Last Call by Laura Pedersen Read Free Book Online Page A

and crowded compared to the solitude of the convent, but this is like nothing she’s ever seen—music blaring from large overhead speakers, people in animal costumes dancing on the field, shouts for refreshments from a man with a large box strapped over his shoulders, fans yelling to friends, waving mitts in the air and shouting “charge” on cue to a loud horn overhead.
    It’s easy for Hayden to locate Joey and Rosamond in the stands without checking his seat number. Lots of people are wearing black and peering out from underneath baseball hats, but she’s definitely the only one with a wimple and veil. More than a few spectators nod and point at the nun in the stands, but their attention is fleeting. This is New York, after all.
    Rosamond sits between Hayden and Joey, who take turns attempting to explain the lineup to her. But when Rosamond asks about scoring a “runhome” they simultaneously stifle laughter and realize they’re going to have to start with the basics of the game. She doesn’t know a bunt from a base.
    Whether or not she ever figures out exactly what’s happening on the field, one thing is certain, Sister Rosamond loves doing The Wave. It appeals to her ingrained fondness for group ritual, like standing in chapel and outstretching your arms to connect with the Holy Spirit. Whenever they rise she moves with the soft delicacy of a reed in the breeze, as if possessed by a natural sensuality, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Hayden.
    Rosamond also enjoys the Crackerjacks, hot dogs, and pretzels, all of which she enthusiastically chomps away at, making Hayden think that her medical condition certainly hasn’t affected her appetite. Or else hospital food is a lot worse than it looks.
    When passing the box of Crackerjacks during a particularly exciting play, she accidentally spills some on the man in front of her. Only when he turns around with his Brooklyn sneer that says, “Hey, you throwin’ the Crackerjacks, you wanna fight?” and finds himself face to face with a beaming fan in a long black habit and three-inch cross topped with a crucified Jesus, he just laughs and gives a shrug that says,
Now I seen everything.
    Whenever Rosamond starts to cough, which is often, Hayden passes her his large soda and politely holds her Crackerjacks and places his hand on her back while she waits to catch her breath and take a sip. And it doesn’t escape his notice that she doesn’t flinch or pull away from the contact. On the other hand, Rosamond’s so caught up in the action down on the field he’s not sure she even notices.
    It’s an exciting game and in the bottom of the ninth inning when the score is tied the Mets’ weakest batter strides toward the plate. After he takes two strikes looking, Hayden whispers to Joey, “Five dollars says he knocks out a homer.”
    “Grandpa, he’s the worst hitter in the entire league! And the Cardinals’ pitcher is on fire.”
    The batter kicks the dirt off his cleats, taps the plate, and warily eyeballs the pitcher. “Then is it a bet?” asks Hayden.
    “Of course!” says Joey and they shake on it.
    With two strikes and three balls the batter for the Mets hits one solidly over the fence behind second base, and Joey is momentarily torn between happiness for his team and disappointment at losing the bet. But he’s rewarded shortly afterward when the board flashes GAME OVER , with a final score of six to five, Mets on top. The fans exit the stadium cheering and shouting, slapping backs and playfully punching one another. Maybe this season will be different after all.
    chapter eight
    A fter the game Rosamond asks to be dropped in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, in front of a cloistered convent tucked away behind a dark gray stone wall. It’s the only one of its kind left in the borough, she tells them. From a distance the old building appears abandoned and foreboding, standing alone on a small hill, severely Gothic with its massive arches and soot-blackened