Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 67, No. 3. Whole No. 388, March 1976

The Season Ticket Holder by Joyce Harrington[7]

It was inevitable that Stella Crump, knitting beside her husband at the stadium, would compare him with dear Francis — Francis X. Lafferty, inspirational lecturer on contentment.

There was no comparison...

The stadium sat like a huge frosted doughnut on the rim of the river. Mrs. Stella Crump, trotting resentfully beside her husband, wished that a giant hand would swoop out of the overhanging clouds and dunk it into the coffee-colored water. Instead, a strong gust of wind swept across the walkway, disarranging Mrs. Crump’s carefully tinted and lacquered hair. The pennants on top of the stadium snapped and fluttered. Mrs. Crump shrieked and stopped in her tracks to tie a purple scarf over her ruined hairdo. Mr. Owen Crump waited impatiently, while the crowd surged around them, eager to reach their seats before the final recorded strains of the national anthem died away.

“Hurry up, Stella! Why don’t you wear that nice red hat I got for you?”

“Because I hate red and that hat looks like a squashed soup-bowl.”

“Come on, Stella. We’ve already missed the starting lineup.”

“What difference does it make? They all look alike to me. Wait a minute. I’ve got something in my shoe.” Mrs. Crump limped to the side of the walkway, methodically removed one shoe, shook it out, felt gingerly inside it, and replaced it on her foot.

The crowd had thinned out and a roar sounded from inside the stadium. An amplified mumble could be heard making an announcement. Owen Crump took his wife’s arm and hauled her at a half-run toward the stadium gates.

“Not so fast, Owen,” she whimpered, “I’ve got a pain in my side. I want to stop at the ladies’ room. Wait for me.”

By the time they reached their seats, the opposing team had two men on and their most powerful batter was approaching the plate. Owen Crump began hastily filling in his score card, while Stella ostentatiously pulled out her knitting, a complicated mass of cables and popcorns, and began furiously clacking her needles.

The count was three and two, and the batter had just popped a foul into the stands behind home plate.

Stella said, “I’m thirsty. I’d like a soda.”

Owen, leaning forward in his seat and ready to groan in dismay if the batter connected, muttered, “In a minute, Stella.”

“I’m thirsty now, Owen. The least you can do after dragging me out here is get me something to drink. I don’t think that’s too much to ask for. I’d go myself, but I’ve still got that pain in my side.”

“All right. All right. Here.” He handed her the score card. “Keep track of what happens.” As Owen rose from his seat, the umpire signaled ball four, and the players walked. The bases were loaded, with no outs.

Stella peered down at the field through her bifocals, shook her head scornfully, and stuffed the score card into the bottom of her knitting bag. Owen raced up the stairs toward the refreshment counter, staring over his shoulder as he went.

As the crowd in the stadium tensely waited the next batter, Stella settled back in her seat to knit and rehearse her grievances. Bad enough, she thought, that we used to have to see every weekend game. But now that Owen had retired, he’d bought season tickets. This year he intended to see every home game. And Stella would see them too. Oh, she could stay home, tend to her knitting, visit their daughter and the grandchildren. But where was the fun in that when Owen would be here at the stadium enjoying himself without her?

The umpire called ball one.

Stella completed an intricate cable and her needles worked rapidly toward the next pattern. No. If Stella didn’t go to the ball games, Owen would take some crony and they would drink too much beer and eat those filthy hot dogs, and he would come home flushed and overexcited and more than slightly drunk. This way, at least, she could keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t overdo things. He was just like a little boy. Stella smiled grimly and considered herself extremely noble for sacrificing her summer afternoons and evenings.

The batter swung and missed but Stella was oblivious.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have better things to do. Stella’s thoughts strayed over all the better things she could be doing. They all involved Owen’s money and Francis X. Lafferty. Dear, sensitive, handsome, refined, perceptive Francis.

Stella had met Francis X. Lafferty almost a year ago when he’d come to address the Garden Club on the subject of “Flowers of Contentment.” Someone at the speaker’s bureau had got their signals mixed. Francis X. Lafferty knew nothing of gardening, but his talk was well received all the same. It was inspirational without being embarrassing. Mr. Lafferty’s melodious voice caressed the ears of his listeners, and no one felt obliged to rush off and do good works, or be kind to animals, lose weight, or stop drinking sherry. The ladies loved Francis X. Lafferty and flocked to buy copies of his slim, privately printed book. Stella smiled again, this time fondly, wishing that she could help dear Francis in his desire to travel across the country, indeed around the world, spreading his message. Preferably with Stella at his side.

Down on the field, the pitcher threw an inside curve and was rewarded with a called strike, but Stella was miles away, touring the great cities of the world and witnessing the peace and contentment that dear Francis would bring to troubled hearts everywhere.

It was inevitable that Stella would compare Francis X. Lafferty and Owen Crump. There was no comparison. While the stands grew restless and erupted in cries of encouragement to the pitcher, Stella knitted on and totted up a mental ledger. On the one side, dear Francis, although far from the first blush of youth, was young at heart. He viewed the world with enthusiasm and made all dreams seem possible. Owen had for forty years viewed life from the confines of the paper-box factory whose finances he had guided and guarded until the day of his retirement. Paper boxes had been good to Owen, but the years of poring over balance sheets and operating statements had left him bald, stoop-shouldered, and paunchy. Dear Francis stood straight and slim and silver-maned, and had a most imposing presence on the speaker’s platform. Owen shambled and told coarse jokes in mixed company. On the other hand, Owen had been clever about investments while dear Francis, through his devotion to his mission, had admittedly neglected the crasser side of life’s potential. It was a problem.

Stella looked up from her knitting as a sharp crack split the expectant air and the crowd went wild. Dimly, she saw a small white object fly through the air and land in an outstretched glove.

“Here’s your drink. What happened?” Owen plumped himself down beside her.

“I don’t know. Somebody caught a ball. That fellow over there, I think it was.” Stella gestured vaguely toward the outfield.

“Where’s my score card?”

“Oh, dear. Did I have it? I must have dropped it.” Stella bent to look under the seats. “Not there. Are you sure you gave it to me? I’m not sure you did.”

“Never mind. I’ll get another one.”

Throughout the rest of the game, while Owen cheered and heckled and added his voice to the communal warcry of “Charge!” Stella knitted and dreamed of faraway places, fame and glory for dear Francis, and herself, the treasured companion, making it all come true through Owen’s money. The sweater she knitted was to be a birthday present for Francis. It was the least she could do.

The following Sunday was Bat Day.

Owen had said, “I’d like to take Ronnie to the game. It’s time he got his first baseball bat. Would you mind missing this one game?”

“Oh, I think I’ll survive. Maybe I’ll have some of the girls in for tea.” Stella’s mind leaped to her invitation list. It was a short one.

“Cackle session, huh? Just be sure the hens have flown the coop before I get home.” Owen chuckled and Stella smiled.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “It’ll all be over before the end of the ninth.”

Early Sunday afternoon, Stella waved goodbye to Owen as he drove off to pick up their five-year-old grandson. As soon as he was out of sight down the winding drive, she hurried upstairs to dress for the tea party. A brand new blue-silk hostess gown hung ready in her closet. In her bathroom, snatches of old songs tinkled through her head while she smeared her face with a wrinkle-removing masque.

“April in Paris, Arrivederci Roma,” she hummed. “I’d like to get you on a slow boat to China...”

Under the masque her skin felt tight and clean and young. She wriggled into her sturdy girdle. Francis X. Lafferty had often remarked on the ugliness of girls who starved themselves into scarecrows. He liked a comfortable, womanly woman, he said. Still and all, Stella felt it was the better part of valor to keep her ample curves under control. The loose-fitting gown would help to minimize their magnificence.

To Stella, without her glasses, the wrinkle masque seemed to have performed as advertised. She made up carefully with just the right touch of blusher to her cheeks. Her eyelids matched the blue of her gown. When she cast her eyes down modestly, her false eyelashes tickled her cheekbones. A final cloud of hairspray, a few strategic dabs of cologne, and Stella felt regal and ready.

She swept down the carpeted stairs, pausing in mid-descent to peer at her domain. The heavy drapes were drawn against the harsh afternoon sun. The tea tray twinkled in the half-light on a low table set before the loveseat. Roses massed in a silver bowl sent their fragrance throughout the house swirling on the cool, centrally conditioned air. All that was needed was music.

Stella floated into the room, tingling with anticipation, and placed a stack of Mantovani records on the spindle of the stereo. Everything was perfect. Too bad Owen didn’t appreciate her delicacy and good taste. He seldom came into this room and when he did he fidgeted about so clumsily that Stella feared for the safety of her collection of porcelain figurines. He left smelly cigar butts in her dainty china ashtrays. Just as well, she thought, that he preferred to spend his time in the basement rec room where he could smoke his filthy cigars and munch on limburger and onion sandwiches and watch television with his feet up on the furniture.

On the crest of the surging Mantovani strings, the doorbell rang. Stella peeped between the drawn drapes and saw dear Francis’ ancient Volkswagen parked in the drive. Such an undignified car for such a truly noble person. Stella could visualize Francis behind the wheel of a Lincoln Continental, at the very least. She glided to the door, her stomach in and her chin high.

“Good afternoon, dear lady. This single rose is not more glorious in its bloom than she to whom I bring it.”

“Oh, Mr. Lafferty. Francis. Dear me!” It crossed Stella’s mind that the single rose bore a striking resemblance to those carefully nurtured and tended by her neighbor up the road. But she chased the traitorous notion away. After all, it was the thought that counted. “Won’t you come in?”

Stella took the proffered rose and promptly received a thorn in her thumb. She cried out in pain.

“What is it, dear lady? Does this envious rose dare to prick the thumb of beauty? Away with it!” Francis X. Lafferty snatched the stem from Stella and tossed it into the umbrella stand. “Let me see the wound. Ah, there. We’ll have it well in no time.”

A drop of bright blood appeared on Stella’s thumb, and a gleaming white handkerchief materialized in Francis X. Lafferty’s hand. His long fingers gently encircled her pudgy paw as he swaddled the injured thumb. Stella could have fainted with delight. She would gladly have bled gallons just to keep his hands holding hers.

“How thoughtless of me,” he murmured. “I meant to bring you happiness and have caused you only pain.”

“Oh, dear me. It doesn’t hurt a bit. Well, hardly at all. And now your handkerchief is stained.”

If Stella had been infatuated before, she was besotted as she examined Francis X. Lafferty’s blood-spotted handkerchief — so clean, and of such fine linen. But laundered so often the threads had parted here and there. Her confined bosom heaved with the indignity of threadbare handkerchiefs and rackety old cars. Dear Francis should have nothing but the best. And she, Stella, would give it to him, could give it to him, if only Owen...

Stella giggled. Francis was pressing his warm lips to her hand.

“Oh, my goodness,” she squealed. “Kiss it and make it well.”

“If only I could, dear lady. If only I were free to kiss away all your cares. What joy it would give me to see the flowers of contentment bloom in your eyes. If I dared hope...”

“Ah, um,” said Stella. “Shall we have some tea?”

Stella was rinsing teacups when Owen and Ronnie burst into the kitchen, dispelling her daydream of exotic ocean voyages with Francis X. Lafferty in the deck chair beside her. Dear Francis had done well by the petit fours, she noticed.

“We won, Grandma! We won!” shouted Ronnie, swinging his brand new bat.

“Nine to six!” exclaimed Owen. “What a game! You should have been there, Stella! Hey, what are you all dolled up for? That’s some bathrobe you got on!”

“It’s not a bathrobe. It’s a hostess gown. I had a tea party. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, go put your running shoes on, old girl, and let’s play ball!”

“Me! Play ball! You must be out of your mind, Owen Crump.”

“Play ball, Grandma! Let’s play ball,” cried Ronnie, thumping his bat on the floor.

“Aw, come on, Stella. I bought a baseball and Ronnie’s got his new bat. Let’s just hit a few out in the back yard.”

“Please, Grandma. It’s a real Louisville bat. Look at it!”

“Well, all right,” said Stella. “But just for a few minutes. I’ve never played baseball.”

Reluctantly, Stella ascended the stairs and dragged her old gardening clothes out of the closet. She could hear Owen out in the yard, giving Ronnie instructions on how to hold the bat, when to swing. How different her life could be, she thought, as she tied the laces of her tennis shoes. Oh, things were comfortable enough here. She really couldn’t complain about that. But she’d never been anywhere or done anything really exciting. And Owen was so dull and boring, content to spend the rest of his life pottering about, going to ball games, having nights out with his cronies from the box factory. Stella knew that in Owen’s hands their lives were safe and secure. But, oh, so predictable and dull.

“Stella! Hurry up! We’re waiting for you.”

“I’m coming,” she muttered. “Baseball! At my age! Well, I’ll give them exactly ten minutes.”

“Me up first!” shouted Ronnie, swinging the bat in a wide wobbly arc. “Here’s old Tony Perez comin’ to the plate!”

“Hold on a minute, sport,” said Owen. “Let’s have ladies first. Show your Grandma how to hold the bat.”

“Aw, okay. Here, Grandma. Put your one hand here and your other hand here, and stand like this, and hit the ball. That right, Grandpa?”

“It’ll do for starts,” said Owen. “Now I’ll pitch and, Ronnie, you be catcher.”

“Okay. Here’s old Johnny Bench behind the plate.” Ronnie turned his red cap backwards and squatted down behind the flat stone Owen had placed to mark the position of home plate.

Stella felt awkward and ridiculous with her plump hands wrapped around the unwieldy bat, her feet apart and her rump pointing northeast.

“Now, Stella,” said Owen, “I’ll pitch ’em slow and easy. Don’t worry if you don’t hit anything. But just in case you do, that’s first base over there. A home run is anything that goes beyond the driveway on that side and the rhododendron hedge over there. If you do happen to hit the ball, maybe you should let Ronnie run for you. Ready? Batter up!”

“I’ll do my own running, Owen Crump,” muttered Stella. The contrast between her undignified position of the moment and the sweet flattery that had poured into her ear an hour ago caused Stella’s cheeks to burn with indignation. Francis X. Lafferty had sipped his tea and told her, “You are one of the rare ones, dear lady. But I fear your true worth is known only to a few. Your husband is a lucky man. How I would like to... but, no, let that remain unsaid.” And now look at her, standing out here like a dummy with a baseball bat in her hands, about to make a fool of herself.

Owen went through an elaborate windup and Stella watched his gyrations through narrowed eyes. The ball left his hand and she swung as she had seen so many batters swing, slicing the air hard and clean. The loud crack was a shock to her. The impact shivered her arm clear to the shoulder and set her glasses jiggling. Too surprised to run, she stood and watched the ball fly straight and true, watched amazement take possession of Owen’s face in the split second before the ball, with all the force of Stella’s yearning behind it, hit him squarely between the eyes. Stella heard a soft, sickening thud.

“Oof,” said Owen, and fell over backwards.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Stella. “Are you all right?”

“Get up, Grandpa,” said Ronnie. “I didn’t get my turn yet.”

But Owen Crump did not get up. He lay in the grass behind his improvised pitcher’s mound, his eyes wide to the cloudless summer sky. Stella’s eyes were wide too, with suddenly unlimited possibilities.

“I think you’d better go indoors, Ronnie,” said Stella Crump.

Stella felt she looked well in black. It lent her an air of sorrowful mystery and had a slimming effect as well. A merciful release, she thought, the stilted words intended for herself and not for Owen. She hid her jubilation well with sighs and stifled moans and exclamations of “What will I do now?” Stella knew perfectly well what she would do now.

Owen Crump had left his affairs in apple-pie order. His will was brief and to the point. So much for his only daughter, a generous allotment for Ronnie and his infant sister, a sizable donation to the Little League, and the rest to his dearly beloved Stella.

The Garden Club rallied ’round the new widow and Stella bravely accepted their gifts of flowers and small cakes. Her daughter, a thoroughly up-to-the-minute girl, telephoned every day to warn of the dangers of allowing herself to feel guilty. “It was an accident, Ma, no matter what anyone says.” Ronnie was taken to a child psychiatrist to exorcise any guilt feelings he might have. But neither Stella nor Ronnie was troubled overmuch with mental anguish. Ronnie because he was a healthy young animal and didn’t connect himself with the fateful consequence of Grandma’s batting average. And Stella was too busy exploring the prospects of her new status to feel anything but excited and optimistic. On the day of the funeral, Stella stuffed the remaining season tickets down the garbage disposal and listened with satisfaction to their slurping, grinding destruction.

And Francis X. Lafferty became a constant visitor.

“Dear lady,” he said, “your sorrow is mine to share, your tears fall into the fertile garden of my heart and water the seeds of concern. Let me help you bear this terrible grief.”

Stella let him help. She let him drive her around town in Owen’s Cadillac, assisting her with those errands that even a newly bereaved widow must perform. She let him escort her to dinner at expensive restaurants featuring secluded tables and rich pastries. He encouraged her to do her share by picking up the tab.

Tongues wagged as tongues would. The Garden Club was quite enjoyably shocked, and for several meetings did not need to engage a speaker. Stella and Francis provided all the topic that was necessary.

Stella’s daughter, that thoroughly up-to-the-minute girl, said, “Look, Ma. Personally, I think he’s a fraud. But if he’s what you need, enjoy yourself. Hang in there and don’t let the old biddies get you down. Only if I were you, I’d think twice about getting married again. Got to run now. Ronnie has to see his shrink, and I have a macrame class in half an hour.”

Stella did think twice about getting married. In the weeks following Bat Day, she thought of little else. Marriage to Francis and a honeymoon trip around the world, with Francis bringing his message of love and harmony to ever larger and more enthusiastic audiences. Stella could see it all as if it were already happening. Francis, tall and imposing, receiving the adulation of the crowd, while she sat backstage waiting for him to come to her. He would dedicate books to her, and she would be his inspiration. They would travel from London to Paris to Rome. She thought it might be wise to skip over the Middle East, and was none too sure about Francis’ reception in India. They seemed to be on the export side of the guru business there. Tokyo, of course. And then a long stay in Honolulu. She pondered the advisability of hiring a press agent.

Francis said, “Dear, dearest Stella. I hesitate to seem importunate. Unseemly haste in these matters can lead to sad regret. Still, it is my fondest wish...”

Stella said, “Yes.”

“... my heart’s deepest desire, to dare to hope that you will one day in the not too distant future...”

Stella said, “Yes.”

“... consent to become my wife. That is, as soon as a suitable period of mourning has passed, and your heart is able once again to receive the outpourings of another.”

Stella said, “Yes.”

“What did you say, beloved?”

“I said, ‘Yes.’ How about three weeks from today?”

Stella and Francis got married on the day that the home team batted its way into the World Series. To Stella, if she had taken notice, it might have seemed a fitting irony. But she was too busy with wedding plans and travel brochures. Even a small discreet wedding took a certain degree of planning. Arrangements had to be made for joint bank accounts and joint credit cards, Francis must have a new wardrobe, starting with four dozen silk handkerchiefs. The Lincoln Continental, Stella thought, could wait until they returned from their travels. The old Cadillac would do until they left. Through it all, Francis smiled indulgently and made occasional heartfelt speeches on the subject of contentment.

Despite all of Stella’s efforts, she found it was not possible to schedule a lecture tour at short notice. The Royal Albert Hall stubbornly refused to accommodate Francis until the middle of November. So the trip was postponed and Stella and Francis settled in for a short interval of homely marital bliss before their world travels could begin.

Francis consoled a downcast Stella. “Anywhere on earth with you, dear Stella, is paradise to me. Don’t you think we ought to buy a boat? I’ve always had a yen to play Huck Finn on the river.”

“You pick one out, dearest. I’ve got to keep after these travel agents and the speaker’s bureau or we’ll never get this trip off the ground.”

So intent was Stella on planning each last detail of this fabulous trip around the world, she scarcely noticed that Francis spent more and more time pottering about on his new toy, a 25-foot cabin cruiser. Or that when he was at home, he’d taken to hanging about the rec room in the basement with his feet on the furniture watching television and munching swiss cheese and salami sandwiches.

One day, after a particularly fruitless telephone exchange with a booking agent in Brussels, Stella slammed the receiver down and almost wept with sheer frustration. She was tempted to abandon the lecture part of the trip. But that was the point of the whole thing, after all. The tour was her wedding gift to her husband, and she couldn’t just give up this wonderful opportunity for dear Francis to deliver his message to the world and become as well known as Billy Graham, or the Maharishi, at the very least. Still, it would be such a help if he would take just the slightest interest in the practical side of becoming an inspirational figure on an international scale.

Stella pouted and rubbed her tired eyes, thereby multiplying the tiny creases, folds, and pouches that adorned her face. She was too annoyed to care. She heard the powerful hum of the Cadillac’s engine in the drive and tried, unsuccessfully, to arrange her face into a semblance of contentment. Dear Francis always seemed to take it as a personal insult if she appeared even slightly discontent.

The front door opened and Francis bounded into the house with an even greater display of youthful enthusiasm than usual.

“I’ve got them, Stella dearest!” he shouted. “The tickets! I’ve got them! Oh, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted them. And now, thanks to you, I’ve finally got them. Now I am truly content.”

“Tickets? What tickets? I haven’t even gotten our itinerary straightened out yet. How could you get the tickets?”

“No, Stella dearest. You don’t understand. I guess I’ve never really told you how much I’ve always wanted to have season tickets to the football games. And now I’ve got them. And we won’t have to miss a single game. Isn’t that wonderful? I think I’ll go get myself a beer.”

Francis cavorted out into the kitchen. Stella heard the refrigerator door slam, and the old familiar hissing pop of the easy-open beer can. Football! He’d never mentioned football. If anything, football was worse than baseball. All those hulking great bodies charging up and down a muddy field. Sitting in the stands, cold and damp, with her fingers too chilled to knit. And all that noise. Oh, no! How could he do this to her? And what about their trip?

Stella marched determinedly into the kitchen. Francis was sitting at the kitchen table poring over a schedule and sipping from a can.

“What about our trip? And the least you could do is pour that disgusting beer into a glass!”

“Stella, dearest,” soothed Francis. “Have I done something to disturb you? You seem suddenly so discontent. You know I can’t bear to have you emitting waves of displeasure. It upsets my own balance of contentment, and just when I’m feeling so eternally grateful to you. Please don’t spoil it for both of us.”

“But what about our trip?” she asked again. “I’ve just about got things lined up and we could leave next month if all goes well.”

“Yes, but don’t you think we could postpone it just a little bit longer? After all, we’ve already been delayed and it would be much more pleasant to travel in the springtime. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, I see,” said Stella, clamping her jaw shut on all the vicious malcontented words struggling to leap off her tongue. Oh, I could kill him, she raged inwardly. Bean him with his precious football, bop him with a goalpost, punt him over the moon. But none of these measures seemed even remotely feasible.

Stella turned and marched out of the kitchen. Resolutely, she climbed the stairs, muttering to herself.

“Just you wait, Francis X. Lafferty. Dear Francis. Just you wait. It’s going to be my turn next. I’m going to be the next season ticket holder around here.”

She smiled as she remembered her recent prowess with a baseball bat. It could have been beginner’s luck, but then again maybe she was just a natural athlete. She would get the next set of season tickets, and she would watch the players carefully.

“And then, dearest Francis,” she murmured, “we’ll just see what a novice can do with a hockey puck.”