Calico Joe (22 page)

He lingers, and the calls from Agnes become monotonous. I look at the calendar. Thanksgiving is approaching, and I hope Warren does not upset our plans.

He does not. He dies on November 10, at the age of sixty-five, alone in a hospice facility. Agnes tells me that a memorial service is planned for Friday of the following week. Sara and
I have a somewhat testy and prolonged disagreement about whether she should attend the service with me. I am adamant that she is not going; she feels some sort of weird obligation to pay her respects to a man she hardly knew, a man who skipped our wedding and offered not a single word of congratulations when our three girls were born. There is no family to sit with and mourn. There will be no post-burial get-together.

Sara has no business going. Besides, I don’t want to blow another $500 on a plane ticket. When the discussion is over, she grudgingly concedes.

A lot of people die in Florida, and many are retirees without deep roots in their communities. Because of this, the burial business is efficient and streamlined. The services tend to be small, quick, even impersonal.

Warren wanted to be cremated, and his wishes are carried out. His memorial is held in the windowless chapel of a mausoleum not far from his home. With perfect timing, I arrive, alone, fifteen minutes before the service and find Agnes sitting in the family’s private waiting room. Some family. It’s Agnes and her daughter, Lydia, a person I’ve never met, and me. You would think that a man who married five women would generate a bit more interest.

We sit and talk, and the clock absolutely stops. Agnes again asks me if I want to give a eulogy or say a few words. Again, I politely decline, and use the excuse that I might not
be able to control my emotions and do not want to embarrass myself. Emotions aside, any warm and touching thoughts or stories I could add at this point would be outright fabrications.

Lydia, who eyes me suspiciously, finally gets down to business. “You know, Paul, we’ve already read his last will and testament.”

I throw up both hands and say, “I don’t care what’s in it. I want nothing. I will accept nothing. If my name is mentioned, I will refuse to take anything.”

“He left you and Jill $10,000 each,” Agnes says.

Dividing the spoils before the burial seems in bad taste, but I let it pass. “I can’t speak for Jill,” I say, “but I don’t want it. He never gave me a dime when I was in high school or college or when I needed a little extra, and I’m not taking his money now.”

“I guess that’s between you and the lawyers,” Lydia says, and I get the impression she has had some experience with lawyers.

“I guess so.”

“And he left $25,000 to a baseball field in Calico Rock, Arkansas,” Agnes says.

This actually makes me smile, and I say, “That’s nice.” Good for Warren.

I am not going to ask about the size of the estate—the timing is bad, and I don’t really care, and I’ll find out later during probate.

We move next door to the chapel. There are about twenty
seniors standing around the front pew, whispering, waiting, all in fine spirits it seems. The attire is Florida geezer casual—a lot of sandals and not a single jacket or tie. I avoid introducing myself to these people. I will never see them again, and I’m not about to swap a story or two about how great my old man was. I assume they are neighbors, golfing buddies, or Agnes’s friends. I also assume that none of the men played professional baseball and shared a locker room with Warren Tracey. I know for a fact that there are no members of the 1973 Mets.

The chapel has dark stone walls and feels like a dungeon. An appropriate, mournful hymn is being piped in. A man in a suit asks us to please be seated. Thankfully, there is no reserved pew for the family. I ease away, toward the rear. Agnes has yet to shed a tear, and I suspect she will not be the only one to make it through with dry eyes. The friends and family sit and wait and absorb the mood music.

I don’t know why I am here. Warren is gone, and if he could watch, he would not give a damn if I showed up or not. The notion of properly paying one’s respects is ludicrous. The dead person could not care less. He is lying up there in a casket or, in Warren’s case, a small blue urn next to the podium.

What did Yogi Berra say? “Always go to other people’s funerals, otherwise they won’t go to yours.”

A guy in a black robe appears, probably of the generic dial-a-priest variety because Warren Tracey never went near a church. Maybe Agnes belongs to one. The priest chats with her, soothes her, then steps up to the small podium, spreads
his arms like Charlton Heston at the Red Sea, and says, “Welcome.”

The rear door opens quietly and catches my attention. Three men enter the chapel—Red Castle, then Joe with his cane and jerky gait, then Charlie. They ease into the rear pew without making a sound. All three are wearing navy blazers and white shirts, by far the best dressed of anyone here.

I am shocked, and then I am not. What a brilliant, classy thing to do.

Instinctively, I get up and walk back to where they are sitting. I ease into the pew in front of them and whisper to Red, “Thanks for coming.” All three nod. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

Charlie points to Joe and says, “Joe wanted to take a road trip.”

“Welcome,” the priest says louder, in our direction. I look at him, and he seems ready to rap our knuckles for talking during his sermon. I stay where I am, with the Castle boys, and we endure a meaningless ritual that is painfully stretched into thirty minutes. The highlight is a eulogy by Marv somebody from, of course, the golf club. Marv tells a real knee-slapper about playing golf with Warren one day. Warren was driving the golf cart. His ball was in the water. He got too close to the edge of the pond, flipped the cart, Marv almost drowned, and Warren avoided getting splashed with a single drop of water.

We laugh because we are expected to. Marv’s not much
of a speaker, and I get the impression he drew the short straw. I can just see these old goats sitting around the men’s grill, playing gin rummy, arguing about who will speak at whose funeral. “Okay, Marv, you do Warren, and I’ll do yours, and Fred’ll do mine.”

The priest does a credible job of filling in the gaps. He reads some scripture, relying heavily on the book of Psalms. He hits the high points of God’s love, goodness, forgiveness, salvation, and it becomes obvious that whatever Agnes is, she is not Catholic, Jewish, or Muslim. He never mentions the fact that Warren played professional baseball. Winding down, he informs us that Warren will be interred down the hall, on Wall D of the Third Pavilion, but that this will be done privately, family only.

I decide to skip this. I have no desire to see the hole in the wall where Warren’s ashes will spend eternity. Agnes can handle it. She’s the only one who might stop by once a month for the next three months, touch his name in stone, and try to conjure up some emotion. I know I’ll never be back.

Besides, I want to talk to Joe.

T
he Meditation Room is empty, and we claim it for the next few minutes. It’s even more of a dungeon than the chapel and gives the appearance of never being used. We move four chairs into a circle and have a seat.

“I’m very touched that you guys would drive this far,” I begin.

Red says, “Joe hasn’t been to Florida since spring training of 1973. He wanted to get out of town, and so here we are.” I remind myself that all three played minor-league ball, and like most prospects they arrived in camp each spring just like the veterans. Moving up and down the ranks of the minors and riding the buses, they have seen more of the country than I have.

“Thank you for coming,” I say.

Charlie says, “And thank you for bringing your dad to Calico Rock. It meant more to Joe than you’ll ever know.” Joe
is smiling, nodding, content to allow his brothers to do most of the talking.

Red adds, “It really meant a lot.”

Joe says, “Sorry … about … your … dad.”

“Thank you, Joe.” He’s still wearing the sunglasses to hide his bad eye, but just above them a slight indentation is visible at the corner of his forehead. They said he stopped breathing three times on the way to the hospital.

Red says, “Joe has something for you.”

With his good hand, Joe reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulls out an envelope. Though I have not seen it in thirty years, I recognize it immediately. It is the letter I left on the Joe Castle Wall at Mount Sinai Hospital, in September 1973. Joe hands it to me with a wide smile and says, “Here … I … want … you … to … have … it.”

I slowly open it and remove my letter. I absorb the carefully printed heartache of an eleven-year-old boy: “Dear Joe: I am Paul Tracey, Warren’s son. I am so sorry for what my father did.” As I read on, I am overcome with the emotions that ran so deep that summer and fall. For six weeks, Joe Castle was my world. I thought about him constantly. I read everything I could find about him. I followed every one of his games, knew all his statistics. I even dreamed of playing on the same team with Joe—he was only ten years older. If I broke in at twenty, he would still be in his prime. We could be teammates.

Then he was hurt. Then he was gone. Then he was history.

When I finish the letter, my eyes are moist, but I am determined to collect myself. “Thanks, Joe.”

Red says, “The Cubs did a nice job of collecting all of Joe’s stuff, including several boxes of letters and gifts left at the hospital. A few months after Joe came home, they shipped it all down, and it’s been in Mom’s attic ever since.”

Charlie takes over. “Six thousand letters from the hospital alone, over thirty thousand total. A couple of years later, Joe was going through the letters and came across yours. He put it in a special place.”

Joe says, “It’s … very … special.”

“Thank you, Joe.” I feel myself getting choked up again.

After a long silence, Red changes subjects. “Mr. Rook down at the newspaper said something about a story you were writing, a story about your dad and Joe. Is this true?”

“Sort of. I’ve written one story, but don’t worry. I’m not going to publish it.”

Charlie says, “Why not? Why don’t you write a story about bringing your dad to Calico Rock, meeting Joe, telling the truth about what happened? You could even use one of the photos of Joe and Warren with their team caps on.”

Joe is smiling and says, “I … would … like … that.”

Charlie continues, “We might want to look at it first, you know, just to be safe, but we’ve kicked it around, and we think
there are a lot of baseball fans out there who would enjoy the story. You know, Joe still gets letters.”

I’m not sure how to respond. Warren wanted me to finish the story and get it published. Now Joe does too. “Give me some time to think about it,” I say.

“Would it be a book?” Red asks.

“I don’t think so. Probably a long magazine piece.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, we like the idea.”

“Good. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Mr. Rook likes the idea too,” Charlie says.

Clarence and I have discussed the idea on two occasions. I think he secretly wants to write the story himself, but he cannot bring himself to say so.

We chat for a few minutes. They are curious about me and my family, my mother and sister, and what happened to us after Warren was gone. When I mention that I am a graduate of the University of Oklahoma, this is instantly met with disapproval. They are die-hard Razorback fans, and of course their team is superior. We banter back and forth with the football chatter that sustains so many conversations in November.

The Meditation Room is suddenly in demand. Some mourners arrive and we leave. There is no sign of Agnes, Marv, the priest, or anyone else who said good-bye to Warren, and we make our way out of the mausoleum. The brothers are headed to Key West, for two days of deep-sea fishing, something Joe has wanted to do for years.

We shake hands and say good-bye in the parking lot. I watch them load into a late-model pickup truck with a club cab and a Razorback bumper sticker. I wave as they drive away.

Two hours later, I’m on the plane headed home. I read my letter and again feel the pain of a broken little boy. I put it away, open my laptop, and begin writing the story of Calico Joe.