No Ordinary Joes (5 page)

The months that Bob and Barbara had been dating had been the happiest of his young life. He loved Barbara’s sunny, outgoing personality—the opposite of the dark cloud he faced at home. He hadn’t yet told her that he loved her, but he was sure he did. And she’d made it clear that she thought he was awfully cute. They’d already been intimate, starting with necking out on Old Stage Road, then going all the way for the first time in the backseat of her father’s car late one night, parked under the oak trees across the street from the Baptist Church.

By the time they left Barbara’s house, Bob had the distinct feeling that Mr. Koehler didn’t think he was good enough for his daughter.

As crazy as she was for Bob, Barbara broke off their relationship a few days later. She told him it was because he wasn’t around enough, always going off to Crater Lake for days at a time to help his dad on the road crew.
But Bob knew the real reason. This was 1938, and in the Rogue River valley, nice seventeen-year-old girls didn’t go against their fathers’ wishes.

Bob stepped off the bus into the depot in Eugene carrying his tattered valise. He set out on foot for the University of Oregon campus. It was the spring of 1939, and he’d traveled north from Medford to pay Barbara, now a freshman, a surprise visit. He was still in high school, scheduled to graduate a year behind his class because of his suspension. Bob and Barbara hadn’t dated for almost a year, and both were seeing other people, but Bob hadn’t given up. He’d written her a dozen letters, and although she’d responded only a couple of times, he held out hope that it was possible to rekindle the passion they’d once had.

Nearing the boardinghouse where Barbara lived, he wasn’t sure if she’d even be there. He knew it was a bold move to pop in on her unannounced, but he was counting on the surprise factor—that she’d be so happy to see him that they’d have a romantic weekend together and he’d be back in the saddle. In one of her letters she’d mentioned that she felt a tinge of homesickness, so he’d brought a small box of her favorite pears.

Lately he’d been thinking a lot about all the good times they’d had together, especially the dances at the Dreamland Ballroom, where they had effortlessly glided across the floor as if they’d been practicing together for years. To him, she was prettier and more graceful than Ginger Rogers, who regularly appeared on stage at the Craterian in Medford with her group The Redheads.

At the boardinghouse, Bob sat nervously in the waiting room while someone went to find her. He worried that now that she was a college girl she wouldn’t have time for a guy who was still in high school. Maybe he wasn’t sophisticated enough. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as the college boys she’d been seeing.

He glanced up and saw her descending the stairs. She was every bit as pretty as he remembered, even more so. She moved toward him, a quizzical look on her face. It wasn’t the big smile he’d hoped for.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I just thought I’d come up and see you,” he answered.

Two girls entered the room, and Barbara didn’t introduce him.

“This is a nice house,” he said awkwardly.

“Yes, it is,” she responded. He’d caught her totally off guard. Her first reaction was that she wished he wasn’t there. She was in college now, taking literature and history classes, going to fraternity parties. Now that she’d met people from places such as Seattle and Portland, to her Bob seemed so unpolished. She had purposely not answered most of his letters, not wanting to encourage him. And a college girl wasn’t supposed to date a high-school boy, even if he was older than she was. She was dating guys who talked about going into business or law. In Bob’s last letter, he’d talked about enlisting in the service when and if he graduated.

“Bob, I have other plans,” she told him.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you out of them,” he ventured.

She shook her head. He didn’t need her to explain any further. He turned toward the door.

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” he apologized.

“Maybe we can see each other this summer when I come home,” she offered weakly.

“That’d be nice,” he replied.

He caught the first bus back to Medford. Watching the pastoral scenery roll by, he felt a hollow pit in his stomach. By the time the bus reached Medford, he’d made up his mind: as soon as school was out, maybe sooner, he would leave town and join the Navy.

T
he minute Tim McCoy walked through the front door, he knew something was wrong. He’d been playing across the street at his Aunt Bee’s house, his refuge when things at home weren’t right. In the past three years, he’d spent as much time at Aunt Bee’s as he had at home, staying there for months at a time when his mother was in the hospital.

Maybe that was why his father, Harrell McCoy, wore a scowl. Maybe his mom needed to be sent away again for more treatment. Tim was only eight, but he’d already learned to recognize the signs: she’d mope around, not getting dressed all day, sleeping a lot, crying, barely able to take care of the house. Then Dad would bundle her into the Model T and drive the eighty-five miles from their home in Dalhart down to Amarillo, where she’d stay until she was well enough to come home. It was hard for Tim not to have his mom around and to not know for sure what was wrong with her. He’d come to rely on his dad, a salesman at Rhodes and Wilson, the local furniture store, and Aunt Bee, an ex-schoolteacher who had a great touch with kids.

Or maybe his father was just upset at him for leaving his marbles and tops on the floor. If that was the case, he’d most likely be getting the razor strap. Not that his dad was mean; he just believed in firm discipline. At 6 feet 1 inch and 225 pounds, with broad shoulders and powerful arms, Harrell McCoy was an imposing man. But Tim was a tough little guy, and rarely flinched when punished. Besides, his father was his hero—an honest,
hardworking man who had a sense of humor and could build or fix just about anything.

He glanced at his dad. Normally a man with a positive outlook, on this day Harrell glared straight ahead, not saying a word, his suit jacket slung over the back of a chair. He nodded toward the window. Tim and his mother looked outside. The sky was an ominous black, thick with grit and dirt swirling off the prairie in every direction. Maybe they were in for another “black duster,” a powerful windstorm that whipped up such massive clouds of fine silt and soil that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. After a black duster, sand would be piled as high as the eaves on houses and fence posts would be buried. These storms had all but denuded the land, the worst of them blowing topsoil as far away as Washington, D.C., and onto ships in the Atlantic Ocean.

“Got the bad news today,” he announced.

Tim’s mom, Capitola Boatwright McCoy, known to everyone as Cappy, sighed. One of ten children of Irish-German ancestry raised on a farm in Comanche, Texas, she was a small woman, 5 feet 1 inch, 115 pounds, who relied heavily on her Baptist faith.

“Whatever it is,” she said, “the Lord will take care of us.”

Tim studied his parents. He’d heard that farmers in the area were abandoning their property, that businesses in town were failing, and that friends of his parents had been forced to stand in breadlines. But the Depression was still a vague concept. He was an outgoing kid who spent his time playing with his friends, spinning tops, and pitching washers against the side of the house. His mom’s illness weighed on him sometimes, but other than that all seemed well.

“They’re closing the store,” his father said.

His mother asked when.

“Tomorrow. I’ll be lucky if I get paid for this week. I’m out of work.”

Tim peered out the window of Aunt Bee’s living room, hoping to see his father’s car. He hadn’t seen either of his parents in weeks. His mom had been hospitalized again, and his dad had been out of town, working for $1
a day for the WPA, helping to build a farm-to-market road from Brownfield to Lubbock. Supposedly, his mom was being released, and both his parents would be home soon.

But Tim had learned that things didn’t always go the way he wanted.

It was 1934 and the Depression had landed hard on Dalhart, population 4,500. For years the people in Dalhart had taken great pride in their community. Settled under the Homestead Act, which had given farmers and ranchers large tracts of marginal land that could not be irrigated, the town had experienced a long run of prosperity. But now, after years of bad agricultural practices, the farms were in trouble, worsened by the drought and the black dusters. Livestock were dead or dying and the crops withered. On the rare occasions when it rained, the runoff removed what little topsoil was left, slicing out gorges forty feet deep. Families were leaving in droves.

Dalhart was doing its best to fight back. Wealthy local rancher Uncle Dick Coon had become legendary for his generous treatment of suffering farmers and cowboys, giving them money to survive. Some of these men had formed “The Last Man Club,” vowing to remain under any circumstances. Harrell McCoy, a staunch New Deal Democrat, had joined the club, but as the Depression deepened, his resolve weakened. He would go where he could find work.

Tim spotted his dad’s Model T coming up the street. He raced out the door to greet it, but there was no passenger. The doctor had decreed that Tim’s mom wasn’t ready to come home yet.

Tim’s heart sank. He didn’t know that his mother had almost died while delivering him and then fallen into a deep depression from which she’d never fully recovered, her condition compounded by his father’s desire to have more children. All Tim knew was that he wanted his mom home.

Dr. George W. Truitt, a visiting preacher from Dallas, stood at the pulpit, pointing a finger at the congregation of Lubbock’s First Baptist Church gathered under a large tent. Tim had the feeling the preacher was pointing
directly at him. He and his parents had moved to Lubbock from Dalhart after his mom was released and his father’s job with the WPA ended.

“Alcohol is the force of evil!” thundered Truitt. “Do not succumb to its insidious temptation.”

“Amen!” echoed the congregation.

Sitting next to his mom and dad, Tim, now nine, nodded in agreement. Neither his mom nor his dad had ever tasted a drop of alcohol, and he was certain that he never would either.

Today was the last day of the weeklong revival, the day Tim was to be baptized. And who better to do it than George W. Truitt, the most famous evangelical preacher in Texas, if not the whole South? To his followers, he had the power of the Holy Spirit, and he was an early-model Billy Graham, learned and charismatic. He preached that true greatness consisted not of great wealth, or shining social qualities, or vast amounts of study, but in using all of one’s talents in unselfish ministry to others. To Tim, Truitt was more impressive than even Babe Ruth.

As with many Lubbock families of the time, the Baptist Church was at the center of the McCoy family’s life, not only spiritually, but socially as well. At home, every meal began with a prayer, and every day ended with quotes from the Scriptures. Tim’s mother’s mental health had improved since they’d moved to Lubbock. It helped that she didn’t have to stand in breadlines; Harrell had found a new job as a salesman for Great Plains Furniture, working ten hours a day, six days a week for $18 a week.

On their way home from Tim’s baptism, the family passed a gathering of nonbelievers. Tim would hear nothing of their cynicism. He liked going to church and living in Lubbock. He had become active in the Boy Scouts and loved the jamborees and campouts. He’d also made a best friend, Byron Varner, whose parents owned the Main Street Café downtown and lived in an apartment above it. Tim spent a lot of time there, eating hamburgers and playing with Byron in the alley behind the café. Byron was a year older, but he admired Tim’s never-back-down personality and the way he was always the first one to climb the high dive at the city pool and take the leap.

Back home, Tim’s mom prepared Sunday dinner (always served at noon), and he retreated to his room to look at his new trombone, a birthday present his parents had purchased on the installment plan—three payments of $2 each. He loved his new instrument. His goal was to get to play in the band when he reached high school. Fingering the valves of the trombone, he heard his parents arguing. They weren’t yelling, but their voices were tense.

“I can’t go through it again,” his mother said.

Slowly, quietly, he began to play his trombone—nothing special, just noise to drown out the tension.

It was early September 1939 in Texas, the temperature over 100 degrees. Walking home through the Oak Cliff section of Dallas, Tim, now a sophomore in high school, had a big decision to make—to go out for the track team at Sunset High and defend his 880 state championship, or get an after-school job. Despite all the efforts of the New Deal, 10 million Americans were still unemployed. Tim made $2 a week getting up before dawn to deliver the
Dallas Morning News
on foot. He couldn’t afford a bike. Tim’s parents had divorced at the end of his freshman year in Lubbock; he and his mother had moved to Dallas at the urging of her three sisters and two brothers, all of whom lived there. Her brothers were both successful insurance men and promised to look out for them. His father had remarried and moved to Austin; Tim hadn’t seen him since. Tim wasn’t happy about the move, or the divorce. Dallas seemed big and unfriendly. None of the kids at school had divorced parents, and it embarrassed him. He didn’t like leaving his friends in Lubbock, especially Byron. He didn’t like living in an apartment. But most of all, he resented his dad for deserting the family.

Continuing home, he started to run despite the stifling heat. His new neighborhood, Oak Cliff, located on the south bank of the Trinity River two miles from downtown Dallas, had been intended to serve as a resort but had instead become a working-class neighborhood. Tim had heard that Bonnie and Clyde had used it as a place to lie low. (Later, Lee Harvey
Oswald would live in a rooming house in Oak Cliff.) To Tim it seemed harder-edged than Lubbock.