By the time the game resumed, I was too stunned to think clearly. I had witnessed a nightmare - the gruesome beaning of Joe Castle, followed by the emotional shock of watching my father get pummeled by an entire team. My mother was fed up too. "I'd like to leave now," she whispered. "Me too," I said.
We rode the train home without a word. I went to my room and crawled into the bed. I did not turn on the television, though I was desperate for news about Joe. I was determined not to fall asleep because I had to know if my father came home that night. I doubted he would, and I was right. Shortly before midnight, the phone rang and my mother answered it. A male voice threatened to kill Warren Tracey and burn down our house in the process. My mother called the police, and at 2:00 a.m. my mother and I were chatting with an officer at the kitchen table.
It was the first of many threatening calls. For the next few months we lived in fear, and of course my father was rarely home to protect us.
At the age of eleven, I wanted to change my name.
Chapter Thirteen
The mosquitoes find us, and we retreat from the porch. Fay serves strawberries and cream, with some strange herbal tea, in the cluttered library. From ceiling to floor, the walls are covered with rows of books, and there are neat stacks around an old desk. Indeed, there are books all over the house, most covered with dust and packed on sagging shelves, much like an old secondhand bookshop. The Rooks are well-read and thoroughly engaging as conversationalists. I have talked enough and want to listen for a while.
"We were listening to the game on the porch, weren't we, Fay?" Clarence asks.
"Yes, around front. I'll never forget it." As the evening progresses, I realize Fay knows almost as much about the game as Clarence. "Very sad."
"Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau seemed to know immediately that Joe was not getting up. Lou flat out called it a beanball, a payback since Joe had homered the first time up. As we waited and waited, they filled in the gap with some research. Warren Tracey had led the National League in hit batsmen in 1972 and was tied for the lead in 1973. Lou called him a headhunter, among other things. Both agreed that Joe seemed to freeze when the pitch was released. You could tell from their tone that the situation was pretty grim."
"Has Joe ever talked about it around here?" I ask. "Not on the record, but maybe to his friends or even his brothers?"
"Not to my knowledge," Clarence replies. "A few years later, a reporter from Little Rock - was it the Democrat or the Gazette, Fay?"
"I think it was the Gazette," she says. "It's in one of the notebooks."
"But this guy showed up and managed to get an audience with Charlie and Red. He quizzed them about how Joe was doing these days, and so on. He also asked about the beaning, and they said that Joe simply doesn't remember it. That's the only time I can recall the family talking about it. Must've been twenty years ago."
"Is there brain damage?" I ask.
Clarence and Fay look at each other, and it is obvious there are things not to be discussed in my presence. "I don't think so," he says, finally, "but he's not a hundred percent."
Fay says, "Clarence is one of the few townsfolk Joe will speak to. Not talk to, as in a conversation, but he has always liked Clarence and will at least acknowledge his presence."
"I'm not sure anyone other than his mother really knows what goes on inside his head," Clarence says.
"And he lives with her?"
"Yes, three blocks away."
It is almost 10:00 p.m., and Fay is ready for bed. She gathers the dishes, gives me instructions on where to sleep, and says good night. As soon as she is gone, Clarence says, "I need a little digestif, you?"
As far as I can tell, Clarence is cold sober. He did not finish his last lemon gin over dinner and shows no sign of being tipsy. Same for me - my last sip of alcohol (and the last sip of lemon gin in my lifetime) was two hours earlier. My clock is running on mountain time, one hour behind Arkansas, so I am not quite ready for bed. And I want to listen to Clarence. "Such as?" I ask.
He is already on his feet, lumbering out of the room. "Ozark peach brandy," he says and disappears.
It is a clear liquid with a slight amber tint. He pours it from an ominous-looking jug into two small shot-like glasses. When he sits down, we touch glasses and he says, "Cheers. Now, be careful. You need to sip it very slowly at first."
I do. A blowtorch could not be hotter on my lips and tongue. I keep a game face and manage to choke it down, with flames scorching my esophagus until the last drop hits my unsuspecting stomach. He watches me carefully, waiting for some comical reaction, and when I keep my composure, he says, "Not bad, huh?"
"What is it - gasoline?"
"It's a local product made by one of our better distillers."
"And untaxed, I presume?"
"Highly untaxed and illegal as hell." He takes another sip.
"I thought moonshine causes blindness and liver damage."
"It can, but you gotta know your source. This is good stuff, some of the best - light, tasty, virtually harmless."
Harmless? My toes are burning. As the child of a violent alcoholic, I have never been attracted to the drinking life, and after an evening of lemon gin and moonshine whiskey I realize how wise I have been.
"The second sip is easier, and the third is the best," he says. I take an even smaller sip, and it burns less, probably because of the scar tissue left behind by the first.
"Tell me, Paul, how did you know your father was going to bean Joe?" he asks, reaching for his pipe and tobacco pouch.
"That's a long story," I say, trying to find my tongue.
He smiles and spreads his arms. "We have all night. I usually read until midnight and sleep till eight."
I take a third sip and actually get a slight taste of peach flavoring. "He was of the old school. If a batter hits a home run, then the batter wins the duel. His reward is obvious; he gets nothing more. It's a sin to insult the pitcher by showing off in any way. Standing at the plate and admiring the drive; flipping the bat; loafing around the bases to soak up the attention; and heaven forbid any show of self-gratification or emotion. No sir. The batter wins, and he circles the bases quickly and gets to the dugout. Otherwise, he pays for it. If a batter does anything to show off, then the pitcher has the right to knock him down. That was straight from the old code, and my father swore by it."
"That might not work in today's game," Clarence says, blowing a cloud of smoke.
"I wouldn't know, Clarence. I haven't watched a game in thirty years."
"So, did Joe do something to show up Warren Tracey? You were there. Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau said repeatedly that Joe did nothing wrong."
"Well, according to Warren's official party line, the answer is no. No, because he soon began claiming that it was an accident, he did not throw at Joe, that it was simply a pitch up that got away from him. I suspect that once it became obvious Joe was seriously injured, Warren changed his tune and started lying."
"You seem awfully certain about this."
"When I was a little boy, five or six, I decided I wanted to be a pitcher because my father was a pitcher. I was pretty good and got better as I grew up. I didn't get a lot of backyard coaching because he was seldom at home, but we lived in the same house, and some of his knowledge rubbed off on me, I guess. I was pitching once and a kid hit a home run, a real shot, and he danced and yelled all the way around the bases. My father was there, which was a rare occasion, and the next time this kid came up, my father yelled, 'Knock him down, Paul.' I was eleven years old and didn't want to throw at anyone. The kid did not get beaned. My father was furious. After the game, we had a big fight. He slapped me around the backyard, told me I would never make it as a pitcher because I was a coward, afraid to throw at hitters. He was a nasty person, Clarence."