"Let me guess. They did not weep with sorrow at the news that Warren Tracey has terminal cancer."
"They did not."
A pause, another bad sign. "And the idea of him coming to Calico Rock to meet with Joe? How was that received?"
"Not very well, at least not at first. In fact, they didn't like the idea of you being here."
"Will they shoot me if I return?"
"No. They warmed up considerably, even promised to talk to Joe and see if he likes the idea. I pushed a little, but it's really none of my business. What about the meeting with your father?"
I decide to spin it. "I got the door open, I think. We had some frank discussions, a lot of old family stuff, nothing you want to hear. The problem is that he is in denial about his cancer, and until he faces the prospect of death, he will be hard to persuade."
"Poor guy."
"Maybe, but I could not reach the point where I actually felt sorry for him."
I ask about Fay, and the conversation runs out of gas. An hour later, I board the flight to Dallas.
Sara and the girls are waiting with a late dinner when I finally get home. The girls have no idea where I have been or what I've been doing, so we talk about the weekend we are about to spend camping in the mountains. Sara, though, is curious. After we're finished and the girls are gone, I replay the trip as we clear the table.
"What's next?" she asks.
"I have no idea. I might wait a couple of weeks and call Warren, ask about his chemo, maybe bring up Joe again."
"What's your favorite saying, dear? Didn't get halfway - "
"Didn't get halfway to first base. Yep, that pretty well sums up my little visit with Warren. He's still the tough guy, and he could take it to his grave. Probably will."
"Are you glad you went?"
"Yes, very much so. I got a glimpse of Joe Castle, and he's doing as well as possible, I guess. I got to see Warren, which doesn't mean much now but it could seem important one day. And, most important, I had a glass of Ozark peach brandy."
"What's that?"
"Moonshine."
"They serve it with dinner?"
"No, it's strictly an after-dinner drink, at least in the Rook household. Clarence called it a 'digestif.' "
"What does it taste like?"
"Liquid fire."
"Sounds delicious. Any other excitement?"
"Not really."
"Are you going to call Jill?"
"Not tonight, maybe later. I doubt if she wants to hear about Warren."
A week later, I leave the office for lunch and drive to a city-owned, multi-field complex where most of my friends have coached their sons in the various youth leagues. But for a few groundskeepers, the place is empty. The season is over. I climb the bleachers of the "big field," as it is known, a regulation-size diamond with a center field wall four hundred feet away. I sit in the shade below the press box and eat a chicken wrap.
It is August 24, 2003. Thirty years ago tonight, I was sitting with my mother in Shea Stadium, watching my hero Joe Castle walk to the plate to face my father. I slowly recall those images and again hear the sound of Joe being struck. The horror, the chaos, the fear, the ambulance, then the fighting and the aftermath. His skull was cracked in three places. His cheekbone was broken. He was bleeding from his ears, and the doctors at first thought he was dead.
That time and place seem so far away now. The beanball ended two careers, and I'm not sure what it did to me. It broke the hearts of millions of people, so I wasn't the only one wounded. But I was the only one, aside from my parents, who knew Joe was about to get drilled in the head.
I wonder if Joe is marking the anniversary. Is he doing what I am doing - sitting alone in a ballpark, remembering the tragedy, and longing for what could have been? Somewhere in his altered state, does he look back with bitterness at what happened? I certainly would. Thirty years later, and I still get choked up thinking about the needless injury and the ending of a beautiful career.
I suspect this date means nothing to Warren Tracey. He is probably on the golf course. He dismissed the beanball decades ago. "It's sports. Bad things happen."
After lunch is finished, I sit and try to think of some way to put the story of Joe Castle behind me. I finally admit that I'm not sure that will ever happen.
Two weeks pass. The girls return to school, and I get lost in my work. Our normal, happy life resumes, and I slowly forget about the idea of a reunion in Calico Rock. The phone rings one night, and Rebecca, our ten-year-old, answers it. She runs into the den and says, "Dad, it's some man named Warren. Wants to talk to you."
Sara and I look at each other. Neither can remember the last time Warren called our home.
"Who's Warren?" Rebecca asks.
"Your grandfather," Sara says as I head to the kitchen.
The call has no purpose, as far as I can tell. His voice is scratchy and weak, and he informs me that chemotherapy is not pleasant. He has no appetite, so he's losing weight, along with his hair. Agnes drives him to the hospital twice a week for the infusions, which take two hours each in a depressing room with a dozen other cancer patients hooked up to their drips.
He stuns me by asking, "How's the family?" And when Sara walks through the kitchen and hears me talking about our children, she is shocked. He informs me that he called Jill a few hours earlier, but no one answered the phone.
Warren Tracey is calling his children. He must be dying.
Chapter Twenty
I check in with Clarence Rook once a week, but these conversations get shorter and shorter. There is not much news in Calico Rock, and I am not sure how he fills up a newspaper every Wednesday. I call Warren occasionally, not really out of a deep concern over his health, but more to remind him that I am still around and I want something. We never discuss Joe Castle.
In the second week of October, I am in the middle of a meeting with my boss and colleagues when my cell phone vibrates. At my company, it is not a crime for a cell phone call to disrupt something important. I step into the hall and say hello to Agnes. Warren is in the hospital, internal bleeding, low blood pressure, fainting spells. The doctors just completed another scan, and the cancer has spread rapidly, tumors are everywhere - liver, kidneys, stomach, and, worst of all, the brain. He has lost forty pounds. She believes Warren is finally accepting the fact that cancer will kill him.
What am I supposed to say? I don't know this woman, and I hardly know her husband. I offer a few half-baked sympathies and promise to call tomorrow. I do, but go straight to voice mail. Three days later, I am driving home from work when Warren calls my cell. He says he is back home, feels much better, has changed doctors because the old ones were idiots, and has a fighting chance of beating his cancer. At the beginning of the brief conversation, he sounds alert, chipper, full of energy, but he cannot maintain the ruse. By the end, his voice is fading, and his diction is not as sharp. I go through my short list of things to say, and I am ready to finish the call when he says, "Say, Paul, I've been thinking about that trip to Arkansas."
"Oh really," I say, avoiding any trace of excitement.
"Yes. I like the idea. Not sure my doctors will approve of me traveling, but let's give it a try."
"Sure, Warren. I'll make some calls."
The worst part will be the long drive, just me and Warren in the car, with so much history to cover and no desire to go there.
Our flights take us to Little Rock, and I arrive two hours before him. I eat lunch, kill time, work on my laptop, and find a spot to observe the arriving passengers. It's a small airport with lots of open spaces, natural light, and not too much traffic.