not stop.
Linus wound up — Patty moved like a bullet — the ball whistled through the air like a cannonball — Schroeder braced himself, reaching with his glove to catch it — Patty moved closer, closer, closer—!
The ball connected with Schroeder's glove, but the force was too much, causing him to stagger back from the plate just as Patty dove into a slide.
Schroeder lost balance and tumbled into the dust, and Patty touched home.
Over the cheers and wails erupting from the two teams, Schroeder heard the unmistakable sound of a riiiiiiiiiiip at the end of his long cotton sleeve.
Oh, no! he inwardly groaned, almost afraid to look.
When the dust settled, Peppermint Patty's team were dancing in their patched overalls and frocks, and many rushed forward to clap their heroic captain on the back. Most of Charlie Brown's grumbling team collected their gear and turned to go, too disappointed to come over and congratulate the victors.
Sighing, Schroeder removed his hat and mask, using the former to slap off dust from his chest and limbs. Charlie Brown, meanwhile, had that Pierrot look again, but even though his shoulders drooped, he walked forward, fully clothed again, to the celebrating Patty and offered his hand.
"Good game," he said in a hoarse voice.
Patty grinned at him and latched onto his hand, shaking it as though he were a worthy opponent.
"Don't feel sad about us annihilating you, Chuck, ol' buddy," she told him in her friendly manner. "You know why I like playing against your team?"
"Because you always win?" he mumbled.
"Because you never give up," she said. "It's no fun when the other team gets intimidated and stops trying, so I would gladly clobber your team any day, Chuck."
Charlie Brown sighed. "I know you mean that as a compliment, so I'll accept it as such."
Peppermint Patty slapped his shoulder, not seeming to notice his glum mood, before she spun to her team and held up her hands.
"Who wants ice cream?"
A chorus of cheers met her. After gathering their gear, the team moved like a swarm of bees off the sandlot in the direction of the local park, where the ice-cream vendors rolled their carts to the lake in the afternoons to sell frozen dainties and wafer cones.
Now, only Schroeder and Charlie Brown were left in the infield. The outfield had been mostly cleared, except for those players too sad to move fast, but one figure walked toward home plate, her sailor dress not the least bit dirty since she spent most of the game not catching fly balls.
"Well, at least you didn't throw the game, Charlie Brown," Lucy said casually. "I can't even yell at you for that."
"A cold comfort," Charlie Brown murmured.
"We'll get them next time," Lucy told him, slapping him lightly with her gloved hand. "Win some, lose some, right, Charlie Brown?"
Charlie Brown closed his eyes with a groan. (If there was one thing he disliked more than having his teammates shout at him after losing a game, it was having his teammates act indifferent after losing a game.)
"We just have to plan better for next time," he muttered, adjusting his cap. "Schroeder, we'll get together tomorrow and strategize. All right?"
"It's going to be difficult to do that, Charlie Brown," Schroeder sighed, dropping his eyes forlornly. "I won't be able to play anymore after today."
Charlie Brown whirled around. "What?!"
"Because we lost?" Lucy questioned with a frown. "Schroeder, I'm surprised at you. You're always saying that Beethoven never gave up."
"It's because of this" — he held up his purple sleeve to show them both. "My mother said if I rip another piece of clothing, I can't play baseball anymore."
Charlie Brown blanched, looking close to fainting.
"She can't take you out off the team!" he blurted out. "You're the best catcher we have! I can't manage this team without your help!"
"What else can I do?" Schroeder sighed, gazing ruefully at the long tear. "I can't turn back time."
"Maybe we can just buy you a new shirt," Charlie Brown suggested. "We'll pool our money and go to the general store. Your mother will never know the difference."
"Yes, she will," Schroeder said with a tired shake of his head. "She sews my name under all the collars, and we can't fake that."
"Well, maybe we can just bury the ripped shirt, and—"
"Honestly, the two of you!" Lucy butted in, rolling her eyes. She took a step toward Schroeder, holding out her free hand like a teacher demanding a student turn in contraband. "Let me look at the rip, Schroeder."
Schroeder held out his cuff, and Lucy took his arm, turning it side to side to study the fabric.
"I've seen worse," she said at length. "It's not even that big."
"It won't matter to my mother," he exhaled. "Once she sees this, she'll have a conniption."
Lucy lifted her head and adjusted her cap, beginning to smile.
"Well, then it's a good thing that Charlie Brown is the only boy manager in town who lets girls play on his team," she announced, clasping Schroeder by the shoulder. "I might not be able to catch a fly ball, but I know my way around a sewing kit. Your mother won't care about the rip once I'm through with it."
Charlie Brown beamed at her, relief completely replacing his disappointment over the game.
"Lucy, you're a lifesaver!" he cheered, pumping his fist into the air.
"Remember that the next time you want to yell at me," she returned.
She grabbed Schroeder's hand and tugged him after her, turning toward her house. Schroeder, however, planted his feet firmly into the grass, yanking his arm out of her grasp.
"Maybe I could ask one of the other girls to help," he scowled.
Lucy rounded on him, planting her glove and free hand on her hips. "Who are you going to ask? Freida All-Thumbs? Violet Can't-Cross-Stitch Gray? Patty Uneven-Seams Swanson? I'm the best seamstress on this team, Schroeder, and you know it."
"There's always the world-famous beagle tailor," Schroeder countered, casting a hopeful glance around the sandlot for Snoopy, but to his dismay the little white dog had already retreated from the field, no doubt to go home and sob over their defeat.
"Oh, just get it over with, Schroeder," Charlie Brown charged, taking hold of the younger boy's shoulder. "Which would you rather have? Fifteen minutes with Lucy, or a lifetime without baseball?"
Schroeder narrowed his eyes. He studied the rip before his gaze flickered to Lucy and back.
Lucy stuck out her lip. "Well?"
"I'm still thinking," he muttered.
A quick peek through the downstairs windows revealed that Mrs. Van Pelt was having tea in the ornate parlor with some of the women from her ladies' club. Pausing only to store his baseball gear under the porch steps, Schroeder crept after Lucy to the back of the house. She made him wait near the screened backdoor (the wooden one was open to admit fresh air into the stuffy kitchen), and she slipped in, past where Mrs. Ashton oversaw the dinner preparations done by the kitchen maid, and she made it over to the service steps without being seen. She crouched by the staircase, watching the servants carefully for an opening, and then she hurriedly waved for Schroeder to come join her.
He slipped in as quietly as a mouse and scurried to her side. On hands and tiptoes, they climbed up the steps as noiselessly as they could, and reached the second floor in peace. Lucy held up her hand for silence (not that Schroeder intended to speak) and stood stock still, listening.
"Sounds like Linus is in the nursery with Rerun," she whispered. "Daddy won't be home from the office for another hour, so Mama will take her time with the tea party. We should pull this off."
She beckoned for him to follow her to her bedroom. Schroeder hesitated, glancing again at his sleeve. Lucy saw this and shook a finger at him.
"Just remember," she warned, "your mother may take away baseball today, but if you rip more shirts, she may take away your piano tomorrow."
That pulled Schroeder upright. Wondering how he got himself into these messes, he heaved a weary sigh, drew himself up, and walked after Lucy.
He had not been in the upstairs area of the Van Pelts' home in the past year, except once to go with Charlie Brown to discuss baseball strategies with Linus, and he certainly had not been in Lucy's new room. With the birth of the newest baby (who was curiously nicknamed "Rerun"), Mrs. Van Pelt had moved Lucy out of the nursery and into one of the spare rooms. It had floral wallpaper, a fireplace with photographs of her grandparents on the mantle, a small bed draped in mosquito netting which smelled of oil of pennyroyal, a few of Lucy's dolls leaning against her pillow, a book shelf, a wash table with a porcelain basin, a wardrobe, a bench by the window, and a table where Lucy's sewing kit sat.
Keeping the door open ("because that's what well-bred ladies and gentlemen do"), Lucy crossed quickly to her sewing kit and began to pull out spools of thread, ranging from dark violet to light lavender. She waved Schroeder over to her side and began comparing the shades to his shirt until she found a suitable one.
"If you could take the shirt off, you can go see if Linus's dressing gown will fit you, but it's probably too small," she contemplated, "or you could wear mine instead."
He shot her a flat look. "Out of the question."
"Well, you can't just stand in the middle of my house in your undershirt," she countered.
"Or you can just show me how to do the stitches, and I can do it myself."
She scoffed. "It took me years to get as good as I am now. You wouldn't expect me to sit down at a piano and play as well as you can on the first try, would you? If you don't want your mother to make you quit the team, you need me to do this for you."
"Then why don't I keep my shirt on, and you mend it as quickly (and as silently) as possible?" he suggested testily.
Lucy furrowed her brow, looking like she wanted to be contrary, but then she smiled.
"Why not?" She picked up her sewing kit and carried it over to her cushioned bench by the window. Sitting down, she patted the spot beside her, smiling sweetly. "We'll have to sit side by side until it's done."
Schroeder stuck out his tongue, briefly contemplating that less baseball meant more time for practicing his piano, but he already knew he could not do that to Charlie Brown. Schroeder had quit the team once before to pursue Beethoven's music, which had caused the other kids to leave as well, and Charlie Brown had been furious with Schroeder for days.
Just get this over with, Schroeder, he told himself, shuffling forward. Before he sat, however, he wagged a finger at Lucy's glowing face. "No mushy stuff, or I'm out of here. Agreed?"
"Can I just cast a few tender glances your way?" she negotiated, unperturbed.
"That counts as mush," he chided, taking a step back.
"Well, we haven't started yet, have we? So it doesn't count," she said quickly. "I'll be good. You'll see."
"You better," he warned. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bench as far as he could, positioning his legs to run at the first sign of flirting. Rigidly, he raised his arm.
First she had the tricky task of pinning the torn fabric as evenly as she could. With this accomplished, she took hold of the spool of purple thread and began to unwind it. After measuring out how much she would need, she snipped it off. She then held her needle up toward the window, using the sunlight to find the miniscule eye, and poked the cut thread through. She tied off the ends, took hold of Schroeder's wrist to adjust his arm to a more convenient level, and gently, gently, gently pierced the sharp point of the needle into the fabric. Schroeder was obliged to prop his arm up with the left hand when it started to feel tired, but he tried to keep all discomfort off his face, choosing to whistle Beethoven's "Turkish March" to get his mind off his troubles.
Crisscross, crisscross, Lucy guided her little needle, her countenance focused much like a musician studying a sheet of music. In spite of his uneasiness, Schroeder could not help glancing at her progress as she worked, first from impatience, then from curiosity, which gradually grew into the beginnings of admiration. Sometimes, back when he had been little, he would watch his mother embroider, and there had been something both fascinating and calming in seeing her gentle hands transform a blank handkerchief or a tablecloth into something pleasant. Seeing the tear in his sleeve slowly change to a straight line of neat stitches intrigued him, and he found himself cheering up. His mother would probably have no complaints about Lucy's handiwork, and Schroeder would not have to quit the team.
She does manage to shine now and again, he thought, glancing at Lucy's studious visage with a small smile. He wondered if Beethoven ever had a good friend mend his clothes too.
As he felt better, his whistling switched to a chipper hum, and he tapped his foot against the floor.
"That's pretty," said Lucy, barely glancing up from her work. "What's that called?"
"Handel's 'The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,'" Schroeder answered, pausing in his song.
"Nice choice," she said with an approving nod. "I like it when composers write songs about girls instead of boys all the time."
Schroeder looked heavenward, but he was in too good of a mood to be annoyed by her suffragist sentiments. As he continued to hum, he noticed Lucy attempted to hit the notes with him, and he slowed the tempo so that she could get a grasp on the melody. After a few run-throughs, she began to pick it up, bobbing her head to the music, and he started to harmonize with her.
As they reached the final note, a distant noise arose somewhere in the house, drawing Schroeder out of his easy thoughts, and he realized it was adult voices coming from downstairs.
And they sounded angry.
"What's that?" he asked, sitting up.
"Daddy's home early," said Lucy, still sewing. "Don't pay any notice."
At the tone of her voice, Schroeder's eyes flicked to her face to see her blissful expression had been replaced with her usual crabby frown, but her steely eyes stayed glued to his sleeve. Schroeder looked away, trying to act as though he did not hear the arguing voices, but the muffled noises grew clearer as footsteps stomped up the front stairs.
"Really, Louis!" Mrs. Van Pelt was saying as they reached the landing. "You act as though women having the basic right of deciding who will shape the country's future for their children will somehow cause all of society to crumble."
"You consider shirking responsibilities to be good for society?" Mr. Van Pelt retorted. "When I'm working every day to provide for my family, I want my family to show gratitude, including the mother of my children. A man expects to see his wife has been manning the ship like a first-mate in the captain's absence, instead of using his hard-earned money to throw a tea party for lunatic suffragettes with poisonous attitudes."
"Suffragists, Louis," his wife replied coldly. "Do not conflate our movement with those women in Britain who hurl rocks through windows and run out during horse races to make spectacles of themselves. We are utilizing our constitutional right to free speech and peaceful assembly to fight for our cause in a sensible manner. At all times we have handled ourselves with dignity and grace."
"You wouldn't know it from the way Lucy carries on from your example," Mr. Van Pelt retorted, and from the movement of their voices, it sounded as though they had carried their argument into the master bedroom. "She's becoming an obnoxious little shrew, and Linus says the neighborhood children have taken to calling her 'the insufferable suffragist.'"
"Lucy is just a passionate little girl who knows her mother is fighting to give her a brighter future. She'll need to have a say in who runs the country which she'll be living in—"
"What she needs is her mother to stay home and instruct her in how to behave like a civilized person," her husband threw back, "not an impertinent Jezebel who bullies her little brothers and flings herself at that Afflerbach boy."
"Well, maybe if her father was around more often, she wouldn't go chasing after shadows of affection from boys wherever she can find them—"
That was as far as Schroeder heard because Lucy jumped to her feet and rushed at her door to shut it tight. Without looking at him, she flounced back to her spot and plopped down, grabbing hold of the needle still swinging from its purple thread. Her VOTES FOR WOMEN looked a little more lopsided on her sailor-collared blouse now. She made two blinks of her hardened eyes, which now had a tincture of moisture gathering.
Schroeder quickly looked at his dirt-covered shoes, trying to act as though he had noticed nothing, but he could feel a creeping flush take over his face.
The upstairs was relatively quiet when Lucy finally finished the mending, and she rigidly led Schroeder down the front stairs to the door, opening it without a word. Schroeder started to step out, but he lingered on the threshold.
His mother said all good etiquette was based on treating others the way one wished to be treated, which was why one pretended not to notice social faux pas or uncomfortable scenarios, but in that moment Schroeder pondered what he would want a friend to say to him after hearing what he had heard that afternoon. For as much as she frustrated him, Lucy was still his friend (even if she was a girl), and he felt funny about just leaving her like this.
He lifted his eyes to meet her cold gaze, and he cleared his throat.
"I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds, Lucy," he said quietly, "but what people say in a moment of anger… isn't always what they mean."
Lucy's expression did not change.
"Flies are coming in, Schroeder. I have to shut the door."
He quickly stepped onto the porch, and she closed the door without another word.
Schroeder had half forgotten the disappointment of the lost baseball game. After leaving Lucy's house, he had meekly shown his mother the mended tear, and she had hugged him, praising him both for being honest with her and for trying to fix the problem, and he was allowed to stay on the team. The next morning he woke up in a good mood, and after a good breakfast of porridge, eggs and cocoa, he rushed straight for his upright piano in the back parlor.
Schroeder's upright piano had been a jewel in his life ever since his parents had bought it for his birthday back in January. The tall frame had a carved curlicue design on the front with a long horizontal mirror above that, which allowed Schroeder to see people behind him while he played. Mama had put a running cloth on the top, along with one of Schroeder's busts of Beethoven and a clock. As wonderful as it looked, the sound was even better, especially under Schroeder's deft hands.
He became so focused on his music that he almost did not detect a stirring in the hallway outside the back parlor, but when he did, a coup d'œil at the mirror showed him Lucy walking quietly into the room, wearing a set expression. Their eyes met in the reflection. Schroeder looked down at the keys, ignoring the awkward feeling in his stomach. He wondered if she was thinking about yesterday, but he was not about to broach the subject unless she did first.
Instead of taking the seat by the upright and leaning her elbow on the narrow panel of wood above the keyboard, Lucy stepped up to Schroeder's side, clasping her hands in front of her white pinafore.
"I have decided something," she said.
Schroeder looked at her.
"It may shock you."
He looked at the keyboard, waiting.
"It shocks me a little bit, to tell you the truth."
He did not respond.
"But I believe it must be said."
He soon reached the end of the movement and took advantage of the pause to adjust his slightly cramped shoulders.
"I don't want to marry you anymore, Schroeder."
The pause lasted a second longer than he usually intended, but he began the next movement without looking at her.
"I really mean it."
For a tick or two of the grandfather clock behind him, he considered responding to her solemn statement by sarcastically jumping to his feet and letting out a loud cheer, but he decided against making any acknowledgement. Lucy had pretended to "end things" between them before, in order to get a reaction out of him. He closed his eyes, focusing on the wonderful music.
"I know you don't care either way, but I wanted to tell you officially that I am not going to fling myself at you anymore," she said. "Getting married to you is just not worth it in the long run."
Schroeder swayed to the music, lifting his head to move it side to side.
"Marriage could ruin everything between us," she said. "I don't want to find out someday that I grew to hate you."
His playing slowed. He opened one eye.
Lucy wrung her hands, not looking at him.
"It would be just awful to get you to fall in love with me finally, only for the two of us to despise each other and fight all the time. I would rather love you as a friend than to hate you as my husband."
He opened the other eye. His hands fell upon his lap.
"I don't hate you, Lucy," he said slowly.
She formed a sad smile, lifting her gaze. "And I want to keep it that way, Schroeder. So… can't we pretend to start again and just be good friends?"
"Start again?" he repeated doubtfully.
"Like this." She held out her hand, making her face brighter. "Hello, I am Lucy Van Pelt. I like paper dolls and jumping rope, and when I am big, I'm going to fight for the right to vote."
He looked at her hand, then accepted it, giving her a gentle shake.
"Hello, I am Schroeder Afflerbach," he returned indulgently. "I like Beethoven, baseball and Brownie cameras."
"Well, I don't know much about Beethoven or baseball," she admitted, growing cheerful, "but I like photography."
"It's really nice," he answered. "I like taking snapshots of things that remind me of Beethoven, and then I put them in my scrapbook."
"Maybe I can be your model someday," she suggested, "if you need a beautiful girl to stand in a picture that reminds you of Beethoven."
She struck a melodramatic pose, like a princess in an opera.
"I'll keep that in mind," he said with a roll of his eyes, but he smiled a little, nevertheless.
Lucy was as good as her word, and from that day on, she stopped trying to woo him. Since she was no longer being constantly rejected by Schroeder, her attitude grew gradually sweeter (although she still proudly called herself a fussbudget). With classical music ceasing to be her rival for his undivided attention, Lucy stopped breaking Schroeder's concentration with constant chatter, and she listened to him more, especially when he played something by a woman composer.
With these factors working together, Schroeder began to enjoy her visits ten times more, and sometimes — though he would not admit it to her face — he felt disappointed on those days when she did not come over (but at least he had his piano for company).
A/N:
Schroeder's catcher gear — The patent for the safety mask was allegedly approved in 1878 while chest guards were invented in the 1880s.
Pierrot, the sad clown & Punch — On the odd chance that one of my readers out there is as big as a commedia dell'arte fan as I am, while Pierrot, Harlequin, and Co aren't very popular in the US today, in the pre-Depression era, there were more American media which featured them. One of my favorite examples is "Mr. and Mrs. P. Roe" by Martyn Johnson (first played in Chicago in 1913. You can read the script for free through Google Books if you're interested.) As mentioned in my fic, Kindred Spirits, a lot of composers have incorporated CDA characters into their works, so Schroeder at the very least would probably know of Pierrot well enough to compare him to Charlie Brown, even if none of his other friends do.
wafer cones — Early ice-cream cones were allegedly around since the 1800s, but it was the 1904 World's Fair that supposedly made cones popular in America. Since this fic has a dog playing baseball, I'm not that concerned about maintaining a rigid type of historical accuracy, but I do try to check details before including them. (But feel free to recommend historical resources if you have them.)
Rerun — Technically the word was in usage, as in to "re-run a race," by at least 1804, so the nickname still works.
Schroeder's piano — In the YouTube video, "10 Old Home Features… That Have FADED Into History", by American Rewind, around the 1:50 mark you can see a piano with a horizontal mirror, and I thought that might be a good feature for Schroeder's instrument to have.